ᴋᴀᴄᴄʜᴀɴ. ⁽ ᵃᵘᵗᵒᵖˡᵃʸˑ ⁾

      ❝—like hell. i’m goin’ to my room. don’t fuckin’ bother me.❞

    it’s disinterest he relays (an event he’d not participate in willingly) yet there’s brief hesitation before it’s smothered; there’s no way he’d get caught up with such a pace. 

      a molten surge rushes through his body, veins heated, as eyes widen and his neck whips with such a display of shock; embarrassed anger flaring cheeks. despite current privacy (and internal lack of dislike), there’s an accustom to distance that refuses to acknowledge the other with more than hollow glares. yet, hands remain firmly still, sparks dimmed, dormant. 

          ❝—fuck off.❞

      there’s enough in the statement that his interest is piqued without too intentional of an effort, eyes narrowing in reflective distrust and awareness. although he's familiar with ( and begrudgingly used to ) the antics of the other there's a faint prickle within the recesses of his mind that informs him this isn't like other circumstances; that it’d be in his best interests; he should go. but when has bakugou ever listened---

         ❝—better not waste my time, fuckmunch. if you do i’m gonna punt you into the sun!❞