he doesn't mind it, all things considered: he would've had to go to the other dorm at some point anyway, to leave gifts behind, and more than that, even mirio and nejire have asked him to drop theirs off under the great tree that class 1-a has decorated for the season, down in their living room. so it would have been inevitable, so he would have been here anyway, so he would've had to face someone at some point, even if it had been just to open the door. but: did it have to be bakugou challenging him? maybe that had been his mistake to even message him to ask, but--well, he'd been trying--
no, it doesn't matter. it doesn't matter, because now he's here, using his quirk to scale the side of the dorm with three large gift bags slung onto one comically long tentacle, scrabbling and suctioning his way up, his head tucked down into the collar of his jacket like he wants very much to crawl into a hole and never come back out again. ten minutes is easy, given all that he can do, but it's more about the mental fortitude than it is about the physical exercise: and it's about keeping all those wrapped gifts safe, where they jostle around and threaten to fall with the movement.
by the time he clears the railing of bakugou's balcony, he's only lost two gifts off the top of one of the bags--and he'd managed to lash out and roll those back into his tentacle grip, anyway, letting them tumble back into the bag as he sets them all down and lets out a slow, wobbling breath. this is the hard part. this is the part he thinks might eat up all his time, as he wills his hands and feet back to their normal form.
getting the nerve to actually knock on bakugou's balcony door. he might as well die.
two minutes pass, then another three, and impatient with himself, he forces his shaking human hand to rattle in against the glass, his head hanging, his hair a ruffled mess around it. )
I'm h-here..... ( he says, sullenly, a little out of breath; he'll have to haul the gift bags into bakugou's room, too, but hey, he still beat the timer. ) Bakugou-kun. Here.
[trick? hell no, this was a challenge. and amajiki took it. a single glance thrown to his clock keeps countdown on his senpai's arrival. of course he knows he'll make it here within ten minutes. sprout a pair of wings, take to the skies, and sail high overhead until dropping atop the dorm. well out of sight from anyone potentially peering around. hell, he wouldn't put it past the shy guy to mole beneath the earth and find a way up from beneath. either way, the timer's really for how long it takes amajiki to suck it up and knock on the damn door. not his dorm room door in the hall, but the sliding door on the balcony. the former would mean a heart attack from any extra roaming around downstairs wanting to visit with their upperclassman.
guess he could've been nicer and offered to meet him or simply let him drop the presents off at the front. but how the hell's this guy gonna overcome his fear if he's coddled all the time? make him flex his quirk, show some guts, and haul himself all the way up here to his room. under a challenge umbrella. at least he'll have an excuse as to why. leaning back in his desk chair, he checks the time once more. amajiki's here by now. loitering outside on the balcony. of course he heard him come up the wall! you think those squishy sticky suction cups are silent out in the open air?
throwing open the curtains is tempting. surprise the fuck out of his senpai. but no, he's gonna force him to make the first move. again. sending the guy over the railing with a stopped organ is a shitty way to collect delivery.
knockleknockleknock...
damn, someone's gonna rattle the glass with that kind of knock. did he actually rap it or leave his knuckles on the glass and let his trembling do the work? he pushes from his chair and pads barefoot to the door. curtains husk to the side, revealing him in a normal set of black sweatshirt and sweatpants, ubiquitous skull pattern sewn white on the shoulder. amajiki looks like he finished climbing a mountain... with a click, he unlocks the door and pulls it open.]
Hn, you made it. [in time too. he reaches out to take the bags if his upperclassman will let him have them, and steps back to silently invite the guy inside to warm up. there's a pot of something hot going on a portable single burner beside his desk.] Sit down. I'll get you a drink.
( relief wars with embarrassment wars with over-explanation--he wants to apologize, for the fact that his shoes are buried at the bottom of one of the bags and it's his cold toes that are working over bakugou's floor, as though he should have brought his own slippers; he wants to explain that not everything there is for bakugou, though he knows that he knows that already, and finally, he wants to declare that the bet had nothing to do with him sticking around after winning the challenge. still, he watches almost like his own actions are some kind of foreign entity: he lets bakugou take the bags, and despite himself, reaches behind to start to gently wrench the sliding door back into place. no sense in letting all the cold air into the dorm room. why did he do that? he should have just plowed through to the door.
no, he can't get to the door. and even more than that, what if one of the other members of bakugou's class is waiting there, wondering why the hell he's coming out of bakugou's room? someone like kirishima would absolutely save him, but he's not all that friendly yet with the rest of them despite spending the training time together.
so he's stuck here. for now. he's not going to refuse a kind gesture, either, which means that he's glancing, here and there, as though internally debating where the safest place to sit is. no way in hell is he going to sit on the bed, that's too intimate, but taking over the desk chair seems rude, in a way....that just leaves one thing, which means that he's sinking down onto the floor, pulling his legs in to sit criss-cross, rather than seiza.
one trembling hand lifts to start to unzip his jacket, at least: he's dressed otherwise in a loose pair of pants and an equally loose t-shirt, having not wanted to ruin anything in case he'd had to do more than just tentacles. )
...Do you want to...The... ( his eyes squeeze shut, before he forces out a breath, and tries again. )
The blue bag. Your gift from me. Is in there. Or do you want it under the...tree with the rest?
( he doesn't know all that much about bakugou, except for all the rambling that he's heard from kirishima, and from a few of his other classmates; he's not sure if he's the type to get flustered about gifts, the kind that even likes them, or the kind that's going to rip the box open and throw the gift right back into his face. he would probably deserve that. )
[a lot of could haves boiling around behind his wallflower figure. he doesn't have to read amajiki's mind; all of it's splashed across his face. head tucked inward on himself, eyes hidden under shadows cast by dangling bangs, lips pressed together in a wiggling quiver, everything tight as a bowstring screaming for his first chance to fire through the nearest window or wall and escape from his self-imposed visitation hour. all because someone challenged him to come here. how the hell did this guy plan to deliver presents in the first place outside a blaze-faced door dash? bags secured and settled on his desk (he'll parse them later and deliver them in amajiki's place to save his senpai a heart attack), he stops in front of the burner, taking in the sweet steam escaping through the pot's spout.
a soft 'pla-thmph' heralds a poor choice from the side and he doesn't need a glance to know.] Sit on the bed or the chair, damn delivery boy. [does he seriously think he should rest his ass on the floor like some unwanted guest? half surprised the other student hasn't crammed himself in the nearest corner to escape his nerves. or bond with them more.
gentle metal raking sounds issue from his spoon as it traverses around the pot's rim, stirring light brown froth into the darker brown beneath. satisfied it's done and not sticking to the pot bottom, he taps the spoon on the rim and sets it aside to rest in a drip catcher. expecting amajiki to relocate himself to one of his permitted areas, he leaves sight for a moment to rummage around in the bathroom. a quiet husk of something swinging on its hinges prefaces the rush of the faucet, followed by splattering water in the sink. he reappears through the doorway with a nigh-hot damp hand towel in one hand and dry towel draped over a forearm.]
Are you really asking if I want to open it in front of you? [if his upperclassman doesn't blow his brain out his head in pure embarrassment over getting called out. he stops near amajiki, offers him the damp cloth, then flops the dry one down beside him.] For your feet, before your toes fall off. [he doesn't mind someone going barefoot in his room since he keeps his floor nice and clean, but most people coming in here (rarely) usually wear slippers before entering. they didn't spend the past few seconds climbing bricks and standing in snow on his balcony.
while amajiki handles that task, he'll return to the burner and tend to the hot chocolate until the other boy's ready to accept a steaming mug.]
( wrong move, all the wrong moves. he should have expected it, but his shoulders still flinch in disappointment, his head slinking down as though he could possibly crawl right back inside of himself like a turtle. something like that would be preferable, wouldn't it? and sure, he could easily melt himself into one of the room's corners, letting his eyes become intimate with the wallpaper, but: that wouldn't help either, would it? he's trying. he's trying, and oddly, he thinks that bakugou is actually trying, too; at the very least, he's being oddly considerate about not making direct eye contact, even disappearing into the bathroom without whipping around to look at him.
all this from the guy who 'killed' him over being a fake villain? he's surprised enough that he lulls into silence--until abruptly shooting to his feet, once bakugou's disappeared into the bathroom.
this is way too intimate...with a wince, he sits on the very corner of bakugou's bed, knees pressed together, hands on top of them as though he could crane himself forward and stare at the floor in a bow if he had to. his confusion is apparent, when bakugou returns, handing him the warm, damp cloth--he accepts it politely, with both hands, and his mouth drops open with a stuttered "a-ah" at the realization. )
T...Thank you. ( in a wheeze: he lifts one lanky leg up, bending it across his lap so that he can start to slowly work feeling into one foot; he pats it dry, neatly, before he switches to the other leg, spending a little more time there, as though his weight had been more balanced onto that side. once his feet are warm, and dry, and clean, he lays both towels out in his own lap, not wanting to leave a damp mark on bakugou's bedcovers.
his gaze goes up bakugou's back, to his shoulders, then jerks back down again to the floor. )
...If you...don't like it then...it would be easy to...give it back.
( --is his slow explanation, letting out a sigh. )
B-But I guess there are...other ways... ( like lighting it up with one of his explosions? it's not that he thinks the worst of bakugou, it's that he thinks the worst of himself. )
[if he didn't want to be slaughtered as a fake villain, he should've acted like a real one and been ready for the resulting crash. like hell was he gonna pull his punches, expecting complete 100% effort from one of the big 3. the top heroes in their damn school and one of them gave up and complained about going home while he readied a fucking nuke for his face! zero regrets in blowing amajiki into the damn stratosphere! next time, don't be such a fucking pussy and fight back. but all of that's out the proverbial window, nothing factoring into the quiet winter moment between them. a simple delivery, a simple visit. nothing warranting his senpai seating himself on the floor while crammed in the corner like a damn dust bunny. ordering him onto the chair or bed was as much to his benefit as it was to the blonde's comfort. good thing he acquiesced to his demand. otherwise he would've hauled him up and enforced his orders physically.
tch. he even takes the cloth with stammers and downcast eyes. dammit, what the hell happened to this guy? eroding his sense of self so much he's a quivering mess at a basic offer of decency. leaving amajiki to his devices, he returns to his desk. liquid sloshes into a ceramic mug, telltale rising blubbing and hums lifting with the warm chocolate. does he like sweets or not? no fucking clue. likely won't ask even if he does want marshmallows. whatever. test for him if he does. are they worth pushing his words out of his lips?
once he hears the second soft thump of a bare foot on his floor, he leaves his desk and crosses the scant space between them to offer his upperclassman a steaming mug. hmph, what a polite guy. he even left the towels on his lap rather than leaving them to dampen his bed. he trades the mug for the terrycloth, sweeping them from amajiki's lap and draping them over his chair's back for now. in case any spills happen.]
Don't ruin it with your depression before I even open it, Elf Ear! [sheesh. coloring his opinion without giving him a chance to enjoy the surprise. he quickly opens amajiki's travel sacks and like a cup stacker, removes and organizes the gifts inside across his desk according to size and fit. there. now he can dole them out to their recipients without scrunching around in the bags later. mercifully, he finds his own without prompting the shy young man to point it out.
a soft whuff of his bed depress beneath his rear and thighs as he takes a seat beside amajiki. without letting him shadow the experience more, he swiftly tugs the ribbon off a corner and unharnesses it in a smooth motion, then slots his fingers into the seams to pop tape and unfold the paper for a skilled unwrapping.]
( his hands lift in a rush, ready to accept the mug from bakugou if only to keep him from hurting his hands on the heat of it--and he lets out a soft hiss as his fingertips touch at the side, while the other holds the handle. it smells delicious, and will help him warm up from the inside out after spending that time in the cold; subconsciously, he blows a soft breath over the top, trying to cool it down a little. of course, that means he can't argue when bakugou takes the towels away from him: his mouth opens, then closes, staring down at the hot chocolate.
even worse, then, is the fact that bakugou decides to come sit next to him on the bed--his shoulders pinch in closer, elbows tucked into his sides, and trembling hands bring the mug up to his lips so that he can take the quietest swallow ever. it's like purely painful to have someone open a gift in front of him, and sure, this could also be considered training--or maybe he's just on the naughty list this year, and this is his penance. he'd offered it truthfully, because it would be easy for bakugou to give it back; he hadn't quite realized that he would have to endure the embarrassment of seeing his dismay live, in person. )
... ( self-consciously, he holds the mug by the handle, the other reaching up to smooth over the tip of one of his ears. ) ...I have a name.
( he knows bakugou knows this, but still. at least he managed to say something, though now he's stuck in silence; bakugou undoes the careful wrapping on the box, which reveals itself to be a prim white garment box: inside is a folded black sweater, something of an ugly christmas sweater motif with skulls threaded with christmas lights; within the folds of the sweater is also a recipe book, boasting to teach delicious, spicy recipes from all around the world.
he has to hope that kirishima at least told him something useful. of course he'd asked him about bakugou's likes, and had heard he was good at cooking--and it had been mirio's idea for them all to get the whole class 'ugly sweaters', so he'd tried to go along with it.
rather than look at bakugou's face, he puts a hand up in front of his own, like he's toying with his bangs; really it just blocks him from having to see bakugou's expression, as he holds his mug with the other hand. )
[a notched expression in return. oy, it's not hot enough for burns. think he'd be passing a scalding cup into his upperclassman's bare hands for the fun of it? no surprise amajiki's response is a muffled leak of air. his fingers were all over the damn frosty wall on the climb up (even if they were tentacles) followed by a several-minute stint of embarrassment in more cold weather. he returns to the burner for his own cup. never one for overly sweet things, his brew is a gentler sugar, emphasis more on chocolate flavor than dumping so much white saccharine inside. enough to leave a velvety coating on tongue and throat for a few seconds before saliva does its cleanup job.]
Why the hell are you so tense? [shoulders tucked in closer, head ducking towards his chest, elbows shrinking into his sides, as if he's attempting to swallow himself within like a hermit crab. hard as hell to imagine someone going through life in such a way, yet he's sitting beside a living breathing example. don't spill that on his bed; he'll make amajiki do his linens laundry for a week. present in hand, he's left to wonder why the guy would even bother. they don't know each other that well, and unless he's taken shotgun approach with gifts for everyone, it means the present's personal. did he pick one out for each of his classmates? kirishima's the guy who's his senpai's partner on missions.]
Thanks for stating the obvious. [everyone has names. does this mean he uses them? nope! not outside of serious moments or deliberate choice. earn your name from his lips and something special's happened.
an ashen brow arches into his choppy bangs as colored paper spreads away from what surface-level looks like a clothing box. instinctive thought? clothes. second thought? people use these damn boxes to hide other gifts, so don't be suckered into a 'gotcha' trick. he slots his fingers between lid and side, a deft tug down popping tape free so he can thumb open the lid. what the-? black, this is good. sweater, also fine. ugly christmas motif, seriously? ... but it has skulls like an absolute dork. what a damn flurry of reactions in his chest. surprised, curious, miffed, annoyed, touched, amused. he takes it in hand to feel its material, then noticing the book inside.
... you know, he really shouldn't tease him, but-]
You want me to cook for you, huh? [a grin plays on his lips, deliberately leaning an inch into amajiki's space to see just how hot his face can get.] Hope your tongue can handle it.
[now if you'll excuse him, he's gonna be an even worse gremlin and start tugging his current sweatshirt off. look, he's gotta try the sweater on while the gift giver's still here.]
( slim fingers pick at his bangs, smothering them down against his temples, pushing and curving them around one side of his jaw--yet despite his adamant desire to not even glance at bakugou while he's opening the gift, he still finds his gaze wandering. he doesn't tear into the paper or rip the box apart, not the kind of person that's desperate to get to the insides: he takes the gifts out carefully, and that's about where he decides to jerk back to look at his hot chocolate. woefully, he's trying to consider how to best mitigate bakugou's worst reactions; he doesn't even know if he can return anything, at this point, which means the gift would just sit in his dorm closet, a point of shame, a reminder of all the stupid things he's tried to do.
it's as he's bringing his mug back to his lips for a small sip that bakugou teases him--which means the swallow burns, as he gulps it down, big eyes widening in suspicion, surprise, even embarrassment as his head whips around. )
W-what? That's n-not...
( bakugou cooking for him? no, now he wants to crawl into a hole and die, really. even worse, he can feel the bed shift, and bakugou's starting to take his sweatshirt off--
immediately, the worst thoughts bubble up in his head, unbidden. where do they even come from? it's not like it's a bad thought, and not like he isn't fully used to others changing around him; he's surrounded by the kind of guys who have no qualms with that sort of thing, guys completely comfortable in their bodies like kirishima and mirio. but it's different being in someone's room, sitting on their bed, and having them start to take their clothes off....no, it's not like that, why is he thinking like that?!
he can feel his face heating, feel the blush spread out towards his pointed ears, and he reaches a hand out in the air, nearly colliding with bakugou's side before he draws it back. no, that's not going to work either. )
You don't have to put it on...
( though admittedly, he does want to see what it looks like. he tries to drown that thought in another small swallow of hot chocolate, like maybe it'll go away. )
[wrinkles inch outward as he leans aside, preparing for a potential spew from his upperclassman. sputtering over his hot chocolate, a violent spit-take, choking and coughing, any of them could come from amajiki. he hardly handles compliments well; how the fuck's he going to handle straight up deliberate teasing? yet even with his tilt, his eyes gleam in amusement, lips curved at their corners in bratty indulgence. sometimes you need to have fun with a target when it presents itself so openly to you. amajiki did this on purpose, thought of him and his likes and character as he picked out the gift himself, wrapped it and trucked the entire bag of presents over on his own. fighting against his embarrassment and phobia of public attention. no shit is he gonna let the guy off without some semblance of a reward. he bought him clothes; he's gonna see what the piece looks like before his leaves. no protests allowed.]
Haa? The hell'd you expect me to do? Frame it? [might not be what amajiki's protesting, or his retort goes for both potential topics. with one hand hooked beneath his sweatshirt, he pulls upward, cutting a black rising arrow from his stomach to his collar as the dark material ascends to his chin. head ducks, chin fits through the neckline, and he arches his neck as his spiky-haired head fwumps through the elastic circle. there goes his hair, springing back to normal style as he contorts his arm momentarily while dropping it back down to his side. only to swing it behind him and throw his hand up the middle of his back to drag it further down off his free arm. a simple black t-shirt, to no one's surprise. amajiki's lucky; normally he doesn't bother wearing anything under his casual sweatshirt inside.
his senpai should be used to this kind of thing; guys take their clothes off around him in the locker rooms all the time! yeah it's different in someone's room, but they're not strangers. with a few more rolls of his shoulders and tugs upward of his elbow, he strips the black material from his wrist, turning the arm inside out with his pull. and swiftly tackles the opposite to strip it off entirely. bared arms now, up to the sleeves, (at which point he promptly turns the sweatshirt right side out), he spreads amajiki's sweater over his legs for a second.]
You laugh, you die. [fair warning before he dives both hands into the sweatshirt's bottom and lifts the entire piece into the air with a scoop. gravity drags it down his arms and pointed fingers, flops over his head, and both hands swiftly pull the hem from crown to chin, hair bounding a bit when it reemerges. he gives his head a tiny toss back to pluck the material under his chin, before taking his now-freed hands to the hem and tugging it around his waist as he stands to his feet in front of the bed. there, now it's all fitted.] How's it look?
( it feels like time nearly stands still there, for a moment, like he's watching bakugou peel out of his clothes in slow motion--maybe that explains the gaping drop of his jaw, the slight part of his lips, and the unbidden, round-eyed stare that focuses on the way that bakugou's stomach and chest shift as his shirt's revealed, the way his muscles form out past the cropped sleeves. honestly, he's not going to sit there and pretend that he isn't staring; it's just that it feels so weirdly impossible to look away that he's having a hard time contending with explaining his own feelings to himself. it's not as though he hasn't looked longingly at others, changing in the locker rooms, but that had mostly been out of weak, self-deprecating comparisons--both mirio and kirishima have the bodies of heroes, strong muscle, solid forms, while he's left in some gangly body that only looks even more inhuman when he transforms.
and sure, bakugou's body is like that, too. he has to have a lot of muscle from the way that he flings himself through the air, tensing, posing, holding himself into position for various explosions; but he's not staring at him because he's jealous, or because he wishes that he could look down on himself and see muscles just the same.
that kind of admission is what he's struggling with. it's not abnormal, in his eyes, to feel feelings for what they are: both nejire and mirio have taught him that, and he's never thought of putting feelings into boxes of 'right' or 'wrong' when it comes to attraction. the difference is that this is his kouhai; the difference is that he should not be thinking these kinds of things when he just came to drop off christmas gifts. )
--Wh-- ( he starts, stops, and realizes that he's just been staring there for a moment too long, now that bakugou's easily pulled the sweater on; he desperately seeks for something else to take his attention, and mindlessly, he tucks his mug in between his thighs, reaching feebly for bakugou's discarded sweatshirt so that he can start to lightly fold it up.
pointedly, he isn't looking up at bakugou, but his ears are pink. )
You look really good. Great. I mean, it looks good on you. It suits you. Um.
( damn it, the sweater is too easily folded, and now he has to retreat back to his hot chocolate: of which he takes a long, hot swallow, like the sooner he drains it, the sooner he can leave with his shame. )
Yes. Great. ( --is the lame finale to his lame compliments, as he licks his lips free of chocolate. )
[has he felt such eyes on him before? cloth drags over his head, tugs past his chin and slides his hair up into a cylindrical bunch for a few seconds before slipping off with a normal "bomph" springing his spikes back into usual place. more than aware amajiki is looking at him while he changes, nothing should be an issue with the actions. pulling his sweatshirt free of his head is no different here than stripping his shirt off in the locker rooms around the other guys in his class. hell, he's stood here in his room and pulled his clothes off to his boxer briefs in front of kirishima while the guy prattled on about whatever macho-brained thing he spilled over his sharp teeth.
yet he's conscious of a black pair of eyes tracing over the contours of his stomach and chest, following the flex of biceps and triceps as he pulls his new sweater over his head, tugging from his uplifted chin to rapidly vanishing hills along his torso as he scrolls material down to his hips like a falling curtain. and shuts it all off once more. no one else would've cared that much, so why the hell does the idea "enjoy the show" pop into his mind the moment he finishes putting the damn thing on?
ugh. amajiki's not the first person to admire his physique. he should, dammit! so much time, effort, pain, work went into sculpting his body to this level of intensity. heroes need to be strong enough to handle so many elements in fights. despite his senpai's lankier build, he's heard a number of times from kirishima about how he can reinforce his body with animal musculature, including a rather brow-arching description of the older student's "really impressive" leg muscles when he caught a pair of robbers in hawkish talons.
amajiki's kind of like midoriya in that sense. looking at his slumped posture and averted head, hairstyle cruising between "cool" and "messy", quiet expression, and trembling attitude, you'd never expect what toned physicality he has beneath his clothes. a nerd with muscles = midoriya. a wallflower with definitions = amajiki. (then again, he felt his solid lanky build between his legs during training, when he was perched over his chest and preparing to blast the ever-living fuck out of his senpai's face.)
turning his attention back to him, he purses his lips in mild annoyance at his distracted response.] You're looking at me, dammit! Pay attention! [staring all this time and suddenly growing flustered and confused the moment he asks for his honest review?! what's he been doing, looking without seeing as he spaces out?! how the hell's he supposed to give an honest review with his head stuck in the damn clouds like that?! AND WHY IS HE FOLDING UP HIS ORIGINAL SWEATER?! STOP GETTING DISTRACTED!! EYES ON HIM!!
... "you look really good" ...]
YOU'RE NOT EVEN LOOKING AT ME!! [ignoring reality amajiki's been looking at him the entire time he put it on. that doesn't count! you're supposed to look at rate once he has the clothing on and can stand there going "now" at him! WHAT THE HELL?! NOW HE'S GOING FOR HIS FUCKING CHOCOLATE?! what kind of clothes reviewer is he?! ugh, this bastard. lame bastard. footsteps cross the floor until he's standing in front of the other hero, one hand on his hip, the other swiftly snatching amajiki by the chin and yoink! pulls his head, and thus face, towards him so he can get a proper evaluation.]
( maybe another swallow. maybe another two swallows, if he wants to make it less obvious--he's staring down into the dark, chocolatey pit of his mug, like he can size up precisely how much more time he has to spend here, melting into his own embarrassment; the sound of bakugou moving towards him is immediately picked up on by ears and vibrations alone. oh god. he's going to get angry, isn't he? it's not like he hasn't already taken explosions to the face, but this is different, and this is in the dorm, and if someone else comes in, are they going to save him or laugh at him? nevermind that he should be able to free himself: he's a hero. well, a hero in training. soon to be a hero, maybe, if he doesn't mess anything up.
his shoulders jerk up in preparation, but he's not at all expecting that hand: it lances forward, taking him by the chin and lifting his head up; his hands tremble around the mug, but he can't even look down to make sure he isn't spilling anything. instead, he stares at the back of his eyelids, squeezing his eyes shut as though in direct retaliation to bakugou's demand. why does he have to look at him, anyway? he already gave him compliments. too many compliments. telling compliments.
he's going to get into more trouble if he doesn't open his eyes--so he does, slowly, one and then the other, gaze narrowed at first before he bats his lashes and forces them to focus. )
....
( his mouth trembles for a moment, a breath through his nose, and he seems to be studying bakugou's face, again, rather than looking at the sweater. hadn't that been the whole point?
or is there another, different point, now? )
........
( his mouth flattens, and then finally, despite himself, despite everything-- )
You're handsome.
( flushed, he stares with just the tiniest edge of defiance: even though his shoulders are still hunched up, like he's ready to crawl into a literal shell. should have armed himself with some crab meat for the night. )
[he's never seen someone so fucking flighty in his entire life. how the hell did he manage to become a hero?! heroes have to fight strong villains, deal with the annoying public, train to get stronger, interact with people! and amajiki's already in his third year! on the verge of graduating! what's he going to be like when he gets out into the real world, with far more than a school watching him. if it takes a damn life-threatening challenge to get his act together, he's gonna end up with a damn heart attack by the time he's thirty. or some lame ass ending to a promising career. shitty part is, amajiki has plenty of skill and strength; he's seen it in person. damn, this guy's so confusing when he thinks about him. being on the same team as fat gum and red riot is stupidest choice ever! for him. that bloated ball of blubber probably thought he could encourage amajiki out of his shell, like denim head thinking he could "fix" dynamight's attitude problem. both of them failed hard.
all that shit aside, he only wants an honest answer and opinion from the guy on his sweater. the very sweater his senpai bought him in the first place. did he think he could envision it perfectly in his head without bothering to see the real fitting?! fat luck escaping his fate by giving it to the blonde in person. now called out on ducking his duty as a reviewer, he releases amajiki's chin and steps back, jabbing his hands onto his hips. chin lifted, mouth twisted in a half-snarl, he glares down at the seated hero, daring him to try and worm from his predicament. a fate asked for! and stop closing your eyes, dammit! you have to open them to look at him! fuck, did he piss out his brain cells?!
silence... ...silence ... more silence. red eyes burn into indigo, watching their nigh-imperceptible shifts as they go from one part of his sweater to the next. at least he's making actual effort to look? ... AT HIS FACE INSTEAD!! ugh!! he had one fucking job! veins start pulsing on his forehead, eyes widening in frustration as tiny red veins crawl into his sclera. if he doesn't open his damn mouth and spit out something in the next three secon-!!]
HAA?! [his jaw goes slack, arms sloughing boneless by his side, sucker punched for a hot moment. certainly wasn't a comment on the damn sweater! but to him?!] Are you trying to piss me off?! Say that shit from the start if you're gonna try flirting!
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Date: 12/19/24 22:59 (UTC)gonna come through the front door or use the balcony?
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Date: 12/19/24 23:02 (UTC)i'm going to use the front door and
well wait you said no one's there right? do you want me to use the balcony?
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Date: 1/5/25 23:19 (UTC)he doesn't mind it, all things considered: he would've had to go to the other dorm at some point anyway, to leave gifts behind, and more than that, even mirio and nejire have asked him to drop theirs off under the great tree that class 1-a has decorated for the season, down in their living room. so it would have been inevitable, so he would have been here anyway, so he would've had to face someone at some point, even if it had been just to open the door. but: did it have to be bakugou challenging him? maybe that had been his mistake to even message him to ask, but--well, he'd been trying--
no, it doesn't matter. it doesn't matter, because now he's here, using his quirk to scale the side of the dorm with three large gift bags slung onto one comically long tentacle, scrabbling and suctioning his way up, his head tucked down into the collar of his jacket like he wants very much to crawl into a hole and never come back out again. ten minutes is easy, given all that he can do, but it's more about the mental fortitude than it is about the physical exercise: and it's about keeping all those wrapped gifts safe, where they jostle around and threaten to fall with the movement.
by the time he clears the railing of bakugou's balcony, he's only lost two gifts off the top of one of the bags--and he'd managed to lash out and roll those back into his tentacle grip, anyway, letting them tumble back into the bag as he sets them all down and lets out a slow, wobbling breath. this is the hard part. this is the part he thinks might eat up all his time, as he wills his hands and feet back to their normal form.
getting the nerve to actually knock on bakugou's balcony door. he might as well die.
two minutes pass, then another three, and impatient with himself, he forces his shaking human hand to rattle in against the glass, his head hanging, his hair a ruffled mess around it. )
I'm h-here..... ( he says, sullenly, a little out of breath; he'll have to haul the gift bags into bakugou's room, too, but hey, he still beat the timer. ) Bakugou-kun. Here.
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Date: 1/9/25 17:57 (UTC)guess he could've been nicer and offered to meet him or simply let him drop the presents off at the front. but how the hell's this guy gonna overcome his fear if he's coddled all the time? make him flex his quirk, show some guts, and haul himself all the way up here to his room. under a challenge umbrella. at least he'll have an excuse as to why. leaning back in his desk chair, he checks the time once more. amajiki's here by now. loitering outside on the balcony. of course he heard him come up the wall! you think those squishy sticky suction cups are silent out in the open air?
throwing open the curtains is tempting. surprise the fuck out of his senpai. but no, he's gonna force him to make the first move. again. sending the guy over the railing with a stopped organ is a shitty way to collect delivery.
knockleknockleknock...
damn, someone's gonna rattle the glass with that kind of knock. did he actually rap it or leave his knuckles on the glass and let his trembling do the work? he pushes from his chair and pads barefoot to the door. curtains husk to the side, revealing him in a normal set of black sweatshirt and sweatpants, ubiquitous skull pattern sewn white on the shoulder. amajiki looks like he finished climbing a mountain... with a click, he unlocks the door and pulls it open.]
Hn, you made it. [in time too. he reaches out to take the bags if his upperclassman will let him have them, and steps back to silently invite the guy inside to warm up. there's a pot of something hot going on a portable single burner beside his desk.] Sit down. I'll get you a drink.
[it's hot chocolate.]
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Date: 1/21/25 00:14 (UTC)no, he can't get to the door. and even more than that, what if one of the other members of bakugou's class is waiting there, wondering why the hell he's coming out of bakugou's room? someone like kirishima would absolutely save him, but he's not all that friendly yet with the rest of them despite spending the training time together.
so he's stuck here. for now. he's not going to refuse a kind gesture, either, which means that he's glancing, here and there, as though internally debating where the safest place to sit is. no way in hell is he going to sit on the bed, that's too intimate, but taking over the desk chair seems rude, in a way....that just leaves one thing, which means that he's sinking down onto the floor, pulling his legs in to sit criss-cross, rather than seiza.
one trembling hand lifts to start to unzip his jacket, at least: he's dressed otherwise in a loose pair of pants and an equally loose t-shirt, having not wanted to ruin anything in case he'd had to do more than just tentacles. )
...Do you want to...The... ( his eyes squeeze shut, before he forces out a breath, and tries again. )
The blue bag. Your gift from me. Is in there. Or do you want it under the...tree with the rest?
( he doesn't know all that much about bakugou, except for all the rambling that he's heard from kirishima, and from a few of his other classmates; he's not sure if he's the type to get flustered about gifts, the kind that even likes them, or the kind that's going to rip the box open and throw the gift right back into his face. he would probably deserve that. )
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Date: 1/24/25 01:21 (UTC)a soft 'pla-thmph' heralds a poor choice from the side and he doesn't need a glance to know.] Sit on the bed or the chair, damn delivery boy. [does he seriously think he should rest his ass on the floor like some unwanted guest? half surprised the other student hasn't crammed himself in the nearest corner to escape his nerves. or bond with them more.
gentle metal raking sounds issue from his spoon as it traverses around the pot's rim, stirring light brown froth into the darker brown beneath. satisfied it's done and not sticking to the pot bottom, he taps the spoon on the rim and sets it aside to rest in a drip catcher. expecting amajiki to relocate himself to one of his permitted areas, he leaves sight for a moment to rummage around in the bathroom. a quiet husk of something swinging on its hinges prefaces the rush of the faucet, followed by splattering water in the sink. he reappears through the doorway with a nigh-hot damp hand towel in one hand and dry towel draped over a forearm.]
Are you really asking if I want to open it in front of you? [if his upperclassman doesn't blow his brain out his head in pure embarrassment over getting called out. he stops near amajiki, offers him the damp cloth, then flops the dry one down beside him.] For your feet, before your toes fall off. [he doesn't mind someone going barefoot in his room since he keeps his floor nice and clean, but most people coming in here (rarely) usually wear slippers before entering. they didn't spend the past few seconds climbing bricks and standing in snow on his balcony.
while amajiki handles that task, he'll return to the burner and tend to the hot chocolate until the other boy's ready to accept a steaming mug.]
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Date: 1/24/25 19:56 (UTC)all this from the guy who 'killed' him over being a fake villain? he's surprised enough that he lulls into silence--until abruptly shooting to his feet, once bakugou's disappeared into the bathroom.
this is way too intimate...with a wince, he sits on the very corner of bakugou's bed, knees pressed together, hands on top of them as though he could crane himself forward and stare at the floor in a bow if he had to. his confusion is apparent, when bakugou returns, handing him the warm, damp cloth--he accepts it politely, with both hands, and his mouth drops open with a stuttered "a-ah" at the realization. )
T...Thank you. ( in a wheeze: he lifts one lanky leg up, bending it across his lap so that he can start to slowly work feeling into one foot; he pats it dry, neatly, before he switches to the other leg, spending a little more time there, as though his weight had been more balanced onto that side. once his feet are warm, and dry, and clean, he lays both towels out in his own lap, not wanting to leave a damp mark on bakugou's bedcovers.
his gaze goes up bakugou's back, to his shoulders, then jerks back down again to the floor. )
...If you...don't like it then...it would be easy to...give it back.
( --is his slow explanation, letting out a sigh. )
B-But I guess there are...other ways... ( like lighting it up with one of his explosions? it's not that he thinks the worst of bakugou, it's that he thinks the worst of himself. )
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Date: 2/1/25 06:11 (UTC)tch. he even takes the cloth with stammers and downcast eyes. dammit, what the hell happened to this guy? eroding his sense of self so much he's a quivering mess at a basic offer of decency. leaving amajiki to his devices, he returns to his desk. liquid sloshes into a ceramic mug, telltale rising blubbing and hums lifting with the warm chocolate. does he like sweets or not? no fucking clue. likely won't ask even if he does want marshmallows. whatever. test for him if he does. are they worth pushing his words out of his lips?
once he hears the second soft thump of a bare foot on his floor, he leaves his desk and crosses the scant space between them to offer his upperclassman a steaming mug. hmph, what a polite guy. he even left the towels on his lap rather than leaving them to dampen his bed. he trades the mug for the terrycloth, sweeping them from amajiki's lap and draping them over his chair's back for now. in case any spills happen.]
Don't ruin it with your depression before I even open it, Elf Ear! [sheesh. coloring his opinion without giving him a chance to enjoy the surprise. he quickly opens amajiki's travel sacks and like a cup stacker, removes and organizes the gifts inside across his desk according to size and fit. there. now he can dole them out to their recipients without scrunching around in the bags later. mercifully, he finds his own without prompting the shy young man to point it out.
a soft whuff of his bed depress beneath his rear and thighs as he takes a seat beside amajiki. without letting him shadow the experience more, he swiftly tugs the ribbon off a corner and unharnesses it in a smooth motion, then slots his fingers into the seams to pop tape and unfold the paper for a skilled unwrapping.]
Good job on the wrapping.
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Date: 2/16/25 23:50 (UTC)even worse, then, is the fact that bakugou decides to come sit next to him on the bed--his shoulders pinch in closer, elbows tucked into his sides, and trembling hands bring the mug up to his lips so that he can take the quietest swallow ever. it's like purely painful to have someone open a gift in front of him, and sure, this could also be considered training--or maybe he's just on the naughty list this year, and this is his penance. he'd offered it truthfully, because it would be easy for bakugou to give it back; he hadn't quite realized that he would have to endure the embarrassment of seeing his dismay live, in person. )
... ( self-consciously, he holds the mug by the handle, the other reaching up to smooth over the tip of one of his ears. ) ...I have a name.
( he knows bakugou knows this, but still. at least he managed to say something, though now he's stuck in silence; bakugou undoes the careful wrapping on the box, which reveals itself to be a prim white garment box: inside is a folded black sweater, something of an ugly christmas sweater motif with skulls threaded with christmas lights; within the folds of the sweater is also a recipe book, boasting to teach delicious, spicy recipes from all around the world.
he has to hope that kirishima at least told him something useful. of course he'd asked him about bakugou's likes, and had heard he was good at cooking--and it had been mirio's idea for them all to get the whole class 'ugly sweaters', so he'd tried to go along with it.
rather than look at bakugou's face, he puts a hand up in front of his own, like he's toying with his bangs; really it just blocks him from having to see bakugou's expression, as he holds his mug with the other hand. )
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Date: 2/26/25 15:12 (UTC)Why the hell are you so tense? [shoulders tucked in closer, head ducking towards his chest, elbows shrinking into his sides, as if he's attempting to swallow himself within like a hermit crab. hard as hell to imagine someone going through life in such a way, yet he's sitting beside a living breathing example. don't spill that on his bed; he'll make amajiki do his linens laundry for a week. present in hand, he's left to wonder why the guy would even bother. they don't know each other that well, and unless he's taken shotgun approach with gifts for everyone, it means the present's personal. did he pick one out for each of his classmates? kirishima's the guy who's his senpai's partner on missions.]
Thanks for stating the obvious. [everyone has names. does this mean he uses them? nope! not outside of serious moments or deliberate choice. earn your name from his lips and something special's happened.
an ashen brow arches into his choppy bangs as colored paper spreads away from what surface-level looks like a clothing box. instinctive thought? clothes. second thought? people use these damn boxes to hide other gifts, so don't be suckered into a 'gotcha' trick. he slots his fingers between lid and side, a deft tug down popping tape free so he can thumb open the lid. what the-? black, this is good. sweater, also fine. ugly christmas motif, seriously? ... but it has skulls like an absolute dork. what a damn flurry of reactions in his chest. surprised, curious, miffed, annoyed, touched, amused. he takes it in hand to feel its material, then noticing the book inside.
... you know, he really shouldn't tease him, but-]
You want me to cook for you, huh? [a grin plays on his lips, deliberately leaning an inch into amajiki's space to see just how hot his face can get.] Hope your tongue can handle it.
[now if you'll excuse him, he's gonna be an even worse gremlin and start tugging his current sweatshirt off. look, he's gotta try the sweater on while the gift giver's still here.]
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Date: 3/16/25 23:54 (UTC)it's as he's bringing his mug back to his lips for a small sip that bakugou teases him--which means the swallow burns, as he gulps it down, big eyes widening in suspicion, surprise, even embarrassment as his head whips around. )
W-what? That's n-not...
( bakugou cooking for him? no, now he wants to crawl into a hole and die, really. even worse, he can feel the bed shift, and bakugou's starting to take his sweatshirt off--
immediately, the worst thoughts bubble up in his head, unbidden. where do they even come from? it's not like it's a bad thought, and not like he isn't fully used to others changing around him; he's surrounded by the kind of guys who have no qualms with that sort of thing, guys completely comfortable in their bodies like kirishima and mirio. but it's different being in someone's room, sitting on their bed, and having them start to take their clothes off....no, it's not like that, why is he thinking like that?!
he can feel his face heating, feel the blush spread out towards his pointed ears, and he reaches a hand out in the air, nearly colliding with bakugou's side before he draws it back. no, that's not going to work either. )
You don't have to put it on...
( though admittedly, he does want to see what it looks like. he tries to drown that thought in another small swallow of hot chocolate, like maybe it'll go away. )
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Date: 4/11/25 23:21 (UTC)Haa? The hell'd you expect me to do? Frame it? [might not be what amajiki's protesting, or his retort goes for both potential topics. with one hand hooked beneath his sweatshirt, he pulls upward, cutting a black rising arrow from his stomach to his collar as the dark material ascends to his chin. head ducks, chin fits through the neckline, and he arches his neck as his spiky-haired head fwumps through the elastic circle. there goes his hair, springing back to normal style as he contorts his arm momentarily while dropping it back down to his side. only to swing it behind him and throw his hand up the middle of his back to drag it further down off his free arm. a simple black t-shirt, to no one's surprise. amajiki's lucky; normally he doesn't bother wearing anything under his casual sweatshirt inside.
his senpai should be used to this kind of thing; guys take their clothes off around him in the locker rooms all the time! yeah it's different in someone's room, but they're not strangers. with a few more rolls of his shoulders and tugs upward of his elbow, he strips the black material from his wrist, turning the arm inside out with his pull. and swiftly tackles the opposite to strip it off entirely. bared arms now, up to the sleeves, (at which point he promptly turns the sweatshirt right side out), he spreads amajiki's sweater over his legs for a second.]
You laugh, you die. [fair warning before he dives both hands into the sweatshirt's bottom and lifts the entire piece into the air with a scoop. gravity drags it down his arms and pointed fingers, flops over his head, and both hands swiftly pull the hem from crown to chin, hair bounding a bit when it reemerges. he gives his head a tiny toss back to pluck the material under his chin, before taking his now-freed hands to the hem and tugging it around his waist as he stands to his feet in front of the bed. there, now it's all fitted.] How's it look?
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Date: 4/20/25 22:43 (UTC)and sure, bakugou's body is like that, too. he has to have a lot of muscle from the way that he flings himself through the air, tensing, posing, holding himself into position for various explosions; but he's not staring at him because he's jealous, or because he wishes that he could look down on himself and see muscles just the same.
that kind of admission is what he's struggling with. it's not abnormal, in his eyes, to feel feelings for what they are: both nejire and mirio have taught him that, and he's never thought of putting feelings into boxes of 'right' or 'wrong' when it comes to attraction. the difference is that this is his kouhai; the difference is that he should not be thinking these kinds of things when he just came to drop off christmas gifts. )
--Wh-- ( he starts, stops, and realizes that he's just been staring there for a moment too long, now that bakugou's easily pulled the sweater on; he desperately seeks for something else to take his attention, and mindlessly, he tucks his mug in between his thighs, reaching feebly for bakugou's discarded sweatshirt so that he can start to lightly fold it up.
pointedly, he isn't looking up at bakugou, but his ears are pink. )
You look really good. Great. I mean, it looks good on you. It suits you. Um.
( damn it, the sweater is too easily folded, and now he has to retreat back to his hot chocolate: of which he takes a long, hot swallow, like the sooner he drains it, the sooner he can leave with his shame. )
Yes. Great. ( --is the lame finale to his lame compliments, as he licks his lips free of chocolate. )
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Date: 5/6/25 19:40 (UTC)yet he's conscious of a black pair of eyes tracing over the contours of his stomach and chest, following the flex of biceps and triceps as he pulls his new sweater over his head, tugging from his uplifted chin to rapidly vanishing hills along his torso as he scrolls material down to his hips like a falling curtain. and shuts it all off once more. no one else would've cared that much, so why the hell does the idea "enjoy the show" pop into his mind the moment he finishes putting the damn thing on?
ugh. amajiki's not the first person to admire his physique. he should, dammit! so much time, effort, pain, work went into sculpting his body to this level of intensity. heroes need to be strong enough to handle so many elements in fights. despite his senpai's lankier build, he's heard a number of times from kirishima about how he can reinforce his body with animal musculature, including a rather brow-arching description of the older student's "really impressive" leg muscles when he caught a pair of robbers in hawkish talons.
amajiki's kind of like midoriya in that sense. looking at his slumped posture and averted head, hairstyle cruising between "cool" and "messy", quiet expression, and trembling attitude, you'd never expect what toned physicality he has beneath his clothes. a nerd with muscles = midoriya. a wallflower with definitions = amajiki. (then again, he felt his solid lanky build between his legs during training, when he was perched over his chest and preparing to blast the ever-living fuck out of his senpai's face.)
turning his attention back to him, he purses his lips in mild annoyance at his distracted response.] You're looking at me, dammit! Pay attention! [staring all this time and suddenly growing flustered and confused the moment he asks for his honest review?! what's he been doing, looking without seeing as he spaces out?! how the hell's he supposed to give an honest review with his head stuck in the damn clouds like that?! AND WHY IS HE FOLDING UP HIS ORIGINAL SWEATER?! STOP GETTING DISTRACTED!! EYES ON HIM!!
... "you look really good" ...]
YOU'RE NOT EVEN LOOKING AT ME!! [ignoring reality amajiki's been looking at him the entire time he put it on. that doesn't count! you're supposed to look at rate once he has the clothing on and can stand there going "now" at him! WHAT THE HELL?! NOW HE'S GOING FOR HIS FUCKING CHOCOLATE?! what kind of clothes reviewer is he?! ugh, this bastard. lame bastard. footsteps cross the floor until he's standing in front of the other hero, one hand on his hip, the other swiftly snatching amajiki by the chin and yoink! pulls his head, and thus face, towards him so he can get a proper evaluation.]
Try again, Elf Ears.
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Date: 5/12/25 20:15 (UTC)his shoulders jerk up in preparation, but he's not at all expecting that hand: it lances forward, taking him by the chin and lifting his head up; his hands tremble around the mug, but he can't even look down to make sure he isn't spilling anything. instead, he stares at the back of his eyelids, squeezing his eyes shut as though in direct retaliation to bakugou's demand. why does he have to look at him, anyway? he already gave him compliments. too many compliments. telling compliments.
he's going to get into more trouble if he doesn't open his eyes--so he does, slowly, one and then the other, gaze narrowed at first before he bats his lashes and forces them to focus. )
....
( his mouth trembles for a moment, a breath through his nose, and he seems to be studying bakugou's face, again, rather than looking at the sweater. hadn't that been the whole point?
or is there another, different point, now? )
........
( his mouth flattens, and then finally, despite himself, despite everything-- )
You're handsome.
( flushed, he stares with just the tiniest edge of defiance: even though his shoulders are still hunched up, like he's ready to crawl into a literal shell. should have armed himself with some crab meat for the night. )
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Date: 5/25/25 20:36 (UTC)all that shit aside, he only wants an honest answer and opinion from the guy on his sweater. the very sweater his senpai bought him in the first place. did he think he could envision it perfectly in his head without bothering to see the real fitting?! fat luck escaping his fate by giving it to the blonde in person. now called out on ducking his duty as a reviewer, he releases amajiki's chin and steps back, jabbing his hands onto his hips. chin lifted, mouth twisted in a half-snarl, he glares down at the seated hero, daring him to try and worm from his predicament. a fate asked for! and stop closing your eyes, dammit! you have to open them to look at him! fuck, did he piss out his brain cells?!
silence... ...silence ... more silence. red eyes burn into indigo, watching their nigh-imperceptible shifts as they go from one part of his sweater to the next. at least he's making actual effort to look? ... AT HIS FACE INSTEAD!! ugh!! he had one fucking job! veins start pulsing on his forehead, eyes widening in frustration as tiny red veins crawl into his sclera. if he doesn't open his damn mouth and spit out something in the next three secon-!!]
HAA?! [his jaw goes slack, arms sloughing boneless by his side, sucker punched for a hot moment. certainly wasn't a comment on the damn sweater! but to him?!] Are you trying to piss me off?! Say that shit from the start if you're gonna try flirting!
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