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You’re standing in the wreckage of Class 1-A’s homeroom, trying not to cackle like a idiot.
The explosion? Okay, not totally your fault. You might’ve poked the bear, smirking at Bakugou with a “Yo, Sparky, your quirk’s just a glorified sparkler, right?”
Your amplification quirk, think gas on a campfire, turned his little pop into a desk exploding disaster.
Now the room’s a modern art shitshow and you’re both fucked.
“You. And you.” Aizawa’s voice is flat as a board, his scarf twitching like it’s ready to choke you out.
“One week detention. Gym cleanup. No bitching.”
Bakugou’s palms spark, his face looking like a storm’s about to drop. “This is her fault! She fucking baited me!”
You lean against a charred desk, grinning like you’re auditioning for chaos goblin of the year.
“Aw, Katsuki, ‘baited’? That’s cute!”
He spins on you, eyes blazing like he’s gonna nuke you. “Keep running that smart mouth, and I’ll blast your ass to the moon!”
Aizawa yawns, already halfway out the door. “Tomorrow. Gym. Show up, or it’s two weeks.”
You roll into the gym the next day, mop in hand like you’re about to fuck up some floors and Bakugou’s whole day.
Bakugou stomps in behind you, broom raised like he’s gonna shank the tiles. “Well, well, Mr. Perfect,” you taunt, flicking soapy water at his stupidly clean sneakers. “UA’s golden boy, stuck playing maid. Want a cute lil’ apron? Pink, to match that pissy face?”
He swings his broom at your head like it’s a katana. “Say that shit again, and I’ll make this thing explode. You’re why we’re stuck here, you little extra.”
“Oh, real original. What’s next? Pest? Loser? Your future wifey?” You dodge his swipe, spinning your mop like it’s your hype man.
He’s fast, but you’re a slippery bastard, weaving around him while he cusses up a storm.
Shit hits the fan when you find a can of neon pink paint in the supply closet, UA’s budget must’ve been drunk as hell.
You “trip,” splashing a stripe across his arm, and when he lunges, he slips in the puddle, ass-planting in a pink mess. You lose it, laughing so hard you nearly piss yourself. “Holy shit, it’s Barbie Bakugou!”
He scrambles up, grabbing your collar, yanking you so close you could smell him, caramel, smoke and something sharp that makes your brain short-circuit.
“One more word, dumbass,” he growls, fingers burning through your shirt, “and I’ll paint you pink.”
“Bet you’d love that,” you shoot back, batting your lashes. His grip slips, face going redder than a tomato, and he shoves you back, muttering shit that’d make your mom wash his mouth out.
You catch him staring at the pink streak on his bicep, and fuck, it’s hotter than it should be. By the time the janitor boots you out, the floor’s a pink disaster, and you wave, all fake-sweet. “Night, Barbie. Don’t jerk off to me too hard.”
“Eat shit,” he snarls, but you clock him staring at your ass as you bounce.
Day two’s a fucking oven, the gym’s AC is dead, turning it into a sweat lodge. You show up in a tank top and shorts, already hating life and Bakugou storms in late, hair spikier than a pissed-off hedgehog.
“Late, huh?” you say, half-assing a basketball hoop polish. “What, got lost in your own ego?”
“Shitty Deku and his dumbass questions,” he snaps, snatching your mop - your damn mop. “Move it, or I’ll steamroll you.”
You chuck a rag at his face; it slaps him with a wet splat. “Oh, it’s on, bitch.” Cue twenty minutes of pure stupidity: you yeeting sponges from the bleachers, him blasting tiny pops to knock ‘em down. One sponge smacks your chest, soaking your shirt see-through and you yelp, arms crossing. “You fucking perv! That’s assault!”
He grins, all sharp teeth. “Boo-fuckin’-hoo. Maybe don’t wear shit that flashes your tits when wet.”
You flush, but clap back, “Maybe don’t aim for my boobs, creep. That your way of flirting?” He chokes - straight-up hacks on his own spit - and spins away, scrubbing the floor like it stole his lunch money.
The heat’s brutal; sweat’s dripping down your neck, his shirt’s glued to his back, showing off every damn muscle. You catch him peeking when you stretch, tank top riding up, and he looks away fast, but not that fast.
By the end, you’re both soaked, the gym’s half-clean and the air’s buzzing with something that ain’t just your quirk.
“Truce?” you say, bumping his shoulder.
“Fuck your truce,” he mutters, but he holds the door open, eyes flicking to yours like he’s plotting.
Day three brings paint, real paint, ‘cause Aizawa’s got you fixing the gym walls after some first-year’s quirk fucked ‘em up.
Two cans of blue latex sit there, and you pop one open, smirking. “Think we can match your vibe? Y’know, cold and blue-balled?”
Bakugou snatches a brush, dipping it like he’s arming a bomb. “Keep yapping and I’ll paint you into a wall.” You flick primer at him, hitting his forearm, and he freezes, staring at the white streak like you kicked his dog.
“You’re so dead.”
Paint war erupts, blue on your jeans, white in his hair, both of you cackling. You nail him across the chest, paint soaking his tank top, making it cling like a wet t-shirt contest.
He tackles you onto a crash mat, pinning your wrists, knee between your thighs. His breath’s hot, face inches away, paint smearing sticky between you. “Give up,” he growls, eyes dark, thumb brushing your wrist.
“Make me, asshole,” you shoot back, heart hammering. For a sec, you swear he’s gonna kiss you, because his eyes drop to your lips, but he rolls off, cursing, leaving you sprawled and buzzing like a live wire.
“Get to work, dipshit.”
The day’s pure torture. You catch him staring at the paint on your neck and he turns away, ears red as hell.
The wall’s a hot mess, like a kid’s finger-painting, but the tension’s thicker than the paint fumes.
You leave with a shaky, “Night, Picasso,” and his fingers graze yours when you toss him his bag.
Day four’s a goddamn sauna, AC’s still busted and you strip to a sports bra and shorts, practical but risky.
Bakugou walks in, sees you and nearly eats the doorframe trying not to stare. “Put a fucking shirt on,” he barks, yanking angry at the vacuum cord.
“Jealous of the breeze?” you clap back, fanning yourself. “Or pissed I’m rocking half-naked better than you?” He pops a tiny explosion, singeing the cord. “Keep running that mouth, and I’ll shut it for you.”
“Big talk for a dude sweating through his ego.” You bump his hip, vacuuming around him.
You’re both dripping, his tank top’s a second skin, yours ain’t much better. You catch him staring when you bend to grab a rag, and yeah, you arch your back a bit extra - fuck it.
The vacuum jams on a sock, and you both crouch to fix it, shoulders brushing, sweat mixing.
Your hand grazes his thigh, pulling the hose back. “Whoops,” you mutter, fingers lingering.
He hisses, grabbing your wrist. “Watch where you’re grabbing, or you’re gonna regret it.”
“Regret it? Or love it?” You lean in, smirking.
“You’re sending hella mixed signals, Katsuki.” His thumb brushes your pulse on purpose before he lets go. “Test me, and find out.”
The day’s all accidental touches: his hand on your back when you reach high, your knee bumping his under the supply table. By the end, you’re a sweaty, horny mess, waving with a grin. “Don’t melt without me, hotshot.”
“As if,” he scoffs, but his eyes trail you out, heavy as fuck.
Friday, day five, and the gym’s... fine? You high-five Bakugou when you finish the bleachers early, his palm warm, sticking around too long.
“Teamwork makes the dream work,” you say, all fake-serious. “Aizawa got medals for us? Or just a ‘Congrats, you didn’t kill each other’ sticker?”
He snorts, leaning against the wall, arms crossed, eyes softer than usual. “Medal for putting up with your annoying ass.”
“You love my annoying ass.” You toss him a water bottle; he catches it one-handed, throat bobbing as he chugs.
You watch a drop slide down his jaw, over his neck, into his shirt, and - goddamn, focus.
You chug your own, pretending it’ll cool the fire in your gut. The day gets flirty: you “accidentally” spray him with the hose while rinsing mats: “Slippery fingers, my bad!”, him flicking water from his hair onto your face: “Eat that, brat”.
It escalates, you chase him with the sprayer, cackling, till he corners you against the wall, hands caging you in, water dripping from his spikes onto your lips.
“Truce?” you whisper, heart in your throat, his breath, mint and heat, way too close.
His eyes flick to your mouth. “Depends. You gonna stop being a pain in my ass?”
“Nah.” You tilt your chin, daring him, and for a hot second, you think he’s gonna close the gap. The janitor’s whistle blows, and he steps back, muttering, “Fuckin’ timing.”
“Coward,” you tease, slipping past.
“Brat,” he fires back, hand grazing your hip.
Monday and the weekend was hell, your brain stuck on every touch, every almost.
You drag your ass to the gym, heart pounding and Bakugou’s already there, sleeves rolled up, wiping weights like they pissed him off.
“Miss me?” you ask, keeping it calm.
“Like a kick to the face,” he mutters, but his eyes hit you softer than usual. Work’s quiet at first, but the banter kicks up.
You bump shoulders more than you need to, jokes landing with double meanings. “Gimme that rag,” you say, reaching at the same time and fingers brushing…lingering.
He doesn’t pull away first.
“You’re useless without me,” he says, almost fond.
“Says the guy who ate shit in paint day one.” You nudge him, and he chuckles low and rough, making your skin prickle. Cleaning mirrors, you catch your reflections: you flushed, him smirking, space between you shrinking.
“What’s your deal?” you blurt. “Why you always so pissed at me?”
He freezes, rag mid-swipe. “You’re... fuckin’ infuriating. Always in my head, pushing my buttons. Makes me wanna-” He cuts off, jaw tight.
“Wanna what?” You step closer, mirror fogging with your breath.
He backs you against the glass, his heat bleeding through your clothes. “Strangle you. Or...”
“Or?” Your voice is barely there.
His forehead presses to yours, voice like gravel. “Shut you up my way.” You think he’s gonna kiss you, but the dinner bell rings.
He groans, head dropping to your shoulder. “Fuckin’ hell.”
You laugh, patting his back. “Chill, hothead. One more day.”
Tuesday - the last day. Freedom’s so close, but the ache’s closer, the want for what you’ve been dancing around burning you alive.
You walk in, nerves shot, and Bakugou’s leaning against the bleachers, scowl softer, like he’s been waiting. “Ready to bounce?” you ask, voice wobbly.
He shrugs, eyes glued to you. “Maybe I got used to your dumb ass.” Your heart does a stupid flip as you start cleaning, moving like you’ve been doing this forever.
Banter’s on point: you roast his “model student” glow-up, him threatening to “blow your shitty broom to hell.” But the tension’s a live wire, sparking every time his eyes hit your lips or you catch the sweat rolling down his neck.
Sunset spills gold through the windows as you finish the last corner. “We fuckin’ did it,” you say, fist-bumping him. His hand lingers, warm, anchoring.
“Tch. Didn’t suck at all,” he mutters, eyes searching yours like he’s trying to memorize your face.
You can’t take it anymore: the heat, the almosts, the way his damp shirt clings to every damn muscle, that caramel-smoke scent fucking with your head. Your heart’s a jackhammer, and you step into his space, bold as hell from a week of chaos.
“Katsuki.”
He stiffens, stepping closer, voice low. “What?”
You swallow, voice steady despite the butterflies going apeshit. “You gonna shut up or kiss me?”
His eyes go wide- shocked, then straight-up fire, like you lit his fuse. He doesn’t say something, just crashes into you, mouth slamming onto yours, hard and messy, all teeth and raw, desperate hunger.
You gasp, tasting salt and spice, the sharp edge of his breath and he deepens it, tongue hot and pushy, hands fisting your shirt to yank you flush against him.
His body’s a furnace, sweat-slick chest pressed to yours, and you kiss back just as hard, nails digging into his shoulders, tugging his damp spikes like you’re trying to climb him.
“Fuck,” he pants against your lips, nipping the bottom one hard enough to sting, voice rough as sandpaper. “You talk too damn much.”
You laugh, all breathy and wrecked, shoving him toward the bleachers. “Then shut me up, asshole.”
He does, pushes you onto the lowest row, the wood cool against your back as his knee slots between your thighs, pinning you like he’s claiming a prize.
His mouth’s relentless, kissing you like he’s fighting a war and winning, lips bruising, tongue curling in a way that makes your toes curl in your sneakers.
His hands roam, callused palms sliding up your sides, thumbs grazing the edge of your sports bra, sending sparks straight to your core.
You arch into him, greedy, and he growls low, animal, grinding his hips just enough to make you whine, the friction lighting you up through your shorts.
“Keep it down,” he rasps, lips hitting your neck, teeth grazing the soft spot below your ear, sucking hard enough to leave a mark you’ll bitch about tomorrow. “Unless you want the whole damn school to hear you, brat.”
“Let ‘em,” you fire back, voice shaky but ballsy, fingers fumbling with his tank top, yanking it up to slide your palms over his abs, sweat-slick and hard as fuck.
He hisses, pinning your wrists above your head with one hand, the other slipping under your bra, rough fingers teasing your nipple until you moan, the sound bouncing off the gym walls.
“Fuckin’ hell,” he mutters, kissing you again to shut you up, tongue diving in, sloppy and hungry, swallowing every sound you make. His hand lets your wrists go, and you take the shot, tugging his hair harder, pulling him closer as you hook a leg around his waist, dragging him down.
His weight’s heavy, solid, and you gasp, feeling him hard and hot against your thigh through his jeans, the denim doing nothing to hide how much he wants this.
How much he wants you.
“Tease,” he growls, biting your collarbone, leaving another mark that’ll have you wearing scarves in July.
His hand slides into your shorts, fingers finding you soaked, dripping, and he freezes for half a second, eyes going black like he just hit the jackpot. “This all for me, huh?”
“Shut-ah-up,” you manage, voice cracking as his fingers curl inside you, two at first, thick and sure, pumping slow and deliberate. His thumb hits your clit, rough but dead-on, and you buck against him, kissing him sloppy to muffle the moans spilling out like a damn faucet.
He swallows every one, adding a third finger, the stretch burning just right, making your vision blur as you cling to his shoulders, nails biting skin.
“Like that?” His voice is wrecked, low and gritty, forehead pressed to yours, his eyes locked intense, almost soft under the fire.
“Say it, princess.”
“Yes- fuck, Katsuki, more,” you gasp, stroking him through his boxers, feeling him twitch, hot and heavy in your hand. You shove his jeans lower, palming him slow, twisting at the tip. He bucks into your hand, groaning into your neck, teeth sinking in again, harder, like he’s staking a claim.
“Greedy fuckin’ thing,” he pants, fingers speeding up, curling just right, thumb relentless on your clit. You’re close, so damn close, every nerve screaming, and he knows it, smirking against your skin as you arch higher, chasing the edge like it’s oxygen.
“Come on, give it to me. I know you’re dying to.”
You break, clenching around his fingers, vision going white, a choked moan escaping before you bite his shoulder to keep quiet, tasting salt and sweat as you shudder through it.
He doesn’t stop, working you through every pulse, fingers slowing but never leaving, drawing out every last tremble until you’re a boneless mess, gasping under him.
“Fuck…look at you,” he mutters, voice thick with something like awe, pulling his hand free to lick his fingers clean slow, deliberate, eyes never leaving yours. It’s filthy, and it sends another spark through you, even as you pant, totally wrecked.
You tighten your grip on him, stroking faster, and he groans, low and wrecked, hips jerking into your hand.
“Keep going,” you whisper, voice shot, and he curses, head dropping to your chest as you work him, twisting your wrist just to hear him gasp again.
His breath’s hot, lips grazing your collarbone, then lower, sucking at the swell of your breast through your bra, teeth nipping just hard enough to make you hiss.
“You’re gonna pay for this,” he growls, but it’s half-hearted, his hips stuttering as you stroke faster, thumb swiping over the tip. He’s close, you feel it in the way his breaths come short, the way his grip on your hip bruises, fingers digging in like he’s holding on for dear life.
“Fuck…you-,” he gasps, and then he’s spilling over your hand, hot and messy, groaning into your neck as he shudders through it, hips jerking with every pulse.
For a minute, you’re both still, panting like you ran a marathon, tangled together, the gym quiet except for your ragged breaths and the faint hum of the busted AC.
He slumps against you, face buried in your neck, arms loose around your waist, his weight grounding you. “Dumbass,” he mumbles, softer than you’ve ever heard, thumb tracing lazy circles on your hip.
You grin, carding fingers through his damp spikes, the texture rough and familiar. “Your dumbass, hothead.”
“Tch.” He presses a gentle kiss to your pulse, almost shy, a total 180 from the storm you just survived. “Don’t get all cocky, princess .”
Cleanup’s a shitshow, grabbing rags from the supply closet, wiping off paint, sweat, and other evidence, both of you laughing under your breath at how ridiculous this is.
The gym’s... passable, walls a chaotic blue-pink mess, floor streaky but good enough. As you leave, stealing glances, you know: war’s over, you both won, and it’s the best kind of victory.