Midoriya's annoyance lasts mere seconds as something intangible and precious, missing for months, slots back into place. His scars have doubled, and his general demeanor has shifted, but right now, he grins at him brightly--with a slight reflective edge Bakugou will recognize from their sparring. Midoriya made his decision, so there's no point in trying to backpedal. And it's fun. Bakugou can act all high and mighty, but he just got clocked on the side of the head with a wet shirt. The look on his rival's face was priceless.
Midoriya can see what he's doing with the shirt. He knows what's coming, because it's all for show, really, right down to that sneer. What's coming is something extremely stupid.
Despite the swiftness of his own sneak attack, being on the sauce means slowed reactions. Dimly, he can feel it, a slight sluggishness in his processing when he darts his eyes over Bakugou. A Drunken Master Midoriya is not. He can't dodge easily. His forearm shoots up and catches the end instead. It wraps it with a thwap, but he can take the pain.
"I already did this with something a lot more dangerous," he informs him without malice. Now there's a fierceness to his grin. It's a nice button-down shirt, a gift from a Pthumerian. He trusts the fibers to hold better than the secondhand things he usually buys. The memory of a barbed whip in October comes back to him, as well as his training with Blackwhip.
He grips and tugs back and down, trying to bring Bakugou low. Not for one of his usual kicks--subconsciously he knows that's excessive for a bit of roughhousing in someone's bathroom. Maybe he'll steal the shirt back or get him into a harmless grapple in this cramped space. He's not really thinking ahead thanks to the alcohol, other than the first combat lesson they learned together at UA: Don't damage your surroundings.
mha spoilers (anime-friendly)
Midoriya can see what he's doing with the shirt. He knows what's coming, because it's all for show, really, right down to that sneer. What's coming is something extremely stupid.
Despite the swiftness of his own sneak attack, being on the sauce means slowed reactions. Dimly, he can feel it, a slight sluggishness in his processing when he darts his eyes over Bakugou. A Drunken Master Midoriya is not. He can't dodge easily. His forearm shoots up and catches the end instead. It wraps it with a thwap, but he can take the pain.
"I already did this with something a lot more dangerous," he informs him without malice. Now there's a fierceness to his grin. It's a nice button-down shirt, a gift from a Pthumerian. He trusts the fibers to hold better than the secondhand things he usually buys. The memory of a barbed whip in October comes back to him, as well as his training with Blackwhip.
He grips and tugs back and down, trying to bring Bakugou low. Not for one of his usual kicks--subconsciously he knows that's excessive for a bit of roughhousing in someone's bathroom. Maybe he'll steal the shirt back or get him into a harmless grapple in this cramped space. He's not really thinking ahead thanks to the alcohol, other than the first combat lesson they learned together at UA: Don't damage your surroundings.