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katsukistofu · 7 months ago

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i a-door you

contents ౨ৎ ⋆ k. bakugo x fem reader. fluff. cursing. food. minor unintentional violence. ⭑ bakugo hits on you. literally.

You’re minding your business, book bag slung across your shoulder, and about to walk through the door to 2A’s classroom when something smacks you in the face.

Not only unprompted, but hard.

“Ow!”

It happens so quickly that you don’t remember squeezing your eyes shut as you stumble backwards, both hands flying to clutch your forehead.

Opening your eyes, you swear you can already feel the spot starting to bruise. The previously closed door to the classroom stood ajar and as the cherry on top of the concussion you just received, someone roughly brushes past you.

Fucking asshole.

You whip around, head still throbbing, about to give whoever it is a peace of your mind and finally speak above an inside voice for the first time since a robot almost fell on you during entrance exams semesters ago, when your teary eyes are met with crimson red ones.

He turns his head to give you a once over and your body freezes as his eyes linger a little longer on the darkening mark where the door got you. Something similar to amusement tugs at his lips.

“Pretty cute.”

You blink, dumbfounded as he casually turns on his heel to walk away.

What. The hell.

Did you literally just get hit on by Bakugo freaking Katsuki.

The identical dropped jaws of your classmates that were visible from inside the open doorway confirmed that what just happened was not in fact a post-traumatic induced hallucination, with Midoriya looking the most gobsmacked, his eyes almost comically bulging out of his skull, and upon glancing at Mina, who quickly gets over her initial shock to grin and shoot you a double thumbs up, she excitedly mouths ‘i told you so,’ and you’re not sure whether to laugh or to cry.

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀:¨ ·.· ¨: ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ `· . ꔫ

The next day, you’re sporting a fresh, new bandaid on your forehead. It was quite a fashion statement, if you do say so yourself.

It was also the last one at the nurse’s so you were pretty happy to nab it, apparently being the brand that everyone chose when they too got their respective boo-boos.

The latte Mina and the girls brought back from your favorite cafe sat on the wooden coffee table in the common area, still steaming. You refused to go out with a huge bruise marring your appearance, even with the bandaid covering the most of it, and you would take the fullest advantage of the injured person princess treatment while it lasted.

All while awkwardly avoiding a certain blond.

Now that you’re thinking about it, he’s honestly always been kind of nice to you, in his own weird way.

Like when you were forced to ask if you could borrow his eraser, because apparently no one else in the class carried one. Imagine saving Japan your first year of highschool and only writing in pen, even for calculus. Is this what the future generation has come to?

After breathlessly rushing the words out in a hushed voice and wondering if he heard you at all, Bakugo doesn’t even turn around from where he’s resting his chin on his hand listening to Present Mic’s enthusiastic lecture on subject-verb agreement, as he reaches an arm behind him to drop it on your desk.

You’re not sure if you remembered to say “your” before “eraser,” so all he probably heard was “can I borrow eraser?” and it still haunts you to this day.

Shaking the thoughts of him from your mind, you flip your history textbook open to page three hundred and ninety four, ‘A Comprehensive Timeline of Quirk Generations.’ You’re attempting to study for your next upcoming quiz in Midnight’s class.

Key word: attempting.

A delicious smell was starting to waft your way from the kitchen across the room, and now you were kind of hungry. You could feel your attention waning and shook your head, the image of your most recent report card filled with straight As sobering you up. Food could come later, right now you had to focus.

Just twenty more minutes of review, then I'll eat.

Bakugo’s placing the breakfast he easily finished whipping up on the counter. As he uses a spatula to gently coax the fluffy soufflé pancakes out of the pan, he notices the familiar petals of your favorite flower decorating the ceramic he’s putting them on.

It was from a tableware set he picked out when everyone first moved into the dorms. Glasses had assigned everyone groceries among various other things to go shopping for in small groups, and he was paired up with Ponytail to go buy plates.

They were browsing the shelves of a local Daiso store filled with colorful, adorably decorated dishes and rice bowls, when he stopped in front of a price tag, eyes dragging up to study the item it belonged to. The details on it were intricate, and breathtakingly so.

It reminded him of how he felt whenever he looked at you.

Ponytail follows his gaze, and her own eyes brighten.

“Oh, it’s decorated with the favorite flower of–!”

“I know.” He cuts her off, glaring at the floral box set of bowls and plates, before carefully putting it in their cart.

Momo’s eyes widen a bit, before a small, knowing smile spreads across her lips and Bakugo curses at her perceptiveness.

He almost wished he was paired up with that icy-hot bastard instead, who was so oblivious that if you dangled a confession letter in front of him he would have thought you wanted him to proofread it for you.

That was a while ago now, and everyone’s been happily eating meals on the plates they bought ever since.

He tops off the pancakes with a handful of fresh berries and a drizzle of honey, and slides it next to a steaming plate of a kimchi omelette with a zigzag of sriracha sauce already on the counter.

From where he stands, he snorts at your bandaid, noticing the obnoxious amount of Hello Kitty’s plastered all around it. Out of all the bandaids from Recovery Girl’s collection that she kept in her office, of course you would pick the cutest fucking one.

It was undoubtedly something you would like, he thinks, begrudging in his fondness. It was so you.

“Get your ass over here.”

You jump in your spot on the couch at the loud volume of his voice, though it sounded a bit softer than usual. With a finger pointing to yourself, you raise your head in confusion. “Me….?”

Was this about yesterday? Oh my god, was he mad?

You’re not sure why he would be, since he’s not the one that got bitch-slapped in the face by a giant door.

“I don't see anyone else I'd be talking to.” Bakugo scoffs.

He's right, to your increasing dread. The entire common area is completely empty, and you have no choice but to comply with his request.

You’re still nervously fiddling with the edge of your hoodie sleeve, the usual comfort of its softness abandoning you as you approach the kitchen to find him standing at a seat near the counter, arms folded. It hasn’t even been a minute in the same proximity as him and his presence is kind of overwhelming you already.

You’re trying so hard not to stare at his biceps. And just him in general.

“Sit.” he commands, the sound of the metal stool echoing against his hand as he pats it.

You obediently sit down, cursing your lack of a backbone. But his tone didn’t sound like he was planning to take no for an answer, anyway.

“Eat.”

He jabs a thumb at the plate of warm, sweet smelling cloud-like goodness in front of you. You stare at him, wide-eyed.

“This is for me?”

“Huh. You’re slower than I thought you were.” He rolls his eyes and starts to dig into his own plate of omelette in front of him, taking a seat on the stool across from you. It looked good too, as expected. “You’re welcome or whatever.”

With his aggressive blessing and after throwing a quiet but extremely grateful ‘thank you for the meal’ his way, you start to eat.

Your face lights up in joy as the divine taste of spongy goodness and honey spreads across your tongue, and you silently praise his mom for giving birth to the next Gordon Ramsay.

He flicks your forehead as you’re mid-bite in pancake and you yelp in surprise, raising your head to glare at his handsome face. What now? And did he have to be as infuriating as he was good-looking?

That crimson gaze once again stares you down, barely contained amusement dancing in embers of the hot coals of his eyes, and your skin grows warm as you realize you said that last part out loud.

You’re about to give into the urge to run away and take the plate of half-finished pancakes with you when he gruffly speaks up.

“You can’t retain information unless you have something in your stomach, idiot.”

You nod, mouth full, and make a mental note to study on an empty tummy away from him in the future. It’s like he reads your mind because you wince as he scowls, flicking your head again, although a little more gently this time.

Taking care to do it in a spot away from the bandaid covering the injury that he caused, your brain points out.

The both of you continue to eat in comfortable silence.

After a while, your plates are nearly clean.

You smile a little, realizing that you were eating on your favorite plate in the dorm’s kitchen the whole time, and admire the petals of your beloved flowers delicately painted in the center and outer edges of the stark white dish, with the pancakes no longer covering them.

Bakugo notices this, as you softly begin to trace the rim with your finger, and fights the twitch of his lips that threatened to curl upwards.

He’s also noticed those little glances you think you’ve been discreetly throwing his way between the bites of pancake, which you nearly inhaled to his pride.

You could almost be as quiet as that rock-faced animal whisperer of a classmate you both had, but you’ve always sucked at being subtle.

Good thing he hates subtle things.

“Where do you think you’re going?” He asks as you start to slide off the tall stool, a hint of smirk in his voice. It was cute, how you think you could run away from him so easily. You stop in your tracks, blinking at him as he rises from his own seat.

Strong, toned arms that you totally haven’t been staring at for the past half hour are slowly placed on both sides of you, caging you against the counter. An embarrassing noise escapes from your lips, and the cold granite bites into your back as you lean away, doing anything to avoid his gaze.

“Look at me.”

He rolls his eyes as you continue to look to the side, suddenly finding the chibi magnets of various high ranking heroes on the fridge to be very interesting.

“I said,” he grabs your chin in his hand, which was so big compared to your face that he could squish your cheeks between his ring finger and thumb, “look at me.

You huff, now forcefully held in place to face him against your will. “I’m looking.”

“Good.”

He leans down and his lips graze your ear, seeming to take great pleasure in only further adding to your embarrassment when he mutters:

“And don’t stand so fucking close to the door next time.”

not bakugo pulling the classic asian parent move and giving u food instead of a proper apology LOLL

#crosses fingers I TRIED TO MAKE HIM AS CANON AS POSSIBLE #bro would tweak if ur grades dropped bc u didn’t eat 3 meals a day LIKE HOWS HE SUPPOSED TO COMPETE W U ON THE CLASS RANKINGS NOW #i think he’d def be softer with someone he crushes on but still kinda strict slash stern ykwim #tough love babey #bakugou x reader #bakugo katsuki x reader #bakugo x reader #katsuki bakugo x reader #mha x reader #bakugo oneshot #bnha x reader #mha oneshot #katsuki bakugou x reader #bakugou katsuki x reader #bakugo fluff

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velarisdusk · 28 days ago

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I Slept with Someone in Wings of Illyria

A Bat Boys Band AU

word count: 1.5k author's note: i have not been able to stop thinking about bass player az, nor have i been able to shut up about it (exhibits A, B, and C found here lol). i am so taken with bass player azriel that this was originally gonna be a one time thing to get the mf thoughts out of my head, but i may make this a collection of drabbles/one-shots/whatever the fuck. enjoy ! <3 ✦ . AU Masterlist . ✦ ✦ . Masterlist . ✦

The room is sweltering, the kind of heat that clings to your skin and wraps around your throat. Bodies pressed together, arms raised, the crowd surges with the beat, their cheers deafening as the final notes of the song fade out.

Cassian tosses his drumsticks in the air, catching them with a grin as he leans back, his chest heaving from the sheer energy of his playing. His skin glistens under the stage lights, sweat dripping down the sharp cut of his jaw to his bare chest. Rhysand steps forward, guitar slung low on his hips, running a hand through his sweat-damp hair, the movement so casual it borders on taunting.

The three of them are magnetic—untouchable—but your eyes are glued to Azriel.

The bass still hangs low across his hips, his dark shirt clinging to his chest and arms, every inch of him shining with effort and heat. His hair sticks to his forehead in damp strands, but he doesn’t seem to care. There’s a faint curve to his lips as he looks out at the crowd, their screams refusing to die down even as Rhys steps up to the mic. It’s Wings of Illyria’s last song of the night, and the air is thick with anticipation.

“Alright, alright,” Rhys says, his voice rich and smooth, but it barely registers over the roar of the audience. He glances back at Az and Cass, shaking his head with a laugh, and you catch the way they all exchange a look—silent, knowing.

Cass twirls a drumstick between his fingers, grinning wide. Rhys throws a wink at the crowd, and Azriel… Azriel holds up a hand, palm out, a subtle watch this gesture that has your stomach flipping.

And then he steps forward.

The moment his fingers graze the mic stand, the noise dips. He leans in, his lips brushing the mic, and inhales sharply. The sound carries through the speakers, intimate, like he’s right there beside you. The crowd freezes, the energy shifting into something electric, breathless. And then, he chuckles.

It’s low, almost a growl, and it sends a shiver down your spine. For a moment, the room is still. And then, chaos. The screams erupt again, louder than before, like every single person in the crowd had been seized by something primal and uncontrollable.

Azriel laughs, throwing a glance over his shoulder at Rhys and Cass. They’re laughing too, Cassian smacking a hand against his drums while Rhys shakes his head, mouthing something you can’t make out.

But then Az turns back to the mic.

Your heart stops as he adjusts it slightly, his hand steady, his expression calm but sharp, focused. The moment stretches, and you swear he looks right at you before his lips part, and his voice spills into the venue.

It’s not Rhys’s voice this time, not the smooth, cocky tone that usually owns the opening of this song. No—this is something darker, rougher, saturated with a raw kind of emotion that makes your knees go weak. You know this part by heart—hell, you’ve screamed it in your car more times than you can count—but hearing Azriel sing it? It’s like hearing it for the first time.

He owns it, every word dripping with purpose, with heat. His voice snakes through the room, curling around you, pulling you under. The crowd is a blur, the sound of their cheers distant compared to the way your pulse pounds in your ears.

And Azriel knows it. He’s fully in control, commanding every single person in the room with nothing but his voice and the intensity in his eyes. When he glances over at Rhys and Cass again, they’re grinning like they know exactly what he’s doing—and exactly what it’s doing to everyone in the room.

You’re breathless by the time he finishes the verse, and when he pulls back from the mic with that faint, wicked smirk, the crowd surges again, screaming louder than ever.

You scream too, the sound ripping out of you without restraint, caught up in the heat and the pounding bass still thrumming through the room. But then Azriel’s gaze sweeps across the crowd, scanning the sea of faces, and it lands on you.

Your breath catches.

It’s brief, a flicker of his hazel eyes locking onto yours, but it’s enough. Enough to leave you wondering if he’s seen you before—if he’s noticed you at every show you’ve managed to get into, always in your usual spot near the edge of the stage, close enough to feel the pulse of the speakers in your chest.

And then he turns back to the mic, and your chest tightens all over again.

It’s the way Azriel shifts his stance—shoulders squared, leaning slightly into the mic as his fingers curl around the neck of his bass—that holds you captive. His voice joins Rhys’s in the next verse, a low harmony that wraps around the melody like smoke, rich and addictive.

When the lyrics take a turn—something dark and suggestive, dripping with innuendo—you swear he looks at you again. His lips curl just so around the words, and the way his hand moves on the fretboard has your pulse racing.

It’s stupid, you tell yourself. Ridiculous, really, to think that someone like him would single you out of a crowd like this. But as the song builds to its peak, the heat of his gaze feels too intentional to ignore. And then they hit the chorus, when Azriel takes over the melody for one shining moment, he sings a line that makes your cheeks burn, makes your hands curl into fists at your sides. It’s not subtle. It’s meant to be filthy, meant to tease and taunt, and he sings it like it’s directed straight at you.

The crowd loses it. You barely hear the screams over the pounding of your heart.

He’s still looking at you when the song ends, sweat dripping from his temple as he lets the bass hang low against his hips, his breathing heavy. Cassian slams his drumsticks against the snare one last time, punctuating the end of the set, while Rhysand tosses his guitar pick into the crowd with a lazy smirk.

Azriel doesn’t move for a moment. He stays there, on the edge of the stage, as if waiting for something.

And then he winks.

It’s quick—blink-and-you’ll-miss-it—but you see it. You feel it.

Your knees go weak, your grip tightening on the barricade to keep yourself steady. By the time you process what just happened, he’s already turning away, laughing at something Cassian said as they disappear backstage.

The crowd surges again, desperate for an encore, but all you can hear is the pounding of your pulse.

Your knees are still trembling as the crowd surges around you, voices raised in chants for an encore. You try to breathe, to ground yourself, but the memory of Azriel’s smirk and the weight of his gaze keeps playing on a loop in your mind.

And then, just as the noise reaches a fever pitch, you see him again.

Azriel lingers near the side of the stage, his bass slung over his shoulder now, his hand reaching out to clasp the shoulder of a man in a black security shirt. You watch, heart pounding, as they exchange a few quick words, the guard leaning closer to hear him over the din.

It’s casual—normal, probably—but then Azriel points.

Directly at you.

You freeze. Your pulse spikes. There’s no way, you think. No way this is happening.

But it is. His arm extends toward the crowd, his finger cutting through the haze of heat and lights to land right where you’re standing, gripping the barricade for dear life. The security guard nods, glancing in your direction as Azriel leans closer, lips moving again.

He says two words, slow enough for you to catch even at this distance.

“Blue top.”

Your breath hitches, your gaze darting down to the shirt you’re wearing. Blue. Not just blue—bright blue, standing out against the darker tones of the crowd like a beacon.

You look back up, your heart slamming in your chest as Azriel straightens, throwing one last glance your way before disappearing offstage.

For a moment, you just stand there, frozen, every nerve in your body buzzing. Did that really just happen? Your mind races, replaying the movement of his hand, the way his lips had formed those words. Blue top.

Your gaze darts around, scanning the crowd. Maybe you imagined it. Maybe you’re losing your mind because surely he didn’t mean you. But your stomach flips again as you realize—no one else around you is wearing blue. Not a single person.

It was you.

Your fingers tighten on the barricade. He had pointed at you. You’re sure of it. And then you see him.

The security guard is cutting through the clusters of venue workers. Your breath catches when his eyes land on you, sharp and direct. He doesn’t say a word, just jerks his chin toward the end of the barricade, a silent instruction.

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