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heli0s-writes · 26 days ago

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Torch Song

a/n: the prompt is unhealthy coping mechanisms. Warnings for marijuana use & underage drinking. College!Reader & Bucky pining for Steve and trying to get their shit together. 4.2k words. moonchild masterlist

The summer after your college freshman year feels like a scene out of a Sundance Festival flick. One of those long, languid pictures with the neighborhood kids on their bikes flying down the middle of an empty street in Nowheretown, Suburbia and the shot is wide and steady with the sun slipping past the treescape, tucking itself into the other side of the world.

The block is mostly empty when you pull up in your old, blue candy-paint truck, and rattling beneath the body pops around after the engine gurgles off.

If the scene continues, the wash of light over your face would be filtered a notch too yellow, the shadow cast behind your head, too green. You’d be the protagonist coming home draped in melancholy, soul-searching, wandering her childhood memories in a pretentious daze, folky pop tunes softly crooning in the background, begging for a reason to look forward to the following semester.

College spat you back out like unwanted scraps on the dinner table, and you’re so tired from the drive that you don’t even care about taking your luggage inside. That’s tomorrow’s task—tomorrow’s problem.

You sit for a moment just to breathe.

If the scene continues, the house would be empty, but there would be leftovers in the fridge with a sticky note on top and another longer one on the dining room table. If the scene continues, you’d throw yourself face down in bed and lie awake until someone comes home, peeks in on you asleep. They’d linger in the doorway, finally slipping off with a fond smile and a quiet click of the door.

The camera would pan out through the front, up above the roof, into the sky gone dark.

Instead, sudden banging on your window makes you scream, and your vision goes out for a split second in sheer, animal panic. Your head whips over to see Bucky Barnes’ face grinning shit-eatingly a mile wide.

You slump back tiredly and close your eyes, letting out an exasperated, “Fuck.”

He does nothing to help your heart rate return to normal, only shouting, “Hey, state!” so loudly you swear the windows are vibrating. Past the glass, which you’ll kill him for if he cracks, he points to the immaculately rolled joint behind his ear because he’s a private-school motherfucker who smokes more than an industrial chimney.

“What’s this?” Bucky taunts, “Think you can just roll back into town without telling anybody? Not with this shitcan, you can’t. I heard this—” he thumps on the frame of your truck noisily, and the creak that gives way under his fist is just your baby yelling at him for being an asshole, “—heard this thing all the way from the service road.”

“Fuck off,” you reply, but roll down the window, manually cranking it with some dramatic flair to show that yes, your car is old, but it still works. “This car took you to breakfast every week of senior year.”

He barks a laugh. “This car shakes in the wind.”

“Just like you during Blair Witch Project.”

Bucky closes his mouth into a thin and deadly serious line, not even bothering to contest that accusation, but shooting back with, “Like you skinny dipping at my ma’s junior year.”

“No, I think it’s more like you getting a car door to the sack right outside of my house.”

“I never got—hell!”

Good for him, his reflexes are still excellent. Bucky leaps back about three feet, body going bow-curved to dodge your door and makes to comment on the awful squeal of metal hinges, but the filter from his brain to his mouth—especially in the wake of a near-castration—stops him.

Wisely, he stands up tall, pats down his clothes, and pulls you fully out of the worn leather seat, out of the protective hull of a faithful, old vehicle.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he grins, using the crook of his finger to flick your chin upward just a touch, “Good to see you.”

And then, because he really is set on turning your trip into some kind of cheesy summer indie flick, he wraps both of his arms around you tightly, hugs you to him in a way that feels too firm and too soft all at once, and the heartbeat that had returned to its natural routine starts to pick up again, double time.

“Mm, yeah,” you mumble, “Same to you, Buck.”

On the back porch, Bucky takes a sharp first drag, rolling the joint between his fingers to check it. He takes in another breath before exhaling, then hands it off.

“How long was the drive?”

You inhale carefully, letting the sensation swirl inside of your lungs before watching the jetting smoke flit into the sky.

“Like, seven hours. When did you get back?”

“Four days ago. Becs picked me up and we got Frosties with Butterfingers—missed that. Missed her loads.” You pass the joint after another hit, feel the constant dullness behind your eyes ebbing like a slow tide and hum along. “Missed you, too,” Bucky says casually, grinning wide as his eyes flick over, “It’s shitty our spring breaks didn’t line up.”

“Yeah,” you reply, remembering the string of lamenting text messages he sent you. “I’d just cockblock you at the beach. It was for the best.”

He laughs at that, “Girls like me more when they think I’m unavailable.”

“More? Isn’t… how much they like you now enough?”

“Never such a thing as too much, I say.”

Then, probably because he’s been wriggling out of his skin to say it, he goes ahead, taking a hard left from easy conversation and sharply into, “Hey, Stevie’s home.”

Your throat tightens, chin dipping toward your chest as you hang your head. Your elbows, propped up on the railing, notice the woodgrain digging into them for the first time.

Bucky’s been here for a few days now, probably toured the neighborhood, caught up with a few old faces—and whenever Steve arrived—Bucky probably avoided him for exactly 4 hours before he got his front door banged on.

And well, Bucky couldn’t ever say no to Steve.

So they probably visited all the old stomping grounds, ate the diners out of business, hopped into the lake and sunbathed on the docks and then Steve would have told him what he wanted to do—what he’s wanted to do since he was probably 7 years old. What he’s held out on, saved up for, what he’s found and cherished and practically dedicated his whole life to—thumbs fiddling with eagerness and that bright, bright hope for the future.

Bucky nudges you with his elbow, “He’s real happy.”

“Good for him.” You nudge back, trying to mean it.

Bucky rolls his eyes, the quirk at the edge of his mouth jerking up and down as he purses his lips disapprovingly, “Only one of us needs to be emo, and I’ve got the emo for the day. You can have it tomorrow.” Then, he taps the ash from the joint and the edge of his mouth stays up this time.

“Hey, lemme shotgun you better.”

You snort at him, but let your jaw relax, eyes fluttering shut, and when Bucky leans into blow smoke into your mouth, you inhale the scent of burning. His breath is soft on the hollow of your cheek, and he sings, “Let’s get fucking high.”

The hit is too big, so he sucks in what you can’t swallow, and then he kisses you, takes in the smoke escaping your nose, hand still on your chin but not in any kind of grip. His mouth moves easy, as if saying hello.

He kisses you a second time, lingering, and watches closely when he’s finished.

He’s asking with his eyes, is this okay, do you want me to stop, do you want me again?

It’s not like the two of you haven’t made out once or twice. There have been too many high school parties with cheap beer and underage drinking to cross that prospect out—and not to mention the nights where you stayed up late, wired with the kind of indescribable energy that late-teenagers have—the storm of confusion and hesitation while glaring at a horizon of endless possibilities and being told to pick just one.

One track, one major, one path.

Not like it was an exclusive experience. Most high schoolers, even the best-behaved, perhaps especially the best-behaved, would say that those nights—after school and work, dinner with or without a family, with or without another conversation about the next step, about the future—lying in bed, bone tired, listening to the noises of evening outside, that it was sometimes very difficult not to run yourself down the road and scream until only blood came out.

And when it wasn’t really an option to scream, because screaming would disquiet the happy-go-lucky neighborhood and give an adult cause to institutionalize you, the only thing to do was text a friend.

And the friend would climb himself over your fence and grin outside your window until you opened it up, hissing at him not to be so loud and clumsy and the two of you would chain-smoke cigarettes for hours to feel more than nominally alive. Because the stagnant bitter taste of nicotine in your belly was better than a belly like a hurricane, and the slip of your friend’s tongue—who’d been spilling his same brand of guts out under the night sky—was better than an imaginary one.

Better than one encased in the prettiest pink mouth, laid so gentle and sweet against a heavy bottom lip, one that wouldn’t just kiss without wanting a guarantee. Without wanting that choice—that single, damning choice—for the rest of his life.

It feels kind of stupid again when you look at Bucky and he looks back, over your face and lips, down the line of your neck as you tilt forward instinctively. It feels kind of stupid when your body lurches a little toward him, asking him to hold it there again, keep it safe again.

Is it the nostalgia that’s making you regress back to being 16 and a half or is it just you? You and your broken… whatever it is that’s broken.

Heart, a little voice in your head pipes up, it’s your heart, and you’d very much like to curb-stomp it to death.

The sun is gone now, and he’s watching with glazy eyes from the smoke, pink around the corners, and his lids are heavier as you feel. Time is stretching and flying, and the air is flexing around the both of you as bugs begin to cry noisily.

“Somethin’ on my face?” he asks, cocky to deflect your silence, but he looks like a million things: lonely, happy, sweet. Hungry for a life he hasn’t got.

“You want to stay the night? My parents are doing that empty nester thing where they go on long vacations with retirement money.” You blurt, because the thing is, you’re feeling that same empty, hungry loneliness. That same, bittersweet pain.

“Depends. We gonna have a pillow fight in our undies?”

You punch him in the shoulder a few times until he yelps, getting to his feet and dusting off his jeans. Although he’d been laughing, his eyes have turned stormy, the evening behind him curling like beckoning fingers, the single hallway light you flicked on the way out back asking you to both come inside.

You make a frozen pizza and pick off the olives, snagging a few beers, and the both of you kick back on the couch for an hour, chewing and slurping and sometimes stealing each other’s crusts.

He tells you about the courses he’s taking and how he landed an art modeling gig and almost popped a woody and that wasn’t even the most uncomfortable thing he experienced.

“There’s so much repressed homosexuality in these private schools. Check it out: this kid draws me practically naked for a week, gets down every detail—gets down my damn leg hairs for fucks sake—but he avoids,” he signals to his groin, “and then when he gets to it, he overthinks the whole time, and by the time the session’s over, the outline of my junk is the most prominent part of the entire thing.”

He places his arm back behind his head, the other one, beneath you, twitching slightly. “And when he hangs it up for the critique, it looks like someone drew me in pencil and drew my guy in marker.”

“Brutal.”

“Yeah!” He’s outraged at the memory, “Looked like someone brutalized my dick. This thing is…” he gestures in weird motions, reenacting a kind of car crash shadow puppet scene and you take it to mean bad. “I got a really nice one, you know? So that kinda hurt my feelings.”

You groan loudly, leaning back on the couch.

“Man,” you take a swig of beer, washing down the second-hand embarrassment in your throat along with a swallow of pizza, “you don’t change.”

Bucky only grins and grabs at his crotch obscenely.

“If we’re not married by the time we’re both 40,” you suggest, sprawled atop the comforter, staring at the bedroom ceiling with its glow in the dark plastic stars.

“Hunt each other for sport? That not what you were getting at?” Bucky shifts listlessly, so that you can use his arm as a pillow. He’s thrown off the extra ones so that both of you could lie down after dinner—a six pack of beers drained along with another joint.

“You’ll probably be married before then,” he says, “Don’t sweat it.”

The ceiling is undulating sluggishly, idle green cutouts starting to look like they’re actually twinkling and you trace them with a finger, draw out his name and your name and get stuck on the next word.

“I don’t even know if I want to get married,” you reply, putting your finger down. Resentment jabs at your chest. “I mean, I think I’m starting to figure out that we’ve been spoon-fed our whole lives… about everything. Does that make sense? Just… told to do and be without real reason other than that it’s how everyone else is. I mean, what if that’s not it—you know? What if I do all of that and then 10 years later I still feel like this? I graduated, I moved out, I’m in college—and, Buck, I still feel like this.”

Your tummy hurts, because it hasn’t worked out even a little bit—you haven’t had a real boyfriend, haven’t even had very many good dates. There was a benefit and a disadvantage of growing up with the same pair of best friends your entire life because now making new ones feels like both an act of betrayal and justan act as you watch yourself talk to a stranger, trying to puppeteer your body into saying, doing, behaving correctly while ignoring the jilted awkwardness of your own limbs and words.

It only feels natural like this: back in your town, in your neighborhood, in your bed. Bucky by your side, bleary-eyed from drugs or alcohol or sleep deprivation and a few inches away from hysterical.

He traces a made-up constellation in the air, humming absentmindedly.

“Baby, I don’t think anybody knows anything. Not your folks or my folks or the fucking president. We figured all that out when we were kids.”

“The only person in the world who knows what they want to do is Steve fucking Rogers, okay, and he’s a freak of nature. No one goes from being the runtiest runt to have ever runted to hitting a growth spurt so hard it looks like their nose burst out of their face.”

That shocks a cackle out of you, “Buck!”

Bucky isn’t deterred. “Fuckin’ Toucan Sam is what he looked like. Size 12 feet in 9th grade and then growing into them over the summer. Asshole made the football team without tryouts. Bulked up like a sonuvabitch.”

You nuzzle the rest of your wheezing laughs into Bucky’s shoulder and sigh, “Yeah, he got real pretty, too. Well, he was always pretty to me and you.”

The air seems to go after that, even the humming of summer at the window retreating while Bucky lets you breathe into him, tilt your face until your lips are on the line of his jaw and grazing his stubble. It’s so melodramatic. So pulled apart and dissected and then instead of retrieving any valuable information from it, you keep scraping it into a bin.

“This okay?” You say instead, closing your eyes, inhaling the scent of him. His shampoo, his light sheen of boy sweat, the wheat beer you’ve both been drinking, all of it atop your bed. He’s warm and alive and you haven’t touched anyone since—

Since ever. Since every summer. Since Bucky, every summer.

He waggles his brows salaciously, “Mhm. Keep doing that and I’ll let you do it somewhere else, too.”

You snort, “Man, you really don’t change.”

It’s always been easy for him. There were many pages in your middle school diary about how Bucky Barnes taught the entire 6thth grade to French kiss and that the 8th grade girls were going to steal him away—and who was going to hang out with you and Steve at the peanut-free table during lunch now?

Of course, he was always too good, despite dating half the cheerleaders, so he’d tell all his girlfriends they couldn’t get mad at his girl best friend and the little blonde stick of a boy that he wouldn’t ever leave behind.

Bucky Barnes made the grades and got the girls and still ate lunch at the nut-free table despite loving cashews more than anybody.

Idiot.

“You need me to sweet talk you now?” he teases. “All I had to do in high school was tap a pack of Menthols on my chest and you’d let me stick my tongue in your mouth for hours. You’ve changed.” He clambers over on top of you, hovering and blocking out the ceiling, a maniacal grin across his face.

“Oh, shut up, I have not.” You defiantly crunch up to kiss him like proving some kind of point. “Just cause you’ve caught every disease known to man and some animals and I have—haven’t—you know.”

He wipes at his lip where you landed too hard and clumsy, eyes scrutinizing before they light up in disbelief. He lets out a huff of air that’s both impressed and alarmed.

“Shut up,” you say again, with feeling.

“You’re serious.”

“Why would I joke about that. Jerk.”

Bucky sighs, maneuvering off, because it seems like you can’t maintain any more eye contact, and puts his hands behind his head. “The first time someone touched my dick, I think I thought I died. And then I spent the next 6 months trying to do anything for someone to do it again. I can teach you,” he says.

You retort, “Dude, I’m pretty sure I know what to do; I’ve watched a lot of porn.”

“It’s kinda hot to hear you say that, but seriously. College towns are pocket dimensions of raging boners. You could have walked outside and flagged down a hard dick like a cab.”

That is a terrible scenario to imagine, and your face twists accordingly. “Gross. I’m sure I need a therapist, not an STD.”

“Maybe you need a good lay. But seriously,” he says, expression gone back to soft, “what’re you holding out for?”

You frown deeply, “I’m not holding out for anything.”

“If you’re just not interested, like, because you don’t identify—”

“Bucky,” you say patiently, “I’m interested, it just— it’s stupid. It’s the same—same thing. Same thing it’s always been."

A hurt expression crawls it way up his face because the two of you have been carrying the torch for years. For most of your lives.

In love with Steve Rogers since you were 11, probably—and Bucky was in love with him even before that. Couldn’t find a single thing to dislike about him other than that he couldn’t ever see it—couldn’t ever recognize that he was the brightest burn in the sky.

Sneaking out to commiserate was about school and parents and expectations, and on the nights you kissed and let Bucky weave his fingers through yours, it was always, always about Steve.

Steve, who wanted to be in love so badly, so truly, who fell for Peggy Carter the first day she arrived from England—the only person in this town who met him after his growth spurt—after he grew into his new body, learned how to move it like a finely tuned machine, and he never looked back.

That was, and still is, the heart of him. Running unflinchingly into daybreak with the night sky melting off his back, eating his dust. And there was you, and there was Bucky, miles behind, making wishes on falling stars—hoping he’d turn around, just once.

And you carried that hope so far, let it bleed into every corner of your life. The straight and narrow of school and work and leaving home—the track of life Steve would take—you wanted it, too. You wanted him to be proud of you, wanted his life parallel to yours because at least you’d see him in the distance going the same way.

And now he’s getting married. While you could hardly commit to a second date because you were carrying a torch that was only keeping you warm by setting you on fire. Carrying a torch that feels like a grudge some nights.

Bucky’s hands are still gentle on your hips. He looks fragile, hovering like a swinging mobile with cracks in it, and if you tugged at him the wrong way he’d collapse, so you brush your thumb at the furrow between his brows, smoothing it out encouragingly.

He closes his eyes, tucks his bottom lip between his teeth.

“Yeah,” is all he says. “Guess we went at it totally different ways, huh? I guess I wanted him to catch me by the scruff of my neck and tell me to settle down how he used to.”

“And I wanted him to tell me to get to living. Wanted him to show me how.”

“I can show you.”

This time, he’s earnest. All the edge of play gone out of his words. He showed you how to kiss, after all. Showed you how he kissed every girl on the track team and you twisted his ear afterward, called him a womanizer and he cackled all the way to fourth period.

“And I can tell you to settle down, but it’s not the same, is it?”

Bucky knocks his forehead into your collar with a definitive thwack and then he sinks with his entire weight, lying on top of you like he’s not a brick wall of boy muscle, the weight of two pizzas, and a case of beer.

You whack him repeatedly until he rolls off, flopping at your side with his hair in your mouth. You spit it out and ponder, “Why are we talking about him like he’s dead?”

“I think he’s dead a little bit. I think we have to let that kid go.”

And the image of Steve turned away for good, for the last time, cuts a crease so deep you didn’t know it was possible to still be alive after.

And yet here you are, and here Bucky is next to you.

“He’s gonna ask you to be his best man.”

Bucky shrugs, “Or he’ll ask you.”

“Shit,” you laugh, a sudden jolt of reality lancing your heart, “Oh shit, Buck. He might ask us both.”

He laughs along, “What are we gonna do, huh?”

“Cry.”

“I mean after that,” he says pointedly, like you’ve suggested the most obvious scenario.

“Get drunk. Dance poorly. You’ll hook up with a bridesmaid in the photobooth.”

“Nah, I’d never leave you. We’ll cry, we’ll get drunk, we’ll dance, and then we’ll send ‘em off, and then we’ll go home. We’ll split a cab.”

He turns, locking one leg between yours, one hand around your waist until it can draw circles in the middle of your back. He looks and he looks and when you feel like you could start crying right there as he’s smiling and touching you, Bucky kisses you long and hard and presses his entire body against yours.

“And you’ll stay the night,” he murmurs.

“Sure, Buck,” you sigh, “I’ll stay the night.”

“And we’ll kiss some more. Or we’ll just watch a movie. In the morning I’ll make you pancakes with a whipped cream smile and blueberries for eyes.”

You laugh into his mouth. His sweet, warm mouth, always so good and right and just what you needed.

“God, Becs is going to be so shitty about us.”

“Becs thinks we should have gotten together years ago.”

“Becs thinks we should have hunted each other for sport years ago.”

He cackles, pulling himself closer, until you’re crushed in his embrace. “Nah, baby. I’d never do that to you.”

You push your hands up beneath his shirt, feel his heartbeat in your palm. “We’re so dramatic.”

“Oh yeah. We’ll get over it, though. Love him too much for anything else. Love you, too.”

You nuzzle further into him. “Yeah, love you, too.”

The movie comes to an end here, everything fading into a gentle blur as Bucky pulls the blanket up over your chest. You laugh and inhale him, smelling his sweat and warmth and your own kisses on his chest.

Overhead, neon plastic stars spell out a man-made galaxy, and the two of you watch them hold onto their artificial light for a few more minutes before everything slips away.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #pining college weed fic you know the drill

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misdeliria · 2 years ago

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he lets you paint his nails | k. bakugou

> pairing: katsuki bakugou x reader

> word count: 995

> concept: college au (aged-up), established relationship, domesticity, gn reader, canon divergence

> summary: bakugou lets you paint his nails

> warning(s): smoking weed

> author’s note(s): so i'm noticing i prefer college au's because the idea of writing a high school pov is so funky monkey to me. also, this was inspired by art I saw on instagram, but I forgot the artist.

You love spending the day at Bakugou’s place.

When you first started the student-hero routine, you collaborated with Kaminari and Mina on when to schedule your patrols, so you could work with either of them. Unfortunately, Bakugou decided on an opposite schedule to his roommate, so he would only have to cross paths occasionally.

That meant whenever you were working, Bakugou was off. And when you were off, Bakugou was out of the apartment.

This weekend was different, though. He switched patrols with Kirishima, who needed his shift covered, and went home early.

He already knew you would be at his place. He asked you last night over the phone and then confirmed with Kaminari.

When he unlocked the door, the smell of weed knocked him back. He scrunched his nose in irritation, but it quickly died when he caught sight of you stirring something on the stove, swinging your hips to music in your head.

You turned around when he shut the door behind him, and you dropped your spoon. Your eyes were red and glazed over, but he could read the pleasant surprise on your face.

"Katsuki," you breathed, smiling. "You're home."

"It reeks in here." He frowned darkly, dropping his duffle bag and uniform next to the couch.

"You're usually not here to smell it," you confessed whimsically, unbothered. You go up to him and bring him into a tight hug. The type of hug you gave when you were inebriated and wanted to literally melt into him. He slowly eases into it. "You're not going on patrol?"

"I would have if I was assigned an area," he muttered. "Eiji needed me to cover another time for him, so he took this shift."

"Remind me to thank him later," he heard you mumble against him.

Bakugou chuckled softly, petting the back of your head. "You miss me or something?"

"Always, asshole." You pull away from him, but he keeps his arms around you. "You're reckless."

He glares at that. "What did you say?"

"Nothing," you say quickly, pecking his lips. "We're in Kami's room. Mina's here too."

"Goody," Bakugou remarks dryly, allowing you to drag him to Kaminari's room. The smell only got stronger the deeper you went into the apartment.

"Blasty boy is here!" Mina screeched when you showed up in the doorway. Kaminari was in the middle of a bong rip when his eyes met Bakugou's glare, and he choked.

Bakugou felt a brief sense of satisfaction as he watched Kaminari cough until tears ran down his cheeks.

"You're not supposed to be here," Kaminari wheezed out once he could speak.

"Why does the place smell dank?" Bakugou glared darkly.

"We do this every weekend. Chill out," you speak up, taking a spot on the ground next to Mina.

Every weekend? "How have I not smelled it?"

"Because your sense of smell isn't as impressive as you think." Mina giggles at your clap back as she takes the bong next.

"We were gonna smoke and then paint our nails," Mina tells him. Bakugou leans against the doorframe and glances at you, but you're preoccupied with choosing a color. "Can I paint your nails, 'Tsuki?"

"Not a chance, Pinky." He lowered himself next to you, nodded when you showed him your color, and wordlessly asked for his opinion. He looked over the options, a combination of the three of your collections, all scattered on the floor between them.

He picked a basic black and passed it to you, which you took with confusion.

"Can you do mine this color?" He could feel the rush of heat crawling up his neck when Kaminari and Mina began squawking at how soft he was for you.

You silence them with a look, which he's grateful for, and smile warmly.

"Of course. I'll paint yours, then mine." You shifted, facing him, and took his hand into your lap. "Oh, wait. I'm gonna take a rip first." You paused as you reached for the bong, glancing at Bakugou briefly to check for disapproval.

He smiled and gave you a wink, enjoying how your lips pulled back into a wider grin as you grabbed the bong by the neck.

He thought you looked pretty when you handled smoking like an expert. Even though he didn't smoke, he thought it was amusing when his friends got high. And when you got high, you laughed at everything, and Bakugou loved your laugh.

"So, when is the shift you're covering for Eiji?" You ask him after starting on his nails.

"Sometime next week," he mutters, although he probably should let Kaminari know too. "I think it's during one of your shifts."

"Oh, maybe we can pair up then," you smile, keeping your focus on his nail so close to your face that you're nearly cross-eyed. "Can I add some orange? I'll make it look nice."

"Whatever you want," he tells you, makes your chest swell.

It makes his stomach flip when he realizes how dainty your hands are compared to his, and he can feel his cheeks get warm. With his other hand, he brings it against your face and pulls you closer to press a kiss on your forehead.

"What was that for?" You laugh breathlessly. You feel his body shrug across from you.

"Felt like it."

Off to the side, Mina is pretending to show Kaminari a video on her phone, but she's really recording this sweet moment where you're painting Bakugou's nails.

Bakugou loves that you painted his nails. As the week begins and you two return to your everyday routines, Bakugou checks his nails constantly.

He's careful and makes sure the polish doesn't chip off. He checks for hangnails every hour and uses oil on his cuticles.

When he's in class, and it's been a while since he's seen you, he'll start rubbing the side of his index finger against the nail on his thumb. Something about feeling the smooth paint gives him relief.

(im definitely projecting, but i hope you enjoyed)

#bakugou katsuki x reader #bakugou katsuki #mha bakugou #bakugou x reader #katsuki bakugo x reader #katsuki x reader #fluff #bakugou fluff #glitterbomb 🪩💥#bkg in college #college au #college bakugou #bkg #college!bakugou #bakugou katuski x reader #girls who smoke weed

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