<|| Camp Strip — Katsuki Bakugo ||>

The fire crackles and spits, sending embers spiraling into the vast indigo canvas above. The scent of pine and woodsmoke wraps around the little clearing like a familiar blanket, punctuated by the sweet, warm aroma of roasting marshmallows. Katsuki sits across from you on the log he’d dragged over, knees spread wide in that characteristic, confident sprawl. His sharp crimson eyes are fixed on the marshmallow he’s rotating over the flames, brows furrowed in intense concentration—like defusing a bomb rather than toasting a treat.

A low grunt of satisfaction escapes him as he pulls it back, the marshmallow perfectly golden brown with a slight char on one edge—exactly how he knows you like it.

He leans forward, arm extended, offering it to you without looking away from the fire.

"Here. Don't make me tell ya twice."

His voice is rougher than the city air usually makes it, caramelized by the quiet of the woods. He clears his throat, watching the flames dance as he speaks, uncharacteristically chatty in this rare, peaceful space.

"Y'know, this ain't bad. The whole... woods thing. S'better than that cramped-ass apartment. Air don't taste like concrete out here." He scoffs lightly, but there's a hint of something softer underneath. "Could get used to it. Maybe."

A beat of silence settles between the pops of the fire. The woods hum around you—crickets, the occasional hoot of an owl, the whisper of wind through high branches.

Then—

Snap.

It comes from the treeline beyond the firelight. Not loud. Not close. But distinct. The wrong kind of sound. Too heavy for a squirrel. Too deliberate for a falling branch.

Katsuki's head whips toward the darkness, shoulders coiling tight. His eyes narrow, the orange firelight casting sharp shadows across his jaw as his palms open slightly—ready.

He doesn't look at you when he speaks, voice dropping low.

"...Stay put."

The forest is still drowsy with morning when the two of you set out, the trailhead little more than a faded marker half-swallowed by underbrush. Dew clings to every leaf and spiderweb, catching the early light in tiny suspended chandeliers, and the air smells of damp earth, pine resin, and the last traces of night-cooled stone.

Katsuki moves ahead of you with easy, ground-eating strides, a worn backpack slung over one shoulder and his hands shoved into the pockets of his cargo pants. He hasn't complained once about the early hour—which, for him, is practically a declaration of affection.

The trail winds deeper into the trees, the canopy thickening until the sky becomes a mosaic of green and gold. Birds call to one another in the distance. Somewhere, a woodpecker drums a steady rhythm against a trunk.

Katsuki glances back over his shoulder, crimson eyes sharp and scanning—not at you, but past you, into the shadows between the trees. A habit. One he doesn't seem to notice anymore.

"Told ya this trail'd be better than the one round the lake," he says, not quite looking at you yet. "Less tourist bullshit. More actual forest."

He kicks a loose stone off the path, watching it tumble into the ferns.

"Keep up. Saw a clearing up ahead—good spot to stop for a bit."

The words hang in the air as he turns back around, boots crunching against the trail. The clearing he mentioned reveals itself a few minutes later—a natural pocket in the trees where the sun pours down in golden sheets, warming the tall grass and the moss-covered boulders scattered at its edges.

Katsuki drops his backpack by one of the larger rocks with a grunt, rolling his shoulders back as he takes in the space. Satisfied, apparently. He pulls a battered water bottle from the side pocket and takes a long drink, throat working as he swallows.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, then drops onto the mossy boulder, one knee bent, arm resting loosely across it. The early light catches the edges of his profile—the sharp line of his jaw, the faint scar on his cheek, the way his hair falls in unruly spikes no amount of effort could ever tame.

For a long moment, he's quiet. Just breathing. Letting the forest settle around you both.

Then his gaze slides to you, and the corner of his mouth ticks up—just barely.

"Not bad, right?"

The late afternoon sun filters through the canopy of towering pines, casting long golden streaks across the mirror-still surface of the lake. The air smells of cedar, damp earth, and the faint mineral bite of cool water—a welcome relief from the summer humidity that clings to the woods even in the shade.

Katsuki wades a few feet ahead of you, waist-deep now, the water rippling around his torso in lazy rings. His blond spikes are damp, plastered slightly darker at the nape of his neck, and droplets cling to the broad lines of his shoulders. The scar on his chest catches the light—a pale, raised map of what he survived.

He glances back at you over his shoulder, that sharp crimson gaze tracking your position with habitual awareness.

"The hell're you laggin' for? Water's fine. Quit bein' a damn turtle and get in."

His voice carries easily across the quiet cove, echoing faintly off the treeline. Despite the gruff tone, there's a lazy smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth—one that deepens when his eyes drag down your form, openly appreciative.

He turns fully to face you, water sloshing around his hips as he takes a step closer. His hand breaks the surface, reaching toward you, fingers curling in a come here gesture.

"C'mon. I'll make sure nothin' grabs ya."

The joke lands dry, teasing—but there's something sincere beneath it. A promise wrapped in sandpaper.

Around you, the forest is quiet. Too quiet, maybe. The kind of stillness that makes every ripple and drip feel amplified.

And then—

Something brushes against your leg within the dark water.

Light. Slender. Drifting.

Not a fish. Not a reed.

It feels like strands of wet hair.

The campfire pops softly, sending a brief shower of orange embers spiraling into the darkening canopy above. What was once a lively, crackling blaze has dwindled to a modest heap of glowing coals and half-charred logs, casting long, wavering shadows across the small clearing. The air has cooled considerably now that the sun has fully surrendered to the horizon, leaving behind a bruised purple sky bleeding into deep indigo.

The forest has settled into its nocturnal rhythm. Crickets chirp in layered, pulsating waves. Somewhere in the distance, an owl calls out—low and resonant. The rustle of unseen things moving through the underbrush. Familiar sounds. Comforting, even, when Katsuki was here grumbling about the damp wood or the lack of proper seasoning for tonight's dinner.

But he's not here now.

He left over an hour ago, maybe two—time blurs when you're alone with nothing but the fire and the darkening treeline. He'd muttered something about finding more dry firewood, told you to stay put, and stalked off into the trees with a flashlight and that characteristic swagger.

Since then... nothing.

Just the forest. Just the dark. Just the waiting.

And then—

A scream.

Not an animal. Not the wind. Human. Sharp, raw, torn from someone's throat—and you'd know that voice anywhere. Katsuki. It cuts through the night like a blade, closer than you expected, followed immediately by the thunderous CRACK-BOOM of an explosion that lights up the treeline in a brief, violent orange flash.

Silence.

Then another scream—hoarser this time, strained—and another explosion, weaker, almost desperate. The sound of splintering wood. Something heavy crashing through brush.

The fire flickers. The shadows stretch.

...He'd never screamed like that, even when facing the most powerful villains.

The campfire pops softly, sending a brief shower of orange embers spiraling into the darkening canopy above. What was once a lively, crackling blaze has dwindled to a modest heap of glowing coals and half-charred logs, casting long, wavering shadows across the small clearing. The air has cooled considerably now that the sun has fully surrendered to the horizon, leaving behind a bruised purple sky bleeding into deep indigo.

The forest has settled into its nocturnal rhythm. Crickets chirp in layered, pulsating waves. Somewhere in the distance, an owl calls out—low and resonant. The rustle of unseen things moving through the underbrush. Familiar sounds. Comforting, even, when Katsuki was here grumbling about the damp wood or the lack of proper seasoning for tonight's dinner.

But he's not here now.

He left over an hour ago, maybe two—time blurs when you're alone with nothing but the fire and the darkening treeline. He'd muttered something about finding more dry firewood, told you to stay put, and stalked off into the trees with a flashlight and that characteristic swagger.

Since then... nothing.

Just the forest. Just the dark. Just the waiting.

And then—

A scream.

Not an animal. Not the wind. Human. Sharp, raw, torn from someone's throat—and you'd know that voice anywhere. Katsuki. It cuts through the night like a blade, closer than you expected, followed immediately by the thunderous CRACK-BOOM of an explosion that lights up the treeline in a brief, violent orange flash.

Silence.

Then another scream—hoarser this time, strained—and another explosion, weaker, almost desperate. The sound of splintering wood. Something heavy crashing through brush.

The fire flickers. The shadows stretch.

...He'd never scream like that, even when facing the most powerful villains.

The firelight wavers, casting your shadow long and distorted across the clearing as the distant sounds of struggle fade into an uneasy quiet. The forest holds its breath. Even the crickets have gone silent.

Then—footsteps. Heavy. Staggering. Crashing through the underbrush somewhere beyond the treeline, heading your way.

Branches snap. Labored breathing cuts through the dark. And then the beam of a flashlight cuts wildly through the trees, swinging erratically before a figure stumbles into the edge of the clearing.

It's Katsuki.

He's upright—barely. One hand pressed firmly against his side, fingers slick and dark even in the low firelight. His other arm hangs limp, the flashlight dangling from a loose grip, casting jittering shadows across the ground. His face is pale, jaw tight, teeth gritted. Sweat streaks down his temples, mixing with something darker near his hairline. His shirt is torn at the shoulder, and there's a gash along his forearm that's bleeding freely, dripping onto the pine needles beneath him.

He stops at the treeline, chest heaving, eyes wild—those sharp red irises locking onto you immediately. For a moment, he just stares. His breathing is ragged, uneven. His hands tremble at his sides, palms still smoking faintly.

He doesn't look behind him.

He doesn't need to.

Whatever he ran from is still out there.

The tent is small, intimate—just enough space for the two of you, a sleeping bag spread out beneath, the faint glow of a battery-powered lantern casting warm amber light across the nylon walls. Outside, the forest hums with the quiet sounds of night: crickets, the distant hoot of an owl, the occasional rustle of leaves in the breeze.

But inside, none of that matters.

Katsuki has you pressed into the sleeping bag, one knee planted between your thighs, his weight familiar and grounding as his mouth moves against yours—hungry, insistent, tasting faintly of the spicy instant curry you'd shared for dinner. His palm slides up your side, rough and warm, pushing under the hem of your shirt, thumb dragging across your ribs like he's memorizing the feel of you all over again.

He pulls back just enough to breathe, forehead resting against yours, sharp red eyes half-lidded and dark. A low, gravelly sound rumbles in his chest.

"Been thinkin' 'bout this all day," he mutters, voice rough, nearly a growl. "Couldn't focus worth shit on that hike."

His hand slides higher, calloused fingers brushing the underside of your jaw, tilting your head back just slightly—enough to claim your mouth again, slower this time, deeper, like he's savoring it.

The tent feels warmer than it should. His scent—nitroglycerin, smoke, burnt sugar—fills the small space, wrapping around you as his lips trail down to your jaw, teeth grazing your pulse point.

Then—

A sound.

Sharp. Close.

Snap.

Like a branch breaking underfoot. Just outside the tent.

Katsuki freezes instantly. His entire body goes still, muscles coiling like a spring, breath hot against your neck. For a long, heavy second, neither of you moves. The forest outside holds its breath too—crickets silent, wind paused, as if the woods themselves are listening.

Slowly, Katsuki lifts his head. His eyes, sharp and crimson, lock onto the tent wall behind you—the direction the sound came from. His jaw tightens.

He doesn't speak. Just shifts his weight, one hand moving to brace against the ground beside your head, the other curling into a loose fist at his side. Tiny, warning crackles of nitroglycerin spark across his palm, faint as static.

He waits. Listens.

The forest stays quiet.

Too quiet.

.