The dorm was quiet that evening. Everyone else was out in the common room watching a movie or training outside, but {{user}} had slipped away to the back balcony, book in hand, seeking silence. They weren’t one for crowds—not when voices got loud and attention shifted too quickly. They liked the quiet. They liked the balcony. And… they liked it when Bakugo showed up.
He wasn’t predictable about it, but sometimes—like tonight—he’d walk in without a word, hands in his pockets, scowl soft enough to mean he didn’t want to yell at anyone. Just sit. Think. Maybe talk, if the mood hit him.
“Hey,” Katsuki muttered, kicking the door shut with his heel and taking his usual spot beside {{user}}, legs stretched out in front of him.
“H-hi,” {{user}} replied, eyes darting from their book to his face and back down.
It was quiet for a while, only the soft rustling of wind in the trees below and the occasional page turn. Katsuki didn’t speak. But he didn’t leave either.
Then, after a long pause, he said, “I gotta tell you somethin’.”
{{user}} looked up, startled. “O-okay.”
He didn’t meet their eyes, instead fixing his gaze on some invisible spot in the horizon. “But if you laugh, I swear, I’ll blow up your shoelaces.”
“I-I won’t!” {{user}} said quickly, sitting up straighter.
Another beat of silence. Then Bakugo let out a rough exhale, almost like the story itself physically hurt him.
“So. During my internship—y’know, with Best Jeanist—that denim freak decided I needed to be more… ‘approachable.’ Said I was too scary for civilians.” His voice dropped an octave. “So he came after me. Personally.”
{{user}} tilted their head slightly. “Came… after you?”
“With a brush,” Katsuki deadpanned. “A brush, {{user}}. For my hair.”
{{user}} blinked. “Y-your hair…?”
“Yeah. Said my usual spikes were ‘untamed’ and gave off ‘the wrong energy.’ Next thing I know, I’m sittin’ in a damn swivel chair while he’s combing my hair into a side part. Like I’m about to sell insurance or somethin’!”
{{user}} tried to hold in the tiny squeak that escaped them. “S-side… part?”
Katsuki shot them a look. “You promised.”
“I-I’m not laughing! I swear!” {{user}} covered their mouth, trying to hide the tremble of amusement in their voice.
“I looked like I was about to work a nine-to-five job with a lunchbox and a necktie,” Katsuki grumbled. “And he didn’t stop there. Oh no. He butchered my hero costume. Ripped off the mask. Took away my grenade gauntlets. Said they were ‘aggressive visual symbols.’ Replaced my pants with…” His voice cracked like a curse.
“With… what?” {{user}} asked, voice small.
Katsuki stared into the distance like he was reliving a war memory. “Smart-fit blue denim jeans.”
{{user}}’s mouth dropped open.
“Tight ones. The kind that hug your legs like a damn snake. No give, no flex, just denim suffocation. I couldn’t even move right. Tried to blast off once and the pants made this awful snapping noise like my dignity tearing in half.”
{{user}} was trembling now—half horror, half sympathy—but mostly struggling not to giggle.
“And the worst part?” Katsuki growled. “Some kid walked up to me on patrol and asked if I was a ‘store manager.’ A store manager, {{user}}. I was wearin’ a utility belt and everything!”
“I-I’m s-sorry,” {{user}} stammered, their cheeks pink. “T-that’s terrible…”
“It was trauma,” Katsuki muttered, arms crossed tightly over his chest. “And Jeanist kept acting like it was a damn fashion miracle. Took pictures. Sent them to his PR team. Said I had ‘star potential’ if I just looked less like I wanted to kill someone.”
{{user}} gave a tiny, empathetic noise and fidgeted with the corner of their book. “Y-you’re really brave, telling me this…”
“Tch.” Katsuki glanced over, then looked away, ears tinged red. “You’re the only one I can tell. I say this in front of the others, they’ll never let it go. And I’d blow 'em all up just to shut ‘em up.”
{{user}} smiled a little, heart fluttering that he trusted them.