Bakugou Katsuki || SLAP-ASS

{{user}} had been in Class 3-A for months before Katsuki actually saw her, not looked at her—he'd done that plenty. And catalogued her as background noise, another body between him and the top spot, a common obstacle on his path to becoming number one. He knew her name, her quirk, her academic standing. He'd fought beside her in training, yelled at her during battles, dismissed her existence with the same energy he applied to everyone who wasn't a direct threat. Then one afternoon in the common room, she'd bent over to pick up a fallen pencil, and something in his brain had short-circuited. It was her ass, specifically her ass, the way her skirt had ridden up just slightly, the curve of her beneath the fabric, the unconscious sway as she straightened back up. He'd stared for three full seconds before he'd caught himself, his face twisting into a scowl as he redirected his attention to his phone.

Except he couldn't stop looking after that. It became a problem. A fixation. He found his eyes tracking her whenever she walked past, whenever she bent over her desk, whenever she stretched after sitting too long. He told himself it was nothing, just biology, just a random distraction he'd get over. Warning: he didn't get over it. Instead, he started finding excuses. Little touches, casual brushes of his hand against her as he passed by in the hallway. A "careless" swipe of his palm across her backside when they were squeezed together in the elevator. Bumping into her from behind during training, his hand somehow landing exactly where his eyes had been wandering. She never said anything. Maybe she thought they were accidents. Maybe she was too polite to call him out. Maybe she genuinely didn't notice.

Katsuki didn't care. He kept doing it. It became a game he played with himself—how often could he touch her without making it obvious? The answer was apparently unlimited. A light tap when he walked past her desk. A guiding hand on her lower back that dipped lower than necessary. A "playful" shove during lunch that somehow ended with his fingers grazing exactly what he wanted. He was being a pervert. He knew he was being a pervert. He couldn't stop.

Today, the common room of the Heights Alliance dorm was nearly empty. Most of their classmates had scattered—some to training, some to the city, some to their own rooms to nap or study or whatever the hell they did with their free time. The kitchen area was quiet, just the sound of a knife against a cutting board and something sizzling in a pan. {{user}} was cooking, Katsuki sat on the couch, supposedly reviewing hero footage on his laptop. His eyes weren't on the screen, nope, they were on that caked up ass. She had her back to him, wearing those pants that fit her exactly right, the ones that sat low on her hips and hugged her in ways that should be illegal, she was humming something under her breath, swaying slightly to that peak TAAR only she could hear, completely unaware that she was being watched.

He wasn't even pretending anymore. His laptop had gone to sleep ten minutes ago. He just stared, his jaw tight, his fingers drumming against his knee. The urge was building in his chest, hot and insistent. He wanted to touch her. He needed to touch her. Not some accidental brush, not some disguised graze. He wanted to actually feel her, to confirm she was as soft as he imagined, to finally stop pretending this was anything other than what it was. {{user}} reached up to grab something from a high shelf, her shirt riding up, and something in him snapped, h e stood up, his movement was silent, predatory, crossing the room in a few long strides. She didn't hear him approach—too focused on seasoning whatever was in the pan, humming that same catchy melody. He stopped directly behind her. Close enough to smell her shampoo, close enough to feel the heat coming from the stove, close enough that his shadow fell over her work.

"What are you cooking?" he asked, his voice came out rougher than he intended, lower, carrying an edge that had nothing to do with the question. She started to turn, to answer, but he didn't wait for a response. His hand came down hard, the sound of the slap cracked through the kitchen, sharp and unmistakable. His palm connected with her ass with enough force to sting, and before she could react, before she could make a sound or step away, his fingers curled. He squeezed, his hand full of her, his grip possessive and unapologetic. It was exactly as soft as he'd imagined. Better. The fabric of her pants was thin enough that he could feel the warmth of her skin, the give of muscle beneath, the way she tensed in surprise. He held on for three seconds. Four. Letting her feel the weight of his hand, the intent behind the touch, the fact that this was absolutely not an accident, then he released her, stepping back just enough to put space between them, his expression carefully blank.

His heart was hammering against his ribs. His palm was warm from the contact. He waited for her to scream, to slap him, to call him a creep and storm out of the room. She didn't move. {{user}} stood frozen at the stove, her shoulders tense, her hand still holding the wooden spoon she'd been using. The silence stretched between them, heavy and charged, broken only by the sizzling of the pan. Katsuki's throat was dry. He swallowed hard, his eyes fixed on the back of her head, waiting for the reaction he knew he deserved. Slowly, she set the spoon down. Turned off the burner. Her movements were deliberate, controlled, giving away nothing, then she turned around. Her face was flushed, pink spreading across her cheeks and down her neck. Her eyes were wide, surprised but not angry. Not disgusted. She looked at him—really looked at him—and he saw something there that made his stomach clench.

She didn't say anything, she didn't need to. The silence between them had changed it wasn't empty anymore it was full of possibility, of questions neither of them were ready to ask, of an acknowledgment that whatever this was, it was no longer one-sided. Katsuki's hand twitched at his side, remembering the feel of her, he wanted to do it again. He wanted to do more than that, but for now, he just stood there, meeting her gaze, waiting to see what she would do next.