and the frequent selfie with the sun basking in your radiance all eons away from here, and from him. and for the few days notice you gave him to pick you up he’s been swapping shifts and pulling doubles. the last time you swung by had only been for a few days and you’d just stayed for your family holiday celebrations. so he’s making damn sure that he makes time in his schedule for you … and you actually managed to make Katsuki Bakugou excited about driving up to the airport at 9 o’clock at night. 9PM. after. his. bedtime.

Eijiro Kirishima is convinced that this “old friend” of his pals has extensive blackmail on him. (and obviously he wants to know the dirt) Izuku Midoriya is thrilled talk your ear off as you teach him everything you know from your education studies. (his new career path and lesson plans are kicking his ass) And Katsuki’s calm level-headed father, Masaru Bakugou, gladly texted him back agreeing to tailor him a fresh new button up to match his recent gains. At the airport Katsuki Bakugou kept a strong grip on his caffeine. He didn’t want any, but the awful scent of badly ground coffee grounded him in this obnoxious hell of unwashed people. He couldn’t understand how you willing revolved in and out of these places so often. He took a sip, his eyes fixated on the blue screen of rotating flight arrivals waiting for people to flood out of Gate 57D. … and 20 minutes later it happened. And that’s when Katsuki managed to spot your bright hair peaking out of the crowd. And he quickly made a fuss of picking stray lint and fixing his shirt and carding his fingers through his hair. Katsuki stood up, “Oi y/n over here.” his mouth twitched, as you yawned and fumbled through the gate. You looked good. You also looked tired dwarfed by your hiking pack and the tall business men off-boarding at your gate. He can see that brand new suitcase in hand as you briskly made your way through the crowd. you stop a few feet apart blinking up at him. The silent awe only lasted for a split moment before you throw your arms around him, “It’s so good to see you!” and suddenly everything feels clammy and tingly as he hold you in his arms. and that new heart of his thuds loudly against his ribcage. and shit — he forgot how much he loved the way you learned how to touch people. your full strength poured into a hug. even your chin gently hugs his shoulder. and then you pull away. blinking as if to dissuade the tired edges of sleep tugging on you. in truth it is — but to be honest it’s such a dream to see Katsuki like this, like Dynamite, finally after all this time. And even your own quirk acts up in some emotional response to his presence despite the suppression aids. Katsuki places the coffee in your hand with a boyish smirk, “figured you’d want one. you know, after you’re done eyeing me with your quirk.” you groan heavily and take a sip of the terrible airport coffee to hide your flushed face. and he’s quick to offer a hand as you trail after him through the airport and to his oddly sensible Subaru in the parking lot. “just admit I’m a good specimen and that’s why your quirk is acting up.” Katsuki barks. you scoff watching him load your stuff into the back of his car, “you know my anatomical stats doesn’t work that way. also what’s with the tight jeans and shirt then if you didn’t mean to automatically trigger it hmm?” your quirk, anatomical stats, was a part of the reason you applied to work abroad on your research project. Able to find definitive information on a person merely by looking at them. It was perfect for your study to track developmental stages on quirk growth in young children. The only downside of your quirk — that Katsuki was well aware of — was that you regularly wear quirk suppressing aides because it is rather irritating seeing everyone stats fly around in your head. your longtime friend looks like he’s been shot from your quip as he shuts the trunk and casually shrugs looking over — what your quirk supplies — a perfectly sculpted muscular collection 73% stronger than the average 24 year old man. “it just happened to be what I had in my locker after my shift, which I so graciously moved for you.” you roll your eyes and grin as Katsuki stalks over all 6’ 2” and 5/8ths of him. Your friend has always been a perfect specimen and he knows it. Despite the annoyance of making your quirk glitch it isn’t half as bad when the person happens to fit into Da Vinci’s “perfect man” golden ratio. “hmm that’s right, your boss makes you dress nice now.”

he opens the door for you, “you can’t argue with agency policy.” Katsuki reaches over to buckle you in almost as if you’re more than friends and you give him an award winning smile, as you do it yourself. “Can’t have you straining that new 19.8 inch bicep over little ol’ me,” you tease, “wouldn’t want to destroy that Bakugou original you’re wearing.” Katsuki coughs into his fist. “I’ve been hitting the gym lately. My companies quirk analytics specialist and nutritionist have got me on a new plan. It seems to be working,” he shrugs again, but there’s a question hanging in the air as he glances at you. “uh-huh well it looks good on you golden boy,” you reply and from somewhere in the car Katsuki shoves a familiar coffee cup back into your hands.

“It’s definitely working,” you take a sip. It’s your favorite. It’s almost hard to be mad. “you didn’t need to dress-up like that and purposefully cause a quirk glitch for me to tell you that.” He knows that come tomorrow morning you’ll even endorse his obsession, and yours truly although you’d never admit to his fave that he’s your favorite specimen, by going in to the agency and doing a regular full physiology chart. Katsuki glances at you again. The way you happily sit back and blink lazily at him. A teasing lilt to your lips as you sip at your coffee. He knows he’s all lines and angles and numbers to you right now. He knows because he’s seen that impressive quirk of yours on display once or twice about two years ago on a high-tech quirk interface projection system…

It was then that he saw a glimpse of what you’d always described ‘anatomical stats’ to look like. The way the numbers seem to blink and yawn and stretch into smooth lines that dot across a person. At the time everyone in the room gasped to see it one display, but Katsuki couldn’t shake off how when your eyes flickered to his; how much smoother, and brighter, and even gilded the edges of your vision got when looking at him. This tiny little image of himself onscreen a dashing blur of numbers — like a giddy little nerdy system overload — before assuming a rather angelic golden tint And suddenly the maddening blinking and frustrated held tilts and endearing flush across your cheeks and the ‘golden boy’ commentary finally clicked into place. He did have some effect on you.

In the living room a pile of half-finished activities sit. The mismatched collection of floor cushions crowded around the tatami mat. There’s a collection of beads in a bowl waiting to be strung together. The makings of friendship bracelets and little fake plastic windchimes ready to be hastily strung up near the balcony door for summer — oh how Hitoshi and Eri loved to do that as children. But before Aizawa can truly inspect and critic the art gallery of achievements and invitations in the refrigerator door he’s greeted by a familiar face. “Why hello there little one,” in a second the familiar white calico headbutts into his hand. “Ah, I see Pochi hasn’t forgotten you. Poor kitten has been hiding from my girlfriend’s nephew. We’re watching him this week while her sister and brother-in-law go on a business trip.” “Ah, well that explains the little shoes,” Hitoshi nudges another set of inquisitive whiskers away from his drink like its second nature, “— that’s a rabbit.” “Oh yeah, I forgot to mention, that’s Rita. Short for Margarita, and she will stick her face into your cup if you’re not careful . . .” Cute. Aizawa covers the steaming mug with his palm as the rabbit sniff his knuckles, “How old is her nephew then.” “Ah Tatsuya just turned 4 last month. He’s a sweet kid. Calls me Pochi and calls Pochi Toshi though. N/N can’t seem to convince him otherwise,” Hitoshi shrugs. His son takes another sip in an attempt to conceal the smile on his face — he’s gotten good at mimicking him, but not good enough. The tight lipped smile says enough of something. and it’s astonishing how simple of a thing it is to come have a cup of coffee among half finished crafts and aquarium brochures. there’s more stuff he sees sitting around your shared home as he sips of his mug, a hand still protectively over it as your grey fluffy bunny Margarita tries to get a taste.

You gestured to the space between your bodies. Your fist bruising the air between you. You’d not stopped clutching that immaculately pressed collar all wrinkled between your knuckles.

For example this Monday he’d shown up to his classroom early — like usual — a cold bottle of Pocari Sweat in hand and the smell of fresh expo markers as he wrote the days announcements. And honestly it was pretty normal right up until his students started filling in — various bits of tape and glue and shoestring now littering the desks. “What’s this for?” The frantic teamwork of meter sticks and shoestrings and tape a chaotic mess. One of the girls peddling knotted bundles of colorful feathers around the room. “Oh it’s for English class review with Yamada and L/N sensei.” “Yeah! We all agreed to help gather stuff for the spirit day in homeroom today!” “Yumiko made us all cute fishing lures!” And just like that the state of his classroom no longer mattered. “Oh I see! Well if this is for L/N sensei we better hurry! Ganbatte kudasai! Everyone do your best. I’m not sure what Yamada and L/N sensei are doing but it must be plus ultra!” ———— It isn’t until later that afternoon that Midoriya’s curiosity gets the better of him and he decides to find the answer to his students excitement — lingering outside the English Language classroom. Inside he finds the room turned upside down the desks all grouped together, various flash cards strewn about, dozens of fishing poles, and what should be a concerning amount of gummy worms piled up in the largest bowl he’s ever seen! At the center of this insane scene is you and Yamada. The two of you decked out in matching fisherman gear: hats, boots, vests, poles! The two of you matching energy and intensity as you run about the room calling out word classes for the kids to catch with their homemade fishing poles. Izuku nearly jumps out of his skin when Aizawa appears out of nowhere, “It’s spirit week for review. Today is Gone Fishing for Vocabularly.” “I see,” he hums. The bowl of gummy worms is passed around the room to the winners. “Hizashi has been looking forward to it all month. We’ve had L/N over at the apartment more than usual to coordinate and plan their outfits. It’s all been her idea to do review spirit week — I came by to check on how the first day is going…” His former teachers gaze lands squarely on his husband as he darts to the front of the room with a smile and a big fishing net full of flashcards. Midoriya beams, “That’s very sweet of you.” “Nah,” Aizawa shrugs it off as they remain watching side-by-side, “just doing my job.” ———— And ultimately Izuku Midoriya finds himself lingering outside longer than he thought when the bell rings and his students filter out of there on a fishy sugary vocabulary high. Aizawa darting in to talk to an animated Yamada.

Izuku’s eyes linger on you for a second longer than they ought to before leaving — pretty face alight as you bend over redistributing “flashcard fishes” onto the floor for the next class.

————

The rest of review week continues on much the same and Midoriya can’t stop himself from stepping into the hall to catch a glimpse of you…

On Tuesday his students walk into home room with hilarious neon construction vests and hats and one jackhammer — which he confiscated immediately. And in the hallway he learns that today’s theme is “Sentence Construction.” And he and Aizawa find the blue drafting paper entirely unnecessary. But he thinks your decorated hardhat and bedazzled toy hammer is the most adorable thing on this planet. On “White Lie” Wednesday he spends the first few minutes genuinely believing that his students are pulling a prank on him… The entire class frantically assuring him they were not because “Midoriya Sensei we would never!” And he finds that they are in fact wearing plain white ts with common grammar misconceptions written on the front. And his coworkers end up teasing him for the remainder of the day because yes they do look like something he owns — and he finds himself distracted because he thinks he rather likes the way it looks on you. On Thursday he’s asked to release his students a few minutes earlier — a change of outfit needed for “Phonics Fest.” The English class now a cheerful mix of yukatas and very American concert festival outfits. He likes how comfortable you look. Finds himself entirely too impressed with your laser pointer proficiency. And thinks you look straight out of a western magazine in your matching cowgirl hat and boots as you weave between desks with an air of importance.

———— And by the time Friday comes around he begins to grow to eager — the excitement palpable — and he asks Aizawa in their home room teachers meeting what is planned for today. Supposedly, he doesn’t know. Which is how he finds himself emboldened as he inches past the threshold of the doorframe — the lights off and curtains drawn. And it’s here that you speak to him for the first time.

“So glad you could join us.” And like a bioluminescent angel you loop an extra wreath of glowsticks around his neck. You’re on your tiptoes as you do so, knuckles brushing over his green curls, fingertips barely touching the collar of his work shirt as you adjust the necklace to your liking.

“Hey babe,” he calls awaiting your answer as he turns the corner to the bed only to find part of your pj’s strewn over the foot of the bed. Where on the fucking green earth have you gotten to? Katsuki rubs the fabric between his forefinger and thumb. God you were gonna give him grey hairs before the hero profession ever did. “Hey baby, where ya’ at?” There’s a muffled response from the closet. The fabric to your nightshirt slips out of his grasp as he takes serve real large strides into the walk-in closet at the other side of the room. And Katsuki is meet with bright eyes as you huff and hum at him in an awkward manner that clearly means something along the lines of “sorry babe, I’m almost done”

like normally dancing would annoy him, but not when it’s your fuzzy sock clad feet padding softly against the ceiling in those patterns he’s sure has to be those little across-the-floor dance footprints for a waltz or something. At least he’s pretty certain judging by the way to make it from kitchen to front door over and over again.

In your later years at UA, Bakugou Katsuki ends up with an —unusual reputation within class A. He’s got a notoriously famous mean streak, but in 1-A he’s also got a reputation for having a strangely nutty tough-love aura about him — which makes him a decently good person to come run to when things go wrong. Naturally, not anyone’s top pick or anything, but a good one for when you need cry your heart out, or something. And, Bakugou usually knows, which is why he’s not all too surprised when you plow into his midsection in the middle of the hall. He’s headed upstairs from a later dinner because of his internship when he sees you. You’re coming straight from the dormitory showers, a chrous of familiar caterwauling floating out from the boys side. That’s why he took his showers in the morning, if he could help it, because at least Iida didn’t attempt to sing. You look soft and malleable stepping out from the bathroom. An old tye-dye shirt boasting participation of some kind of annual charity run and a pair of sweatpants on. The cuff at you ankles revealing your — now, slightly pink house slippers due to a washing mishap that happened last week in the dorms with a certain Shitty-Hair’ed guy and his red-themed hero costume. Your arms and face are dewy with what he presumes is that moisturizer that all you girls like to lather up in daily — and your hair is still on the verge of wet and stringy, but also frizzy and fuck, you look so very tired and soft right now. Katsuki pauses, red eyes squinting at your face; your nose is pink and your face is dewy, but those aren’t fingerprints left in the wake of moisturizer — it’s old tears that’s streaked over it. He huffs from his nose, nostrils flaring before he takes his hands out of his pockets and flexes his fingers at you where they hang by the side of his hips. And it’s then that he sees your shoulders slacken slightly before you’re suddenly pressed up against his front. All causal and warm — pressed as far into his abdomen as you can get, and he can feel your boobs smush against his chest because you’re very clearly not wearing a bra — and also because he’s earned a reputation for being a decent fucking human and for being nonchalant about that stuff. Bakugou is one of three guys in the dorm you guys deem trustworthy and reasonable enough to do that with. (The other two being Shouji and Todoroki.) And thus, he’s been grappled into many squishy-boob hugs by all you shitty girls. And your cheek is pressed against the hard plain of muscle that is his chest and your arms are wrapped around him — just under his shoulder blades in an action that lifts him and pulls Bakugou in towards you just a little bit. Your fingertips pressing into the muscle on his back and he hopes you don’t feel the way his heart is lub-dubbing inside his chest at the action. And suddenly Bakugou pulls you closer to him. A bicep circling protectively beside your chin, as a big palm comes to rest atop your damp hair. His other arm squeezing around your mid-section like a python and it’s a good thing too because as soon as he puts his arms around you Bakugou can feel that strength seeping from you and it feels like he’s holding you together. And that’s when the sniffles start.

“I’m so pathetic,” you whine. “As soon as you put your arms around me I felt my knees buckle.” And you’re pressed so close Bakugou can feel the way your lips move to form the words right against his chest. And instead of Bakugou saying anything mildly helpful in this situation his says, “I have that effect.” With a slight shrug that brings the top of your head pressing against his jaw, which might just be him engulfing and cradling you completely, but who knows? And Bakugou has no fucking idea why he said that. Or how he managed to say something so flirtatiously cringy with such calm, but all you do is attempt to shake your head against his hold and mumble, “yeah, that makes sense. I’ve seen the other girls around school.” Which you punctuate with a snort, an arm moving from his back to swipe at your face. Bakugou has no idea where this is going — except for you to start “hilariously deflecting” from whatever problem is at hand. “There’s this one girl,” you start with a breath, “she’s always hanging around the hallway between classes. She’s definitely trying to catch you at your locker, but she always just ends up next to mine and Momo’s — saying something random before running off. She’s definitely into you.” You look up at him, still completely weak in his hold and Bakugou scrunches his nose at you. An action that you find looks unnatural and awkward on the sharp features of his face. You frown, hoarsely laughing, “Stop that.” About his facial expression. Bakugou can’t imagine any girls wanting to be with him. Surely he’s a terrible catch at a boyfriend.

He face curls into a snarling scoff, “Nope. Can’t see it. You must be imaging things.” He declares forcefully pressing your head back into the cocoon of him. He settles his head back on top of yours and you’re now squirming like a damn worm. And you find some strength as you manage to peek your face out and blink at him with furrowed brows. And maybe it’s cause you’re in a vulnerable state with a good friend and maybe it’s because you’ve been harboring a little bit of a recent crush on the boy, but you blurt out, “You’re a catch. You know that, right?” And again his stupidly handsome face scrunches into that weird shape again before his red eyes are staring into yours. The hand on your back clutches at your shirt fabric before he says, “You really think that? You’re not just fucking with me?” You snort, wiping a few more stray tears from an entirely different problem than the internal one that the blonde is currently having. “Yeah I really think that, Bakugou.” And there’s a little quip on the side of his mouth that might count as a Bakugou smile, but it’s gone before you can tease him about it. The explosive murder god boy being unsure about his status as attractive is entirely too precious and far too laughable a situation — which is probably why your aggressively smooshed back into his chest and why he starts waddling side to side. For some damn reason the gently rocking from foot-to-foot placebo affects you into crying it all out. Some remnant of being a baby you suppose, but it’s still annoying how Bakugou’s managed to peg it on you so easily. And you’re damn right Bakugou’s doing it on purpose because you very clearly have a problem of your own or you wouldn’t be clutching onto him for dear life like you are right now. And despite this revelation that Kirishima may be right in the fact that’s he’s attractive he’s still whirling at the thought that you think he’s a catch. Because you’re the only girl he’d probably ever want thinking that — but Bakugou tucks that piece of knowledge into the back of his brain when Momo comes out of the showers next. A giant frilly nightgown on as she scampers over — talking and whispering to you gently from within your little hiddie-hole formed by his curled bicep and forearm. And he just huffs, and continues to cocoon you in his embrace rocking back and forth like a damn rocking-chair as you rattle off whatever’s been on your mind.