Thread by @nootnoot345

insecure bakugou time 🥺. sfw
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Despite what the tabloids thought, Bakugou didn't actually smell like caramel.

https://twitter.com/KacchakoPrompts/status/1507728632671719427

Everyone in their class has been under media scrutiny since the war, but it had intensified as they came closer to graduation, and now, they seemed to want to speculate about what he smelled like.

So, Bakugou now sat on his bed, doomscrolling through articles about him. In particular, articles about how he smelled.

The sweat on his palms weren’t exactly the same as regular nitroglycerin, and it inevitably got mixed in with his regular sweat and was ignited with his explosions. Apparently, this was supposed to smell like caramel.

The problem was that Bakugou didn’t smell anything like the delicious, rich, creamy, gooey, sweet caramel.

He smelled like someone took an old and decrepit caramel factory and incinerated it—twice.

That is to say, he smelled acrid. Like a bitter mess that stung and lingered in your throat.

He didn’t know if it was better or worse that the pungent scent emanated from only his hands. It’s not like his regular sweat smelled like daisies—and he had *a lot* of sweat.

If the media found out what he really smelled like, these articles would look very different.

But, PR he could work through. He’d already been working on it with extra interview training with Present Mic.

What concerned him most at that moment as an 18 year old boy—on the cusp of manhood—was the expectations that articles like these would set on people he genuinely wanted to be close to.

They would think he's supposed to smell like caramel.

He couldn’t let down anyone’s expectations of him—no matter how silly of an expectation it was.

He scowled deep and got off his bed, throwing down his phone. He shuffled into his dorm slippers and as quietly as he could, walked out of his room.

At 1AM, most of the class had already gone to bed, and nobody would’ve expected him of all people to be roaming the hallway.

He went straight to the common baths and started washing his hands.

His sweat was inevitable in a fight, but surely, he could scrub it all away afterwards. He didn’t have to smell so harsh all the time. He could live up to the media hype. He’d just go straight to the showers after his fights, clean up, and put on some caramel scented cologne.

No one had to know.

His hands felt raw when he looked back down at them. He raised them to his nose and took a sniff.

Smelled like the lavender the soap he just used.

Good.

But, in that movement, he wafted up some of his body odor.

Sweat. Regular smelling musk with a hint of saltiness.

He frowned. It wasn’t caramel so it was unacceptable.

He hopped in the shower and washed himself more thoroughly than ever. It’s not like he’d ever kept himself unclean or unhygienic, but this wasn’t about that. He turned over his bottle of body wash.

Unscented.

He gritted his teeth. He’ll have to change that out for caramel.

Eventually growing tired, he stepped out and dried himself off. The tank top he was wearing was soaked in his sweat, so it was best to walk back to his room in just his shorts.

He balled up the tank top and shoved it in his pocket, touching it as little as possible so as to not let his natural scent permeate back into his hands. Yanking open the door of the bath, he stepped out only to be met with what he’d classify as a stealth attack.

“Ow,” squeaked the small voice.

Bakugou blinked and stared down at a head of brown hair as an incredibly sleepy looking Uraraka pulled back and rubbed her nose.

Obviously running on auto-pilot, she sniffed the air, and her face planted itself between his pecs again.

His brows shot up to his hairline and his hands instinctively went out, hovering just over her hips. As heat rose to his face, he gulped and steeled himself.

He just got out of the shower. Even if this weirdo—whom he definitely didn’t want to push away—was sniffing him, its fine because he just smells clean. He doesn’t smell burnt right now.

It’s ok.

Uraraka pulled back and frowned, shaking her head. “’s’all wrong,” she slurred.

What?

Uraraka leaned in again and took a long and slow whiff.

It would be awkward if they weren’t always in each other’s spaces, having been regular training partners since Deku’s little solo stint. It would be something Bakugou pushed her away for if he hadn’t just spent almost an hour scrubbing himself clean.

It would be something that irritated him if he didn’t have biggest, fattest, crush known to humankind on her that made him want to keep her around, closer than anyone else, despite his insecurities.

Uraraka frowned and continued, “’s wrong. Ya don’t smell like flowers.”

Bakugou scoffed. He already knew that.

“Bring it back,” she demanded while waving her hand around his naked chest, “the burny smell.”

“What? Why?” Bakugou blurted out without thought.

She looked up at him, eyes crusty and drool lining the front of her shirt as she blinked like he were a figment of her imagination.

“Stupid dream,” she mumbled, “*my* Katsuki smells like home—like big whirr machines and gas and when ma burns cake and our crappy truck.”

Bakugou’s eyes widened at her words. Her Katsuki? Smells like home? Did she keep track of what he really smelled like?

“This—wrong,” she complained and pivoted to go around him toward the baths. “Bring back my Katsuki!” she slapped her cheeks as if willing her own self to change what she thought was a dream.

Bakugou stood there, stunned at what had just happened. Why was he worried, again? Home was exactly what he wanted to smell like.

Home was exactly what he wanted to smell like *to her*.

His hands started sweating at the thought and he looked down at them, palms facing up. Obviously he didn’t want to sweat so much that he blew up everything he touched, but the itch to scrub himself to the bone felt a little farther away now.

If she liked the smell of burnt cake and explosions, then who was he to turn her down?

END