Archive of Our Own

The light of her cell phone suddenly illuminates her otherwise dark room, as she blindly pats the top of her bedside cabinet a couple of times before landing on the vibrating device.

2 Missed Call: Shouto Todoroki
5 New Message: Shouto Todoroki

Shouto Todoroki: Hello Ochako, it’s me, Shouto. How are you doing? Well, I hope. (2:03 AM)
Shouto Todoroki: I am not. (2:03 AM)
Shouto Todoroki: Well I mean. (2:04 AM)

Shouto Todoroki: It’s my father. Naturally. (2:07 AM)
Shouto Todoroki: You were right. Something needs to change. I’m about to do a very stupid thing. Call me. (2:15 AM)

Ochako sits up straighter at that.

She was exhausted – the result of a nonstop six-day workload of patrols and seemingly endless piles of paperwork – but Shouto’s messages have her wide awake, all of the exhaustion seeped in her bones disappearing only to be replaced by concern.

There was nothing new about Todoroki Shouto fighting with his father, Flame Hero: Endeavor.

Their particular brand of dysfunction stems back before Shouto or any of his siblings were even born – back to the unfortunate coupling of a power-hungry young man and a timid young woman both with very powerful quirks in a time when quirk marriages were commonplace.

Shouto is naturally stoic, sure, but his lack of social skills is often endearing. However, the walls around his family life, especially anything involving his father, have always been built high and vast, foraged by a pain that never quite leaves his eyes. Of all the hurt and anguish, some of which they share, it is the one thing that they rarely talk about.

So the little she does know, she knows in bits and pieces.

Mostly derived from gruff sneers directed at his father and through shallow sobs on especially difficult nights back in their high school years. And when the subject is brought up, forcefully by Midoriya or herself, it is always as a consequence of Shouto burying his emotions so deep down inside that they begin to poison him.

When he is like that Todoroki is...a different person.

He’s faster, harder, tougher but it also makes him reckless and cruel and all of the things that they know he is not (all of the things that Endeavor would have him be). 

But worst of all, that is when he is hurting the most.

They can see it in his reluctance to unclench his right hand. How the red half of his hair falls into his eye until it shadows his scar, his head lowered shamefully. How he refuses to talk to them.

So, for him to call and text her at 2:00 am? About Endeavor?

Things must have gotten very, very bad.

She dials his number and suddenly the sound of the ringer is the only thing echoing through her small apartment. The sound of it seems to buzz through her body, playing in harmony with her anxiety.

And just as it reaches a chilling crescendo, she finally hears the tell-tale click.

“Hello? Todoroki?” 

“Oh. Ochako.” Shouto says. Unlike her, he does not sound half-dead and sluggish. His tone is, strangely enough, rather chipper. Her brows furrow – Shouto doesn’t do chipper. “How have you been? Well? I hope.”

“Sleeping.”

She’s trying extremely hard to remember that Todoroki is her very dear friend and currently in distress and would not have messaged her at this time for no reason. But the glowing numbers on her clock make that pretty damn hard.

“Shouto, it is 2:21 AM.”

“Is it?” She hears rumbling in the background and what sounds like a light switch being flipped. “Ah, it is. That would explain it then.”

Did she want to know?

“Explain what?”

“Why I can’t seem to get a travel agent on the phone. It’s proven rather difficult.” A travel agent? What? “I’ve had to do it all myself – flights, hotels, cars – but now I have a real appreciation for our family agent.”

“Todoroki?” Her voice sounds strained even to her own ears. She sits up in her bed, back against the headboard now. One of her blinds is slightly bent letting in the light from the billboard outside her window – she should fix that tomorrow. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about,” he pauses as though suddenly unsure before exhaling, the sound of a zipper opening filling his silence, “freedom, Ochako. My father wants me to take a two-year course on Agency Management at HAU.”

Of everything she had come to expect of Endeavor, she had not been expecting this.

“What?”

“It’s a small program,” he explains, “supposedly world leaders, corporate executives and hero agency leaders around the world have taken it. He said something about the school transforming “nobodies into somebodies” or something equally as pretentious and demanding and not me.”

“Why now?” She starts, feeling something hot start in her chest as the memories of slammed doors, tear-stained heterochromatic eyes, and darkness resurface. “I thought you guys came to an agreement?”

Todoroki scoffed.

“We did. But Endeavor has never been known for keeping his word. Particularly when family is involved.”

“No. He can’t just do that! He can’t…he shouldn’t…”

“He wants me to take over the Endeavor Agency.” His words sounded final. And, sure, she knew that was the path his father saw for his son — was there to pick up the pieces the last time this conversation was brought up — but she’d been holding out hope.

Hope that something would finally give. 

“This isn’t like last time – he wants me to do it now.”

“Oh, Sho...”

Shouto was so cold back then - spending most of their first professional year holed up in his apartment having one-sided conversations with his father about Endeavor’s career and Endeavor’s legacy and how this is what he had been born for dammit and he would do as he was told. 

Shouto had been a mess for weeks. Throwing himself into burning buildings, pulling all-nighters, and roughing up villains all in some self-destructive attempt to – god, she didn’t know – distract himself?

Forget that the whole reason for his conception was to surpass his father?

What that had done to his mother?

What it had done to him?

It had taken a badly burned villain and a forced two-week suspension before he’d even talk to her. And it was the first time she’d ever seen him truly break.

“It’s only been two years.”

A humorless laugh echoes between the two.

“Two years. The entirety of my hero career amounts to two real  years, huh?”

“Shouto…”

“I suppose I should know by now not to depend on the word of my father.” But he had. He’d held out some sad, fucked up sort of hope that this time things would be different. That for once in his life his father had truly heard him. Seen him. “I guess honor is an empty concept to someone who would engender children simply to make up for his own shortcomings.”

His words, albeit blunt and harsh, dripped with a sort of sad acceptance that makes her want to reach through the phone and hold him.

“Sho...”

She starts but what can she really even say. 

Nothing that will change anything.

Nothing that will make any of this okay.

“I’m so sorry.”

Silence falls between the two of them and Ochako sits there listening to the heaviness of Todoroki’s breathing.

He exhales deeply before saying, “Ochako?”

At that moment she thinks Shouto, for all of his brooding, is like a lot of the men in her life. Her father, Midoriya, Iida - all of them were so used to having to be strong, having to always be the hero that they had become awful at being saved.

This must make it easier for him.

The phone provides distance between them, and so, Ochako imagines, Shouto is less cautious about appearing weak. She can’t see him, can’t reach over and touch him or comfort him in all the ways she would want to but that he shrinks away from.

All she has are his words.

And so, like this, he is open and raw, and his voice comes through smaller and more delicate than she can ever remember it being. One careless move on her part and, she fears, it may shatter, never to be heard again.

“Yes?”

“I have to leave.” Shouto breathes the words out as if they were physically painful, “I have to go.”

“What?” Panic sets in quick.” Sho, you don’t have to run. I–I’ll help you... and Deku! We’ll both help you, please, let us help you.”

“I’m not running, Ochako. I couldn’t even if I wanted to – not with my mother and siblings still here.” He sighed. “I just… I can’t think here, Ochako.”

“I can’t think about any of this with his shadow looming over me — having to go to work every day at his agency, protecting his legacy, behave how he feels fit — all while pretending that his blight isn’t on everything that I love. Just growing and festering. Pretending its not on me.”

His words sounded like embers.

“No matter what he may think — this is my life. And for once, I need to make the decisions. And as much as I hate to admit it — I’m mostly acting on impulse and adrenaline right now. But I really can’t find it in me to care because out of every option I’ve considered this one actually feels right.”

He laughs, genuinely. 

“And, okay, maybe it’s also a little of that teen rebellion I never got to have speaking but I need to leave. I just... have to go.”

“Where will you go, Sho?”

Ochako shrinks back into her pillows.

He was right – he needed to think this through and if he couldn’t do that here then … he needed to go. Regardless of what the sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach was saying – Please don’t leave me. I need you, too – or how selfish she could be with her friends.

“When I was little, my mother used to look out the window and tell me that Paris was lovely in the fall. I’d like to see it.” He says, his voice catching warmth once again. “She’d tell me that we’d go one day. You know, together with all my siblings. But…”

She smiles. “That sounds great.”

“So, I guess Paris it is.” He says, “I’m thinking four months ought to do it.”

“Very specific,” Ochako notes, “why four?”

“Because...” He pauses and she hears him swallow thickly. “You’ve got that much paid leave saved up, right? Four months?”

“Wh-what?!”

“I want you to come with me, Ochako.”

“Shouto?!” She sits up straight, looking at her phone in disbelief. What... How....“Shouto, you cannot be serious–!”

“We’d leave tomorrow.” He says, and she hears the rustling of papers, “I’ll handle immigration and I’ve already rented an apartment – two bedrooms, one bath.”

“Shouto,” She can’t breathe, the world is spinning too fast,” slow down.”

“It’s not forever — it’s four months,” Shouto reassures her. As if she was the one who needed reassurance right now... while his life was falling apart. “And I want you to come with me, Ochako. You’re a good person —much better than me —and you’re my best friend and...” Shouto paused, carefully considering his words,” ...I’ve been watching you, Ochako. You’ve been moving through the world differently. I didn’t know what it was at first — you’re still doing good work and you still laugh and smile but...”

Any retort that sits on the tip of Ochako’s tongue dies at that — because he’s right.

Things have been different recently. Like they were…heavier.

Like her quirk has been unintentionally left on for all her life, keeping her from feeling the full brunt of life, and suddenly someone else had yelled “release!” before she was ready.

And it made no sense... there was no added pressure that she was dealing with. She’d been a pro for a few years now and she loves her job.

God knows she loves her job.

But recently every loss had been harder.

Every victory was fleeting.

And it never felt like she was doing enough.

Helping enough.

Not for her agency or her city or her parents and no matter who tried to assuage her of her concerns, that feeling was always there.

And it wasn’t just that.

She was distracted, tired, and brewing just under her bubbly exterior was a negativity she just couldn’t quite place. One that threatened to consume her and the worst part was she couldn’t figure out why.

Why was she feeling like this?

Why did it feel like a piece of her had chipped a long time ago and she’d been playing injured this whole time? And the pain was now unbearable?

“...you just seem so sad, Ochako. It’s like you don’t float anymore.”

“What?”

A wetness slipped down her face. When had she started crying?

“I think...” he continued, “I think you need this just as much as I do.”

Maybe she does. Maybe some time away from ... everything will fix it, repair the part of her that feels so far removed. Bring back her passion?

Ochako looked around at her very messy, very much not packed room. There was no way. She hadn’t even had time to do her laundry — half her clothes were dirty! She had a shift scheduled for Thursday! Thirteen would...

“My job, Sho.” She said,” I’m on patrol in two days - I can’t just leave. Plus, I have combat training with Gunhead in a week.” She sighed, running a hand over her face. There was no way this would work. No way she could just up and leave. “And my parents.”

“Will any of that be of any value if you do it while feeling like shit?” Shouto asked, seriously. “You work hard, and you work well, Ochako. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you take a day off —and coming from me that’s concerning. I’m certain Thirteen would have no problem letting you use up all the paid leave you have. And your parents are the kindest people in the universe — they’ll understand.”

Ochako considered his words.

She had been working hard — the last six-day stint had been one of the numerous others she had voluntarily taken ever since joining Thirteen Emergency Rescue & Recovery Agency. And if Thirteen’s nagging was to be believed she hadn’t taken a day off since she’d gotten the flu during her second year with TERRA.

And her parents, well, no one wanted her to relax more than those two.

“They love you. We all do.” Shouto continued. “Nothing would change here in those four months. But you could.”

At that Ochako was silent.

“Think about it. Just for a second.” Shouto’s voice is gentle, and suddenly the script is flipped, and she is the one curled up in her bed near tears. “You are an amazing hero, Ochako, there is no doubt in my mind about that.”

“But can you honestly say you have the same passion as you did while we were at UA? About anything?” Silence. “You used to glow from the inside out, from toe to tip. I just want you to shine again.”

“So, what?” She laughs hollowly. “A burnt-out rescue hero and an agency heir run off to Paris? Won’t your dad be pissed?”

“You’re talking about the man who ostracized me from my own mother and siblings because he thought I was some extracurricular project.”

“Yeah bu—“

Todoroki interjects because if he lets her start talking then the conversation will most likely dissolve into something resembling sense and talking down and that was decidedly not what they both needed right now.

“So I mean this as disrespectfully as possible — fuck him.”

🧳🧳🧳🧳🧳🧳🧳🧳🧳🧳

Early the next morning, under the light twilight of autumn dawn, Ochako and Shouto slide into the backseat of a taxi heading to the airport.

As much as Shouto would have loved to walk out of Endeavor Agency in the middle of the workday and tell his father to fuck off, Ochako appreciates his subtly as she snuggles into his side sleepily.

Other than a quick text to Thirteen – who was more than happy to supply Ochako with her paid time off and an advance - she hasn’t told her parents or anyone else where she is going.

If she’s honest with herself, she is scared telling them and hearing her plan out loud outside of the ragtag broken company of Sho would make her change her mind. And as far as she knows Sho is in the same boat, having snuck out hours before Izuku’s morning run.

She’s sure by the time they touch down, they’ll both have their fair share of messages to return and maybe it would be better, to be honest with her loved ones about her spur of the moment vacation... but honesty isn’t going to get her onto that plane so she doesn’t dwell on it.

Instead, she sits with Shouto, happily. Both occasionally talking sleepily with their taxi driver, an older man in the need of some company.

Once they reach the airport, the sun is high but the autumn air is cold, so she zips up her hoodie and puts on her sunglasses. Truth be told, her disguise is makeshift and last minute, and you could definitely tell it was her if you had decent eyesight and no regard for personal space.

It was, however, necessary. 

Shouto and Izuku were often mobbed at airports as two of the top five heroes in the country whenever they traveled and even she had her fair share of unflattering airport pics and overzealous fans.

So, airports meant paparazzi and paparazzi meant baseball caps and oversized sunglasses even as early as they were.

Ochako slides out of the car, thanking the driver and heading to the trunk to help Sho – whose dual-color hair is tucked into an old baseball cap for a team she knows he does not follow – with the suitcases.

He hands hers to her before tugging his much heavier duffle out with a grunt.

Against her better judgment, she had packed light after she had told Sho that she would be spending the night doing laundry before he picked her up that morning.

“Don’t bother.” He had said, nonchalantly in that way that reminded her that they had had very different upbringings. “I’ll buy you new ones. Just pack jackets and your necessities.”

She’d declined (as she often did when her friends were overly generous) and he’d ignored her (as he often did when she tried to stop him from spending money) and so her suitcase was only stuffed with jackets, gloves, toiletries, and her favorite sweaters.

They walk up to the airport doors watching floods of people flowing in and out of the massive building, something akin to hesitation in the air between them.

Sho clears his throat — once, twice — and she turns to him.

“Are you ready?” She nods, almost automatically and he smiles, softly. His hand slips into hers and he squeezes. Once. Twice. “Let’s go.”

They don’t speak again until they are seated in the plane – First class. Thank you, Endeavor. – and Ochako can finally breathe again.

She’d nearly passed out in security and her heart had started beating traitorously as they neared the gate. But now she is seated, her seatbelt buckled and Shouto sat on the outer seat next to her obstructing any mad dash her nerves may or may not have been imagining.

“If you’re planning some kind of break...you might want to start now. We’re about to set off.” Shouto, sipping from a complimentary champagne flute, had the audacity to look amused. “Are you planning to take a breath anytime soon?” 

Bastard. “Shut up.”

Ochako grabs his drink, downing it in one gulp.

Shouto laughs, flagging down another flight attendant for two more glasses – never mind that they have yet to even take off.

“We’re doing this,” Shouto says.

His eyes are soft as he looks over at her, all his mirth gone. It’s a statement but she can tell that Sho is really asking her, his words betraying his apprehension and maybe she isn’t the only one whose nerves are on edge. Maybe they needed each other.

The plane begins moving towards the runway when she looks over at her friend with a nervous smile, but a smile none-the-less.

“We’re doing this.”

🛫🛫🛫🛫🛫🛫🛫🛫🛫🛫

Arriving at Charles de Gaulle Airport feels like a dream.

Not only because of the hustle bustle that Paris’ largest international airport offers but because Ochako could have sworn that she was still asleep as Shouto led her through immigration and herded her with her suitcase into the backseat of a cab.

She can hardly keep her eyes open, barely acknowledging the smooth, natural-sounding French that leaves Todoroki’s mouth as he gives the apartment address to the driver.

Sho slumps back into the seat next to her as they take off.

“You speak French?”

“En peu.” A little.

His voice is gruff and tired and Ochako is glad she isn’t the only one whose ass is being kicked by the time difference.

And so their first day in Paris consists of a long taxi drive, a quick introduction from their new landlords (Aoyama, a sparkly young man, and his more subdued older brother Ojiro), and the two of them slumping into the living room and falling asleep together on the couch.

🛏🛏🛏🛏🛏🛏🛏🛏🛏🛏

The next morning, when Todoroki rouses Ochako out of her dead slumber with a stack of warm pain du chocolats and fruit that he bought from the boulangerie a tempting three minutes walk from their apartment she nearly cries.

As they eat, she looks out and can see the very tip of the Eiffel Tower from their balcony.

Everything here seems tinged with magic and she wants to soak all of it in. From the French music floating in from their neighbor's open window to the schoolchildren walking past the street in their uniforms. And she may be reaching but even the chocolate tastes sweeter here and she can’t help the moan that escapes her as she bites into the pastry.

It’s a natural buzz that makes the city feel alive, even in the most still of moments and she swears she can feel it in the tips of her fingers. It’s electrifying, something she wishes she could bottle and take back with her after this is all done.

Shouto laughs at her, of course, shoulders much less tense than she has seen him in years and suggests that they wander the streets for a bit.

Todoroki has always approached life with an effortless calm and even on the streets of Paris he is cool and collected.

But she can’t help but be in awe.

Textbooks and movies have done nothing to prepare her for the mystic of Paris and Ochako doesn’t know where to look first but she is overtaken with the need to see it all.

The classical architecture transforms her to a time of Fragonard and ladies in billowing dresses and over-the-top romance that she finds herself captivated by – often stopping to just stare at the buildings, monuments, and museums.

And the people.

Buskers fill the streets with singing and dancing. Ladies dressed in labels she recognizes from television walk down in twos and threes laughing and chatting. Families chase tiny children through the crowds. Shouto points to a brightly colored hero jumping from rooftop to rooftop and the sight makes her feel more at home than she expects.

And while she could have seen all of this at home there is an air of something around her that makes her very glad to now have four months to figure out just what that is.

They are standing under the Arch De Triumph when Ochako’s stomach reminds her that while art and culture might fill her soul, her body requires more than chocolate and pastries to get through the day.

And so, the pair makes their way into a traditional bistro, Sabré, finally feeling the effects of five hours wandering the Parisian streets.

The small bistro is quaint — only ten tables in total and a small bar area — but it is packed.

Small groups of friends and what looks like one or two couples leave the back table, far from the windows and lit by a single industrial overhead light, for them to sit at.

Shouto grabs the menu, reading through the French with ease and ignoring the looks that various women in the vicinity send his way (and the glares they send hers).

When they were rookies fresh from UA, Todoroki had been handsome in a brooding, intense way that had captivated many UA female and male students alike but as he got older that had given way to a chiseled, smoldering charm. An allure that led to several reluctant magazine spreads and the production of one questionable body pillow.

But now, sitting in this little bistro in Paris, dressed head to toe in black, Shouto is actually happy.

Now, he is truly a sight to see.

“Hey? Sho?” Ochako asks, leaning forward on her elbows. “When did you learn French?”

“Oh,” Todoroki looks surprised as he sets the menu down. His brows furrow. “Have I never mentioned it before?”

She shakes her head.

She’s sure she would have remembered that her oldest friend spoke another language fluently. 

“My grandmother — ma mémé — worked for years as a sidekick in France after school. She met my grandfather during a world summit meeting, and they had my mother.”

“Oh wow,” Ochako says. “Were you close with her?”

“Not particularly.” Todoroki sighs.” Her and my grandfather basically sold my mother to my father and never looked back. Unsurprisingly, she was never too keen on reconnecting with them and my father had gotten what he needed so he had no reason to contact them either. The most I ever heard from them was through Christmas and birthday cards stuffed with euros.”

Todoroki smiled sadly.

“But when I was six, Mémé convinced Father that French lessons would serve me well as an international hero so my father made me take them for years. I even took a few advanced courses with Grand Mime at UA.”

Ochako frowns.

“I had no idea.”

“The Todoroki family just keeps getting sadder and sadder doesn’t it?”

“Nothing lasts forever, Sho. Even sadness.” She grips his hand, squeezing him affectionately. “You’ll find happiness that’ll last one day. One that will stay — I know it.”

He gave her a small smile, going back to the menu and trying to explain to her what exactly a coq du vin was.

Ochako sits back and listens to the soft hum of music filling the restaurant, accented by the French floating around her from other conversations.

It was beautiful here.

The brick against her back in their little booth was littered with old-looking photographs and posters of heroes who she remembered from the black and white photographs in her textbooks.

She is admiring the spread when their waitress walks over with two wine glasses filled with what, at three o’clock, she hopes is water.

“Bonjour Monsieur. Bonjour Madame.” Hello, Sir. Hello, Miss.

Her voice is light but confident as she speaks, an interesting sound that garners even Todoroki’s attention. 

“Nous sommes si heureux de vous avoir à la Sabré.” We’re very happy to have you at Sabré.

Ochako looks over at Shouto, who, for the first time she can remember, is actually blushing. Which was understandable — their waitress was stunning.

And if the faint pink across their pretty waitress’ cheeks, was anything to go by there was something other than cherry blossoms in the Parisian air. 

So like any good friend, she smiles at their waitress and kicks her best friend under the table. He looks at her frantically, catching the glint in her eye and fixes his composure. 

How interesting. 

“Um, yes.” Shouto clears his throat. “Merci.” Thank you.

The pretty girl nods, tucking a tuft of her long black hair behind her ear. “Je m’appelle Momo.” My name is Momo. 

Todoroki follows the motion, a lazy smile sneaking onto his face. “Momo. Bonjour.”

The waitress’ — Momo — blush deepens, spreading across her cheeks and she turns to Ochako, looking flustered.

It occurs to Ochako that this very pretty woman who has been around them for less than a minute and makes her friend smile a dopey, toothy smile is embarrassed because she thinks they are together. 

Together together.

And that just won’t do so she gives her a warm smile, one that she hopes says “I am having lunch with my very single best friend and am thoroughly enjoying whatever is going on between you two — and also I don’t speak French”.

Apparently, body language is universal because Momo visibly relaxes.

“Euh d’accord, Avez-vous fait votre choix?” Okay, have you made your choice?

Ochako, again, defers to Todoroki who orders a handful of things she doesn’t recognize but is sure she’ll enjoy. She watches Shouto closely as Momo takes down their order, before excusing herself and leaving them with their waters.

Alone once again with her friend, Ochako sips from her wine glass feeling very fancy and very French.

“Elle est belle, non?” She is beautiful, no?

(Ochako took a couple of French classes at UA too.)

Todoroki refuses to meet her eyes. “Your accent is terrible.” 

(Before quickly switching to Spanish.)

“Ferme la bouffe.” Shut the mouth. 

🍷🍷🍷🍷🍷🍷🍷🍷🍷🍷

Ochako has a lot to be thankful for recently.

She is infinitely grateful that Sho can speak French because, well, otherwise they’d be screwed.

She’s thrilled when she learns that Sabré sells enough these delightful matcha flavored macaroons that she feels herself becoming addicted to.

She’s so thankful that Momo, who turns out to own the bistro, is friendly, smart and makes Shouto smile bright enough to rival the morning dawn.

And when Momo tells her that her friend, Katsuki, is a designer who owns a boutique nearby and might be convinced to give her a discount on a winter wardrobe, both her and her well-loved sweaters can’t thank her enough.

Because regardless of the promise of unrestricted access to Todoroki’s platinum card, Ochako will always be a sucker for a discount.

“Please spend Endeavor’s money,” Todoroki says, pushing the credit card into Ochako’s hand for the third time that morning.” I’m begging you. Make him feel it.”

Apparently, Todoroki is really milking this late teenage rebellion for all that it is worth.

“Don’t use me to piss off your dad.” Ochako rolls her eyes. “I don’t need a €50,000 wardrobe — I have clothes at home. “

“You’ll take them back home with you,” Todoroki suggested, eyes looking behind her.

Ochako smiled into her milkshake. It had been a little over a week since they had arrived in Paris and Sabré had quickly become their go-to spot for lunch and dinner in part because they had both fallen in love with Momo. 

“Or you can burn them all. I literally don’t care.”

“Well,” Ochako flicked his hand, “I’m not a rich kid like you. Just the thought of wasting money makes me shudder – I’ll keep them all. Forever. And if they cost anything close to that then I’ll probably be buried with them all too because of the guilt.”

“No guilt. Just spending, Ochako. Lots and lots of spending.”

Todoroki scooted over, as Momo slid into their booth. 

Her long hair was pulled into a messy bun, held in place by what looked like a blue bic and somehow she was still dazzling. Even with stains on her apron.

Maybe even more so because of that.

Shouto offered her one of his croissants, which Momo accepted with a small ‘merci’, and Ochako’s heart just wanted to burst. But instead, she just rested her head on her hands and looks affectionately at the pair.

“Momo,” she asks, feeling guilty for breaking whatever spell was over her friends, “what’s your friend like? The one with the clothing store.”

“Oh, well,” Momo starts. “Brûler is more of a fashion house.” 

“Is it expensive?” Todoroki asks because of course, that is all he cares about. “Ochako aime les vêtements chers. Vous savez— le goût cher.” Ochako likes expensive clothes. You know—expensive taste.

“Don’t lie about me in French.” Ochako scolded, lightly.

“It’s high quality. Very nice.” Momo says. “Pense un jeune Céline ou Versace avec un peu de Agent Provocateur. Très chic. Très sexy.” Think a young Céline or Versace with a little Agent Provocateur. Very chic. Very sexy.

“Agent Provocateur?” Todoroki chuckles. “Intéressante.”

“Why?” Ochako doesn’t trust that glint in Shouto’s eyes. Her best friend can be a little heterochromia haired devil when he wants to be — photos of a teenage Ochako in a plunging hot pink prom dress acted as a testimony to that fact. “Agent Provocateur? What is that?”

Todoroki leaned into Momo, his coyness momentarily forgotten in the face of another opportunity to dress Ochako to the very height of her potential.

“Ne lui dis rien. Elle a besoin de confiance en son corps. Laissez votre ami l'habiller.” Don't tell her anything. She needs some body confidence. Let your friend dress her up.

“Mais elle est belle.” Momo looked surprised. “Bakugou passera un bon moment avec elle. Elle est juste son type.” But she’s beautiful. Bakugou will have a great time with her. She is just his type. 

“Guys...” Ochako whined. “Don’t French without me.”

“You flunked out. “Todoroki scoffed. “It’s not like we can French with you.”

“Salaud.” Bastard.

“As much as I wish that was true. No.” Todoroki took a sip of his coffee. “Endeavor and I are definitely related.”

“Momo,” She needed to take back control of this conversation, for both of their sakes, “what’s he like?”

“Well.” Momo considered her question. “He is a bit of a, euh, grouch?”

“A grouch, huh?” Ochako repeats. Interesting choice of words. “How much of a grouch?”

“I would say Kat is....” Momo pauses, searching for the right word. “.... I think the word would be intense.”

“Intense...” Todoroki repeated, munching on one of the macarons Momo had brought them (“Pour mes nouveaux amis.” For my new friends).

“Well, honestly, I would say Kat a l'attitude et le tempérament d'un pitbull, mais comme tout chien, il peut être formé.” Kat has the attitude and temperament of a pit bull, but like all dogs, he can be trained.

Sho snorts. “Your friend sounds interesting.”

“Yes, he is a, euh, handful. But we’ve known each other since l’école — he’s family at this point.” Momo turns back to Ochako, slightly bowing in what appeared to be a preemptive apology. “Angry, blonde, tall family.”

“Don’t worry about me.” Ochako waved it off. Really, how terrifying could a fashion designer be? What’s the worst he could do? Poke her with a hemming pin? “I fight dangerous, grouchy men for a living. I’m sure your friend is nothing I can’t handle.”

“Well.” Momo looked at the small brunette fondly, “It’s a few days until the Fall/Winter show so Kat should be closing earlier today. Around six, I think.” She frowns. “I would have loved to go with you but Monsieur Nezu needs me to close today. I don’t finish until seven-thirty.”

Ochako nods.

The last seven days had revealed to the pair that Momo was, above all else, dedicated to the bistro — it was a passion project of hers. Her family headed a large business conglomerate so their reach ran as deep as fashion lines, grocery stores, and airlines.

But her grandmother, who Momo had loved more than anything else, always had a soft spot for Sabré — the homey cafe that her husband had purchased for her back when they counted their riches in laughs and steaming cups of coffee. It had reminded her grand-mère of simpler times, Momo had shared, and even as their empire grew she kept the place running. Her heart had always felt more full here than it ever was working at HQ with her father or dominating the socialite scene like her famous mother.

Now that her grandmother had passed away, Momo did her best to keep the place up and running even if that meant bussing tables or working late.

“Seven-thirty?” Todoroki asks her. “Ce ne sera pas la nuit d'ici là? Serez-vous d'accord pour marcher seul?” Won’t it be night by then? Will you be okay walking alone?

“Oh well.” Momo smiles at him, a familiar pink dusting her cheeks. “Je deviens juste un peu nerveux mais je devrais aller bien.” I’m just a little nervous but I should be fine.

Shouto didn’t look so sure – he was looking down at his coffee cup twirling the spoon a little too quickly and his bangs were slipping into his line of vision.

She may not speak French but she was fluent in Todoroki, and as she watched the exchange her friend's energy spoke volumes. So, knowing what she knew about Sho (which was only a little less than absolutely everything) Ochako decided to make a move for him before he could talk himself out of what looked like a very good thing.

“You know Momo,” the woman looked over at her, “we might not look it stuffing our faces here every day, but back home we’re heroes.” Ochako smiles, gripping Todoroki’s arm. “If you’re nervous I’m sure No. 4 over here would be more than happy to walk you home.”

Todoroki looks at her clearly wondering what on earth she was doing. For his own good, Ochako ignored him.

“In fact, I know nothing would make him happier.”

“No. 4? “ Momo looks at Shouto in blatant awe, and if his neck started matching his hair and his chest puffed out a tad— well, Ochako wouldn’t mention it. “Je n'en avais aucune idée ! Je ne suis pas vraiment au courant des héros mais…“ I had no ideas. I don’t know very much about heroes but...

Todoroki smiled.

“Je resterai ici jusqu'à ce que vous ayez terminé. Je peux même vous aider si vous le souhaitez.” I’ll stay here until you finish up. I can even help if you’d like.

Sometimes Ochako wonders if Endeavor’s merciless training and apathy had crushed Todoroki so much that her friend believed that good things just weren’t for him. She’d seen him miss opportunities and shy away from relationships, as though he was afraid of sharing the weight of his life with someone else. As if his presence would taint whatever good thing was coming to him, leaving behind dark smudges that would only spread like a curse.

He’d told her as much one sad night, that he when looked at his life sometimes and saw the carnage and saw two constants – his father and himself. On particularly hard days he found himself hating the latter. And he wanted to protect everyone from the pain he went through – even if that meant protecting them from himself (as if Ochako would let Sho’s self-inflicted martyrdom keep her from loving her best friend).

But looking at him smiling at Momo at that moment, it seemed to her that this might finally be one very good thing that he was willing to go for.

“Il n'y a pas besoin! You are too kind,” Momo exclaimed, clutching her notebook to her chest.”Euh, just…having you here is enough.” There is no need.

“Well, now that that’s out of the way...” Ochako jumps up from her seat, her last macaron balanced between two fingers.” So, Momo, where can I find this friend of yours?”

☕️☕️☕️☕️☕️☕️☕️☕️☕️☕️

Wandering the streets of Paris without Todoroki is equal parts lonely and liberating.

She loves her friend and the time they spend together, but there is something beautiful about a young woman, alone, with her heels clanking against the cobblestone of Paris’ alleyways.

Brûler, the fashion house that had dominated Paris Fashion Week for the last three years, was only a short fifteen minutes away according to Momo. The walk took her past a handful of quaint bookstores and one bustling shopping district that Momo often found her way over there after work.

However, what Momo failed to mention was that Brûler was a fifteen-minute walk if one was able to read the street signs.

Ochako looked up from the stupid navigation app on her phone, trying to align the simple looking pathway on her screen with the twisty Parisian streets.

Now was it right or left…

” Excusez-moi, mademoiselle! À venir ...!“ Excuse me, miss! Coming through...!

Before she could turn to get a proper look at the man calling out to her, a flurry of blond and what sounded suspiciously like the crackle of electricity in the air raced past her, knocking into her side with the corner of an almost comically large box.

Suddenly thrown into momentum, and arguably not used to her high-heeled boots, she spluttered as she tripped.

Her fingers press together and the familiar pulse of her powers begins building up from her gut when an arm suddenly encircles her waist keeping her from getting nicely acquainted with the cobblestone.

“Denki!” 

Her savior’s voice was rough but not unfriendly (still authoritative enough to make her feel very thankful that she wasn’t Denki) as he yelled at the electric streak that had almost successfully knocked pro-hero Uravity onto her ass.

She changed her mind.

Thank god, Sho was not her — he was still hung up on her failing entry-level French, the last thing she needed was him standing next to her while she leaned against this stranger’s arm like a limp noodle.

How embarrassing.

”Ralentissez avant de tuer quelqu'un, puis Bakugou vous tue! ” Slow down before you kill someone, and then Bakugou kills you!

The gentle giant sighs, suddenly seeming exhausted. 

“And me too, while he’s at it, dude...”

Hearing something that isn’t French at this point sounds almost felt foreign to her — but god, if it didn’t also sound beautiful, especially considering just how lost she was. 

“Oh,” Ochako blinks up at her rescuer. “Thank god!”

"Euh, mademoiselle?" The man let her go gently, taking a tentative step back once he realized she could stand on her own. He looks her over, red eyes swimming in concern. "Tu te sens bien? Tu es blessé?" Um, miss? Are you okay? Are you hurt?

Maybe that bump had knocked something into place because she almost understood that. 

“No, yeah, I’m fine.”

Or maybe nice people are the same everywhere.

Either way that must have been the correct answer because as soon as she finishes, he shoots her a smile bright enough to rival the sun.

“Oh, bien!” Oh good!

He rubs the back of his neck with his left hand, his red hair shaking slightly. The bright grin on his face is tinged with a shyness she doesn’t expect from this mountain of a man. ”Je suis désolé pour lui. Il est déjà et idiot mais quand il utilise cette électricité, il agit comme s'il n'avait pas de cerveau et qu'il aurait pu vous tuer!” I’m sorry about him. He’s already stupid but when he uses that electricity, he acts like he doesn’t have a brain and he almost killed you!

He looks at her apologetically, and as confused as she is, she also decides that she likes this red-haired man.

“Ne vous inquiétez pas, je vais lui parler et je suis sûr qu'une fois que bakugou aura vu cette bosselure sur la boîte, il le pendra aux chevrons....” Don’t worry I’ll talk to him and I think once Bakugou sees that dent in the box he’ll talk to him too....

He's lost her completely.

Any semblance of understanding she had is gone under the torrent of what she guesses is a mix between apologizing and explaining.

He doesn’t seem to notice though. Completely engrossed in his rambling — reminding her of a certain green-haired friend — and she can’t help but chuckle at the similarity.

He stops and for a moment she’s worried she’s done something wrong.

“You...” He starts, and she is shocked that his voice sounds so much like home. “You don’t speak French, do you.”

Ochako sighs, putting her hands up in mock surrender. “Guilty.” 

“Oh.” His whole body seems to perk up. “Don’t apologize! It’s just been a while since I met anyone who didn’t speak French.” He steps closer to her, the smile still spread across his face, and she’s suddenly aware of just how sharp his teeth are. “It’s a relief really! My French isn’t that great!”

“You just spoke full paragraphs at me.” If he didn’t look so bashful she would think he was a jerk looking to get his ego stroked but as luck would have it, it is her portion in life to be surrounded by unwitting hyperpolyglots. “You think that was bad?”

“I’ve only been in Paris for a couple of months,” He explains. “And all my French was taught to me by this tiny, angry woman in high school.”

“Let me get this straight: You haven’t been formally taught in years,” she sighs,” and yet you sound fluent to me...”

She mutters, not as quietly as she should have, to herself, “Damn, I seriously owe Present Mic an apology.”

The redhead chuckled. 

“Well, either way, I’m glad you’re okay. Sorry about that idiot. He’s...well...an idiot.”

“No worries.” 

A chime rings through the air, as her phone chooses that moment to let out a tinkering sound that signaled inactivity in her very unhelpful GPS app. She wrestled it out her pocket, her jeans a little tighter thanks to a healthy appreciation for french chocolate and cheese.

Couple more weeks of this and they’d be rolling her out of Paris. 

“Damn it.”

He quirked a brow at her language. “You lost?”

“Actually, I am.”  She looks at this seemingly well-adjusted, possibly direction savvy man with hope in her eyes. “You wouldn’t happen to know how to get to Brûler would you? A friend of my friend is expecting me, like, five minutes ago.” Ochako frowns. “And I’ve never met the guy, but he didn’t sound like the “it’s okay that you're late, here, have a croissant" type. You know?”

“Oh trust me— I know.” He chuckles. "But you happen to be in luck. I know exactly where that is.”

📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦

As luck would have it, Kirishima Eijrou, her giant red-haired savior, not only knew where Brûler was — he was also co-owner of the brand.

This, according to him, meant that during the lead up to Fashion Week it was his job to make sure that Denki Kaminari wasn’t wandering the streets with expensive, irreplaceable pieces for too long because of his lack of direction — something the blond was notorious for. Which would explain why the very sight of Kirishima set him off into a frantic sprint down the hill towards the storefront with very little concern for the Uraraka Ochako’s of the world.

Something he apologized for once he caught sight of Kirishima entering with her in tow.

“Well, here we are.” Kirishima smiles at her. 

When Momo had said Brûler was fancy, she should have known that fancy to Momo - who dressed in a stained apron and worked an eight-hour shift and somehow still managed to smell expensive at the end of the day - was different to the fancy that Ochako was used to.

Damn.

Ochako didn’t even think she should be allowed to even stand on the marble flooring with her scuffed boots. Even the doors, twin mahogany standing out from the rest of the all-glass exterior, looked like they cost the totality of her four months paid leave plus a hefty bonus.

Not at all phased by the sight of Ochako’s jaw resting on the pristine floors, Kirishima continued.

“Now, usually I handle all of our visitors —celebrities we’re dressing, heroes we sponsor, athletes, stuff like that — but I don’t think I heard anything about a friend of Momo’s dropping by...” He stops to straighten a shirt on a crystal mannequin wearing a diamond-encrusted choker as if it was the most natural thing in the world. She couldn’t help but gulp — this place gave out discounts? “She probably spoke to Bakugou directly — their families have always been close. Now...”

He stopped, looking around.

“He should still be here somewhere.”

Ochako was so busy looking back at the crystal mannequin — There was no way that was real diamond right?! — that she almost ran straight into Kirishima, stopping just short of his back. 

He looked back at her over his shoulder, clearly amused. 

“I’ll just go grab him. Okay?”

“O-oh!” She hoped she didn’t sound as uncomfortable as she was. “That would be great.” 

“Well, then.” Sharp teeth peek out as his grin spreads. “Feel free to look around. I’m sure Bakugou’s gonna want to know where your usual style leans towards.”

“My style?” 

“Yup!” Kirishima nods enthusiastically. “Our team is... a bit of a mixed bag here. Lots of different styles and interests. So rather than fight amongst ourselves, we produce multiple collections at a time.” He must have seen the deer-caught-in-headlights look in her eyes because his gaze softened a bit. “And yeah, that means the storefront can be a bit... intimidating, for sure, but it also means we usually have something for everyone. So take a look around while I grab the boss. Have fun!”

Ochako gulped as Kirishima left her alone and defenseless in a sea of clothes way too expensive for her to even think about buying.

Don’t get her wrong, the store was brimming with beautiful clothes and even a novice like her could see that everything here was a statement piece in its own right.

She just wasn’t the type to shop this high end, like, at all.

Even searching for expensive cocktail dresses and ball gowns for the endless galas and balls and banquets that her publicist swore were important for her rankings made her skin itch. She was raised on home-sewn playsuits and patchwork T-shirts — no matter how comfortable her wallet got, diamond necklaces and silk slip dresses were never going to make her feel like anything other than an imposter.

Plus, she’d had enough designers take one look at the curve of her hips and shape of her face and turn her away to last a lifetime — she didn’t need to feel bad about her body in French too.

She shook her head with a forlorn sigh. Nope, she definitely didn’t need that.

Did they even carry her size?

She’d just tell Momo’s friend this wasn’t going to work and save him the trouble of having to turn her down himself.

Despite herself, her eyes caught on a green and orange jumpsuit, the tight looking fit reminding her of her own hero costume in all ways except —thank god for small mercies— without the bold cut-outs. She walks over — looking couldn’t possibly hurt— to where the piece hung on a lone rack blending in with the minimalist design of the space. As she got closer she notices that the entirety of the jumpsuit was actually leather until the top of the bodice where the neckline fell into a daring plunge. Whoever had set up this piece had paired it with a black opaque bodysuit giving the illusion of a turtleneck and long sleeves, somehow making the plunge look less terrifying.

 “You like this one.” 

Ochako almost jumped out of her skin as a deep, almost harsh sounding voice spoke surprisingly close to her ear. How had she not heard him walk up? She turned to her right. 

“Très intéressante”

Ochako was sure she looked as foolish as she felt gawking at the man next to her.

His eyes were locked on the leather jumpsuit, long fingers reaching out to readjust it on its hanger. He was dressed in all black, from his turtleneck and coat to his chunky, expensive-looking combat boots, the only splash of color coming from an equally chunky dark green watch on his wrist. And she wondered, almost absentmindedly, what color his eyes were.

His spiky blonde hair fell into his face blocking his eyes from her.

She strained up to look at him, he had a good couple of inches on her and his body, in general, was, well, large making her feel every inch of the 5’4” that she was.

“Bakugou? Yo! Bakugou? If you tell me to follow you, walking at the pace of a normal human would be much appreciated!”

Somewhere in the millennium that she spent gawking at this man — his bone structure alone had her wanting to wax poetic — Kirishima had appeared to her left. Thank god for that, because his presence seemed to be just what she needed to snap out of whatever spell this man (and her recent lack of a social life) had her under. 

Kirishima turned to her, smiling somewhat apologetically.

“Has he started yet?”

Started? “Started what?” 

Kirishima wiggled his eyebrows. “Dissecting you.”

“Dissecting me?” Ochako whisper-panicked and Kirishima dared to laugh. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Kirishima?” Oh, well, damn — she hadn’t noticed the accent when he’d spoken before. With a voice like that he could have anything he wanted back where she was from. “For once will you do us all the pleasure of, kindly, shutting the fuck up?”

Scratch that. 

Ochako looked back over at the modelesque man, his whole demeanor changing with a ferocity that left her feeling whiplashed. 

Red. 

His eyes were the purest, dark red that she had ever seen and the intensity that bubbled under them was damn near scathing.

It suddenly felt a lot warmer than the autumn weather should have allowed.

“Yeah, yeah.” Kirishima didn’t seem phased at all. And Ochako wondered if he was just really brave or if he was looking to piss this Bakugou off even more. “You have a client, boss man, try not to frighten her away with your joyful demeanor.”

Bakugou spoke to her again in that rough timber that was starting to stir something in her that was supposed to stay dormant.

“Ignore him.”

His gaze finally fell on her and Ochako would be lying if she said her breath didn’t hitch the slightest bit.

“He’s just another fucking extra.”

Having that much intensity directed exclusively at her made her skin tingle in ways she wasn’t prepared to deal with and for a moment they just stood there staring at each other.

Her eyes worked over the fullness of his hairline down to the curve of his nose and the plumpness of his bottom lip before falling back into the molten crimson of his eyes. They had been captivating earlier but right now, staring into her own with an intensity that she supposed he carried into everything he did her, her breath was stolen.

They were just…

He was...

His eyes were just really beautiful.

“Whatever, dude.” The rude remark didn’t seem to bother Kirishima, who just chuckled to himself. Something told her that he was used to being on the receiving end of the majority of his partner’s temper tantrums. “Just get on with it...”

Bakugou for his part looked even more irritated than he had before — if that was humanly possible.

Ochako smiled to herself.

What a weird dynamic.

A small giggle escaped her, quickly replaced by a stunned gasp as golden sparks lit up in Bakugou’s right hand. 

Wow.

“Tsk tsk. Such a drama queen. Right, Uraraka?” Kirishima rolls his eyes, a smirk playing on his lips that dared her to agree with him. He turned back to Bakugou, smirking. “Je t'ai embarrassé devant la jolie fille?” Did I embarrass you in front of the pretty girl?

Whatever, Kirishima had said must have pissed him off more because the golden sparks lighting up his hand had grown into small explosions and as entertaining as she bet these two were, she wasn’t sure if this was a game she wanted to play.

She just needed some new shirts — not to get acquainted with the local fire department.

“Who are you?”

Ochako blinked. “Huh?

The blonde wiped his hands on the front of his pants, a grimace painting his otherwise handsome features at the soot. “Êtes-vous aussi un idiot?” Are you also an idiot?

She might not speak French but Ochako knew when someone was being a dick — that was one thing that definitely transcended language. But before she could put this guy in his place, Kirishima interrupted.

“Come on, dude. I told you she doesn’t speak French.” He said, exasperated. “And would it kill you to be nice?”

“Peut être.” Maybe.

Bakugou sighed, turning back to her. “Ponytail mentioned that her foreign friend needed some new clothes. So who are you?”

“Uraraka Ochako.”  

“Uraraka.” He repeated. 

“Ochako is fine, too.”

“Have it your way, Cheeks.”

Cheeks?

She furrowed her brow, confused but he ignored her in favor of gesturing for Kirishima to bring him a notebook resting by the register.

“How long have you been in Paris?” 

She would ignore the nickname for now. 

“Just a couple of days.”

“And how long are you staying?” He asked. 

She replied, “I’ll be around for a couple of months.”

“I hope you’ve finished doing all of that tourist shit by now.” He scribbles something down, looking at the jumpsuit hanging in front of him and her in quick succession. “My clothes are for living. Not sightseeing.”

“Umm...” Wierd. “Okay?”

He looked at her.

“And my city is much more than the fucking Eiffel Tower or the Arc de Triomphe or whatever else they’re selling on those tacky cheap t-shirts. If you’re here to live in Paris — even for just a few months — then you need to actually see Paris.”

His eyes locked on her and she was taken aback by the... unbridled passion. 

“Really?” She considered that. They had been to a number of the big attractions already — if there was really more to see, she’d like to see it.”What is Paris like then? Really?”

“It sure as hell ain’t whatever your little fucking brochures tell you it is,” Bakugou smirks, closing his notebook. “I’ll tell you next time.”

“Next time?”

“Oui. When you come to pick up your clothes. You let Ponytail know that I’m charging all this to her tab.”

“But I haven’t picked anything out?”

“You don’t have to. I’m the designer — I will dress you.”

“But...”

“No buts. Next time, Étoile.”

Again, with the nicknames?

“How will you know what I like?”

“I have a very good eye, the best if you subscribe to the opinions of those fucking faceless journalists always sneaking around.”

His words would sound like bragging coming from anyone else, but the sincerity in his deep red eyes make Ochako inclined to agree with him.

“I bring out the essence of those I dress. And I see what you’re about, Uraraka Ochako.” She’s not sure she’ll ever be used to the strength of his gaze but she finds herself nodding anyway. “That is all I need.”

✂️✂️✂️✂️✂️✂️✂️✂️✂️✂️

The next couple of days pass by in a blur of bistro visits, risqué French novels, walks by the Seine, and watching her best friend fall in love in the coolness of the autumn air.

She dreams about blond hair and red eyes cutting into piles of lace and satin and silk.

Something in her feels warm when she wakes but she doesn’t quite know why. But something else in the air whispers to her that she doesn't need to know everything just yet and so she’s more than content to listen to Shouto’s hushed whispers and Momo’s laughs.

Until one day they are replaced with deep breaths and carefully closed doors and the next morning she is serving breakfast for three.

She’s standing in the small kitchen still dressed in her old oversized t-shirt when Todoroki and Momo start laughing at something on the television.

Their living room has a small, old brown couch and she smiles as the two lounge together, somehow sitting closer to each other each time she looks up at them.

She pours three glasses of orange juice, hands-off two, and heads to her room to read. 

The laughter stops and she hears a door closes.

She smiles into her glass, looking out the window at the two small figures walking from the lobby, hand in hand.

Her friend is finally happy.

🧃🧃🧃🧃🧃🧃🧃🧃🧃🧃

Bakugou sends Ochako a message one day — no explanation as to how exactly he got her number — and strongly requests her presence in his studio in six days at 6 PM and do not be fucking late again, round face, I swear to god.

Denki shoots her text shortly after asking for her address so that he can drop off something, and she’s too taken aback by the head designers’ foul tongue to ask him what.

A few seconds past and her phone buzzes again.

Bakugou asks her for her measurements and the fit she prefers for her t-shirts which she happily answers. Then he asks her for her bra size, and she may or may not have choked on a particularly sweet sip of wine.

Momo asks if she is okay from their small living room where she is cuddled into Todoroki’s side watching some animated French film about a severed hand. She mumbles some excuse as she answers him with a series of embarrassing question marks because why?

Rude Designer: Calm your tits, Sweet Cheeks. I can always just guess… (21:06 PM)
Cheeks: Guess?! (21:06 PM)
Rude Designer: I design womenswear. Or did you fucking forget. (21:07 PM)

Her cheeks feel warm and she’s suddenly really glad that Todoroki insists on watching movies in the dark as she slips into her room uninterrupted by what she was sure would have been a slick comment from her friend.

She tosses her phone onto her bed as if that would calm the burning of her face and nearly floats herself into the stratosphere as it rings again.

Luckily, it’s just Kirishima — another man who offers no explanation as to why her phone number is now just public knowledge — who asks her to ignore the rudeness of his partner's text messages and to come and see all the cool, manly clothes that he helped pick out.

She smiles at that, sending a handful of smiley faces before ignoring the heat of her face and texting Bakugou her measurements.

These clothes better be life-changing. 

📱📱📱📱📱📱📱📱📱📱

He starts texting her more.

Just small things at first. 

Asking what her favorite colors and patterns are. 

Her favorite designers and brands. 

What styles she normally stays away from. 

How she wants to feel in her clothes.

And because she is who she is, and she believes in reciprocity, she asks things back. Small things at first, the kinds of things that outline this mystery of a man in her mind. 

Why does he design woman’s wear? 

Who taught him to sketch?

What are his favorite designs?

And why does he wear all that black? 

He answers her in short sentences. The type that would normally make her think her questions are bothersome, but for some reason leave her thinking that’s just how he is.

Then he, because he believes turnabout is fair play, starts asking even more questions. 

Why did you become a hero?

What classes did you take at UA?

How long have you been pro?

Is it all it’s cracked up to be?

He makes her think.

Really consider his questions and craft her responses, until her short answers become paragraphs. Paragraphs she knows he reads because he asks more questions and even more questions until she has the scary thought that he might just be trying to get to know her.

The thought takes her by surprise and while she isn’t looking to start anything here — she still has a job and a family and a whole life waiting for her back home — she doesn’t think leaving parts of herself with him is all that dangerous.

(Or maybe she knows it is but she’s so used to braving scary things daily and in all this tranquility she has misses the rush of adrenaline doing scary things gives her. )

Either way, she answers his questions, openly and honestly.

And she asks her own.

Which he makes a fuss about answering but does anyway.

His sentences get longer and longer until he grows tired of all that fucking typing and she starts getting voice notes. 

Morning voice notes when his voice dipped in sleep and so deep that she can almost feel the rumble in her own chest.

While he’s in the studio designing and she can hear Kaminari or Kirishima in the background. 

One on his drive to the studio where he stops to grab a coffee and she hears him order in smooth, warm French.

Before she knows it she’s looking forward to hearing his voice everyday and she speaks back.

He laughs at her after she sends him a morning greeting in butchered French. She asks him to teach her something and is pleasantly surprised when he begins his next drive home with a French lesson.

On Friday — three days before she’s to see him again — he tells her about the exhibit he has just seen at some exclusive underground gallery. He describes the dim lighting and champagne and all of the beautiful paintings.

Listening to him, she finds herself wishing she could see it herself. 

So she asks.

Would you show me Paris?

🖼🖼🖼🖼🖼🖼🖼🖼🖼🖼

Todoroki notices. 

It starts in small ways like how her phone will vibrate and a giggle erupts, untamed, from her smiling face or how he catches her whispering into her phone more often.

She carries around a pair of wireless earphones now.

Popping one bud in occasionally, and listening to something with barely contained glee. Her face always softens as she does it, melting into something warm and happy.

He doesn’t even think she notices.

He comments on it one day when she spends three minutes staring at potatoes in the grocery store before turning to him and butchering “le pomme de terre!”

She grins, wildly and he looks at her like she’s grown an extra head. Which is new for him and fits in with how the rest of the produce section is now looking her too. 

“What?” She asks, looking at the potato in her hands. “Is that not right?”

“It’s not that it’s wrong,” Todoroki says. He grabs the potato from her and places it in the cart. “It’s that potatoes don’t usually inspire your level of enthusiasm. You’re scaring the children.”

Ochako blinks. “Oh. Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry.” They move down the aisle. “Be normal.”

She rolls her eyes. “Coming from you?”

He ignores that dig, looking for the noodles he needs to make soba. 

“That wasn’t terrible though. Who’s teaching you? Momo?” 

“No.” She reaches for a packet of rice. “Not Momo.”

He looks at her expectantly.

She avoids his eyes.

He tries a different approach. “When do you see Bakugou again?”

“Three days.” She smiles down at the rice in her hands and Sho watches her. She places the packet into the cart and moves to lean against the handle. He watches her reach for her phone again. “Three days until your father gets the shock of his life.”

“Yeah.” He watches her laugh quietly, typing something out on her phone. And he finds himself smiling back at her. “Hey. Ochako?”

“Hmm?”

“Just... keep working on your French. You’ll get it eventually.”

🍚🍚🍚🍚🍚🍚🍚🍚🍚🍚

“Don’t hold back.” Kirishima couldn’t be more excited if he tried — the giant of a man is leaning on the desk, two fangs biting into his thumbs like a child. It would almost be cute, Ochako thinks, if it wasn’t one of the strangest things she has ever seen. “Tell me what you think.”

Ochako is standing in the middle of what was apparently Bakugou’s design studio, eyes locked on yards and yards of fabric.

The entire space is worlds away from the leather, lace, and spandex downstairs in the main store and it feels almost... serene. Beautiful sketches litter the tables and desks around the room, looking more like artwork than the scraps Kirishima claims them to be. She almost stops him when he balls up one — a sketch of a glittering golden skirt and white blouse — and tosses it into the trash can. Magazines covers line the back wall creating a collage of Brûler pieces on models, celebrities, and pro hero’s alike.

She recognizes one newspaper clipping that Momo had shown her a few days ago after the fashion show. Bakugou is pictured next to the article, impeccably dressed as always, and scowling Bakugou on the cover.

The article is filled with praises for the innovative show Brûler had wowed the fashion world with, but it’s been snipped off and the only evidence of it at all is the tag line under the photo — “Focus on the damn clothes, you hack!” — a direct quote from Brûler’s creator himself.

But her main focus right now is the two full racks in the middle of the room holding up silver hangers and beautiful clothes in muted pinks, teals, and browns – perfect for autumn– as well as six boxes of what she guesses are shoes stacked against the wall.

She knew that Sho was set on her spending a small fortune but... this was...

“It’s just a lot,” Ochako says, still standing awestruck. There are things with cut-outs and ribbed material and expensive-looking coats. “I just don’t know if I’m this kind of girl.”

“What kind of girl would that be?” Jirou asked, cutting a strip of velvet at the workbench, ear jacks plugged into a stereo. Ochako hadn’t realized she was listening.

“Well, I just mean... I’m not a model.”

“And?” The black-haired girl quirked an eyebrow.

Ochako tugs on the lapel of her old coat. “I’ve owned the same coat for six years.”

“Don’t be fucking ridiculous.”

Bakugou is still wearing all black — baggy black combat pants with a rip in the knee, a beanie pulled over his otherwise unruly hair, and an oversized t-shirt with ‘lord explosion murder’ written across the expanse of his chest in chunky letters. A single orange earring in his right lobe. His outfit looks simple enough, but she wouldn’t be surprised if it cost an arm and a leg. 

Damn, with how well it fit him, she’d throw in another of her limbs with no fuss.

“You’re here for four months — you can’t just wear the same four shirts in rotation like some kind of cartoon character. Now can you?”

He looks at her and sees that, yes, that is exactly what she had planned to do.

He suddenly looks very exhausted, and Ochako looks away.

”Ponytail already told me about the god awful yellow sweater you like to wear every other fucking day — last I checked you are not actually a bum. So can you please stop dressing like one.”

She tugs her coat closer to her body, hoping no one notices the sickly yellow peeking out. 

“What’s wrong with my sweater? It was my grandma’s.” 

Even Kirishima gives her a look for that one and he’s wearing a kilt. In autumn.

Now that she thinks about it – he’s always wearing a kilt.

“And you don’t see anything wrong with that sentence?”

She ignores him. “It’s nice.” 

“I’m sure it was beautiful…in the fifties when your grandma probably bought it. This is not the fifties, Étoile. Besides...”  He looks at her suspiciously. “That color doesn’t suit you.” 

He definitely saw the sweater peeking out of her sleeve.

“I won’t have you walking down the street looking like a long lost member of the fucking Imagination Movers.” He looked offended. The asshole. “Won’t happen. Not on my fucking watch, Cheeks.”

“How much is all of this anyway?” She asks, another excuse to forget all this and run sitting on the tip of her tongue. “Brûler isn’t exactly cheap so I can imagine...”

“Don’t worry about it.” 

He waves her off, turning to adjust a complicated strap on an even more complicated playsuit. She’s not even sure where her head is supposed to go…

“But, I—“

“I couldn’t charge the Yaoyorozu family full price if I wanted to or the old hag would flip her shit.”

She opens her mouth to speak again but, unsurprisingly, Bakugou interrupts her again.

He rolled his eyes.

“Besides, I sent Two-Tone the invoice a couple of days ago and as well as being fucking insufferable apparently your friend is loaded. You’re all paid in full. “

She chuckles, shaking her head in disbelief.

“You know what?” Kirishima says, his smile dripping in mischief, as he stands up. “You’ll probably feel different once you try this stuff on.”

“Like here?” She hates how panicked she already sounds. “In front of all of you?”

Kirishima nods.

“Sure! We may need to make adjustments anyway so why not give us a little show now and we can do them as we go?”

“You have work to do.” Bakugou scolds.

“Oh, come on!” Kirishima pouts. “It’s almost closing — let’s not pretend anyone is getting anything else done today.”

“No— let’s. Lets fucking pretend.”

Bakugou looks depleted and with the lively people working with him, she could see why. But she’d be lying if she said she didn’t find it hilarious.

A collective groan rang in the air and Bakugou glared at his employees.

None of them seemed to notice. 

“Let’s all pretend that you all respect me as your fucking boss or at least have the fucking decency to pretend like you’re doing the work I pay you for instead of just fucking around. Please.”

Jiro removed her earphone jacks from her phone for the first time since they had gotten upstairs.

“I vote for a fashion show. “

“Same here!” Kaminari exclaimed, running into the room with another box, and narrowly missing Jirou’s purposefully extended foot. “Jirouuuu! Stop it.”

“I’ll fire you.” Bakugou half-growled. 

Jirou rolled her eyes, plugging her phone back in.

“No, you won’t.”

No, he wouldn’t.

Ochako has only been around them all for a few hours and she already knows that much.

“Who votes for a fashion show?” Mina asked, hand shooting in the air. “This is a democracy after all.”

Five hands shoot up in agreeance and Bakugou looks like he was considering the ramifications of murdering his entire staff.

“You can’t even spell democracy, Pinky.”

Ochako frowned slightly, rubbing her arm. 

While she was grateful for all the work that they had obviously put into this huge favor, she was not sure she was mentally or physically in the place to parade around in custom clothes for a whole group of fashion experts. She had just had three croissants before heading over here. Plus it had been a hot minute since she hit the gym and they were probably all used to dressing thin, long-limbed, models and not... well... her.

The actual antithesis of that with her thick thighs and wide hips and general roundness. 

He had said it himself — she had a round face.

“I’m sure Bakugou has better things to do than see me destroy his beautiful clothing.” She hopes she sounds light-hearted, but maybe she’s missed the mark because Bakugou’s deepens. “Not that you haven’t all done a great job! It’s just...I’m just ...a lot more than I’m sure you’re all used to working with.”

A collection of furrowed brows didn’t do much to stop the familiar discomfort finding its home in the pit of her stomach. 

Wordlessly, Bakugou flicked through the rack to his right.

His frown lessened a twinge as he grabbed a single jumpsuit off the rack before shoving it into Ochako’s arms. His face took on a self-satisfied sort of smirk as if he’d done something other than poke her in the cheek with the tip of the hanger.

“This is... “ She looks at the green and orange jumpsuit that he’d found her admiring when they first met. She’d thought he’d forgotten — decided it wouldn’t suit her, maybe look better on that model who’d worn it down the runway.”I didn’t think you thought this was me?”

He looks confused.

“You don’t like it?” 

“No, no. That’s not it at all.” 

She shakes her head, fingering the cool leather.

Actually, she loved it.

Even with the plunging neckline that she was sure her mother would never approve of. 

“Other than my hero costume, I don’t really wear things that are this…” 

She’s looking for the word. 

“Sexy?”

She looks at Bakugou.

“Well…” 

The smirk on his face speaking of rushed kisses and warm touches and all the things that Ochako hasn’t even thought about in what seems like an eternity. Her breath hitches and the twinkle in his eyes makes her feel floaty in a way that has nothing to do with her quirk. 

“Well,” She swallows, suddenly very very glad Todoroki isn’t here. “Yes.”

“You don’t think you’re sexy?” 

“Well...”— don’t look him in the eyes, don’t look him in the eyes, don’t look him in the eyes, don’t — “Not usually no.”

“Not usually?” He scoffs. He turns his whole body towards her and something about that simple gesture feels like way too much and not quite enough all at once. “I’ll show you.”

Her brain glitches. “What?”

“I’ll show you that you are sexy.” He says it slow and it would be sensual if not for his patronizing tone that makes it clear he thinks she may be stupid. Stupid and sexy. “Try on my clothes and you’ll see what I fucking see.”

Her grip tightens and the button on her sleeve digs into her wrist slightly.

“I don’t know...”

“Indulge me, Cheeks.” He leans back, looking over the entirety of her and still dressed in her old, worn coat she feels exposed in the best and worst of ways. “I’m a pretty selfish man on my best days. Downright bratty one my worst — I’m used to getting what I want.”

A chorus of eyes rolled. Ochako’s cheeks must have been red for how warm her skin felt. 

“Besides these idiots have already decided to slack off.” He looks into her eyes, the feeling of it ghosting along her skin and causing her to shudder under the hot light of his studio. “Et, je veux te voir dans mes vêtements. ” And, I want to see you in my clothes.

Something about that makes her scurry away and before she can ask where the fitting room is, a girl with deep pink skin pushes her into a changing room with a wink. 

😳😳😳😳😳😳😳😳😳😳

T-shirts. Blouses. Jeans. Pants. Skirts. Heels. Flats. Knee high boots. Coats. 

By the time Ochako makes it back into the changing room for the last time, she is on a first-name basis with the head stylist, Mina Ashido.

“Your body,” Mina whispers, probably because her last compliment in front of all the boys about her butt in a tight pair of leather pants left her red-faced and embarrassed. “You were made for Brûler.”

Ochako laughs.

“I’m sure you say that to everyone who spends this much, Mina.”

The compliment is something she has seen written in messaging boards and under her comments but something about the genuine way that she says it makes it feel... nice.

Nice enough that she is not completely dreading slipping the jumpsuit on.

Except...

”Bakugou can’t honestly be serious about this one, can he?”

Mina leans against the door. “Oh, qui, he’s quite serious.”

“He must be a masochist.” Ochako sighs. “Which rib does he want me to cut off to squeeze into this thing?”

“None of them. This piece was made for someone with your physique, Ochako.”

“This piece was made for a really tall, outgoing baby.” She stripped out of the high waisted jeans and brown turtleneck, kicking the Chelsea boots into the corner. “Or one of those models from the show.”

“Trust him, girl.”

Mina sent a wink to Kirishima. 

“He might be an asshole, but he sure knows how to make a girl look good.” She leans into the closed door, dropping her voice so only Ochako could hear. “And with a body like yours, that’s an extra easy job.”

Ochako takes comfort in Mina’s compliment and slips into the jumpsuit with surprisingly little difficulty.

The material is padded inside, so she doesn’t feel the coolness of the leather like she usually did in her own suit. The plunging of the front revealing the black band of her bra will take some getting used to but something about it does make her stand a little straighter. She runs her fingers against a cut out just under her rib rubbing the skin there. She’s mostly covered — which considering the barely there pieces that were on display at last week’s fashion show is an appreciated blessing — and as she looks at herself in the mirror ... she likes it.

Sure, the awkwardness is there in how she stands and the blush on her cheeks and maybe it’s a little weird to be barefoot in this kind of outfit but all in all, she thinks she looks ... good.

Good enough that she’s only mildly nervous as she steps out into the open space of the studio. 

Bakugou is standing there peering over Kirishima’s shoulder as he makes some adjustments on a skirt that had been slightly too loose. At some point, he had slipped a pair of black-rimmed glasses on and Ochako does not feel a traitorous pulse at the pit of her stomach at the sight — nope not at all. 

And as if he can sense her, he looks up.

His eyes lazily walk down her body and he smirks at her yellow-painted toes, and, rather than feeling judged or scrutinized or uncomfortable, she feels fucking fantastic.

“Tu n'as pas déçu.” You did not disappoint.

Ochako smiles. Why? She’s not sure because she sure as hell doesn’t know what he just said but the slight blush on his face tells her she’d really like it if she did.

“Merci.” Thanks.

“Didn’t I tell you to drop the fake fucking accent.” He mutters the usual bite is missing with the blush creeping up his neck. “What the fuck took you so long? Something wrong with the jumpsuit?”

“No, it’s... perfect,” Ochako reassures him. Lifting her arms and twisting to prove her overall comfort in the piece. “Almost too perfect. It’s almost like you knew my exact measurements.”

“I told you, Cheeks.” Bakugou walks over until he is right in front of her, his measuring tape hanging across his shoulders like something from a movie she’d seen once and that glint in his eye that makes her feel warm in an air-conditioned room. “My craft is the female body.”

Kirishima coughs, an exaggerated sound that grabs Bakugou’s attention before her blush has the chance to reach her face, and she silently thanks him for never missing an opportunity to mess with his friend.

“Plus, he knows your hero costume designer.”

She looks up at him. “You do?” 

He nods.

“Horikoshi offered to design my costume back when I was considering becoming a hero.” He sighs. “When I saw those damn dots on your costume, I knew he’d gotten his hands on you.”

“You were gonna be a hero?” 

“No big fucking deal.” 

The information surprises her and doesn’t all at once.

She’s seen his quirk a few times, whenever he’s especially annoyed at his employees,  emphasizing his displeasure with a small spark, and she can only imagine the devastation of his explosions when he’s being serious. It’s almost enough to have her start babbling like Deku.

And combined with his lean, athletic build he just... he would have so much potential.

She can just imagine him zooming from building to building or facing off against the latest big bad with ease.

But something about all that raw potential being locked up in a design studio, as silly as it sounds, makes her feel weird.

Maybe it’s because she’s never had that — raw potential.

She always has to be creative.

Smarter.

Faster.

She’s constantly proving herself.

No one ever just... expects her to be as good as she is at her job. They expect her to be weaker, they expect her to aid with the rescue and recovery, they expect to pick up her slack. She’s never felt like she was on equal footing with anyone right when they meet her.

Even with her friends — Deku, Iida, and Todoroki — she’s caught them making concessions for her.

And she knows they don’t mean it but... sometimes she feels as if they think of her as something to be overcome.

So envy leaves a sour taste on her tongue.

And maybe it’s not fair, but it’s true.

But then again, he looks so ... at home in this little studio surrounded by eccentric people and clothes. So, at home.

And suddenly there is a weird juxtaposition in her head between the two — his what-could-have-been and this what is — that she isn’t sure how to rationalize.

But he thinks it’s no big deal...

“Kinda a big deal,” Kirishima interjects, “Baku-bro, got into U.A on a recommendation.”

Now that was surprising.

The recommendation admitted students she had met were all legacy kids whose parents had either attended U.A or were sitting in at least the top twenty of the World Hero Billboard Chart.

“Are your parents’ heroes?”

“No.” He scoffed, “My father dabbled in the costume design business — helped design the Silver, Bronze, and Platinum eras of All Might’s costume. He was a UA support course student specializing in gadgets until he decided to stick to design.”

All Might?

Ochako’s ears perked up at that.

She vaguely remembers Midoriya’s disappointment during their second year that All Might’s old designer no longer accepted hero costume requests.

“When it was time for me to decide what high school I’d be going to All Might happened to be in France dealing with the fucking resurgence of an old drug cartel. He stopped by our house, saw my quirk, and suggested I apply.”

Ochako nods. “I can see why.”

“He’s pretty flashy.” Mina spread her hands, imitating the sound of an explosion with her mouth.  It was pretty hilarious but, to be honest, Ochako was just surprised that Bakugou didn’t throw his sketch pad at her. He just gave her a look, to which she shrugged, “Even you have to admit the media loves a flashy quirk.”

“Why didn’t you end up attending?” Ochako asks, “We’re about the same age so we’d probably have been in the same cohort.”

Maybe it’s selfish of her to ask.

Maybe the story is devastating or traumatic and while it is definitely none of her business, she doesn’t think it’s a hard story for him to tell.

He seems so light. Comfortable, even.

As if he’s talking about giving up free cello classes to play the piano instead and not giving up on her only dream and wasting all that potential that she’d kill to just... have.

For people to just see her and recognize it. And she just really needs to know why.

“I could have been a hero, sure.” Bakugou shrugged. “I loved winning and that’s what heroes do — they win. But I also loved watching my dad work on costumes and clothes.” His eyes softened slightly. “He would get so, I don’t know, excited whenever All Might would pull someone out of a burning building wearing one of his suits. He always told me, “we won, that’s a win for the both of us”. And he designed costumes for a lot of heroes in his time — so that was a lot of fucking winning. “

His voice was brimming with pride and passion, the weight of it pulling at something in her. 

“I decided I could win bigger this way than I ever could on my own. So I went to design school.” He shrugs. “And yeah, I could have been a hero but I could have been anything else too. I love this so I choose this — simple as.”

I loved this, so I choose this.

The words themselves were straightforward, not at all as awe provoking or inspired as some of the speeches she’s heard and given in the midst of battle but something about them nudges the block within her loose.

Suddenly it all makes sense.

And she remembers.

She loves it.

She truly loves being a hero.

Rescuing people.

Loved the feeling of her quirk flowing through her hands and the pull of it on her gut.

Even the strain of lifting way above her limit is a rush she craves.

And that... that is enough.

And maybe it doesn’t have to be deeper than that.

She doesn’t have to keep fighting against this idea that people have for her, running herself ragged against it.

It doesn’t have to be the way it is for Deku or Todoroki or Iida.

It just has to be.

She loves it and that’s it.

And this — designing, creating, and winning — he loves this.

And that’s all there is to it. 

She smiles, and it rushes out of her before she even notices like a valve opening from a drip to a burst. 

He notices.

“You wanna share, Cheeks?”

She doesn’t. Not now anyway. 

“I was just wondering,” she says instead, “how’d you end up designing womenswear?”

Bakugou shrugs.

“Branching out the family business.”

“And for the cash. Don’t forget the cash.” Mina interrupts, carrying a stack of fabrics and hitting her boss in the side as she passes by. “Speciality costume materials cost a whole lot of money so the profit we make from Brûler goes into our hero design house.”

“Oh.” Figured a man as larger than life as Bakugou wouldn’t want to be under his father's shadow. Of course, he’d be striking it out on his own. “So you have a design house.”

“Yeah, we do.” Bakugou nods, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “Ground Zero.”

“We do costume designs in house, too, though,” Kirishima adds. “Small alterations and we’re licensed for tailoring on already made costumes for some of Paris’ top heroes. Plus we’ve already signed on to design Nightrunner’s new suit.”

“Oh, wow.” Her eyes widen at the mention of France’s top hero and the world’s overall sixth. “That is impressive.”

“Yup,” Bakugou smirks, “so if you ever get tired of all those fucking polka dots — hit us up and we’ll treat you good.”

“Is it good business etiquette to sweet talk your mentor's clients?”

“He should expect it. And besides,” his eyes trace over her again, and standing this close she can feel the heat of it, “I like you better in my clothes.”

At this rate, Bakugou must be trying to break some kind of record because she blushes —again.

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Ochako quickly excuses herself as she catches sight of Mina making a rather suggestive gesture behind her boss’ back much to her mortification and just about runs back into the changing room.

After hanging up all of the clothes in the last batch that Mina had brought her to try on, she slips on a black turtleneck and a pair of interesting leather trousers that are almost as comfortable as the old jumper she arrived in.

She smooths down the soft material, hands traveling over the expanse of her hips, and smiles. 
 
She looks good. 

Happy, even. 

Worlds away from the agitated and, more often than not, tearful endings of past fittings.

She’s tired, sure, but satisfied in a way that she imagines retail therapy is meant to have one feeling — especially when someone else is footing the bill.

She steps out, coming face to face with a box. 

“You have some way to carry these all home?” Kaminari asks, upper body completely hidden, as he readjusts his hold. “If not I can help you as soon as I fini—“

“If you drop that box, Sparky,” Bakugou calls out. “I drop you. To the ground. Face first.”

She could probably use the help, her apartment is a good thirty-minute walk from here, and with the sheer number of boxes, there is no way she can hold them all even with her quirk.

Bakugou interrupts her thoughts, simply saying, “We’re calling a cab.”

She turns to the blonde and finds him still standing near Kirishima, head turned towards the clipboard he’s reviewing. Without looking away he continues. “Call a car, Pinky.”

“There really is no need!” Ochako insists. Mina is already holding the phone, looking between the blonde and the brunette with barely hidden pleasure. At the silence, Bakugou finally looks up. “I mean, I can just figure out a way to carry them home with my quirk or something.”

Bakugou quirks an eyebrow.

“They’re heavy.”

She wiggles her fingers at him.

“One of the advantages of zero gravity.”

“I see,” Bakugou says as though he doesn’t see her point at all, and once again, she gets the feeling that he thinks she’s an idiot. “And how are you planning to hold all of these?”

“Um...” She rubs the back of her neck feeling very much on the spot. “I was thinking, maybe, you have some rope or something?”

“Rope?”

“Yeah, so I can tie together these boxes and, you know, tug them along with me.”

Bakugou‘s brow furrows, creating the lines between them he usually reserved for Kirishima.

“Like a fucking balloon or something?”

“Yes.” She says even though that feels like the wrong answer.

“No.” It was the wrong answer. “My clothes aren’t fucking balloons. They are very expensive and in high demand and you will get mugged.”

“But, I was ju–“

“But what?” He rolls his eyes, smacking his clipboard down on the desk (startling Kirishima in the process). “Étoile, do you plan to float these shoe boxes into the fucking sun?” He doesn’t stop to let her explain. “I think the fuck not. We are getting a taxi and I am coming to help you.”

Something about that felt final and she could see herself arguing with him for a while and ending up at the back of that cab anyway – besides she didn’t really want to walk all the way back to her apartment with her quirk on anyway – and so she just nods.

“Pinky, cancel my conference call.” 

She almost regretted giving in so easily with how pleased Bakugou looked as he stretched with his hands clenched.

“Shark Tooth. Spark Plug. Help us load this shit into the car? And Headphone. You can leave after finishing the alterations on the Cannes piece.”

Several trips up and down the stairs later, Ochako was reaching for the last box, and Bakugou, holding the last few bags, waited by the door. He was looking down at his phone with a frown on his face as he tapped out a message, stopping only once she reached him.

“Let’s go.” He slipped his phone into his pocket and stepped to the side, allowing her to head down the stairs first. With one last look into the studio, he called out, “Oh, and Kaminari?”

“Yes, boss.” 

The blonde popped up from a pile of fabric on the floor near Jirou, who absentmindedly tossed another scrap onto his head.

“Just…don't do anything stupid.”

The two of them walked down the stairwell in comfortable silence, Ochako staring out the large windows to the car waiting in the distance (and if she had turned back she might have caught Bakugou watching her, something soft in his eyes). When Bakugou had said they were taking a cab she had expected something like the small black cab that Todoroki and she had squeezed into a couple of weeks ago, what she wasn’t expecting was the sleek white SUV and equally sleek driver waiting out front.

A man – who couldn’t be any older than Bakugou himself – was leaning against the car, texting on his phone. Ochako dropped the box she was carrying onto of the pile by the door as Bakugou walked over to the car, his energy suddenly back at to his usual rage levels.

The young man looked up, a wicked smile on his face.

“Close your mouth before a bird flies in.” Bakugou scolded. The man doesn’t even look phased — simply settling his toothy grin into a smaller smile. “What the fuck are you doing here, Tape Arms?”

‘Tape Arms’ just chuckled, leaning back on his cellophane dispenser shaped elbows and Ochako made a note of another of Bakugou’s brave friends. 

“Where the hell is Grapehead, Sero?”

“Come on, Bakugou, you know your mom fires him, like, once every other day.” 

“And what the hell is it this time?”

“Something to do with Uwabumi. Didn’t get the full story before she threw another boot at him and by the time I’d calmed her down your mom was asking me to go shuttle you across town.”

Sero’s smile spread further across his face again and he slapped his hand down on the angry blonde’s shoulder. 

“But never mind that.” His eyes flicked over to her for a second, and something troubling sparked in his eyes. “I don’t think you want that little purple pervert around your pretty little friend, do you?”

The sounds of explosions catch Ochako’s attention as Sero slanders over to her, he introduces himself with his hand extended despite the smoke coming from where he had left his friend. She takes it and laughs at the absurdity of this close-knit and crazy group. She reaches down to haul a couple of bags to the open trunk of the car, only to be waved away by Sero insisting she leave it to him and Bakubro (a nickname that inspires several more small explosions in the distance as he stomped over to rip the bags from her hands).

🚘🚘🚘🚘🚘🚘🚘🚘🚘🚘

“If you throw that dress on the floor, I swear, I will never fucking forgive you.”

 “Well, where do you want me to put it?!”

“Pour l'amour de Dieu,” Bakugou growled, bit for the first time. “Just fucking hold it.” For the love of God.

The ride to her apartment had been short and mostly quiet.

Sero took it upon himself to point out interesting places along the route once he found out she was visiting for a while, offering up little anecdotes about each spot they passed. She was thankful for the constant stream of conversation he provided, but she wasn’t really sure what to say to back to him (and only very slightly freaking out at the realization that Bakugou would be in her apartment in ten minutes) but Sero didn’t seem to mind.

Bakugou, for his part, was mostly silent. Only once yelling at the driver when he began telling an embarrassing story about the blonde from high school before eventually choosing to just tune it out.

He stared out the window, giving Ochako a chance to look at him again.

His face was relaxed, the ever-present scowl now just a slight downturn of his lips. His eyes followed the streets, lighting up for a moment whenever Sero mentioned one of their old haunts. The sun hits his hair at an angle that made the blonde almost look golden.

Something about watching him like this, as he watched his city pass by calmed her down a bit. Enough so that the car ride seemed to pass in an instant and after Sero helped unload the car, she was surprised and suddenly she was very aware that she was alone with Bakugou.

Truth be told, once they were left inside her apartment, she had been a little nervous about being alone with him.

She wasn’t in complete denial.

She knew that she... felt something for him.

Lust, appreciation, gratitude, respect, whatever it was — all of it applied. But she wasn’t planning to act on any of it.

She'd ignore it until she boarded the plane and left all this behind. That’s was just how it had to be.

Anything they could have would just be ... transient and short-lived.

A fling.

So it was safer for her to guard her feelings and her heart as much as she could considering he’d already managed to make her act like an idiot when they were around other people.

But, Ochako realized as she turned her key, they had never really been alone together.

And something about the quickened beating of her heart made her think this was only going to make things more awkward.

At least, that what she had thought.

But Bakugou was quick to dissuade her of any of that by insisting that they begin organizing her closet.

Something that she definitely hadn’t been expecting.

And the reason that she was now laying on her floor, holding a dress that she had no occasion to ever wear and seething. 

She understood he was very particular about things, yes. He was a fashion designer so of course, he was a perfectionist, sure, she could understand that — even appreciate it— but did he have to be an ass about it?

He’d walked into her room and opened her little closet with a look that could only be described as horror on his stupidly handsome face.

And what was even the point of him organizing her closet when she was going to be packing this stuff away in a few short months?

And why did they have to be color coordinated?

And sorted by fabric?

And why did he pull out a fucking color wheel?!

“How do you fucking live like this?”

She was almost afraid to think of how he’d react if he saw her closet back home or the small piles of laundry that were still littering her living room. 

“This closet was made for a short stay for a normal person with a normal amount of clothes.”

Ochako rolls her eyes behind the black sunglasses he swore she really really needed in the middle of October. 

“No one needs this many clothes for a four-month visit, Bakugou. No one needs this many clothes for four years.”

He looked positively aghast.

“And it’s that fucking attitude that makes me believe that your closet back home must be  fucking nightmarish.” Bakugou picks up the last of the sweaters. “Don’t tell me you’re out of hangers, Cheeks.”

“Here.”

She reached under the pile of pants on the bed, pulling out a couple.

“Thanks,” Bakugou said, reaching for her outstretched hand. His fingers, long and slightly calloused touched the tips of hers for a beat longer than she should have allowed. “Lift that dress up, Étoile.”

Ochako sighed, throwing herself on top of some coats and laying the precious red dress across her thighs. She raised her head looking as Bakugou tried to differentiate between an eggshell t-shirt and an ivory blouse.

“Does anyone really need a color-coordinated closet?”

“If they love themselves then, yes.” This level of organization was borderline psychotic. “Yes, they do.”

Ochako groaned.

She was alone in her apartment with a sexy psychopath. 

“You might want to get off your ass and actually help me, Cheeks.”

This close.

She was seriously this close to killing him.

“If you want us to be finished anytime soon, that is. Otherwise looks like I’ll be spending the night with you.”

Ochako shot up at that.

He couldn’t be serious.

But by the way, his eyes flicked over to her and the lecherous smirk on his face she found herself feeling... something that wasn’t appropriate for a three and a half month stay.

Something that was more long term.

Something she did not have time for.

She slowly stood up from the floor, ignoring the way that Bakugou’s eye seemed to follow the line of her body as she stretched. Because thinking that that heated gaze was directed at her would be ridiculous — laughable even — and definitely not within the parameters of a four-month getaway.

It was just... late and he couldn’t possibly mean it the way she was taking it.

His eyes were hypnotic, entrancing — any look from him was bound to leave her breathless. He could probably seduce a wall with that stare. It had nothing to do it’s her. 

“And for the love of god give me the damn dress.”

She handed him the dress and hurried out —maybe a little to quickly—to grab the last box.

And hopefully, find some sense in the distance.

And, maybe, Todoroki.

Something told her the two males would clash if they ever met and that was sure to douse the fire roaring in the pit of her stomach for the explosive blonde. Nothing like watching two adult men bicker like teenagers to kill any lingering lust.

Yeah, Todoroki would save her. 

Except it didn’t seem like Todoroki was home yet.

She reached over the box to lift one of the couch cushions — Todoroki had an annoying habit of rolling off his socks off as soon as he got in and tossing them into the corner of the sofa which she’d begun taking as a signaled that he was home — but for once it was clean. No socks insight, his door was closed, and the mugs from this morning were still in the sink.

Ochako frowned.

Todoroki always did the dishes once they wandered in from wherever the day would take them.

(Something she always appreciated because she hated doing dishes.)

It was a little odd that he’d be out so late, but she wasn’t really worried.

Ever since that first night, he’d started walking Momo home, usually with her tagging along but sometimes she’d go ahead of them giving the not-couple a moment alone. On the nights when she didn't tag along, he'd walk in two or three hours after closing with a smile on his face she hadn’t seen since high school.

But now he was late late.

The type of late that told her that he probably wouldn’t back till morning.

Which was fine.

As long as she got to hear the whole story later.

But that also meant there was no one to rescue her from Bakugou and his stupid, beautiful eyes. And there was only so long she could stall in the living room gathering her wits before he called for her. And after they were done?

Then what?

“It’s a small apartment,” Bakugou called out. If she didn’t know any better she’d think his second quirk was knowing whenever she was thinking about him. “Did you get lost?”

“No,” she hauled the box into her arms. Guess she’d have to save herself. “Just grabbing the last box.”

It might have seemed ridiculous but Ochako stood in the middle of the living room and took a deep breath, steeling her nerves. She was just not used to... feeling like this.

Sure, she had had crushes and relationships in the past — including one unrequited crush on Izuku which they now laughed about with his boyfriend, Hitoshi. And it wasn’t like she wasn’t surrounded by handsome men in her profession but this was... different.

Something about Bakugou seemed to draw her in like she was being pulled towards him, and to be honest it scared her. Not just because they’d only really known each other for a little more than a week but because she was actually starting to feel better when she was around her. Like the shadow that she’d been running from, that had her feeling detached from everything was lifting — and she knew that this trip played a part in that but what he’d said today about doing what he loved, his unbridled passion?

That had shifted something into place for her too.

He’d really given her something today.

A piece of herself that somewhere along the way she had lost.

And he’d done that with just a couple of words.

Plus, she would have to be completely oblivious to not acknowledge how gorgeous he was. He could easily be walking his own runway and no one would bat an eye.

But acknowledging that— coupled with the fact his eyes seemed to sing to her — wasn’t going to help her get a handle on her blushing.

And dammit, she was always blushing around him.

In fact, she could even feel the heat of her face now, and he wasn’t even in the room!

Ochako walked back into her room carrying the now weightless box with practiced ease.

She dropped it down on the now cleared bed, next to that damn dress, a witty comment about how he’d just tossed the dress across the bed as soon as she’d left sitting poised on her tongue before she turned and caught Bakugou just staring at her.

If she gulped that couldn’t be helped, clearly his gaze wasn’t something she’d be getting used to any time soon.

“Uraraka?”

“Yes?” She says, decidedly not looking at him.

“What,” He took a step towards her, the tip of his steel-toed boot knocking her fuzzy socks, and pointed at something on the bed behind her “is that?”

Her eyes followed his finger, spotting the fuzzy ear of her treasured childhood stuffed animal.

She was frozen, not necessarily because she was embarrassed by the tattered stuffed rabbit that her mother had bought for her on her eighth birthday, but because he was just so close.

His arm was lifted over her right shoulder, and as she trailed her eyes back up from his finger and up to his bicep, she realizes the position they have unwittily stepped into – one more step, from either of them, and she will be forced into the plushness of her mattress. And she may have a decent amount of self-control but something tells her the sight of this maverick, tall and gorgeous, towering over was going to have her pulling him down to her.

The thought alone has her face redder than usual and she’s not quite sure that she’s actually breathing, but Bakugou doesn’t seem to notice – his vermillion eyes are focused on her lips.

This can’t happen.

No matter what his eyes are whispering to her.

They can’t let this…

“AUGA!”

“W-what?”

That seems to break whatever spell he was under because now he’s looking at her like she’s stupid.

Again.

“AUGA!” She points to the rabbit, whipping around so fast that Bakugou is forced to step back before her ponytail can hit him in the face. The distance gives her the space she needs and she grabs AUGA by the ear and sits down on the edge of the bed.

“This is AUGA. He’s my astronaut rabbit.”

“Astronaut Rabbit...?” Bakugou looks confused. “The fuck...?”

“He was part of the International Space Initiative that Thirteen headed back when I was a kid. He’s a collectible.”

She continues, coming to terms with the fact that she probably looks crazy smiling like a maniac and cuddling a tattered bunny.

“My mom got her for me.”

“I...” A chuckle escapes him before he can smother it and Ochako decides she likes the sound of it. He steps forward again, hand scratching the back of his head, something akin to a smile playing in his lips. Oh no. “Have you eaten?”

She froze a bit. He couldn’t possibly...

“Not since lunch.”

“I want to ask you something.” He nods at that, looking at her. Suddenly his face is serious and her breath catches in her chest. “I’m not sure I should though.”

She furrows her brow. “Why?”

“Honestly,” He steps forward again. She steps back before she can even realize it, the back of her legs hitting the bed for the second time. “I think you’ll fucking run.”

She would. She should.

“I won’t.”

👗👗👗👗👗👗👗👗👗👗

There is something to be said about the way the moonlight sits on the Seine at midnight. 

In the daylight, the stream is a calming constant against the hustle of the busy streets surrounding it. The sound of it can be heard mingled into conversations from Dijon through all of Paris to its final stop at the mouth of the English Channel. If she listens carefully she can even hear the rush of the water from the window of her apartment — like a heartbeat constantly ebbing and flowing in rhythm to the beat of Parisian life. 

In a few short weeks, she’s grown used the sound

It’s always there. Keeping the city moving with gentle pulses of waves. And being close to it like this makes her feel like she’s at the heart of the city. 

It beats steady and strong.

Calm.

Unlike her own.

She casts a glance at the man at her side. 

They’d walked here is silence for the most part, the racing of her thoughts only interrupted by Bakugou’s hand at the small of her back steering her in the right direction. His touch sends her into a further spiral of rushed thoughts, unfinished ones piled on top of each other as she freaks out.

Because part of her knows that she shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be entertaining this.

It’s that part of her that he knew would run from him. 

But despite that she finds herself leaning into his touch as he leads her along the riverbanks until her shoulder bumps into his chest and the smell of her perfume mingles with his cologne. 

His hand slides along her back and settles against her hip. It’s a decidedly possessive move that pulls her snug into his side. One that has her skin tingling under his fingers, and her mind thinking things that aren’t reasonable or possible or appropriate. 

She turns to face him, cheeks undoubtedly pink. 

“Yes?”

What she finds there is not timidity or even nervousness — his eyes are sure and confident and as they lock on hers, his fingers dig into her hip just enough to have her glad she’s worn a thong today.

“Étoile?” He teases.

There is so much she wants to say (and so much she’s stopping herself from even thinking) but she starts with the obvious.

”Where are we going?” There a number of boats lining the banks, each filling the air with delicious smells and upbeat music. She’s heard about the restaurant boats of the Seine — her eldest cousin got engaged on one — but she’s yet to experience them herself. “Are we eating here?”

“Wouldn’t have made you walk out here for the ambiance, Cheeks.” Bakugou chuckles. “We’re going to my favorite boat.” 

Ochako hums. “And which one is that?”

”A private one.” He answers, sliding her past a couple. “One that’ll take us through all of Paris.”

She doesn’t ask anything else as they walk to the last boat of the lineup.

Ochako doesn’t know much about boats.

Her father owned an old, dinghy of a sailboat that they’d take out onto the lake every summer and try to fish. Try because both of them were hopeless at it — her mother, the only one who ever caught anything, always watched from the pier. She didn’t trust the boat to hold all three of them and the one time she’d dared to step foot on it she’d nearly thrown up. 

The boat in front of her is nothing like her dinghy at home.

It's smaller than some of the others lining the Seine, but that isn't saying much — it's still large enough that she has to crane her head up to look at the top of the bow. The boat is burgundy and regal looking, the top lined with what looked like thousands of twinkling lights.

Although, it isn't really a boat at all — its a repurposed yacht.

From the windows of the berth, she can see waiters running back and forth carrying trays. There are ladies in large hats and men in suits sat at long tables. She can smell an assortment of different spices and meals and if she wasn't hungry before she definitely is now.

A velvet carpet leads up from the pathway to a well-dressed host, ushering other well-dressed patrons up the stairs of the boat. 

She can't help but feel underdressed in her mom jeans and billowing blouse. She looks over at Bakugou, watching his muscles move in his simple dress suit and black pants - his outfit is simple but she doubts he's ever felt underdressed a day in his life. 

As the feeling of awkwardness threatens to settle in her throat, his hand catches hers. He doesn't look back at her but she feels him squeeze her hand and that’s enough to have her  feeling like she was exactly where she was meant to be — ripped jeans and all.

Bakugou leads her to the hostess, walking past a long line of people who, much to her surprise, don't even bat an eye as the pair skip the line. 

"Shouldn't we wait in line?" Ochako whispers to him.

Bakugou unclips the velvet rope, holding it open for her to walk through.

"We don't need a reservation." 

"What," she waits for him to resecure the rope, watching him with thinly veiled curiosity, "you shadow as a restaurateur now too?"

He scoffs. "As if."

He walks up to the host, reaching into his back pocket for his wallet. She watches him pull out a card, flash it to the host who nods and gestures to a smaller set of side stairs. 

She follows after him, step after step. 

"What was that?"

"Hmm?"

"What did you show him?" He pauses at the top, pulling open a large brass door. The sound of the water below them is louder up here away from the people below. "It wasn't a credit car—" 

Her mouth drops. 

They aren't in the main dining area.

In fact, she could hear the hums of the conversations flowing in from beneath them, muffled by the floorboards. Instead, they've been led to the upper deck. Its lit by a wall of candles kept away from the wood by a glass panel at the back, twinkling fairy lights woven around the railing at the top deck just like the lower rails.

There are a few tables up here — she counts five — but no one else is with them except a well-dressed man who ushers then to the center table. The cold air hits her skin and the breeze fills the air with the clean scent of the waters below and a tinge of exhaust as the boat begins to drift from where it was previously docked. To her right she can still see a long line of disappointed patrons in their beautiful dress and suits — suddenly feeling like a million dollars in her sweater. 

"Okay,” she sits as Bakugou pulls her chair out for her, “what the hell?"

It slips out — country girl twang and all — before she can stop it, awe weakening her filter. 

"I take it you like it?" He's grinning across from her, grabbing the napkin folded across his plate and dropping it onto his lap. She follows suit — clearly out of her element. But, hey, sitting across from a handsome man on a yacht for dinner was something she was more than  willing to get used to this. "Not seasick are you?"

"Not at all," she decides not to tell him about the years of training and nauseous that ensured she overcame that issue quickly. “ I love the water.”

"Good," a menu is handed to each of them, "getting these guys to turn around would have been a fucking nightmare."

"I bet."

She opens the menu, frowning when everything is written in French (but not at all surprised). Todoroki really had been spoiling her. The only thing she could read was the wine menu. 

She can see Bakugou watching her struggle from the corner of his eyes.

"Having trouble there, Cheeks?'

Asshole. 

He laughs — really laughs — when she rolls her eyes at him in annoyance and the sound of it has her chuckling along. 

"Here," he grabs the top of her menu. His finger lands on each of the headings. "Appetizers, Entrees, Specialties, Seafood, Dessert. If you want to know about something specific just ask, okay? Don't give yourself an aneurysm trying to decode the fucking menu. Or just order whatever you want — off menu — I'm sure they can figure it out in the back." 

"Really?" 

"Yup," he pulls out the black card from before, holding it between two fingers. In the light from the candle, she can make out the name 'Yaoyorozu' written in curvy, silver print. "Get whatever you want, Madame Yaoyorozu." 

Oh, that explained it. 

"Please tell me you didn't steal that."  

"I wish I had." He rolls his eyes. " She gave me this for the month because your friend was too busy getting his dick wet to remember how to lock a fucking door." 

She laughs so hard she snorts. 

"What?!" 

The waiter brings over two glasses of water and Bakugou orders some wine and something complicated in french for the both of them. All the while, Ochako tries to tame the chuckles threatening to spill out at the thought of Bakugou catching her best friend in the act.

"Don't laugh." Bakugou's face is disgusted. "I'm still traumatized." 

She sipped on the water, trying not to spray it all over the table with how ridiculous he was being. 

"I didn't peg you as a prude."

"I'm not. When it involves me." His eyes followed the motion of her throat as she swallowed. She pretended not to notice. "Excuse me for not being fucking thrilled to walk in on my family friend fucking a dichromatic popsicle."

"Ha!" Ochako nearly choked. "Don't let Todoroki hear you say that, ha!" 

Or maybe he should — that was bound to be entertaining. 

 "I ain't scared of him." Bakugou rolled his eyes, a smile on his lips as he sipped his own water. "He looks like an Icyhot spokesman." 

Ochako laughed again.

A hearty laugh that started from her belly and spread until every part of her was vibrating with it.

She was happy.

Really happy, sitting here listening to Bakugou with his filthy mouth and his complaining.

They spoke for a while longer until he put a pause in their conversation when the waiter walked back over with a bottle of wine and a small notepad to take their order. 

"She'll go first." 

She frowned. "Huh?" 

"Order your food." He said the words slowly like he was talking to a child and she rolled her eyes at him. "Go on." 

She huffed, not at all concerned with the man waiting patiently to her right.

"You know I can't." 

"Try." 

She knew she was being silly and maybe a little bratty but the mirth in his eyes egged her on. And besides, it felt good to be able to act this childish without worrying about being judged. 

"You said you'd help me." 

She even pouted.

It had been so long since she could just pout as Ochako without being labeled difficult as Uravity.  

"And I am," Bakugou smirked. "How will you learn if you don't try." 

She tries.

Her words come out clumsy and she starts over twice but she does it — and once she finishes the waiter turns to Bakugou. 

Who orders in English. 

"You're an asshole."

"I'm also bilingual." He sips his wine. "You did good, Étoile." 

"Why do you call me that?" She finally asks. "What does it mean?" 

"If you were better at French you wouldn't have to ask me." 

"You're not being a very good teacher, Prof." She twirls her glass, watching the dark red liquid twinkle under the moonlight. "How am I supposed to learn if you're stingy with the vocab?" 

"You're feeling bratty tonight, aren't you, Cheeks?" 

"And there's another one." She sips her wine, savoring the sweet taste. "That one isn’t even very original." 

He quirks a brow. "Really?" 

"Anyone with eyes can see that I have chubby cheeks, Bakugou." She deadpans. 

"Your face?" He chuckles. "You think that's what I'm talking about?" 

She furrows her brows, confused. "Well, yeah, what else..." 

"Don't think about it too deeply, Ochako." A breeze blows past, the sounds of other boats floating past in the air. "You aren't ready for that one yet." 

She ignores that for now.

(He's probably right. And being smart and cautious and all the other things that Ochako has somehow forgotten how to be in the French moonlight.) 

"I didn't say I didn't like them." 

"Hmm?" 

"The nicknames." She says. She likes them. "I just want to know." 

He looks at her then, intense and focused. And for one moment they aren't only alone on the deck — the world melts away and she feels like she's the only thing he can see. Its a little jarring to have someone concentrate so fully on you like that, but she also thinks it's nice. 

"Étoile means star." 

"Hmm." She smiles into her wine glass. "Star, huh?" 

"Yes."

He smiles at her.

The waiter brings over their food in two large trays, the type that she'd only ever seen on tv shows when she was younger. He lifts the lips and the smell has her stomach rumbling in earnest.

"So why do you call me that?" She asks in between bites.

"One question, Cheeks." He gestures towards her plate with his fork, "Eat." 

⛵️⛵️⛵️⛵️⛵️⛵️⛵️⛵️⛵️⛵️

Something shifts after that night.

He’s less busy now that Fashion Week is done and so, sometimes, there are four filled seats at her usual booth at Sabré.

The first time he joins them, Shouto all but hisses at the casual way that he edges her into the corner of the booth, blocking her from escaping with a wall of muscle and his natural sweet smell. Momo smiles at him with all the mirth of a childhood friend and with a carefully placed hand on Sho’s shoulder calms him down (Ochako is too busy hoping that Bakugou doesn’t notice the hot chocolate stain on her skirt — he does — to be of any help there) until Bakugou looks him up and down then suggests that he invest in a full-length mirror and the whole thing starts again.

Eventually, the two men begrudgingly acknowledge each other, and their suspicion turns into an odd desire to one-up each other and quickly breakfast becomes a mess of small competitions and arguments.

And suddenly her days are filled with reading and studying on the couch in his studio as he draws and answers phones.

Sometimes they walk to Brûler together, and he takes her through all the different alleyways and paths — she worries that he is becoming routinely late because of his insistence on getting her acclimated to the streets but he simply waves her off (“Work starts when I say it does.”).

Other times she meets him there, after a lazy morning distracting Momo and annoying Nezu.

Once, he announces that they would be going out for lunch and she finds herself in the center of La REcyclerie – a café/community center/market/farm restaurant – that sells the most amazing salads and sandwiches. And coming from a girl whose diet consists mainly of “fucking high fructose corn sugar”, as Bakugou loves to admonish her, that is saying something.

Another time, Bakugou declares that he needs to stretch his legs and get away from the studio – apparently, its an artist thing or so Kirishima tells her – and Ochako must go with him and so they take a long walk.

They stop at the Montparnasse Cemetery, an eerie but beautiful place filled with gravestones and large stone structures housing famous Frenchmen and women. Bakugou tells her about Serge Gainsbourg and the sleepy Sundays when his father would play ‘Dieu Fumeur de Havanes’ on his old record player and she catches herself staring at him with the warm blossoming of fondness in her chest.

Sometimes, when the studio is buzzing with creative energy, everyone piles into cars and drives to the flea market at Porte de Vanves for inspiration.

Kirishima and Mina spend hours combing through old coats and suits. Jirou fingers through old records while Kaminari gets excited over video games older than he is. Sometimes, Ochako follows Mina and giggles as she watches her tease Kirishima. But usually, she follows behind Bakugou, watching him look through other people’s old treasures with a reverence that is intoxicating.

Her nights are dedicated to midnight strolls that take her from simply skimming the magic of France to having it written deep into her bones.

He shows her everything.

Art galleries filled with small-time geniuses, underground fashion shows, and hidden restaurants. They walk and they run and sometimes they sit on a random bench and just talk and talk and talk.

He always walks her home, initially leaving her with tingling anticipation that is unmet until one night his arms find their way around her waist, and her face is cradled in his chest and she just breathes him in. 

From then on every night ends with a hug.  

One night, finds them strolling past the Eiffel Tower along the riverbank of the Seine again.

The streetlights bounce off the surface of the water and glitter throughout the sky, lighting it like tiny fireflies — and even though he hates the tourist-ness of it all, even Bakugou can’t deny that there is something magical about the whole thing.

A man is standing nearby busking, and suddenly their walk turns into a dance and Bakugou is twirling Ochako over and over again. She laughs and laughs and the man hands her a rose. Bakugou asks for another song, slipping a bill into an empty guitar case and he starts singing something beautiful and heartbreaking and true all at the same time.

Bakugou pulls her close, swaying her slightly, singing along to the song (“J’irai chercher ton cœur si tu l’emportes ailleurs, même si dans tes danses d’autres dansent tes heures...”) and for a moment everything somehow feels perfectly right and perfectly sad all at once.

On that night she does not get back home until the sun is settled nicely in the sky and Sho is already gone.

He holds her tighter at her door and she allows herself space to just enjoy being in the warmth of the sunrise with a boy that she perhaps likes a little more than she should. One who likes her just as much.

Eventually, he leaves her with a yawn, a command — Dormir, Étoile. Bon soir. — and a roll of his eyes as she tells him to follow his own advice.

Her shoes hit the wall in their small landing, and she tosses her jacket in the general direction of the couch before falling into bed, holding a rose and dreams about fireflies.

🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹

He texts her, after their afternoon trip to Le Parc de Belleville, asking who she thought would win in a fight between Gang Orca or All Might if they were both dropped in the middle of the ocean. 

It’s random and more than a little high school. 

Obviously, Gang Orca, she texts, All Might can’t swim. 

Who told you that, He replies, That's the biggest load of bullshit I've ever heard — of course, All Might can fucking swim.

He’s so taken aback that he calls her.

They talk about this for the rest of the night. 

🐋🐋🐋🐋🐋🐋🐋🐋🐋🐋

How the boys end up having a swimming competition at the pool is a mystery to her. 

It is the second week of November and the weather in Paris is officially baltic. Her new coats are now well and truly broken in. 

So when she gets a text from Momo that Todoroki and Bakugou are heading to the Yaoyorozu Estate for a swimming match, she’s surprised. Momo explains that her apartment has an indoor pool next to the gym and that they both can go for a swim or lounge in the hot tub while the boys do what boys do when a ridiculous challenge is issued.

Ochako is excited.

Lounging in a hot tub sounds like something out of a dream and so she heads downstairs where Momo is waiting and they ride together to her house. 

They aren't doing much swimming now, though.

If they're honest, they've spent the majority of the last hour ogling.

Shamelessly at that. 

Bakugou and Todoroki are both attractive men. That was just common knowledge, and whereas her appreciation for Todoroki was akin to how a mother might find anything their son does adorable (a similar feeling she was sure Momo felt about Bakugou), looking at Bakugou her thoughts are decidedly less ... motherly. 

Her eyes drink him up in all his fullness — the expanse of his chest for once not covered up by traitorous shirts or coats — and she allows herself this simple pleasure. Looking at a beautiful man at the pool, without worrying about tomorrow or her feelings or how much she likes him.

Just good old, safe carnal appreciated.  

"Ochako. You be the judge." 

Todoroki's voice pulls her from her internal monologue on the wonder of Bakugou's biceps. 

"Huh?" 

"The race." Todoroki gives her a look. She ignores it — she's getting pretty good at that. "We can't tell who hits the wall first." 

"I hit the fucking wall first," Bakugou shouted over from the other end of the pool, "not my fault Icyhot is slow without his quirk." 

Todoroki ignores him. He's getting pretty good at that too. 

"Come put a leash on him." 

A few explosions sounded out in the distance. 

She looked up at Todoroki.

"Why do I have to do it? Why can't — " She looked over at Momo. She was turned away from both of them, but Ochako could see her blush on the back of her neck. "Okay, fine." 

"Promise to be impartial." 

She pulled herself out of the hot tub, wet feet slapping onto the tiles.

"I have no horse in this race." 

Todoroki muttered, "You have a feral dog." 

She ignored him. Again.

She walked over to the other end of the pool, Todoroki in tow, when she felt it.

The weight of his eyes on her.

Finding some bravery — or maybe aching for the last of her sanity to slip — she locked eyes with him. A smirk played on his handsome features, his eyes wandering leisurely up and down at the kin exposed by her two piece swimsuit as if he had all the time in the world to just look at her. It made her skin tingle and the pit of her stomach heat up — a pleasant feeling that had her hips moving maybe a tad more than necessary for the short stroll to his side. 

But she liked how his eyes locked on it, hypnotized even when she reached him.

Smoldering. 

She was sure hers looked the same way.

Todoroki cleared his throat.

"If you guys are done..." 

Bakugou didn't look away from her.

"Shut up."  

For once she had to agree. 

"So you forfeit? I'm a little disappointed, Bakugou, I was looking forward to beating you." 

And... he was back. 

"The fuck you say?" Bakugou sauntered over to his lane, getting into position. He looked back at her, over the top of his shoulder as Todoroki joined him. "Ready for me to thrash him, Cheeks?" 

"No favoritism." 

Ochako just laughed. 

"Ready? Steady. Go!"

🏊🏻♂️🏊🏻♂️🏊🏻♂️🏊🏻♂️🏊🏻♂️🏊🏻♂️🏊🏻♂️🏊🏻♂️🏊🏻♂️🏊🏻♂️

“Étoile.” She looks up from her book. She’s taken to sitting in the windows shill behind his desk, curled up like a cat next to the heater. European winters are rough and she hears that mid-November is always the beginning of the brunt of it. “What do you think of this?”

She gets up.

His glasses are perched on his nose, and as she leans over him to look at the sketch she can feel the warmth of him. 

It’s a coat — billowing sleeves ending in what looks like faux fur, and a drop waist cinched by a belt. It’s drawn in pencil but she can imagine it in Bakugou’s signature forest green and burnt orange.

It’s beautiful.

She smiles. “I like it.”

He hums and she can’t quite see his face leaning over him like this but she knows he’s smiling.

“Good.” He grabs a green pencil. “It’ll be really cold soon.”

He’s right.

The late fall that she’d grown accustomed to was quickly turning to winter with cold nights and chilly mornings.

She nods.

“I’ll make you one.” He says. He drops the green and grabs one of the pinks Mina used for her recent shoe line, turning to her with it between his fingers. “Do you like this color?”

The color reminds her of her suit. 

”I do.” She leans against the back of his chair, feeling his shoulders touch her stomach. “I don’t need another coat, you know? You already gave me two.”

”I know.”

”Still trying to drain Todoroki of his future inheritance, huh?”

”No,” he chuckles. “I just want to give you something.”

She lets him. 

🧥🧥🧥🧥🧥🧥🧥🧥🧥🧥

“The two of you are getting close.”

She is sat in the apartment flicking through channels on the small television in their living room. Todoroki is sitting on the opposite end to her, his legs across her lap to accommodate for the size of him on this small couch. She doesn’t turn away from the television and he doesn’t look up from his book.

She knows what he means.

“I know.” The channel changes. A sitcom, by the looks of it. “And Momo? How are things?”

“Good.” A page turns. “Things are good.”

“Good.” Another page turns. “You guys are good friends. You seem good for each other.”

She would have to be deaf and blind to not know that they are much more than just good friends — Todoroki knows that she is baiting him. Hoping he will speak rationality and self-preservation into the air for both of them. She forgets that he is the one who brought them here on a whim. 

“I would like to be a good friend to Momo.” He sighs, turning another page. Ochako changes the channel again. “But you can never just be “good friends” with someone you’ve fallen in love with. Are you and Bakugo good?”

“Yes.” She smiles, looking him in the eyes. “We are good, too.”

“I’m glad.”

That surprises her. “Really?”

He sighs. “For what it is yes. For what comes next...”

“Can’t think about what comes next.” She raises the volume. Some French lady is boiling pasta in a pot. It looks like something light and easy — maybe she should learn. “Not today.”

The sounds of cooking fill the room. Todoroki flicks through several more pages before she feels his gaze burning into the side of her head. 

She refuses to look. 

”Just,” he sounds exhausted, “be careful.”

She scoffs. “Are you being careful?”

”No.” He’s honest. No use in lying to someone who knows him backward and forward. “But I should be.”

He should. She should, too.

But knowing that is different than acting on it. 

The pasta finishes boiling and the woman plops it into a strainer. She’s making a cheese sauce next — she calls it a roux.

”It’ll be okay.”

She wants to believe it. For both of them. 

Todoroki doesn’t answer. She hears the flicking of pages again and a forlorn sigh. 

Ochako changes the channel. 

 📺📺📺📺📺📺📺📺📺📺

It's the last week of November when Bakugou heads into Neuilly-sur-Seine for a meeting with a designer from Chanel. Whispers of up-and-coming fashion house Brûler has reached the ears of the directors of a couple of luxury fashion brands — Chanel, Dior, Hermès, and others that Ochako can't even hope to pronounce — and they are all itching for a collaboration.

Chanel is the last in what is a series of meetings for Bakugou. He's been so busy that she hasn't seen much of him so when asks her if she'd like to tag along, she's thrilled.   

They arrive early and while the receptionist goes to grab them some water, the pair are allowed to wander around the showroom. 

Ochako picks up a round-rimmed hat.

She racks her brain trying to remember the word in French, chewing on her bottom lip in thought. She's been practicing, usually forced by Bakugou refusing to help her in public, and she was getting better but she was nowhere close to being good. 

"Une casquette," she looked back at him,"right?" 

Bakugou nodded, walking over to her. "Vous vous améliorez." You're improving.

She smiled at him.

"I'll be fluent before you know it!" 

He rolled his eyes, taking the hat out of her hands. 

"Ne te devance pas, Étoile." Don't get ahead of yourself,  Étoile. " You were searching for that one word for like five minutes." 

"Shut up." 

He plopped the hat onto her hat, tucking a stray piece of hair behind her ear. 

"Whatever," He chuckled, stepping back to look at her. "Magnifique." 

"Tout ce que, Flirter." Whatever, flirt. 

His smirk softened and a silence fell over them for a moment. 

"Je suis sérieux. Tu es très belle." I mean it. You’re very beautiful. 

👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒 

An old black and white movie is playing on the screen in the studio when they feel the first explosion. 

They aren't paying attention.

Bakugou is at his desk sketching some additions to the wedding dress that Jirou has been working on for the last two weeks — something for some English princess — and the two of them are supposed to go to Louvre after he finishes. She's sure he'd not thrilled about it — hates the touristy stuff she drags him to every once in a while — but she's been once before with Todoroki and Momo and has been dying to visit again. 

So when the building suddenly shakes, they are both caught off guard. 

It's instinct that propels her over to him, her quirk activated before she could even blink. She has him under the table, crouched down and away from the window so quickly he looks at her surprised. 

The room is still. 

"Wha—" 

The second explosion knocks some of the frames to the floor, littering the floor with glass. 

Before either of them can speak, a siren blares through the air and the tv flickered before playing a long tone. 

"Alerte urgente." They could just make out teh screen from their position, eyes locked on the announcer. 'Alerte urgente' written in big red letters behind her. "Un méchant dangereux non identifié a été repéré à Orly. Plusieurs explosions — conséquence de la bizarrerie du méchant — ont été déclenchées près du consulat général du Royaume du Maroc à Orly." Urgent Alert. An unidentified dangerous villain has been spotted in Orly. Several explosions -- a result of the villain's quirk — have been set off near Consulat Général du Royaume du Maroc Orly

 Ochako followed along, grateful for the subtitles at the bottom of the screen. "Le Héros de Shadow: Nightrunner et Le Héros de l’épée: Battlaillé se sont fiancés. Tous les civils des environs ont reçu l'ordre de rester à l'intérieur.". Le Héros de Shadow: Nightrunner and Le Héros de L’épée: Battlaillé have engaged. All civilians in the surrounding area are ordered to stay inside. 

She felt the familiar itch in her skin as the screen changed to the wreckage.

They both watched as rescue heroes — of all sizes — rushed over and under the debris looking for any injured. A tall, skinny man with a gravity quirk similar to hers lifted large pieces of stone from a car, wrenching the bend door open and carefully pulling a woman out. Paramedics descended as the hero made his way over to the next car. They watched as a woman in a bright red suit shrunk right in front of them, crawling in between the cracks of the piled stones. 

"You should be out there." 

She turned. She'd almost forgotten that he was there, so engrossed in the disaster. 

"Huh?" 

He searched her face.

"You should be out there. Helping people. Saving them."

He was right. 

The need, the natural inclination towards helping people that bubbled underneath her skin at all times, was all-consuming at this point.

She wanted to be out there, suited up.

Helping lift boulders and transporting the injured.

Pulling people from the burning high rise.

Triaging and organizing. 

She wanted to be out there... rescuing people. 

"I should." She says, more to herself than to Bakugou. "I should be rescuing people." 

And maybe that didn’t sound profound or life-changing but for her, it was like the final turn of a knob.

Like something had finally fallen into place.

For as long as she could remember people had always written her off as just a rescue hero with patronizing tones and sickly sweet smiles. They said it like being a rescue hero was lesser. Like choosing that path was inherently admitting to being weak – that she wasn’t good enough to be a combat hero.

She wasn’t naïve.

She knew how the hierarchy of the hero world worked.

Combat and action heroes were (and probably would always be) more preferred than rescue heroes. None of the renowned rescue heroes had ever even broken the top ten of the hero charts — even Thirteen who had single-handedly saved half of the European continent from ruin during the Reynold Typhon disaster had peaked at #20. 

Throw in being a woman — a small woman at that — and Ochako was all but destined to always being sidelined and underestimated.

Always being the cute, bubbly, pink back up.

And she couldn't blame her teachers and friends who suggested rescue would be the best route for her.

Her quirk was perfect for rescue. That was the honest truth.  

But hearing that all the time and then rationalizing it with the stigma associated with working rescue…somewhere along the way she'd started resenting rescue.

She got tired of being looked down on.

And when she looked forward to her future as a rescue hero all she could see was a long career of never being the first one called to a fight.

Of playing clean up while the real heroes got their hands dirty. 

So she focused all her time on combat.

She studied under Gunhead and trained with Deku and Shouto. She made up for her size with brute strength and unwavering tactical intelligence. She practiced endurance with Ilda.

She did whatever she could to make sure that she could measure up on the battlefield.

But... that wasn't what she loved.

I loved this, so I choose this.

She'd throw herself headfirst into the fire, ignoring all the screams from the naysayers around her, and emerged stronger, faster, better but... not fulfilled. 

It was an empty way of living. One lacking passion.

That was what was missing. 

She'd rejected her first love — her passion — in the face of the opinions of others.

Of extras. 

Of people who didn't matter. 

"Why aren't you?" Bakugou asked, pulling her from her thoughts. His face was so close and somewhere along the way, his hand had slipped on top of hers. "You waiting for an invitation, Cheeks?" 

"This isn't my jurisdiction." She chuckled, shrugging. "I can't just... jump in. There are rules." 

"Fuck the rules." 

She smiled, her blood pumping with something exciting and dangerous. Something that made her feel like she was floating. 

"Fuck the rules, huh?" Ochako turned to face him fully, suddenly she was a breath away staring into the most beautiful red she'd ever seen. "That's what you'd do?" 

"Damn straight," he couldn't keep his eyes off her lips, loving the smirk that they'd arched into. Confident and fearless in a way he'd never seen her before. This was Uravity. And she was breathtaking. "You don't need anyone telling you what you can and can't do." 

"Right." She squeezed his hand. "I don't." 

"You're a hero, right?" 

"Damn right." 

"Good," he was barely aware as he leaned in, "then go show them how it's done." 

She was leaning in too.

She shouldn't have been but she was and she didn't think she had the strength to stop herself anymore. 

So she didn't. 

"Okay." She breathed, the word running across his lips. She was so close. 

Just one more inch. 

"Save my city, Ochako." 

Their lips met.

The city could wait for another minute. 

🦸🏻♀️🦸🏻♀️🦸🏻♀️🦸🏻♀️🦸🏻♀️🦸🏻♀️🦸🏻♀️🦸🏻♀️🦸🏻♀️

Ochako isn’t stupid. 

She knows this light, floaty feeling she gets when Bakugou kisses her is dangerous. And somewhere amongst the boat rides and long nights and languid kisses, she knows that falling in love with Bakugou is a mistake.

One that can only end with both of them heartbroken. 

But she’s not too keen on falling back to earth any time soon so she pushes that into the deepest parts of her mind where they can’t stain every memory in a finite hue. 

She lets him hold her hand and tell her that she's beautiful in every language under the sun. Walks close to him on their strolls, his hand wrapped around her waist. She kisses him outside her door at night. 

But the truth remains — this is a mistake. 

A beautiful, heartbreaking, one-in-a-million, damned-if-we-do-damned-if-we-don’t mistake.

But a mistake all the same.

An honest mistake. 

✖️✖️✖️✖️✖️✖️✖️✖️✖️✖️

They're laying down on a picnic blanket at Bois de Vincennes, sandwiches and drinks forgotten in lieu of watching the clouds drifting by. No one else is outside, the cold chasing them around — luckily for her, Todoroki is a human furnace so she just shuffles closer to him.  

“Todoroki?”

“Yes?”

She wants to tell Bakugou— but she thinks that may be really cruel.

But it's so hard because she has to tell someone. 

“I think I love him.” 

Somehow saying the words makes her feel worse. 

“Do you?” He doesn’t look over at her, but she senses the frown on his face. “Are you sure?”

Ochako frowns.

Thinking she loved him was different than admitting that she did. If she only thought it then it wasn’t real yet, existing only in her mind.

Admitting what she knows?

Well, that’s like releasing her quirk ten thousand feet in the air.

But...

“I am.”

He looks at her this time but she can’t bring herself to meet his gaze and see everything she already knows. 

“...I love her.” 

She knew that.

“I know.”

She realizes then that maybe falling in love is always like this. Unexpected and messy. Maybe all the lovers in the whole world are just people with good intentions making the same honest mistake over and over. 

“What have we done?”

”I get the feeling that we’ve ruined our lives.” Ochako scoots closer to him, her elbow touching his. ”But...”

”But you love him.”

”And you love her.”

Todoroki exhales, hands coming down to his face.

“Shit.”

“Could we have...” She turns to him, the grass tickling her cheek. “I don’t know…avoided it? Done something different?”

”Avoided falling in love?” He scoffs. His breath comes out in a cloud of white. “Maybe we could have – if we’d never come.”

He's right. 

She sighs.

"Falling in love." She rolls the words around on her tongue, testing the weight of them. It sits in her throat – heavy and thick but she doesn’t hate it. "This is love, huh?"

"Horrible isn't it?" Todoroki looks over at her. The sun is high in the sky now and the glow makes the red of his hair almost pink. "Like someone has managed to cut you open, burrowed deep inside of your chest and is suddenly close enough to mess you up. Closer than anyone else has ever been. And you can’t even stay on guard because you like it." 

"I'm not sure that's how it's supposed to feel." Ochako smiles, sadly. "That's not how I feel." 

"Huh," Todoroki turns back to the sky, "Me either. Surprisingly, I feel pretty good." 

"What's so surprising about that?"

"Well," he muses. "I'm gonna have to break my own heart pretty soon." 

Ochako says nothing.

She's not brave enough to. Not yet. 

"But I can't find it in me to care very much. I just," he pauses, a smile playing on his lips, " I just love her." 

☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️

Endeavor is a stubborn man and once he realizes that his heir apparent was not going to answer any of his calls, he decides that a home visit may be necessary. So that morning, Todoroki and Ochako woke to the sound of someone pounding rather forcefully on their door. 

“Hello, Moe.” Shouto greeted the petite woman, not at all surprised that such a tiny person could make so much noise. And even less surprised to see his Father’s sidekick outside his door in Paris. “How have you been? Well, I hope.”

“Shouto,” her eyes looked weary and he could just imagine the terrible mood his disappearance and subsequent avoidance had put his dear old man in,” Does it have to come to this?”

“You know as well as I do that once I head back that’ll be it for me. I just want to enjoy all the freedom that I have left.”

She looked sympathetic.

Exhausted but sympathetic. 

"God," she said, pushing past him, "I need a nap." 

Moe sleeps for four hours, snuggled up in Ochako's bed. She wakes up, takes one look at Todoroki and Momo sat on the couch sharing popcorn, and goes to take a shower. Thirty minutes later, the four of them are walking to Sabré talking and catching up.

It's clear that Moe is here to take them back, it's pretty obvious. 

And maybe they're being delusional by acting like there isn't an unspoken tension in the air as they have lunch but acknowledging it isn't in their plans.

So they don't.

They take Moe around Paris for the day — doing all the tourist things that they'd gotten out of their system in their first two months and the things they've been falling into now in the second week of their third month.

It's almost Christmas and the city is dusted in snow and lights. It’s beautiful and walks home are now filled with the kind of wonder that only the season can bring. 

But soon enough, they have to stop pretending. 

Moe couldn't keep lying to them. 

"You need to go home." She tells them that evening. She can't meet their eyes and chooses instead to look at the wall wishing with everything that she had that this could have been someone else's job. " You have responsibilities. Both of you do." 

They don't say anything. She expected yelling and screaming and curses. Would have preferred it — the silence is deafening. 

"You're heroes. Your lives belong to the people you protect, to the legacies you represent." The words are Endeavors and they feel hollow coming from her. She can't pretend to agree. She won't but..."You've had your fun. But you know...you know that we don’t have the luxury of being selfish. Not when lives are in the balance — your city needs you. Both of you." 

It’s a dirty move.

But judging by the sharp intakes of breath she hears, its one that sticks. 

"You have responsibilities. You have roles that need to be filled." She turns towards them and when she sees the shaking of shoulders, she wishes she hadn't. She softens, her voice soaked in pity. "C'mon, I know this... this isn't ideal. But,” she's older and she's lived more life than them but that doesn’t make it any easier, in some ways it makes this worse, “sometimes you have to take what life gives you. It's long and hard and unfair — but that just how it is. There’s happiness, then sadness but most of it is made of the stuff in between. You’ll make it back to the in between guys and this will just be a memory. A painful one, sure. But a memory none the less. Can’t that be enough? " The tears start falling in earnest at that, and Moe has never felt worse."I know it hurts, but you’ll be okay. It's time to go home now. " 

She walks towards the door, her airplane ticket held between a trembling fist.

"I'm sorry."

The bang of the door is the final noise that rings throughout the apartment before Ochako begins sobbing in earnest. 

🏡🏡🏡🏡🏡🏡🏡🏡🏡🏡

Somewhere along the way, the entirety of their world had shrunk down to this tiny sliver of Paris where they could pretend to be something other than everything they were. But now the world is back to being big and the future daunting and all she wants is to dance under the stars with a man with blonde hair and the deepest crimson eyes she’s ever seen and before she knows it she’s crying.

Crying because she doesn’t want to leave.

Because a month and a half suddenly don’t feel like nearly enough time.

And it may seem cold of her but she’s also crying because she misses work, misses her friends and her family and her home (she cries harder when she realizes that she’s not sure what home even means anymore).

But Moe is right.

She does have responsibilities — an obligation to her city that is sworn by oath.

That is important.

That means something. 

And she feels stupid because she's a mess on the floor of their living room while Todoroki brings her water and tissue and acts as if his world isn’t imploding too. This trip was his last hurrah before his future, his career and everything he’d built for himself was taken from him and somehow she’d forgotten that.

That her trip to regain her passion was his swan song to his own. 

And he had fallen in love here.

Was falling deeper each and every day and now what? 

He sits down next to her, long limbs tangled in the small space and she’s suddenly so ashamed she doesn’t want to look at him.

But he’s her best friend and he more or less forced her to come with him so the guilt she feels is his too.

He holds her face in his hands and wipes away her tears. “Don’t be stupid.” He says reading both of their minds, "Don't you dare." 

His hand slips into hers and he squeezes.

Once. Twice.

She looks at him, and his face is wet from his own tears, but he smiles for her. A sad, small smile that doesn’t belong on the face of a man in love.

And she thinks that she might have been selfish and stupid — but she isn’t the only one. 

"I love you, Sho."

She wipes his cheeks with the sleeve of her sweater. It has a picture of the Louvre on the front — Bakugou has one that matches. 

"Even though," he hiccups, "I ruined you." 

"Don't you dare." She shushes him, her voice trembling. "You saved me. You saved me from myself and I am so grateful. I’m me again because of you." 

He pulls her close, and they’re both still crying but something in the air feels lighter. 

"I love you too, Ochako." 

"Even though I'm selfish?" He swipes under her eyes, "I'm selfish and stupid and I look like shit right now." 

"Because of it." The sun is setting. She hears her phone ring somewhere in the apartment and she knows who it is and that just makes her cry harder. "We'll be okay." 

She can't answer him. Can't believe in that lie anymore. 

"We will be," He says it for both of them, rocking her. "We'll be okay." 

🌧🌧🌧🌧🌧🌧🌧🌧🌧🌧

Todoroki spends the next week with Momo — morning till night.

Momo doesn't go into work and Ochako doesn’t leave the apartment but according to Todoroki she still has to eat. So Nezu brings her meals, which only serves to makes her feel even more pathetic than she ever has before.

But the small chimera is sweet and doesn't comment on her tattered appearance, only smiling softly at her. 

Todoroki texts her every day, checking on her. She keeps her answers short and simple — she has more to say but she’s scared elaborating may send her back into a crying fit. 

Bakugou calls every day. Several times a day. 

And he leaves voicemails.

The first few are confused.

He asks her why she didn't stop by the studio. Why she isn’t picking up. If she knows why Momo isn't picking up.

He starts panicking after the fifth, begging her to call him back. 

He must reach Momo eventually because when he calls again she can feel the anguish in his voice and as he searches for something — anything —to say the dead air cuts into her like a knife. 

Something changes in the next few.

He sounds angry sometimes — that she isn't picking up, that she's ignoring him, that she's leaving.

Other times he's hysterical, saying crazy things about how he'll go with her or how she can stay with him or that they can start over somewhere else.

Most of the time he just talks, and she thinks those are the ones that hurt her the most because she can tell he's lonely.

She can imagine his studio, brimming with life and people like it always is — but he's lonely. 

He tells her about his day, what he's working on, what is happening at the shop because he knows she's lonely too because her heart has broken just like his does.

Their cracks match.

Todoroki tries to get her to talk to him. 

"Just speak to him," he still sounds broken but not shattered in the way she still is. "I don't want you to regret this." 

She stares out the window. 

"Do you know what happens when you repair a broken vase, Shouto? It’s still broken." The world outside is white today. It must have snowed yesterday. "And when you’ve glued it back together and it smashes again? The pieces will just be smaller this time and then it'll be impossible to repair." 

It's cruel and unfair and maybe she's acting out because she's hurt and fighting feels a lot better than crying.

But if her words are meant to be bait Shouto doesn't bite.

She thinks he’s too tired to.

"Just try, Ochako. Please." 

"I-I," her voice cracks, “I can't." 

"Think about him." Shouto's voice is careful and disarming. She's reminded of all those weeks ago when she'd called him in the middle of the night and her voice had been just as careful. "This'll destroy him, too." 

She doesn't answer.

Shouto tells her to get some rest and eat. Make sure she’s taking care of herself.

She goes straight to bed. 

These days if she’s lucky her sleep is empty. Hours filled with a nothingness that leaves her feeling sluggish when she wakes. It's unfulfilling and leaves dark circles under her eyes but at least in those hours, she can just turn off. She can just exist in the warm, nothingness of her mind where everything isn’t so complicated and hard.

When her mind races, she dreams of him.

Sitting in his studio watching him draw and answer phones like she has done so many times. Sometimes they take a walk that feels endless and finite all at once. Other times they're on a boat. Sometimes she's wearing a big, blooming white gown that she knows he'd hate and he's wearing a tacky suit and Iida is there for whatever reason.

Once in a while, she dreams of leaving, watching the city line of Paris disappear as her flight takes her further and further away from everything that she has built in these short few months.

She always wakes up crying when that happens.

So, she tries not to think about him.

(It doesn’t work.)

This time she’s jostled out of sleep by thunderous rapping against her front door.

She pulls the covers over her head, the light of the morning sun hitting her pink fleece blanket and coloring her skin an unnatural pink. Her face is pressed into the pillow, her eyes are shut, and her hands make a feeble attempt to cover her ears, but she can still hear the damn knocking.

“Use your key, Sho.” She croaks out, her voice was unused and raw. She clears her throat, the walls are thin so she knows he can hear her. “I’m sleeping.”

The knocking stops for a moment and the air changes. Suddenly, she gets the feeling that…

"Cheeks," his voice sounds strange. Rough, like it always is, but sad. "I-It's me."  

She should be happy that he hadn't rushed over her when she'd first hidden away –  when everything was raw and tender and the sound of his voice would have been enough to crumble her resolve.

But even now, it hurts to hear him.

To know that he was just outside her door calling out to her. 

"Talk to me, Cheeks." The knocking is slower now, enunciating every other word," You can't just disappear. You've got to let me in. Talk to me." 

She sits up, a stray tear slipping down the side of her nose and disappearing into the fabric of her pillow.

Her covers pool at her waist and the oversized shirt she's worn for the last two days hangs off her shoulder. AUGA is laying forgotten at her feet. 

"I-I," she has to strain to hear him, " I just need to talk to you. Fuck.” She can imagine him running a hand through his hair like he does whenever he’s frustrated. “I just want to see you, Ochako." 

She doesn't answer.

She doesn't trust herself not to say something selfish that will just make everything worse than it already is. 

"Please." His voice is loud enough that she can just about hear it, but she’s never heard him sound so small before. His voice is always booming, rough, and deeply tinged with the slight dominating rumble that follows him in everything he does. But its missing right now and he just sounds... hurt. Broken. Her vision blurs, and a dry sob leaves her before she can stop it. "Please talk to me." 

Silence fills the apartment as his knocking stops. It's heavy and all-encompassing, something dark filling the space. It has its tendrils wrapped around her shoulders and slithering up the column of her neck, choking her, and the words she wants to say. 

"Fine." He breathes out after a moment. "Fine." 

Her breath catches at that.

And before she can stop herself – remind herself that even though it hurts like hell, him walking away from her is the best situation she can hope for because she sure as hell can't find the strength to walk away from him –  she's up out of bed. She moves like a puppet, being forced to follow the whims of some unknown entity.

Her mind is screaming at her to stop but she can’t hear it over the thumping of her heart.

She's numb to everything but the powerful compulsion to just move.

Doesn't feel the coldness of the brass knob as she turns it, walking into the living room. One of her woolen socks is lost in the sea of her covers but as she walks towards the door, she doesn't feel the chill. The sun is leaking into the room from the crack of the curtains, lighting her path. 

But as she reaches the entrance, she stops.

Every doubt and worry that has kept her comatose in her apartment comes back full force, the brunt of it almost making her buckle.

And then, suddenly, her door is at her feet.

Smoke wafts off the burnt wood and shards of brass and splintered wood scatter outside. The wall has a hole in it – the debris filling the air with particles of plaster that have her coughing slightly. There’s a clump of melted brass pooling onto the floor from where the hinge has been melted and the smell of caramel fills the air.

She blinks down at the door.

He blew up her door. 

Bakugou blew up her door. 

She's shocked –  he blew up her door – and she really shouldn’t be because it was Bakugou and that was definitely something she should have expected from him but expecting it was something very different than seeing it.

To be honest, she’s lucky he didn’t just bulldoze through the wall and straight into her bedroom.

She almost laughs but any humor in the situation disappears as she looks up at him. 

If she had thought he sounded exhausted – that was nothing.

He looked absolutely drained.

He’s wearing all black again – sweatpants and a sweater that has a rip in the shoulder. His hair ruffled like he’s just got out of bed and damp with what looks like sweat. His breath is coming out in deep huffs, his hand still outstretched where her door once stood and his fingers are shaking.

And his eyes…

"Wh-what," she tries to speak but as soon as she sees him in front of her she's undone. Again. " Wha-what are you doing here?" 

She manages to get the question out before the sobs start in earnest.

Before she can calm herself down – don’t make this any harder for him, Ochako, don’t be that fucking selfish – he's there.

His arms wrap around her tight, pulling her snug against his chest just like he’s done every night since that night at the Eiffel Tower when they’d discovered how perfectly she fit against his chest.

That feels worlds away now.

Like the vague recollection of a past life – foggy around the edges but familiar all the same.

He rests his chin on top of her head and she feels him exhale as though he hasn’t breathed properly in so long – she can relate.

The smell of soot and caramel fill her up as she breathes him in and her hands come up and around him too. Her face is buried in his t-shirt, probably covering him in tears and snot but he doesn't even seem to care which only serves to have her sobbing into his chest harder.

She should pull away.

She shouldn't lean into his touch, wrap her arms around him, and lean into his warmth – she doesn’t deserve to. Not any more. Not when she’s leaving in a little more than a month and all he’ll be left with will be the debris and wreckage that this will leave behind.

It hurts – oh, god, it hurts –  but being in his arms feels so easy that she can no longer find the strength to do anything else but be here with him.

Staying away has been hard.

So hard.

Everything in her wants to be where he is – tucked under him where the world and life and responsibilities have no place. Where it's okay for her to just be a girl who loves a boy.

But he was here now.

This is what she’d been avoiding. The comfort of being back in his arms.

This was why she hadn’t reached out to him – because being with him was so simple, so natural that she was afraid the next time she saw him she’d stay.

And she can’t stay.

The thought has her tears starting anew. He rubs up and down her back, shushing her gently. 

She couldn’t just stay here and forget about her responsibilities.

Her parents.

Her friends.

Her job.

Her… her life back home.

Moe was right.

She didn’t have the luxury of being selfish with her life, she’d forfeited that when she’d dedicated herself to her city and her people.

When she’s sworn to take care of her parents.

Those things were important to her, she couldn’t just leave them behind.

But that didn’t make it any easier – because she also couldn’t just leave this behind either.

Her new friends.

Her life here.

Her new home.

Him.

She couldn’t leave him behind.

God, she’d really fucked up hadn’t she?

She knew she would be leaving, that this was temporary and she’d just gone and …. just….fuck.

She held him tighter, hard enough that she was sure it was uncomfortable but he just rubbed circles against her back.

"I'm leaving."

She whispers the words into his shirt, so softly that she almost thinks he hasn't heard her. But the harsh breath that escapes him is shaky and pained let her know that he has.

"I know." Something wet hits her forehead, sliding down to mux with the tears gathering at her chin. She doesn't dare look up. "I hate this." 

"I hate this, too." She wipes a hand under her eyes, "I hate it so much." 

The beginnings of another sob have her chest burning.  

"This is my fault. I'm sorry." She chokes out, "I'm hurting you because I'm selfish. I'm so fucking selfish." 

"Don't apologize for us." He says, "Don't you fucking dare."

"But..." 

"I'm fucking selfish too," Katsuki said, eyes burning. "Probably more so than you." 

She just snuggles back into his chest, she can feel the quakes in his voice. Her eyes shut tight at the sound – she can't see him cry. 

"Do you," he pauses, unsure," Do you regret it? Coming?" 

The irony of his question isn’t lost on her – she’d asked Todoroki that exact same question.

If there was any way that they could have avoided ending up here. If there was an ending for them, that didn’t have them standing in the doorway letting the winter air in and sobbing in each other’s arms. If there had been a chance – a decision, a choice – that they could have made that would have saved them from this earth-shattering heartbreak.   

“Maybe we could have. If we had never come.”

If they’d never come. Huh?

Ochako didn’t believe in fate or predestination or any of that stuff but something about them felt unavoidable. Like a cruel cosmic tragedy that the gods had been watching play out of for eons – just observing human misery, never intervening. One that they had no intention of ending.

But even that thought doesn’t change her answer.

She would never regret knowing him.

Not when he’s helped her find something she’d thought she’d never get back. Not when he reminded her of her purpose.

She’d always be grateful for that. For him.

And even now as she felt like she was being pulled apart, under it all, she can only feel gratitude (and something else too, something strong and scary that she isn’t ready to admit to him yet) towards him.  

"No," she says, honestly. "I just wish it didn’t hurt so much." 

She finally looks up at him.

His face is red and wet.

“I just wish it didn't hurt so much," she wiped at his tears, "I wish I didn't hurt you." 

"Life hurts, Étoile." He strokes her back in small soothing circles as her sobs get deeper. She’s wiping at his face in earnest now but the tears keep streaming and all of it is no use. “It’s just a fucking consequence of living. None of this is your fault." 

"Don't be so nice to me," she sniffs, “that just makes this so much harder. Can-can’t you be an asshole." 

He searches her face. 

"Stay."

It’s selfish and unfair and she knows she asked for it but she thinks she may hate him for asking. 

Because she wants to.

She wants to stay.

She would stay.

Because he made her happy and she thinks she makes him happy too.

Don’t they deserve that? Happiness?

"I—" A sob rocks through her so hard she thinks she might faint. "I can't." 

"Then I'll go." He says, but the words sound useless against the strength of their sobs. He steadies her. "I'll come with you." 

She knows he means it.

And that just hurts more. 

"You can't." He could. He could come with her and they could be together but... "This is your home. This is where all your dreams are." 

“Ce n'est rien ici sans toi.” This is nothing here without you.

“Please.” He pleads, but she knows he knows it too.

She can’t leave her life for him and he can’t leave his life for her. They’d never be able to ask that of each other.

Maybe they were too weak to or maybe they were too strong to – she wasn’t sure which it was but they just couldn’t.

She’d never ask him to go.

Wouldn’t want him to.

And he’d never really ask her to stay.

“Please.”

She’s so fucking sick of crying, but that seems to be all she can do. So, she just stands there in the arms of the boy who she’s terrified to love and cries.

He moves them.

Leading her towards the couch, prompting her to sit. She can barely see through her tears now but she feels him kneel down in front of her, holding her hand in his as they tremble.

She wipes at her face, wants to look at him. To see him.

His eyes are bloodshot and she’s sure she looks no better but they’re still just as remarkable as that first day.

Ochako sighs.

She’s just so tired.  

"I'm leaving in a month and a half," She looked into his eyes, her sadness reflected in his. "What are we doing, Bakugou?" 

“You want to know what we’re doing?” She looks down at him with watery eyes. “You’re staying?” She moves to interrupt him but he won’t let her – not this time. “For right now — you’re here right now, right? Till February?”

She nods. “We’re finishing out the rest of our stay. Then we leave.”

He nods. 

“Then we’re sure as hell not wasting any more fucking time.”

Bakugou reaches up, holding her face with a gentleness that makes her want to cry harder and kisses her softly.

A kiss for all those times that she’d wanted him to at the end of their nights when the air would get electric and her skin would feel too hot and she’d be willing him to reach down. It’s perfect even now when her face is wet and all she can taste is salt because it’s still him.

And he’s still here.

So she kisses him back just as softly because she never reached up when she should have either.

“Vous êtes ici maintenant.” You’re here now. 

He moves next to her, angling her towards him. Their lips clashed and her head is fuzzy from her tears and the relief at feeling him against her like this again.

“I’m here.” Her words seem to spur him on, as he lifts her into his lap. His left hand rubs magic circles against her waist and his right grips the back of her head, holding her open to him. Her hips moved against his, her body begging her to get closer and closer. “I’m here, right now.”

This was dangerous.

They knew that.

They weren't stupid – they knew their story could only ever be a beautiful heartbreak – but right here, with the silence of the apartment broken by their gasps and moans, nothing else mattered.

Right now they needed this. 

She rolls her hips against him, a shameless moan swallowed up by his mouth and suddenly he lifts her.

Her legs wrap around his waist, hands occupied with the softness of his hair. His hands dig into the meat of her ass before wandering up to grip her hips as he takes them to her bedroom. He flexes his fingers into her hips, hard enough that she's sure she'll be seeing the shape of them for a few days and she pushes her panty covered crouch against him, searching for any type of friction. 

He groans, gripping her harder and stopping her movement. 

"Arrête ça." He warns. "A moins que vous ne vouliez que je vous emmène contre le mur." Stop that. Unless you want me to take you against the wall. 

He sets her onto the bed and she's mid bounce when she pulls the t-shirt off over her head. 

She expects him to come back to her, cover her with his warmth and let her continue suckling on the spot between his neck and shoulder that makes him groan.

But he just stands there looking at her. His eyes are dark as they trail up her body – stopping at the swell of her hips where he can see the red marks his fingers have left and up to her bare breasts.

His gaze has her feeling warm and for not the first time in his presence, she feels sexy.

Powerful. 

"Bakugou," she leans back, delighted as his eyes follow the bounce of her breasts, "Come here." 

He doesn't move towards her, instead reaching down to pull his own shirt over his head. "Katsuki." 

Her eyes drink in the sight of him, chiseled chest and sweatpants hanging temptingly on the sculpted V of his hips leading to... 

"Katsuki," she mewled, trying desperately not to touch herself just at the sight of him, "Come here."

He smirks, and suddenly Ochako forgets how to breathe.

"Comment dit-on ça en français?" How do you say that in French?

He's said that to her before –  ever since he'd taken it upon himself to be her personal French teacher, she'd hear that from him at least twice a day at the most inconvenient times. Usually whenever they were ordering food or when he decided that she would answer phone calls for him instead of lazing around reading books. It never failed to annoy her.

And right now, with her thoroughly soaked and clenching sadly around nothing, this is definitely the most inconvenient of times but she’d be lying if she didn’t admit that there's was something so fucking sexy about hearing that right now.

With the look on his face and the longing in his eyes, she would say whatever he wanted her to say in whatever language he wanted to hear if it meant he would finally touch her. 

Sh racks her brain, searching for the words but she doesn’t answer quickly enough for him.

“Quand je t'aurai comme ça, tu me parleras en français seulement." His eyes are ablaze, almost glowing red as he stands there under the shadows in her bedroom. "Comprenez vous?" When I have you like this you'll speak to me in French only. Do you understand?

She nods automatically, twinges of pleasure exploding at his words.

Could a language be a kink?

Because the sound of his words was inching her closer and closer to a pleasurable end – and he hadn't even touched her yet. 

His smirk told her he knew exactly what he was doing to her. 

"Tu veux savoir pourquoi?" You want to know why?

He reached down, palming his dick right in front of her. Her eyes followed his movements, committing them to memory. "Répondez-moi, Étoile." Answer me, Étoile.

"Oui," her voice was wrecked, "Oui."

"Parce que j'ai l'intention de t'avoir maintenant et autant de fois que possible avant ton départ. Alors la prochaine fois que tu te toucheras ou que quelqu'un d'autre te touchera – tu crieras dans ma langue et tu sauras que tu n'as l'orgasme que pour moi.“ Because I plan to have you now and as many times as I can before you leave. So the next time you touch yourself or someone else touches you – you'll cry out in my language and you'll know that you only cum for me. 

She thanks her past self for actually listening to everyone and investing in a French-to-English language dictionary because Present Mic didn't teach her any of that. 

“Comprenez vous?” Do you understand? 

”Oui.” She breathed. She'd do anything for him to make good on that promise. "Oui. Oui. Oui." 

”Bien." He stopped his hand, smiling lecherously when she whimpered in complaint. "Maintenant, comment dit-on ça en français?” Good. Now, how do you say that in French?

Fuck me. 

"Katsuki. Viens ici, s'il te plait." Katsuki. Come here, please. 

"Bien."

He smiles, something dangerous in it has her grinding pathetically against the bed. He saunters over to her, crawling onto the bed as she slides back and suddenly he's everywhere. His hand trails up from the marks on her hips up to the column of her neck. His fingers wrap around her neck, gently stroking it tenderly and she's desperately trying to remember the verb for 'to choke' in French.

" Bonne fille. Ma fille." Good. Good girl. My girl.

Ochako moaned, hooking her leg around his waist trying desperately to get closer. 

"Tu es belle." Bakugou groaned, grinding down against her finally. “Très belle.” You're beautiful. Very beautiful.

Her arms wrap around his neck as she tugs him closer until she can reach his lips.

She kisses him deeply, fully in the way she'd never allowed herself to before and she's instantly addicted. He surges against her, pressing into her deeper, his groin pressed deliciously against her clothed clit in a sordid promise that she no longer has the patience to wait for.

But, Katsuki seems to be more patient. 

He toys with her bottom lip. 

"Magnifique." Gorgeous. 

His hand slips between their bodies gripping her breast before pinching the nipple between two fingers as he swallows her cries. 

"Envoûtant." Mezmerising. 

He kisses down her neck letting all of her beautiful sounds fill the room. His hand releases her breast to work its way into the front of her soaked underwear. 

"Éthéré." Ethereal. 

She hears the pop of a small explosion and sees a scrap of lace fly across the air to the side of her room.

Any protests she has for her favorite pair of lace panties dies on the tip of her tongue as he presses his thumb against her clit and his index finger parts her folds. She feels herself tremble in anticipation even though this – his exploratory touching – is enough to have her forgive him for destroying her panties because fuck. He pushes his finger inside her in one fluid movement – she's always loved his hands, his big hands – and she's sure she's forgotten how to breathe.

Her mind is dedicated to how good it feels, only sparing space for wishful, lustful thoughts about how good it'll feel to have all of him inside of her.

It’s a wonder that she’s still breathing.

She tightens further around his finger and the groan he released at the sensation has her thinking that he was also imagining how she'd feel around him.

Her eyes roll back and the moan she lets out would have embarrassed her if she could hear anything other than the pumping of her blood thumping in her ears like the drums of war. She opens her eyes and finds him staring at her, drinking up each of her reaction. His eyes are molten, so blown out with lust that she can barely make out the red from the black. 

She wants to drown in him.

She wants him to drown in her.  

She's close, ridiculously so, already and when he times the firm rub of his thumb against her clit with another thick finger plunging into her core she almost screams. He locks eyes with her as he adds a third, whispering something in French that she can't hear.  

He's pumping into her messy and fast and the sound of it fills the room with a lewd squelching sound.  

He leans forward to kiss her, his tongue stealing every one of the moans that fall from her like an endless stream. 

"Oui. Oh, fuck." Ochako's mouth falls open, letting loose a series of barely coherent praise. "Vous êtes si bon...So good. You're so good... Katsuki... Fuck. Merde. Fuck."

"Sexy." He breathes into her, "Tu es très sexy." You are so sexy. 

He curls his index finger up and she breaks. 

When she can focus again, he's leaning back with his hand resting against her thigh, and on his face is a smirk so smug she'd love to knock it off him if she didn't feel so sated and boneless.

She smiles lazily at him instead.

She doesn’t know what to say... how do you thank someone for an orgasm in French?

"Bonjour." 

It’s the first thing that pops into her head and even she knows it’s utterly ridiculous.

He snorts, looking at her funny.

"Bonjour." He answers. 

She beckons him to her with the outstretching of her arms.

He rolls his eyes, false annoyance ruined by the smile on his face. 

He leans over her, kissing her slowly like they have all the time in the world.

It's languid and gentle and she can finally just enjoy the feeling of kissing him — the plumpness of his lips, the glide of his tongue against hers, and the feeling of his hands on her bare skin. She pulls back, looking up into those ruby red eyes before placing one last chaste kiss against his lips.  

He doesn't stop her as she sits up, resting on her knees.

She looks down at him with hooded eyes, noting that he's still wearing his pants. 

Well, that just wouldn't do. 

She crawls over him, letting her hands wander across the expanse of his chest and squeeze at his waist. She slips her fingers under the waistband of his sweatpants and boxers, locking eyes with him as she pulls them down. He groans as she travels with them down to the floor, throwing them to the side as she let her hands wander over his calves. Her palms traveled up his body, palming shamelessly at his dick standing proud and erect and perfect all for her. She gives him a few strokes marveling at his size before continuing her journey upwards, the tip of her nipple rubs his weeping head as she moves and she feels him tense.

For a second she thinks he's going to flip her –  finally take her like she knows he wants to, like she’s dreamed about –  but he stays still, obedient. 

She should reward him for that.

She's fully on the bed now, throwing a leg over his hips and pressing down against his dick with her aching core. His hands gripped her hips, guiding her into a sensual grind that has them both moaning.

She grips his hands, stopping him before she can lose herself to the sensation. She’s not done yet. 

"Arr-Arrêtez. Je suis en charge en ce moment." Stop. I'm in charge right now.

Her French is clumsy at best to begin with but with Bakugou bucking upwards against her, it was now barely coherent. She dug her nails into him, just enough to have him hissing.

"Vous restez juste là. D'accord?" You just lay there. Okay?

She could see the embers of defiance sparking in his eyes but he stays.

She continued her motions up to his chest, pressing her palms over each dip and curve of his muscles, and then back down, brushing the tips of nails over his nipples and reaching down for the trail of hair at the base of the V of his hips. 

Locking eyes with him, she lifted herself up gripping his manhood in her hand. She brushed his head against her slick folds, coating him in her essence.

He was still, the only movement coming from his eyes drinking up her actions like ale — drunk on the sight of her preparing herself for him — and the occasional twitch of his member. 

Before she lost her upper hand, she guided him into her, sinking down with a lewd moan. Katsuki threw his head back, right hand coming up to grip the sheets underneath him and left gripping her hip. 

She's so wet that the whole of him slides in easy, but the feeling of him nearly knocks her flat. He's hot and blunt and oh god he's perfect. She's stretched around him tight and he curves to the right, just the way she needs to hit that bundle of nerves that has white dots swimming in her vision. She pauses, adjusting to the intrusion and wiggling her hips to lap at the pleasure. 

"Vous vous sentez comme un péché." Katsuki's voice is wrecked as he tries not to thrust into her like his body demands at the feeling of her – warm and wet – tight around him. "Oh, fuck." You feel like sin.

She moans, bouncing on him experimentally. 

Katsuki hissed below her, gripping her hips and bucking along to the rhythm she set. 

The bed rocked underneath them, highlighting each thrust and bounce with a dull thud against the wall. There was no hiding what was happening in her bedroom from her neighbors and she'd gladly take every one of their dirty looks with a smile if Katsuki would just keep thrusting into her like that. He tugged on her hips leading her into a sensual grind against him that had her leaning against his sweat soaked chest as she just took it for a moment before a sharp tinge of pleasure painted pain brought her back to him.

He smirked down at her, his hand coming down on her other cheek. 

He growled. 

"Ne tapez pas sur moi maintenant, Cheeks." Don't tap out on me now, Cheeks. 

She smirked down at him. 

"Jamais." Never.

She grabbed his shoulder, bringing her knees hard into his sides and rode him with everything she had. Her movements were fluid and graceful and for a moment, looking down into his lust blown eyes, she felt so light that she thought she'd accidentally activated her quirk on herself.

"C'est tout ce que tu as?" Is that all you got?

She stopped. Lifting up until his tip was the only thing inside her, locked her eyes with his, and slammed down. 

"Merde." Fuck. 

Katsuki's eyes rolled back and Ochako knew that as long as she lived she would never forget the sight of him underneath her like this.

Consumed by pleasure.

Consumed by her. 

And, most importantly, silent.

"Qu'est-ce que c'était, Katsuki?" She slammed down on him again, addicted to the burn. "Avez-vous quelque chose à dir-? What was that, Katsuki? Did you have something to sa-?

Maybe that was a little too far because before she could even finish her sentence, her world was flipped and suddenly she was on her back.

Katsuki stood over her, chest heaving.

His member was glistening with her wetness, reminding her of how utterly empty she felt now. 

He looked pissed. 

"Étoile?" She gulped. "Avez-vous quelque chose à dire pour vous-même?" Do you have anything to say for yourself? 

Her mouth was dry, every drop of moisture in her body suddenly and quickly headed south. 

"Nothing?" He sounded disappointed. "J'aurais dû savoir que tu serais un gamin." I should have known you'd be a brat. 

He moved back to her and she opened her legs, hooking them around his waist. 

"Maintenant tu veux te comporter." Now you want to behave.

He gripped himself, looking down between them as he entered her.

She watched along, groaning in relief as he sunk into her. She wiggled against his hold trying to pull him fully into her again, desperate to have him stuffing her full again until she looked up at him. 

His eyes were narrowed as he looked down at her, lips pulled into a dark and dangerous snarl. He chuckled at her wide-eyed look and suddenly she was dripping with nervous anticipation. 

"Avez-vous quelque chose à dire, Ochako?" Did you have something to say, Ochako??

Her breath caught in her throat, and she hated just how turned on she was. 

She'd made it this far, she thought, might as well go down swinging. 

She tugged him forward, gasping along with him as the entirety of him sunk into her. 

"Fuck." He swore. 

"Fuck me." She looked up at him, chest heaving. The words tasted like the final nail in what was sure to be a pleasurable coffin. "Do your worst." 

Katsuki let out a small sound that sounded like pride, pity, and amusement all at once.

"Je t'avais prévenu." I warned you.

He pulled out slightly pulling another whimper from her, only to ram his hips forward, filling her to the brink in a split second. He repeated the motion a few more times, taking pleasure in the way she cried out pathetically. Words spilling from her swollen lips about how it felt so good but wasn't nearly enough. Katsuki couldn't contain his own moan as she clenched around him, her body squeezing his cock deliciously. Begging him to give her what she needed to go careening off the edge.

But he wouldn't. Not yet. 

He gripped her hip tighter, slamming into her hard and deep – only to pull out excruciatingly slowly while running his hands up her body. Over the clenching muscles of her stomach, the swells of her breasts, the sleek column of her neck, and dusting over her lips. Every forward thrust had her breast bouncing and her body trembling as she uttered those beautiful breathless pleas in the wrong language.

He tsked.

It was really too bad.

He let one finger sweep over lips, and into her mouth. She suckled, eyes locked on his and he groaned down at her, imagining the hot, suction on his member.

Katsuki pulled his finger back with a pop, moving to gently caress her cheek in a dizzying contrast to how roughly he entered her.

A tear rolled down her face, and she whimpered. 

Greedy. 

She was so fucking greedy.

He loved it.  

"Qu'est-ce qui ne va pas, Étoile?" Katsuki caught the tear, smirking. He leaned down on a particularly rough thrust, pecking at her lips. "Avez-vous besoin de quelque chose?" What's wrong, Étoile? Is there something that you need?

She nodded. "S'il vous plaît." Please.

He smiled down at her. "Bien." 

He kissed her – the bruising, open-mouthed kiss he knew she wanted. 

"Maintenant. Qu'est-ce que vous voulez?" Now. What do you want?

"Tu. S'il vous plaît." She grinded against him again, pleading with the sinful swivel of her hips. "Baise moi." You. Please. Fuck me. 

"What a good girl." He said, "Such a good fucking girl." 

She nodded.

She was good.

She would be so fucking good for him, he could see it in her eyes. No need to punish her any longer.

She'd asked him to fuck her – who was he to deny her?

He pulled back against, grabbing her ass to steady himself.

She reads his mind, sensing his fingers inching towards her leg, and moves one of her legs up to rest against his ribcage. She open like this – open and wanting – and he leans forward into it, stretching her wider and pushing himself into her hard. The graphic smacking of skin against skin is the only warning she gets as he sets a breathtaking pace. He thrusts into her wildly with barely controlled movements, hands on her hips pulling her backwards onto him.

She weeps, dirty words falling from her lips – thanking him, praising him, begging him – all spoken in beautiful French. The words edge him on and have him whispering back at her.

"Ochako, ta chatte se sent comme le paradis. Tu es tellement serré et mouillé." Ochako, your pussy feels like heaven. You're so fucking tight and wet.

She sobs at his words, clenching him tighter and tighter around him. 

"Plus fort," she moans, turned on beyond reason. "Plus fort! S'il vous plaît..." Harder. Harder! Please...

He looks down at the punishing pace he's already giving her, chuckling darkly. "Ce n'est toujours pas assez pour toi, n'est-ce pas? Vous avez dit que vous étiez égoïste." It's still not enough for you, is it? You did say you were selfish. 

She just whimpers, wriggling her ass impatiently, trying to force more of him inside her.

Katsuki understood, jerking her further on his next thrust until her hips met his, his length disappearing inside of her filling her impossibly deep and making her scream in pleasure.

"Tu aimes ça? " He growled. "Tu aimes prendre ma bite au fond?" You like that? You like taking my cock deep?

"J'aime cela," she panted. "Je l'aime tellement!" I love it. I love it so much. 

 "Tu aimes ce que je te fais. Tu aimes que je te baise comme ça." You love what I'm doing to you. You love that I'm fucking you like this.

He loved it too.

Too much probably for something they both knew was limited — he'd told her he wanted her to remember him every time she had sex but something told him he wouldn't want anyone else after this.

This was it for him. 

He began slamming in and out with animalistic ferocity, driving into her as hard and fast as he could go.

"Oh, Dieu !" Ochako sobbed, enraptured by the way he was ramming into her body. Katsuki grabbed her ass in a white-knuckled grip, loving the way she was growing even wetter for him. "Dieu. Fuck!" Oh god! God!

He watched her, the flush on her chest and the sweat on her skin, captivating. She looked up at him, head resting lazily at the side as she moaned his name over and over. He wanted to remember this for as long as he was alive, remember what it was like when she was his in every sense of the word. He wanted to hear her scream as she came again, wanted to feel her tighten on his dick, wanted to hold her down as she writhed in the heights of her pleasure.

But more than that he wanted her to know.

“Je t’aime. Je t’adore. I love you.”

He’d already told her.

He was more selfish than she could ever be.

Ochako sobbed, the emotions bubbling from her chest at his words mixed with the numbing pleasure he was giving her.

She should be angry.

She should be.

But she isn't.

His forehead rested against hers and she stares into his eyes as it escapes again from his barely moving lips, like a prayer. Something reverent wrapped up in an exhalation of ecstasy. 

"I love you.” He wept. “I love you.”

She should stop him.

Should have stopped him when he first said it but, as she’s already acknowledged that she's selfish. So although she knows it will hurt her later, she lets him say it over and over and over again until the words are etched into her skin. 

She reaches for him, damp hand brushing his wet hair out of his face, and smiles at him.

"I'm sorry," he says, his eyes are watering again but he’s never looked so beautiful. " I love you.”

She moans, pleasure filling every part of her being — her body, her heart, her soul.

Everything is fucked anyway... what's the use in denying it?

"No," she says, voice wretched, "Ne vous excusez jamais pour nous." Don't you ever apologize for us.

He nods, tears of pain and pleasure falling from his eyes.

"I love you." She moans as his words warm her from the bottom of her feet to the crown of her head. So he says it again. “I fucking love you.”

She feels like she’s dreaming. 

”Étoile, je t’aime. Je t’aime. Toi.” He sighs it into her mouth as he melds himself to her, breathing her in with every thrust of his hips. “You feel so good. My god, I love you.”

Ochako's only reply was another wanton wail, the kind that filled him with sharp pleasure. 

"Say that you love it," Katsuki demanded, breath coming in harsh pants as he drove into her. He could ask this of her. "Dis que tu aimes la façon dont je te baise." Say you love the way I'm fucking you.

The room was filled with Ochako's lusty moans and the sound of flesh hitting flesh.

"Say it," he repeated.

"I love it," she sobbed. "I love the way you feel inside me. I love the way you fuck me!"

He pulled out of her suddenly, eliciting a grumble of disappointment, and maneuvered her further on the bed. With her situated, Katsuki was suddenly on top of her again, mouth pressed to hers in a smoldering kiss as he pushed back inside her swollen sex.

He braced his hands on either side of her head, their kiss was sloppy and wet as they both sobbed openly as their emotions reached their zenith, but neither seemed to care as he continued to rock against hers in a hard grind. Her hands swept over his back, fingernails raking the tanned skin and leaving scratches where she broke the skin.

Katsuki hissed, the pain having his release coming faster than he expected but he refused to let this end without her crashing down with him.

"Ochako," he growled, his voice low and primal. "Je veux te regarder l'orgasme pour moi." I want to watch you cum for me.

Her big brown eyes looked up at him, now a chocolaty haze. 

She was close. 

Katsuki shifted, freeing up a hand so it could run between their bodies to where they were joined. He stroked her swollen clit and calmed his thrusts, grinding against her in slow circles. A guttural groan escaped him as she instantly fluttered around him.

Ochako's back arched she raced towards her release for the second time, crying out for him in a sweet, sultry song that had him closing in on it with her.

"That's it, come for me," he growled, his eyes fixed on her face. She was fucking magical. "I love you." 

"You too." She cried, "You too! Cum with me…" 

Her whole body lifted up, his arms just managing to grab her as she arched and pulling her to his chest as she let out a silent scream. Her muscles squeezed around his length in a vice grip, demanding him to join her in the heights of bliss.

"Oh fuck," he swore as his vision blurred, white-hot pleasure taking over him.

He twitched inside of her, filling her slowly and deeply. She moaned at the feeling, the last ebbs of pleasure fluttering through her. He collapsed into her, sending the two of them into the pool of blankets on her bed. They lay there, just breathing.

His head laid there, breathing heavily on her chest, and she's sure he can hear it in the beating of her heart but she whispers her secret to him anyway. 

“I love you, Katsuki.” She says. “Je t’aime.”

🛏🛏🛏🛏🛏🛏🛏🛏🛏🛏

She wakes hours later to a dark room. The sun is down and the day is over. 

Bakugou is still there, snuggled into her side just like he was when she’d fallen asleep. She can just make out his face in the light from the billboard outside. He's beautiful — he's always beautiful — but he looks so peaceful laying there next to her. His lips are pulled into a soft pout, the crease in his brow is gone and every once in a while he smiles in his sleep. 

She watches him for a while, turning to rest against his chest until he finally stirs under her. 

"Bonjour." She says. 

"Bonsoir." He answers, sleepily.

They stop. Just looking at each other under the harsh fluorescents leaking in from her window, toying with the weight of everything that’s transpired in the last few hours as their eyes observed the other. There are scratches on Bakugou’s chest and his lips are swollen. She’s sure she looks no better.  

Bakugou spoke first. 

"Were you watching me sleep?'

"Maybe," she sits up, the sheets exposing her chest. She doesn't miss the way his eyes zero in on it. "I was waiting for you to wake up." 

"You were waiting for me?" He hums, pulling her back down into his chest, snuggling his face into her hair. "You're a fucking liar. You were just being creepy." 

"Shut up," she retorts, playfully slapping his chest. "I'm not a creep. Perve." 

"Comment suis-je exactement un pervers?" How exactly am I a pervert? 

She rolled her eyes. "Comment suis-je exactement un fluage?" How exactly am I a creep?

His hand wandered down to grip her hip, "I didn't say it was a bad thing..." 

"Oh really?" She gripped his hand, dragging it down to her core. She mewled as he rubbed at her with his thumb. "Neither did I." 

🛌🛌🛌🛌🛌🛌🛌🛌🛌🛌

They drag themselves into the shower a while later, sore and satisfied for the time being. He washes her body, slowly, and she was sure she would have climaxed again if not for the fact she's absolutely spent. So, she swats his hand away, dropping down instead to take him deep into her mouth like she'd wanted to last night (and since she’d locked eyes on him all that time ago). Preening as she has him bracing himself against the shower wall. 

There is no food in her apartment other than half of an old baguette and some Nutella, so they pack up a few of her things as head over to his apartment.

They walk there.

On the way, Katsuki tells her about how he’d gone for a run yesterday morning to clear his mind and had ended up outside her apartment before he knew it like something was leading his feet towards her.

She chuckles humorlessly and tells him about how her feet had wandered over to the doorway when she’d thought he was leaving.

They both realize how futile avoiding one another really is — they can’t fight the pull that has them careening into each other any more than they can fight the need to breathe.

She grabs his hand, pulling herself into his side. She belongs there. What good is fighting it now?

🏃🏼🏃🏼🏃🏼🏃🏼🏃🏼🏃🏼🏃🏼🏃🏼🏃🏼🏃🏼

The next two weeks were strictly theirs.

Christmas and New Year pass in a blur — days untouched by their usual festivities and meaning, instead, this year, finding their importance in how much life they can pack into them. How many memories they can etch into the calendar.

Some mornings she woke up tangled in his sheets with him wrapped around her. Others she’d catch him watching her as she slept, smirking at her and pulling him into him for a heated kiss before sinking into her. Usually, the smell of breakfast roused her out of bed to the kitchen, where she’d find him, shirtless and alert, greeting her with a plate of something delicious.

They’d spent the afternoons together.

Sometimes she’d sit across from him as he sketched a picture of her, asking him questions about his childhood. He’d answer, rolling his eyes as she gushed over his tales of tiny Katsuki and his friends.

She’d tell him about Midoriya and Iida.

He’d ask about her parents.

She finds herself telling him things she’s only ever thought — hopes and fears she’s never even told her closest friends. Things she’d only dared whisper to herself in the dark, things she’s carried from her childhood bedroom to her dorm room at UA  to her tiny apartment in the city. But with him, the words tumble out as he runs his hands through her hair.

He nods, listening intently.

He shares things with her too. Things that surprise her about him — a lot that don’t. She listens to all of them, locking his secrets away with hers.

They trust each other.  

Once in awhile, they’d spent their time in silence.

Him jotting down ideas or bossing Kirishima around through the phone. Her watching television or reading through the thick fashion books in his office.

They’d always be in the same room with some part of her touching him — her head on his chest, her back leaning against his legs as he sat on the sofa, her hand in his as he talked on the phone — just enjoying the feeling of being together.

The nights were dedicated to exploration.

Each night was different, but the intention was always the same — to etch their names into the other so deeply that it would never wash out. He touched her everywhere, learning the curves of her body like another language. By the third night, she’d learned all the little ways to draw out the moans and gasps (and sometimes a scream) that he was so greedy with.

Occasionally, she’d take him high — with her mouth, her body — only to have him come back down slowly, teasingly until he was wound so tight that a kiss would have him snapping.

He loved to have her begging for him taking her high fast, almost violently, over and over again.

It was a contest of who could break the other first — drawing out their noises and having them ring and reverberate off the walls like the ding of a victory bell.

Sometimes, when the ticking of time rang extra loud, they’d take their time.

He’d kiss her slow, running his hands up and down her body touching, grabbing, sucking, and teasing her everywhere. She’d climb him and cover every inch of him with her lips, whispering and carving every one of her hopeless dreams into his skin. When he’d finally take her, he’d make sure her eyes were locked on him the whole time — demanding all of her attention. Making sure she was looking into his eyes — into the depths of everything he felt for her — as she tumbled over the edge, she would utter his name like an incantation that never failed to send him down after her. She’d watch him coming undone, committing every curse and twitch and pant to memory.

Then, after a moment of rest, he’d move again — slowly — so he could do the whole thing again throughout the night like it was their last night. She’d flip him over, sinking down into him desperate to make sure they’d get their fill of each other before they would, ultimately, be forced to separate.   

 ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

“I fucking love your hands.” 

They’re laying naked in her bed when he says this, and she looks at him weirdly, giggling. He pays her no mind and continues alternating between playing with the pads at the end of her fingers and slipping his own between them.

His hands are warm — she’s discovering that every part of him runs warm — and hers are cold.

They've always been cold.

Together like this, they feel comfortable. 

This weird fascination continues for a few moments more before she gives and just asks him why.

“They're so small.” He slips his fingers through hers and his palm almost swallows hers. Something in his voice — appreciation, reverence, respect — strikes something in her and suddenly she’s looking at their hands, together. “But so strong.”

She looks at him — this man who doesn’t see her as something frail and needing protection, but someone strong. Someone deserving of unrelenting passion, his all-consuming love, and, most importantly, his respect.

“I love your hands.” She says, squeezing it. Her eyes are locked on his and she smiles at him. “Strong, creative, passionate. Just like the rest of you.”

🖐🏻🖐🏻🖐🏻🖐🏻🖐🏻🖐🏻🖐🏻🖐🏻🖐🏻🖐🏻

By the first week of January, they take to sleeping together in the purest sense of the word.

Some nights are still filled with sex in the absolute, but most nights are filled with tired bodies slipping between sheets close together.

He pulls her back against his front, caressing her arms, shoulders, and cheeks with his. She grabs his right hand most night, pulling him over her and slipping her fingers between his, holding their clasped hands against her chest. She gets used to the sound of Katsuki’s voice whispering sweet words into the crook of her neck, his lips on her cheek promising that he would see her in the morning. She melts into him, drinking up the attention until he fell asleep and the sound of his breathing lulls her to sleep.

💤 💤💤💤💤💤💤💤💤💤

Along with Bakugou, there are other things that she'll miss about the little slice of life she's built for herself in Paris. 

Mina's rambunctious and infectious spirit.

Kirishima's strong, unyielding love for his friends.

Denki, Jirou, and even Sero — each of them had touched her in ways that would be staying with her for a lifetime.

Sabré.

The regulars that she'd become friendly with.

Nezu and his eyes, kind even when he was half scolding them for taking up space in the restaurant for hours each day.

Momo and her light — how it lit up her friend.

Her and Todoroki's little apartment with paper-thin walls.

Their wacky landlords. 

She'd miss all of it the way she'd miss a limb. Reminded of their absence in her life with phantom pains that would cripple her every so often reminding her of what she once had, what she'd taken for granted.

Her little makeshift family. 

So it only made sense that after burying herself in her man — she's allowing herself small, selfish pleasures these days like calling Bakugou her man - she'd want to see her friends. 

Mina cries when she walks through the studio doors, crashing into Ochako and sending both of them tumbling into a nearby couch. She's maybe a little too much of a wreck considering it's only been about three weeks since she'd last seen the resident pinkette. Regardless, Mina cries fat tears, the feathers of her boa tickling the brunette's nose, and Ochako feels her own eyes begin to water so she can't help but squeeze the other girl back just as tight. 

The hug devolves into a group ordeal when Kirishima rushes over grabbing the pair and, somehow, a grumbling Bakugou into a standing embrace. Seconds later Kaminari is latched onto her right, and Sero has slotted himself against Bakugou. Even Jirou finds her way over to their embrace, slinging an arm over Ochako's shoulder. 

She tries not to tear up at the attention, but its especially hard when she looks up and Bakugou looking at her with soft eyes. It warms her face, like a caress, and she knows he's imagining this — her slotting herself into his life — as something permanent again.

She's told him to stop it — imagining it, looking at her like that — but he says he can't help it. He's stubborn about it, crossing his arms and pouting like a child, and never apologizes even once for his hopeful eyes.

She can feel the heat of unshed tears now, catching a knot in her throat, and her hands tighten in the silk of Mina's shirt. 

Luckily, Mina seems to understand...

"So, tell me," blackened eyes stare into her chocolate ones, as she pulls away from the brunette. Her action works to pull everyone loose from the ball they'd tangled themselves into with a gentle tug. "Did he finally put it on you?" 

She says it suddenly and loudly enough that everyone hears it and immediately all hell breaks loose.

Kirishima is red-faced and Kaminari is doubled over laughing like it physically hurts. Sero is on the floor, formal suit be damned, throwing his feet in the air and doing some sort of scream-laugh in a ridiculous display that has a chuckle escaping her too. Mina is on the run — racing through the studio space with an angry Bakugou popping tiny, threatening explosions as he races after her. Jirou’s sat on the couch watching all of it with thinly veiled amusement.

”Get back here, you Alien bitch!”

”Nope.” Mina laughed, ducking out of his grasp with practiced poise. “I can’t let you kill me before ‘Chako give me all the juicy details.”

”Like hell she will.”

"Well, it's not like I can count on you to share!" 

"Because it's none of your fucking business." 

"You should know by now, Baku, everything is my business."

"Not that, you perve!"

”Ah!” Mina didn’t know when to leave well enough alone. That was part of her charm. “So you guys did smash!” 

“Shut the fuck up!”

”Oh boo, Baku! What? Are you worried we’ll lose respect for you once we find out how kinky you are?”

”I’m going to piss on your grave.”

”Is that what you’re in to?" Somehow she had the breath to fake gasp as she sprinted away. It was a particularly impressive feat in four-inch heels. “I must say I’m shocked. Whips and chains, I expected, but watersports? I'd have never guessed!”

”You’re fired.”

Even Ochako rolled her eyes at that.

”No, I’m not.” 

Ochako slumps next to Jirou, blushing when she shouts her a knowing and unnerving look. She reaches over to Ochako and holds her hand without a word, turning back to watch the chaos unfold for a few moments more. 

Ochako watches with her, not saying anything even as the usually reserved seamstress squeezes her hand. 

Bakugou catches Mina, holding her up with his arm slung across her stomach like some petulant child so her heels hang pathetically three inches above the floor. He's pissed but any murderous intent — which wasn't very convincing in the first place – is replaced by a roll of his eyes as he spins her twice before setting her down. Mina is dizzy and slumps on the floor just laughing and laughing as Bakugou screeches about what is and isn't appropriate.

”I’m your fucking boss." He snarls, "You realize that right?”

”Is that what you make poor ‘Chako call you, you degenerate?!” Mina looks over her shoulder at Ochako, ignoring the mini volcano erupting in front of her. “That what you into, ‘Chako? Naughty.”

"Shut up." Bakugou slapped a hand on top of Mina’s head. “I sign your fucking checks.”

”So?” Mina pouted. “I make you the money.”

”Not enough to be in my business the way you are.” Bakugou groaned. “You’re all gonna give me an ulcer.”

”Shut up.” Mina waved him away. “You’ll be fine, you big baby.” 

“Again: I’m your fucking boss.”

"Boss doesn't suit you." Mina considered it for a moment. “Actually, you’re more like an irritable little brother.”

Mount Bakugou promptly erupted and, honestly, it was a miracle that it had stayed dormant for as long as it had. 

”I’m six fucking months older than you!”

Mina jumped up just in time to avoid a blast, and thus the chase began anew. 

Ochako can't help but laugh along and, yeah, she's tearing up a little but she's happy.

Completely and utterly. 

God, she was going to miss this. All of it. 

💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥 

She heads back to the apartment a few days later, much to Bakugou's annoyance.

She ignores his complaints with a kiss on his cheek as she slips into Sero's car in the morning. She understands his apprehension both because their days are ticking by much too quickly and  also because last time she'd left his side, she'd all but disappeared.

That wouldn't happen this time though.

She was too far gone on him to go back to denying herself the ease that came with being by his side while she still had the option to –  but as romantic as that notion was, it didn't replace the fact that Ochako needed new underwear, like, yesterday. And while his spikes may have loved that weird sugar scented shampoo in his bathroom, her hair was starting to look more and more nest-like. 

Todoroki had called her earlier that day saying he'd be returning to the apartment for a few days while Momo went to visit her parents on some sudden business issue and she wanted to stay with him.

Nothing in his voice suggested he needed her to be home with — in fact, he was happy she was spending her time with Bakugou — but when she thought about how big and dark their apartment had felt in those days when she was alone, she knew there was no way she would be comfortable in Bakugou's apartment while he was all alone.

She didn't want him to be alone and she knew Todoroki was too stubborn (and selfless and self-punishing) to ask her to come home so she made the decision for both of them. 

Besides, Bakugou had been neglecting his work for almost two weeks now and she knew Kirishima was losing sleep with all the work he had to very suddenly take up. With her away from him for a while, he'd be able to get his work done without her distracting him by prancing around in his shirts and very little else (thanks to the whole no underwear thing). 

That was as good an excuse to dislodge herself from Bakugou's hip for a day or two as any. 

"Todoroki?" She opens the door, swinging it shut on the new hinges. Ojiro had been more shocked than angry when she'd informed him that their door had met an untimely end but a deep apologetic bow and the promise that Bakugou would pay double the cost of the new door had been enough to shake him out of his stupor. "You home?" 

"Bedroom," he calls out.

Ochako drops the Brûler bag she'd carried her dirty laundry up in onto the floor of her room before moving across the way to Shouto's room.  When she enters she finds her friend sitting on the floor leaning against his bed, the light from the open window illuminating the otherwise dim room. 

She leans against his open door, "Hey, Sho." 

He turns to face her and he looks just as okay as she expects.

Which is not at all. 

"What are you doing?" She moves towards him. That's when she notices the cellphone he has clasped in his right hand. "Shouto?"

Both of them are silent as she moves to kneel in front of him. 

"What are you doing, Sho?" She asks, carefully. He looks close to breaking. "What's going on?"

"What's going on?" He chuckles, humourlessly, as he fingers the edge of his smartphone.

His phone turns on and off in rapid succession — the photo she'd taken of Momo when they'd gone to see the Eiffel Tower for the third time flashing. It's a beautiful picture — Momo is wearing the black shirt and skirt combo that is her uniform at Sabré, the Eiffel tower in the distance, and her face is turned away from the camera till nothing but the corner of her smile is visible.

Ochako had sent it to him immediately after taking it — he's made it his lock screen two days later.

"I've been sitting here for three hours." 

"Why?" 

"I was going to call him." Shouto is not looking at her, eyes locked in the phone in her hands. "I was going to ask him to stay. Ask him to be a real father for once." He breaths in, shakily. "But I just can't." 

She reaches for him, hands covering his. He's shaking.

"You should have called me." She scoots closer to him, knees hitting his toes. "I would have dialed for you." 

He looked up at her. "We're leaving in sixteen days."  

She knows that. 

Sixteen days. Three hundred eighty-four hours. Twenty-three thousand and forty minutes.

She knows. 

"You need to breath." It's unconvincing coming from her — she knows that. She's just as broken as he is. She knows the breathlessness he's feeling, suffocated in it during her week alone. And even now, it follows her through every day, but somehow it's easier to advise him than it is to control her own restlessness so she offers him what she can. "Deep breathes, okay?" 

He does.

It doesn't really help — she knows that – but something about the watching the rise and fall of her own chest had soothed her a little so she hopes its the same for him. 

He sighs.

"Do you think I'm stupid?" 

"For falling in love with her?" He nods. "Maybe a little. But neither of us are Iida — we're allowed to be a little stupid sometimes, right?" 

Todoroki smiled a little.

" I suppose." 

"Are you going to call him?" 

"I can't." 

"Why?" She moved next to him, back sharing in the support from his bed. "What's stopping you?" 

He sighs. "I know it won't help. He won't change his mind – not for something like this." 

Ochako doesn't know what to say. She tries anyway. 

"You're not giving him the chance to." She's staring out the window at the billboard across from them. The accent on the 'a' is broken. She thinks of her own parents. "He's still your father. If he doesn't want you to be happy then I don't know what kind of parent he is."

"You think he wants me to be happy under all the bullshit?" He scoffs. "He's nothing like your parents, Ochako."

"You're making that decision for him." She replies without thinking. "You never know..." 

Todoroki is silent at that and for a moment she thinks she'd overstepped her bounds. His family has always been a subject she'd tiptoed around - now she was stomping straight through it.

And what did she know?

She had grown up with a loving home with loving parents.  

"I know him, Ochako."

She turns to him. Todoroki's eyes flash with the deepest anguish she's ever seen, the sight of it feels like a kick to the chest.

"You think I can just talk to my father? you want me to tell him that I ran away to France and fell in love? Do you think he'll care?"

He's shaking visibly now, the force of it knocking his shoulder into hers.

"He got married to a woman he didn't love for the sole purpose of having children that he didn't give a fuck about to surpass him. He doesn't know hat love is. I wasn't conceived out of love, Ochako."

He turns to face her, gripping the collar of his shirt like a lifeline. Like it's the only think keeping him her with her. Like without it the world would consume him.

She's frozen, eyes locked on the tears streaming down his face.

She doesn't even notice those streaming down hers.

She leans into her friend, wrapping him in her arms, willing him to stay away from the edge. "I was conceived out of frustration. The irritation at three failed attempts. And even then — even after being a success — he didn't give a damn about me past what I could do to him and his fucking legacy. He's never looked at me as anything other than his chance to finally say 'fuck you' to All Might. Fuck. "

His voice is cracking now, heavy with emotion, and he tried to wiggle away from Ochako's hold. She's never seen him so distraught.

 "Let go of me, Ochako. He's barely human. What do you think he'll say when I tell him that I fell in love with a girl with a creation quirk? Let go." Ochako held steady, grip tightening. "Do you think he'll care? He's a beast. Please let go."

"No. I'm not letting go."

"Please, Ochako, please. Let me go."

He's not even trying to escape now, just begging in a way that makes her think that he's not really talking to her at all.

"He's a monster." He exhales sharply. "And he's half of me." 

She couldn't understand — there was probably no way that she ever would — but she saw it. She could see how broken Todoroki was, how fragile and precariously put together her friend really was. 

She wanted to save him.

To offer him... hope? A way out? Something. 

She wanted to save him.

But she couldn't. 

"I'm sorry, Shouto." She cries into his shoulder, uselessly, holding him while he held her. "I'm sorry, Shouto. I didn't know. I'm so sorry." 

"How could you?" He weeps. "I can't expect you to." 

"I'm sorry. So sorry..." 

"She knows. Momo knows." They both cry harder at that. "She knows it all. But she won't leave." 

They stay that way, crying in Todoroki's room for a while. By the time they both calm down enough to sit up straight again, the light that shone in from the window is gone. Replaced by the streetlights and the passing of cars.

They just breathe for a moment.

Todoroki matching the rhythm of Ochako's inhales and Ochako matching the rhythm of Todoroki's exhales until they find something resembling a normal heartbeat. 

Before Ochako can apologize, Shouto changes the subject. 

"What about you?" He asks. Ochako tenses. "Why don't you stay?" 

Her breath hitches.

"I can't. I want to but I can't." 

"What's stopping you?" 

Ochako turns to face him, searching blue and brown eyes. "Shouto, you know what's stopping me. I have a responsibility." 

He didn't flinch under her gaze, meeting her head-on. 

He scoffed. "Your parents would understand."

"You know what I mean, Sho. We're heroes. We're sworn to protect our city." 

"So you think I should go home too?" 

"It's different for you, Sho." Infinitely different. She would be going back to the life she chose. The career she loves. Shouto would be walking right back into the chains of Todoroki legacy. "You're losing so much ... too much. I can't imagine being in your situation. So, I think only you can make that decision for you – whatever that decision ends up being, you're the one who has to live with it." 

It looks like Todoroki has something to say but he hesitates for a moment, considering his words like he does when he's worried about being too blunt, too honest.

"What about your responsibility to yourself?" He finally asks. 

She sighs.

"This is my responsibility to myself. I'm a hero." 

"What about your heart?"

She looks away first.

"That doesn't matter. You know that." 

"Do I? Because I want to stay with her. More than I've wanted anything." 

"Why don't you?" 

"Responsibility. Duty. Expectations. My mother and siblings. Pick your excuse." He scoffs, kicking out a leg and letting his phone slide onto the floor. "Throw in everything you said too, while you're at it." His phone lights up the room. "They're all excuses. Good ones – but excuses all the same." 

She doesn't respond. 

"The truth is I'm a coward." She can hear his voice shake. "I love her but I'm scared." 

"What of?" 

"My father. My feelings. That I'd stay and still manage to mess everything up? I'm messed up, Ochako, years of trauma don't just disappear because you've fallen in love? I'll always be closed off and self-destructive because of him. I'll always be afraid of him. She doesn't deserve someone so ... broken." 

"Sho, you can't keep doing this to yourself." She looks at him. "And you can't make that decision for her. You can choose to stay or to leave but you can't decide whether you're worthy of her love. That's up to her." 

He doesn't answer. 

"Doesn't your happiness matter?" 

She's asking for the both of them in that moment. 

Neither of them answer. 

🍱🍱🍱🍱🍱🍱🍱🍱🍱🍱

She doesn't mean to overhear. 

She'd untangled herself from Bakugou to take a shower and he's moved to the kitchen promising her something dripping in syrup for breakfast. She's wrapped in his towel, and her feet are still wet. The door of the bedroom is open and the sound of Bakugou's voice filters in. 

"Oui, Hag, l'accord est tout signé - l'un des designers de Chanel va rencontrer Mina pour réfléchir à des idées." Yes, Hag, the deal is all signed — one of the designers form Chanel is going to meet with Mina to brainstorm ideas.

She's been around Bakugou for long enough to recognize the term of endearment he has for his mother. She's even seen pictures of Mitsuki — the tall, modelesque woman that gave Katsuki the majority of his features — and from what she's heard the two of them are alike in terms of personality too. 

She would have loved to meet her. 

"Maintenant, si vous avez fini de me harceler, je dois préparer le petit-déjeuner ... Je sais comment faire le petit-déjeuner!" Now if you're done harassing me, I have to make breakfast... I know how to make breakfast! 

There's a pause. 

"Tu es celui qui brûle toujours le putain de toast ... Papa est un saint pour s'occuper de ton putain de cul ... d'accord dégueulasse." You're the one who always burns the fucking toast... Dad is a saint for dealing with your fucking ass.. okay gross. 

She can hear the sound of laughter.

She should close the door and let Bakugou talk to his mother in privacy, but she can't help but smile at the sound of his frustration. 

"Je dois y aller. Ochako a probablement fini sa douche maintenant." I have to go. Ochako's probably done with her shower by now. 

That surprises her.

She'd never really thought about what Bakugou may or may not have told his parents about her — from what she'd gathered, he only saw them about twice a month and spoke to them once a week — because everything with them felt so transient. But maybe she should have.

She thought about her parents.

Would she tell them about this? How she came to France and fell in love with an explosive fashion designer?

It was so far removed from her farmgirl beginnings but she knew they'd be happy for her. Happy that she found someone in this big, lonely world that she loved.

And sad that she had to leave him. 

"...Eventually."  

His voice pulls her out of her thoughts.

"Je veux que vous la rencontriez aussi. J'espère qu'un jour tu pourras ... oui, je sais ... tu n'as pas à crier ... et dire à papa de s'occuper de ses fichues affaires. Elle doit partir." I want you to meet her too. I hope one day you can... yes, I know... you don't have to yell... and tell dad to mind his damn business. She has to go. 

Her heart aches.

They wanted to meet her. 

"Oui, oui ... eh bien, je dois aller nourrir la femme maintenant. Si je ne le fais pas, elle pourrait brûler mon appartement en essayant de faire des toasts ... ouais, tu as ça en commun. Tu l'aimerais." Yeah, yeah... well, I have to go feed the woman right now. If I don't she might burn down my apartment trying to make toast... yeah, you have that in common. You'd love her. 

She smiled, leaning against the door frame. The sound caught his attention and he looked back at her, the phone still against his ear. 

He mouthed, "Eavesdropping is rude."

She mouthed back, "You talk loud." 

"D'accord, Hag. Je parlerai à toi et à papa plus tard. Au revoir ... oui, oui, je t'aime aussi." Okay, Hag. I'll talk to you and dad later. Bye... yeah, yeah, love you too. 

The call ended with a clink. 

She walked over to him, her feet still wet from her shower.

"You talk to your mom about me?" 

He looked at her standing above him with a smirk on his face.

"And if I do?" 

She moved to straddle him, the bare skin of her thighs pressed against his jeans. 

"I like it." She says, "I like you." 

"You love me." He corrected. 

"Remind me then." 

The towel off fell.

☎️☎️☎️☎️☎️☎️☎️☎️☎️☎️

She stops by the apartment one afternoon and is surprised to see Todoroki sitting on the couch. He's on the phone. His body is tense, she can see it in the strain in his neck and the stiffness of his posture. 

The apartment is filled with the echoes of a deep voice coming from the phone against his ear. 

She walks over, sits down beside him, and grabs his hand. He looks over at her, body relaxing as she squeezes. 

Once. Twice. 

"I understand that Father." His voice is steady, confident, and determined. "But my mind is made up. Find someone else to run the agency — you have more than enough qualified sidekicks and pros at your disposal." 

She hears the sound of Endeavor arguing.

Shouto listens patiently. 

"And I understand that." Shouto sounds disappointed but not surprised. "You must be devastated that you made a bad investment in your youngest son. But trust me when I say I share that disappointment, Father, in you. I am disappointed in you." She hears grumbled complaints. Shouto cuts in before Endeavor can continue. "I am not finished. I refuse to let you dictate the course of my life any more — you've had over twenty years, Father, the rest of my life is my own." 

His shouting gets louder and she can imagine Endeavor with his roaring flames around him. She spares a moment to feel bad for Moe and his other sidekicks.  

"No, this is your mistake, Father. You miscalculated." The line is silent now as Shouto speaks. "The thing about children, Father, is they grow. And no matter how hard you may try to stomp and squash and destroy it — they have autonomy. They are their own people. Fuyumi. Natsuo. Toya. They have never been an extension of you."

There is a shake in his voice that has her inching closer to him, reaching across his lap to grab his other hand.

"And neither am I. I am my own person. I always have been. I'm just finally brave enough to act on it."

Todoroki squeezes back. Once. Twice.

"I found something worth standing up to you. Something that has me wanting to live free. Love does that."

 Todoroki sighs. "If I was a kinder man I'd want you to meet her one day, regardless of our differences, but I'm not. I don't.  I don't want to waste you wasting a moment of her life — so needn't worry about that. We'll live without you." 

There is a long pause and then she hears it. A single question. 

"Shouto," Endeavor sounds exhausted. Almost human. "What would you have me do?" 

Todoroki turns to face her, a smile on his face and unshed tears in his eyes. 

"I've heard most parents just want their children to be happy. Maybe you should try that?" 

🏠🏠🏠🏠🏠🏠🏠🏠🏠🏠

They are laying in her bed for once.

Her head is resting on Bakugou's chest and his arm is thrown across her naked back, stroking her side. She's drumming her fingers against his pec. 

Todoroki is with Momo, working out the details of his stay.

Ochako is happy for him, truly, but the thought of boarding that flight alone is eating at her and she'd be lying if she said she wasn't the tiniest bit jealous. 

But she knows her situation. She knows how this has to end. 

"Ochako?" 

She turns her head. He rarely calls her 'Ochako'.

"Hmm?" 

"I need to tell you something." 

She frowns at that, mind filled with dread as she imagines him asking her all of the questions that they've avoided till now — Why can't you stay? Don't you love me enough? — things that would cause an argument. Things that have been sitting on her mind since Todoroki had decided to risk it all. 

"What is it?" 

“Je suis amoureux de cette fille.” I’m in love with this girl

He’s playing with her hair now. She looks up at him, brow raised. 

“Really?” She says. He nods, nothing betraying the joke behind his words. She rolls her eyes at him. Sometimes he’s ridiculous. “Qui est-elle?” Who is she?

He laughs, the force of it has her bobbing in his chest. "Je ne peux pas te dire ça!" I can't tell you that!" 

She frowns, playing along for now. "Why not?" 

"Comment je sais que tu ne la battra pas?" How do I know you won't beat her up?

"I'm a hero," she answers. "It wouldn't be very heroic of me to bear up some random person." 

"You're also a woman," Bakugou smirks at her, hand gripping her side possessively. "It's natural to be jealous. I'd be jealous if you were in love with some other man. Je deviendrais fou de jalousie." I'd go mad with jealousy.

"Mmmm hmmm." She hums into his chest. "Fine. I won't ask for a name then. Puis-je te demander à quoi comment est-elle?" Can I ask you what she's like?

”She’s...” his eyes lock on hers as he smiles, “floaty.”

She racks her brain for the right word. “Flottant?” 

”Yes, floaty.” He repeats. He raises a hand twirling it leisurely in the sir in front of them. Up and down and around. “Free, constantly in motion and essential. Like air." 

"Essential?" 

"C'est un héros. Son travail est très important," he looks down at her. He smiles. "Et elle est essentielle pour moi aussi. De toutes les manières." She's a hero. Her job is very important. And she's essential to me too. In all the ways.

Ochako lets out a fake huff — secretly basking in the his words. "Sounds like she's an airhead."

"No, she's smart. Wickedly so. Keeps me on my fucking toes." 

"Well, that's not so hard," she taps against his chest, "you're an idiot." 

"What the hell?!"

She shrugged. "Vous faites des choses stupides tout le temps." You do stupid things all the time.

"Oi. Watch yourself, Étoile." 

"Whatever." Ochako rolled her eyes, ignoring the shiver that went down her spine at that particular pet name. "Dis m'en plus." Tell me more.

"You wanna hear all about the other woman I'm in love with?" 

"I need to know who my competition is." She grins. "Then I plan to steal you for myself." 

"Égoïste." Selfish.

"You like it." 

He did. He loved it. 

"Elle est gentille aussi. Et drôle même quand elle ne veut pas l'être. Elle suit mes plaisanteries et me les rend tout aussi bien. Mes amis l'aiment et même si leurs idiots, elle les aime aussi." Really. She's kind too. And funny even when she doesn't mean to be. She keeps up with my banter and gives it back just as good. My friends like her and even though their idiots she likes them too.

Thank god, she could understand him now. 

"They're not idiots," she says. "Elle serait idiote si elle n'aimait pas les gens que tu aimes." She'd be the idiot if she didn't love the people you love.

"They are." He rolls his eyes. "But it's okay." 

"How's her french?" 

"Elle n'en parlait pas avant. Je lui ai appris." She didn't speak it before. I taught her. 

"Était-elle une apprenant vite?" Was she a fast learner?

"C'était difficile au début. Elle parlait comme un mauvais dessin animé français. Mais maintenant, je la fais hurler dans un français parfait tous les soirs. Et le matin. Parfois l'après-midi." It was rough at first. She spoke like a bad french cartoon. But now I have her screaming in perfect french every night. And morning. Sometimes in the afternoon. 

She sits up and punches him in the chest, teasingly, laughing as he groaned.

"Did I mention she's strong?"

She could feel a smile spread across her face. "Sounds like you really like her." 

"I love her." 

The words never failed to fill her with warmth. 

"Is she cute?" She asks. 

”She’s beautiful. She's my muse.” He says, seriously. “La plus belle fille que j'aie jamais vue." The most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen.

She can’t help but blush. “Oh?”

”Yup,” he smirks, popping the ‘p’. His eyes took a lecherous glean as his eyes wandered down her chest. The sheet had pooled around her leaving her prey to his wandering eyes. “And she’s got the nicest tits I’ve ever seen.”

”You’re a dog.”

"And a pussy like a vice grip." 

"Oh my god."

She tries to punch him in earnest this time, he catches her fist in his hand.

"That's what she says too," He kissed her neck, "When I'm inside her." 

"Vous avez la bouche sale." You have a dirty mouth.

”Elle aime ça de moi.” She likes that about me.

”Sounds like she has bad taste.”

”She probably does." Bakugou shrugged. "She definitely has terrible taste in fashion.”

She chucks a pillow at his head.

He catches it.

Bakugou pulled her towards him, having her land back on top of his chest. Her breast pressed flush against him again. His skin was warm against hers and she could fell the familiar sparks of arousal lighting in the pit of her stomach.

"Does she love you?" 

"I'm not sure. What do you think." 

"Je pense qu'elle t'aime." She brings a finger to her mouth like she's considering it. His eyes are locked on hers and she can feel the burn of his gaze. "Je pense qu'elle aime votre passion et votre dynamisme."I think she loves you. I think she loves your passion and drive. 

"Vraiment?" Really?

"Vraiment. Elle pense que la façon dont vous faites la moue lorsque vous n'obtenez pas ce que vous voulez est adorable. Elle aime vous regarder dormir même si vous pensez que c'est effrayant parce que vous avez l'air si paisible. Je pense qu'elle aime que tu la fasses rire la plupart du temps quand tu n'en as pas l'intention." She thinks the way you pout when you don't get what you want is adorable. She likes watching you sleep even though you think its creepy because you look so peaceful. I think she like that you make her laugh most of the time when you don't mean to.

She placed a kiss against his pec.

"Je pense qu'elle aime la façon dont tu embrasses son cou pendant que tu es en elle. Comment tu lui murmures son nom comme une prière à l'oreille. Je pense qu'elle aime se réveiller avec toi et s'endormir avec toi." I think she likes the way you kiss up her neck while you're inside her. How you whisper her name like a prayer into her ear. I think she likes waking up to you and falling asleep with you. 

She moved up and placed a long kiss against his lips, relishing in the feeling of his arm coming to wrap around her waist as he drew her closer.

"Je sais qu'elle t'aime," she spoke against his lips, "parce que qui ne le ferait pas?" I know she loves you, because who wouldn't?" 

He chuckled. "You'd be surprised. I've been told I'm a bit of an ass. Even by her."

"Well, that's just fact." She replies, "You are an ass."

"Whatever." 

"She loves you for it, anyway." 

He hummed his agreement, tracing his thumb on the slope of her hip.

"I hope she does anyway." Ochako continued. "Because otherwise, I will have to fight her." 

Bakugou laughed.

"I knew you were violent." 

She smiled. "Only for you."

"You're taking this well, you know," He pulled her in again, placing her on top of him. She slotted in perfectly — like she belonged there. "For being the other woman." 

"Is that what I am?" 

"Mmmm hmmm." 

"Well," she swirled her hips, delighting in the groan he let out, "I heard she's leaving." 

"She is." 

"And when she's gone," She leaned down, kissing his neck, "I'll make you fall in love with me." 

"You will?" 

"Yes. I'll love you more than she ever could." She kissed him, the grind of her hips quickening. "I'll give you all of me. Everything she can't." 

"I'll take it, you know?" He looked up at her. Beneath her like this, he was covered by the blanket of her hair -- all he could see was her. "I'm selfish." 

"So am I." All she could see was him too. "We can be selfish together." 

"I'll love you." His hands trailed up her sides, moving to cup her face. "Every day I'll remind you that I love you." 

"Really?" She gripped him, moving slightly so he was pointed at her core. The feeling as she sank onto him was indescribable. "Then what?" 

"Then I'd ask you to marry me." He grunted, hands gripping her hips as she bounced. He thrust up and her eyes rolled back, body contorted in pleasure. He took her hand — the left — and placed it over his heart. "Would you say yes?" 

She threw her head back as he pounded up into her before she hid her face in his neck with a whimper.

"Répondez-moi, Étoile." Answer me, Étoile.

"Yes, yes, yes." She moaned. "I would." 

"Then we'd marry." He flipped then over, suddenly leaning over her. Her hair was fanned under her and her face was red, sweaty, and scrunched up in pleasure. He thought she was beautiful. He reentered her, revealing in the feeling of her. "And you'll love me. And I'll love you."

"I'll love you." She answered. "I'll love you for the rest of my life." 

"No one else?" 

She was close. So close, so quickly. 

"Sans personnel." No one. 

"Then we'll have children." He looked her in the eyes, picking up the pace and hitting that small bundle of nerves that had her arching off the bed. "We'll watch them grow. Then we'll grow old together and die together — seconds apart. When we're one hundred."

Her breath hitched at his words because she wanted that too. This was a promise that he was making to her, something he could really give her.

Something she could take.

If things were different she would. 

"Simple?" She asked. "You and me?

"Simple." His thrusts were sporadic now as he neared his release too, but she beat him there — pleasure hitting her like a tidal wave. She clenched down on him like her body never wanted him to leave and he saw white. "Fuck." 

He slumped against her, spent. 

"And we'll be happy?" 

His heart was beating so fast he almost didn't hear her. He moved to rest behind her, groaning as he pulled out.

"So fucking happy."

She turned to him, hands cupping his face, and she'd never felt as devastated about this whole thing as she did at that moment.

"I love you." She admitted. 

"I love you, too." He replied.  

⛅️⛅️⛅️⛅️⛅️⛅️⛅️⛅️⛅️⛅️

She'd woken up a few minutes ago to an empty bed, his familiar heat missing from her side. She wasn't worried though — this was his apartment, he had to be around here somewhere. In fact, she'd flirted with the idea of falling back asleep but it would be futile without him there to warm her so she'd thrown on his discarded button-down, wiped some of the sleep from her eyes, and gone looking for him. 

She'd found him in his office, pacing back and forth frantically. She stood at the doorframe watching him for a moment.

"Are you okay?" She finally asked. 

He stooped to look up at her and opened his mouth to speak before hesitating. He shook his head and started pacing again instead, mumbling under his breath. He looked crazy. Which was saying something considering he was pretty weird anyway. 

"What's wrong?"

"What's wrong?" He scoffed, stuffing his hands into his sweatpants pockets. "Everything." 

He started walking faster, back and forward and turning quicker. "Katsuki..." 

He stopped, looking at her. 

"Katsuki," she continued, walking towards him, "what are you talking about?" 

He didn't say anything for a full minute, just looked at his feet as she approached. She reached out a hand to touch him and he tensed before she could grab his hand. She stopped taking a step away from him. 

She frowned. He was so closed off. 

"Talk to me." She asked, crossing her hands over her chest suddenly feeling too exposed in just his shirt. "Please." 

He bit his lip, sighing heavily. And a moment later he spoke.

"I want to ask you to stay." He confessed. "Stay here with me." 

It was in the air now.

His request, her wish and rather than stealing all of the air in the room and suffocating her, she feels like she can finally breathe.  

"I shouldn't fucking ask." He resumes his pacing, moving around her. "It's selfish and terrible and I understand if you hate me for it..."

She catches his arm, "I don't. I never could." 

"You should. It's selfish of me to ask."

She shrugs.

"Its selfish of me to want to." 

He sighed, deeply. Exhausted by something other than the late hour. 

"You're leaving in five days." He says it like it hurts. Hearing it does. "You have to leave in five days and I don't want you to go, Cheeks." He pulled out of her hold, moving behind his desk and falling into his chair with a groan. "I want you to stay with me." 

She looked at him, his hands are covering his face but his body betrays his conflict. She understands how he feels — she's already broken down more times than she can count about the same thing and built herself back up. He'd helped her do it.

Now, it was his turn to break but she didn't know what to say. 

There was nothing that she could say. 

Nothing that would change things. 

She moved to sit on the edge of his desk, his hand coming up to land on her thigh. 

"You mean so much to me, Ochako." His eyes locked on her with the intensity that used to make her squirm. Now it feels like home. "You make me happy." 

She could feel the tears well up.

He made her happy too.

Happier than anyone else ever had — ever would. 

"You make me happy too." She reached for his face, stroking his jawline with her thumb. "So happy." 

"My heart is breaking." He admitted. "I don't want to lose you." 

"I'm yours." She says because while she can't dissuade him of all of his worries, she can offer him the truth. She was his. Now and forever. "You'll never lose me." 

"I love you." 

She knew that. 

"I love you too." 

"I want to ask you to stay with me," he began hesitantly. "I know I can make you happy here. But, I also know you don't belong here — not when you have so much for you back home. You can't give that up. I know if you do that'll make you miserable. I can't take you away from your life." She catches the tear before it falls off his chin, smiling sadly. "I want to be so selfish with you, Ochako, but I can't."

"I wish you could ask me." 

He smiled back at her. "I wish you could ask me too." 

"I can't." 

"You can." 

That stops her. "Would you say yes?" 

"Yes." He breathed out. "You know I would." 

"So would I." She confesses into the night, alone with the man she loves in the cold air of his office. "I would say yes." 

Bakugou shook his head.

"And that right there is the fucking problem. I want you to say yes. I want to say yes. But we can't — not without losing parts of ourselves." 

She swiveled off the desk, moving to sit in his lap. He was still so warm, a nice contrast from the winter chill. She hugged him like that, pressing his head into her chest and inhaling his caramel scent. 

"We're idiots." She said, and she meant it. "We're self-destructive idiots." 

He kissed the side of her arm.

"Fucking morons." 

"Truly terrible." She nodded. The room was silent for a moment, heavy with emotions that it was too late to process (both in the day and at this point into her stay). "That girl you love... What's her name?"

He chuckled. "Ochako." 

She kissed him. 

😢😢😢😢😢😢😢😢😢😢

They spend their last night together in his studio.

Everyone else had gone home hours after she had stumbled into the not so secret goodbye party that Mina had organized. It may have been a good surprise if Mina hadn't asked Bakugou for a list of her friends right in front of her — but in her defense, she wasn't aware of their extracurricular French lessons. 

Regardless, it was sweet, and seeing everyone in one space had made her cry.

She'd spent the next few hours chatting with Kaminari, Sero, and Kirishima planning to video call them the next time she was in the agency with Red Riot so they could meet him. Jirou had gifted her a MP3 player filled with all the songs she hadn't gotten to introduce her to yet. Ojiro and Aoyama were there chatting with Nezu and she made sure to give all three a big hug for putting up with her. 

Todoroki and Momo were in the corner, absorbed in each other and the sight filled Ochako's heart to the brim. She hounded both of them with questions and requests (she'd developed an addiction to the macaroons at Sabré that demanded continued satisfaction even when she was back home) and well wishes.

Todoroki held her tight as they left, promising to be at the airport tomorrow. 

"Ochako," he whispered into her ear, "you don't have to go. Say the word and I'll do whatever I can t—" 

She squeezed him.

Once. Twice. 

"Its okay, Todoroki." She pulled away from him, still holding him in her arms as she looked at his face. He looked more serene than she could ever remember him being like he was finally at peace. She hoped the smile she forced was at least half-way convincing. "I'm glad that you're happy." 

"Ochako...", he started. 

She interrupted before he could start saying things that sounded like hope and promises and everything that would knock her down again.

"Don't get married without me, okay?" Promise." 

Todoroki searched her face, sighing.

"I promise."

Todoroki and Momo left and suddenly they were alone. 

She walked over to him, looking up into the deep red of his eyes.

As soon as he heard the door downstairs slam shut, he kissed and lifted her up to hook her legs around his hips. Their movements were messy and rushed and she was sure they would both be bruised by the time the night was up. Bakugou was ready to make love to her right then and there, but he pulled back, catching his breath and calming himself.

It was their last night together.

He reached for her again, kissing her slow and sensually. She moaned into his mouth and she held him as close to her as she could. 

They would take their time with each other.

That night they took it slow.

Each taking turns to etch their names into the other's body, and placing ownership on the sounds they pulled from each other. They touched and caressed every part of each other committing the other to memory before they'd be separated. They brought each other to the edge only jumping over that precipice when the other was at the peak too so that they could tumble down together, clinging desperately to the other.

Sometimes as they caught their breath they'd be reminded that she'd be leaving tomorrow and one of them would reach for the other.

Sometimes in the height of passion, they'd cry, their kisses tasting like salt and regret and love.

Other times he'd thrust into her fast and hard, trying to mold her around his shape so she'd never forget who had mastered her body. She rode him with fierce dominance, watching his reactions greedily and delightedly in the crescent-shaped marks his fingernails left on her hips. 

And as they fell asleep, spent, it still wasn’t enough.

🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙 

"Vas-tu te souvenir de moi?" Will you remember me?

"Je pourrais vivre mille vies et je ne t'oublierai jamais." I could live a thousand lifetimes and I'd never forget you. 

"I love you." 

"Je t'aime." I love you. 

♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️

She walks into the airport with him by her side.

She's holding his hand and his coat is wrapped around her.

She'd taken it out of his closet before they'd headed down to the car and slipped it on over her travel wear. She has three coats that are stuffed into her suitcases, but she wants to wear his — so she does.

He didn't say anything when he saw her.

Just grabbed her hand and he still hasn't let go.

Todoroki is waiting for her at check in. Momo is there with him and she looks just as worried as he does when she spots the two of them. She imagines they make a pitiful picture — both sad and tired.

She feels something on her face as she approaches them, Todoroki's eyes widen.

She moves to itch her cheek, she was crying.

"Ochako?" Todoroki is using that careful, delicate tone again and it just makes her feel worse. She nods at him as she wipes at her face with her other hand. "Ochako, you don't have to go. Just stay. You can alw-"

Bakugou stops him with a look. 

Ochako checks in the rest of her bags and gets her tickets in silence. Her plane is boarding in thirty minutes, the lady behind the desk says she’s cutting it pretty close. Ochako just pretends not to understand her —she doesn't want to hear it.

She's floated to this place of numb, serenity.

Like she'd was above the skyline, up above the clouds and the chill in the air had numbed every part of her. If she ignored the bite it left on her heart she could imagine it was a sign of acceptance — that she'd come to terms with the fact that she would never have him again.

It only lasts a moment though.

As she moved towards security, the tightening of her heart starting to physically hurt now. 

This was it.

She was leaving. 

She looked up at Bakugou. He looked down at her. 

They were both broken, that much was obvious but they couldn't help but smile as they stood there looking at each other. Silent tears were streaming down their faces, and she was shaking but she loved him. And he loved her. And that was something that would never be taken from them. 

Katsuki must have felt the same because he grabbed her face and kissed her.

He took her hands and placed them at his neck before he gripped her thighs to lift her up in the middle of the airport and hook her legs at his hips. She couldn't find it in her to complain, melting into the embrace and deepened the kiss.

He pulled back.

"I love you." 

Before she could stop it a sob ripped through her. One so powerful and ugly, she was sure people were staring but she didn't care. She clung onto Bakugou, weeping openly into his shoulder. He patted her on the back, bouncing slightly as he comforted her.  

And at that moment as he listened to Ochako’s sobs and Bakugou’s strained hush, Todoroki wondered if inviting her on this trip had been the cruelest thing he could have ever done to the both of them.

✈️ ✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️

She arrives home in the evening. 

The feeling of the wheels hitting the tarmac of the runway jolts both of her from a restless sleep and the pinging of her phone brings her crashing back to reality. She has hundreds of texts. Some from her parents during the week stint before she had texted them. A couple from Thirteen giving her status updates about some of her pending cases. Asui had texted her a few times about grabbing dinner and hanging out before she'd finally managed to get her French number and berated her for disappearing.

Midoriya had taken to texting each of them every day — taking to treating her inbox as his own personal diary —filling her in on the details of life that they'd missed in his unique rambling way.

Half the messages in her phone are from him.

Usually, she'd find his ramblings endearing. Today nothing feels usual. 

It's barely a surprise when she finds him waiting for her. 

Midoriya and Ochako pack themselves into the back of a taxi in silence, slipping into the back bundled in their winter coats. She knows he wants to ask her about her trip. He's probably spoken to Todoroki too and the thought alone drains her. So she shifts away from him and they both end up staring out of the window watching the city come into view.

When they finally reach Ochako's apartment, Midoriyasteps out with her. 

He grabs both of her bags, setting them to the side as he pays the driver. 

If she's honest, she had really wanted to be alone. She almost says so, until Midoriya turns to her and she sees the concern swimming in his eyes and decides against it. She grabs one of the bags and wheels it to the front, holding the door for him. 

A new receptionist greets her and she doesn't have the energy to wave back, giving the young woman an unfair, curt nod.

She doesn't have the energy to feel bad about the deflated look in her eyes. 

Maybe later. 

They tumble into her apartment. 

Piles of laundry are thrown around the living room and it's been so long that she doesn't remember which are clean. She'll just have to rewash everything. There is a stray slice of toast in the counter that may or may not be growing a new species of organisms but luckily the smell isn't everywhere, and after sliding it (including the late) into the trash the air is a little fresher. Midoriya opens the blinds so he can open the window, only for them to come crashing back down on his head - she never did get around to fixing them. Light filters in from outside and she's surprised to see the same old soap billboard blinking back at her with its faulty 's'.

It seemed like nothing had changed here. 

She shuffles her bags into the bedroom and when she comes back Midoriya is sat down on the couch and if she leaves him there she knows he'll end up falling asleep on the bumpy, old thing. So she shepherds him into her bedroom. He plops into her bed like he's done so many times before and after a few moments she hears soft snores.

She turns to her bathroom, eager to brush her teeth before joining him in the heap. She's glad the light is off in the bathroom when she enters. Back ho-in Paris, she'd sometimes have this strange sensation that it was on and costing her money during the most random times.

Bakugou had said she was neurotic; she'd called him an asshole. 

Her chest tightens and a familiar pressure begins at the back of her eyes, but she ignores it. 

She looks in the mirror, watching a girl she barely recognizes brush her teeth with tears streaming down her face. Her face is a bit plumper, the extra weight from all those croissants and sweets having settled on her already round cheeks. In the past, that might have bothered her but she doesn't really care right now. She'll be back to work in a few days and after getting back to the swing of things the weight would shed ... or not. She truly didn't care. The circles under her eyes are deeper, which is understandable with how little sleep she'd gotten on the plane. They're also just... sad. Her hair is a couple of inches longer than when she'd left. She'd meant to cut it - had even planned a salon visit with Momo that had unfortunately been derailed. Then, she'd fallen deeper with Bakugou and he would sometimes play with her hair, twirling the strands between his fingers absentmindedly, and she hadn't seen the need. 

She's changed. 

She's changed in ways that delight and devastate her and she's too fucking tired to think about any of it. 

So she walks in a tired crawl back to her room, hits the light switch, and slips into the bed beside her best friend.

Midoriya rolls over in his sleep, arm suddenly thrown onto the top of her pillow and chest inches from her nose.

Like most of her friends, Midoriya is a human furnace. Always has been. 

Yet somehow she still feels cold. 

🚪🚪🚪🚪🚪🚪🚪🚪🚪🚪

In some ways, she's better. 

She found something in those Parisian streets –  something that she had lost to all the politics and scrutiny that comes with being a hero. All the stuff that she had never cared about back in Mei as a little girl with a singular dream.

Somehow she had lost sight of that.

And, god, she had been so far gone that when she first arrived she didn't even know what was it was that was missing in her life. Couldn't remember a time when she wasn't bogged down by expectation, fear, and uncertainty.

But then, all of a sudden, she'd been surrounded by people who had what she was missing - passion. And they had it in spades. From Momo and her love for Sabré to the assembly of characters dedicated to fashion at Brûler.

To him. He had been pivotal to her change.

Bakugou was always so sure of himself and what he wanted, and he demanded the same level of commitment and self-reflection in everyone around him. He didn't shy away from demanding more of her. 

Not once.

She'd always be grateful for that.

She comes back to work with a fire in her eyes and a spring in her step.

Thirteen is pleasantly surprised that, after completing her pending cases, she volunteers for a rescue effort mission in South America. After her stellar display there, she is the first one called for assistance in the aftermath of an Earthquake that rocks much of central Asia.

Then there is a volcanic eruption in Panama. 

A meteor shower predicted to decimate a small village in Antarctica. 

Wreckage left in the heart of Tokyo following a villain attack that buries forty percent of the city's population under rubble. 

She's quickly making a name for herself and is pleasantly surprised when her hero ranking rises three spots. It feels good - the recognition - but she finds that she isn't consumed by it anymore. It doesn't hold more value than exactly what it is –  the opinion of a Commission of suits who've never known danger a day in their lives. Who had made their millions judging those of them who are willing to risk everything for the safety of their fellow man. 

A bunch of extras who would never know what being a hero actually meant. It wasn't just a title or statistics or engagement on campaigns.

It wasn't a popularity contest. 

It was a calling – and instinctual urge – that kept her and her colleagues rushing into danger. 

The switch from combat isn't as jarring as she had expected -- she still has her fair share of battles and arrests -- but it is fulfilling.

And not only does her addition to the team double their successful saves count but the publicity it brings to Thirteen's agency leads to a conversation amongst the public on the perception of rescue heroes. She's on television – doing interviews and encouraging other young heroes-to-be to consider a career in rescue.

She's finally proud of herself. She's happy with herself. 

Things are harder when she's alone. 

The memory of nights at Bakugou's apartment plague her whenever she comes home to her too quiet apartment at night.

Sometimes she thinks she hears him, whistling as he flicks through old sketchbooks and sends emails. Other times she swears she can hear the rustling of pots and pans in her tiny kitchen. In the back of her mind, the parts she tries not to dwell on, she still expects to see him every night when she opens her door after a long shift. If she's tired enough she thinks that she does – imagines him sitting on the couch, hears his rough 'hello, cheeks' – but then she blinks and she's alone again. 

It's even worse when she's asleep.

One night she thinks he's next to her, tucking her hair behind her ear and kissing down her neck, she wakes up to an empty bed and cries until time forces her to get ready for work. Sometimes she feels the ends of her hair move and is transported to all the times he'd play with it. 

She wants to cut it. She can't. Not yet.

There are nights when she can't sleep. When closing her eyes leaves her with the image of him disappearing in the distance as she walks away from the airport lobby and she sees him –  this larger than life entity – buckle under the weight of what she'd done to him. 

On those nights she calls Todoroki. 

He's doing well, working at a small agency in Paris and solving crimes in conjunction with the local police. She hears his name one day on the news while getting ready for work. He's being credited with taking down a notable member of a domestic terrorist group with links to a larger international threat. The local news anchor praises him for aiding France in its fight against terrorism, emphasizing that the hero is one of their own –  the anchor, like much of the country, takes a moment to ponder when the son of Endeavor would return.

He won't – he tells her as much when she speaks to him.

"Come and visit. I miss you," he says to her during a call. She can hear the smile in his voice and the sound of Momo in the background agreeing fervently makes her happy too. They've moved into Momo's apartment together and as much as she's sure Ojiro and Aoyama are sad to have seen them go, she's sure they don't miss the property damage. "We'd love to have you. Whenever you're free." 

He wants to ask how she is, but he doesn't. She's thankful for that.

Not thinking about herself –  or him – is the only thing keeping her from shattering. 

And she can't shatter.

Not when she has so much to do.

She doesn't call Katsuki.

Can't bring herself to.

She doesn't think it would be fair either – for either of them to carry on like they weren't thousands of miles away from each other. So instead, she gets bits and pieces about him from Mina and Kirishima, both of who demand she stay in contact.

Its small bits of information – how he's doing, what he's wearing, who they're collaborating with.

The kind of stuff she could probably get from googling his name, but the familiarity with which they discuss it helps her to fool herself into thinking she isn't missing much. Like she's checking in on an old friend – not the man she loves – who just happens to be busy.

Sometimes, rarely, they ask her if she wants to speak to him. He's not in the studio much these days - the self-loathing part of her thinks she may have ruined the studio for him - and whenever he happens to walk in she only catches glimpses of him.

So, they don't push her to speak to him past suggesting she call him. 

She doesn't.

It hurts to be away from him but she thinks having him in bite-sized pieces might actually be more painful, like how a tiny piece of glass sticks under your skin, embedding you with a pain that surprises you every time you take a step forward.

They'd been honest with each other – they would always love each other.

But while the promise had felt comforting and romantic while they still had each other, the hole that that truth left in her chest wasn't getting any smaller no matter how much time passed.

And it hurts – hurts like hell.

She had thought being away from him would feel like being dead –  a numb nothingness that would leave her cold. Frozen in a time when he was hers.

The truth is crueler.

Being without him is constant pain – she feels like she is always dying, gasping for air and breathing in poison. 

She'll always feel like this.

There's nothing to be done. 

So she learns to live like this.

She has to. 

A month passes by, not quickly and not particularly slowly but it does.

(Time feels strange now and she's not sure when she'll stop thinking of everything as before and after but for now that's all she has.)

Because of her reignited interest in rescue, Hatsume, her agency's on-sight support technician, suggests modifications to her costume – a heap of expensive, time-consuming modifications that need the approval of the original designer. Thirteen puts her on temporary leave for her to attend fittings and wait for the delivery of her new suit, meaning she's forced to stop all hero activities until everything is sorted out.

She's bummed, annoyed, and justifiably pissed – working is her only haven away from the shitshow her mind has been, without that she'll probably just stop sleeping altogether. There's nothing she can do though so she listens and clocks out for two weeks.

But she does complain.

Midoriya listens to her complaints about having to take time out of patrol to head over to Horikoshi's studio. How unnecessary it is to change her costume when she hasn't had any major issues with it yet. She's being unreasonable, downright bratty.

But she doesn't care.

Its just something else about her that's changed.

Midoriya, to his credit, takes this all in stride. He pulls her from her agency lobby and they head to a bar and he listens to everything she has to say.

When Ochako orders her third shot of tequila he orders them some food. She doesn't want to go to some fashion studio, she says, doesn't have the time. She hates fittings.

If he thinks there may be some residual avoidance there he doesn't say anything, just offers to drive her to Musutafu. It's his day off tomorrow and he'd planned to stop by his hometown to see his mother anyway.

They make the twenty-minute drive there the next day. 

The drive is filled with conversation about Midoriya's recent international work with All Might, her thoughts on the rescue team being organized for the Epic Tower incident, and various other work-related subjects. If the alternative wasn't some terrible, Ochako may have lamented the fact that talking about work was all she could emotionally manage at the moment.

Despite her complaints last night, she's always loved coming to Horikoshi's studio. 

Especially during her UA days. 

He was the comfortable sort of famous amongst other design juggernauts of the hero and support industries. Well known enough that UA had him supply the uniforms of the first years, but not known enough that they had to worry about paparazzi outside his studio like they did at Midoriya and Iida's designer's studios.

And his little studio had a homely feeling that never made her feel like she was being judged or criticized. Not only because the mostly wooden interior and the hundreds of plants Horikoshi had reminded her of her home back in Mie Prefecture, but because the old man was one of the kindest people she had ever met.

The pulled up to the studio and jumped out of the car eager to see the old man again. 

The March air is still a little chilly, but it's nice enough that Ochako feels comfortable in just her sweatshirt. As she shrugs off her coat, she catches Midoriya texting furiously on his phone. His fingers are moving rapidly and he's muttering under his breath like he does when he's nervous. 

She doesn't think much of though – off the battlefield Midoryia is always nervous. 

"Hitoshi?" She asks, walking over to him. He looks up surprised like he'd forgotten she was with him. "Jumpy much?" 

"Huh?" He stuffs the phone into his pocket, laughing nervously. "It's just my mom! Just wondering if we'll be able to make it for lunch... you know how moms are..." 

She did. 

"Well, tell Inko I'll try and get Horikoshi to work as fast as possible." She crosses her arms over her chest, turning to face the building. She can't help but compare it with the all, glass, sleek exterior of Brûler. "I don't want to be here for longer than I have to be." She looks at MIdoriya over her shoulder, offering him a small smile. It's the best she can do these days. "Let's go." 

He nods, falling into step with her. 

They enter the small lobby, smiling at Horikoshi's assistant. The poor woman manages a brief wave, balancing a phone, notebook, laptop, and sketchpad in her other four arms. Horikoshi really needed to hire some more help – but for as popular as he was, Ochako had never known him to take on an apprentice or even another designer to help out. 

He always said he was stuck in his way – maybe that's why he still insisted on the twin dots. 

It was endearing if not a tab bit counterproductive. 

They made their way up the stairs that lead to Hirokoshi's workroom in silence. There were no windows in the stairwell and the only light came from the harsh fluorescents above. It gave the area a dim glow, making the light that flooded in when they walked into the white workroom all the more striking. 

"Uravity!" It had only been a few months since she'd last seen him but Hirokoshi looked older somehow, more stressed, but his smile was just as bright as it always was and she couldn't resist the urge to smile back at the old man. "So glad you could make it!"

He was speaking loudly and fidgeting with the measuring tape draped over his shoulders. 

"Sorry for dropping by out of the blue." She bowed in apology. With the suddenness of this trip, she hadn't had the chance to call ahead and let him know she'd be dropping by. He never seemed to mind before, but she must have caught him off guard. " Deku was coming into town to visit his mom so I tagged along. I hope this isn't too much trouble." 

"Well," For some reason, Hirokoshi looks at Midoriya. Before she can follow his gaze he turns back at her, reaching to rest a comforting hand on her shoulder. "No, I don't think it will be." 

Ochako knows the drill. She's had enough of these appointments that she just nods before handing him the titanium case holding her suit and moving to the changing room to change into the black unitard that she wears so Hirokoshi can get her measurements. 

Being in the fitting room is less of a trigger than she thought it would be. Her heart had fluttered when she'd walked into the studio, sure, but her brain knew there was no way Katsuki would be here. One day she'd get them both to agree. For right now she'd take the small miracle that was her ability to still function in this kind of space without breaking down. 

Maybe this was a sign that she was getting better. Not moving on – she didn't think she'd ever move on from Bakugou – but moving forward. 

She could hope all she wanted but she doubted it. She could claim to be getting better and say she would forget him but it would be a lie. She couldn't forget him and it was all her fault.

She'd wanted him. She'd kissed him. 

She wasn't stupid. She had known what she was getting into.

She knew better than to fall in love like she had. 

Completely, tragically and deeply. 

She pulls the straps of the unitard up when she hears a crash, she turns to the door. 

"Is everything okay?" She shouts. There's hurried fumbling and she thinks she hears Deku mumbling again but other than that there is no answer. "Midoriya? Horikoshi?" 

"Everything is fine, Ochako!" Midoriya yells back. "Are you dressed? Horikoshi is coming to take your measurements, okay?" 

"Yeah," she answered. "You sure you're alright?" 

"Perfectly fine!" 

She shrugged, turning back to look at herself in the unitard. She'd always hated the skin-tight, thin outfit – the way it highlighted every imperfection. All the things that had kept her awake at night as an insecure teenager. Now, there's more of her than there was when she was a teen but she's finally comfortable with all of it. 

She heard the door open. 

"Koshi," she started, eyes locked on the way the fabric rested in her thighs, "do you think we could find a way to attach some more clips to the sides? Just in case I have to scal--" 

She turned and stopped. 

Stopped talking. Stopped breathing. Just ...

Stopped. 

Holy fuck. He was here. 

"What the fuck?" She cursed, knees feeling weak. He was here. "How? Why? Wha–

"Shut up." His voice sounded shaky and the rise and fall of his chest reminded her of the day he'd ran all the way through Paris to her apartment. "Just shut up." H

er mouth shut and she just looked at him. He was here. Same explosive blonde hair, soul snatching red eyes, and sharp features. He was wearing all black – again. This time with a smock tied around his waist and a thimble on each finger of his right hand.

Oh god, he's here.

Why is he here? Why is he here?

"And that," he points at her head, "stop overthinking. All we do is overthink. That's why we've been so fucking miserable. I'm fucking sick of it." 

"Okay." she nods. He's here. "Okay."

"You're a fucking liar." He reaches out to her, wiping under her eyes. She's crying. "You're still overthinking this."

She breathes in, shakily. "You're here?"

"I'm here."

He pulls her in and she can breathe again.

She was struck dumb. Ochako didn't think that she would ever see her again. Was trying to make peace with that. But he was here at Hirokoshi's studio with her. This was real. This was...

"You're here, right now?" 

Bakugou chuckled, looking down at her. "I'm here forever, Étoile."

She was so happy, deliriously so, but she didn't understand what was happening.

"Katsuki, you don't have to stay for me." She cried. "We talked about this. I don't want you to give up our life for me."

He rolled his eyes, wiping at her tears again.

God, she wondered, would she ever stop crying?

"When did I say that I was doing this for you?" He was here. "I told you: you make me happy. I'm here for me."

She looked up at him speechless. She didn't know what to say. "But I–

"Doesn't matter," He pulled her closer to his chest," Even if you don't want me – I work here, now." 

"I do." He smiled. She wanted him. She'd always want him –  he made sure of that. "What do you mean you work here?"

"I mean," he frowned, "I made a deal with the devil."

"What?"

A knock on the door caught both of their attention. Bakugou groaned, reaching with one arm to open the door. The other was still wrapped around her waist –  he wasn't planning to let go this time.

"Who are you calling the devil, young man?!"

Now it made sense why Hirokoshi seemed to have aged ten years. In a way he had.  

Ochako laughed, tears still streaming down her face. 

"You, old man!" Bakugou retorted. "Who makes their apprentice hand embroider leather by hand? That's sadistic. I literally can't feel my right hand. I probably have nerve damage."

"More like brain damage," Hirikoshi muttered. She's never heard the peaceful old man sound more annoyed than in that moment. "Where did your father go wrong?" 

Bakugou rolled his eyes. 

"He married my mother."

"Katsuki!" She scolds him like she always does when he's especially dick-ish. She gets to do that again. He's here and she can scold him and hold him and kiss and ...

"Katsuki..."

And she's sobbing again.

She's sobbing into his smock in the middle of the studio. Katsuki smells like caramel and raw leather and the metal on his right-hand feels cold on her skin but she's finally warm again.

In the corner of her eye, she can see Midoriya smiling at her as he shepherds Hirikoshi out of the room. Part of her wants them to stay so she can be sure she isn't hallucinating. That they can see him too.

But she's also just as selfish as she's always been and she wants him for herself.

"Listen to me," Katsuki says, hands running up and down her back. "I need to say this. And you need to hear me, okay." His voice is determined but she can feel him shake. She nods. "I love you. I love how you're always worrying about everyone else. I love how you know everything about me. I love how you trust me enough to tell me everything about you. I love that you love all those idiots I call friends. And I love that they love you."

He's here.

"I love that you make me want to sit through dinner with my mother just so she can meet you. I love how you laugh with your whole body. I love how beautiful you are even when your heart is breaking. I love that you make me happier than anyone else I've ever met."

He kissed the top of her head. "I love how strong you are. How much you care about people. I love that you're a hero. And even though it made us miserable for a month, I love how selfless you are. I love that you let me be selfish."

He pulled back from her, keeping her in his arms but looking straight down into water brown.

"I'm staying. I'll be working under Hirikoshi – learning the ins and outs of the Costume industry –  but on my off time, I'll be yours."

His hands moved off her waist to cradle her face, hers rested on top of his. "I'm not going anywhere."

Ochako grabbed Bakugou's face and kissed him.

☺️☺️☺️☺️☺️☺️☺️☺️☺️☺️

"POURQUOI L'ENFER SUIS-JE SAUVEGARDÉ COMME KACCHAN DANS VOTRE FUCKING PHONE DEKU." WHY THE HELL AM I SAVED AS KACCHAN IN YOUR FUCKING PHONE DEKU?

She probably should have waited till after the wedding reception to tell Bakugou that little tidbit of information. But she'd found it so hilarious when Midoriya had shown her his phones autocorrect.

She'd apologize to him later.

"I trusted you to leash the dog, Ochako." Shouto sighed, rubbing his temple with his left hand. The light reflected off his platinum wedding band and Momo squeezes his right hand. "At least stop him from breaking the chandelier."

"Last time I checked it wasn't the Best Woman's job to wrangle the Man of Honor."

"Last time I checked you were the one in love with him."

"Exactly," Ochako popped a macaroon into her mouth, "If chasing Deku around the venue makes him happy, who am I to stand in his way?"

The sound of explosions rang through the air, and in the corner of her eye she could just make out the zing of green lightning.

She laughed, standing to chase after her friend and her fiancé. As much as their interactions always made her laugh, she owned to Shouto as his Best Woman to not let them demolish the venue.

She owed her best friend a lot.

Her heels clicked against the floor as she weaved her way through the dancing guests.

She waved off Kirishima and a heavily pregnant Mina as they tried to pull her into what looked like a confused Mumba. Sero was mingling with a couple of Momo's modelesque cousins, winking at her as she passed him. Kaminari and Jirou had disappeared hours ago, but something told her not to check any of the closets lest she be traumatized.

Again.

When she finds Bakugou, he's outside leaning against the railing. He's taking sips from his whiskey – how he managed not to spill any in the pursuit was beyond her – and glaring down at Midoriya and Hitoshi.

She walked up next to him. She could see the Eiffel tower from here.

If she squinted she could probably see her old apartment too.

"Sho wants you to stop chasing Deku through the venue."

He smirks at her, eyes wandering up and down the length of her body just like they have all day. "And since when do I care what that asshole wants?"

"Since he's married to your childhood best friend?" She smirked back. "And best friends with the woman who sleeps with you." 

He rolled his eyes. "Because that's such a chore for you." 

"I put in the work." 

"Can't argue with that."

She sighed, leaning into him. This was perfect.

He grabbed her hand, kissing it. "Are you happy?"

"Très heureux." So happy.