#explodetonate

        ❛     hey,  bakugou.   have you happened to notice the weather lately?     ❜     the setup is as weak as it is outright unceremonious,   too many costs cut in denki’s anticipation to deliver the punchline  ;  an abrupt shot of lightning only lasts so long,  afterall.

holding his phone out far enough for his full torso to be visible,  eyes trained on the boy on the other end of their facetime call,  he points up.

    It had seemed like such a great idea on the surface: class bonding experience! Everyone go to the escape rooms! Why anyone had thought putting Izuku and Bakugou together ( you know, the ones who had known each other since childhood? ) was a good idea was well beyond his understanding, but it was what lead to this circumstance:

❝ so bakubro.. ❞  he sits criss crossed on the opposite side of the couch, chin framed by tickled palms as the plain boy calls out to his peer from a safe distance away; after all, sero wasn’t  stupid  enough to say the following in a reachable-for-choking distance- he’s already a dead man walking for daring such an interaction.

❝ saw your mom at the market yesterday, we made eye contact after our hands touched reaching for the spinach. ❞  and  before  she  SUPLEXED  him into the basket of in-season peaches for giving her the smolder, but that wasn’t important.

❝ ---- you, uh.. you ever think about calling me STEPDAD ? ❞

birthday asks. (11/8)

aizawa’s problem is less in his ability to catch the airborne object – which, as projected by his student, he seamlessly intercepts with his right hand – and more so that his student has thrown a glass mug at an adult in the first place. brow furrowed and blood boiling, he calls out to him in frustration, voice pointedly raised. 

❝ OI!  bakugou, get…  ❞ 

back here. the rest of his command trails off as he stares in defeat at his already departed student, hand grasping the mug still and tongue clicking. forefinger and thumb come up to meet his temple and he sighs out, turning now to return to his paper work. 

at some point in the middle of a dreary, tedious afternoon, it becomes clear that aizawa won’t get through it without some assistance – the caffeinated sort, if you will. shoulders slumped and feet dragging, he opts to grab the plain, white mug that his brute of a student has ‘gifted’ him and make use of it. 

once his coffee is poured, he makes his way back and sets the mug on his desk. aizawa leans back into his chair and goes to stretch out his arms, but he stops right in the middle of his bone cracking melody, brows raised and eyes set on the mug changing colors. 

at first, he can’t tell what it is, but aizawa is nothing if not a patient man; he watches and he waits, leaning forward and closer with intent curiosity. finally, a middle finger forms, and he’s rendered… positively speechless. 

he loves it.