#bakugoxreader fic

"Optimist," Mina teased, linking her arm with yours as you stepped into the hallway. The walk to class was familiar now—down the stairs, past the common room where you could see Todoroki already reading at the table, out into the U.A. campus with its futuristic architecture and carefully maintained grounds. 

Students milled about, some in costume for early training, others in uniform like you. The air smelled like cut grass and the distant promise of rain. You passed Bakugo in the hallway. He was leaning against the wall near the lockers, arms crossed, scowling at his phone. His uniform was already rumpled, tie loosened, blond hair sticking up in every direction like he'd been running his hands through it. He didn't look up as you passed, but you felt the shift in the air anyway—that strange electric charge that seemed to follow him everywhere.

"Someone's in a mood," Mina whispered, loud enough that you winced. "He's always in a mood," you whispered back. But you glanced back anyway. Just once. He was looking up now, red eyes sharp, catching you mid-look. You snapped your head forward, cheeks heating, and pretended you hadn't been checking.

"Oh my god," Mina said, delighted. "You were looking."

"I was not."

"You totally were. You like him!"

"I don't like him," you said, maybe too quickly. "He's just... visually loud. Hard to ignore."

"Visually loud," Mina repeated, grinning. "That's one way to put it." You shoved her shoulder, but you were smiling too. The truth was, Bakugo Katsuki was impossible to ignore. He took up space in every room he entered, radiated aggression and confidence and something else underneath, something sharp and desperate that you couldn't quite name.

You'd watched him in training, the way he moved like he was trying to outrun something, the way he fought like he had everything to prove. You didn't like him. You were just... aware of him.

Constantly. 

Class 1-A's classroom was buzzing when you arrived. Uraraka had indeed saved seats, three in the back row, her bag on one, Mina's on another. You slid into yours just as the bell rang, pulling out your notebook and pen with the automatic muscle memory of a good student. 

Present Mic was already at the front, his signature directional speaker gear around his neck, sunglasses pushed up into his wild hair. He looked excited, which usually meant the class should be worried.

"GOOD MORNING, LITTLE LISTENERS!" The class chorused back their greetings, some enthusiastic, some groggy. "Today we're starting something NEW! Something EXCITING! Something that will determine TWENTY PERCENT of your final grade!" The room groaned collectively.

"Hero Public Speaking!" Mic announced, gesturing broadly. "A hero's image is everything! How you present yourself to the media, to civilians, to other heroes—it can save lives, build trust, or destroy your career! You need to be articulate, confident, and authentic!"

He pulled out a hat. An actual hat. You felt your stomach sink. "You'll be working in PAIRS! I've drawn names at random! No complaining! 

Your heart dropped to your stomach. A surprise assignment that's worth 20% of your final grade, and with randomised partners nonetheless.

The pairs are..."He started reading. 

Please no. Please no. Please no-

You tuned out slightly, mentally calculating your chances of getting someone reasonable. Not Mineta. Please not Mineta. Maybe Kirishima—he was nice, easy to work with. Or Tsuyu, she was organized. Or-

"Bakugo Katsuki and Y/N L/N!" 

The room went quiet. You felt every eye turn to you. Then to Bakugo. Then back to you. Bakugo, who had been half-asleep with his head propped on his hand, went completely still. His eyes snapped open, sharp and furious, scanning the room until they landed on you. You stared back, frozen, your pen gripped so tight your knuckles were white.

"Awesome!" Mic continued, oblivious. "Next pair—"Bakugo stood up. His chair scraped against the floor, the sound like a scream. The room went completely silent. He didn't look at you again and just grabbed his bag, threw it over his shoulder, and walked out.

The door slammed behind him with enough force to rattle the windows. "Well," Mic said, after a beat. "He's... passionate. Moving on!" The class erupted into whispers. You kept your eyes on your notebook, cheeks burning, trying to pretend you weren't humiliated. Trying to pretend you weren't also weirdly disappointed.

"Y/N," Uraraka whispered, leaning over. "Are you okay?"

"Fine," you said, voice tight. "He's just... he's just dramatic. It's fine."

But it wasn't fine. Because you had three weeks to work with the most volatile person in Class 1-A, and he'd just made it very clear that he would rather walk out than spend five minutes in your presence.

The rest of the class passed in a blur. You took notes automatically, not really processing anything. When the bell rang for lunch, you stayed in your seat, organizing your papers with mechanical precision, waiting for the room to clear. Mina and Uraraka hovered by your desk.

"Come on," Mina said, gentler than usual. "Lunch. We'll get the good seats."

"You go ahead," you said. "I need to... I need to find him."

"Y/N-"

"I'll be fine," you said, standing up. "I just need to talk to him. Clear the air. It's a project, we have to work together."

They exchanged looks, but they didn't follow you as you walked out of the classroom. You found him on the roof. It was a stupid place to look, cliché, even—but you'd seen him heading up the stairs once before, and something in your gut said try. 

You pushed open the heavy metal door and there he was, standing at the edge with his back to you, hands in his pockets, looking out at the city. He didn't turn around when the door clicked shut, but you saw his shoulders tense.

"Go away," he said.

"No," you said, walking closer. Your heart was hammering against your ribs, but you kept your voice steady. "We have a project. Twenty percent of our grade. We need to talk about it."

"I don't need to do shit with you," he said, finally turning. His eyes were sharp, angry, but there was something else underneath. Panic maybe, or even fear. 

"You do your part, I'll do mine."

"That's not how group projects work," you said, stopping a few feet away. Close enough that you could see the way his jaw was clenched, the muscle ticking in his cheek. "And even if it was, you'd fail. Public speaking is your worst subject. Everyone knows it. You need help."

The words came out harsher than you meant them. His eyes flashed, and for a second you thought he might actually explode. His palms were sparking, the whole dramatic display. But he didn't. He just stared at you, breathing hard, something complicated moving across his face.

"Why do you care?" he asked, finally. His voice was lower, stripped of some of its anger. "Just do your part. I'll figure it out."

"Because I care about my grade," you said. "And because..." You hesitated. Because what? Because you spent three years watching him destroy himself? Because you'd seen the way he helped Kirishima study once, gentle and patient in a way that contradicted everything else? Because you were stupid and masochistic and maybe, possibly, wanted an excuse to spend time with him?

"Because?" he prompted, mocking.

"Because I'm not going to let you fail just because you're scared," you said. The words hung in the air between you. His eyes went wide. Then narrow.

"I'm not scared."

"Aren't you?" You took a step closer. "You're scared of looking stupid. Of being vulnerable. Of needing help. So you push everyone away and pretend you don't care. But you do care. You care a lot."

"Shut up," he said, but there was no force behind it.

"Library," you said. "Six pm. Don't be late." He stared at you. "If you don't show up, I'll tell Aizawa you're refusing to participate," you said. "And I'll tell him you're scared. Your choice." You turned and walked back toward the door, your heart hammering so loud you were sure he could hear it. 

You expected him to yell after you, to explode, to call you names. Instead:

"Fine."

One word. Rough, reluctant, but real. You stopped, hand on the door handle, and looked back. He was facing away again, shoulders hunched, looking out at the city. 

"Library. Six pm. Don't be fucking late." A smile tugged at your mouth. You didn't let him see it.

"I wouldn't dream of it," you said. And you walked back inside, leaving him on the roof with his pride and his fear and the project that was going to change everything.