Chapter Text
The only thing Bakugou hated more than public transportation itself was when public transportation ran late. And guess what Bakugou’s train was?
Fucking late.
Bakugou’s lips pressed into a severe line as the stupid recorded lady repeated her script for what must’ve been the 50th time. ‘We apologize for the wait, ladies and gentlemen, but this train is currently experiencing…
From its tight grip on the passenger strap, Bakugou’s palm simmered dangerously. It had been 15 minutes already, goddammit, and Bakugou had places to be. Hell, if it weren’t for those dumbass quirk regulations, Bakugou could’ve blasted his way back to campus at least five times now.
‘Thank you for your understanding!’ the tin voice chirped from the speakers.
And just what the fuck was she so cheerful about?
Because Bakugou sure as hell didn’t see anything to shit his pants in happiness over. His home visit had been typically annoying, he was running late for one of the very few activities he looked forward to, and to top it off, the entire subway was decked out in obnoxious White Day advertisements.
~Let her know that she'll forever be your always~ . Bakugou scoffed to himself. The only ‘always’ he was interested in was never caring about that type of shit.
Halfway through an elaborate fantasy involving the charred remains of a certain subway smoldering in its tracks, the train finally - fucking finally - began moving again.
Rhythmic buzzing shook Bakugou’s pocket. He recognized Kirishima’s custom vibration alert, and took out the phone.
- And no, there was nothing fucking mushy about giving Kirishima a special ringtone. It was just practical, is all.
>>Shark Week: u coming or not dude? dont tell me u got lazy and r skipping…
<< Fuck you, my train is just running late.
>>Shark Week: likely story
>>Shark Week: let me guess, ur also gonna have ‘a thing’ come up soon so u ‘cant’ work out
Bakugou snorted. Kirishima had this weird ass running joke where he'd tease Bakugou for ‘trying’ to skip out on their weekly “Men of 3-A Grind” workout. It didn't even make any sense - Bakugou always made an effort to make a showing, despite his otherwise hermit-like tendencies. Kirishima was weird.
<< The only ‘thing’ in my future is a headache from the conversation.
>>Shark Week: U know, i read once that excessive frowning can lead to migraines
>>Shark Week: just a random thought that popped into my head...
<< Are you sure it wasn’t ‘excessive hair gel’?
<< Specifically, the kind that makes the user’s hair look like Knuckles the Echidna?
>>Shark Week: hey my hair is awesome and u know it :(
Bakugou smirked, thumbs poised over the keyboard in preparation to roast the shit out of Kirishima’s hair, until an irritated voice jolted him back to reality.
“Hey, buddy, are you gonna just stand there making heart eyes at your phone like a dumbass or get off the damn train?”
Bakugou’s head snapped up fiercely, and he realized that the train was, in fact, stopped. Apparently it had been for a decent while, going by the near-emptiness of the cabin. Besides, of course, the furious looking man whose exit was blocked by Bakugou’s own form.
And speaking of bad hair, this man’s definitely qualified, a platinum dyed so poorly that there was a uniform ring where his black roots suddenly transitioned to blonde.
“Oi.” Bakugou narrowed his eyes. “How about you watch the way you fucking talk to me, shitstain?”
The man gaped in outrage. “Me?! You’re the asshole blocking the door!”
Alright, so he may have a point. But Bakugou had never been one to let rationality shackle him, so he took the strong offensive, stepping menacingly towards his new enemy. “Asshole, eh? That’ll be the only part of you left if you don’t watch your fucking tone.”
“You, you little brat!” The man stood his ground, knuckles turning white where they gripped the handle of a briefcase. “All you need to do is move your ass and we can go our separate ways forever. Simple. Or is that concept a little too advanced for you?"
“Too advanced?! I'll tell you what’s ‘too advanced’.” Another step - now Bakugou was practically stepping on the douchebag’s toes, scuffing his shiny Oxfords. Good. “I can't quite understand why some nameless asshat on a train would ever pick a fight with me, especially when his pea brain couldn't even begin to comprehend all the shit I can do.”
Bakugou wrinkled his lip threateningly, yet the man still refused to be shaken. Bakugou was nearly - nearly - impressed.
“You're not the special snowflake you think you are, kid. You have no idea about all the shit I can do, too.”
An amused snort escaped Bakugou. “Oh yeah, and what's that?”
The man’s eyes flickered somewhere above Bakugou’s head and lit up gleefully, but before Bakugou could trace his line of vision, the man snatched Bakugou’s hand and fucking kissed it.
Kissed it!
“What,” Bakugou sputtered violently, too taken by surprise to resort to violence (yet). He wiped his hand on his shorts furiously. “What the fuck was that, you creep?!”
‘Thank you for riding Musufatu railways, and please see us again!’ A pleasant little ditty rattled from the speakers.
Seething, Bakugou yanked the man harshly by the collar of his business suit and dragged him out into the sunlight, just as the train doors slid shut behind them. “I’m gonna give you one fucking chance to explain what in the actual fuck just happened there.” He formed a fist with his free hand, intentions clear.
The man, infuriatingly, just smiled. “Oh, it’s not a big deal, really. Don’t worry about it.”
Bakugou allowed his fist to spark. “Wrong choice,” he growled, winding up for a punch.
“I just happened to curse you with my love quirk, is all.”
Bakugou’s fist screeched to a halt mid-swing, and he tightened his grip on the man’s collar. “What,” he whispered, voice embarrassingly hoarse.
“I said that I put you under a love spell curse, if you could listen,” the man smirked, peering down his nose at Bakugou. “There really must not be a brain underneath that ridiculous hair, after all.”
“What kind of love spell?” Bakugou demanded, uncharacteristically ignoring the insult.
The man smiled wider. He had Bakugou right where he wanted him, and they both knew it. “Here’s what’s gonna happen, you punk. You’re going to fall deeply, embarrassingly in love with the first person you touch after me. And you’re going to make a complete, utter ass out of yourself - even more so than you seem to naturally.”
Bakugou’s heart was pounding in the worst sort of way, and he resorted to his trusty fallback whenever Feelings dared make a jump on him: pure, unbridled rage.
“Fuck you!!” he spat. “That’s such bullshit that I’d be gagging from the stench, if it weren’t for your horrible fucking odor desensitizing my nose. Is your ass jealous of the amount of shit that comes out of your mouth?”
The man raised his eyebrow calmly. “Oh my, is that the charm you plan to use on whoever you fall for? If so, then I’ve got bad news, you gremlin.” The man leaned in closely, pinning Bakugou with a stare. “Because the quirk’s influence will only lift when you kiss your newly-found object of affection.”
“Bullshit,” Bakugou retorted, with far less composure than he would’ve liked. “A kiss? Give me a break. You’re making all this shit up; I could call your bluff from a mile away.”
Shrugging, the man began walking away, swinging his briefcase over his shoulder cheerfully. “Whatever you say, kid. Just let me know how much of a ‘bluff’ it is when your head is more over your heels than it's currently up your ass.”
There were so many things Bakugou could’ve done right then: clarify just whose head was up whose ass, explode the train station sky high, feed the man a good ole fashioned knuckle sandwich.
Instead, he stood, rooted in place - until the next train rumbled into the station - before his feet automatically began the trek home.
The gears only began turning once more when Bakugou was less than a mile from campus grounds.
First things first: this new development firmly fell into the territory of ‘not good’. A fucking love spell? It went without saying that Bakugou didn’t have time or tolerance for that type of shit. There had to be some way out of this.
Bakugou’s mind raced as he approached the U.A. entrance gates. He'd never heard of any sort of mind manipulation quirk that lasted more than 12 hours or so; surely that fucker had been bluffing. If I just isolate myself and wait it out for the rest of the day, I should be alright. He kicked at the road. Hell, it probably doesn’t even last that long.
A piece of gravel skittered off in front of him. Bakugou scowled and kicked harder, upsetting four pebbles this time. Good.
‘Put-out’ didn’t even begin to explain his current mood. And why the hell shouldn’t he be? Just because some titmouse with anger problems happened to possess a ridiculous quirk, Bakugou was gonna be stuck in his room all day. Missing his weekly workout with Kirishima.
- Well, technically, a decent group of students normally showed, but Kirishima was the only presence of relevance to Bakugou. It wasn’t just anybody that Bakugou felt secure in whaling on without inhibition.
Which sounded incredible right about now. Whaling on somebody sure would be cathartic. He huffed in frustration.
And yes, that comprised the extent of the consequences, because no way in hell was Bakugou going to allow the quirk to activate. He felt he had finessed projecting effective ‘stay the fuck away’ vibes, and was hardly a tactile person (excluding violence, of course), so this part of the equation should be a cinch.
Even if the threat was indeed a bluff, there was no sense in allowing a dilemma that could easily be avoided.
Beat a strategic retreat to his room, hole up, and avoid any possibility of a conundrum entirely. Simple. Bakugou scoffed into the afternoon breeze. That dude had thought he was such hot shit, with his ugly ass briefcase. Little did he know who he was dealing with.
Entering the dorm building and rounding the corner to the hallway that led to the elevator, Bakugou’s confidence rebounded to its typical loftiness once more.
Bakugou was a master strategist, the Number fucking One hero in the making, as if he could be so easily stymied. He leaned against the wall beside the elevator as he waited for the doors to open, allowing his eyes to drift shut and his mind to drift into daydreams of yanking that briefcase and clocking that asshole upside the face with it. Then maybe calling him out on his shitty dye job while he was at it. A nice little one-two punch of physical and emotional distress.
A twisted imitation of a smile contorted Bakugou’s lips. Those roots really were fucked up .
“Damn, babe, come here often?” An all-too-familiar voice collapsed Bakugou’s fantasy, and before he could move, yell, threaten, anything, a broad hand clapped Bakugou on the shoulder.
The explosion rocked the hall so hard that Bakugou’s teeth rattled in his skull.
“What the fuck did you do?!” Bakugou screeched reflexively, pupils shrinking into tiny red dots of pure fury. His heart pounded like a wild animal’s.
The sooty air cleared just enough to expose Kirishima’s hardened face. “I’m flattered you know my voice so well,” Kirishima laughed. “Or at least I hope to sweet Jesus you do, or else you just risked splattering one of our dear classmates against these nice, clean floors. Good thing my quirk is so badass, huh?”
Kirishima flexed a hardened bicep facetiously. Kirishima winked.
...
And Bakugou - Bakugou blushed.
For the mere second time in 17 years of life, no less, and he was pretty sure that blushing over accidentally calling All Might ‘dad’ that one time didn’t count. Bakugou was an aloof, detached, analytical sort of person. Bakugou didn’t fucking blush , alright?
Yet there he stood, cheeks flooding with color as his heartbeat approached Mach One. Over one of Kirishima’s stupidly typical antics, one Bakugou had seen more times than he himself had ever used the word ‘please’.
Astonishingly, Kirishima didn't mention Bakugou’s stoplight cheeks. “What, no snarky put-down? First you skip training, then I catch you smiling, now this - are you sure you’re the same Bakugou we all know and tolerate?” The redhead grinned, hands on his hips.
Stomach imitating a washing machine, Bakugou’s eyes traced Kirishima’s hands of their own accord, all the way down to their perch on his classmate’s sturdy waist. His thin t-shirt had been rendered somewhat...fitted from sweat - Kirishima must have just finished the group workout. The material was practically painted on.
And Kirishima made quite the canvas. Damn.
The air seemed thick again, but not from soot this time. Bakugou didn’t speak in fear of choking.
“Ok, you’re actually sort of scaring me now. Did somebody put you under some kind of kindness quirk?” Kirishima hummed. “You did just kinda explode me, though.”
The- the quirk! How could Bakugou have forgotten?! Is that an actual aspect of the quirk, to make me forget about its presence? It was certainly possible, especially considering how potent its effects on Bakugou had already proven.
Blushing. Outrageous.
Bakugou dared a glance at Kirishima, at his stupid, sweaty body and look of concern aimed at Bakugou, and felt his heart sputter.
“You’re going to fall deeply, embarrassingly in love with the first person you touch after me. And you’re going to make a complete, utter ass out of yourself - even more so than you seem to naturally.”
Fuck, fuck, fuck! This was more than ‘not good’ - this was bad. Kirishima had touched him - Kirishima. The fucking last person Bakugou ever would have wanted.
Because there was a huge fucking problem when it came to Kirishima, an anomaly that Bakugou only just allowed himself to acknowledge. Kirishima was strong, and funny, and driven, and admirable, goddammit. Kirishima had dumb red hair and even dumber big red eyes, that had an annoying habit of widening in awe when Bakugou explained complex English grammar to him. Kirishima, the fucker, seemed to actually like being around Bakugou.
The problem when it came to Kirishima was that Bakugou kinda-sorta-just-a-little-tiny-bit liked being around him right back - not that he would ever admit it.
So why, why did it have to be Kirishima that Bakugou was destined to make a ‘complete, utter ass of himself’ over? Anger, his trusty ally, clogged his veins.
“What,” Bakugou repeated bitterly, brows drawn angrily, “the fuck did you do?!”
Kirishima took a step back, forehead furrowed deeply. “For real, dude, I really didn’t mean to sneak up on you like that. I’m sorry.”
“That’s not -” Bakugou’s voice cracked, humiliatingly, and he slammed his fists against the wall behind him. “Fuck!”
“Woah, buddy, are you alright?” Kirishima’s brow creased further, and he reached out a hand in concern.
Panic swamped Bakugou, and he swiftly slapped the hand away. “Don’t,” he warned, with as much animosity as he could muster over the confusing cocktail of emotions swirling in his gut. “Don’t touch me.”
“Alright, alright, my bad.” Kirishima put his palms up in surrender. “If you want me gone, I’ll go.” He chewed his lip. “I just, um. Just so you know, I missed you at training today. Seeya around.”
And as Bakugou watched the broad planes of Kirishima’s back shift as he walked away, the strangest thing happened.
His chest ached.
Bakugou...was fucked.