#kickboxingchampion!reader.

[keulixeutin]

Knockout!

A/N: Part I >> Part II >> Part III

When Bakugou and the police had arrived on the scene, the scaly criminal was passed out on the ground.

He had attempted to rob the convenience store with his snake quirk.  He had hard red scales and a large lizard tail that split into two; supposedly, he was melee-proof, bullet-proof, and fire-proof to an extent — but, apparently, that wasn’t enough for you.

As Bakugou listened in as you gave your statement to the police, he noted three simple facts that had his eyes uncharacteristically wide.

One, you were quirkless.

Two, you had figured out the area under the villain’s jaw was still soft.

Three, it was a one-hit KO.

Bakugou wasn’t often surprised, but there was a casual way that you held yourself, laughing as you joked about his scales being more for aesthetics than anything useful, that had him staring at you in a curious bewilderment.  You were waving your hands with ease as you talked, as though the blood on your knuckles weren’t even there.

He was completely taken aback.

You were wearing gray sweatpants and a hoodie, so he couldn’t tell how muscular you were, but were shorter and smaller than him.  Even if you had less than 1% body fat, there was no way a quirkless woman could defeat a villain.

When he pulled back from his thoughts, he realized he had been staring and scowling at you.  Unfazed, you waved at him, a friendly but distant smile, and then you walked away.  He looked back to the police officers that had been questioning you; one of them was gazing at a sheet of paper in his hands with a huge grin.

As they passed him by, Bakugou said, “Hey, who the hell was that?”

The officer’s smile grew bigger, reminiscent of a certain annoying fanboy he knew.  He showed Bakugou the paper: it was an autograph.

“That was [Last, First Name], the youngest two-time Kickboxing World Champion.”

&&

The moment Bakugou arrived to his apartment, he had grabbed a water bottle and beer from the fridge and went straight for his laptop on the living room coffee table.

He didn’t know why, but for the rest of his patrol shift had been a blur of distracted thoughts of you, the Kickboxing World Champion — no, the two-time champion.  

Bakugou hadn’t paid much attention to anything other than the war between Pro-Hero and Villain, consumed as he was with the fight to be number one.  He was aware of the fact that there were people with quirks who didn’t fall on the hero or the villain side that competed in matches for fame and money, but he didn’t know that there were people without quirks, or with useless quirks, that had their own tournaments, too.

And he had never thought that one of them could get strong enough to beat a villain.  Albeit, the snake quirk was shitty, but still.

Then, when he looked you up, he found that he couldn’t take his eyes off of you.

You were absolutely fucking phenomenal.

It was only supposed to be a quick search, just to find out why the police officer had been so giddy to get your signature and what secret talent you had to take down that snake man.  The first video he had clicked on was from a few years ago, a fight against another Japanese kickboxer.  You rushed forward, fast, faster than he had thought possible for someone without a quirk.  The commentator had likened it to lightning, but he thought you were more like wildfire, like the flames latching onto a small branch and engulfing the entire tree in heat not a second later.  Though she had pulled her hands up to defend her face, you punched through her defenses and slammed a powerful hit into her jaw.  The cameras caught her eyes rolling into the back of her head as her body went slack, arms falling, knees bending too far forward.  You went in for the kill and delivered two powerful kicks to the torso.  She fell back against the rope.

It had been pretty badass, so he clicked on another one, and then two videos became three, which became a dozen, which then became a long rabbit hole down into fight clips, interviews, your official and unofficial biographies, and even bits and pieces of a documentary.  

Of the tidbits he had learned: you had the highest knockout percentage of all the current kickboxers, had three draws and two losses in your entire eighty match career, named Female Fighter of the Year, and — and, goddammit, if you weren’t the sexiest fucking thing he had ever seen.  He wished that you had been wearing shorts earlier that day because your goddamn thighs had his blood curling and pants tightening.

By the time Bakugou found a bootlegged version of your first run-through of the World Championships, Kirishima and Ashido had made it home and smushed themselves onto the couch beside him.  When they saw you fold your opponent with a KO from your flying knee, Kirishima immediately called over Kaminari, Sero, and pizza.  Then, after an unnecessary amount of swearing and complaining, Bakugou hooked his laptop up to the TV, and soon they were all cheering as you slaughtered your way through the rounds.  

At the end of it, the Russian fighter fell to the floor despite her best efforts.  You reared back, face bloodied, and screamed at the ceiling; the crowd joined in a raucous roar at the youngest Japanese kickboxer to the take the world championship.

Bakugou smirked against his bottle.  He had known, obviously, considering your two-time champion reputation, but it was still blood-pumping to watch.

When the host raised your hand and announced you the victor, the others beside him raised their pizzas and howled alongside you and the audience.

&&

“That was, hands down, the manliest thing I’ve ever fucking seen!” Kirishima exclaimed, eyes bright with excitement and adrenaline.

Kaminari had a dazed and awed expression on his face, saying, “I don’t even know if I could get an electric charge fast enough before she punched me.”  

Across the room, Ashido spun around on the stool, grabbing a few more slices of pizza on her plate before spinning around to face the group.  “Why’d you look her up, anyways, Bakugou?” she asked.

“Yeah, thought you’d be more interested in quirk matches instead,” Sero agreed.

There was a moment of hesitation as he debated on answering; he didn’t want them to think he was some sort of creeper or Deku-level fanboy after just meeting you for the first time today.

“There was an attempted convenience store robbery on my patrol today,” Bakugou said finally.  “She was there —  knocked out the criminal with a shitty snake quirk in one hit.”

“What!”  Kirishima grabbed at his own face in disbelief.  “She was there and you didn’t get an autograph?  A photo?  Dude!”

“I didn’t fucking know her then, dumbass!” Bakugou said, rolling his eyes.  “One of the police officers asked for an autograph — figured I’d find out why.”

Kirishima fell back against the couch.  “Holy shit, she’s somewhere here in the city.”

“Do you think we’ll run into her?” Kaminari asked.

“We might,” Sero said optimistically.  “It’s a pretty big town, but, hey, Bakugou did it once, right?”

“I bet seeing her fight against that villain would’ve been so badass,” Ashido said.  “You just see her walk up and you think she’s gonna come out with a flashy

quirk, but then it’s just pow!  One punch!  And he’s out —  Oh!”  Ashido blinked, an idea suddenly coming to her mind.  “Hey, maybe I can ask Uraraka if she knows [Name]?”

At everyone’s raised brow and confused glance, she explained, “Uraraka still keeps in contact with Gunhead from her internship freshman year, remember?  I don’t know — maybe the martial arts world is a small one, whether you have a quirk or not.”

“Dude!  That’d be freakin’ epic!”  Kaminari grinned.  “Send her a text!”

“Sure thing!  Can you just, you know, charge up my phone real quick first?”

“There’s a plug right next to you!”

“Oh, come on, Kaminari!  It just charges better when you do it!”

As his friends argued and laughed around him, Bakugou played another match on the big screen.  He leaned forward, watching you closely, analyzing your form, memorizing your posture, trying to anticipate your foot movement.  He was already doing half the shit from his own training and education.  A little technique tweaking and addition wouldn’t be difficult at all.

&&

Three days later, Bakugou discovered that it wasn’t the fighting community but the city that was smaller than everyone had thought.

On his Sunday morning jog at the park four miles away from his apartment, he saw you shadowboxing under the trees — so, of course, he stopped to stare.

You were in blue shorts (that he was sure would show the bottom cheeks of your ass if he tilted his head just right), a thin, gray tank top, and you had white wraps around your hands.  Without your sweats, he could see close up that every inch of you was lean, honed to kill.  His mouth was dry.

You were intensely fighting an invisible opponent, your movements smooth and crisp and with the power of a raging wildfire behind them.  There was no wasted action or accidental step.  You ducked and swung, dodged and jabbed, rolled and kneed.  There wasn’t a compromise between speed and power; you were both explosive and wicked fast — and god, you looked good drenched in sweat, your muscles flexing under the light as your fist twisted out into a punch.  He thought he could see the air being blown back.

The bewildered thought hit him again: you were quirkless.

With the end of the routine, you stretched your arms and legs, finally noticing Bakugou.  Shit, perhaps he shouldn’t have just stood there staring, but he didn’t know much of regrets or apologies.  You raised your hand in a greeting, just like before, a smile on your face that was cordial.  He didn’t return it, shoving his hands into his sweatpants pockets and making his way toward you instead.

“[Last, First Name], yeah?” he said.

“I am,” you said.  “Were you…wanting an autograph?”

He heard Kirishima’s voice screeching yes in his mind, but he pushed that to the side.

“Fight me,” Bakugou said.

You seemed unfazed.  Perhaps you had gotten these offerings before.  “I’m flattered, but no thanks,” you said coolly.  

Bakugou narrowed his eyes.  You were an athlete, a fighter, a world champion title defender.  Competition was in your blood.  He just needed to figure out how to trigger it.  

“I’m not a random civilian,” he announced.  “I’m a Pro-Hero.”

— Sort of.  He was still in training, but he could kick anyone’s ass, even yours.  He expected you to put up a good fight (it’d be disappointing otherwise) but, at the end of the day, he’d still beat you down.

“Hmm.”  You crossed your arms over your chest and tilted your head, looking him up and down with an amused half-smile.   In response, he glared at you and tilted his chin confidently; his scowl deepened on pure instinct, though he was inwardly pleased that the smile you gave him had color to it, rather than the stiffness of cordiality you had given him before.

“Well, Pro-Hero, I’m not so big-headed to think that I could take even you on,” you remarked.  You took a few steps back and said, “Have a good workout,” and then turned and jogged away.

Yards away, you turned and glanced behind you at him, but didn’t stop or turn back again.

“Tch.”

&&

A day later, Ashido had messaged their group chat with news that Uraraka couldn’t help, and while the chat blew up with whines, Bakugou kept to himself that he had seen you again.

He had branched out from videos of your fights to those of your opponents.  There were plenty of other powerful kickboxers.  There were two other quirkless ones like you, but their faces and abilities were forgetful.  The others had useless quirks, and some of them were quite powerful, but no one had the presence you did.  It was hard to explain.  They were impressive, sure, but there was something about you that drew the eyes and stilled the breath.  Anyone could see in your fights that there was battle experience and years of intense training, but there was something else, too, an instinct that others didn’t seem to have, a fluidity that came from just knowing.

Fuck, he really wanted to fight you.

And grab your ass.

It was confusing, but only at first.  A couple days later, Kaminari and Sero joked about having thick muscular thighs wrapped around their heads, and suddenly, it made a lot more sense.

And, seeing that Bakugou had gotten his own, personal look at how powerful your thighs actually were, he had to quietly exit that conversation to run to the bathroom for an ice cold shower.

&&

The next week, when Bakugou went back for his jog, he checked to see if you were shadowboxing under the same trees — and, lucky for him, you were.

There was already a heavy sheen of sweat on your body, glistening beneath the cloudy sky.  Today, you had on skin-tight leggings that stretched against the intense allure of your thighs, rounding up your firm ass.  Your t-shirt had ripped sleeves; every time you punched, the lines against your bicep flexed sharply.

As Bakugou stepped closer, he yelled out, “You ready for that fight?”

When you turned and saw him, your eyebrows rose in surprise.  Seeing him stretch his arms and crack his knuckles though, you chuckled and said, “As I remember it, I declined.”

“I won’t use my quirk if that’s why you’re pussying out,” he said.

Rather than address his offer, you asked, “Are you ranked?”

He frowned, unsure of where you were going with this line of questioning.  Were you trying to mock him?

“Are you a ranked Pro-Hero?” you asked again when he didn’t answer.

There was a stupid bureaucratic hierarchy and procedure to go through, of which he didn’t feel like explaining. “Doesn’t fucking matter.  I’ll be the Number One Pro-Hero soon.”

“So, then, what’s the issue?”  You shifted your weight to your left leg, hand on your hip.  “Why do you want to fight me so badly?  You have a quirk — a useful one, I assume, since you’re a Pro — and you’re gunning for the number one spot.  I’m a quirkless kickboxer.”

“A fucking champion one,” he pointed out.

You shrugged.  “Yeah, against people with useless quirks.”

“Who the hell cares?” he growled.  “Fucking fight me!”

You had both your hands on your hips now, gazing at him with pursed lips and a raised brow.  He could see the scars on your arms, the faint X against your chin.  He glanced down to your thighs again, spread in a stance that was just right for him to fit in between.  

He wasn’t sure if that flash of image was from him pinning you down in the ring or in the bed, but he heard Kaminari and Sero howling in approval in his head either way.

“What’s your name?” you asked.

“Bakugou,” he said, “Katsuki.”

Your eyes flicked to his wild hair.  “Were you the hero from the other day?  The attempted convenience store robbery?”

“Yeah,” he grunted.  “What of it?”

“Huh.”  You paused, chewing on the inside of your cheeks as you quietly thought to yourself.  Then, before he could say anything else, you sighed and said, “Alright, Pro-Hero.  But just one fight, got it?”

An excited grin spread across his face, all fanged teeth with zero tenderness.  “I’m gonna fuckin’ kick your ass,” he said, “even without my quirk.”

Despite his words, as he brought his hands up in the position to defend to face, he felt a surge of sparking sweat, his body’s instinct to rely on the explosion of his powers.  His mind immediately went to igniting the area with light and fire or rushing forward with a burst of flames against his hands.  He had to fight against every ingrained strategy in his mind, breaking it down and taking his quirk out of the equation.

Though his hand-to-hand wasn’t anything to laugh at, he realized that he was going to fight with a disadvantage.  He had been training harder than anyone to be a hero; every class and training session was focused on honing his quirk usage or applying it in different ways.

But this here was your natural playing field, only fists and experience.  There was no boost to your speed or power except through sheer willpower.

He smirked.  He expected a good fight, but he expected you to go down swinging.

The two of you looked at each other and nodded, accepting the start of the match.  You rushed in, fast, faster than he had remembered.  It was one thing to watch it on screen, and something else completely to experience it without relying on his quirk.  He was narrowly able to dodge the punch, firing back a quick round with his right fist that you easily avoided.

Your leg flew out, a touch of wildfire reaching for the first branch.  He caught it against his abdomen — he could do this in his fucking sleep — and then, the moment his hands dropped, your left fist smashed against his jaw and he fell backwards, face on fire and eyes seeing stars.

&&

He didn’t completely fall, and he didn’t black out.

Bakugou had tilted backwards, stumbling, but he was able to right himself up, gaining enough sense to forcefully tilt himself forward into a crouch to steady himself.  He wouldn’t admit it, but the sky was spinning around him.

He couldn’t believe he had fallen for it; he couldn’t believe his body had fallen for it.  He had told himself that if that had happened, he would flip you quick, but you had been quicker, grasping the opportunity before he could even register what was in his hands.

Fuck, that was infuriating, embarrassing.

And god, that was hot.

You crouched down to his level.  “That usually knocks people out,” you remarked, “but you look like you’re ready to get back up again.  As expected of a Pro-Hero.”

Bakugou glared heatedly at you.  He didn’t know if he was still seeing stars, but there seemed to be a halo glowing around your head.

“Shut the hell up!” he snarled.  “I don’t need your fucking participation trophy speech.”

“Nothing wrong with acknowledging where you excelled, even when you’ve failed.”  You paused, and then grinned suddenly, adding a second later, “Miserably, in fact.”

“Fuck off,” he said, but there wasn’t any malice behind his words, not when he saw that you had given him a real smile, one that wasn’t distantly polite but contented, delighted, and entertained.  His heart thumped against his chest and his glowering magnified.  “Gloat all you fucking want; I’ll wipe that fucking grin off your face right the fuck now.  Get up.”

You stayed crouched as he stood up, fists clenched and ready for a rematch.

“Deal was just for the one time,” you said.  “You’ll have to catch me in the ring for any more rounds, Bakugou.”

Just as his first instinct in battle was to burst through distance and defenses with a fire behind a right hook, his first instinct in conversation was to glower and shout profanities.  But, seeing you sit down and stretch out your long legs, and seeing as how his chest was warmer with your around, he pushed down the urge, much more calmly than he had thought possible.

“Tch.  Whatever.”

He didn’t want to leave, though.  Bakugou glanced down at you as you reached for your toes.  You hadn’t said anything, so perhaps it was fine that he stuck around.  He sat down across from you and started his own stretches; out of the corner of his eyes, he saw you look at him curiously.

“You’re not the first one to challenge me,” you told him.  “You’re the first Pro-Hero to do so, and you’re definitely the most aggressive about it.”

“Everyone else is just a useless extra,” he retorted.  “No surprise that they half-ass everything.”

Your smile grew across your face until you let out a laugh.  “Well, I guess that’s one way of thinking about it.”

He reached for his left foot, feeling the soft burn in his hamstring as he stretched his leg out.  As you smoothed our your muscles, you stared at him, eyes roaming the edge of his wild hair to his calloused hands.  The back of his neck was turning red, and the knowledge that it was bright and deep against the sunlight set off his aggravation.

“What?” he snapped.

You smirked.  “Are you my newest fanboy?”

His eye visibly twitched.  “Hell no.  I’m not a fucking fanboy.”

“Pretty sure you didn’t know me a week ago,” you pointed out.  “Now you know my name, my career, and where I do my Sunday workouts.  You tell me if that fits the requirements for a fanboy?”

“I do my damn research,” he argued.  There was no way in hell he was a fanboy; that was Deku’s shit.  That was Deku-level, and he’d sooner slit his throat than be on Deku’s fucking level.

“Uh huh,” you said.  “So, then, what’s the research for?”

Bakugou looked back to you, checking your expression; it was light and airy, invested in the conversation without being condescending or mocking.

“Your dumb wikipedia said you trained in kickboxing, Muay Thai, and Kyokushin Karate.”

You nodded.  “Indeed it does.”

“Teach me,” he said, voice gruff and low.  He couldn’t maintain eye contact with you, partially because he would’ve been caught staring at the beads of sweat sliding down your neck and partially because he didn’t know how to humbly ask for help.

“Why?” you asked.  “Isn’t your quirk enough, Pro-Hero?”

“Specializing in hand-to-hand wouldn’t be the shittiest of things,” he grumbled.

“Hmm.  Yeah, that makes sense.”  

You stood up, dusting the dirt off the back of your thighs.  Bakugou followed the skin of your calves up to your knees that disappeared under the fabric; then, realizing that he couldn’t slyly sit and stare at you from the ground, he stood up, too.

“Unfortunately for you, newest Pro-Hero fan, I am not a teacher.  If you’re for real, though, I can point you to a few gyms I like —”

“Then, let me buy you dinner.”

“What?”

That seemed to have caught you by surprise.  Fucking finally.

Bakugou shoved his hands in his pockets, eyes already darting away from your face.  As soon as he stared at the tree off to the side, he forced his eyes back to you.  You were taken aback, mouth slightly agape as you processed what he was saying right after his demand for a fight.

“Sorry?  Is this some sort of trick?” you said.  “Aren’t you younger than me?”

“By four fucking years.  Why the hell does that even matter?”

“So, are my only two choices to fight you again or date you?”  You tried to hide the smile, but your lip twitched.

“If you wanna say no, then just friggin’ say it,” he barked, his stare turning into an irritated, red glare — both from the stain of his eyes and the light dusting on his cheeks.  “Don’t beat around the goddamn bush or give me some sort of pity bullshit about how it’s not me, it’s you.  I ain’t a damn kid.”

Abruptly, you stepped closer to him; he stiffened.  Your face wasn’t extremely close, but he could smell the sweat and the woodsy shampoo on you.  He could see the color swirling in your eyes, the pink on your cheeks and neck and chest from your intense workout.  You were short, much shorter than him, and yet there was still the odd feeling that he was looking up at you, despite the downward craning of his neck.

“Hmm.”  You narrowed your eyes, a smile playing on your lips.  Whatever you were searching for on his face, you seemed to have found it.  He didn’t know if it was a good thing or a bad thing, but before he could figure it out, you pulled away.  

The air around him hummed quietly without your presence, and his fingers buzzed with another lost opportunity.

“Ask me again in two months, Bakugou Katsuki.”

You jogged off, once again leaving him staring at your fading back.

[keulixeutin]

Knockout!

A/N: Previously - Part I >> Part II >> Part III

Later, at dinner, Bakugou finally told Kirishima that he had seen you again in the park — twice — which he then immediately regretted because Ashido, who had been eavesdropping from her room, burst out the door with Sero, Kaminari, and even fucking Jirou on speaker phone.  Rather than having only one person to harass him about details, he had five nosy-ass people yelling for details.

Bakugou told them about your punch that caught him by surprise and your unwillingness for a rematch, which he attributed to you having a premonition that he would’ve beat you down on the second round, but he kept to himself the fact that he had seen stars after the punch.  He didn’t tell them that he had almost fallen to the ground either, and that no one without a quirk had ever been able to do that to him before — hell, there were plenty of people with quirks who hadn’t ever done that to him.  Most importantly, he didn’t tell them about trying to ask you out or the fact that your thighs were much thicker and much better in person.  When Sero and Mineta, who Sero had apparently dialed in for whatever fucking reason, had asked for a visual representation for comparison (“Like watermelons?  Two watermelons?  Three watermelons!?”), he snapped at them to shut up and focus on what mattered.

(“Bakugou just doesn’t want to share with us the juicy details… He’s seen a piece of heaven and now he’s leaving the rest of us to pine in the dirt like savages... You selfish bastard.”  Despite the fury behind his words, Mineta quickly hung up when Bakugou asked him to repeat his goddamn self.)

He did remark that you had mentioned something about two months later, though he didn’t give much detail on what the context of the conversation had been for you to bring it up.  Still, Kirishima was able to figure out with some googling: in two months, Japan was hosting the final rounds for the K2 Asia Women’s Lightweight Championship. Semifinals had just finished a little over two weeks ago; when Bakugou saw the date, he realized it had been two days before the convenience store robbery, meaning you had probably been healing and jet-lagged when you had knocked out that villain.  He shook his head.

“[Name] won last year, taking it from the two-time reigning champ, Zhang Changying,” Kirishima said.  “She’s gotta defend her title this year, dude — keep it in Japan!  My girl’s trying to keep her head in the game and freaking Bakugou goes all stalker mode and harasses her.  Let the lady focus!”

His eye twitched at my girl, but he knew what Kirishima meant by that — though, it didn’t make it any less aggravating.

“We gotta get tickets,” Ashido exclaimed, punching the air.

“Uh, about that — looks like they’re all sold out.”

Kaminar’s voice buzzed through the phone, saying, “I bet they have it on pay-per-view, though; we can invite the others.”

“We should ask Yaoyorozu to host,” Ashido suggested, “since her place is a lot bigger than ours.”

Bakugou rolled his eyes, grunting at their excited chatter about putting the invite in the group chat with their old classmates.

“Stop scowling,” Kirishima said, laughing.  “It’ll be fun!  It’ll be good to get everyone together again.”

“Do whatever the hell you want,” Bakugou said.  “Like I fucking care.”  He made a point to take a large bite out of his burger, chewing noisily to show that he definitely didn’t care and that he definitely wasn’t making a mental list for who was going to bring what.

&&

Bakugou went back to the park a week later to jog.

And, well, to see you.

Right before he had left the apartment, Kirishima had caught him and called him out on it, yelling that he needed to leave you alone and let you do what you needed to do to defend the title.  Rather than agree or dwell on the possibility that he should, perhaps, leave you to your training, he yelled back that that was the stupidest thing that had ever come out of his shitty mouth with his shitty hair, and then he slammed the door on Kirishima’s annoying, dumbass, smirking face.

He had felt confident of it that morning, but when he saw you under the same trees, fiercely fighting your invisible opponent, he thought that maybe Kirishima was onto something.

Anyways, you had also erroneously accused him of being your newest fanboy; he didn’t want to give you any more ammunition.

So, against his first instinct to head over to you, he stayed back and watched you shadowbox from afar, mesmerized by the way you shifted between punches and kicks. Even though no one was there against your attacks, he could still see that you were hitting vitals and knockouts every time.

After a few minutes, Bakugou pulled his eyes away with an intense self-restraint that his old professors would’ve been so proud of and started his jog, reluctantly getting farther and farther away from you.

When he had finished his 10k run and was jogging back to his starting point, his head immediately turned to check if you were still there — and you were.  Bakugou was about to leave the park, but you were still there under green leaves, starting a new workout routine.  He paused to watch you kick against the thick tree trunks for a few seconds before walking off, internally shaking his head in awe at the discipline of a quirkless fighter.

&&

The third time he showed up for his Sunday jog, you waved him over.  Without even thinking, he looked around his immediate vicinity as though he couldn’t quite believe that you had meant him, and when he looked back to you for confirmation, he saw that you were laughing and pointing, shouting, “Yeah, you, you weirdo!”

His chest suddenly felt warm, as did the back of his neck.  He spat in the grass beside him as he walked, trying to keep his lips from quirking up into any sort of traitorous grin.  He reached you with his hands in his pocket and his expression irritably indifferent.

“Finally agreeing to a fuckin’ rematch?” he asked.

“Nope!” you said.  “Just checking on my newest fanboy and why he’s been ignoring me three weeks in a row.”

Unfortunately, Bakugou’s now skyrocketing blood pressure had nothing to do with the fact that you had short red shorts and a cropped t-shirt that showed your smooth abdomen every time you shifted, and everything to do with the fact that you already knew how to get under his skin.

“I’m not a fucking fanboy!” he yelled.

“Anyways,” you said, ignoring his outburst, “I expected you to harass me about a rematch every Sunday for the next five years of my life, Bakugou.  You lost that fire already?”

He scowled.  “I try to do something nice and I still get nagged at,” he grumbled.  At your curious tilt of the head, he rolled his eyes and continued, saying, “I know you’re training for the K2 Asia finals so I wasn’t gonna fucking distract you.  You’re fucking welcome, shitty woman.”

You pursed your lips, nodding in surprise.  “Wow, okay, well — no offense, but, there’s no way in hell you came up with that on your own.  Even I know that, and I’ve known you for a total of ten minutes.”  There was a sudden grin on your face, teasing and blush-inducing, as you said, “You been talking about me to your friends, hmm?”

“Fuck no,” he fumed, but there was only hot air behind his words.

“It’s fine,” you said, chuckling.  “You can come say hi, you know.  It’s no big deal.”

“Whatever,” Bakugou muttered.  “If you’re not gonna say yes to a rematch, then there’s no reason to waste my breath.”

“Ah, okay, so you’re holding my greetings hostage, hmm?” you said.  “Gonna ignore me until I whoop your ass again, huh?”

“I told you, I’d fucking kill you in the rematch.”

“Oh, big words for someone who left their entire head unguarded five seconds into the first match.”

He scowled.  “Whatever! That won’t fucking happen again!”

“Guess we’ll see about that.”

Bakugou stared at you as you stretched out your arms and legs, unsure if you were suggesting a continuation or if you were just spewing random bullshit to keep the conversation.  

“Six rounds,” you told him.  “I could use a sparring partner for a bit.  You ready to get your ass handed to you by a quirkless Pro-Fighter, Pro-Hero?”

An excited wave of bloodlust washed over his grin.

&&

This time, Bakugou got a good one in.

He was able to force an opening in your defenses with a sly feint, swinging with his right fist as though he were going to punch you in the body only to swing sharply toward your jaw instead.  He put his entire weight and Pro-Hero career into that hit, and it sent you flying backwards.

You were on the ground, holding your throbbing jaw as he towered over you with the smuggest smirk of his life.

“Told you I’d kick your ass,” he sneered.

You were neither mad nor surprised as you looked up at him.  There was a simple grin growing on your lips, a spark of something in your eyes — competition, perhaps?  Your eyes flickered from his legs to his torso to his arms, and then to his barbarian smirk and wild hair.  He unconsciously straightened his back and folded his arms against his chest, puffing out to be bigger.  Maybe you were seeing him in a different light.  Maybe you would take him seriously now, now that you knew firsthand how powerful he could punch and how quickly he could learn.

“Take a good look, Pro-Hero,” you remarked.  “Because you’re not gonna get this chance again.”

Bakugou did take a good look, but maybe not for the same reason you were thinking.

&&

Also — you were right.

It was the first, the only, and the last time he knocked you down.

He realized a little too late that the something in your eyes he had mistook for competition was actually amusement.

&&

The rest of the five rounds were almost a blur, a mixed memory of your hits rather than his.

Your body shots were harrowing; one punch would have an amateur passed out, and though Bakugou wasn’t new to fighting, he was still breathless.  With the first hit to his diaphragm, he thought that he could handle whatever you sent his way — and then one punch turned into three which turned into five which turned into ten, all in the exact same spot and none with weakening power behind it.  The pained hiss of fuck scraped through his mind quickly after.

And it wasn’t just the punches, either.

Bakugou had erroneously thought he was out of your reach for only a mere two seconds; that was how long it took for you to kick his temple almost clean off his head at the start of the next round.  He had fallen to the ground hearing constellations, something he hadn’t known was possible and couldn’t even begin to explain exactly what it felt like.

Later, you paid him back for his feint with one of your own: what looked to be a left kick switched to a right kick in the blink of an eye, almost mid-air it seemed, and then the ground was rushing forward to meet him.

The difference in technique showed.  It was the deciding factor of the fight, which only lasted a minute and a half.  Bakugou’s punches were stronger (he guessed that he had maybe forty or so pounds on you), but it didn’t matter, not when you could twist to soften the impact or ebb out of the way.  You counter-attacked before his body could react, and your fists were always up against your face, guarding your weak spot while his often lulled and dropped to his sides, too used to having a barrage of fire against his palms.

At one point, you used your knee, a wild jump that didn’t look like it could be controlled but, in reality, was as deadly accurate as it was fiercely fast.  He had thought his diaphragm had cracked, but, seconds later, realized that you hadn’t been hitting him at full power.

The thought that you were fucking phenomenal returned — and then the thought was immediately steamrolled over by a rapid-fire left hook that connected to his jaw as if it had been magnetized.  

Just like the very first time, Bakugou forced himself to tilt forward in an attempt to save the embarrassment of falling back to the ground.  Again.

As he crouched, trying to minimize the gasps and throbbing with soft intakes of breath, he heard a little voice in his head: things could’ve been different if he could’ve used his quirk — no, things would’ve been different if he had.

But that was why he was weaker, he thought.  When he looked up to you still standing under all the weight of his punches, he understood that he wasn’t at 100% without his quirk, but you were always operating at 115% at any given moment.

You didn’t have anything else; you never did, while Bakugou, on the other hand, had once thought that his quirk was all he had and was everything he had.

He was furious.  

And he was excited.

Shame and indignation gave way to exhilaration at another path opening up before him.

You tilted your head back and breathed in the air of the blue sky.  The glowing rays of the sun lit up the lines of scarring on your skin.  Underneath the frenzy and buzz of new ambitions, there was a little feeling of awe, too, and reverence, and maybe a prickle of adoration, a warmth he never thought anyone could ever stoke in him in this wide, wide universe.

&&

“You left-handed?”

“Nah, I’m a righty,” you replied.  “You’re talking about my stance, right?  It’s called the Southpaw Stance.”

He watched as you repositioned yourself with your right fist and foot leading.  Now that you were breaking it down for him, he did notice that the positioning had thrown him off during your fight as he wasn’t used to seeing a mirror image.

“My dad was a Southpaw so I favor it.  It trips up a lot of Orthodox users,” you explained, “but I can switch between the stances if I feel like it.”

“What the hell are Orthodox users?”

“The opposite.”  You repositioned yourself with your left foot and left fist forward and explained, “The usual stance for righties.”

He pocketed that information later for further analysis.  Last night, he had stumbled upon Top 10 Something or Another videos that had featured you, but he hadn’t thought to go through kickboxing terminology.  This was an obvious lapse of reason which he blamed on your thoroughly enticing thighs.

“You catch on quick, Bakugou,” you said, looking down at him with an impressed grin.  “Go to Nasukawa’s next to Matsuya station.  Drop my name and he’ll help you out.  He’s a good guy — got a real technical eye that makes him a hardass for a coach, but I think it’d help you a lot, especially since it seems like you’re not trying to specialize so much as clean up some of what you’re already working with.”

“Yeah, sure, whatever.”

“What, you mad that I kicked your ass?” you teased.  “I gave you fair warning.”

“I’m not fucking mad,” he grumbled stiffly.  “…It was badass.”

He ignored your stare by standing up and patting off the dust and dirt clinging to his pants and shirt, but it was hard to ignore his stomach doing annoying flips and the back of his neck heating up.

“Oh, wow, was that a compliment?”  You snickered at him, but the sound was airy and sweet.  It was odd; he didn’t mind you laughing.  He almost wanted to keep making you laugh.

It was an awful feeling, truly, but it was an awful feeling that he couldn’t get rid of.  If anything, it seemed to make the heat from his neck crawl further up his jaw and cheeks, which only made him scowl deeper and wonder what the point of all of this was.

(Were you the point?  Did you, perhaps, have the answer?)

Bakugou scratched the back of his head, frowning at you because he didn’t know what else to do with his hands or his face or the constant narrowing of his eyes.  

“What are you doing later?” he asked, almost berating himself immediately after.  It was supposed to come off a little more lightly, but it came off brusque and abrupt and with his normal amount of incivility.

“Hmm?”

He gritted his teeth.  “I said, what the hell are you doing later, you shitty woman…”

“Bakugou,” you began, scratching your cheek where there was a newly blooming purple mark as though it were a mosquito bite and not the remnants of his punching.  “Has anyone ever told you that it’s really confusing when you cuss them out but then also ask about dinner plans?”

“I ain’t asking about dinner plans,” he snapped.  “I’m asking in general.”

There was a beat of silence in which he thought he had finally scared you off or pissed you off, but then you once again said, “Hmm,” and stretched your arms up behind you casually.  Your cropped shirt rode further up and showing more of your smooth skin.

“Nothing much,” you said a second later.  “Clean my apartment, work my punching bag…. Nothing too exciting.”

Christ, were you going home to continue training?

Your eyes narrowed at him into a look of suspicion.  Bakugou didn’t sense any true distrust or condescension, but something curious and dizzying and — he didn’t want to get his hopes up and say flirty, but the look you gave him definitely had goosebumps lining up his arm.

“Why?” you asked.  “What would you rather have me do?”  

Well, he was originally going to ask you for drinks — which wasn’t dinner, so ha! — but upon hearing that you were going to go back home and train, he wilted internally.  You were working hard for the K2 finals; probably every waking moment and every sleeping second was spent obsessing over the championships and preparing yourself for it.  He knew what it felt like to pour every drop of sweat and blood into bringing this desire birthed from your chest, from your dreams, to reality.  He didn’t want to be the one to distract you.

Bakugou averted his eyes and did a half shrug, saying, “Nothing.  I was just asking in general.”

“Uh huh…”  You didn’t look convinced.

“Anyone ever told you not to overanalyze every little damn thing?” Bakugou retorted.  “I was making conversation, shit.”

You still didn’t buy it.  “Whatever, you weirdo,” you said.  “Okay, but really, that’s enough dilly-dallying for me.  Gotta get back to it.”

Bakugou pushed the disappointment down and made a grunting noise of agreement.  He watched you scratch the bruise on your cheek again.  There were small blooms of blue and purple sprouting in a few areas of your body, the number of them a lot less and a lot lighter than he had expected, another testament to your power.  He could feel parts of his own face and body starting to turn blue and purple, too, but it was a welcome change from the pink and red that had been dusting his cheeks and neck in your presence.

“Did I fuck up your training?” he asked, gesturing to the mark on your face and arm

“Nah,” you assured him, grinning.  “Barely felt a thing.”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re a fucking champion.  We fucking get it, [Name].”

When you threw your head back to laugh, you gave him the best view of your supple neck.  He licked his dry lips, stifling the urge to press his mouth to that little nook calling his name and suck.

“Hey, so, you gonna watch my matches?” you asked.

The smugness in Bakugou’s abrupt beam at the implication of your question rivaled that of when he had knocked you to the ground.  You were definitely asking because you wanted him to watch; there was no other way to take that question.

“You want me to?” he pressed.  “I might consider it — maybe if there’s some begging, an offer of another rematch —”

“ — I’m just trying to see how diligent my newest fan is.”

And as quick as the mean smile had arrived on Bakugou’s face, an aggravated frown curled on his lips even faster, accompanied by a strong double eye twitch.  Maybe he had been going about this the wrong way the entire time.  He should’ve pretended not to know you and just ran at you swinging, and then let everything resolve out organically that way.  Every mention of fanboy brought him closer and closer to Deku — and what the fuck was worse than that?

“I’m not your — whatever!” he yelled, annoyed and exasperated; but you continued to smile at him, waiting, and he gave in as though it were another knockout.  “…My friends and I are streaming it on fuckin’ pay-per-view, happy?  They wanna do some stupid watching event with booze and shit.”

“Aww, cute.  That sounds like fun,” you remarked wistfully.  “I haven’t had booze in months.  Or cake.  Or anything yummy.  Ah, well, maybe after all of this is done… Okay, Bakugou, I really do have to go.  Good hanging with you again!  Make sure to say hi next time, weirdo.”

You reached out to pat him on the shoulder, but he grabbed your wrist and held it in his hand.

“Give me your number first,” he said.  He had told himself to make it sound like a question, or end the sentence on a pitch of a request, so that it wouldn’t sound so harsh, but it, instead, came out gruff and crabby.

“I don’t date fans,” you said cheerfully.

“I already told you, you shitty, big-headed woman: I’m not your fucking fan.  And who the hell said anything about dating?  I asked for a damn cell phone number!”

You gently twisted your hand out of his grip, though he hadn’t been holding on tightly.  It almost felt as if you had lingered, your skin touching his for longer it should’ve taken to pull your hand from his grasp.  He wondered if that meant something.

“Bakugou, what year did I win my first championship?”

He glared at you.  “…Who the fuck cares.”

— 2172.

Despite his answer, you still had the same casual smile on your face.  He wasn’t much for social interaction, or flirting, or whatever the fuck this was, but he was pretty sure smiling and hand-sort-of-holding was, more or less, a good sign.

In the end, no matter the buzzing in the air between the two of you (god, he hoped he wasn’t the only one feeling that in the air), you still had your championship to train for and he still had some hangry roommates who he had promised crepes for.

“If you don’t ask me to dinner again in a month, I’m gonna assume that you’re a poser,” you said.

His chest was suddenly throbbing; the uncomfortable flipping in his stomach was now an all-out rollercoaster, twisting and turning against his ribs in the worst of ways.

“Are you gonna fuckin’ say yes?” he argued.  “‘Cause why the hell would I ask again if you’re just gonna fuckin’ say no?”

You shrugged, your hands in the air.  “Who knows what’ll happen in a month,” you told him.  “Maybe you’ll find another kickboxer to fawn over; maybe I lose the Asia Championships; maybe a meteor hits and I retire early.  Anything could happen!”

As you turned around, about to start your jog, he yelled, “If you don’t win, I’m not fucking asking you, you hear me, you shitty woman!”

You shouted back, “Oh, no, you best believe I’m gonna fucking win it!  You and your friends should bet money on me!”

It wasn’t until you were fading into the horizon that he realized he had spent that time staring at your ass instead of getting your goddamn fucking phone number.

“Goddammit…” he muttered.