[alternate chapter title: uraraka has a mighty thirst.]
prepare yourselves, y'all: uraraka's accent is heavier than ever, since –as we learned in appendix b, she leans into kansai-ben pretty hard when she's fatigued and/or under duress. i know the accent's not everyone's bag, but i've tried writing uraraka without it and i have a imuch/i harder time 'hearing' her voice without the arbitrary affectation, so...y'know, the accent's here to stay.
Ochako can't feel her arms. Or, she can feel 'em, but they're numb, insensate in that particular, limbs fallin' asleep kinda way that tells her she's in for two full sleeves of stabby hot pins n' needles when they wake up again. Initially, right after she flipped off the Registry's gravity, her arms'd gone all weak an' tingly, but she could still move them. Y'know, for the most part. Now, not half a minute later, her arms're just kinda loosely flopped over Bakugou's shoulders, useless. Even lifting them might be too big an ask, let alone wrappin' 'em around his neck and hangin' on for dear life when he leaps out the building and rockets for the roof.
Thankfully, Bakugou's grip is tight enough for the both of them, and every bit as…sturdy as the rest of him –which isn't so much news as it is newly impossible to ignore, on account o' the fluster-makin', welded-together press of his body against hers.
Over the years, by necessity, Ochako's gotten pretty good at compartmentalizing her less than strictly professional appreciation of Bakugou's chiseled-from-stone solidity. And most days, it's not even really somethin' she has to work at; it's simple force of habit. But right now, while their breakneck ascent's got gale force winds battering down on top of 'em and what feels like all her blood poolin' in the soles of her feet and her stomach whippin' itself into a queasy frenzy the likes o' which she's never known, drinkin' in the lean-muscled, corded density of Bakugou's physique is less an unfortunate lapse and more the willful, happy upshot of a desperate bid to stave off the encroachin' sick.
To her mind, throwin' up so soon after she'd activated her quirk is as good as conceding she's already at her limit, and neither the Registry nor the ward can afford that, so she can't allow it. No matter how steep the cost of stemmin' the tide (so to speak), she's gotta be willing to pay it. She doesn't have much in the way o' currency, though, beyond a half-baked scheme to close her eyes, fix the sum total of her awareness onto Bakugou –the glycerin-sweet, smoke n' copper smell of him, the cool-wet fabric cling of his uniform, the taut, powerful breadth of him—and hope for the best.
It's pretty flimsy, as strategies go, but her resources're limited and it's the best she can do in her condition and so far it seems to be working, so Ochako doesn't waste any effort agonizin' over alternatives. Instead, she focuses on the rigor-stiff bar of his arm across her back; and the fisted, grappler's hold of his fingers, bunching the material of her jumpsuit at the waist, just below her ribs; and the wedge of his knee, braced between her thighs like a crude seat to keep her from slippin' free –and somehow, amazingly, her shallow ploy does the trick.
Before she knows it, they've stopped climbing and entered freefall, and the sheer, gut-droppin' suddenness of the vector change nearly does her in –would've done her in, if not for the equally sudden landing, which Bakugou executes with conspicuous precision and attempted gentleness, prob'ly in an attempt to jar her as little as possible. But he still hits the roof at speed, and hard, enough that he's forced into a low, counterbalancing squat, and she's sent involuntarily skiddin' the length of his thigh, from knee to pelvis and immediately back again as he rebounds to a standing position like a coiled spring.
In a moment of intense, hypersensitized shock, Ochako's world contracts to the heady, chafing friction of Bakugou's thigh slidin' against her, and she forgets: her escalating fear that she won't be able to hold out 'til help arrives, her wallopin' nausea, her name—as she comes apart with a strangled cry and sparkler bursts of color phosphorescin' behind her closed eyes.
She's mortified.
But Bakugou makes no indication he's aware any of this's goin' down. Maybe he can't hear her clearly? Or, even if he can, maybe context leads him to assume the noise is more the product of pain than (inadvertent!) pleasure? Ochako clings fiercely to the hope that she's just gotten off scot-free,* but can't bring herself to really believe it 'til Bakugou stoops to hike her legs up –one at a time, leisurely as ya' please—and wrap 'em 'round his waist, one hundred percent unfazed. And he continueswreakin' oblivious havoc, hands loosely cradlin' the underside of her thighs while he snaps somethin' into the open air she misses on account of his hands're cradlin' the underside of her thighs, and he has got to be stopped before she erupts into literal flames and dies.
Good n' ready to throw herself down the ol' shame-spiral staircase, Ochako perks up slightly when, seemin'ly outta the blue, a voice that never fails to put her at ease sounds in her earpiece: "Copy, Deku here-!"
"Shut it, shitwad. We've got a situation," Bakugou interjects, instantly shutting him down. Ochako frowns, upset on Deku's behalf but unable to intervene. She wants to, but when the simple act of opening her eyes leaves her light-headed and sets her entire reality tipsy twirlin', she decides it's too big a risk to try to talk –or move— unless it's absolutely necessary. Better not to test a fragile ecosystem.
She concentrates on her breathing instead, on maintainin' a slow n' steady rhythm in and out, in and out, iiiin and oooout. It barely helps, and it's difficult to concentrate with the world on a whirly pinwheel, but at least she finally manages to distract herself from her original distraction: Bakugou. Specifically, Bakugou's abs and arms and —nope, that's not a helpful avenue of thought!
Anxious for a detour, Ochako dips back in on the conversation between Deku and Bakugou, but finds followin' more'n the gist of the thing too tall an order. She knows they're hashin' out a plan for safely offloading the Registry, and she's pretty sure they mention a student, somethin' about numbers, an' maybe that freelancer who went to space a while back…? Honestly, it's all kinda runnin' together, curdling into so much unintelligible background noise while her body's busy cultivating an immense, slow-building ache.
It's already too much to bear, and the helpless anticipation, the knowing that it can only get worse from here, wrings out the tears she's been tryin' so hard to check.
Mercifully, the spins do subside, which relieves her nausea somewhat –but that likely only happens as a consequence of the pain, settin' fire to her senses and rekindling every last deeply-held doubt she's ever had. How did she ever think she was gonna pull this off? What twisted arrogance made her so certain she could? This endeavor was doomed from the start. She isn't cut out for this business, she never was, and she can't put off facin' the fact any longer—!
"Urav—Ochako-san," Deku addresses her, "if you need anything –really, anything at all, even if it seems trivial, don't hesitate to ask. I'm here if you need me, just a tap away. You know that, right?" Deku's voice is sunlight, breakin' through sky-darkening clouds; his words sweet, precious air, breathin' life into her and pullin' her back from the brink.
Composin' herself as much as she's able, "I know. Thank you, Deku-kun."
"Always," Deku pledges, with a sincerity she can't not immediately believe. "Although, since Kacchan's there, you'll probably have all the support you can handle, and then some. Still, the offer stands." The playful brilliance of his laughter uplifts her, and his follow-up reassurance suffuses her with a soft, summer warmth: "In the meantime, hang tight; we'll be there before you know it! You've got this!" Deku's ecstatic pride and unflinching certainty rings out like a bell, and echoes back within her a hundredfold. It surprises her, actually, how profoundly his conviction affects her, how easily it restores her confidence.
For one perfect second, though the pain never truly lets up, Ochako feels as though she could take on the whole world.
Until, "Fucking of course she's got this. What part of 'fuck off already' don't you understand? Stop mother henning and dicking around and go get me my goddamn freelancer!"
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Deku and Bakugou exist as singular entities in one another's lives. Even before they had their mysterious reconciliation back in their first year at U.A., they were indispensable to one another; each one constituting the invisible force drivin' the other to be faster n' stronger n' better –as heroes, and as people. And that's to say nothin' of after they reconciled, when their already super weird an' impenetrably complicated relationship took a remarkable turn for the (almost) functional, and saw 'em becomin' unexpected confidantes, and –on occasion—somethin' awful near friendly.
Now, years later, Deku and Bakugou's dynamic still defies conventional classification, but one thing's obvious to anyone who actually knows either of 'em outside their well-publicized 'eternal rivalry,' and indisputable to those who know 'em best: they love each other.
They're not BFFs, and Ochako's willin' to wager they never will be, 'cause whatever the heck they are is way too knotty and intense for that. Regardless, the well runs deep between the two, even if on the surface it doesn't look like very much has changed, especially when it comes to the way Bakugou talks to Deku. But the truth is, while Deku definitely gets the worst of it, Bakugou raisin' hell and swearin' himself blue is just…Bakugou, and Deku's gotta know that better'n anyone. No way he takes it to heart.
She knows these things, and a harrowingly present part of her likewise knows she does not have time to dawdle, and yet, when Bakugou rakes Deku over the coals for 'dicking around' and then abruptly terminates the call, Ochako feels legitimately and personally attacked. Bakugou has stripped away her sunlight, and pulled the very air from her lungs. He has stolen from her in her hour of need!
Resentfully, "Mouuu, would it kill ya' to be nice, just once?"
Not missin' a beat, "Are you fucking new?" There's a nastiness in the comeback that settles her lickety-split on lettin' the fury drive.
In one of the more painfully clumsy –and also just plain painful—maneuvers of her short career, Ochako has to give everything she's got to push herself back far enough to look him in the face without goin' cross-eyed. Unfortunately, the exertion takes more out of her than she expects, and she's fully careening by the time she realizes she's got nothin' left to hold herself up.
But then there's Bakugou, swiftly catchin' her by the back of the neck, the careful steadiness of his grip at odds with the open hostility of his expression. The contradiction frustrates her.
"Deku-kun was cheerin' me on and being a good friend! You had no reason to hang up on him like that!"
Everything hurts. With every passing second, the weight gets heavier an' the agony redoubles and the righteous indignation builds, 'cause he's so rude and his eyelashes're so naturally thick and pretty and he has no right to wipe her tears away so sweetly while simultaneously tearin' her head off for something she already freaking knows,
"'No reason?' Every second that shithead spent shooting off his idiot mouth was time fucking wasted!"
"So what! It's my time to waste!" Ochako knows it's childish as the words are coming out of her mouth, but she doesn't care, can't afford to think about caring; she's gotta stay in the moment, and keep herself conscious and in the game. And to do that, her instincts insist she has to chase the anger.
Lucky for her, Bakugou's an old hand at rilin' people up.
"You planning on keepin' this shit up all night, then? Say the word, Round Face, and I'll leave you the hell to it. You wanna get him back on the line and gab like a couple o' carefree chatterfucks, I'll even reopen the channel before I go, since you probably couldn't do it yourself with those bum fuckin' arms! You should know better than anyone that every second counts right now, and Deku needed a boot to the damn head to get his distracted ass to—!" Ochako seizes the opportunity to cut in the instant Bakugou stumbles to a surprise halt, not curious in the least to suss out what's tripped him up.
"I needed him!" She doesn't mean to blurt it out like that, but it momentarily stuns Bakugou into (continued) silence, so she rolls with it. "It already feels like I've been holdin' this thing up all night! I can't feel my arms, and my feet're startin' to go numb, and it feels like I'm…like I'm bein' crushed, and I don't wanna do this anymore, I just wanna drop it so the pain'll stop –but for just a minute –a second—Deku-kun made me forget all that an' helped me believe I can actually do this, and you took that away from me! I needed him!"
Bakugou fixes her a cold look that goes straight to her bones.
"Bullshit." Ochako blinks at him, dumbstruck.
"Excuse me?"
Bakugou leans aggressively into her space, eyes narrowed an' gleamin' with icy rage.
"I said," he begins, so close she can feel his breath against her face, "that's bullshit. And you know it." Her stomach's twistin' into knots and it's got a big fat lotta nothin' to do with her quirk.
"I don't—"
"You know good and goddamn well what you're capable of without Deku feeding you filler-ass platitudes and stating the blatantly fucking obvious. The only thing you 'need' from that shithole nerd is for him to do his job with some proper fuckin' urgency. The rest is up to you," he's lookin' directly at her, into her, "and me." As he says it, the fingers at the back of her neck give a firm but gentle knead, and her body betrays her by full-on shiverin' at the sensation. It shifts the tenor of the whole exchange, for keeps.
Puttin' her all into pretending she isn't approaching spontaneous combustion levels o' overheated: "It's not 'obvious' to me that I can keep this up much longer! And it's not okay for you to decide what I do and don't need!" She manages, somehow, through the raw astonishment of Bakugou pickin' up his feet and walkin' her backward, deliberate-like, 'til her shoulderblades hit somethin' solid, metallic, and frightful cold.
"It is when your judgment goes to shit!" Resentment and overstimulation have her heart hammerin' like mad, almost in time with the muffled whomp-whomp-whomp of what she's guessing is an industrial fan at her back. "For fuck's sake, you succeeding isn't contingent on Deku's ass-poor excuse for a pep talk –you're floating a fuckmothering skyscraper! You turned the Registry into a giant fuckoff inflatable! How the hell is that not validation enough?"
Why can't he understand her morale's on the line here, and that Deku's 'filler platitudes' might be just what the doctor ordered? It's almost like he's intentionally missing the point!
"You're not listening—!"
"Neither the fuck are you!" Bakugou's fingers fall away from her neck, trailin' fire as her head tips back against the fan for support. "What you think you need is objectively fucking wrong, and I could give a shit about Deku's irrelevant dumbfuck feelings!" It's mean, borderin' on cruel –gaslightin' her about her own feelings? Criticizing her judgment, knowin' she's under significant duress? It seems…excessive, like Bakugou's more interested in getting a rise out of her than winnin' the argument. Like he knows she's spoilin' for a fight, and he's given himself leave to see how far he can push her.
This insight makes the whole thing feel oddly disingenuous; a notion strengthened by his apparent inability to stop handling her. Even as Bakugou's maligning poor Deku for having feelings, he's vanishing what little space's left between 'em, sandwiching her between himself and the fan's metal casing, his features sharp with anger and his eyes unmistakably on her mouth.
Ochako's knees buckle, and –is she breathing too hard?—Bakugou reacts, scoopin' her up by the legs and arranging her around his waist for a second time in as many minutes –even though she's mostly weightless and isn't really in danger of slipping. The dig of his fingers into her thighs is similarly without discernible purpose; it's certainly not necessary to hold her fast or keep her from floatin' off anywhere.
"Only one thing that matters right now, Uraraka," he says, at a quieter, slightly sinister pitch, "and it's got fuck-all to do with Deku." Bakugou pairs this riddle-wrapped insinuation with a Smug Bastard smirk, and the combo is devastating.
Ochako's frustration hits critical mass. Bakugou's bein' an obnoxious puffed-up jerkface, but he's also considerately wipin' away her tears and proppin' her up and givin' her guff for daring to doubt her victory's anything other'n assured; and he's got a decisive intensity to his gaze that sets a charge hummin' through her; and he's beautiful; and she's so sick of pretending she doesn't want his big dumb angry mouth on her mouth—
"You're such an absolute prick!" She explodes. His red eyes flash and he grins giddy murder, all teeth and madness and unapologetic excitement at the prospect of takin' this fight to the next level.
Bakugou opens his mouth, no doubt to fire off the next volley, only to have the initiative immediately stolen from him when Ochako leans forward and presses her lips to his.
*'gotten off scot-free' – this only got the Footnote Asterisk because it is the literal worst pun of all time.
other notes:
-i hope by now it surprises no one that things did /not/ go to plan in the writing of this chapter, or that certain promised Steam!time Activities had to be pushed back to the next chapter. if this frustrates you, WELCOME TO MY HELL. (if it helps, i know with absolute certainty that the next chapter will be the last, and that it will be all steam!time, all the time.)
-bakugou smells partially of copper because of the various injuries he's sustained. what uraraka's so fondly whiffin' up is bakugou, bleeding. XD
-there're definitely OT3 vibes i picked up and ran with a little. ms_chunks was not lying when she said that shit just happens.
-ART FOR THIS CHAPTER IS IN PROGRESS.
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[next chapter: smooches and stripping. (for real this time.)]