it was hot. loud. half the girls were already screaming over shirtless frat boys grinding against windshields. your friend dragged you out with a “come on, it’s for charity!” and now you’re standing in the corner with a lukewarm lemonade and zero expectations.
you didn’t even want to come to this stupid fraternity fundraiser.
your roommate dragged you out with the promise of half-naked frat boys, but all you’ve seen so far are drenched freshmen trying to flex their way into a hernia.
he’s got his back turned at first—lean muscle, golden skin, red swim trunks slung way too low on his hips. sunlight catches the water dripping down his back like it’s staged. and when he turns around?
game over. he’s gorgeous.
sharp jaw, wild blonde hair flattened from water, a cocky little smirk on his face as he wrings a sponge out over his head, totally aware of the stares.
and he sees you. right away. ruby eyes locked with yours and gives the most arrogant little up-nod like, yeah. you’re next.
you try to act unaffected. fail immediately.
he saunters over, sudsy bucket in one hand, water dripping down his abs like it’s a fucking calvin klein ad. stops right in front of you, eyeing your car, then you, then your car again. “you the one drivin’ this piece of shit?”
he shrugs but you can see a little grin tugging on the corner of his mouth, smug and unbothered. “relax. i’ll make it look brand new.”
he puts the bucket down, saunters over, and damn—he’s even hotter up close. tall. muscles for days. and that little scar on his cheek? unfair.
then, leaning closer, voice low: “the name's katsuki bakugo. what’s yours, sweet girl?”
you tell him. maybe a little breathless.
he repeats it once—slow, like he’s trying it out on his tongue. “hm. yeah. i like that.”
and then he goes to work. but not just on the car.
katsuki bakugo washes that car like he’s auditioning for the dirtiest boy band you’ve ever seen. dropping the sponge just to bend over in front of you, ass on full display. making eye contact when he slides his hand over the hood like he’s caressing it. watering himself down with a hose and shaking his hair out like he’s in a shampoo commercial from hell.
by the time he’s done, your car is sparkling. and so are you—flushed, flustered.
he tosses the sponge into the bucket, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and smirks. “lemme know if you need a private wash sometime.”
and then he walks away, with you watching the water dripping down the curve of his spine, no better than a teenage boy ogling the back of a girl's bikini. you swear you black out for a second too.
it’s only a few hours after the car wash before he slides in your dms, smooth but dirty. you’re in your room, still reeling from whatever the hell that was, when your phone buzzes.
king.explosionmurder has sent you a message.
(yeah. that’s his actual handle. because of course it is.) then, you open it.
king.explosionmurder:
can't stop thinking about the girl with the shittiest car and the cutest fuckin’ face.
you stare. then another message pops up.
king.explosionmurder:
u free tonight?
or maybe you're too busy being adorable somewhere else?
your heart does a thing. you type out a reply—something just barely cocky enough to match him:
you:
depends
you always this forward?
king.explosionmurder:
only for girls with shitty taste in cars
so, only you
let me buy you a drink, sweet girl?
you:
fine
you can buy me a drink, frat boy
but for the record?
my taste in cars is not that shitty
king.explosionmurder:
whatever you say beautiful
8 pm, sunset bar down 5th ave
don't be late
katsuki shows up five minutes early, in a black tee that clings to his chest and jeans that should be illegal. hair still messy from his post-car-wash shower. when you walk in, his eyes track you like you’re the only person in the room.
“tch. thought you were gonna flake.”
you roll your eyes. “you’d cry if i did.”
his mouth twitches. “like a damn baby.”
then the date just... hits different. it wasn't what you expected. sure, it’s packed with college students and frat bros, but in the back corner booth? with him?
it’s quiet. comfortable. almost… intimate.
he’s not much of a talker, but with you? he tries. you ask about his major—he’s an aspiring pro-hero, of course—and he asks about yours, grumbling when you light up talking about it, because “fuck, that smile’s gonna kill me.”
and even though he’d die before saying it out loud, the minute you take a sip of your drink and laugh at something dumb he says? he’s gone. head over heels.
he walks you back to your dorm with his hand on the small of your back, even though it’s barely a ten-minute walk. says “text me when you’re in” even though he literally watched you unlock your door. stands there, gruff and gorgeous, waiting.
“gonna invite me?” he asks, tone teasing.
you shake your head, grinning. “not on the first date, i'm not.”
he groans dramatically. “damn. fuckin’ killin’ me here.”
you grin. “goodnight, frat boy.”
but he doesn’t move right away.
just stands there under the warm porch light, one hand stuffed in his pocket, the other rubbing the back of his neck like he’s trying to work off the ache of not touching you again. his shirt clings to him in the summer heat, his jaw sharp in the glow, but it’s his eyes that freeze you in place.
not hard. not sharp. not the glare he usually levels at the world.
but soft. heavy. like you’ve stolen the breath from his lungs and he doesn’t even want it back.
he looks at you like you hung the damn moon.
he takes one small step closer, close enough that you can feel the heat coming off his chest, close enough that if either of you moved just an inch, you’d be kissing.
“goodnight, sweet girl,” he says, voice low and rough, like gravel laced with honey.
it hits you somewhere deep. like he’s branding the words into you.
and then—he actually smiles. a real one. lopsided, shy, the kind of smile you’d never expect from someone who threatens to body slam people over couch cushions.
then he turns and walks away, hands shoved deep in his pockets, head down, like if he looks back even once, he’ll do something stupid like run back and kiss you senseless.
you close the door behind you, heart thudding so hard you swear your roommate can hear it.
you’re screwed. so screwed.
because things after that? they move fast.
to everyone else, he was the guy who'd scream if you left dishes in the sink, throw a beer can at you if you sat on his side of the couch, and threaten to body slam you if you so much as breathe near him.
but the entire frat house knew that their loud, grumpy, terrifyingly efficient frat dad—had a soft spot the size of a planet. and that soft spot? was for you.
you’re the only person allowed in his room during his grumpy post-practice naps. the only one who can touch his hair without him flinching. he’d grumble when you flick his forehead when he was being dramatic but he'd let you.
he might curse under his breath, but when you’d slide onto his lap during movie night, he'd wrap an arm around you like it was instinct. like protecting you came as naturally as breathing.
he had snacks stocked in the mini fridge (not for him, you liked them). he hands you your favorite snack and grumbles, “was on sale. don’t get used to it,” even though it’s never on sale but he bought six of them anyway.
and when finals week hits? he’s a damn soldier for you.
caffeine runs. your favorite takeout. quiet growls at anyone who tries to talk to you in the library. he reads your flashcards like they’re enemy coordinates and quizzing you becomes his personal mission.
but the best part? the tiny, quiet moments in between.
like when he’s losing at mario kart and you’d sit in his lap while he played, steal his fries, kiss his cheek mid-rant just to shut him up.
or when you were too tired to walk back to your place, you just curl up in his bed. not only does he let you, he tucks the blanket around you and kisses your forehead so soft it makes your chest ache.
and somehow, all of that was like magic.
sure, he might’ve acted like the world’s most chaotic, aggressive frat president, but when it came to you? he was all bark, all bite… and all heart.
