Chapter 50
₊˚⊹✷ 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐘-𝐅𝐈𝐕𝐄
⤷ fuck it.
ODA CURSED UNDER HIS breath the entire way down the stairs, juggling loose papers and his bag as he hurried after Bakugo, who had already committed to this plan. The worst part was that Oda had been right there on the edge of convincing himself it wasn’t worth the effort, that Aizawa would shut them down immediately, that this would only draw more attention to the fact that they were already skating on thin ice. And yet Bakugo was moving like this was a done deal, like the answer was already yes and the only thing left was logistics.
Which meant Oda had no choice but to follow.
They found Aizawa in one of the quieter training halls, seated on the floor with his back against the wall. His eyes were half-lidded, but Oda knew better than to assume that meant anything close to relaxed.
Bakugo stopped a few feet away, hands shoved into his pockets, posture rigid. Oda slowed beside him, acutely aware of how out of place he probably looked with a backpack slung over one shoulder.
“Aizawa,” Bakugo said bluntly.
The teacher’s eyes flicked up immediately. “Bakugo.” Then, a beat later, his gaze slid to Oda. “…Edogawa.”
Oda resisted the urge to straighten. “Sir.”
Aizawa’s eyes narrowed just a fraction. “What is it.”
Bakugo didn’t hesitate. “We wanna train.”
That earned a long, unimpressed stare. “You’re already scheduled for training. Monday through Friday.”
“Not that,” Bakugo shot back. “Extra. Combat. We missed stuff last week.”
Aizawa exhaled slowly through his nose, the universal signal that his patience was already wearing thin. “You were both restricted last week for disciplinary reasons.”
“And we took it,” Bakugo snapped. “Didn’t complain. Didn’t sneak off. Didn’t fight.”
Oda glanced at him sideways, because that last part still felt mildly miraculous.
Aizawa’s gaze lingered on Bakugo before shifting back to Oda. “You asked to switch tutors this week.”
“Yes, sir,” Oda answered carefully.
“And now you’re asking to train together,” Aizawa continued. “You see how this looks.”
Oda swallowed, irritation prickling under his skin, but he forced himself to stay measured. “We’re not asking to spar each other necessarily,” he said. “Or to break any restrictions. I just—” He hesitated, then pushed through it. “I’m behind. And I don’t want that gap to get wider.”
Aizawa studied him in silence, eyes sharp and unblinking. Oda had the uncomfortable sense of being weighed, measured, and dissected all at once.
Bakugo shifted. “You said you didn’t want us falling behind our class.”
“I said I didn’t want you causing more problems,” Aizawa corrected.
“We’re not,” Bakugo insisted. “We just want supervised time. You can be there. You can stop it if it turns into bullshit.”
That, finally, seemed to catch Aizawa’s interest. He tilted his head slightly. “And you think it won’t?”
“No,” Bakugo said honestly. “But it won’t turn into a fight.”
Oda blinked at that, because it might have been the first time he’d ever heard Bakugo acknowledge the possibility of conflict without immediately embracing it.
Aizawa’s eyes flicked between them again. “Why?”
Bakugo opened his mouth—
—and Oda cut in before he could say something explosive. “Because we work better when we’re not guessing what everyone else already knows,” he said. “And because neither of us benefits from pretending last week didn’t happen.”
Silence stretched.
Aizawa sighed, rubbing at his eyes with the heel of his hand. “You’re both a headache.”
“Yes, sir,” Oda agreed immediately.
Bakugo scowled but didn’t argue.
After another long moment, Aizawa pushed himself to his feet. “Fine,” he said. “Limited session. A few hours. Supervised. If either of you so much as raises your voice, it’s over.”
Oda felt a small, sharp burst of relief that surprised him with its intensity. “Thank you.”
Bakugo nodded once. “Got it.”
Aizawa’s gaze sharpened. “And Edogawa?”
“Yes, sir.”
“If your grades slip again, this arrangement ends,” Aizawa said flatly. “No exceptions.”
Oda didn’t hesitate. “Understood.”
Aizawa turned away, already reaching for his scarf. “You’ve got ten minutes. Don’t make me regret this.”
As he walked off, Bakugo exhaled hard through his nose, shoulders loosening just a fraction. Oda watched him for a second before shaking his head.
“You realize,” Oda muttered, “that every time you make talk to that man, I lose a year off my life, right?”
Bakugo shot him a sharp grin over his shoulder.
Oda snorted despite himself as he followed, irritation and something dangerously close to gratitude twisting together in his chest.
𓏵
THREE HOURS. Three full hours of focused training, drills, corrections, and repetition that had wrung him dry in a way regular class training never quite managed. The first stretch before dinner had been technical—movement, positioning, reading attacks—and the second, after a short break and far more arguing than should have been necessary, had turned into sparring.
Gym Gamma was cavernous when it was empty, the kind of space that swallowed sound until only the loudest things survived. Explosions echoed sharp and concussive, rattling against reinforced walls, while gravity warped in low, humming pulses that bent dust and air in strange, red arcs. The overhead lights cast everything in stark white, shadows snapping and stretching with every movement.
It should have been tense.
Instead, it was… almost fun.
Bakugo launched first that last round, boots skidding across the floor as he propelled himself forward in a controlled blast that cracked the air. Oda barely had time to register the heat before he shifted his weight and let gravity pull Bakugo’s trajectory just a hair off-center.
“Predictable,” Oda muttered, sliding sideways as Bakugo sailed past him and skidded to a stop.
“Say that again, short-stack!” Bakugo snapped, already twisting midair to fire another blast, this one lower, meant to sweep Oda’s legs.
Oda hopped, the gravity around his boots lightening just enough to let him clear it. “You announce everything you do,” he called back. “It’s like fighting a very loud instruction manual.”
Bakugo barked out a laugh. “And you think you’re subtle?”
“No,” Oda said honestly, landing and pivoting. “I just think faster than you.”
“Bullshit.”
Bakugo came at him again, closer this time, explosions shorter and more controlled, forcing Oda to actually move instead of redirect. Oda ducked, rolled, came up behind him—and had to make his gravity barrier denser when Bakugo twisted and fired blind, the blast slamming into the invisible pressure field and dispersing.
They paused, both breathing a little heavier now.
Bakugo grinned, feral and sharp. “That’s more like it.”
“You’re enjoying this way too much,” Oda shot back, hands shoved in his pockets as he felt the pull of his quirk settle back into place.
“That’s the point, idiot.”
Bakugo feinted left, then dropped low, sliding across the floor and trying to hook Oda’s legs. Oda jumped again, but Bakugo anticipated it this time, blasting upward and clipping Oda’s side with his shoulder. Oda hissed as he stumbled, catching himself just in time to avoid face-planting.
“Ouch,” Bakugo said smugly.
“Don’t get cocky,” Oda warned, eyes narrowing.
Too late.
Oda let Bakugo rush him again, baiting him with a half-step back, a slight lag in reaction. Bakugo took it, surging forward with a grin—
—and Oda dropped the gravity beneath Bakugo’s feet.
Bakugo yelped, just barely, as his footing vanished. Oda moved fast, grabbing Bakugo’s wrist mid-fall and twisting with the momentum, redirecting gravity again so Bakugo hit the mat hard instead of the wall.
They rolled until Oda stuck on a leg to stop the momentum.
Bakugo tried to explode free, but Oda was already had him, pressing the gravity field down, a red glow that pinned Bakugo entirely down. He straddled Bakugo’s waist to stabilize himself, one knee planted on one side, the other leg extended. One hand gripped Bakugo’s gauntlet to the mat at his side.
“Caught you,” Oda breathed, more surprised than triumphant. “And that was through physical contact and not just because you were in range, so really, I win. Again.”
The blond tried to get up but gravity had him frozen, propped on his elbows.
Gym Gamma went dead silent for a moment. Oda was more shocked that he’d actually managed to catch Bakugo off guard enough to stun him silent. The blond had gotten mad at him after he’d won like three or fours rounds just using range gravity. This was this idiot’s idea in the first place, the angry bastard.
But Oda was close. Way too close.
He could feel Bakugo’s chest heaving under him, solid and hot, could feel the heat radiating off his skin, the faint crackle of residual nitro-sweat against Oda’s palm.
Their faces were inches apart.
Bakugo’s eyes flicked up to Oda’s, red and sharp and suddenly… focused in a way that made Oda’s stomach drop.
Neither of them spoke.
The gym felt impossibly quiet, like even the cameras had stopped watching.
Oda became acutely aware of everything all at once: the way his knee pressed into Bakugo’s thigh, the way Bakugo’s breath hit his jaw, the way his own heart was suddenly pounding way too fast for a sparring match.
This is bad, his brain supplied unhelpfully.
Bakugo swallowed. “You done?”
The words were rough, not angry.
Oda opened his mouth—and then the speakers crackled to life.
“That’s time,” Aizawa’s bored voice cut in. “Get out of my gym.”
Oda jolted like he’d been shocked.
“—shit,” he muttered, scrambling back and releasing Bakugo immediately, gravity snapping off as if it had burned him.
Bakugo sucked in a sharp breath as the pressure vanished, rolling onto his side and then sitting up, staring at the space where Oda had been like he was trying to recalibrate reality.
Oda didn’t look back.
He was already on his feet, boots pounding against the floor as he b-lined it for the locker room hands shoved back in his pockets. Behind him, Bakugo stayed seated on the mat, chest still rising and falling hard, eyes tracking Oda’s retreat.
𓏵
ODA WAS ALREADY MOSTLY changed when Bakugo finally wondered his way into the locker room. The black-haired boy forced himself not to look up, consciously keeping his eyes forward on his locker while Bakugo’s was somewhere behind him, metal clanking faintly as the other moved. The sound alone was enough to make his shoulders tense, spine stiffening as if bracing for impact.
He couldn’t stop the pressure building up in his chest, that slow, suffocating compression that made it feel like his lungs were only working halfway. It sat heavy behind his ribs, throbbing with every breath he took, every second Bakugo existed somewhere behind him without saying a word.
It had been like that since Kaminari had pointedly reminded Oda of his own side of the court. Sure, Oda knew he was into dudes. He’d gotten the memo a long time ago, tucked it away somewhere, but it hadn’t been a factor in his life for so long he didn’t know what to do with it now.
And he didn’t know why it was suddenly affecting him so hard—why Bakugo’s presence felt like a spotlight trained directly on every thought he’d tried so hard not to think.
It was stupid. Especially when Oda was pretty sure there was no shot Bakugo had any such feelings. Bakugo was loud and explosive and infuriating and painfully unreadable, and Oda was very aware of how easy it would be to misread something that was never there. Oda was making this shit weird for himself and he needed to fix this problem before it got worse, before it started showing in his reactions.
He couldn’t just avoid Bakugo at this point, but he needed to fix himself before this continued, before it turned into something that couldn’t be taken back.
Get it together, Odasaku, Oda tells himself silently as he yanked his black hoodie over his head, the fabric grounding him just enough to keep his breathing steady.
When Oda finally turned around, mostly to leave, his eyes met red ones.
Bakugo was staring him down with that unreadable look on his face, expression locked somewhere between irritation and something else. He hadn’t changed out of his hero costume almost at all, the only things he’d taken off were his gloves, which had been dropped on the bench next to him.
His gauntlets hung uselessly at his sides as he stared at Oda, jaw tight, teeth probably grinding together like they always did when he was holding something back. He always had that fucking look whenever he was gonna do or say something he was conflicted about.
Oda was not in the mood for some weird-ass conversation right now.
“What?” Oda snapped, and it came out sharper than intended, but he didn’t feel like softening it.
Bakugo didn’t say anything, just brought his hands up and unclasped something on his gauntlets with quick, irritated movements before letting them drop to his sides. When his arms went straight they slid uselessly off and clanked to the ground, the sound echoing too loudly in the otherwise quiet room.
Oda watched them drop, his eyes following the motion without thinking, brain lagging a second behind his body.
“Fuck it.” Bakugo let out.
Oda didn’t look up fast enough to see him cross the locker room.
A hand caught the side of his head and lips crashed into his own. Oda would be lying if he said he wasn’t shocked—his mind blanked completely, thoughts scattering on impact as his heart slammed violently against his ribs.
Every nerve in his body lit up like he’d been set on fire, heat flooding through him all at once, overwhelming and dizzying. Because what the fuck was this? He nearly panicked when his back slammed into the wall of lockers, rattling the entire thing, metal shuddering around them. What was weirder was that Oda melted into it, body reacting before his brain could catch up, fingers curling instinctively into Bakugo’s suit, it was the only solid thing keeping him upright.
When Bakugo pulled back they stared at each other for a beat, and Oda half expected some sort of panic to set in on the blond’s face—regret, anger, literally anything—but he was met with an expression he couldn’t decipher at all. Bakugo’s red eyes were dark, focused, intense in a way Oda only saw when Bakugo had already made in a decision in a fight, and suddenly they were kissing again, harder this time, like whatever hesitation existed had already burned away. And again. And a fucking again.
Bakugo didn’t give him time to think about it.
The kisses broke only long enough for Oda to suck in a sharp breath, lungs burning, before Bakugo was right back there—too close, too solid, crowding his space in a way that should’ve felt suffocating but didn’t. Bakugo’s hand stayed braced against the side of Oda’s head, fingers tangled thoughtlessly in his hair, grip firm. Like if he let go, something would snap.
Oda’s thoughts were a mess, spiraling and colliding all at once. He could feel the lockers cold against his back, the vibration of metal still trembling faintly from where he’d hit them, the heat of Bakugo pressed into him. He was acutely aware of everything—Bakugo’s breath, harsh and uneven against his mouth; the way his jaw was set even now, stubborn as ever; the familiar scent of smoke and sweat and ozone that clung to his hero suit.
Bakugo finally pulled back again, just enough, breath heavy as he stared at Oda like he was trying to burn something into his memory. The room felt too quiet, like the world had narrowed down to the space between them.
Oda swallowed, heart still hammering, and for a second he didn’t trust his own voice not to betray him. He didn’t know what to say—didn’t know what this was—and the uncertainty curled tight in his chest.
Bakugo’s grip loosened just a fraction, like he was giving Oda an out without actually stepping away, eyes flicking over his face.
And then—
The locker room door was kicked open by Aizawa and the two shot apart like they’d been struck by lightning, separating on pure instinct as reality slammed back into place.
Bakugo swore under his breath as he stumbled a step back, fists clenching like he didn’t know what to do with his hands now, while Oda nearly tripped over his own feet trying to put space between them. His heart was still racing, adrenaline screaming through his veins, every nerve wound too tight to think straight.
“How many times do I have to tell you to get out before you do?” Aizawa demanded, voice flat, making it obvious that he was oblivious to the last two minutes. “I wanna go to bed.”
The words barely registered at first. Oda’s ears were ringing, his face burning hot, pulse pounding so loud he was convinced it could be heard. He stood there for a second too long, frozen between embarrassment and the lingering shock of what had just happened, before his brain finally kicked back into gear.
Oda struggled before he found his voice, “We’re going.” He shot back, the words coming out fast and clipped as he moved on autopilot, snatching his bag up from the bench with more force than necessary.
He didn’t look at Bakugo—couldn’t risk it—didn’t look at Aizawa either as he slid out the door past him, shoulder brushing close as he made a break for the dorms, breath shallow and uneven, desperate to put distance between himself and the locker room before his legs forgot how to move.
Oda speed-walked back to the dorms as he kept his head down and his pace just shy of a run, not wanting to give Bakugo even a second to catch up or call after him. The adrenaline hadn’t worn off yet; it buzzed under his skin, sharp and restless, pushing him forward like if he stopped moving everything would catch up to him all at once.
He nearly flew up the stairs, taking them two at a time, breath coming quick and shallow as he fumbled for the door to his room and slammed it shut behind him hard enough to make the frame rattle.
The second the lock clicked, his legs gave out.
He slid down the door until he hit the floor, palms braced uselessly against the carpet as his back pressed into the cool wood, eyes wide and unfocused as he stared straight ahead at absolutely nothing. His chest rose and fell too fast, heart still beating like it hadn’t gotten the memo that he was alone now, safe now.
What the actual fuck was wrong with him?
The question echoed in his head, loud and relentless, and the worst part was that him could have referred to Oda or Bakugo at this point, and Oda genuinely didn’t know which was the answer.
The only thing worse was that he knew he didn’t have a good excuse not to end up seeing Bakugo again, not when he’d spent the last several weeks sleeping in Bakugo’s bed to stop the explosion-dude’s nightmares. That thought hit him like a punch to the gut, dragging memories with it—and those were now hopelessly tangled with the memory of Bakugo’s mouth on his and the feeling of him pressed close.
His mind reeled, thoughts spiraling so fast he couldn’t latch onto any single one long enough to make sense of it.
What the fuck was he supposed to do now?
In his pocket, his phone binged so loud it shocked him, the sudden sound ripping through the silence and making him flinch violently. He fumbled for it, heart jumping into his throat as he yanked it out and opened his messages, only to see one from Kaminari light up on his screen.
From: Mustard-Idiot
dude we having fun and ur missing it
just come over here
i know ur not doing anything rn
Oda blinked, staring at it longer than necessary, the words slowly sinking in as his breathing finally began to even out. The timing was almost ridiculous.
Suddenly, it was like Kaminari had dropped an excuse right into Oda’s lap. A way out. A way to avoid Bakugo at least for one night, just one, where he could put some distance between himself and that locker room, where he could sort out what this was and figure out how to put a stop to it before it spiraled any further.
He typed a response, thumbs moving on muscle memory more than conscious thought.
From: Me
fine. be there in 10.
Kaminari’s response came almost immediately, a string of happy emoji’s lighting up the screen, loud and obnoxious. Oda didn’t bother to reply.
He set his phone down on the floor beside him and shut his eyes instead, tipping his head back against the door as he tried—unsuccessfully—to shove away the memory of five minutes ago in that fuckass locker room.
He didn’t necessarily want to spend the night with Kaminari and their group of idiot friends, noise and chaos and bad jokes filling every corner of the room, but it would be a hell of a lot better than sitting here alone and stewing in whatever this was.
Movies and video games and food would be an okay distraction. A normal teenage distraction. Something mindless that didn’t require him to think about feelings or consequences or Katsuki-freaking-Bakugo.
So Oda dragged himself up off the ground, legs still a little shaky as he changed into a crewneck and shoved his phone back into his pocket. He didn’t let himself hesitate, didn’t give his thoughts time to catch up with him as he stepped back out into the hallway and headed for the stairs, making his way down to the third floor before he could change his mind.
When he knocked it was Kaminari who threw the door open, way too excited, the door nearly slamming into the wall behind it as he leaned out into the hallway with a grin so wide it bordered on unhinged.
“You actually came!” he exclaimed, even though behind him was the room was loud enough that Oda could hear the music clearly even from the hall, “Holy shit, I thought you were messing with me.”
“Didn’t feel like sitting around,” Oda muttered as he stepped inside, shrugging past Kaminari before the other boy could grab him and drag him in.
The room was warm and crowded and already smelled like takeout grease and sugar, and the sudden shift from quiet to noise made his head spin for half a second before he adjusted.
Inside, music played from Kaminari’s speakers at a volume that was probably pushing dorm rules, something fast and electronic that blurred into background noise beneath the yelling. Sero and Kirishima were planted on the floor in front of Kaminari’s massive TV, controllers clenched tight in their hands as they battled it out in Mario Kart, both of them leaning hard into the turns. The screen flashed with bright colors and shells flying everywhere.
“I swear to god, if you red-shell me one more time—” Kirishima barked, teeth clenched as his cart spun out.
“Skill issue!” Sero shot back immediately, cackling as his character sped ahead. “Maybe try not sucking at this!”
“Shut up,” Kirishima snapped, even as he was grinning, eyes glued to the screen.
Jiro and Ashido were sprawled across the floor behind them, both with plates balanced precariously in their laps, mouths full as they cheered on one boy or the other with zero loyalty. “No, no, no, take the shortcut!” Ashido yelled through a mouthful of fries, pointing at the screen like Sero could see her. “YES—okay, maybe not, but that was cool!”
Jiro snorted, nudging Ashido with her shoulder. “You’re cheering but you don’t even know who’s winning.”
“I absolutely do,” Ashido said confidently. “The red one.”
“That narrows it down so much,” Jiro deadpanned, popping another piece of food into her mouth.
Kaminari slammed the door shut behind Oda and immediately turned back to him, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Dude, perfect timing,” he said, grabbing Oda by the sleeve and tugging him further into the room. “You missed Sero absolutely eating it last round. Like, legendary wipeout.”
Oda huffed out something that might’ve been a laugh as he let himself be dragged a step, shoulders finally loosening just a little. “Sounds tragic.”
“Hey!” Sero protested without looking away from the screen. “I’m still winning this one, thank you very much.”
“For now,” Kirishima growled, swerving aggressively. “Don’t get comfortable.”
Kaminari finally let go of Oda and gestured vaguely around the room like a proud host. “Food’s over there, drinks in the mini fridge, controllers are wiped down—mostly—and we’re rotating losers out, so you’re up after this race.”
Oda blinked. “I.. cool.”
Ashido leaned over the edge of the bed to look at him, eyes lighting up. “Oh my god, Oda, thank god you’re here,” she said. “You can absolutely destroy Sero when Kirishima gets knocked out again.”
Sero scoffed. “In your dreams.”
Oda shook his head, but the knot in his chest eased another notch as the noise washed over him, loud and stupid and familiar. “Yeah, I’ll think about it.”
collab credits to: zeroraide
authors’ note-
we can’t tell if we love or hate this chapter. genuinely, give us your thoughts.
here’s a brief bit of our thinking though-
we don’t see either of these characters being able to actually open up emotionally enough for their first kiss to be all that romantic. they’re two teenage boys whose relationship for the most part is already mostly physical. so the concept that in the end blind physical attraction would win out before anything else just makes sense to us. what they’re feeling right now isn’t necessarily romantic, it’s more- “this is a person whom i find both attractive and safe to be around.” they’re both too emotionally fried to see anything else.
we could have made this a slower burn, and we could have gone about it in another way. but to us this feels the most realistic.
remember that there’s also a lot of emotional blindness here, neither really knows what it is they’re feeling. Z and i have kinda shared the headcannon of demisexual Bakugo for as long as i can remember so it plays a large roll in this fic. both are feeling a lot more than they realize, Bakugo specifically.
maybe this is an over explanation that no one needs, who knows.
give us you’re thoughts, we love comments, they never fail to bring a grin.
thanks for reading!