Mha x reader🍋&☁

KiriBaku x F!reader🍋

Being paired with the sunny extroverted football player for your essay project wasn't your worst nightmare, but only because your subconscious was rarely so creatively cruel. You traced the assignment with your finger, checking again to make sure that it was right. F/N L/N, Kirishima Eijirou. Fuck. You look up, and to your embarrassment, he's looking over at you, and you make eye contact. He shoots you a bright smile that you attempt to return. Professor Aizawa continues talking about the project, but you're not listening, you're too busy wiping your clammy hands on your jeans. You dart out of the classroom, through the hallways, and onto the quad but of course, he catches you.

"Hey, hey y/n!" Shit. You turn around and there he is, towering over you.

"Hi." You say.

"Do you wanna exchange numbers? Talk about the project?" He grins at you. "You're a transfer, right?

"Yeah," you say quickly. "Don't worry about the project, I'll just do it. I don't mind." He blinks at you.

"No, uh, no way," He sheepishly touches the back of his neck. "I can't letcha do that, I promise I won't hold you back." You swallow nervously.

"It's really fine." You respond, barely audible. He shakes his head.

"Come on, I won't be that bad." He reaches out to touch your upper arm and you flinch from him. "Sorry, I just," he withdraws his hand, "Let's get coffee if you don't have class? On me." You tuck your hair behind your ears.

"Oh, um sure." He leads you to the student union, chattering about the reading, making it so you barely have to fill in the blanks of the conversation. He leans down to you when you get to the barista,

"Whaddya want, I'll order for you."

"Just a latte." You say. He moves around you to order, careful not to touch you.

"She'll have a latte, and I'll have a Caramel Frappucino." He says, smiling gently at you. "Let's grab a booth, it'll be quieter." You let him lead you across the busy student union, holding both of your hot coffees. He's right, it's a little quieter in the booth. "Do you have any ideas?"

"Yeah," You tuck your hair behind your ears. "I was thinking, maybe um something about, the pre-raphaelites, and how their ultra-realism was a revolution that actually went so hard that it transcended realism to become nonrepresentational." He blinks at you.

"Yeah, uh, okay, let's do that." You sigh.

"Just let me do it."

"No, no," he says quickly, "I'm a little behind in the reading, that's all, I'll catch up and then I'll understand. Let's look now, at one of the paintings, and you can explain it to me." You take a sip of your coffee and flip to a page in your three hundred dollar textbook, complete with glossy colored pictures.

"This is Ophelia, by John Edwin Millais." He looks at the pale woman lying in the reeds.

"Oh shit, is she dead?" You swallow.

"Yeah, of course, she is, she's Ophelia." He looks sheepish. "From Hamlet. She pretty famously dies." He looks even more sheepish.

"Uh, okay." He puts his palms up. "Tell you what, I will catch up on the reading. I will. And then we can divide up work, and get started. I will not be the mean jock that makes you do this yourself. I refuse."

"Frankly that's more honor than I expected from you." He laughs, touching the back of his neck.

"Jeez. Sorry that my fellow athletes did ya so dirty. Scouts honor, I won't leave you high and dry." He's oozing sincerity. You don't trust it.