⋆｡ﾟ☁ 𝘥𝘢𝘪𝘴𝘺 ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

You slid the door open and the noise hit you first—a chaotic symphony of shouting, laughter, and the occasional crackle of an uncontrolled quirk. A boy with spiky red hair was flexing his biceps, proclaiming something about "manliness." A pink-skinned girl was floating around the ceiling, giggling. And in the center of it all, a blonde boy with an explosion for a scowl was yelling at a freckled green-haired kid who was frantically scribbling in a notebook.

"—and if you don't shut up about your damn nerd notes, Deku, I'm gonna blast you into the next—"

Their conversation, and the entire room's energy, ground to a halt as all eyes turned to you. The blonde boy’s red glare was the most intense, a physical force that made you want to take a step back. You didn't. You squared your shoulders and gave a small, tight bow.

"Hello. I'm Y/N L/N, the exchange student. It's a pleasure to be in your class."

The silence stretched for a beat before the red-haired boy—Kirishima, you remembered from the files—grinned and walked over. "Hey! Welcome! It's awesome to have you! I'm Eijiro Kirishima."

One by one, they introduced themselves. Uraraka with her bright smile and gravity-defying cheer, Iida with his precise hand-chops and formal welcome, Mina with her bubbly enthusiasm. The green-haired boy, Midoriya, offered a shy wave and a mumbled "Nice to meet you."

Only the blonde one remained silent, his arms crossed, his eyes narrowed. He just stared, as if assessing a potential threat or, more likely, an annoyance. You met his gaze evenly, refusing to be the first to look away. A flicker of something—surprise? annoyance?—crossed his face before he scoffed and turned away.

"Don't ignore him, that's just Bakugo," Kirishima whispered conspiratorially. "He's like that with everyone. He's our top student, though. Super powerful."

You nodded, filing away the name. Bakugo. Katsuki Bakugo. You'd read his file. Explosion quirk. Exceptional combat scores. A volatile personality that was noted as his biggest weakness. Seeing him in person, you felt "volatile" was an understatement.

Finding your place in the class's ecosystem was a delicate dance. You were neither the shy new kid nor the boisterous challenger. You were observant, quiet but not withdrawn, and you held your own during training exercises. Your quirk, which allowed you to absorb and redirect kinetic energy, made you a formidable defensive asset. You weren't flashy, but you were solid, reliable.

Bakugo remained a constant, grumbling presence. He seemed to take personal offense at your existence. If you partnered up for drills, he'd criticize your every move. If you answered a question correctly in class, he'd scoff under his breath. You learned quickly that his aggression wasn't personal; it was just his default setting. You didn't rise to the bait, which seemed to frustrate him more than anything else.

"Stop analyzing me like I'm one of your damn science projects," he snarled one afternoon after you'd effortlessly deflected one of his practice blasts.

"I'm not analyzing you," you replied calmly, resetting your stance. "I'm anticipating your attack. It's how I was taught."

"Well, stop it," he growled, launching another volley of explosions. "It's creepy."

You didn't stop. It was how you survived.

The weeks blurred into a routine. You started to understand the class's rhythms, their inside jokes, their unspoken hierarchies. You found a friend in Uraraka and a study partner in Midoriya, who you discovered was a brilliant strategist when he wasn't mumbling to himself. You even developed a wary, professional respect for Bakugo's sheer power and dedication. He never stopped, never rested, always pushing himself to be stronger. It was admirable, in a terrifying kind of way.

You were sitting in Aizawa's class one Tuesday afternoon, the low drone of his lecture on legal ethics for heroes a familiar comfort. Sunlight streamed through the windows, dust motes dancing in the golden light. It was peaceful. Mundane. The perfect disguise for what was coming.

It started not with a bang, but with a low, deep rumble.

At first, you thought it was the construction crew that was sometimes working on a new building nearby. But then the rumble grew into a violent, shuddering groan that seemed to come from the very bones of the earth. The floor beneath your desk began to vibrate, a tremor that quickly escalated into a violent, side-to-side shaking.

Your blood ran cold.

Back home, earthquakes were the stuff of movies, distant disasters you saw on the news. You had no frame of reference for this. The world was literally coming apart around you. The windows rattled in their frames, the lights on the ceiling swung wildly, and books began to tumble from shelves. Panic, sharp and suffocating, clawed at your throat. What was happening? What were you supposed to do? Your mind went blank, a sterile white void of terror. You were frozen, your hands gripping the edges of your desk, your knuckles white.

"GET UNDER YOUR DESKS!" Iida's voice cut through the chaos, sharp and commanding.

Around you, your classmates moved with a practiced, fluid efficiency. They didn't panic; they reacted. Kirishima was already hardening his skin, bracing the bookshelf that threatened to topple. Uraraka had made herself weightless, floating to a safer corner. Midoriya was already helping a shaking Koda get under his desk.

But you just sat there, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. The shaking intensified. A crack snaked its way across the ceiling. This was it. This was how it ended. Not in a villain fight, not in a blaze of glory, but crushed by a school in a foreign country.

A pair of strong hands grabbed your shoulders, yanking you out of your seat with a force that knocked the breath from your lungs. "WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING, YOU IDIOT?! MOVE!"

It was Bakugo. His face was inches from yours, his red eyes wide with a fury that was almost eclipsed by a flicker of something else—fear? He wasn't looking at you like a nuisance; he was looking at you like you were about to die.

He didn't wait for you to answer. He half-dragged, half-shoved you under your desk, his body a solid wall of muscle and barely contained rage. He crowded in beside you, one hand braced against the heavy wooden desk, the other gripping the back of your shirt, holding you in place as the world shook apart.

"Stay down," he ordered, his voice a low, dangerous growl right next to your ear. "Don't you dare move."

You were pressed against him, his warmth a stark contrast to the cold dread that had seized you moments before. You could feel the frantic, steady beat of his heart, smell the faint scent of caramel and something like gunpowder that clung to him. His grip on your shirt was tight, almost painful, but it was grounding. It was an anchor in the chaos. You closed your eyes, focusing on the solid presence of the boy next to you, the one you were sure hated you, who was now using his own body to shield yours.

The shaking seemed to last for an eternity, but it was probably only thirty seconds. When it finally subsided, leaving a eerie ringing silence in its wake, neither of you moved. You could hear your own ragged breathing and his, harsh and heavy in the small space under the desk.

"You okay?" he asked, his voice gruff, muffled by the wood.

You could only manage a shaky nod, your throat too tight to speak.

He finally let go of your shirt and pulled back, crawling out from under the desk. He stood up, running a hand through his sweaty, ash-blonde hair, and surveyed the room. It was a mess, but structurally sound. Aizawa was already at the door, his capture weapon deployed, assessing the situation in the hallway.

Bakugo turned back to you, holding out a hand. You took it, and he pulled you to your feet. His touch was brief, rough, and he let go as soon as you were steady. He looked you over, his gaze critical.

"You're pale," he stated, his usual scowl back in place. "You look like you're gonna puke."

"I've never… I don't know what to do during one of those," you admitted, your voice barely a whisper. "

His scowl deepened, but the sharp edge of anger had been replaced by something else, something you couldn't quite read. "No shit. You looked like a damn deer in headlights. Everyone knows you get under a desk."

"Where I'm from, the biggest natural disaster we worry about is a blizzard," you said, a little defensively, trying to regain your composure. "We don't have training for the ground trying to throw you into the sun."

He just stared at you for a long moment, his jaw tight. Then he grunted, a short, dismissive sound. "Tch. Whatever." He turned away, his attention already shifting to the damage, as if the conversation was over. As if the moment he'd shielded you with his own body had never happened.

But it had. And you couldn't forget it.

Aizawa-sensei's voice, calm and authoritative, cut through the nervous chatter. "Everyone, remain calm. The building is structurally sound. I want you all to grab your emergency packs and file out to the designated assembly point on the sports field. Stay with your partners. We'll do a headcount there."

The class moved with an efficiency that was both impressive and slightly unnerving. They were already treating this like a drill. You saw Iida directing traffic, Mina helping to clear a blocked aisle, and Kirishima carefully moving a fallen bookshelf. You stood there for a second, feeling like an outsider, your own emergency pack forgotten in your locker.

A hand grabbed your arm again, not roughly, but with an undeniable urgency. It was Bakugo. "Come on," he bit out, not looking at you. "You're with me."

He didn't give you a choice, just started pulling you toward the door. You stumbled after him, your mind still reeling. He led you to the lockers, waited with an impatient tapping foot while you grabbed your pack, and then herded you out into the crowded hallway with the rest of the students.

The walk to the sports field was a blur. The ground outside was littered with small cracks and fallen debris. You stuck close to Bakugo, not out of fear, but because he was the only thing in this chaotic new reality that made sense. He was a constant, a point of burning, furious energy that kept you grounded.

Once on the field, the class gathered in a tight group. You could see other classes assembling as well, teachers doing headcounts. Aizawa confirmed that all of 1-A was present and accounted for. You sat down on the grass, pulling your knees to your chest, the adrenaline finally giving way to a bone-deep weariness.

Kirishima plopped down beside you. "Man, that was a big one! Haven't felt one that strong since I was a kid. You okay, L/N? You looked pretty shaken up back there."

"I'm fine," you lied. "Just… not used to it."

"Yeah, I bet," he said sympathetically. "It's gotta be weird. Hey, at least Bakugo was looking out for you, right? That's rare."

You glanced over at Bakugo, who was standing a few feet away, arms crossed, scowling at the sky as if personally offended by the seismic activity. "He… he got me under a desk."

"See? Total manliness!" Kirishima grinned. "He might be a grouch, but he's got your back."

You didn't know how to respond to that, so you just nodded.

----------

Later that evening, after the all-clear was given and you were all back in the dorms, the atmosphere was strangely subdued. The earthquake had been a stark reminder that even at U.A., you weren't immune to the real world's dangers. You were in the common room, trying to focus on a textbook but failing miserably, replaying the violent shaking in your mind.

The door to the common room slid open and Bakugo walked in. He ignored everyone and went straight to the kitchen, coming back with a can of soda. He was about to head back to his room when he stopped, his eyes landing on you. He hesitated for a fraction of a second, then changed course, walking over to your table.

He slammed the can down on the table in front of you, making you jump.

"Here," he grunted.

You looked at the can, then up at him. "What's this for?"

"You look like you're about to pass out," he said, his usual scowl firmly in place. "Drink it. It's got sugar. You probably used up all your brain panicking."

It was possibly the least graceful offering of comfort in the history of the world, but it was an offering nonetheless. You felt a strange warmth spread through your chest that had nothing to do with the residual fear.

"Thank you, Bakugo," you said softly.

"Don't mention it," he snapped immediately, turning away. "And don't get used to it. If you freeze up like that during a real fight, you're dead weight. I won't be there to pull your ass out of the fire."

He stalked off toward his room, leaving you alone with the soda and the echo of his words. But this time, all you heard was the part he didn't say: I was there this time.

You picked up the can, popped it open, and took a sip. It was sickly sweet, but it was exactly what you needed. And as you sat there in the quiet of the common room, you realized that maybe, just maybe, the explosive boy who seemed to hate you wasn't so bad after all. He was just… different. And in a world that had just been violently shaken, different was exactly what you needed.

---------

The next morning, the world felt both achingly familiar and terrifyingly new. The sun was shining, birds were chirping, and the faint scent of burnt sugar still clung to the air in the common room—a testament to Bakugo's late-night stress baking. He'd emerged from the kitchen at 2 AM with a tray of slightly lopsided but surprisingly delicious cookies, which he'd slammed on the table with a gruff "Eat 'em or don't, I don't care," before disappearing back into his room.

The earthquake had changed the delicate ecosystem of Class 1-A. The usual boisterous energy was tempered with a new, quiet awareness. You saw it in the way Kirishima would subtly position himself near a bookshelf, or how Uraraka would touch the ground, a small, unconscious habit to reassure herself it was solid. For you, the change was more profound. The illusion of safety had been shattered, replaced by the stark reality of your new home's volatility.

You were on edge, hyper-aware of every flicker of the lights, every distant rumble of traffic. Your quirk, which relied on absorbing and redirecting kinetic energy, felt like a live wire under your skin, a constant, buzzing reminder of the planet's violent potential.

Training that afternoon was a disaster. Aizawa had paired you with Bakugo for a close-combat exercise. It was the first time you'd been one-on-one since the earthquake.

"Focus, L/N," Bakugo snarled, ducking under a clumsy swing you threw. "You're all over the place. Your form's trash."

"I'm focused," you shot back, your voice tighter than you intended.

You weren't. Every time he detonated an explosion near you, the shockwave would make you flinch. Your body would instinctively absorb the kinetic energy, but instead of redirecting it, you just held it, letting it build up inside you like a toxic charge. It was making you slow, hesitant.

"See? You're hesitating!" he yelled, launching himself at you. "You're thinking about the damn quake! Stop thinking and fight!"

He was right. You were a mess. He feinted left, then came at you from the right. You saw it coming, you knew how to counter it, but your body wouldn't cooperate. You were too busy absorbing the force of his palm blast to properly redirect it. He slammed into you, knocking you off your feet. You didn't even try to cushion your fall, just lay there on the mat, the built-up energy fizzing uselessly inside you.

Bakugo stood over you, his chest heaving, his expression a mask of frustration. "Get up," he ordered.

"I can't," you said, your voice hollow. "It's… it's too much. I can't tell the difference between a training blast and a real threat anymore. My quirk doesn't know what to do."

He stared down at you, his red eyes burning. For a second, you thought he'd yell, call you useless, and storm off. Instead, he let out a long, explosive sigh and held out a hand. "Get up," he said again, his voice lower. "We're doing this differently."

He pulled you to your feet and led you to the far side of the training gym, away from the others. "Your quirk is a sponge, right? It soaks up kinetic energy."

"Yeah," you nodded.

"But a sponge doesn't just hold water," he continued, his mind working, analyzing you with the same intensity he applied to a battle strategy. "It wrings itself out. You're just soaking. You need to wring."

"I don't know how," you admitted, feeling a fresh wave of frustration. "Back home, it was easy. I'd absorb a hit and redirect it. It was simple. But here… everything feels like a threat. The ground, the air, you… it's all just noise."

"So filter the noise," he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "You're not an idiot, stop acting like one. You're overthinking it. You need to train your body to react without your brain getting in the way."

He stepped back into a ready stance. "Alright. I'm going to hit you. Not with an explosion. Just my hand. Your job is not to absorb it. Your job is to let it hit you, and then redirect the force back into me. Don't think. Just do it."

"What? That's—"

"Now!" he yelled, closing the distance and swinging a punch at your shoulder.

You flinched, your quirk activating instinctively, absorbing the impact. It was a weak hit, but the energy crackled under your skin.

"Wrong!" he barked. "You absorbed it. I said redirect it. Again."

He swung again. This time, you tried to push the energy back out, but it was clumsy, unfocused. It sputtered out like a wet firecracker.

"Again!" he commanded.

He didn't give you a chance to think. He came at you again and again, a steady rhythm of controlled strikes. Left, right, left, right. At first, you kept failing, either absorbing the blows or redirecting them weakly. But he was relentless. He didn't get tired, he didn't get frustrated. He just kept coming, his voice a constant, sharp counterpoint to the thud of his fists.

"Stop fighting it! Let it go! Don't hold on to it, you're not a damn packrat! Release!"

And then, on his twentieth or so punch, something clicked. As his fist connected with your arm, you didn't think. You just reacted. You let the kinetic energy flow through you, not stopping, not holding, just channeling it, and pushed it back out. A solid, focused wave of force slammed into his chest, making him stumble back a step.

He stopped, dropping his hands to his sides. A slow, sharp grin spread across his face, a predator's grin. "There it is," he said, his voice low and triumphant. "See? Not so hard, was it?"

You stared at your own hands, a feeling of profound relief washing over you. For the first time since the earthquake, your quirk felt like a tool again, not a burden.

"Again," he said, his eyes gleaming. "But this time, don't hold back."

The rest of the class was watching now, but you didn't care. All that mattered was the boy in front of you, the one who had seen you at your most vulnerable and instead of mocking you, had taught you how to be strong again. You nodded, a new determination burning in your chest.

He didn't hold back, and neither did you. He came at you with a series of controlled explosions, small, sharp blasts that you were now able to absorb and redirect with increasing efficiency. It was a dance, a violent, explosive dialogue that only the two of you could understand.

By the end of the session, you were exhausted, dripping with sweat, but buzzing with a newfound confidence. Bakugo was breathing heavily, a rare, genuine smile on his face.

"Not bad, transfer student," he said, clapping you on the shoulder. "Not bad at all."

As you walked back to the locker room, you fell into step beside him. "Thank you, Bakugo," you said, your voice quiet but sincere.

He just grunted, but it was a softer sound than usual. "Don't mention it. Like I said, I won't be there to save your ass every time. You need to learn to save yourself."

You knew that was his version of "you're welcome," and it was more than enough. As you walked away, you realized that the ground beneath your feet felt a little more solid, the world a little less threatening. And you knew it was because of the explosive, infuriating, surprisingly insightful boy who had decided, for whatever reason, that you were worth his time.

---------

The last two weeks were a paradox, each day feeling both infinitely long and impossibly short. You and Bakugo fell into a rhythm that was as natural as breathing. Your afternoon sessions became your sanctuary, a sacred space where the rest of the world fell away. He was a relentless teacher, demanding perfection and refusing to accept anything less. Under his tutelage, you didn't just learn to control your quirk; you learned to trust it, and yourself, again. The fear that had been a cold knot in your stomach since the earthquake began to dissolve, replaced by a quiet, burning confidence.

Your relationship with the rest of the class had settled into a comfortable groove. They saw the change in you, the way you no longer flinched at sudden noises or tensed when Bakugo let off a small explosion. They saw the easy camaraderie that had developed between you two, a shared language of grunts and insults that was somehow more intimate than words.

But the calendar on your wall was a constant, cruel reminder. Your time at U.A. was running out.

The final day arrived with a strange, heavy stillness. Your last class felt surreal, every moment a snapshot you wanted to burn into your memory. Aizawa gave you a rare, almost imperceptible nod of approval as you left. In the hallway, your classmates swarmed you.

"We're going to miss you so much!" Uraraka cried, wrapping you in a bone-crushing hug that made you feel weightless for a second.

"Don't forget us when you're a big-shot hero back home!" Kirishima added, clapping you on the back so hard you stumbled forward.

"Here," Mina said, pressing a folded piece of paper into your hand. "It's all our social media handles! You have to keep us updated, okay? And send pictures!"

Even Iida, with his usual formal precision, had a rare softness in his eyes. "Your time with us has been short, L/N, but your impact has been significant. It has been an honor to have you as a classmate. We expect great things from you."

You thanked them all, your throat thick with emotion. This was the family you had stumbled into, the chaotic, brilliant, incredible group of heroes-in-training who had taken you in without a second thought.

Only Bakugo hung back, leaning against the wall at the end of the hall, his arms crossed and his scowl firmly in place. He watched the whole exchange with an unreadable expression, his red eyes following your every move.

An hour later, your suitcase was packed and standing by the door. Your driver was due any minute. You took one last look around your small dorm room, now bare and impersonal, and felt a pang of sadness so sharp it took your breath away.

A knock on the door made you jump. You opened it, expecting it to be Uraraka or one of the girls coming for one last goodbye.

It was Bakugo.

He was in his usual uniform, but he looked different. The sharp edges of his anger seemed softened, replaced by a quiet intensity that made your heart hammer against your ribs.

"Hey," he said, his voice low.

"Hey," you replied, your voice barely a whisper. "I thought you'd be at training."

"Tch. Like I'd stick around for Half-and-Hair's extra credit session," he scoffed, walking into your room and closing the door behind him. He looked at your suitcase, his jaw tight. "So you're really leaving."

"Yeah," you said, nodding. "My flight's tonight."

An awkward silence stretched between you, thick with all the things you wanted to say but couldn't. You wanted to thank him, to tell him how much he meant to you, but the words felt clumsy and inadequate.

"You're not going to freeze up again," he said, breaking the silence. It wasn't a question. It was a statement of fact.

"No," you agreed, a small smile touching your lips. "I'm not. I know how to wring out the sponge now."

He huffed a quiet laugh, a rare, genuine sound that made your chest ache. "Good. You'd better not. I don't want to hear about you getting your ass kicked by some two-bit villain back home."

"I'll try not to disappoint you," you said, your eyes meeting his.

You were standing close, closer than you'd ever been without the adrenaline of a fight to justify it. You could see the flecks of gold in his red eyes, the way his hair fell across his forehead, the faint scar above his eyebrow. He was looking at you with an intensity that made your breath catch, his gaze flicking from your eyes down to your lips and back again.

"You know," he said, his voice rougher than before. "For a transfer student, you're not completely useless."

"And for an explosive hothead, you're not completely terrible," you replied, your voice trembling slightly.

He took a step closer, closing the small distance between you. He raised a hand, his calloused fingers gently brushing a stray strand of hair from your cheek. His touch was electric, a spark of kinetic energy that made your skin tingle.

"Don't forget what I taught you," he said, his voice barely a whisper.

"How could I?" you whispered back. "You're a very… memorable teacher."

And then he kissed you.

It wasn't soft or gentle. It was a Bakugo kiss—intense, demanding, a little bit rough, and utterly perfect. It tasted of caramel and a hint of something spicy, like cinnamon. His other hand came up to cup the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair, holding you in place as if he was afraid you might disappear. You kissed him back with everything you had, pouring all your unspoken feelings, all your gratitude and affection, into that single, perfect moment.

When you finally pulled apart, you were both breathless. He rested his forehead against yours, his eyes closed.

"You'd better come back someday," he murmured, his voice thick with an emotion you'd never heard from him before.

"I will," you promised, your heart aching with a bittersweet joy. "You won't be able to get rid of me that easily."

He opened his eyes and looked at you, a rare, genuine smile gracing his lips. "I'll hold you to that, transfer student."

The sound of a car horn honking from outside broke the spell. Your driver was here.

You didn't want to leave, but you knew you had to. With one last, lingering look, you picked up your suitcase and headed for the door. As you walked out, you felt his eyes on your back, a silent promise that this wasn't the end. It was just the beginning.

As you stepped out into the bright sunlight, leaving the world of U.A. behind, you knew that no matter where you went, a piece of your heart would always belong to the explosive boy who had taught you how to be strong, and who had, in his own gruff, infuriating way, taught you how to love.

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A/N: this might have been one of my fav fics ever!!! I'm so thankful y'all were patient while I couldn't write anything, but I have all of them saved to docs so I just gotta copy paste all of em!! love yallll

comments and likes are always appreciated!