BakuJirou Oneshots

Type

Jirou had never given much thought to her type. She hadn't fallen for many guys to even curate a list. However, given her recent track record, she was starting to think she had a thing for blonds. She thought she liked them dumb, but apparently, she liked them smart too.

It was the suspension bridge effect, brought on by the adrenaline of the match. It had to have been. There was no freaking way she found that abrasive attitude attractive. He had kicked her with his dirty boots for crying out loud. 

But for some reason, Bakugou's words kept ringing in her ears, even a day after the match had ended. When you guys are in danger, I'll save you! 

Fuck. Jirou had always thought Bakugou was loud. She had never found it pleasant, but she had never found it a problem either, not when Jirou could easily block out deafening noises— a simple matter of cancelling them out with her own vibrations. Except, Bakugou wasn't just loud anymore. He was infectious. Like an earworm, but without all the gross imagery attached 

As a matter of fact, now that Jirou was sneaking peeks at him from behind her textbook, Jirou thought Bakugou was... well, actually good looking. The way his bangs fell messily into his face, the way he slightly pouted in disinterest at whatever lesson was being reviewed, the way he restlessly drummed his fingers atop the open workbook stood on his desk. Jirou thought that for someone who was aiming, so anally, to be number one, Bakugou could act surprisingly boyish. 

As Jirou's gaze trailed back to Bakugou's face, she nearly toppled over in her chair, gasping sharply when she met his vermillion stare. 

Shit.

Jirou couldn't duck fast enough. 

Shit. Shit. Shit. Oh, she was an idiot. A colossal idiot. Getting so carried away. And here she thought Kaminari was the brainless one. 

Jirou mentally pummeled herself as she pretended to write a few lines in her workbook. Unable to resist, she chanced another glance back at Bakugou, just to make sure he wasn't on to her.

Their eyes clashed, and the intensity in his narrowed gaze sucked all the remaining air from Jirou's lungs.

Fuck. 

She was dead. She was so fucking dead. 

Jirou dashed her head back down, boring holes into her workbook with such laser concentration her eyes watered. 

Jirou didn't dare look at Bakugou again for the rest of Aizawa's lecture, but that didn't mean she couldn't feel his steel-cut gaze slashing her neck into ribbons. 

Oh, she was so fucked. 

When first period finally ended, Jirou whipped out of the classroom before the last chime had even gone off, abandoning all her belongings and racing for the bathroom. 

All through the second-half of lecture, she had wracked her brain coming up with her master plan: She would hide out until lunch, pretend she had a bad stomach ache or something, and then head back to the dorms. There was no way she could face Bakugou today, let alone concentrate on any mind-numbing lessons. Her feelings were too much of a mess. Jirou needed a day to hole-up and write. Transfer her deranged emotions onto paper. Maybe then they wouldn't stir her crazy.