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Muscles bunched, newly blossoming bruises along her arms and shins deepening in color with every passing moment, adding depth to the mottled pattern of almost healed ones already covering her skin. Heroes wear long sleeved suits year round to hide as much as to protect. Uraraka sagged into the wooden bench, knees on either side of the seat – legs quivering. Sweat sticking her tank top to her back, the light fabric felt like chainmail – too heavy to carry. Pulling her down. So deep was her exhaustion. She dragged sore fingers through her hair, capturing what flyaways could be wrangled into a messy pile atop her head. Massaging the now exposed nape of her neck, searching for both the pain and the relief. That place that would never quite relax, no matter how deep the exhaustion.
Her training companion slouched onto the bench next to her, but her back was to him. His blonde hair usually a bomb of personality, matted and messy with his own exertion. Both guzzling water.
“I need a massage. My neck and shoulders are stiff no matter how much I stretch them.” Rolling the joints in her shoulders, she continued, “That sparring session was amazing, Bakugou. I’ve trained with over forty different heroes since going Pro, but no one pushes me as intensely as you do. We should train together more often!”
Bakugou shifted so that he was also straddling the bench, now facing her back. Wiping the sweat from his palms on damp shorts.
“Most don’t keep up. Your hand to hand is fucking flawless now. Nothing like it was at school.”
She dropped the hand from the back of her neck. A red tint covering the skin from his compliment and the press of her fingers, creeping into her hairline. Her eyes dropping to the bench as she stammered out a “thank you.”
“Here.” Before she could fully knit her eyebrows together at the word, she felt skin on her skin. A hand, strong and calloused, pushed gently down on one shoulder. His other hand kneading the muscles up the side of her neck – gentle enough to not be painful, but firm enough to force the muscles to relax. Her eyes widened, then she let out a coo of satisfaction.
The pressure was perfect, a slight tingling sensation drifting in the aftermath of his hands as they traced the patterns of muscle and pain in her neck, leading into her shoulder. The weight on her shoulder disappeared, textured finger tips slipping under her chin to tilt her head up as he probed into the deeper muscles. Easing the heavy she carried.
“These are some fucking nasty knots, Uraraka. You aren’t taking care of yourself after you’re finished training – fucking idiot.” His voice firm, that casual derogatory nature of his youth slipping into his tone.
She huffed. Shoulders bunching against the rebuke. The friendly gesture of easing her pain souring slightly. “I ice them, soak in the bath, and do yoga regularly. I am taking care of myself, Bakugou.”
A little softer, gentle in a way she had rarely seen him exhibit, “Why are you so tense, then? This isn’t just from today…” He pushed down on her bunched shoulders with both hands, whispering “Easy. I’m just helping.”
A long exhale into the silence. She let him win, let him push her shoulders down, let his fingers work with precision as they kneaded the knots from her flesh. She allowed herself to relax, letting the silence stretch on until… with a sigh, she finally replied, “I’ve had a lot of interaction with the media recently. I hate dealing with them.”
“Tch. Same here.”
She cooed a bit beneath his attention and a flush crept up his own neckline. The touch was … intimate. Heroes were often their own support system – they had such a specific role in society that they looked out for each other. Casual help was common, minor medical attention and such. But here, like this, he had to feel at her body to determine where the muscles were twisting and then follow the fibers from both sides to convince it to unwind. Slow. Deliberate. The type of work that lead to memorizing the planes of her shoulders, the way they pulled towards her spine, the tiny sprouts of hair at the nape of her neck that were more wisp than anything else. The light dusting of freckles he had somehow never noticed before across the top of her shoulders.
The girl groaned. “Can I pay you to do this regularly?” Her voice was tilted upwards, lilting, almost drifting. “I feel… unwound.”
“Tch. As if I’d need your money.”
She tsked back at him. Attempting to raise the shoulder he was plying his fingers into, and failing, before moaning so softly he thought he’d imagined it. His own fingers thankfully continuing their ministrations while his mind momentarily stuttered. He let his hands drift off her shoulders, finding several knots in both of her biceps.
Gingerly, he pulled her backwards so that she was slouching into his shoulder. She did not resist. Stray hair from her bun tickling the back of his own neck and trailing over his shoulder. Her eyes were still closed, but he didn’t dare look at her face so close to his own. Reaching around her frame – she was a small woman, but strong – and trying to ignore the heat of her pressing into him, he methodically worked his way down first one arm – bicep to wrist – before moving on to the other.
He shifted her weight to rest against his other shoulder and just as his fingers began to work their way once again from bicep to wrist, whispered, “You have to take care of yourself.” Words not meant to escape his mind.
“You almost sound like you care.” Her tone still lilting, tilted upward in contentment and comfort. A little teasing, even.
He pinched her a little too hard at the crook of her arm and she chuckled softly. Her warm laugh reverberating through his chest.
Uraraka had thinned out since high school. The soft curves of youth turning into angled muscle in her twenties. Still appealingly round in all the expected places, and raw strength everywhere else. She shifted in his arms, every motion registering acutely due to their proximity. Her face just barely tucked against his neck.
Too soon, he reached her wrist. Loathing to do so, but still letting go without an excuse for the touch to linger. They’d been physically touching for almost thirty minutes. Sweat already dried on their skin, cool. He started to pull back from her, but her own hands reached out to his.
Grip firm, she sat up out of the press of his frame. Putting just enough distance between them for her to straighten her back. His knees already touching the outside of her thighs, as she pulled him into her, instead. She rested his hands on either thigh. He hesitated, unsure and thrown off by the touch. Loathe to accept what he’d just freely given. But she pressed her fingers into his forearms and he melted as she returned the gesture – kneading the tension away with a care that felt foreign and enveloping.
Bakugou sagged into her, resting his forehead against the nape of her neck. His fingers twitched, but he willed them to remain still.
Her voice cut through his haze, “And you said I’m the one not taking care of myself.”
He hissed through clenched teeth, “Shut up.” All grit and bite, the strength that made him a stand out hero, but she didn’t flinch. Giggling in response. The fluctuations reverberating through him again.
Unlike him, she didn’t stop at his wrist. His quirk was activated in his hands and that was where the worse of his tension was held. Kneading her fingers deep into his palm, the juncture between thumb and forefinger. The digits on each of his fingers. He suppressed a moan, only half successful. A smile he couldn’t see upon her lips. Finished with that arm, she moved to the next. Repeating the painfully sensual and relieving process. Pushing deep into his muscles, pulling pain from his skin that he’d grown so accustomed to he’d thought it was a part of his physique.
He felt the change first. The palpitations in her chest speeding up as she slipped her fingers over the back of his right hand, entwining them with his own. He pulled his face into a scowl, hidden as it was, but made no attempt to stop himself as he folded his fingers over hers. Trapping them in his palm. Tiny and perfect.
Pressing the fingers of his free hand just a tad deeper into her thigh, skin dimpling, he lifted his face so that his forehead was no longer pressed into the back of her neck. Instead, his every exhale raced down her sweat-cooled skin. Carefully, he brushed the back of her neck with the tip of his nose before pressing freshly licked lips into the soft juncture between neck and shoulder. The kiss lingered. She stiffened beneath the gesture, but on the exhale she leaned further into him tightening her fingers in his and sighing.
For a long, sacred moment, neither of them moved. Pressed together. His lips on her skin. He raised his eyes over her shoulder as she brought his right hand to rest palm flat against the left side of her chest, just above the swell of her cleavage. The tips of his fingers curled over her shoulder on their own accord, his thumb tracing the length of her collarbone. Her right hand still pressed over his, her fingers slipped between his knuckles.
Bakugou, usually unruly and exuding airs of “I don’t need you”, sighed into her neck. His exhale drifting over her skin as he nuzzled his face deeper into her skin. The wisps of hair tickling his skin, the smell of sweat and strength and adoration. He brushed the space just behind her ear with his nose, before kissing her neck again. Another inch higher, another press of his lips. Gentle and intentional.
He let his left hand curl across the span of her waist, tucking one hip in the crook of his elbow and the other snug in his palm. He squeezed her gently, as if to confirm she was really present. Coveting the moment, the beat of both their hearts kicking wildly at their slow motions.
Three successive knocks at the door to the training room – and they quickly separated. As if two magnets just had their poles reversed. Pushing away instead of pulling towards. Bakugou stood up, leaned his face against the wall, back to the door.
A bright eyed man with black hair stuck his head through the door, all pretty and perfectly immaculate. “Uraraka, are you finished sparring?”
“Oh, hello, Luster. Did you need something? I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you were waiting on me to finish here.”
A sharp tsk escaped the blonde nearby. His scowl deepening.
Luster is a decently ranked rescue hero, near in the standing to Uraraka, with a quirk that lets him manipulate and create spider silk from his hands. Powerful, but he didn’t like hurting villans so he was rarely involved in commotions.
“Did he beat you up? You look exhausted, Uraraka.” That perfect face of his twisted into an edge of anger, but still politely hidden.
Upbeat as ever, “There wouldn’t be much point to sparring if I still had energy leftover afterwards. What do you need, Luster?”
“Oh, a few of us are going out to dinner soon and wanted to invite you. Would you care to join me? I’d be delighted, of course.”
The sweaty brunette turned to her companion, “Bakugou, would you care for food?”
Luster interrupted, “Um… I was just thinking this could be you and me, Uraraka.”
Silence.
“Oh.”
Bakugou simply walked away. All the tension that had melted from his frame returned in an instant. He did not wait to her reply to Mr. Perfect. Entering the shower in the locker room, he turned the temperature up to scalding in hopes of searing the sensation of Uraraka pressed against his skin away from both body and mind. His lips, ever wanting to creep along more of her skin. To feel her wanting him to continue. He started doing complex mathematics in his head in order to shake free of the experience. To focus instead of blunder.
Thirty minutes later, he stepped out of the locker room. Hair sticking up in all directions like normal, toweled off but a bit mangy. His eyebrows lifted at the sight of the girl awaiting him, standing where he couldn’t miss her, before they knitted quickly into a customary scowl. A grey hoodie over black leggings, tousled as if her shower had been hasty. Her hair still unwashed.
“Don’t you have somewhere to be?”
“Do you want to get ramen with me, Bakugou?” Bubbly as ever.
“It was pretty clear I was not invited.”
She pointed to herself. “With me.”
His eyes narrowed further and she rolled her own at him.
“I am not interested in a dinner date with Luster.”
“…Why?”
“I don’t like how he treats you.” The statement was so matter of fact tht Bakugou was caught completely off guard.
“You shouldn’t base your friends off if they like me or not. You’ll end up with very few that way.” Tone gruffer than he intended, he started to walk away.
She stepped in front of him, blocking his pat. Eyes brave and lit with a fire.
“You’re a pain in the ass. You’re volatile and about as friendly as a porcupine.”
“Thank you for the compliments.” He moved to step past her, but despite being almost a foot shorter than him, she was undeterred.
“ But, you’re powerful, rock steady, and you push everyone to be better, stronger heroes. Anyone who refuses to acknowledge your value just because you are … difficult … isn’t worth my time. Or yours.”
Gazes locked. “I’m sure you’ve heard what they say about me behind my back, Uraraka.” Gritted teeth.
She fell into step with him this time. Voice chattering amniably, “He’s just like a villain. I could never trust him. He’s not a real hero. Who let him graduate?” Her voice trailed off. She put a hand on his arm, stopping him from opening the door they’d just reached.
“They’re wrong. You’re the most real person I have ever met, Bakugou.” He held her gaze – fire and tension and want rising between them. Creeping across her cheeks in a blush. He turned away.
“ Let’s get that ramen. I’m ravenous, before I eat you instead.” She giggled. An easy silence falling between them as they settled into a booth a few blocks from their sparring ground.
After placing their order, Bakugou caught Uraraka’s eyes flickering down to the table and then back up to his.
“Why are you here … with me?” His breath caught on those last words, as if they cost him something to admit. They did.
The tilt of her head more answer than her words, “Should I not be?”
The booth was small. Their knees were touching, alternating in the small space under the table. She could place a hand on his knee as easily as her own. Her mind flickering through the scene in the training room, the press of his hands. The pain and tension melting from her body. The warmth of his lips creeping up her neck. Inviting. His arm encircling her waist, fingers curled over her hip and shoulder. Snuggled into the cave of his chest.
Voice flat, “You’re deflecting.”
“And your questions are indirect.”
His eyes darkened into the gaze that made people afraid of him. All intensity and calculation mixed with a hefty challenge and the brawn to back it up. She did not flinch as she studied the red of his irises in the dim light. This time, it was him who looked away. What pain does a man who is always on top hide?
“We get precious little free time in this line of work. Why do you want to spend it with me? We are polar opposites. You are everything that I am not.”
“Does it bother you that I do?”
No hesitation. No pulling his punches. “Yes.” Reply as steady as ever.
“Ouch.” She whispered under her breath, sighing heavily. “What do you mean “everything I’m not”?”
He ticked off his fingers as he spoke, “Good. Kind. People like you. They trust you. It’s…” He lowered his hand back to the table, “Easy for them to interact with you.”
She harrumphed. The expression of disconctent etched so deeply on her face when his eyes returned to hers that he almost laughed. Part desperation. Part discomfort.
“People see me as a pretty little thing they can manipulate. You wouldn’t believe the line’s I’ve been fed. “You’re a light. I just want to protect you. Be a rescue hero, you could get hurt out there in the fight. You’re too cute to be so fierce. I like you better when you’re gentle and submissive.”” Her expression the nearest to a snarl he’d ever seen it. Lips at angles as sharp as her gaze.
She leaned across the table towards him. Eyes tight, fingers turning white where she gripped the table. Spitting the next sentence out like poison, “It’s complete shit. Like I’m a fucking glass sculpture in a museum or something. They go easy on me when we spar. They complain when I push them harder. They criticize my size or my ferocity when I fight hand to hand.”
Uraraka sighed into the booth, sinking in on herself. Tipping her head back and closing her eyes. Her voice so low that he had to read the words upon her lips. “They won’t let me be a hero, Bakugou. I’m just some adornment to most of them.”
“You are a hero.”
A hand squeezed his knee. Her eyes still closed, but he was drinking her in. Her anger. Her dedication and disgust. Her beautiful features and the bruises that he knew hid beneath the sleeves of her hoodie. Testaments to her labor and devotion.
“You’re the only guy that sees me that way, I promise.”
He snorted, and she cracked one eye open to watch him. Finger slid over hers under the table, entwining.
“Their loss.”
A smile finally broke through her faraway gaze.
“You’re some of those things they said. But they’re not weaknesses. They’re strengths.”
She raised an eyebrow at him, squeezed his hand. But the food arrived and half-starved from exertion, they dived into their respective bowls. Several times throughout the meal, he saw her hands absently trace the spot he’d kissed on her neck, fingers moving as if they could touch the face that was there.
She caught him following the phantom movement. Knew he knew where she was drifting to.
Whispered, “Did you mean it? Or was it just a heat of the moment/opportunity type of thing?”
A wicked sharp grin and wild eyes yanked her from her anxious thoughts. A hand pressed into her knee, running upwards along her thigh.
“Both. Let me show you some of the things I keep to myself and you won’t be questioning your worth or place any longer, Uraraka.”