Chapter Text
Very few missions are ever as classified as this, and only a select few Heroes can step up to such a challenge, but Uraraka Ochako has always thrived under pressure. With only fifteen minutes left on the clock, she dashes up the stairs – two at a time – and crosses the street without looking twice. She dodges cars and jumps over civilians, the city’s lights guiding her to her final destination: the bookshop.
After all, it would be closing shortly and if she didn’t make it now, she would have to wait until Monday to get the latest K.E.M. release. If she didn’t make it in time, her weekend plans would come crashing down.
But of course, her shift had run late with paperwork back at the office. So, Uraraka had no choice but to dash across the city – two different trains – and a half-mile jog to the obscure shop.
The journey to Firefly & The Fox is usually exciting (the anticipation of a new book is just too good!), tonight, however, is anxiety-ridden and filled with unfortunate steps. She would have stopped at the cafe across the street first and she would have chatted with the art seller on the corner – but no, tonight, instead, she bursts into the independent bookstore with haste.
It smells of sandalwood and musk and cats, and though she’s never seen a cat in the store, she wouldn’t put it past the owner to have one or two behind the scenes. The little old man behind the counter looks up from his own book and greets her with a small smile. His glasses slip down his nose, the bifocals catching the light of the single lamp on the front counter. He’s counting the cash quietly, ready to close up shop, but unsurprised to see her.
“You aren’t sold out, right?” Uraraka wheezes, hands on her tight around her ribs as she catches her breath. “I came as fast as I could!”
“They aren’t exactly best sellers, dear,” he murmurs sarcastically. He adds a wink, good-naturedly. “You know where to find it, I’m sure.”
She ducks to the left, well accustomed to where the romance section is. After all, this is the bookstore where she first discovered K.E.M. just over a year ago and three books later.
The aisles are cramped and crowded with books – as expected. New releases, popular revivals, collector editions, and obscure out-of-print copies that were almost lost to time, but saved on these shelves.
Today marks book number four from K.E.M., an indie author who Uraraka had stumbled upon after Yaoyorozu got her addicted to reading during their last year at U.A. — graduating had been difficult, and being a hero isn’t simple, and Uraraka found herself seeking escapism – the bookworm had loaned her a few, and soon she was hooked. She had never been a big reader as a kid, but now, diving headfirst into the wild world of romance and taking a break from reality, she's thankful to authors that can help her escape. Discovering K.E.M. was the cherry on top, her work absolutely delightful and…well, downright delicious. While Uraraka often traded new titles with Yaoyorozu and her other friends, she kept K.E.M. to herself.
She finds the new book instinctively: it’s hard to reach on the top shelf of the third unit. In red marker, block letters read erotica on a piece of tape underneath the specific shelf. It’s amongst only a handful of other books, the subgenre rare even in the independent seller’s inventory.
Uraraka feels her stomach flip, half-conscious of her choices.
But it calls out to her, the initials are in a stark text type and the title is written in a delicate cursive feature.
Infinitely Sweet by K.E.M. is finally hers.
The author’s past work looks very similar. Rather oblivious-looking covers, to not draw anyone’s attention or give any hints regarding the contents. With neutral tones and averaging around 300 pages of paper release, there’s nothing suspicious about the…adult novels, and Uraraka can read them freely in public. K.E.M.’s writing is wonderful, and her marketing is beyond genius.
Uraraka takes a quick breath and flips the book open halfway, eyes scrawling until she’s satisfied with her sneak-peek: and then his thumb was circling over my clit. It was something between mechanical and intimate, the touch so matter of fact. There was no exploring. He had already made his mind up, and I had a sudden, stomach-dropping worry that he’d tried this on another girl. And then his fingers inside of me flick forward, rubbing me directly with–
Uraraka snaps the book closed and muffles a happy squeal. Oh, god, it was going to be good. She fumbles, eager to read the synopsis on the back cover. She feels herself grinning, all of her favourite tropes coming together.
A naive but joyful girl, who’s never left her small-town before, is surprised to find that her high school friend, who had move to the city and never looked back, finds his way home after his mother grows ill. They reconnect after he stumbles into her tiny bakery. She shows him the sweet side of life and he helps expand her sense of flavour.
Friends to strangers to lovers. Domestic fluff. Mild hurt/comfort. And, if her little sneak-peek is any clue, the new book is filled to the brim with smut.
If only she were more popular, Uraraka’s sure that the indie author’s bank balance was worse than hers. There’s no way she could support herself as just an author. It’s almost sad, disappointing even, that this incredible writer couldn’t write more freely. Uraraka wonders if K.E.M. also writes under another name for other projects.
While Uraraka loves cheesy romantic comedies, and passionate classics, and historical trysts, and supernatural love triangles, and she especially loves sharing the stories with her friends. She can't help but love love. K.E.M.'s writing is her favourite by far: erotica or not, K.E.M. writes love stories that fill Uraraka's heart...and feeds her hunger.
Uraraka weaves her way back to the cash register, past the overfilled shelves and stacks of forgotten novels, tempted to open Infinitely Sweet again but also wishing to…what? Meet K.E.M.? Thank her? She’s elusive for a reason, a secret identity separates an average person from awfully controversial content. Regardless though, she wonders who K.E.M. is outside of her writing — is her love-life anything like the stories?
The old man greets her and scans the back of her book, any judgment well hidden beneath his welcoming smile.
“Did I ever tell you that I only stock K.E.M.’s pieces because they convinced me to?” His thinning white hair and wire-framed glasses make him seem even older, skinnier, and wiser. The bookshop owner grins at a flood of memories. “They came in one day a few years ago, all huffy and puffy, and argued with me for almost an hour, daring me to stock their first self-published book and promising that everything they write will become a best seller. Which is quite brave of them to say, considering the genre and the lack of marketing."
Words rush from Uraraka’s mouth, unbarred and desperate. “So you’ve met her? What’s she like? Does she come by often? Do you think you could introd–” The poor old man didn’t stand a chance.
“No, no, Uravity-san. I promised to stock their books and keep our contract a secret, at least until they actually become a bestseller,” he chuckles, wiggling a finger tauntingly. “A deal is a deal.”
The likelihood that K.E.M. ever becomes a best seller is slim to none. Uraraka grinds her teeth, and refrains from rolling her eyes at the elderly bookseller. She didn't mean to be disrespectful or pushy, but it's imperative. “Could you…tell me anything about her? I can’t find anything about her online, absolutely nothing. The only reason I know about her new releases is because you tell me ahead of time — which I appreciate, as you know."
“K.E.M. has been writing for only a few years, they said they started writing near the end of high school. And only for fun! Nothing professional. They have a fascination with building new worlds and writing women who are strong in their vulnerability, romances that are as affectionate as they are challenging, and worlds that a reader sinks into and never wants to leave.” He hums, recalling his connection with the elusive author, a look of pure adoration etched onto his face. Lost in thought, the older man’s nose wrinkles after a moment – catching Uraraka's curious pout. “But, you already knew that, didn’t you Uravity-san? You’re my only customer that actually seeks out K.E.M.’s work at my store. The rest of their readers must go elsewhere...or maybe you're their only reader.”
“Of course, I know that. I’m her biggest fan!” Uraraka grins at his sense of humour. This bookshop is his life, his love. He’s invited strangers into his place and let's them make it their place. Uraraka is forever grateful that he accepted her as an insatiable reader, and K.E.M., and dozens of other independent authors. Writers that weren’t picked up by publishers, writers that wrote for themselves rather than an audience. Firefly & The Fox hosts stories that have been told a billion times (well-loved secondhand books that sometimes look like they've been to hell and back) and stories that might never be heard (passion projects that don't meet the stand of the book publishing world). “What about…K.E.M. as a person? Like, well…is she married? Does she have another job? What about–”
He holds out his hand, snapping his fingers twice to ask for payment. She hands over a few bills and coins, exact change, and thanks him. With her payment, he reveals a clue.
“When their hands aren't busy typing, they're probably knitting sweaters or trying out a new recipe. They’re quite crafty and creative, from what I know.” After a second thought, he adds, “I don’t ever see them with anyone else. They’re always by themselves when they come here, but I know for a fact that they care about their friends and family a lot.”
“Her books are…all about love,” Uraraka finds herself sighing, coming to the conclusion that she probably wasn’t going to get much more out of the bookshop owner. She might as well ask, though. “Is she in love? Is she just like her characters?”
His laugh doesn’t suit him.
It’s loud and boisterous and completely out of character, and as he calms down, he scolds her, “I wouldn’t say Infinitely Sweet, or any of K.E.M.’s other works, is exactly about innocent love, now would you?”
Ah, so he’s read it. Uraraka promptly blushes, squeezing her eyes closed briefly to blink back a heat. With a shrug of her shoulders, Uraraka grimaces and decides to not answer: it’s well written, and there’s nothing to be ashamed about – the smut adds a layer of intimacy, and it adds a layer to the developing relationships.
“I’ll make sure to pass your regards onto K.E.M. the next time I see them.” As she bows to leave, he stops her from leaving. He motions back to the aisle she had just been in, hoping to make another sale. “Oh, but before you go! Did you check out the second-hand shelf? I was able to find a few more romances at the market, some of which you may want to grab before they’re gone. There’s another Bronte hardcover that your lovely friend would be interested in.”
He doesn’t have to tell her twice, dashing back to the romance aisle with a feeling of greed rooting in her belly. She stocks her new book under her armpit and sets out to complete a newly assigned mission: to find a decent deal.
While browsing the other half of the romance shelf, studying the yellow tags stuck to the bottom of the used books, the bell above the front door rings and the old man greets the new customer. Uraraka checks her watch quickly – and she thought she had been pushing her luck with the approaching closing time. Some people have such audacity, making the elderly owner stay even later.
Uraraka pulls a few covers out to check the quality of the paper, and acknowledges the approaching footsteps.
If this were a regular romance novel, this would count as a meet-cute: a first encounter in a secluded bookshop, quietly browsing the romance section.
“Move it, Cheeks,” a gruff voice snaps her back to reality. With shaking hands, she hides the book behind her back and pivots to address the nickname. Bakugou looks just as rough as she does, their shifts ending at the same time but in opposite locations. And perhaps…he had run here, too. “You’re blocking the aisle.”
Uraraka hesitates, glancing up to reread the signage above them.
Definitely romance.
Her eyebrows narrow at him, but before she can accuse him of anything, Bakugou pushes past her — ignoring her presence completely.
“Too slow, idiot.” Bakugou mumbles, sliding past her and careful to bump into her rather than knock the precariously stuffed shelves. “Get out of my way.”
“What are you doin’ here, Bakugou-kun?”
Eerily, he pauses near the same section Uraraka had just been browsing frantically: erotica. She hears him sneer under his breath, “None of your damn business.”
“Oh, come on! We’re teammates! I even consider you a good friend back in the day. Your business is my business!” Uraraka physically and metaphorically sticks her nose where she shouldn’t as she takes a tiny step forward and tries to follow his viewpoint. “Are you looking for a particular book? I come to this store all the time, it’s the only one that carries my favourite author, so I know it pretty well and can probably point you in the right directi-“
“Get off my ass, Cheeks, or I’ll kick your ass.”
“You could try, but last time Hawks let us spar, I believe I handed your ass to you.” Uraraka places a steady hand on his shoulder, digging her fingers in until she’s sure he feels her. “Now tell me, what are you doin’ here?”
Here, as in her special place. Here, in the romance aisle.
“Having a secret rendezvous with the League of Villians, obviously,” Bakugou reaches around and grabs her wrist — tight enough that there won’t be a bruise, but painful enough that she’ll remember for next time. “I’m buying a goddamn book, you dumbass.”
She releases her grab on him and he lets her go as well. “What kind of book?”
“What is this? Fucking twenty questions?”
This is the opposite of a meet-cute. This is Bakugou Katsuki once again barrelling into her imagination.
“I’m your co-worker, your friend! Is it such a crime to be interested in your interests?”
Not that she’d ever been interested in his interests before.
This is really the first she’s ever considered Bakugou having hobbies before, outside of work and working out. Maybe cooking, maybe music. But that’s it. There aren’t many layers to Bakugou: an outer, aggressive and arrogant shell covers a gooey centre. The gooey centre can only be seen sometimes, like a flicker between pages.
They’ve only been a part of the same Hero Team for a few months, brought together a couple of years after graduation, and it’s not like they spend time together outside of their assigned shifts. Hawks made sure to switch the partnerships up as much as possible to induce trust amongst all six of them, so she spends an equal amount of time with Bakugou as she does with Sero, Todoroki, Nakagame, and Shishikura. They were in tandem with a second team of six, covering shifts with spares to create what Hawks has dubbed his dream agency.
And even as high school students, she didn’t know Bakugou outside of hero work and working out.
“My dad’s birthday is coming up. He likes to read girly shit.” Bakugou whips out a list of familiar author names from his jacket, the harsh movement startling her. Uraraka reads through it quickly, sighing with partial relief that K.E.M. is not written down. That would have been mortifying…not that she truly thought that Bakugou’s dad would ever read erotica. “I don’t have time to give him a gift, except now. And the store’s closing soon, so move.”
“Right, yeah, sorry.” Uraraka hovers, uncomfortably. She knows she should just leave. She knows he wants her to just leave. But…god, this is her expertise. And she can’t help herself, when she blurts out, “do you want some recommendations?”
Bakugou crouches down to get a better look at the books on the bottom shelf, and from this view, she’s astonished to find that the tips of his ears are bright red.
With…embarrassment? No way.
“Fuck off,” he whispers – avoiding the old man’s ears at the front of the store, “I don’t want your help.”
“But you…you need it.” Uraraka offers and Bakugou’s entire face erupts into a similar shade of red to match the tips of his ears, rising to tower over her in the cramped aisle. So, she covers quickly, and heaves her back into the shelf behind her to create some space, “I just mean that I like romance books, I know a lot about them. And you…don’t. You don't like girly shit.”
Bakugou’s jaw clenches, impatient and irritated by her prattling.
“I mean,” Uraraka digs her theoretical hole, “I doubt you even know any of those authors you’ve got written down. You don’t exactly seem like the type of guy to like sappy romances.”
His jaw drops in shock, possibly anger. But he doesn’t explode, eyes glancing up to the front door, then back at her, and then back to the entrance. It’s like he’s having an internal debate on how easily he could murder her without getting caught.
Would the old man up front hear her screaming if he blew a hole in the ground to bury her in?
“Let me help! Your dad totally deserves a good birthday book, he’s such a softie.” She nods, confident that if she were to jump into the hole she’s dug, this horrible conversation would come to an end and Bakugou wouldn’t have to get her blood on his hands. "I've got fond memories of him from school. He used to bring cookies and wore those really nice sweaters and-"
Bakugou, still and steady and surly, tears his eyes away from the checkout area to the book in her hand. And like a wave of sureness flowing over him, he smirks at her choice of reading material.
He tilts his chin down, “You think my dad should read that girly shit?”
Uraraka nearly drops her new book, grasping the spine until her knuckles turn white.
Realization hits her: he can’t know. A gate opens and guilt races through her blood. Goosebumps parade across her skin. This is goddamn porn. Porn with plot, mind you, but goddamn.
And, god, Bakugou Masaru can never read anything by K.E.M., no matter how soft he is.
“Never mind then, Bakugou-kun, I don’t even want to help you. I pity your father, you’re going to pick some awful, cheesy novella with weak characters and an unoriginal plot.” She does her best to not stutter, pulling her prized possession closer to her chest, both hands clutching the book like it’s her last lifeline. Bakugou’s stare remains stuck on the loopy title and dull design, looking rather intrigued, to say the least. “I have to go home, I’m exhausted. I had to stay late while the rest of you took off ‘cause of all that paperwork. I’ll never bet against Nakagame-san again for office duties, it isn’t worth the pain of los–”
Uraraka bites her tongue, stunned.
Bakugou’s hand breezes past her face, arm propped up between the junction of her neck and shoulder, reaching forward to lean against the bookshelf she had backed herself into. She’s effectively trapped.
As his breath ghosts across her cheek, she notes how he smells like here: sandalwood and musk and…not cats, but something else. Something like…books.
He smells like ink on paper; he smells like her favourite kind of escape.
Bakugou’s jacket shifts, revealing his undershirt, one that she sees a dozen times a day while at work, a black polyester material that protects him from his Quirk and the weather. It’s tight – tighter, unbelievably so – and the low lighting of the bookshop practically highlights how his muscles move underneath.
What the fuck is happening. This isn’t a meet-cute.
But this is definitely reminiscent of a kabedon. In another life, this could be the premise of K.E.M.'s next novel.
And he sweeps away just as quickly as he had encroached into her space. He’s apparently decided on a book from behind her, still in the romance section, on the second-hand shelf. In one smooth motion, he pulls the book from the shelf, careful to not touch her.
Uraraka reels at the action: she’s got to get out of here, she’s got to escape from this seriously awkward feeling growing in the pit of her stomach. At least that explains it: not trying to get closer, just disrespectful of her space.
“I don’t need your help, especially when it comes to this shit.”
And he’s got the same idea, breaking away from her space until his back presses against the opposite bookshelf and the entire aisle opens up between them. He flashes the copy of Bronte’s The Tenant of Wildfell Hall – the one that Uraraka had set out to find, the one that Yaoyorozu would have enjoyed for her collection. Hailed as one of the first feminist novels telling the story of a woman who violates social conventions, braves the world and faces adversity on her own, Yaoyorozu has several editions and is constantly on the search for more.
Uraraka had yet to read it.
“See you at work on Monday, Cheeks, and enjoy your book.”