Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

INFERNO

Bakugou Katsuki was at his goddamn limit. Eight hours into a twelve-hour patrol rotation under Best Jeanist’s denim-strangled leash, and instead of grabbing food or shutting his eyes for thirty minutes, he was stuck in a conference room that smelled like stale coffee and printer ink. His leg bounced under the glass table, his scowl fixed on the woman smiling at him like she’d already won. Miyake Biore, lead PR manager. Buzzkill #1. Her hands moved in neat, deliberate motions as she flipped through papers, every gesture sharp enough to grate against his raw nerves. The late sun angled through the narrow window, bleeding orange across the wall, dipping the room in the kind of dying light that made him itch to be anywhere else.

“Your numbers are excellent, Dynamite.” She always called him that—Dynamite—like his name was nothing, like his entire life had been distilled into a brand she could polish until it gleamed. “Patrol hours, rescue stats, takedowns—better than your entire graduating class. Investors can’t deny the results.”

Bakugou’s jaw locked. He was already bracing. Then it hit. “But your image remains a liability.”

The screen behind her flicked, cycling through headlines and clips he didn’t need to see. Sports Festival stills: him with his teeth bared, Todoroki’s shirt fisted in his hand. Muted videos of reporters shoved aside, cameras shaking as his voice snarled off-screen. Dynamight: Too Explosive? Hero or Hazard?

His chest burned. “That’s all bullshit, and you know it.”

“I know it,” Miyake said, sweet as ever, “but do regular people on the street?”

“I don’t give a shit about image,” he shot back, voice flat. “I save people, that’s the job.”

Her smile didn’t falter. She had the patience of a saint, or a masochist. “Numbers aren’t enough. Heroes inspire, people donate to agencies because they believe in the person behind the stats. Right now, you don’t inspire. You intimidate.”

He almost laughed, bitter and sharp. As if he had time to play the friendly neighborhood hero when Jeanist was wringing him dry—posture critiques, brand discipline, twelve-hour shifts where he could barely breathe. He was breaking his back, but it didn’t matter. Not when half the world still saw the angry kid from the Sports Festival. Not when every camera he’d shoved away played on a loop, drowning out the rescues stacked under his name.

Miyake gestured, smooth, rehearsed. “That’s why we’ve taken the liberty of exploring alternatives.”

A folder slid across the table, black leather portfolio glinting under the light. His stomach turned cold. He knew that portfolio anywhere. He’d grown up with stacks of them tossed on kitchen counters, pinned against walls, scattered across sewing tables. His parents’ work.

“No,” he said immediately. “No fucking way.”

“You didn’t even give it a chance. Just look.”

“It’s unprofessional to go behind my back to my parents.” His voice snapped as he shoved it back, but Miyake only tsked, exchanging a look with another one of her team before turning that patient smile on him again.

“Professional or not, it could be good. A clothing line tied to your agency. Lifestyle pieces, not costumes. We’d call it Ignition.”

She said it like it was inevitable, like it was already his. Bakugou leaned back, glare hard enough to cut glass, but his fingers twitched. Against his better judgment, he opened the portfolio with two, sharp flicks. The first page stole the breath from his chest. A jacket. Matte black leather, ember-orange lining that flared like fire when it moved. Jagged stitching—orange and black—seared down the sleeves like sparks frozen in fabric. Sharp. Clean. No wasted detail. It was him, captured without compromise. He flipped. Combat boots, soles patterned like shattered concrete. A hoodie cut with explosion lines, bold without tipping into gaudy. Fingerless gloves, trim edged like live wires. He flipped again. Softer designs, neutral tees and zip-ups, Inferno stamped across them in clean fonts—sometimes bold, sometimes subtle. Clothes you could live in. Clothes people would want.

It was everything he didn’t know he wanted.

“Yeah,” Miyake said softly, reading the tightness in his jaw. “We were planning on calling this line Inferno. Your parents captured you perfectly.”

His throat clenched. Heat twisted in his chest—affection, sharp as a blade, tangled with the bitter sting of being ambushed here, in this suffocating room. He should’ve slammed the folder shut. Should’ve told them all to go to hell, but the designs sat heavily in his lap, and he couldn’t look away. Miyake pounced. “This is how we make you more than volatile headlines. We reshape Dynamite into an icon. Someone people can’t get enough of.”

“An icon?” His laugh cracked, jagged. “I’m a hero, not a fucking influencer.”

“Icons sell. Icons last,” Miyake pressed, her tone soft but unyielding. “You want investors for Ground Zero? You play the game. You become more than numbers. More than fire and explosions. You become unforgettable.”

The word stuck, sharp as glass. Unforgettable.

He wanted to fight her. To burn it all down, but his parents’ work stared back at him in clean lines and ember-red fabric, and pride twisted in his chest until it hurt. His parents, who never softened their blows, who critiqued until he bled, had still made something that felt true. He hated that he liked it, so he looked away, scowling.  Miyake tilted her head, eyes narrowing in quiet challenge. “Dynamite. You know your image matters. What do you think happened to Endeavor?”

Bakugou knew. Everyone knew. The name Todoroki still clung like ash—Dabi’s fire, Endeavor’s fall, the stain of legacy that no campaign could scrub clean, and Shoto—Bakugou could still see the cracks in his face, the bitter edge under all that pretending. The world had watched the scandal, but they hadn’t seen what came after. They hadn’t seen what the commission stuffed under the rug, the parts involving kids like him, like his classmates—their deaths, their sleepless nights, their desperate scramble to hold Japan together while adults flailed. They knew about Deku. About the Symbol of Hope, dragging his broken body across battlefields. They knew Bakugou had died—actually died—and clawed his way back just to keep fighting. But what nobody knew the cost they’d all paid to make sure there was still a Japan left to protect. Here he was, years later. Sitting in a box that smelled like photocopier ink, being told none of it mattered because he hadn’t smiled enough for a camera. The thought burned hotter than fire. He grit his teeth, jaw tight. Something inside whispered that nothing he did—dying, bleeding, breaking—would ever be enough. Not with this silly campaign, not with anything.

“I just want you to achieve your dreams,” Miyake said softly, watching him. “No investors are biting right now. This could change that. Maybe it’ll be uncomfortable, but you’re hot, your parents are designers, the opportunity makes sense.”

“I don’t give a rat’s ass about clothes—”

“Okay,” she cut in smoothly, already gathering her papers. “Then think on it.”

Her heels clicked against the tile as she left, her team trailing behind. One of them threw him a glance on the way out. He didn’t look up. His hands clamped hard around the arms of his chair, tendons tight enough to snap.

The door opened again. Jeanist, denim collar sharp, gaze clipped. “Back to work.”

Bakugou’s nails bit his palms. The scream in his chest pressed against his ribs, hot and violent, but he swallowed it down. Shoving the chair back hard enough to screech, he stormed out, boots hammering against the floor until the air outside hit sharp and cold against his face.

He worked hard, and he worked fast, pushing his body to its limits just to keep the thoughts from piling too high. Tomorrow, he’d have to face his meddling parents and whatever lecture they had waiting for him. Tonight, he just needed air.

He paused at the apartment door, key cold in his hand. Music drifted faintly from across the hall, a muffled baseline under soft voices. Mina and Jirou’s place. It had all been planned, more or less. After graduation, Bakugou wanted out—freedom from his parents’ house, from Mitsuki’s sharp tongue and Masaru’s hovering concern. Kirishima had been the one to brighten, to grin wide and say they should live together. We basically lived on top of each other for years already—what’s the harm? The complex came easily. Papers signed, boxes hauled. By sheer coincidence—or maybe dumb fate—Mina and Jirou were dragging their own couch down the hall the same day. Mina shrieked like she’d won the lottery. Kirishima shouted back, words tripping over each other in a rush: “I didn’t know you were moving to THIS complex, that’s so crazy—”

Mina laughed until she cried, Kirishima beaming so wide his face could’ve split. “Aww, wait, I’m so excited. It’s going to be just like UA!”

It wasn’t, not really. They were all busier now, running themselves ragged with agencies and rotations. But somehow, they’d grown closer. The girls kept their door unlocked more often than not, a bad habit Bakugou never stopped scolding but always took advantage of. After ten-thirty, maybe they remembered to lock up. Usually not. The four of them built a rhythm. Movie nights that ended with everyone staring at separate screens, quiet but together. Shared dinners when Bakugou actually bothered to cook, Mina swiping the last dumpling while Jirou muttered a thanks. Even the silences felt lived-in, stretched soft and easy across the walls.

Life with Kirishima wasn’t bad either. Their place stayed relatively clean. Bakugou’s room was sharp corners, tight sheets, order imposed on chaos. Kirishima’s side of the apartment was lived-in—hoodies draped over chairs, gym bags spilling protein bars, the faint scent of his damn hair gel everywhere. They barely saw each other, both swallowed by mismatched schedules, but when they did… it wasn’t terrible. Kirishima was all energy, all bright story-times, hair still dripping from the gym shower, grin wide enough to fill the apartment.

It was nice.

It had been nice.

Until Kirishima started… experimenting.

The hallway was quiet until Bakugou made it loud. His keys rattled in the lock like a warning shot, the door slamming shut hard enough to shake the frame. His boots hit the floor heavily, each stomp deliberate, punctuated by the sharp slam of his bedroom door behind him. Every sound screamed the same message: I’m here.

Silence.

He peeled off his jacket, dropped his gear in its corner, and moved through the room on muscle memory. The lamp clicked on, blue light cutting across the neat lines of his desk, the tight folds of his sheets. Reports were stacked where he left them. Everything in its place. For once, the apartment was quiet.

He showered, letting the water wash every bit of dirt and grime from him, the steam making the mirror fog. He changed into just sleep pants, abandoning a shirt as he killed the light, slid under the covers, phone resting against his chest as his thumb hovered over the screen. His body ached with the weight of patrol and PR bullshit, exhaustion dragging him toward sleep—

A sound broke the stillness. A high-pitched, muffled moan dragged through the silence, sharp enough to make Bakugou sit up immediately. 

No. Not tonight. No fucking way.

The quiet stretched long enough for him to almost convince himself he’d imagined it—until it came again. This time breathier, louder, muffled like a hand pressed over her mouth.

Bakugou shut his eyes, pulling every ounce of patience he had into a thin, brittle thread. Kirishima had been… sleeping around recently. Not exactly “sleeping around,” but he’d built himself a rotation. Nothing serious—just mutual fun, if Mina’s gossip could be believed. Bakugou never asked, never wanted to. He didn’t need to, he heard enough. It was the same faces. The blonde girl with hair so badly dyed it looked like it had been dunked in piss. Her name started with an S, maybe, but Bakugou couldn’t remember—and didn’t care to. Or the awkward guy with glasses, nerdier looking than Izuku but apparently not as untouched as he seemed. Proof of that had bled through these thin walls too many nights already.

Mina said Kirishima was frustrated, that work was grinding him down, and he just needed to blow off steam. Bakugou didn’t care what he needed. His fun was infringing on Bakugou’s sleep. A rhythmic creak started up through the wall, steady as a metronome. Then a lower, drawn-out moan—Kirishima this time. It wasn’t loud, but it didn’t have to be. Bakugou didn’t need to strain his ears; the plaster carried everything. Any other sound might have drowned it out, but the apartment was quiet, so every noise threaded straight into him. He grit his teeth, shoving a pillow over his head, but it didn’t help. She was too loud, too far gone to smother herself. He groaned softly, a prayer more than a curse, begging them to shut the hell up.

Then came the worst of it—Kirishima’s voice. Muffled, coaxing, words blurred but clear enough in tone. Dirty talk, steady, dragging her higher. Bakugou groaned louder into his pillow. “Yeah, that’s right, shitty hair. End my suffering by dirty talking her into an orgasm.”

He stabbed his thumb into his phone, rage boiling over.

Me: someone tell shitty hair to shut the fuck up

The dots popped up instantly.

Pinky: ??? what did Kiri do? he’s an angel
Pikachu: yeah man u can’t just slander him like this
Ears: 👀
Tape: Kiri does no wrong

Bakugou sneered and typed before he could stop himself.

Me: clearly not. sounds like he’s doing a pretty good job right now

Silence. Then the flood.

Tape: NAH BRO THAT’S NASTY
Pinky: LMAOOOOO
Pikachu: HELLL NOOOOOO 💀💀💀💀
Ears: oh my god I’m blocking this chat
Pinky: U HEAR HIM???? 😭😭😭
Tape: IM CRYING 💀

Bakugou cursed, slamming the phone face-down against his chest, sparks flickering faintly in the dark. Through the wall came muffled laughter—Kirishima’s laugh, easy and unbothered. Bakugou groaned into the mattress. Should’ve stayed at his parents’ house. At least their walls were thicker. He’d had enough. The last moan—higher, sharper, dragging out too long—scraped through the wall and dragged every ounce of patience out of his chest. His hand was on the plaster before he realized, sparks snapping across his palm as it connected with a crack that echoed back into his own room. His voice followed, raw and furious, torn out of him before he could stop it.

“SHUT THE FUCK UP!”

The words ripped through the apartment and bounced back at him in the stillness that followed. His lamp rattled on the desk. The mattress quivered under the force of his own outburst, and then—like a switch flipped—everything on the other side of the wall stopped. The creak of the bed cut off. The muffled laughter evaporated. The moans choked out mid-breath and left the silence hanging, dense and unnatural. It pressed against his ears, thick enough to make him question if he’d gone deaf.

For a beat, there was nothing. Then came the scatter of voices, muffled and clipped, just sharp enough to tell him there’d been an argument but not clear enough to catch the words. Footsteps followed in quick succession—the lighter patter of someone smaller storming toward the door, chased by the heavier weight of Kirishima’s stride. The front door flung open with a metallic groan, the sound of it echoing into the hall before slamming back into its frame with violent finality. The silence returned, broken only by a low, frustrated curse—Kirishima’s voice, tight and pissed. His bedroom door slammed a second later, hard enough to rattle the pictures hanging in the hall and shake dust from the corners of the frame, and just like that, the apartment was still again.

Bakugou let his body drop against the mattress, chest rising fast with the remnants of his anger, the pulse still pounding in his ears. He stared at the ceiling, jaw locked, pillow half-crushed in his grip. The echo of his own voice still rang in the back of his head. He’d done it—killed the mood, detonated the whole damn thing. Kirishima’s night was ruined, his hookup sent packing, and all that was left was the silence Bakugou had wanted in the first place.

Part of him felt slightly bad, some buried scrap of guilt that he’d detonated someone else’s night just to claw back a little peace… but most of him didn’t care. Most of him smirked into the quiet, the silence itself a victory. He sank deeper into his pillows, muscles finally loosening now that the walls weren’t betraying him with every moan and creak. His phone buzzed against his chest, the group chat lighting up again. He cracked one eye open—he hadn’t even realized he’d closed them—and let the glow of the screen drag his attention back.

Shitty Hair: sorry. shes gone

Right there in the chat, no shame at all, even after Bakugou had aired his business to the whole squad. He huffed through his nose, sharp and quiet.

Tape: damn not bakugou ruining the hookup
Pikachu: IM FUCKING CRYING two minutes later and "shes gone" LMFAO what couldve possibly happened

More messages followed, Kaminari spamming emojis until the screen blurred with laughter at his expense. Bakugou didn’t answer. He let the phone slip from his hand, tumbling onto the sheets as he rolled onto his side. His eyes shut again, heavier this time, exhaustion pulling him under mercilessly. The last thing he heard was the buzz of the chat still going off, his squad still clowning him. By the time the screen dimmed, Bakugou was already asleep.

Bakugou woke up too early the next morning, the kind of early that scraped at his throat and stung at his eyes. He dragged himself out of bed anyway. If he wanted to swing by his parents’ before heading to Jeanist’s office, he didn’t have time to waste. The apartment was hushed, broken only by the faint clink of a spoon against ceramic. Kirishima was already in the kitchen, shoulders loose but his face tight, worry pulling at his features. Steam curled up from the mug cupped in his hands. His hair was a mess, sticking out in jagged angles from sleep and sweat, chest bare in that casual way that was just him. He always padded around without a shirt, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Bakugou only realized he’d forgotten one too when Kirishima’s eyes flicked to him, then away again, quick. He hadn’t cared enough to pull one on. He was too damn tired.

“Bakugou—”

“Save it, Red. ’s too early for that shit.” His voice came out gravel-rough, sharper than he meant, but he didn’t take it back. He moved to the cabinet, grabbed a mug, the stretch of silence between them heavy.

Kirishima didn’t let it go. “No, I’m really sorry.”

Bakugou turned fully toward him then, lips hard, arms folding across his bare chest. Kirishima’s words rushed to fill the space. “I’m sorry you had to… hear last night. It was embarrassing, and then me and Sanae argued, and she left, and—I probably won’t be seeing her again because she—” he hesitated, jaw tightening— “she was kinda an ass.”

Bakugou’s frown deepened, suspicion narrowing his eyes. “What did she say?” His voice was low, demanding.

Kirishima winced, scratching at the back of his neck. “Said I was a waste of time. That I’m… not good enough for an actual relationship. That's all I’m good for is a quick fuck before she finds someone better.” He tried to laugh, but it broke flat in his throat, his grip tightening around the mug until Bakugou half-expected it to crack.

Bakugou’s stomach burned, irritation flaring into something sharper. His lip curled. “Tch. What the fuck does she know?” The words came out clipped, venomous, protective in a way he couldn’t reel back even if he wanted to. “Sounds like she’s a useless piece of shit.”

Bakugou’s jaw tightened as the words replayed in his head. Not good enough for a relationship. Waste of time. His grip twitched against the edge of the counter, heat simmering low in his chest. Anyone would be lucky to be with Kirishima, that much was obvious. The guy was the definition of loyal—always showing up, always giving. He bought stupid little gifts just because something reminded him of you. He never held back on the affection, physical or otherwise, patting backs, slinging arms, saying you’re awesome like he meant it. Here he was, swallowing hard, not meeting Bakugou’s eyes, his mouth twitching toward that little pout he made right before tears broke through.

That piss-haired bitch making Kirishima cry? Unforgivable.

Bakugou wasn’t good at comfort—never had been—but the sight made something sharp twist inside him. Kirishima stared down at his mug like it was the only thing holding him together, eyes shining, his grip tightening as though it might anchor him. His voice cracked quietly in the space between them. “And I don’t even know why I’m upset when I knew it was going to be like this. She just didn’t have to do all that. I didn’t want anything with her anyway—we both knew that.” He huffed, blinking fast, his lashes wet. “But yeah, I’m sorry—”

“Don’t fuckin’ worry about it.”

Kirishima’s head jerked up slightly. “But—”

“It’s not a big deal,” Bakugou cut in, firm, not letting him spiral deeper.

For a second, Kirishima just stared, eyes wide, nose red, one tear slipping stubbornly down his cheek. He sniffed, wiping it away with the heel of his hand, but his voice was still small when he asked, “Yeah?”

Bakugou snorted, exhaling through his nose. He was always so damn emotional, a walking floodgate, and usually, people like that pissed him off. With Kirishima, it never did. Somehow, it was endearing. Honest in a way Bakugou couldn’t put words to. He sighed, rolling his eyes, annoyed at himself as much as anything. “Yes.”

Kirishima didn’t look convinced. His mouth pressed flat, like he wanted to believe him but couldn’t. Then he did it—lifted his pinky across the counter, quiet and steady. Their thing. Their rule. You couldn’t break a pinky promise. It was the absolute truth, stronger than words alone. Kirishima had started it years ago, when their friendship was still half-built on stubbornness and scraped knuckles. Sometimes Bakugou used it too, when he couldn’t say the reassurance outright.

Bakugou stared at the outstretched finger, tongue clicking against his teeth. He should’ve scoffed, should’ve told him to grow the hell up. Instead, he hooked his pinky around Kirishima’s, firm and final.

“Better?” Bakugou muttered.

Kirishima’s grin came soft, shaky, but real. “Better,” he echoed, voice catching, the weight between them easing at last. They still had their pinkies hooked, Kirishima’s smile soft and wobbly at the edges, when Bakugou muttered, “Her hair looked like it was dunked in piss anyway.”

Kirishima barked out a laugh, sudden and bright, splitting wide across his face. It was too big, too loud for how early it was, but it cracked the tension clean in half. “That’s mean, Bakugou.”

“What’s mean?” The voice startled them both. Kirishima jerked so hard his mug slammed against the counter, rattling loudly against porcelain. Bakugou’s head snapped toward the doorway. Mina stood there like she owned the place, curls piled in a messy bun, hoodie half-zipped. Her grin was smug, satisfied.

“The door was unlocked,” she said, strolling in without hesitation. She plunked a jar of chili oil on the counter, giving Bakugou the sweetest smile she could muster. “Open this for me?”

He sneered, but his hands were already moving, smacking the bottom twice before twisting the lid free with a sharp crack. He shoved it back at her, muttering, “You can’t just come in here.”

“Thanks, Dynaman,” she sing-songed, already shifting her focus. The grin slid right off her face as her eyes landed on Kirishima. His cheeks were blotchy, his lashes still damp. Concern flickered sharp across her features. “What happened to you?” she asked, her voice lower now, softer—but her eyes flicked to Bakugou, quick and sharp, like she was silently asking if he’d let this happen.

Bakugou didn’t bite. He didn’t need to. Mina being protective like that—ready to sink her teeth into whoever had put that look on Kirishima’s face—he liked that about her. Trusted it, even. If she wanted to pry the story out of him, she would. Kirishima needed that kind of backup sometimes. Bakugou glanced at the clock. Shit. Already behind. He grabbed at his gear, tugging the straps of his costume into place with fast, sharp movements. By the time he stalked past the kitchen, Mina was already in Kirishima’s space, eyes narrowed, her voice quick with questions. Kirishima was trying to explain, his hands moving too big, too fast, spilling pieces of the story with every gesture. Mina leaned in closer, listening with that fierce, protective edge that only made Bakugou’s chest tighten more. He didn’t linger. Just nodded once at the two of them, shoved his hands in his pockets, and slipped out. The door shut heavily behind him, leaving Mina’s voice and Kirishima’s frantic gestures muffled through the wall.

Bakugou stalked down the narrow street with his shoulders squared and his jaw locked, the portfolio clutched so tight in his fist that the edge of it bent under the pressure. The morning was sharp and cool, the kind of air that still held a trace of dew, sunlight barely cutting through the rooftops of the neighborhood he knew too well. He could’ve taken the train, but his parents’ house wasn’t far—close enough that his anger needed the walk, every step striking hard against the pavement as he replayed Miyake’s smug voice in his head. Ignition. Inferno. Icon. All bullshit, all behind his back. By the time he hit the front step, his blood was boiling, his chest ready to ignite. He didn’t knock. He never knocked. The door slammed open, his voice already sharp before the frame stopped shaking. “MAMA!”

Mitsuki didn’t even flinch. She sat at the kitchen table in her robe, hair piled messily on her head, coffee mug resting in her hand like she’d been waiting all morning for this explosion. She didn’t look up, didn’t blink, just sipped and turned the page of the magazine spread in front of her. Masaru, though— his dad nearly jumped out of his skin. He set his paper down hard, eyes wide as he pressed a hand over his chest. “Katsuki, don’t just come in here like that, please,” he said, voice still sharp with the startle. Bakugou ignored him. He stormed to the table, slapped the portfolio down so hard it rattled the mugs. The sound cracked through the room like a gunshot. “What the hell is this?”

Mitsuki barely glanced at the folder. Her eyes flicked over it once, uninterested, before dragging lazily back to her coffee. “That looks like your designs, sunshine.”

The word made his skin crawl. His glare sharpened, sparks biting at his fingertips as he gritted out, “Don’t call me that.”

The memory clawed its way up before he could shove it back down. He was five, tiny legs kicking as fat tears rolled down his face because the rain had trapped him inside all day. He remembered the way he screamed that it wasn’t fair, that the world hated him. Then—sun breaking through the clouds, warm light cutting through the window. He bolted outside in his boots, stomping through puddles until he was soaked and smiling. His mom had leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, calling him her sunshine. It stuck, and he hated it. She knew he hated it. That’s why she used it.

“You had no reason to go behind my back and do this shit,” he snapped, teeth bared.

Mitsuki finally set her coffee down and finally turned her sharp eyes on him. She leaned forward just slightly, elbows braced on the table. “But do you like it?”

The question landed harder than he expected. He sucked in a sharp breath through his nose, his throat tight. He wanted to deny it, to rip the portfolio apart in front of her face. Instead, the words ground out between clenched teeth. “…It looks good. It’s smart. A good fucking idea, but that’s not the point.” His palms slammed flat against the table, rattling the folder again. “You should’ve told me instead of going behind my back—”

“Katsuki,” Mitsuki cut in, voice sharp as glass, “you would’ve shut it down immediately.”

“Because I hate modeling—”

“You are good at it,” she snapped, cutting him off again. Her chin lifted, eyes locked on his with that unshakable glare she’d honed over years of fighting her way through the fashion world. “Why do you think we had you doing it when you were a child?”

“So you didn’t have to hire a kid to model your clothes,” he shot back without hesitation. His glare matched hers, heat sparking invisible across the table, their standoff so sharp it made Masaru’s sigh sound heavier than it was.

“That’s not true,” Masaru said, quiet but firm. “Mitsuki, stop glaring at your son. Katsuki—” his tone softened, a plea in it, “Can we all talk this out calmly?”

“There’s nothing to talk about.” Bakugou straightened, his jaw locked, his fists trembling at his sides. “I’m not doing it.”

For once, Mitsuki didn’t fire back immediately. Her glare softened by a fraction, her shoulders dipping as she let out a sharp breath through her nose. When she spoke again, her voice had changed. Lower. Persuasive. That voice she used when she wanted something, the one that always pissed him off because it worked. “Can’t you just try it, Katsuki?” He hated it. Hated that voice. Hated the way it burrowed into him, twisting his resolve until it frayed at the edges. He used to be able to say no to it—back when things were simple, back before the war cracked him open and left him softer in ways he couldn’t stand. Or maybe he’d just spent too much time around Kirishima, the idiot bleeding soft edges into him with every grin, every promise. His teeth ground together. His chest burned. For a moment, all he could do was stand there, staring at his parents, his throat caught between refusal and the guilt that her voice always dragged out of him.

Bakugou’s jaw locked tight, teeth grinding as the silence stretched. His hands twitched at his sides, the weight of his parents’ stares pressing down heavier than he could stand. He tore his eyes away, dragging them down to his wrist instead. The ticking second hand of his watch was steady, unforgiving. He exhaled sharp through his nose. “I have to go,” he muttered, voice low, almost swallowed by the scrape of his chair as he snatched the portfolio off the table. He didn’t wait for their response, didn’t want to give them another inch. His steps were heavy across the floorboards, quick and clipped, the edge of the folder biting into his palm as he made for the door. He’d almost cleared the threshold when her voice cut after him.

“Katsuki!”

The sound snagged his spine, irritation bristling hot under his skin. He turned halfway, the portfolio tucked hard under his arm, his glare sharp. “What?” Mitsuki didn’t flinch. She didn’t raise her voice or sneer the way she usually would. She just looked at him across the room, coffee mug forgotten on the table, her face unreadable but her tone steady. “We love you.” Masaru shifted in his chair, nodding once, adjusting his glasses as if to punctuate the words.

It hit him harder than it should have. The reminder. The deliberate calm of it. She’d started saying it after the war, like a compulsion, like she needed him to hear it every time he walked out the door just in case it was the last. He knew they loved him. He never doubted it. But hearing it like that, again and again, only made his chest twist uncomfortably, like the words were claws dragging down his ribs. He never knew how to say it back. The words jammed in his throat every time, heavy and foreign on his tongue. They weren’t an affectionate family, not really. Masaru only ever said I love you on rare occasions, and Mitsuki even rarer before everything had gone to hell. Now it was constant. Too constant. He couldn’t breathe under it. So he didn’t answer. He just huffed, sharp and clipped, and turned away. The door shut behind him with a solid snap, the weight of it settling over his shoulders as he stepped back into the cool morning air.

The night came easily. Bakugou’s last shift had run him straight into the morning, dragging him bone-tired through patrol until Jeanist finally let him off the leash. The rare night off was almost foreign, his body still humming with adrenaline and fatigue. But when he dropped it in the group chat—I’m free tonight—Mina pounced. Schedules aligned, by some miracle. Everyone was off. If everyone was off, there was only one option.

Family Night.

Kirishima had named it months ago, grinning wide enough to split his face as he declared it an official ritual. Mina loved it instantly, of course. Jirou had rolled her eyes, but never missed one. Sero shrugged his way into the habit, and Kaminari acted like it was his idea all along. Even Bakugou—though he’d never admit it—never found a good enough reason to skip. Mina and Jirou’s place had long since become the default meeting spot. Their living room was bigger, their couch softer, and Mina had a way of filling the space with enough blankets and snacks to make everyone stay without complaint. Tonight was no different—Family Night in full swing, Kirishima’s stupid name for it now permanent.

Mina sprawled across the couch like it belonged to her, legs draped over Sero’s lap while she scrolled through her phone. Jirou had tucked herself into the armchair, one headphone dangling loose, dry comments slipping out whenever Kaminari got too loud. Sero sat easy, bottle of soda balanced on his knee, content to let everyone else do the talking. Kaminari, of course, was on the floor in the middle of it all, chips spilling from the open bag in his lap, eyes bright with mischief. “So, Kiri,” he started, his tone all false innocence. “How’s the… nightlife treating you?”

Kirishima barked out a laugh, but it was too quick, too forced. “What the hell, dude.”

“Oh, c’mon,” Kaminari pressed, leaning back on his hands with a grin. “Word gets around. You’ve been… busy.” He waggled his brows.

Kirishima’s smile faltered. The weight of Sanae hung unspoken in the air, heavy enough to make Bakugou’s jaw tighten. Kaminari, oblivious or unwilling to stop, pivoted sharply. “Actually, if I were you—” he pointed a chip-crumb-stained finger straight at Bakugou—“I’d just find someone and do it louder.”

The crack of Sero’s hand across the back of his head echoed through the room. Chips flew. “The fuck do you know, Kami. You get no bitches,” Sero muttered, shaking his head.

“HEY!” Kaminari yelped, rubbing at his skull. “That’s not true!”

“You’re gross,” Jirou said flatly, not even lifting her eyes from her phone. Kaminari twisted toward her instantly, sticking out his tongue. “You’re gross!” He dragged the word out in a whiny, childish tone, making Mina snort-laugh into her blanket. Bakugou stayed rigid, arms crossed. His chest was tight, skin prickling at the thought.

“I’m not bringing anyone here,” he cut in, his voice flat enough to slice through the laughter. The noise dipped, and everyone was glancing his way. Kaminari blinked once, then grinned sharply than before. “Why not? I’m sure you could bag so many g—” The word snagged in his throat. He faltered, tongue tripping clumsily. “…people?” The upward lilt, the way it landed like a question, dragged a short snort out of Bakugou before he could stop it. Questioning his sexuality was a fucking joke. It didn’t matter—sex had never been part of the plan for becoming a hero, but the sound curdled fast in his chest, amusement turning sour, face pinching into something tight and uncomfortable.

Mina’s laugh broke through, bright and easy. “Leave him alone, Kami!”

Kirishima’s eyes flicked toward Bakugou, his head tilting just slightly, big puppy-dog eyes narrowing in thought like he was trying to read him. Bakugou looked away fast. Sero sighed, shaking his head. “Kami, you get more play from your fist than from a lady. Sit down.”

The roast landed heavily. Kaminari spluttered, protesting violently as Jirou let out a sharp, mocking laugh from her chair. Kirishima barked a laugh too, caught between egging it on and trying to defuse it, his gaze darting back once to Bakugou before locking on Sero and Kaminari’s beef. Bakugou risked a glance across the room. Mina was already watching him, her smile soft and knowing, her blanket tugged up to her chin. The curve of his lip came unbidden—small, crooked, gone as fast as it came, but her grin widened anyway before she looked away, shoulders shaking with her laugh. She’d saved him. They both knew it. The thoughts Kaminari had dragged up lingered like splinters under his skin, sharp and unwelcome, even as the night wound down and they slipped back into their own apartment. Kirishima collapsed onto the couch with a groan, already half-asleep, while Bakugou stood in the doorway, chest still tight with everything unsaid.

The thoughts stuck like glass in his chest. Even after Family Night wound down, even after he’d watched Kirishima crash face-first into their couch, Bakugou couldn’t shake it. Kaminari’s voice kept replaying, warped and ugly, snagging on that one word. Girls. People. Girls. People. By morning, it hadn’t dulled. Not even with coffee. Not even with the stiff-backed walk into the Genius Office. He sat in the conference room, Jeanist pacing through the details of patrol routes and rescue coverage, his voice level and exacting. Bakugou tried to focus. He really did, but his knee bounced under the table, his jaw tight. His brain wouldn’t let it go. What am I?

Jeanist’s voice cut sharper, outlining their patrol map. Bakugou’s hand clenched tight on his notes. What am I? He answered with a clipped nod, his eyes forward, but inside his chest, the question ricocheted, growing louder and louder. By the time they hit the streets, it was a roar. The villain had barely pulled a knife before Bakugou’s blasts lit the alley, fire cracking too hot, too fast. The man went down hard, singed concrete and smoke curling in the air. Jeanist’s voice barked something behind him, restrained and sharp, but Bakugou couldn’t hear it over the pounding in his head. What am I? What am I? What am I? Each question came with another sharp detonation, the recoil rattling his bones.

So when the villain lunged, knife flashing in the narrow light of the alley, Bakugou’s reaction was a half-second too slow. He still dropped him—blasts sharp and punishing, concussive thunder echoing down the block—but the knife cut first. A hot sting ripped across his side, cloth burning, blood soaking quickly into his gear. He didn’t stop. Each What am I? in his head hit with another detonation, the villain shoved hard into the ground, bound too tight, coughing on smoke. When it was over, Bakugou was standing over him, chest heaving, his palms sparking uncontrolled, the wound in his side leaking warm.

Jeanist’s reprimand was clipped, precise, but Bakugou barely heard it. The words blurred under the pounding in his ears, under the iron taste of rage and humiliation in his mouth. He’d slipped. He’d been sloppy, and for what? A fucking thought spiral over something he didn’t even want to think about? The medics patched him up quickly, needle dragging through skin, antiseptic stinging sharply. He sat rigid on the cot, jaw clenched, fury eating at him more than the pain. They sent him home early, bandaged and bruised, with Jeanist’s disapproval weighing heavier than the stitches in his side. By the time he dropped into the chair in his apartment, his body screamed with exhaustion and frustration both. His phone was already in his hand before he’d decided. He didn’t think, didn’t plan.

He typed it quickly, two words, and hit send.

Me: fine, i’m in.

The screen lit his face, cold and blue, as the phone slid from his hand to the table. His side ached, his chest burned, and the silence roared.

Hours later, Kirishima came in late, sweat beading along his temples, his chest rising fast like he’d taken the stairs two at a time instead of the elevator. His headphones hung loose around his neck, still buzzing faintly from whatever hype playlist he’d been blasting, but the moment he saw Bakugou slouched across the couch, his stride faltered. “You okay?” Kirishima asked, tugging the headphones free. “I thought you wouldn’t be back till later.”

Bakugou didn’t answer. He shifted, slow and deliberate, lifting the hem of his shirt just high enough to reveal the bandages slashed across his ribs. White gauze, streaked dark. The stitches underneath had already started to swell against angry red skin. Kirishima stopped cold, his easy grin slipping into a frown. He dropped down to his knees in front of the couch without hesitation, leaning close. His hand hovered, careful not to touch, but the proximity alone made Bakugou twitch back with a hiss.

“Sorry,” Kirishima muttered, his voice low, all focus. His brows furrowed as he tilted his head. “But it—hold on. Take off your shirt.”

Bakugou grit his teeth but dragged the fabric over his head anyway, the stretch tugging hard at the stitches until fire lanced down his side. He dropped the shirt carelessly to the couch and sat forward, bare-chested, every muscle wound tight as Kirishima unwrapped the bandages. Kirishima’s mouth pressed into a flat line. “Who patched you up?”

“Medics on site,” Bakugou snapped.

“They did a crap job,” Kirishima said flatly. His jaw worked, the frown deepening. “Looks like it’s already getting infected.” He stood abruptly, the clack of his gear loud in the quiet apartment. “Let me shower real quick. I’ll grab the kit and fix it.”

Bakugou groaned but didn’t argue. He hated needing help, but an infection was worse than swallowing his pride. When Kirishima came back, steam still clinging to his skin, his hair dripping trails of water down the curve of his neck and chest, Bakugou was already seated at the kitchen table. He straddled the chair backward, arms folded over the top, like bracing himself for a fight. His grip on the wood was white-knuckled.

Kirishima set everything out with practiced ease, his brows pinched in concentration. He peeled out the sloppy stitches one by one, laying them on a chipped paper plate. Bakugou hissed sharply through his teeth, fingers clenching harder against the chair. “Sorry,” Kirishima murmured, his voice soft, steady, deliberate. “I’m trying to be gentle.” Bakugou clenched his eyes shut, jaw tight, his chest tight. The sting was sharp, but it wasn’t the worst part. “It’s okay,” Kirishima continued, the needle sliding clean through his skin, “you’re almost done. You’re doing a good job sitting still.”

The words landed like a blast in Katsuki Bakugou’s skull. His eyes flew open, throat catching. That tone. The exact same tone he’d heard behind the wall. The one that had bled through muffled plaster with soft groans and the creak of bedsprings. The same coaxing cadence, low and warm, meant to soothe even as it burned. Heat climbed the back of Bakugou’s neck, crawling across his chest. His pulse kicked hard in his throat, each thud rattling against the stitches being drawn through his skin. His jaw locked, his grip splintered the wood of the chair. Why the fuck does it sound like that? Why does it feel like that?

He wasn’t supposed to notice. He wasn’t supposed to feel anything about it— comforted if anything— but the sound of Kirishima’s voice twisted inside him, sharp and wrong, hot in a way he couldn’t swallow down. His mouth was dry, his chest was too tight, his body reacting in ways that made no goddamn sense. Kirishima didn’t even look up, too focused on the stitch sliding neatly and perfectly through Bakugou’s side. Completely unaware of the storm his voice had set off. Bakugou grit his teeth and forced his eyes away, staring hard at the kitchen wall like he could burn a hole straight through it, but his skin buzzed, his ribs ached, and that voice—that voice—still rang in his ears.

Kirishima tied off the last stitch, his grin breaking easily and warmly. “You’re all done.” Bakugou only hummed, jaw tight, watching as Kirishima reached for the roll of bandages. He stood, gesturing wordlessly for Bakugou to get up too. Bakugou dragged himself upright, every muscle taut. Kirishima circled him uncertainly, like he was debating the best angle, before he simply planted a hand on Bakugou’s uninjured side and spun him sharply.

The touch was light, but Bakugou’s breath hitched all the same. He huffed hard through his nose, face heating as Kirishima stepped in close. Calloused fingers brushed his ribs, skimming just short of the wound as he wrapped the bandage snugly around his torso. Each pull of the fabric felt too slow, too deliberate, the slide of Kirishima’s hand tracing every inch of him. Bakugou’s chest burned, his throat dry, and when Kirishima tapped his uninjured side lightly—a wordless all done—he had to grit his teeth just to keep from jolting. A simple thanks should’ve come easy. Short, sharp, done. His mouth stumbled around it, the word clogging in his throat, refusing to come. He only managed a grunt, and Kirishima’s smile widened anyway, unbothered.

Bakugou needed him gone. Out of reach. Out of sight. “There’s food in the fridge for you,” he muttered, voice clipped.

Kirishima’s head shot up, his grin exploding wide. “You made dinner? YES—holy shit, thank you!” He clapped a grateful hand to Bakugou’s shoulder before bounding past him toward the fridge.

Bakugou didn’t wait. He was already moving, heat crawling down his neck, his pulse hammering. He shut his bedroom door behind him with more force than necessary, the muffled sound of Kirishima cheering over leftovers bleeding faintly through the walls. Still, his chest wouldn’t settle.

Bakugou slammed his door shut and leaned against it, chest heaving like he’d just run drills. The apartment was quiet except for the faint scrape of a chair and Kirishima’s voice carrying from the kitchen, stupidly cheerful as he tore into leftovers.

Bakugou grit his teeth and pushed off the door, stalking to his bed and dropping onto it hard. He sat hunched forward, elbows on his knees, fists tangled in his hair. His body was burning up, his skin too tight, too hot. The bandage around his torso pulled when he moved, but it wasn’t the stitches that made his breath hitch—it was the ghost of Kirishima’s hand steady on his side, the warmth of his palm, the low rasp of his voice coaxing him through the pain.

You’re doing a good job.

The words replayed in his skull like a curse, burrowed deep in his chest and lower. Bakugou shifted, thigh muscles tense, and nearly snarled when he felt it—his cock straining against his sweats, hard as hell, traitorous.

“Fuck,” he spat, too loud, sparks snapping off his fingertips. He dropped back onto the mattress, one arm slung over his eyes, like if he couldn’t see the ceiling, maybe he could erase the burn in his body. It didn’t go anywhere. His pulse kept hammering, his hips twitching restlessly against the sheets, every nerve lit up with the memory of bandages brushing his skin, of Kirishima’s stupid smile when he was done.

He growled, dragging his hands down his face until his palms burned. “What the fuck is wrong with me?” he muttered, voice ragged. His mind wouldn’t shut up. That voice, that touch—it wouldn’t let him go.

Bakugou lay flat on his back, chest heaving, one arm draped across his eyes. His cock pressed hard against the front of his sweats, insistent, impossible to ignore. He told himself not to, he always told himself not to, but his body felt strung so tight it might snap, every nerve on fire with the echo of Kirishima’s voice. His hand hovered at first, fist clenching and unclenching against his thigh. Then, before he could stop himself, he slid his palm over the outline of his cock. Heat jolted through him, sharp and dizzying. A gasp broke past his teeth, and he bit down hard on his lip to catch the sound, but it wasn’t enough—his mouth fell open, a strangled breath tearing free anyway.

“Fuck—” The word cracked in his throat.

His hips twitched, chasing the pressure. He pressed harder, squeezing through the thin fabric of his sweats, and the shock of pleasure almost undid him. His head tipped back, his free hand snapping up to cover his mouth, stifling the ragged noise that wanted out. It felt good. Too good. That was the problem.

“What the fuck am I doing—” Bakugou tore his hand away like he’d been burned, chest rising fast as he stared up at the ceiling, wide-eyed. His cock ached painfully, but he ignored it, swinging his legs off the bed so fast the stitches in his side pulled sharply. He hissed through his teeth but pushed up anyway, pacing the length of his room like movement alone could shake it off. Every step was a war, forcing his body to calm down, shoving the heat down where it belonged. He grit his teeth, fists tight, muttering curses under his breath until his pulse finally began to slow. He’d rather rip himself apart than admit he’d liked it.

Bakugou was still catching his breath, palms pressed hard to his knees, when Kirishima’s voice boomed from the kitchen like he owned the whole damn building.

“Hey, Bakugou! You wanna see if Jirou wants to play Mario Kart with us?” The sound rattled the walls. Bakugou shut his eyes, forcing air into his lungs, his throat too tight. He managed a weak, wobbly, “...yeah,” before he could think better of it. It didn’t even sound like him, the word shaky and thin, but Kirishima didn’t call him on it. Instead, Bakugou heard cupboard doors slamming, the fridge opening and closing, then Kirishima’s heavy steps thundering across the hall. The distant sound of a door knocking—then opening without waiting—was followed by Jirou’s muffled voice, sharp but not serious.

“Kiri, I said no—!”

Her protest broke off into laughter when he grabbed her wrist anyway, her socked feet sliding over the floor as he dragged her out. “C’mon! One round, that’s it!” Kirishima’s voice was too damn bright, too loud. Bakugou could picture it without even looking—Jirou rolling her eyes, cheeks pink from laughing, Kirishima grinning like an idiot as he pulled her toward the couch.

Bakugou pushed himself up with a groan, checking the pull in his stitches. The heat in his chest hadn’t fully settled, shame still gnawing, but Kirishima’s sheer recklessness gave him something else to focus on. By the time he stepped out of his room, the apartment was buzzing—controllers clacking, Jirou slouched in the corner of the couch with her arms crossed in mock annoyance, Kirishima passing out drinks like it was already a party.

It was chaos. Loud, messy, distracting. Exactly what Bakugou needed.

Bakugou was still losing his goddamn mind.

His head wouldn’t stop running in circles, jerking from What am I? to What the fuck is wrong with me? Every time his brain wandered back to the sound of Kirishima’s voice through that thin wall. Worse—every time it did, he had to shift in his chair, fists clenching under the table to hide the way his cock stirred like it had a mind of its own. He’d never been this horny in his life. Point blank. He’d never really been horny ever. And now? It was like his own body had betrayed him. He couldn’t stop it, couldn’t fight it—and the worst part? There was one thing he could do to stop it, something quick and obvious, but he didn’t want to.

He shook himself, physically shook his head like he could rattle the thoughts out, jaw set as he shoved through the double doors of the conference room.

“Hey, Dynamight!” Miyake’s voice rang out, chipper and sharp, her grin smug enough to punch. Straight to the point, then. Bakugou’s glare landed squarely on her, but of course, she didn’t so much as blink. If anything, her smile grew wider, all teeth and I told you so, and his blood boiled. “I’m glad you decided to go through with this idea!”

He dropped into a chair hard enough to rattle the glass table. “Tch.”

She ignored the bite in his tone, flicking through her papers. “Relax. We just want to go over campaign concepts and show you more designs.”

Before he could bite back, she gestured toward the far end of the table. “This is Kisihi Dengo. He’ll be handling the bulk of your campaign—photo shoots, video spots, all of it.”

Bakugou dragged his eyes up, unimpressed. “Hello,” the man said smoothly, accent strange and clipped. “Please, call me Dengo.”

Bakugou huffed, already sinking low in his chair, arms crossed tight over his chest. This was going to be a nightmare. They spent the next hour grinding through campaign ideas, and Bakugou hated every goddamn second of it. He rolled his eyes, snapped under his breath, but in the end, he agreed. What choice did he have? The pitch circled the same theme over and over: personality-based. Content that “introduced the public to a softer, more human side of Dynamight,” while still selling him as an inferno, blazing heat contained in sharp lines. To them, it was clever branding. To him, it felt like bullshit. He wasn’t a brand. He wasn’t a fucking influencer. He was a hero.

He gritted his teeth and nodded anyway. He’d already said yes, there was no walking it back now. Dengo clicked to another slide, his accent precise as he explained, “And in the future, we see this expanding beyond you alone. Ground Zero is not only your agency—it is a platform. A starting ground for young heroes. Imagine campaigns with your closest allies, the ones who share your vision.”

Bakugou leaned back in his chair, arms crossed tight. The words needled him, because they weren’t wrong. That was what he wanted. Ground Zero wasn’t supposed to be just his. It was supposed to be something bigger, collaborative, a place for others to plant their roots and grow. Mina would be in the second he said the word. He knew that. She’d eat the camera alive, laugh through shoots, drag color into every corner.

Kirishima— No. The thought slammed down hard, sharp enough to make his chest ache. He clenched his jaw, forcing his gaze back to the screen, to the mock-ups and buzzwords flying past. He didn’t let himself dwell on why.

They didn’t let him leave.

Before Bakugou could bolt, Miyake snapped her fingers, and the jacket was there—that jacket. Black leather heavy with weight, ember-orange lining that caught the light like fire, sparks stitched into the seams in jagged lines of green and orange. He knew it the second he saw it: the one that had stopped him cold in the portfolio. “Put it on,” Miyake ordered.

He scowled, but two assistants were already tugging at his gear. He shoved their hands off with a curse and ripped the top half off himself, dropping it onto the chair. Bare-armed under the conference lights, he felt exposed, out of place. The jacket was shoved into his hands before he could protest. It dragged strange across his skin, stiff leather creaking at the shoulders, settling heavy over him like armor. The weight was… right. Too right. He caught his reflection in the glass wall of the conference room—chin dipped, eyes sharp under the shadows of his lashes—and his chest gave an involuntary clench. He looked good. Really good.

He hated it.

“You look good!” Dengo practically sang, his grin bright and earnest.

Miyake snorted without looking up from her notes. “He looks constipated. If that’s how you pose for photos, we’re screwed.”

Bakugou’s glare snapped toward her, heat spiking in his blood. “It won’t be.” The words came out like shrapnel.

Miyake arched her brows, smug and unbothered. “Confidence is good,” she said, like she was humoring him. He wanted to tear the damn jacket off and set it on fire. Instead, he stood there, jaw tight, leather groaning softly every time he shifted.

“Alright,” she said finally, clapping her hands once, her tone too sweet. “Take it off. We’re done.”

The relief was immediate, dragging a sharp breath from his chest. He yanked the jacket off fast, ignoring the assistants’ hissed “Careful, careful!” as if the thing were glass instead of leather. His own gear slid back on piece by piece, the familiar weight settling over him like a shield.

By the time he stalked past Miyake, she didn’t even bother to hide her smirk. “Thank you for your cooperation!” she called sing-song, mocking, twisting the knife. He didn’t turn. His whole body vibrated with the effort of not exploding in her face.

The second the door shut behind him, the fury boiled over. His boot lashed out at the nearest trash can, metal shrieking as it caved in on itself. The dent echoed loudly down the hallway, the impact rattling his bones in a way that was almost satisfying. He didn’t look back. Just shoved his hands into his pockets, jaw locked, and stormed down the corridor like the building itself had offended him.

The city didn’t give him a break that night.

Villains cropped up like weeds—petty thieves, a quirk-gone-wrong scuffle, a cornered shoplifter turning desperate. Nothing serious, nothing worth his time, but each one dug claws into the hours he wanted back. His side burned every time he twisted, stitches pulling sharp beneath his gear, but he didn’t slow down. He refused to. Every blast he threw was too sharp, every takedown just a little harder than necessary, anger bleeding out in sparks and smoke.

By the time he trudged back through the dark streets toward his building, his body was wired and his jaw ached from clenching. He shoved his key into the lock, but stopped short. Another pair of shoes sat neatly by the door. Not his. Not Kirishima’s. A muffled laugh filtered through the apartment—light, breathy. Not Kirishima’s, but tangled with his voice, low and coaxing from behind his bedroom door.

Bakugou’s eyes shut tight. His teeth ground together hard enough to send sparks prickling along his gums. He exhaled sharp through his nose, forcing his shoulders down before he shoved the door open. The apartment was dim, the hum of the fridge the only other sound besides the muffled laughter from down the hall. He didn’t look. He didn’t need to. He stalked straight past, every step heavy, every stomp deliberate.

The shower steamed hot, stinging against his side, but he welcomed the pain. He scrubbed until his skin burned, until his thoughts blurred under the hiss of water. By the time he emerged, hair damp and sticking to his forehead, he couldn’t bother with a shirt. Just pulled on sweats, jaw still set tight, and dropped into bed. The sheets were cool against his bare shoulders, the dark merciful. For a moment, he let himself believe maybe he’d pass out before it started. That maybe tonight, he’d be spared.

He wasn’t.

The silence cracked, and the first muffled moan slid through the wall. Another followed, softer, paired with a laugh he knew too well—Kirishima’s voice, low and coaxing, pulling the sound out of someone else. Bakugou knew exactly which someone it was. The nerdy bastard. Glasses, awkward as hell, the one who looked like he’d never been touched a day in his life. He never remembered his name—didn’t care to—but it didn’t matter. The voice was enough.

Heat clawed up Bakugou’s chest, anger flaring sharply. He shut his eyes again, rolling onto his side, dragging the blanket higher like it could block out the sound. It didn’t. The bedframe creaked faintly through the wall, every muffled gasp threading under his skin. He clenched his jaw, hand fisting tight in the sheet. He told himself it was just noise. Just shitty paper-thin walls, but his body betrayed him—again. His cock stirred, hardening against the fabric of his sweats with every faint moan, every broken laugh.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, low and furious. His hips shifted once, betraying him further. His pulse pounded hard in his throat. It wasn’t supposed to feel like this. It had never before, but now every time Kirishima’s voice dipped low, it lit something sharp and unbearable in him, a heat he couldn’t ignore, no matter how hard he tried. The moans rose again, softer this time, like someone trying and failing to stay quiet.

Bakugou lay stiff on his back, fists tight in the blanket, trying to will his body into stillness. The more he resisted, the worse it got. His cock pressed against the fabric of his sweats, insistent and aching, every beat of his pulse dragging fire down his spine. Through the wall came another low groan—Kirishima’s voice this time, rough and coaxing. Bakugou’s throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, his entire body tense.

“No,” he whispered to himself, half a curse, half a plea.

The sounds didn’t stop. Kirishima murmured something—words muffled, but not lost entirely. The gravel in his tone sent Bakugou’s stomach plummeting. He shifted, thighs clenching, hips twitching, restless against the mattress. Bakugou’s eyes squeezed shut, his entire body jerking like he’d been hit. His hips twitched up against nothing, restless, the tension in his gut winding tighter, tighter. His hand hovered again, fingers dragging against the fabric of his sweats. He bit his lip so hard he tasted copper.

Bakugou’s fist was tight in the sheets, knuckles bone-white. Every nerve screamed for release, his cock throbbing against the rough drag of his sweats, but he refused. He wasn’t that weak. He wasn’t gonna give in to some thin-wall bullshit. Then Kirishima’s voice slid through again—steady, low, coaxing. That’s it. Just like that.

He tried to resist, tried to stay still, but his body betrayed him. His palm slid lower, into his waistband, wrapping around himself. His cock throbbed under the touch, a hot gasp ripping out of him before he could choke it back. He slapped his other hand over his mouth, muffling it, chest heaving. Kirishima’s voice pushed through again, low and commanding, and Bakugou shuddered, every stroke syncing with every word. The other guy was gone—irrelevant, background noise drowned out by the weight of Kirishima’s voice in his ear.

The heat of his palm around his cock was unbearable. His mouth fell open against his hand, a muffled gasp tearing out before he could stop it, letting the hand that had been covering his mouth grip the sheet. He stroked once, twice, his hips twitching in broken rhythm, his chest heaving under the strain of keeping quiet. The heat of his palm made his whole body jolt, a raw sound breaking out of his throat before he could stop it. Not just a gasp this time—no, worse. A moan, low and guttural, slipping into the quiet of his room.

Bakugou’s eyes flew wide, panic flooding hot into his veins. He slapped his hand over his mouth, chest heaving, staring at the ceiling like it could swallow him whole. No fucking way. No way that just came out of me. For a heartbeat, he froze. His grip faltered, shame clawing sharp down his spine, every nerve screaming to stop. His body went taut as a wire, ears straining. If they’d heard—if Kirishima had heard—

But the sounds on the other side didn’t stop. The bedframe creaked again. A muffled whine from the nerd. Then Kirishima’s voice—low, coaxing, steady. Yeah, that’s it. Just like that.

Bakugou’s stomach dropped, heat twisting low in his gut. His cock pulsed angrily in his grip, desperate, throbbing with every second of silence he forced on himself. His hips jerked restlessly, betraying him. Bakugou’s hand dragged roughly along the outline of his cock, the fabric of his sweats making it worse—too hot, too tight, too much. He grit his teeth, panting into his palm, until the frustration boiled over. With a muttered curse, he shoved the waistband down just enough, cock springing free into his waiting hand.

Shame hit him instantly, sharp and suffocating. He’d never done this, not like this, not so desperate he couldn’t stop himself, but the relief of his palm around his length made his eyes roll back, a whine slipping past his lips before he could strangle it down. He bit into his hand, muffling the sound, chest heaving.

“F-fuck,” he hissed against his palm, hips rolling into his fist in sharp, stuttered thrusts. His body twitched with every stroke, need clawing at him until he couldn’t keep still. Through the wall, another sound. The nerd, moaning high and needy. His strokes faltered—only for Kirishima’s voice to cut through, low and coaxing. Shhh. Keep it down. Fuck, you’re—

Bakugou’s gut clenched so hard it hurt. His grip tightened, his hips jerking back into rhythm before he could stop himself. He hated it. Hated the way he couldn’t tune Kirishima out, couldn’t block him, couldn’t hear anything else. Little noises kept slipping out of him, whines and gasps muffled into his palm, and every single one made his pride splinter further. He couldn’t quiet his body no matter how hard he tried, his thighs trembling, his abs drawn tight as the pressure coiled sharply in his gut. Kirishima groaned again, rough and real, dragging a broken sound from Bakugou’s throat in answer. He squeezed his eyes shut, his body twitching under his own hand. He was close. So fucking close. Kirishima’s voice, soft and coaxing, was bleeding through the plaster like it was meant for him. Cum for me.

Bakugou shattered. His hips bucked hard, cock spilling hot over his fist, his moan cracking out despite his hand. The sound was muffled, broken, humiliating, but the relief hit too strongly to hold back. His body jerked through it, undone, ruined by a voice he wasn’t supposed to hear.

When it ended, the horror set in fast. He lay there panting, sweaty and sticky, his heart slamming too hard in his chest. His gaze caught the wall, and he yanked it away immediately, shame burning down to the roots of him. “Fuck,” he whispered, hoarse, like the word could rewind time. The relief bled out of him too fast, leaving nothing but a hollow pit of shame. His cock softened sticky in his palm, his chest heaving, his throat dry, then the silence hit. No more creaking. No more muffled moans. No Kirishima. Just quiet.

The kind of quiet that rang too loud in his ears made him feel exposed. Bakugou’s stomach lurched. His heart pounded too hard, too fast, panic chewing at the edges of his ribs. They heard. Fuck, they heard. Shit. Shit.

He jolted upright, yanking his sweats back up with frantic hands, wincing when the waistband dragged sticky across his skin. His first instinct was to wipe his palm on something, anything—but not the sheets. Never the sheets. He froze, glaring at the rumpled blanket like it might accuse him.

His body moved on instinct. He shoved out of bed so fast the stitches in his side screamed. He staggered in the dark, fumbling blindly across the room for the tissue box on his dresser. Of course, his foot slammed straight into the edge of the desk.

Pain shot up his leg. “Tch—fuck!” he hissed, biting down hard on the sound, hopping once before steadying himself against the wall. Every noise he made echoed too loudly, like it was bouncing straight through the thin plaster. His ears strained for movement on the other side. Nothing. Silence.

Too quiet. Too fucking quiet.

He snatched the tissue box with shaky hands, ripping out a handful and scrubbing at his palms, his cock, anywhere the mess lingered. The tissues tore under the force, his skin burning from the roughness, but he didn’t stop until he could pretend it was gone. He balled them up tight, tossed them into the trash, and flinched at the sound of them hitting the bin. He froze again, chest locked tight, eyes darting to the wall. Still silent. His pulse refused to slow. His body shook with leftover adrenaline, shame curdling like acid in his stomach. He dragged himself back to bed, dropping stiffly onto the mattress, yanking the blanket up like armor.

He couldn’t close his eyes. Not with the silence pressing in, not with the echo of Kirishima’s voice still carved into his chest. Cum for me. He groaned into the dark, dragging a hand down his face, every muscle tight with regret.

“Fuck,” he whispered, barely audible, like even the word was too loud. He lay there wide awake, sweating, paranoid, convinced every breath he took would give him away.

He didn’t sleep.

Okay—maybe that was an exaggeration, but if he did sleep, he didn’t remember it. One second he was staring at the ceiling, shame and paranoia buzzing in his skull like static, and the next, the sun was bleeding pale light through his blinds. His eyes still burned, heavy and dry. The only thing he knew for sure was that today might be his last day on earth if Kirishima had heard him last night.The alarm went off sharp, splitting the quiet. Bakugou rolled out of bed immediately, too wired to let himself hesitate. He noticed the shoes were gone at the door—nerd must’ve left at some point. Maybe he’d fallen asleep after all. He didn’t remember or care.

He clung to the routine instead. Breakfast. Something simple. The hiss of the pan was grounding, the motions precise, controlled. Thank god for the twelve-hour shift waiting for him today—twelve full hours where he wouldn’t have to so much as see Kirishima. Twelve hours to shove the memory down deep enough it couldn’t crawl back up. Nothing would make him understand what had possessed him to do it. Nothing could take away the embarrassment lodged sharp in his chest. He sighed, shoulders slumping as he scraped eggs onto his plate—

He froze. The sound of a door opening. Light footsteps padding into the kitchen.

“Morning, Bakubro!” Kirishima’s voice rang out, bright, too cheerful for a morning this early.

Bakugou’s body went rigid, spine locked, eyes glued to the counter. His brain shrieked. Of course he’s cheerful. He got laid. And you— the cruel voice in the back of his head twisted the knife—you got off to it.

Heat surged in his chest, mortification boiling fast. He refused to look at him. His gaze snapped instead to the wall, the pan, the floor, anywhere else.

“Morning,” he muttered, clipped, sharp, the word low like it hurt to spit out. Bakugou kept his eyes glued to his plate, shoveling food in with mechanical precision. He didn’t dare look up. If he did, he was done for.

Kirishima leaned against the counter, hair damp from his shower, already halfway through some story. “—and then Fatgum pulled me aside after patrol, right? Said he’s been impressed with how I’ve been handling the night shifts lately.” His voice was warm, easy, threaded with pride. “I mean, that’s huge, coming from him. You know how picky he can be.”

Bakugou tried to listen. He did. But the words blurred, slipping past him like static. All he could hear was the sound of Kirishima’s voice in the dark. Low, coaxing, spilling through thin plaster in a way that had ruined him. His stomach twisted, shame clawing at him raw. He remembered exactly how good it had felt to give in, how his body had twitched and ached until he couldn’t stop. And now, sitting two feet from Kirishima, it burned worse than ever. The humiliation crawled over his skin, heavy as lead. Last night, he’d hated himself for it. Now, in the light of day, it was unbearable.

He stabbed at his eggs harder than necessary, jaw tight, trying to shut it out, but his chest ached with every word Kirishima spoke, because all he could think about was how that same voice had coaxed him over the edge—and how no amount of pretending would ever erase it. His jaw ached, his shoulders tight, but no matter how deep he pressed the scowl into his face, it wasn’t enough to steady him. The air in the kitchen felt too thin, pressing sharply against his lungs.

It came on fast—like it always did. His chest was vibrating, his heart hammering too hard, too quick. His fingertips prickled against the fork, numb and restless at once. He tried to drag in a breath, sharp through his teeth, but it stuck halfway, jagged. His body buzzed like a live wire, every nerve on the edge.

He knew this feeling. Too well. It had chased him since the war—hell, if he was being honest, even before that. That tight coil in his gut, the sharp crash of adrenaline with nowhere to go. He’d learned to live with it, to fight through it, but it still ambushed him, sudden and merciless, like now. The scrape of his fork against porcelain sounded like thunder. His knee bounced under the table. His throat was closing, every swallow burning.

“...You okay, man?”

Bakugou’s muttered “I’m fine” scraped out harsher than he meant it, clipped and brittle. He shoved another bite into his mouth like it would seal the lie, but his hand betrayed him. The fork rattled faintly against the plate as his grip trembled, a shiver running through his fingers he couldn’t force still.

His breath came quicker now, shallow pulls that burned his chest. He set the fork down with more force than necessary, as if slamming it flat would anchor him. It didn’t. His chest was vibrating, too tight, his heart pounding against his ribs like it wanted out. Kirishima’s frown deepened, the kind that cut through every wall Bakugou threw up. He didn’t say anything at first—just stepped closer, quiet, steady. Then his hand came down, warm and careful, pressing lightly over Bakugou’s shaking one.

The contact shattered him.

Bakugou’s eyes slammed shut, his whole body going rigid. Humiliation hit him sharp in the chest, curdling into full-blown panic. His breath stuttered out fast, uneven, the sound ugly in his own ears. His other hand curled into a fist against the table, nails digging hard into his palm as if pain might ground him.

He hated it—hated that Kirishima saw him like this, hated that he couldn’t control it. But the heat of that hand, firm and steady over his own, pinned him in place. Not trapped—anchored. The food in front of him blurred. His appetite was gone anyway. He shoved back from the table so violently the chair legs screeched across the tile. Without a word, he stalked down the hall, his chest tight, the burn in his lungs sharper with every step.

In his room, he tore his shirt off the back of the chair and yanked on his hero costume piece by piece, each buckle and strap clumsy with the shake still in his hands. His chest ached, the stitch in his side tugging, but it didn’t matter. He needed out.

Footsteps padded closer. Stopped just outside his door. “Bakugou—” Kirishima’s voice, low, careful.

He wrenched the door open, hating the way concern softened Kirishima’s face. He couldn’t stand it. Couldn’t breathe under it. Without a word, he shoved his feet into his boots, each stomp deliberate, final, and barreled past him. The door slammed so hard behind him that the frame rattled. A jagged crack split up the paint near the hinge.

“Fuck,” he spat under his breath, the sound ricocheting down the hallway. His phone buzzed in his pocket, once, twice, again—Kirishima. He didn’t look, didn’t even pull it out. By the time he hit the street, his jaw was locked so tight it ached. He ignored the phone. Ignored the messages. Ignored him.

For weeks, he made sure not to meet Kirishima’s eyes at all.

It was bothering Kirishima, Bakugou could tell. The apartment had gone silent—no visitors, no laughter bleeding through the walls, no stupid chatter from the kitchen while Bakugou tried to eat in peace. Just Kirishima’s voice, every now and then, calling something out. Bakugou finds an excuse to leave every damn time. Patrol. Groceries. Meetings. Anything. It didn’t matter what. He couldn’t be in the same room for longer than a few minutes without his chest tightening, his hands itching.

It was double humiliation—the panic attack, the… other thing. What he’d done. He couldn’t shake it. He felt disgusting, restless under his own skin. The panic attacks didn’t stop. If anything, they came sharper, quicker, curling up from the pit of his stomach without warning. He was one episode away from calling his therapist again, and the thought alone made him grind his teeth. He didn’t know why he was freaking out so fucking bad, but he knew where it circled back to What am I? The words were a splinter under his nails, a bruise that never faded. Fucking Kaminari.

So he buried it. Every time the thought threatened to break the surface, he shoved it down, replaced it with work until his bones ached. PR meetings stacked up, fittings dragged on, his parents demanded updates on Ignition. They were putting more into this than he ever thought they would—so much more. A scary amount. Their design house was riding on it. He could see it in the way his mom’s pen never stopped moving, in the quiet way his dad measured fabrics. It pissed him off, the sheer weight of their investment in him, but it lit a fire too. He wasn’t going to let them down. He wasn’t going to waste their time, their money, their names.

So he pushed harder than before, and maybe he surprised Miyake with it, when he actually showed up to a meeting with ideas—real ones. He proposed future designs, spinoffs, and capsule lines. A Ground Zero storefront that could double as HQ once investors finally bite. He painted the bigger picture, piece by piece, until even she looked at him differently, like she hadn’t expected him to take it this seriously. Maybe she’d underestimated how far he was willing to go to make it work.

Some small, dangerous part of him was excited. He could see it—Ignition plastered across ads, kids wearing his jackets on the street, people repping him in their everyday lives. His shit is everywhere. A symbol that wasn’t just anger or volatility, but something people actually wanted to carry with them. That tiny flicker of excitement twisted sharply in his chest. It didn’t erase the dread. The campaign loomed over him like a storm cloud. The photos, the posing, the cameras. He hated it. Hated the thought of being seen like that, exposed in ways fighting never asked of him, but he had bigger fish to fry, like making it through Family Night without falling apart. Without snapping. Without letting anyone—especially Kirishima—see him crack wide open again.

They were making cookies. Which meant Bakugou was stuck in the kitchen, elbow-deep in flour and sugar while everyone else sprawled across Mina and Jirou’s couch, laughter echoing into the narrow space. He didn’t mind, not really. The solitude suited him—he could keep his hands busy, keep his eyes on the mixing bowl, and let their voices fade into a blur. He glared at the oven as it ticked slowly toward temperature, tapping the spoon against the rim of the bowl.

He didn’t need to turn when footsteps creaked behind him. He knew. He could always tell. The air shifted—clean bodywash, that faint sharpness of whatever spray Kirishima used after a shower, warm and maddening all at once. His shoulders stiffened before the voice even came.

“Bakugou.” Soft. Too soft. Enough to command his attention in ways loudness never did. Against his better judgment, he turned—and nearly flinched. Kirishima was closer than he expected, too close, standing between him and the rest of the room like he’d planned it that way. The counter behind him, Kirishima in front of him—no easy escape.

“Can we talk?” Bakugou’s throat tightened. That voice wasn’t gentle in the way most people used the word. It wasn’t pity, it wasn’t coaxing—it was steady, careful, but it demanded an answer. Demanded honesty. It made him shift his weight, made the mixing spoon heavy in his hand.

“Right now?” he muttered, aiming for cool and landing closer to defensive. His tone wasn’t as sharp as he wanted; the edges dulled under the weight of crimson eyes watching him. Kirishima nodded. He’d grown—hell, he’d shot up, from a compact 5’7 to a broad-shouldered 6’1. Not that Bakugou was short, by any means. It was close enough now that Bakugou had to tilt his chin to meet his gaze, just enough difference to feel it. His lashes were dark, framing eyes that burned steady, too steady. Bakugou almost looked away.

Instead, his mouth betrayed him. “When the fuck did you get that?”

Kirishima blinked, thrown for half a second before realizing the nod was toward his nose. A small silver ring glinted under the kitchen light. He sniffed, rolling his shoulders. “Recently.”

Bakugou scowled, heat catching in his chest. “Looks good.”

The corner of Kirishima’s mouth twitched, but his voice was quieter this time. “Thanks.” The pause stretched sharply between them before he said it—finally, blunt, cutting through any escape routes Bakugou tried to build. “…Bakugou. Are you avoiding me?” His lips pulled into that pout, the one Bakugou knew meant worry—not childish, not fake, but raw. His eyes didn’t leave him. Not once.

“Yes.”

The word dropped between them like a stone, blunt and heavy. Kirishima blinked, frown deepening, and Bakugou hated himself for watching—tracking every twitch of muscle, every shift of expression. His chest felt tight, like he was holding onto something sharp with bare hands. “Why?” Kirishima’s voice cracked just slightly, not broken, but soft in a way that dug under Bakugou’s skin. Just enough hurt in it to twist the knife. Bakugou blinked, hard, searching for an answer that didn’t exist. What the fuck was he supposed to say? That he’d gotten off to him through a goddamn wall? That every thought he repressed clawed its way back up when he was too tired to fight it? Fuck no.

Kirishima’s mouth pulled tight, twisting bitterly. “You don’t want to tell me?” he said lightly, almost like it didn’t matter, but that gentleness—it killed him. It was too careful, too soft.

Bakugou’s jaw locked. Because the worst part? That tone made him want to spill. Made him want to hand over everything, ugly and raw, just to get that look of concern off Kirishima’s face. Just to stop lying to the one person who could always drag the truth out of him. How could he? Kirishima would hate him for it. He’d be weirded out, disgusted. He’d move out. He’d tell Mina, Sero, Kami, Jirou, the whole damn squad, and Bakugou would be labeled a freak. He could already hear Kaminari’s laugh, the whispers, the fallout. He couldn’t—he wouldn’t survive it.

Yet, despite all of it, Kirishima had this hold on him. Always had. He was the one who pulled laughter out of him when he didn’t want to laugh, who made smiles slip loose before he noticed, who even dragged tears out when he’d sworn he’d never cry again. His grip on Bakugou was iron-tight, suffocating, and it pissed him off. Worse—so much worse—was now, because Kirishima wasn’t just the one he trusted most. He was the only one Bakugou could even get it up for. The admission sat heavily, toxic in his stomach, sinking lower, lower. His breath hitched before he could choke it down.

Bakugou’s throat worked, but the words he needed were acid. They burned all the way up and stopped short at his teeth. His breath hitched, sharp, and before he could bite it back, the truth bled out, ragged and low. 'You’d hate me for it.”

The silence stretched, heavy enough to suffocate. Kirishima didn’t move at first, just stared, the soft hurt in his eyes cutting sharper than any blade. Then—almost like his body decided before his brain did—he stepped closer. Not enough to crowd, but enough that the heat between them turned molten. “I couldn’t ever hate you, Bakugou.”

The words were soft. Too soft. Like they’d been carved down to their truest form, smoothed bare of everything else. His voice had always been steady, always warm, but this—this was something else. It pressed straight into Bakugou’s chest, lodged there, throbbing with every panicked beat of his heart. Bakugou froze, every muscle pulled taut, his jaw locked tight. He wanted to look away, wanted to snarl, to shove the moment back where it belonged—somewhere safe, somewhere buried. But his eyes wouldn’t leave Kirishima’s, not with that voice still echoing through him.

The kitchen smelled like sugar and butter, the oven ticking quietly behind them, but all Bakugou could taste was that damn sentence. I couldn’t ever hate you. Kirishima’s voice dropped lower, almost a whisper, eyes searching his face like the answer was written there if he only looked hard enough. “What is going on with you?”

Bakugou’s breath caught. His throat was dry, but he couldn’t look away. Crimson eyes locked on him, patient, open, devastating. It was unbearable—this closeness, this pull, this fragile thread strung so tight it hummed between them.

God. What the fuck were they doing?

The silence strangled him. His knuckles dug into the counter behind him, grounding him to this place when every instinct screamed to run. Finally, he forced something out. Not sharp, not brash—muted, frayed around the edges, like the words barely had enough strength to carry.

“…What are you doing?” It wasn’t an accusation, not really. It was a question—raw, desperate, too full of things he couldn’t name. Why was Kirishima so close? Why was he looking at him like that? Why couldn’t Bakugou take it? Kirishima’s lips parted, but for a second, nothing came. Just his breath between them, warm, steady. His gaze didn’t falter. Bakugou’s chest heaved, heart hammering like it wanted out.

Kirishima’s expression was unreadable, which was maddening. His face was always so open, so easy to read—grins, pouts, furrowed brows that screamed his every thought. But now? Nothing. And Bakugou couldn’t take it. His chest tightened, his eyes threatening to shut under the weight of it, but he forced himself to hold Kirishima’s gaze, teeth grinding.

“Bakugou, the other night…” The words dragged out, heavy, stumbling. Bakugou’s stomach turned, dread curling tight and hot in his gut. He waited, every muscle wired, braced for impact. Kirishima’s mouth worked, searching, his voice catching like the words were fragile in his throat. “When I was with—” He broke off, swallowed, tried again. “Bakugou, I heard something—”

...

No.

The oven beeped.

Bakugou fucking jumped, his whole body jolting. Goosebumps rippled up his arms, his chest tight enough he thought it might cave. The sound was nothing, just the timer, but it cracked the silence in two, sharp and merciless. Kirishima’s brows furrowed, drawn down tight as he took a step closer, worry written clear now where before it hadn’t been. His mouth opened like he was about to say more—about to drag the truth out of him, one way or another.

Then Mina’s voice burst in, loud and bright, skipping into the kitchen like she’d been waiting for the cue. “It smells so good in here!”

Bakugou flinched hard, stepping away too fast, too blind. His shoulder clipped Mina’s as she rounded the counter, making her stumble with a startled, “Whoa—”

Kirishima’s hand lifted, palm open, like he could catch Bakugou’s retreat. “Bakugou, really, I promise it’s not a big deal, I just wanna talk—”

“Fuck off, Kirishima.” The words came out guttural, harsh, ripping out of his throat like shrapnel. Kirishima froze. Mina’s eyes flicked between them, wide. “Whoa, guys—”

Bakugou was already gone. He stormed out of the kitchen, boots heavy against the floor, ignoring the chorus of protests behind him—Mina’s confusion, Kirishima’s voice calling his name, sharp with frustration and something else Bakugou refused to hear.

Kirishima’s hand shot out, closing tight around his arm, yanking him back before he could clear the doorway. Bakugou twisted, chest heaving, his glare colliding with crimson eyes that burned desperate. The noise from the living room cut off. Sero, Jirou, and Kaminari had all gone quiet, confusion sharp in their stares as they turned toward the kitchen. Jirou was already half-rising, worry written plain across her face. “Bakugou—” Kirishima started, voice low, urgent.

Bakugou ripped his arm free, shoving him back a step. “Don’t fucking touch me.”

“Bakugou, please—” The words gutted him. The plea in it, the way it cracked. And god, he felt so fucking stupid. Stupid and cornered and humiliated. His skin itched, his lungs refused to work right, and if he stayed one more second he was going to combust.

He didn’t give anyone time to speak. He wrenched the door open, the slam echoing down the hall, and launched himself toward the stairs two at a time. The sound of his boots pounded in his ears, drowned out the voices calling after him. the night air hit him like a slap. Cold and sharp, biting against sweat that still clung to his skin. His breath fogged in front of him, quick bursts that he couldn’t steady. He staggered into the open space, arms wrapping tight across his chest, the thin shirt and sweatpants no armor against the chill.

What. The. Fuck.

So he’d just been sitting on this? Keeping it in his pocket until now? Of all times, why now? Why bring it up here, in the kitchen, with Mina just a room away? With everyone around? Why the fuck—god, Bakugou was so fucking stupid. Stupid for losing his grip. Stupid for slipping in the first place. Stupid for letting it get this far. He shoved a hand into his pocket, hunting for keys, and froze. Empty. He’d left everything upstairs. His keys, his wallet, his phone—all of it.

“Fuck.” The word tore out of him, raw, loud enough to sting in the frozen air.

He sank onto the cold concrete steps, arms pulling tighter around himself. The night pressed in, merciless and wide. He was trapped out here until someone came looking for him—until Kirishima came looking for him—and he didn’t know if that terrified him or if it was the only thing he wanted. The cold sank deeper, gnawing at his skin, each shiver rattling his bones harder. His breath came sharp, fogging the air in ragged bursts. He sat hunched forward on the steps, arms clamped around himself, teeth clenched against the sting of the wind and the sting of his own thoughts.

The stairwell door creaked. Bakugou stiffened, already braced for Kirishima’s voice. Already preparing to tell him to fuck off again, even if it came out more raw this time, but it wasn’t Kirishima who stepped through. Pink curls bobbed in the dark, Mina’s voice cutting through the chill. “Bakugou Katsuki, what the hell are you doing out here in pajamas?”

He glared at the ground, jaw tight. “Leave me alone.” She didn’t. Of course, she didn’t. Her footsteps were quick, light, and then she was dropping onto the step beside him, curls brushing his shoulder as if she’d claimed the space. “Mhm, sure. Totally gonna leave you freezing your ass off out here, sulking like a cryptid.”

Bakugou huffed through his nose, sharp, but it shook more than he wanted. Mina tilted her head, catching the sound, catching the tremor in his arms. Her voice softened, still bright, but edged with real worry. “Hey, what’s going on with you?”

Bakugou’s throat burned. His nails dug crescents into his own arms, like pain might hold everything in place. “Nothing.”

“Bullshit, Bakubabe.” Mina’s tone was gentle but firm, eyes narrowing just slightly. “You don’t have to tell me everything, but Kirishima is really upset. He says he won’t say what’s going on, that it’s personal. I won’t pry, but…” Her voice softened further, careful as sugar melting. “You gotta say something to someone, because clearly this has been building up for a while.”

Bakugou exhaled hard into the cold, his breath visible, shaky. The sharp night air stung his lungs, grounding him as much as it hurt. Mina slid an arm around his shoulders, curling close, and she was warm—so warm that for once, he let it stay, he didn’t shrug her off.

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Tried again. Words jammed in his throat, tripping, stalling. Every false start made his chest burn hotter, his heart hammering too fast. Finally, the dam broke. “Something is fucking wrong with me.”

Mina blinked, brows furrowing as she tilted her head toward him. “What do you mean?”

Bakugou’s jaw clenched. It wasn’t the trust—he knew Mina wouldn’t tell anyone. It was the saying it out loud, the making it real, that scraped raw. His pulse thundered, his throat dry enough it hurt. He rolled his eyes toward the dark sky, like maybe it could swallow the words back down. Then they ripped out of him, jagged and desperate, too loud in the cold air.

“I’m randomly attracted to Kirishima, and he knows, and I’ve fucked it all up.” His hands flew up, useless, helpless, before smacking down hard against his thighs with a sharp slap. He leaned forward, growling under his breath, furious with himself, with the words, with everything.

Mina froze, her curls bounced as she blinked at him, wide-eyed. “Wait—wait, what?” 

“I’m attracted—like sexually fucking attracted—to Kirishima, and he knows.” Her eyebrows shot up so high they nearly disappeared into her hairline. She opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again—like a fish out of water—before finally clapping a hand over her lips. A smile tugged at the corners anyway, no matter how hard she tried to smother it.

“I don’t mean to laugh, I’m just—wow. I’m in shock.”

Bakugou’s glare cut sharply through the cold, enough to make her straighten up fast. “Okay, okay,” she rushed, hands up like she was surrendering, “serious Mina mode. I’m here. Totally serious.”

She drew in a breath, her expression sobering—well, as much as Mina’s ever did. “Okay—so… how does he know that?”

Bakugou’s jaw flexed, his mind scrambling. He couldn’t fucking say the truth, couldn’t admit what he’d done, what Kirishima had overheard. The thought alone made heat crawl up the back of his neck. He settled on the only thing he could get out. “Long fucking story, but he knows.”

“I mean, but Bakubabe, he doesn’t seem… upset about it.” Mina tilted her head, curls bouncing as she watched him carefully. “I mean, when I walked into the kitchen—”

Bakugou’s face flushed hot, so fast it felt like fire under his skin. He shoved himself off the bench, pacing like he could outwalk the embarrassment clawing through him. “I’ve never been attracted to someone. Ever.”

Mina’s eyes widened, tracking him. “Wait—never?”

“And now I’ve got some… thing—” His voice broke, sharp with frustration. “No, not even. I can’t be in the same room as Kirishima because I freak the fuck out, or worse!”

“What’s worse?” Mina asked, a little too quickly, a little too shocked.

“Don’t fucking worry about it—” Bakugou snapped, cutting her off with a harsh wave of his hand.

“Okay, okay.” Mina lifted her palms in mock surrender, but her eyes softened. “So what I’m hearing is… you’re gay panicking.”

“Yes!” Bakugou barked, loud enough to echo against the stairwell walls. “But it’s more than that.”

“Right, the whole no attraction to anyone ever thing.” Mina pursed her lips, trying and failing to hide the sympathy on her face. “Oh, bless your heart. I mean, I’m sure there’s a sexuality for that. There’s a sexuality for everything—”

“I don’t care about sexuality!” Bakugou’s voice cracked, raw. His hands dragged down his face before clenching into fists at his sides. “I’m annoyed because it’s fucking Kirishima. I live with him—”

“Okay, okay!” Mina cut in, quick, soothing. “Maybe just try talking to him, Bakugou. He looks hurt, not angry. I dunno—maybe he’s attracted to you too and you two will get married and have babies or something.”

“Mina…” His voice dropped into a groan, low and tired, but the edge of it had dulled. The pacing slowed, his shoulders easing a fraction. He wouldn’t admit it, not out loud, but yelling about it—screaming it into the cold night air—had loosened the weight on his chest. Just enough that he could breathe again. He sighed, the sound tearing out of him like all the fight had gone with it. Mina stood, brushing crumbs of cold concrete from her leggings, and turned toward him with a look he didn’t see often. Her smile was gone. Her eyes were sharp, serious, intense in a way that cut through every wall he tried to throw up. Before he could pull away, she slipped her hands into his, her grip firm, grounding.

“Bakugou, listen to me.” Her voice carried no softness, no hesitation—it was steady, ironclad. “No matter what, there’s nothing wrong with you. You can’t control how you feel or who you feel anything for. There’s nothing wrong with you. You are not broken.”

She said it like it was fact, like it was gravity, unchangeable and real and for a moment, with her eyes locked on his, it was hard not to believe her. Mina let their hands fall, squeezing once before she pulled back, giving him the smallest smile. Bakugou’s eyes shifted to the building, to the windows glowing faintly above. His chest ached, but the pressure didn’t feel as suffocating. “Okay,” Mina said, nudging his arm with hers, her brightness slipping back in. “Let’s go back in before you freeze to death out here.”

Bakugou huffed, a sharp breath clouding in the air, but he didn’t fight her when she started walking toward the door. Mina slipped back into her place first, the door barely swinging shut behind her, before Kaminari’s voice boomed, loud enough to shake the hall. “WHAT HAPPENED?”

Bakugou didn’t stay to hear the rest. He cut across the hall, boots heavy against the floor, and pushed into his own apartment. Kirishima was on the couch, hunched forward with his elbows on his knees. Bakugou’s phone and keys sat in his hands, turning over and over like he’d been waiting. He’d been sitting there the whole time.

The second the door clicked shut, Kirishima was on his feet. His face broke open with a look Bakugou didn’t want to see—relief, worry, desperation tangled together. “Bakugou—”

“Fucking hold on, Kirishima.”

The words cracked out harsher than intended, but his heart was still pounding, his throat still raw from the cold and from shouting truths he couldn’t take back. His hands shook as he kicked his boots off hard enough to knock one sideways, pacing before Kirishima could say another word. He needed a break. Just one fucking break before he shattered all over again. So Kirishima waited. He didn’t push, didn’t press, just stood there, eyes fixed on Bakugou like he was bracing for impact. Somehow, the silence was worse than questions, worse than the gentle prying. Bakugou’s skin crawled under the weight of it, every second stretching too long, too sharp.

He almost wanted to take it back—don’t fucking hold on, just say something, anything, because this was unbearable. The whole thing was fucking ridiculous, a mess that had dragged out too long already. He wanted it over, wanted it put to bed, buried deep where it couldn’t choke him anymore.

“How much did you hear?” His voice tore through the quiet, louder than intended, echoing off the apartment walls. Kirishima flinched just slightly, then dropped the keys and phone onto the couch with a soft thud. His hands fidgeted, restless, twisting against each other before he forced the words out.

“I guess… towards the end.” His voice was careful, uncertain. “When you got… louder.”

Bakugou blinked hard, like the words hit him square in the chest. Heat flared up his neck, mortification settling heavy in the air, thick enough to choke on. Bakugou huffed, sharp and tired, the air rattling in his chest. Across from him, Kirishima dragged his hands over his face, elbows digging into his knees. “This is crazy,” he muttered, voice muffled, before looking up again, red eyes drawn tight.

“I didn’t say anything because—fuck—I knew you were embarrassed. I didn’t want to make it worse, but in the kitchen, I just—”

“Why even ask me all that if you knew I couldn’t say it?” Bakugou snapped, words edged like shrapnel.

“You could’ve said it—”

“But why would you even want me to?”

Kirishima’s mouth opened, then snapped shut. His arms flew up in frustration, falling into an aimless I don’t know. Bakugou’s voice cut sharper, louder. “You wanted me to admit… what? That I got off to you and—whatever his name is—fucking? Is that it?”

Kirishima’s face flushed, panic flashing. “No—”

“Then why—”

“I don’t know, Bakugou!” Kirishima’s voice cracked, raw and desperate. “I just don’t want things to be weird. I’m sick of it being weird between us. First Sanae, now C—”

“I don’t know how to not make this shit weird, Kirishima. That’s why I was avoiding you in the first place.”

Kirishima’s jaw tightened. “But—I mean—it’s not that bad—”

“It’s pretty fucking strange to get off to your roommate, Kirishima.” The words were acid, spat with venom—but underneath, the humiliation made Bakugou’s voice falter. Kirishima froze, chest heaving, then let out a low curse. He looked up at the ceiling like he was sending a prayer, then dragged his gaze back down. His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard.

“If I said I liked it,” he muttered, almost too quiet, “would that make it better?”

Bakugou’s blood ran cold, his breath caught. “What?”

Kirishima’s voice steadied, though his ears burned red. “If I said it… turned me on that you got off to me—would that make it better? Now we’re both embarrassed, so it cancels out.”

The words hung heavy, impossible, his tone awkwardly earnest but edged with something else—something that made Bakugou’s mind whirl, white-hot, too fast to hold onto. Bakugou’s brain was short-circuiting, static roaring in his ears. The words didn’t compute—couldn’t compute.

“Don’t fuck with me,” he snapped, but it came out too sharp, too raw, his chest heaving like the walls were closing in. Kirishima wouldn’t joke about something like this. He wouldn’t. Except Kirishima was already shaking his head, stepping in until he was right there—too close, all heat and red and certainty. He lifted his hand, pinky crooked, his expression deadly serious.

“I swear it turned me on.” 

Bakugou slapped his hand away like it burned. His eyes went wide, wild, his face flaming so red it ached. “What the fuck—how are you being so fucking normal right now?”

Kirishima’s brows pinched together, but his voice stayed calm, steady in a way that only made Bakugou’s pulse climb higher. “Because… is it the end of the world that we turn each other on?”

Bakugou barked out a laugh, sharp and disbelieving, his voice cracking under the weight of it. “DO YOU HEAR YOURSELF?”

The words reverberated between them, sharp as glass, while Kirishima just stood there—tall, unflinching, like he’d already braced himself for the blast. “You got off to me. You liked it. I heard you getting off to me, it—shit, it turned me on. It… I mean it made me— What more is there to say?” Bakugou’s throat worked, a harsh swallow cutting through the silence, because that really was just it, wasn’t it? No flowery explanation. No clever way out. The look Kirishima had given him in the kitchen—raw, unreadable—was because he’d heard every filthy sound Bakugou had made because of him. Something in the air snapped. Changed.

Kirishima stepped closer, not tentative but steady, like he’d already made his choice. “Bakugou,” he said softly, and that voice—that same low coaxing tone Bakugou had heard through the wall, through the kitchen—lit his nerves up like live wires. His whole body responded without permission, like a sleeper agent jolted awake.

“It doesn’t have to be weird,” Kirishima went on, eyes searching his. “Not if we don’t let it.”

Bakugou’s mind screamed at him—about how bad this could end, how fucking stupid he was being—but his feet didn’t move. His lungs stuttered instead, burning as Kirishima came close enough that the scent of his cologne flooded in, clean and warm and sharp. Close enough to trace the jagged scar across his face, the silver glint of his nose ring, the hard line of his jaw. His lips. God, he was so attracted. Painfully attracted. It spilled out of him now, every repressed thought clawing to the surface until his breath hitched audibly, chest rising too fast.

“We can’t just keep pretending, Bakugou,” Kirishima murmured, his voice low, close, devastating.

Bakugou’s mouth worked, words catching like thorns. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“I can teach you.”

The way Kirishima said it—steady, gentle, like an unshakable promise—set Bakugou’s stomach on fire, heat curling low and tight until he thought he’d combust on the spot. Kirishima stepped fully into him, hands rising to cradle Bakugou’s jaw as their chests pressed flush. Bakugou swore Kirishima could feel the frantic pace of his heart pounding against his ribs, battering itself against bone. He didn’t stop him when Kirishima tipped his chin up, didn’t pull away when their noses brushed. Crimson eyes burned into his, steady and unflinching, and Bakugou’s tongue darted out to wet his lips without thinking—an instinct, a tell.

“Tell me you want this,” Kirishima murmured, his voice wrecked quiet. “We don’t have to if you don’t, but if you say yes—” His words broke off when their mouths brushed by accident, a spark that jolted straight down Bakugou’s spine. “I want you,” Kirishima whispered, so close his breath caught on Bakugou’s lips. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about how you sounded since that night.”

The words detonated in his chest. Bakugou’s pulse screamed through him, his throat tight, his hands twitching at his sides like they didn’t know where to go. His voice came ragged, caught between resistance and surrender. “I—what the fuck—”

“We can make rules,” Kirishima cut in gently, his grip steady on Bakugou’s jaw, his other hand sliding down to settle warm against the side of his neck. “We’ll figure it out.”

The ball was his. His decision. Everything he’d been running from, every sleepless night, every shame spiral, funneled into this one impossible moment. Their lips hovered, brushing just enough to sting, every second stretched to breaking. Bakugou’s breath shook as he gave the smallest nod, a surrender he couldn’t take back. “Yeah?” Kirishima asked, voice so soft it buckled his knees.

“Yes,” Bakugou rasped, the words scraping up from somewhere raw. “Fucking kiss me, Kirishima.”

Kirishima kissed him like he had all the time in the world. No rush, no demand—just steady, patient pressure that made Bakugou’s chest ache in ways he didn’t have the words for. His lips moved slowly, deliberately, guiding Bakugou through every shift and tilt like he was drawing out the first steps of a dance. Bakugou didn’t know what to do with his hands at first. They twitched awkwardly at his sides, fists half-curled like he was bracing for impact, but then Kirishima’s thumbs swept along his jaw, warm and grounding, coaxing him closer. Bakugou’s hands gave in, finally, grabbing at the hem of Kirishima’s shirt like it was the only solid thing keeping him upright.

Their mouths brushed, parted, pressed again, slow and achingly careful. Kirishima angled them just enough that their noses fit neatly past each other, his lips soft but sure, and it made Bakugou’s stomach twist, fluttering like something fragile had come undone inside him. Kirishima’s groan slipped out, low and guttural, vibrating against Bakugou’s lips. The sound made Bakugou’s knees go weak. Heat shot down his spine, curling in his stomach, but it wasn’t just lust. It was more dangerous than that. It was the way Kirishima’s hands held him like he mattered, like Bakugou wasn’t just some raw bundle of nerves and sharp edges.

Bakugou kissed back harder, clumsy at first, too much teeth, but Kirishima didn’t flinch. He only adjusted, slowed, lips molding against his like he was teaching him what it meant to savor. Every brush and pull felt intentional, drawn out, until Bakugou’s head was light and his heart was battering against his ribs. When Kirishima parted their lips just slightly, their breaths tangled hotly between them. Bakugou’s mouth opened on instinct, a shaky exhale catching against Kirishima’s, and he almost swore out loud at how good it felt, how natural it suddenly seemed.

Kirishima pressed forward, deepening it, his hand sliding from Bakugou’s jaw to rest against the back of his neck, fingers threading into his hair. The gentle pull sent a shiver straight through him, his stomach dropping and soaring at the same time. Bakugou’s hands fisted tighter into his shirt, like letting go meant he’d fall straight through the floor.

It was slow, drawn out, devastatingly tender—like Kirishima was intent on proving something. That this could feel good. That Bakugou could want and be wanted without it breaking him. Bakugou’s whole body was trembling, not from panic this time, but from something sweeter, more terrifying. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d let himself feel like this. Maybe never.

Bakugou broke first. He tore his mouth away with a sharp inhale, chest heaving like he’d just sprinted headfirst into a fight. It all crashed over him in a rush—the heat, the want, the humiliation, the terrifying sweetness of it. His grip tightened in Kirishima’s collar until the fabric strained between his fists, like he could hold himself together through sheer force. Kirishima froze for only a heartbeat before his expression softened. He didn’t push, didn’t demand. Instead, he leaned in and pressed a kiss to Bakugou’s cheek. Then another at the corner of his jaw. Then softer still, under his eye, along the line of his nose, the slope of his forehead. Each one feather-light, steadying, wordless.

Bakugou’s eyes fluttered shut despite himself, his throat thick. The ugly swirl in his chest eased with every press of Kirishima’s mouth, each kiss an anchor pulling him back from the edge. Kirishima didn’t say a word—just let his lips map him out, offering comfort in the gentlest ways he knew how. When Kirishima’s lips brushed just under his ear, something in Bakugou cracked wide open. His eyes snapped back to him, caught in the molten red of Kirishima’s gaze, and something in his chest clenched painfully tight. Enough.

He surged forward, catching Kirishima’s mouth in a kiss that was all his. No hesitation, no trembling. Just raw, burning need. It wasn’t clumsy this time—it was everything he’d absorbed in the last few minutes, everything Kirishima had shown him, thrown back at him in one desperate press. Bakugou’s lips pressed to Kirishima’s with a surprising steadiness, all the jagged edges inside him burning down into something slow, molten. His chest still hammered, but it wasn’t panic anymore—it was alive, searing, terrifying in a way that didn’t make him want to run.

Kirishima didn’t seize the moment, didn’t turn it hungry. He let Bakugou lead, matching his pace with a patience that only made the kiss ache more. His mouth was warm and sure, moving against Bakugou’s with a care that made his stomach flutter traitorously. Each shift of lips felt deliberate, unhurried, as if he had all the time in the world to memorize Bakugou this way.

Bakugou’s fingers clenched hard in his collar, not pulling away this time, but keeping him close—closer still—as if Kirishima might slip away if he let go. His other hand hovered awkwardly for a second before settling against Kirishima’s chest, where he could feel the solid, steady thrum of his heartbeat. It was soft, achingly soft, the kind of kiss that left no room for shame or panic. Just breath and heat and the faint scrape of Kirishima’s nose ring brushing his skin when they shifted too close.

When they finally broke apart, it wasn’t explosive. It was gentle, their foreheads pressing together as Bakugou’s lips parted in a shaky exhale. His eyes stayed half-shut, lashes low, as if opening them would break whatever spell was holding him steady. Kirishima’s hand stayed at his jaw, thumb brushing once, grounding him, before easing back just enough to look him in the eye. Their foreheads were still pressed together when Bakugou’s lips twitched, the words clawing their way out of his throat before he could stop them. “What the fuck,” he whispered, voice hoarse and uneven.

Kirishima’s laugh tore out instantly—too loud, too rough around the edges, like he’d been holding it back the whole time. It startled even him, a wince breaking across his face as if he’d scared himself with the volume. Bakugou blinked at him once, then snorted, the corner of his mouth twitching upward against his will. He pulled back just far enough to meet Kirishima’s wide, flustered grin and muttered again, louder this time, “What the fuck.”

It wasn’t sharp, it wasn’t angry, just stunned disbelief, hanging soft in the space between them, pulling another smaller, sheepish laugh out of Kirishima. The weight of the moment hadn’t disappeared, but it had shifted—less like the world was ending, more like something terrifyingly new had begun. “I wanna talk about it—we need to,” Kirishima said quietly, like the words might shatter if he spoke any louder. “But we both have work tomorrow.”

Bakugou snorted, disbelief still clinging to him like static. “Then go to bed, shitty hair.” His voice came out rougher than he intended, but Kirishima didn’t flinch. He stayed unbearably close, eyes soft, almost wanting. Slowly, Kirishima let his hands fall to his sides, the tension bleeding out of him as a smile tugged at his lips. Small at first, then widening until it was that blinding grin Bakugou had known since they were teenagers. “Okay.”

“Okay,” Bakugou echoed, the word turning into a smirk he couldn’t contain if he tried.

“Night,” Kirishima murmured.

“Night,” Bakugou shot back, slipping into his room and shutting the door. He didn’t go further than that, though—he leaned against it, back pressed to the wood, grinning like a complete idiot in the dark.

“What the fuck,” he whispered into the empty air, still smiling, letting himself drown in it just for tonight. Tomorrow could deal him the consequences.

Bakugou woke up to sunlight cutting across his room, sharp and too bright. His head felt heavy, his chest weirdly light, and for a full minute he just lay there, staring at the ceiling like it might explain what the hell last night was. It didn’t. Instead, his mind replayed it on loop—the warmth of Kirishima’s hands on his jaw, the slow drag of his mouth, the way his laugh had burst out too loud after. Every detail sat raw and vivid in his chest, impossible to shove away.

“What the fuck,” Bakugou muttered into the empty room, dragging a hand down his face. His stomach twisted, a strange cocktail of disbelief and something dangerously close to giddiness. He hated it. He hated how good it felt. He rolled out of bed like he was suiting up for battle, tugging on sweats and brushing his teeth with mechanical force. Normal. He just had to act normal. Pretend nothing happened, or at least until he figured out what the fuck last night even meant.

Except when he stepped into the kitchen, Kirishima was already there—shirtless, of course, sipping tea at the counter like nothing had changed. Bakugou froze in the doorway. His pulse kicked into overdrive, his mouth opening then snapping shut just as quick. Kirishima looked up, eyes catching his, and smiled—soft, easy, completely devastating.

Bakugou’s chest stuttered. He turned abruptly to the fridge, yanking it open like it had offended him. “...the fuck is happening,” he whispered under his breath, just loud enough for the carton of milk to hear.

Bakugou sat at the counter, spoon clinking sharp against the side of his bowl, milk sloshing every time his hand trembled. His whole body was running too hot, buzzing like he’d swallowed dynamite. Across from him, Kirishima leaned back in his chair, hair still damp from a shower, grin lazy as if nothing in the world had changed.

“Morning, man,” Kirishima said, voice warm, casual, devastatingly normal. Bakugou’s jaw ticked. He didn’t answer. Not because he didn’t have words—because he had too many. His brain was stuck replaying last night on a loop, every soft kiss, every whispered word, the way Kirishima had looked at him like he was something worth handling carefully. Now he was just sitting there, shirtless, drinking tea like none of it mattered?

Bakugou’s spoon clattered against the bowl, louder than he meant it to. Kirishima raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment, just sipped again. That goddamn calmness, that normalcy, made Bakugou’s skin itch. “What the fuck are you doing,” Bakugou snapped finally, words too sharp for eight in the morning.

Kirishima blinked. “Uh… having breakfast?”

Bakugou’s knee bounced under the table, his chest tight. “Like nothing fucking happened?”

Kirishima tilted his head, lips twitching into a small smile. “Well, we said we’d talk later, didn’t we? So until then, why not just…” He gestured vaguely at the table, at the tea, at his whole stupid easygoing self. “Keep it normal.”

Bakugou stared at him like he’d lost his damn mind. Normal? After that? After his first kiss ever? His hand curled into a fist against the counter. “You’re driving me fucking insane.”

Kirishima laughed softly into his mug. “Guess that makes two of us.” Bakugou’s chair scraped hard against the floor as he shoved back from the counter, the sound sharp enough to make Kirishima glance up.

“No. Absolutely the fuck not,” Bakugou bit out, standing stiff with his hands braced on the counter. His pulse hammered, his breath coming faster than he wanted, but he couldn’t stop. “We’re not just gonna sit here and act like nothing happened.”

Kirishima set his mug down slowly, blinking up at him. Calm. Too calm. It made Bakugou want to put his fist through the wall. “Bakugou—”

“No, shut up,” he snapped, the words breaking ragged at the edges. “You don’t get to sit there with your tea and your dumb smile like everything’s fine. I kissed you. You kissed me back. That’s not something you just fucking sweep under the rug and say ‘normal,’ like it’s—like it’s not the most insane shit that’s ever happened to me.”

Kirishima tilted his head, the softness in his gaze not fading. “Then let’s talk about it. Right now.”

Bakugou faltered, his mouth opening, then shutting, his chest rising too fast. He’d wanted this confrontation, had demanded it, but with Kirishima’s eyes steady on him, patient and unflinching, his stomach lurched like he’d stepped off a cliff.

“I’m not—I don’t want a fucking relationship,” Bakugou snapped, voice rough, the words tumbling out like shrapnel.

“I know that, Bakugou.” Kirishima’s tone was calm, his crimson eyes steady on him, like he’d been expecting the outburst. “But…” He shrugged, lips tugging upward. 

“I guess you’re the only one I can even get it up for, and clearly I need to… do something about that.” Bakugou said, his glare sharpening heat crawling up his neck at the smug curl of Kirishima’s mouth. 

Kirishima’s grin widened, wickedly playful. “It makes me feel good, you know. A little special.”

“Kirishima—”

“Like I’m the only one?” His voice dropped just enough to sting, his smirk gleaming. “That feels nice.”

Bakugou’s stomach twisted. He hated how true it was. Hated how his throat burned to admit it. His jaw worked before he snapped, “You were already fucking special, Kirishima.”

The silence cracked open between them. Kirishima’s brows lifted, his grin breaking wide and bright. “Aw, Bakugou.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Bakugou barked, ears hot. “You know what I meant.”

Kirishima only laughed, warm and unbothered, because of course he knew. Of course everyone knew. Bakugou had always been different with him—more patient, more forgiving, more willing to bend where he’d never bend for anyone else. He hated how obvious it was. He hated that he finally understood why. Maybe Kirishima knew that too, the bastard, with the way his eyes softened, the teasing giving way to something steadier, quieter, that made Bakugou’s chest ache.

“So what do you want from me?” Kirishima asked. His voice wasn’t teasing now—it was low, even, laced with something Bakugou couldn’t name. Fuck, it was such a strange question. Bakugou didn’t fucking know how to answer it.

His mouth opened, then snapped shut, his throat working uselessly. What did he want? He wanted the panic to stop, the heat in his chest to ease, the gnawing ache between his ribs to go quiet. He wanted to go back to before Kaminari’s dumbass question cracked him open, before thin walls and muffled voices rewired his brain.

Then he thought about last night—the weight of Kirishima’s hand on his jaw, the softness of his mouth, the way it had felt like something warm and solid finally tethered him down. His stomach twisted hard.

“I—” he started, but the word broke apart, too raw. His fists clenched at his sides, nails biting into his palms. “I don’t fucking know.”

Kirishima’s expression softened, brows pinching like he wanted to reach across the counter and shake the answer out of him, or maybe just hold him until he found it himself. "That’s okay,” Kirishima said quietly. “We’ll figure it out.”

“Kirishima,” Bakugou forced out, his voice dropping lower than he meant. His throat felt raw, tight. “You know I’ve never… done anything.”

“I know that,” Kirishima said instantly, no hesitation, his tone steady like he’d been waiting for Bakugou to admit it.

Bakugou’s jaw ticked. He hated how small the words felt in his mouth. “So I don’t know—” He cut himself off, frustrated, glaring at the counter like it had answers. “I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.”

Kirishima shifted, leaning forward just slightly, his own composure cracking for the first time. “But would you—” he started, then shook his head, trying again. “I mean… is the goal…?” His hands lifted, then dropped uselessly to his thighs, his face going a little red. “I dunno what I’m saying. Okay. Would you want to have sex?”

Bakugou’s brain short-circuited so violently he laughed, a sharp, humorless sound. “Are you seriously asking me that right now?”

Bakugou’s chest heaved, his words snagging uselessly in his throat. He didn’t know what to say, didn’t know how to name what he wanted, and the silence was starting to feel like it might crush him. Then Kirishima snapped. “I DON’T KNOW!” he burst out, louder than he intended, his hands flying up in exasperation. His face went bright red as the words tumbled out too fast to stop. “I mean—we’re both attracted to each other, so let’s… have sex?”

The room went dead quiet. Bakugou blinked at him, utterly stunned, like the floor had just fallen out from under him. “...Right now?” he asked, incredulous.

“NO!” Kirishima yelped, his voice cracking. His hands flailed before crashing down to his thighs with a smack. “I mean—in the future. We can… work our way up to it.” His ears burned scarlet, and his voice dropped to a mortified mumble. “That’s… that’s what I meant.”

Bakugou stared at him for another long beat, caught somewhere between outrage, disbelief, and the sudden, horrible urge to laugh. Kirishima’s words hung in the air like smoke he couldn’t swallow back down. His own eyes went wide, and before Bakugou could even respond, he was shaking his head violently. “Shit—I didn’t mean it like that,” he rushed out, hands flying up again. “I mean, I did, but not like—fuck. Bakugou, I don’t wanna mess this up.” His voice cracked, crimson eyes darting anywhere but Bakugou’s face. “You’re my best friend. You’ve always been my best friend, and if I ruin that just because I can’t keep my mouth shut—”

“Kirishima—”

“I don’t care if we never do anything, okay? I’d rather have you as my friend than risk losing you over… whatever this is.” His hands dropped uselessly to his sides, his chest rising fast. The tips of his ears were red, his expression raw in a way Bakugou almost never saw.

The silence stretched heavy between them, Bakugou’s pulse hammering in his ears. He hated the twist in his gut, hated the way Kirishima’s panic looked like it might swallow him whole. The truth was, Kirishima wasn’t wrong. They were standing on a knife’s edge, and one wrong step could cut everything to pieces. Bakugou’s throat felt like it was closing. For a moment, he couldn’t get the words out—his pride snarling, his panic clawing at him—but then they shoved their way through, rough and uneven. “I’m not… going anywhere, shitty hair.”

Kirishima blinked, his lips twitching despite the tension pulling at his face. “That rhymed—”

“Kirishima.” The sharp edge in Bakugou’s tone cut through the air, but it wasn’t his usual bite. It was steadier, heavier, carrying something unspoken that made Kirishima’s grin falter into something softer. Their eyes held for a long moment, and for once, Bakugou didn’t look away.

“What are we going to tell our friends—” Kirishima began, but Bakugou jolted upright in his seat so fast the legs of the chair scraped harshly against the floor.

“We are telling people?” His voice was sharp, incredulous, like Kirishima had just suggested arson in broad daylight.

Kirishima blinked, then shrugged, lips quirking. “They’re gonna find out anyway.”

“No the fuck they aren’t.” Bakugou’s eyes were wide, his hands flat on the table like he was holding back a damn earthquake.

Kirishima grinned nervously, scratching the back of his neck. “But Bakugou, I’m bad at keeping secrets.” His voice dipped, playful now, teasing around the edges. “Unless—” His gaze flicked down to Bakugou’s mouth for a fraction of a second before snapping back up. “Unless you wanna sneak around…”

Bakugou’s glare sharpened, heat crawling up his neck. “Kirishima—”

“What?” Kirishima leaned forward, elbows on his knees, grin crooked. “We can kiss and have sex but I can’t flirt with you?”

Bakugou’s pulse kicked hard, his jaw working, words stuck like glass in his throat. His entire face felt hot enough to combust. Kirishima’s smirk faltered, his voice softening as the question tumbled out, more raw this time. “Is there anything you don’t want me to do?”

The sudden shift punched Bakugou in the chest. He blinked, caught off guard, his throat tightening around the silence. He didn’t know. He hated that he didn’t know. Finally, he ground the words out low. “If I don’t like something, I’ll just tell you.”

Kirishima’s shoulders eased, a breath escaping him as he nodded. “Okay… okay. Always tell me.”

Bakugou’s fists clenched in his lap, nails biting into his palms, before he snapped back, rough and certain. “I fucking will, shitty hair.”

The words cracked the tension, both of them holding the stare a beat too long—charged, daring, and too full of things neither of them had figured out how to name.

“Do you always want me to ask before I kiss you, or can I just kiss you?” Kirishima asked, leaning forward, eyes bright with mischief. “Because you can just kiss me whenever. Right now even!” He punctuated it with a dramatic wink, grinning like he’d just cracked the best joke in the world. Bakugou regretted every decision that had led him here. His eyes rolled so hard it almost hurt.

“Don’t fucking ask,” he snapped, his voice low, sharp. “That makes it weird—”

“Consent is sexy, Bakubro,” Kirishima shot back, his grin widening, his tone sing-song.

Bakugou’s patience snapped, his body thrumming hot with irritation and something far sharper beneath it. “Are you going to kiss me or not?” he snarled, leaning forward now, his impatience flaring so hard it set his pulse racing.

Kirishima’s grin faltered just enough to reveal the heat beneath, his expression softening as he leaned in. “Yeah,” he murmured, his voice dropping low. “I am.”

Kirishima didn’t rush it. He leaned in slowly, giving Bakugou every chance to pull back, every heartbeat stretched thin until their noses brushed. Then his lips pressed against Bakugou’s, warm and certain, and the world tilted. It was just as aching as the first time, maybe worse. Slow, deliberate, drawn out in a way that made Bakugou’s stomach clench and his chest flutter treacherously. Kirishima’s mouth moved with steady patience, guiding him through the rhythm, coaxing rather than demanding.

Bakugou grounding himself in the solid heat of him, the steady beat of his chest against his own. His breath stuttered as their lips dragged and met again, each press unhurried but devastating, leaving him raw and burning from the inside out. Kirishima’s hand rose, cupping Bakugou’s jaw, thumb brushing feather-light at his cheek like it was second nature. He tilted him gently, deepening the kiss just enough to steal the breath from Bakugou’s lungs.

Bakugou had fought through wars, through blood and fire, but nothing had ever undone him like this—like being kissed slowly, carefully, by the one person he never thought he could want this way. The kiss stretched, slow and patient under Kirishima’s lead, but something hot and restless unfurled in Bakugou’s chest. His hands twitched, hovering awkwardly at Kirishima’s sides, caught between restraint and want. Then he committed. His palms slid to Kirishima’s waist, fingers curling into the firm muscle there, dragging him closer until their hips collided. The contact sent a shock straight through him, and he bit back a sound, his mouth pressing harder against Kirishima’s.

Kirishima groaned low in his throat, the sound vibrating against Bakugou’s lips as their bodies fell into place—legs tangled, knees knocking, both of them leaning in until there wasn’t a sliver of space left between them. Bakugou angled his head, chasing the kiss with a raw hunger he hadn’t known he was capable of. It wasn’t polished, but it was fierce, his grip firm at Kirishima’s waist as though daring him to move away. Their breaths mingled, harsh and uneven, the kiss deepening into something that was no longer careful but consuming.

Bakugou broke the kiss just enough to rasp out, “Kirishima—” but the word barely left his mouth before Kirishima captured it in another kiss, hot and insistent.

God, he couldn’t fucking resist. His brain felt like it was short-circuiting, misfiring with every brush of lips and heat of breath. He was fucked in the head—completely, irreparably messed up for him—and he knew it. He couldn’t find it in himself to give a single shit. The kiss deepened, their mouths slotting together like they’d been meant to all along, and Bakugou’s hands fisted tighter in Kirishima’s shirt. He walked him backward step by step, until Kirishima’s legs bumped into the edge of the table, the scrape of wood sharp against the quiet of their breathing.

Bakugou’s eyes fluttered shut as Kirishima broke away only to trail hot, open-mouthed kisses down his face, across his jaw, and to the sensitive curve of his neck. Bakugou’s head tipped back despite himself, a shudder clawing through his chest as Kirishima’s lips pressed into his skin again and again. Time blurred—just heat, just the dizzy haze of it—until the sharp buzz of a phone in Bakugou’s pocket shattered through the moment. His breath caught, the vibration rattling against his hip.

“Kirishima—” he tried again, but Kirishima’s mouth found his before he could finish, swallowing the protest whole. His pulse thundered in his ears, his body leaning completely into him, surrendering to the pull like he’d already lost the battle the moment it began.

Bakugou’s hands moved before his brain could catch up. They slid up from Kirishima’s waist, slow at first, knuckles grazing over firm muscle before slipping under the hem of his shirt. Heat met heat—bare skin under his palms—and the noise Kirishima made punched straight through him. A sharp, unguarded hitch of breath.

Bakugou relished in it. His fingers splayed wider, dragging higher across Kirishima’s stomach, up his ribs, feeling the twitch and shiver beneath every pass of his calloused hands. Kirishima’s body reacted instantly, his breath stuttering against Bakugou’s mouth as if the touch had unraveled him in one stroke. The sound rattled something deep in Bakugou’s chest, something both triumphant and terrifying. He wasn’t used to this kind of power—the kind that made someone falter, melt, from nothing but the drag of his hands. It made him want more, need more, his grip tightening as if to hold Kirishima in place, to chase that sound again.

Kirishima kissed him harder for it, a low groan rumbling against Bakugou’s lips, and Bakugou swallowed it like oxygen. Every second their bodies pressed closer, every inch of space erased, Bakugou’s resolve slipped further through his fingers. Kirishima’s hand had found the back of his neck, thumb brushing the edge of his jaw in slow, absent circles. His other hand gripped Bakugou’s side, fingers catching on the fabric of his shirt like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to hold or tear. Bakugou’s brain went white. All that mattered was the weight of him, the heat, the sound—

The sharp buzz of his phone broke through like a gunshot. Bakugou groaned against Kirishima’s mouth, every muscle tensing. The vibration wouldn’t stop; it kept going, insistent, like a reminder he couldn’t ignore.

“Don’t,” Kirishima murmured against his lips, soft, pleading. “Let it ring.”

He groaned into Kirishima’s mouth, his jaw flexing. “Can’t.” He tore himself away, breath coming unevenly, fumbling for his pocket. His hands felt clumsy, useless, the phone slick against his palm tearing himself back just far enough to breathe. His fingers shook on the screen, the call already connected by the time he pressed it to his ear.

“What?” The word came out half a growl, half a gasp.

“Don’t ‘what’ me, Dynamite.” Miyake’s voice was sharp, each syllable like static. “Where are you?”

Bakugou swallowed hard, breath still ragged. “I’m—” He broke off, a stifled gasp punching through as Kirishima’s mouth found the side of his neck, lips warm, open, deliberate. Bakugou’s eyes fell shut, jaw clenching hard enough to ache. “I’m on my way now,” he got out, low and broken. There was silence on the line, long enough for his pulse to spike. 

Then Miyake’s voice, clipped and cold. “You were supposed to be here twenty minutes ago. The press is already waiting.”

Bakugou closed his eyes. “Yeah, I know—”

“Do you?” she snapped. “Because it doesn’t sound like it. Do you have any idea how much coordination this all took? One missed entrance and the whole narrative falls apart.”

He grit his teeth, trying to breathe evenly, trying not to sound like someone currently being kissed within an inch of his sanity. “I said I’m on my way, Miyake.”

“Then start moving.” Kirishima’s teeth grazed the side of his neck — deliberate, teasing — and Bakugou flinched, his breath catching audibly through the receiver.

“…Are you even listening to me right now?” Miyake’s tone sharpened.

Bakugou forced a swallow, his voice barely steady. “Loud and clear.”

“Good, because if you’re not at the studio in the next ten minutes, you’ll be explaining to the sponsors why the face of Ignition can’t keep time.”

Her voice was all ice and precision, but Bakugou barely heard it anymore — not over the rush of his own pulse, not over Kirishima’s quiet laugh against his skin. He exhaled sharply through his nose. “Ten minutes,” he said, clipped.

“You’d better be,” Miyake replied. The call ended with a click.

Bakugou lowered the phone, his hand still trembling faintly. Before he could even tuck it away, Kirishima’s shoulders started shaking. Then came the laugh—loud, unrestrained, so sharp it startled even him.

“The fuck’s so funny?” Bakugou snapped, shoving his phone back into his pocket, his glare sharp enough to cut.

Kirishima was still laughing, his grin wide and unstoppable, his shoulders shaking like he couldn’t help himself. “You just—” he tried, voice breaking with another burst of laughter, “—‘I’m on the way now’—”

He broke off completely, doubling over against Bakugou’s chest with a helpless laugh that echoed through the quiet apartment.

Bakugou’s scowl deepened, his whole face burning hot. “Shut the fuck up,” he growled, but the words didn’t have the bite he wanted. Not when his ears were red, not when Kirishima was still so close, still laughing like Bakugou had just handed him the funniest shit he’d ever heard.

Bakugou shoved the studio doors open, the familiar heat of the lights and the sterile tang of makeup settling over him. He was already irritated from the train ride, the walk, the whole morning—but he couldn’t shake the small, traitorous curve tugging at his mouth. It wasn’t a smile, not really, but it was something softer than usual, and that alone felt dangerous. Miyake looked up from the spread of papers and mock-ups in front of her, pen balanced neatly between her fingers. Her eyes narrowed immediately. “Dynamite, you’re late.”

The sharp crack of Miyake’s voice was the first thing he heard as the studio door slammed shut behind him. The lights inside burned blindingly white, bouncing off polished floors and screens, every surface humming with controlled chaos.

“I know,” Bakugou muttered, his hands shoved in his pockets.

Her pen stilled, her lips pressing into a flat, unimpressed line. “By forty-five minutes.”

“I know.” His answer was half-assed, breezy in a way that made her brows twitch. That was all he gave her before pushing deeper into the room, the assault of the studio swallowing him—bright lights, camera shutters warming up, assistants buzzing with clipboards and coffee cups. Then he saw her. Mitsuki stood off to the side with a rack of clothes that looked like it belonged in three separate closets, her sharp grin already daring him to complain. The colors screamed at him, orange, black—flashes of his parents’ work hanging heavy on chrome bars.

Miyake gestured briskly, not missing a beat. “Go get in a chair. They’ll do your hair, touch your skin if they need to. We don’t have time to waste.”

Bakugou sank into the chair without a word, letting the stylist swarm him. Fingers combed through his hair, tugging, spraying, smoothing. A brush dabbed faintly along his cheekbones, but his skin didn’t need much. The last touch was a sweep of soft brown eyeliner—barely there, invisible until he caught his reflection and saw how it sharpened his gaze, how it made his eyes burn hotter. Branding, they called it.

“Hey, sunshine.” The voice came sharp and familiar from behind him. His head twitched, wanting to turn, but his mom moved into his line of sight before he could try. Her eyes narrowed immediately, scanning him the way only a mother could. “You having a good day today or something?”

Bakugou snorted, the sound punching out before he could stop it. A laugh threatened behind it—sharp, wild, drunk. He felt strung-out on nothing but his own pulse, floating. High, drunk, untouchable. “I guess, yeah.” He twisted his mouth around it, trying for casual, but it came out too soft, too easy.

“That’s good,” a new voice cut in. Kisihi Dengo, stepping in like he’d been waiting for his cue. His hands clapped once, his grin wide. “I like this energy. Exactly what I wanted for the shoot.”

Bakugou flicked a glance back at Mitsuki. She was still staring at him, a glare and an evaluation rolled into one, like she could smell the shift in him, like she already knew. His chest tightened, so he looked away, jaw working.

“Okay, we’re gonna start you in the jacket—someone bring out the couch!” Dengo barked, clapping his hands as assistants scrambled. The squeak of wheels echoed as a low black couch was dragged beneath the lights, positioned at an angle like it were already waiting for him. An assistant he couldn’t remember the name of pressed folded clothes into Bakugou’s chest: a soft orange zip-up, the kind of sunset orange that leaned warm instead of garish, paired with a plain white tank and dark jeans. It was casual, effortless—something fans could actually imagine wearing.

“Change, now,” Miyake ordered, snapping her pen toward the folding divider in the corner.

Bakugou grunted, ducking behind it. He stripped down quickly, pulling on the tank first, the cotton clinging faintly to the heat of his skin, then the jeans—broken-in just enough to be comfortable. The zip-up slid on last, the orange soft instead of searing, the fabric lighter than he expected. The glow of it caught in the mirror like fire banked low, steady.

“Move it, Dynamite,” Miyake’s voice sliced in. “We’re burning time.”

He rolled his eyes and shoved his hands into his pockets before stepping out. For just a second, the studio quieted—the stylists, the assistants, even his mom, who lingered by the rack. The orange worked. It pulled at him, made his skin look warmer, sharper, without drowning him out. Mitsuki’s grin curved smug, all sharp teeth and satisfaction. The zip-up was definitely unzipped by the time they finished with him, the black tank cutting clean lines down his frame, the orange just framing it like a flare at the edges. They moved him like a mannequin—fast, clinical. A stylist looped a belt through the jeans, tugged at it, and stepped back to observe.

“Mm. No,” she muttered, pulling it off again. Another reached for his wrist, clipping on a bracelet that clinked softly against his skin before turning his arm in the light. “Too busy.” Off again.

One after another, accessories were placed and stripped away—chains, cuffs, rings. Bakugou sighed loudly, letting them push and pull, his glare sharp but his body loose in the chair. Normally, he’d be pacing, snapping at their hands, but not today. Not with this mood sitting stubborn in his chest. They couldn’t shake it. Even when Miyake circled him like a hawk, adjusting the lay of the zip-up on his shoulders, even when Dengo hummed to himself and muttered about “angles” and “texture.” Bakugou hated the process, hated feeling like a damn doll, but it barely dented him. The simmering frustration that usually filled his lungs had been replaced with something lighter, something that kept tugging his mouth upward no matter how hard he tried to clamp it down.

Mitsuki noticed first, she always noticed. Arms crossed, one brow quirked, she leaned against the rack of clothes with that sharp smile creeping across her face. She didn’t say anything—not yet—but her eyes said enough: she knew her son, and she knew something was different.

The couch felt like a prop ripped from some catalog, its sleek black leather already hot under the lights. Bakugou slouched into it, the unzipped orange jacket framing him like some glossy ad. Before he could even settle, someone dumped a bowl of chips in his lap.

He stared at it, incredulous.  “…The fuck?”

“This is so they see the human side of you, Dynamite,” Miyake said without missing a beat, her tone sharp enough to cut. “Just…go along with it, please.”

Human side. Right. He bit the inside of his cheek to stop from snapping back. Fine. Whatever. The faster he did this, the faster it ended.

“Okay! Perfect,” Dengo chirped, lifting the camera. “Now—shift a little, left—yes, chin down. Look at the camera. No, away, like you’re thinking. Yes, exactly. Serious. Softer now.”

Bakugou complied mechanically, muscles coiled tight as he tilted and shifted, the bowl of chips balanced absurdly in his lap. This was supposed to be branding? The future of Ground Zero? He had stitches in his side from a knife fight less than a week ago, and now they wanted him to smolder with fucking corn chips.

“Good. Hold that—more relaxed. No, less aggressive. Yes.”

The words blurred together. The lights burned. He caught sight of his mom off to the side, arms folded, smug, and that was it. A laugh ripped out of him, sharp and barked, like an explosion shattering glass. He tried to cut it off, but it kept coming, bubbling up until his shoulders shook because it was ridiculous. All of it. Him, Dynamite, war-scarred, half-stitched, sitting under ten cameras with a snack bowl like he was some lifestyle influencer.

“What the hell is wrong with you today?” Miyake snapped, heels striking against the concrete as she stepped closer. “Are you drunk or something—”

“No,” Bakugou said quickly, voice muffled by his hands as he dragged them down his face. His palms covered the curve of his grin, but he couldn’t stop the sound spilling out—half-choked laughter, half-disbelief. His eyes watered, and he sniffed against it, something that always happened when he laughed too hard.

Miyake finally threw her hands up, abandoning her clipboard like it had betrayed her. “I can’t with you right now,” she snapped, stalking toward the rack of clothes. He finally reeled himself back in once Miyake stormed off, her heels clipping sharp as she disappeared behind the racks. Dengo leaned around the camera.

“Better,” Dengo said with a small smile, not the usual manic excitement, but something softer. “Let’s reset. Just breathe. You’re fine. Tilt your chin—good. Relax your shoulders.”

The bowl of chips reappeared like some cursed prop, handed back into his lap. Bakugou sighed, but he didn’t fight it this time. His stomach reminded him he’d skipped breakfast, so he actually ate them. The crunch echoed in the bright set, dust clinging to his fingertips and staining the pads of his fingers orange.

“Okay—don’t eat all of them,” Dengo warned, but the camera clicked anyway, shutter fast as lightning.

Bakugou let his head fall back against the couch, chips crunching between his teeth, dust clinging stubborn to his fingers. He didn’t care. He licked them clean one by one, slow because he was hungry, not because of whatever the hell this photoshoot was supposed to be. A few days ago, they had him standing with a normal back drop, in his official Inferno leather jacket, and now they had him posted up on some couch eating chips. He wanted to roll his eyes, but he took another bite. Another crunch, another lick—tongue stained faintly red this time. Then the thought struck him sideways. Kirishima.

The memory of heat, of closeness, of that stupid soft voice against his ear. He cursed himself silently, smirk tugging unbidden at his mouth as he dragged his thumb between his teeth, because what kind of freak thought about their roommate in the middle of a goddamn photoshoot with chips? The shutter was a machine gun, firing rapid bursts as he circled for angles. The camera finally clicked to silence, Dengo lowering it with a satisfied hum. “Alright, come here. Let’s see what we’ve got.”

Bakugou shoved the bowl of chips onto the table and pushed himself up with a grunt, rolling his shoulders. He followed Dengo to the monitor, the stylists crowding in behind them, Mitsuki already at his side with her arms folded. The monitor lit up with the stills, scrolling through them one by one. The first batch were from a couple days ago—him stiff-backed, jaw clenched, every muscle screaming discomfort. He looked like he was posing for a mugshot, not a campaign.

Bakugou grimaced. “Those are fucking useless.” Dengo only hummed, clicking to the next set. Today’s shots—him mid-laugh, mouth open, shoulders shaking. Goofy. Too real, too unpolished, but alive, at least. Then more photos of him looking lighter, his eyes bright, he didn’t smile but he looked happy. Then the screen shifted again and Bakugou froze.

There he was—leaned back against the couch, orange zip-up framing him in warm light, tongue dragging slow over his thumb, chip dust staining his lips. A smirk curved sharp across his face, his eyes half-lidded, heat bleeding right through the frame. It probably wouldn’t have made anything—the photo discarded—except for the Inferno necklace they had put around his neck,

“Sexy,” Dengo said, almost reverent. “I like it.”

Bakugou’s breath caught. Sexy? That wasn’t him. He’d never seen himself like this before, never imagined it. He’d spent years snarling at cameras, choking on PR speeches, giving stiff, sharp-edged soundbites. Here—this version, caught by accident, dragged out of him by hunger and one stray thought of Kirishima—looked like someone else entirely. The silence stretched a beat too long, heavy under the hum of the lights. Miyake stepped closer, her eyes sharp, clipboard already in hand. She didn’t bother to sugarcoat it. “That’s a good one,” she said flatly, her assistant jotting something down so fast the pen scratched against the paper. “We’ll be using that.”

Bakugou’s chest twisted. It was official. Locked. That photo—the one he wished he could throw in the trash—was now campaign material. They didn’t linger long on the shot, though the silence in the room said enough. An assistant swooped in with another set of clothes before Bakugou could snap, shoving a hanger into his arms.

“Change, now,” Miyake clipped, back to business.

He tugged the zip-up off without a word, the warmth that had been buzzing in his chest draining fast. The smirk, the laugh, the crack of ridiculousness—it all died out. By the time he stepped out in the next fit, plain black layered with a sharper-cut jacket, his expression was carved flat.

Dengo kept firing, his voice lifting, coaxing. “Good, that’s strong—yes, chin higher. Perfect. Now relax the shoulders. Beautiful. Don’t think, just move. Yeah, that’s it.”

Bakugou did it all, automatic, body shifting without protest. The poses weren’t bad. The photos weren’t bad. In fact, they’d probably use them, but it wasn’t the same. Behind every tilt of his chin, every narrow of his eyes, the stray thought of that fucking photo lingered—him smirking, tongue against his thumb, heat where humor had lived only minutes before. It lived rent free now, burning at the edges of his mind every time the flash went off.

He clenched his jaw, his body obedient but his thoughts loud, Kirishima’s name crawling sharp through every beat of the camera’s rhythm. The lights were hot, the air stifling, and the clothes felt heavier each time they swapped them out. His jaw ached from clenching. Dengo’s encouragement blurred in the background, and Bakugou barely heard it anymore. He was running on muscle memory, shifting when told, moving when directed, but the weight of it pressed sharp in his chest.

“Alright, Dynamite,” Miyake said, her heels clicking sharp across the floor as she approached. She circled him like she owned the set. “The last few aren’t bad, but you’re stiff again. Loosen up. You’re supposed to be selling yourself, not posing for a police lineup.”

His teeth ground together, the muscle in his cheek twitching. He tilted his chin higher out of spite, eyes cutting sharp toward her. She caught it instantly. “Don’t glare at me. I’m trying to help you look good. Your mom may put you in clothes, but I make people want to buy them.”

That did it. His nostrils flared, heat crawling hot across his chest. He dragged in a breath through his nose, exhaled sharp, and turned his face away. The huff that tore out of him was explosive, his patience thin. She annoyed him in general, and he didn’t need her commenting on any of what he was doing. His whole expression hardened, the smirk from earlier long gone, a scowl dragging deep lines into his face.

Miyake raised her hands like she’d finally seen the switch flip. “Alright, okay,” she said quickly, stepping back. “Take a break before you burn the whole set down.”

He ripped the jacket off his shoulders, tossing it onto the rack with more force than necessary, and stalked off toward the corner without another word. They called it early. No one said it, but the tension on set was thick enough to slice. The relief hit Bakugou in the chest like a bucket of ice water—finally, done.

It gave him more time than usual before heading to Jeanist’s agency. Instead of wasting it, he trudged home, stomach gnawing. He stripped out of the campaign clothes, tugged on sweats, and raided the fridge like he hadn’t eaten in days. Leftover curry. Rice from a takeout box. Anything within reach. He leaned against the counter, shoveling it down like he was still on the battlefield, food gone in minutes. He showered quick, the water hotter than it needed to be, scalding the remnants of the photoshoot off his skin. His hero gear slid into place with practiced ease. He checked his phone before heading out.

The group chat lit up the screen, notifications stacked like a brick wall. Typical. Mina’s stickers, Sero’s memes, Kaminari flooding it with gifs and capital letters. He skimmed through, barely processing it, until another notification slid across the top.

Buzzkill #1: Good work today. Show up on time next time.

Bakugou rolled his eyes, thumb jabbing a reply—

Me: fuck off.

He shoved the phone back into his pocket, opening the group chat again as he tugged on his gauntlets. Kaminari’s messages clogged the screen, his voice practically audible through the text.

Pikachu: GUYS I FOUND A KITTEN

Tape: ??? bro aren’t you allergic

Ears: Kaminari don’t tell me you brought it inside

Pinky: OMG PICTURE PICTURE PICTURE

Pikachu: [sends blurry photo of wide-eyed orange kitten in his hoodie]

Pinky: AHHHHH BABY

Ears: He looks terrified

Tape: That’s cause Kami’s holding him like a fucking sandwich

Pikachu: SHUT UP he likes me

Shitty Hair: He is kinda cute but dude, allergies??

Pikachu: worth it

Me: fucking idiot

Tape: nah for real Kami, sneeze once and that cat’s gone

Pikachu: DONT SAY THAT 💔💔💔💔💔

Pinky: we’re keeping him!!! group decision. 

Me: we’re NOT keeping shit

Ears: I vote yes 😼

Tape: Bros gonna die for pussy

Ears: bro💀

Shitty Hair: hes so cuteeeee AWYSBUH

Shitty Hair: we have to find him a good home 💔

Pinky: omg kirishima is dad already

Me: shut the fuck up all of you

Bakugou shoved the door open with his shoulder, gear half undone, exhaustion rolling off him in waves. It was late morning, his hair still damp from the shower he’d grabbed at the agency before heading home. He wanted food, bed, and silence—

Instead, the first thing he saw was Kaminari on his couch, cross-legged with a ball of orange fluff perched in his lap. Mina sat on the floor, dangling a string toy like she lived there, while Kirishima crouched by the coffee table, laughing as the kitten batted weakly at the string. All three heads turned when the door slammed shut behind him. “Bakugou, look!” Kirishima’s grin was blinding as he scooped the kitten up, holding it out like Simba. “We saved him!”

Bakugou blinked once. Twice. Then his voice tore through the room like a grenade. “WHY THE FUCK IS THERE A CAT IN MY APARTMENT?”

The kitten mewled pitifully at the volume, burying its face against Kirishima’s chest. Mina scowled instantly. “Don’t yell at him, you’ll scare him!”

“I should scare him—he’s not supposed to be here!” Bakugou snapped, jabbing a finger toward Kaminari, who was already rubbing his itchy eyes. “And you—dumbass—you’re allergic! What the hell are you thinking?”

Kaminari sniffled, defiant even through watery eyes. “He’s worth it.”

Mina cooed. “Awww, see, it’s love!”

Bakugou dragged both hands down his face, groaning. “You’re all fucking insane.” He dropped his gear bag with a heavy thud, stomping toward the kitchen like he could outrun the stupidity in his living room. Bakugou had just cracked open a bottle of water when Kirishima called out from the living room, voice boyishly hopeful. “Bakugou—what if we keep him?”

Bakugou nearly choked. He stomped back into the doorway, glaring daggers at all three of them. “Keep him? Absolutely the fuck not. This isn’t a goddamn shelter!”

Mina perked up immediately, eyes gleaming. “We could share him with me and Jirou! Joint custody!”

“Joint custody? He’s a fucking cat!” Bakugou’s voice spiked, but Kirishima didn’t flinch. Instead, he stood and—god help him—walked straight over with the ball of orange fluff in his arms.

“Just look at him, Bakugou,” Kirishima pleaded, holding the kitten out like it was some sacred offering. The tiny thing blinked up at him, wide-eyed, a squeaky mewl slipping out as its little paw stretched against Bakugou’s chest. Bakugou’s scowl wavered—wavered—until a violent sneeze exploded out of Kaminari behind them. Mina jumped, patting Kaminari’s back as he groaned, nose red and eyes watery.

“I’m fine—totally fine—” Kaminari wheezed.

“You’re not fine, you’re a fucking biohazard,” Bakugou snapped, but it lost its edge when Kirishima stepped in close and shoved the kitten into his hands.

“Just hold him. Two seconds. Tell me he’s not cute.”

“Don’t—Kirishima—” But the warmth was already in his palms, small and fragile, the kitten curling instantly into the fabric of his tank top like it belonged there. Its rumbling purr vibrated straight into his chest, and Bakugou froze, glaring down at it like sheer willpower might stop the way his chest loosened.

“…God fucking dammit.”

The living room was a mess. Shoes everywhere, Kaminari’s tissues piling up like a snowdrift, Mina on the rug with her chin in her hands, Jirou perched in the armchair like she was observing a circus. In the middle of it all, Bakugou sat stiff as stone with a small orange kitten purring in his lap like it owned him. “Look at him,” Mina gasped, pointing like she’d discovered gold. “He’s literally your son, Bakugou.”

“The hell does that mean?” Bakugou barked, glaring at her.

“He matches your color scheme!” she shot back. “Orange jacket, orange cat. It’s fate.”

“He’s been glued to you all night,” Sero added, smirking as he leaned against the coffee table. “Sorry, bro, he imprinted. You’re dad now.”

“I’m not his fucking dad.” Bakugou scratched behind the kitten’s ears anyway, scowling harder when it purred louder.

“Congrats,” Jirou deadpanned, sipping from her mug like she was narrating a documentary. “It’s a boy.”

Kaminari, red-nosed and watery-eyed, sneezed so hard he almost fell sideways into Mina. He shoved another tissue against his face, muffling a wheeze. “Can’t—breathe—but worth it. He’s so—fucking cute. Bakugou, he’s literally your kid.”

Kirishima beamed, already leaning into him, his hair brushing Bakugou’s shoulder as he cooed at the kitten. “C’mon, man, look at him. Just admit it—you’re a natural.”

Brick was sprawled in Bakugou’s lap, tiny paws flexing like he was kneading the world’s best pillow. The others were still going at it, voices overlapping—Meowmite, Chomper, Dynamutt—like it was a goddamn naming war. Bakugou sat rigid, one hand absently scratching behind Brick’s ears, trying to tune them out. Then he felt it—Kirishima’s presence, tall and warm, leaning over the back of the couch. His voice dropped soft, cooing right into the kitten’s tiny face. “You’re such a good boy, huh? Look at you all comfy with Bakugou.”

The closeness made Bakugou’s neck prickle hot. He could feel Kirishima’s breath against his hair, the weight of his body hovering too close, and it was enough to make his chest seize. He glanced up before he could stop himself, brick-red eyes meeting crimson. Kirishima was already watching him. When their eyes caught, his smile shifted—wider, softer, not the blinding grin he threw at everyone else, but something deliberate. Something aimed at him. Bakugou’s throat tightened, his ears burnning. The arguing around them blurred to nothing, just static compared to the quiet between him and Kirishima.

Then Jirou’s sharp voice cut through it. “Bakugou! You name him, you’re his dad. Settle this.”

He ripped his gaze away, heart pounding like he’d been caught doing something wrong. Bakugou scoffed loud enough to cut through all the bickering. “I don’t fucking know. Brick. That’s his name.”

The room went off like an explosion. Mina groaned so loud it rattled the windows. “BRICK? No. Absolutely not, that’s terrible.”

Kaminari started cackling until it broke into a violent sneeze, his hand flying to his throat as he winced. “Oh my god—ow—worth it.”

Sero slapped his knee and hooted like he’d just won the lottery. “BRICK! Oh, that’s perfect! That’s your son, bro.”

Bakugou rolled his eyes, about to fire back, but then he felt it. The low rumble of Kirishima’s laugh, so close it vibrated right into his ear. Warm breath against his skin. His head had dipped, resting on Bakugou’s shoulder, red hair brushing at his cheek like it belonged there. Kirishima’s arm slid forward, bold as ever, reaching into his lap to scratch Brick under the chin. The kitten purred like a motor, pushing into his touch, and Bakugou swore he could feel every hum of it through his thighs.

“You really are his dad now,” Kirishima said, voice soft, teasing, way too fucking close. His grin was obvious even without looking, his tone too damn intentional. Bakugou’s jaw flexed, eyes locked on the kitten just to avoid the burn of Kirishima’s gaze. Brick purred louder, Kirishima’s knuckles brushing the back of his hand with every stroke.

“Hold up, hold up—” Sero leaned back on the coffee table, squinting like he was framing something in his head. “This deadass looks like a family portrait.”

Bakugou snapped his head around just as the shutter went off. Click. His glare was molten, sharp enough to cut steel, but it was too late—Sero was already grinning at his phone, thumbs flying. The ding of the group chat went off half a second later.

“DELETE THAT SHIT.” Bakugou barked, Brick startling in his lap, tiny claws pricking his thigh through the fabric.

“Nope,” Sero said, smug. “Too late, it’s already in the chat.”

Bakugou growled, but Kirishima only laughed—soft, warm, cooing at Brick like none of the chaos mattered. The kitten purred louder, nestling into his lap as Kirishima rubbed a thumb under his chin.

“Hear that? He loves me,” Kirishima said, eyes bright with delight.

“That’s literally his other dad,” Mina announced, pointing at him like the decision had been passed by committee.

Kaminari groaned, voice shredded from sneezing. “I like how I found the cat and I’m not even a dad.”

“That’s because you can’t last five minutes around him without going into anaphylactic shock,” Sero shot back, cracking up as Kaminari shoved at his shoulder.

“I’m fine with being Uncle Sero,” he added, grinning. “Cool uncle vibes. I can live with that.”

Jirou lifted her soda can in a little toast. “Yeah, Auntie Jirou works for me. No responsibilities.”

Mina gasped when Brick wriggled and tried to gnaw on Kirishima’s hand, smacking him lightly on the arm. “Stop riling him up! He’s just a baby.”

“Mother Mina,” Kaminari rasped dramatically, clutching his throat like he’d been blessed with divine wisdom. His voice cracked halfway through, making the whole room burst into laughter.

“Can I take him tonight?” Mina asked suddenly, eyes sparkling with mischief. Bakugou opened his mouth, ready to snap do whatever the hell you want—but Kirishima got there first. “What? No way. He’s too small to be bouncing back and forth already!” Kirishima’s voice had that protective edge, brows furrowed like he was defending an actual child.

“Please,” Mina pleaded, clasping her hands like she was begging the gods. “Just for one night. I’ll give him back in the morning!”

“They’re not trading cards, Mina,” Kirishima argued, gesturing at Brick, who purred obliviously in Bakugou’s lap.

“Hey!” Sero cut in, grinning as he wagged a finger between them. “Not in front of the baby.”

Bakugou scowled, about to tell them all to shut the hell up—but Mina took the distraction like it was her cue. She swooped in, plucking Brick right out of his lap before he could blink. “Hey—!” he barked, half rising from the couch. Mina only giggled, cradling the kitten against her chest as she sprinted for the door. Her laughter trailed behind her as she darted out, Jirou following at a slower pace. “Goodnight, idiots,” Jirou muttered, tugging the door shut behind her with a soft click.

Silence fell like the last scene of a play, the apartment suddenly too big without all the voices bouncing off the walls. Sero sighed and stretched, clapping Kaminari on the back. “Alright, let’s get sneezy home before he explodes.”

Kaminari sneezed so hard his head snapped forward, fumbling for tissues with watery eyes. “I’m fine,” he croaked, waving weakly with his free hand.

Bakugou grimaced at the sight of him, muttering under his breath. “Disgusting.” Sero just chuckled, throwing an arm around Kaminari’s shoulders as they shuffled out the door. The lock clicked shut behind them, leaving the apartment in heavy quiet. Kirishima bounded over to the door, sliding the deadbolt into place. When he turned, it wasn’t with his usual blinding grin—it was smaller, softer, just for him.

They were alone now.

Kirishima leaned back against the door, arms folded loose across his chest, eyes glinting in the low light of the apartment. “I’m assuming you made it to work alright yesterday?” he asked, casual but edged, like a hook tossed out just to see if Bakugou would bite. Bakugou should’ve snapped at him. Should’ve rolled his eyes, cursed, told him to shut the hell up. Instead, that damn photo flashed in his mind—his smirk, half-lidded eyes, tongue against his thumb—and the thought that it was Kirishima who’d put it there, who lived rent-free behind every slip of his expression.

“Yeah, I did. Did you?” he said, voice sharp but heavy, laced with something he couldn’t scrub out no matter how he tried. His stare locked on Kirishima’s, hard enough to make the silence stretch thin. Kirishima’s eyebrows rose, slow, his lips parting in the smallest, stunned grin. He wasn’t expecting that. The confidence in Bakugou’s tone, the way his stare didn’t break—it hit him like a spark to tinder.

“I did.” Kirishima’s smile spread wider, lazy and knowing. “They weren’t too happy about me being late, though.”

Bakugou let out a low hum, leaning back against the couch like it was calculated indifference. “It was your fault.”

“Oh, was it?” Kirishima said, voice dipping as he moved forward, each step deliberate until his knees pressed against the couch. Close. Too close. The space between them thinned to nothing but heat, anticipation crawling up Bakugou’s spine.

“It was,” Bakugou repeated, softer this time. His voice didn’t have the usual edge—it landed like a challenge instead, his chin tilted up to meet Kirishima’s steady gaze. Kirishima didn’t blink. Didn’t back off. He just lowered himself down, slow and sure, until he was straddling Bakugou’s lap. The weight settled between them, solid, unshakable. Bakugou’s body locked tight, fighting to keep his reaction buried, but his chest betrayed him, heart hammering so hard he swore Kirishima could feel it. Every nerve lit up, every inch of him wound too tight, because everything Kirishima did—every smile, every step, every shift—set him on fire.

Bakugou hesitated for a fraction of a second, then his restraint snapped. His hands slid up Kirishima’s thighs, rougher this time, palms dragging over the cling of sweatpants until they found his waist. His grip tightened, anchoring himself in the heat of him. Kirishima hummed low, approving, before catching Bakugou’s wrists in his calloused hands. With steady pressure, he dragged them lower, down over solid muscle until Bakugou’s palms cupped the curve of his ass. The give under his fingers nearly unraveled him.

Bakugou’s eyes blew wide, his chest jerking with a sharp inhale, but Kirishima just smiled—like this was exactly how he wanted him, undone and unsure. Then Kirishima crushed forward, kissing him hard. It wasn’t careful, wasn’t coaxing like before. It was heat and teeth, breath mixing hot between them. Bakugou’s head spun, his heart pounding so hard he could feel it in his fingertips where they clutched Kirishima tight. His lips parted on a gasp he couldn’t bite back, and Kirishima was right there, swallowing it whole.

Bakugou yanked him closer by instinct, fingers digging into him, grounding himself in the solid weight on his lap. Every thought shredded, replaced with the taste of him, the sound of his breath, the dizzying fact that it was happening—messy, hungry, and there was no way in hell he could stop.

The kiss was already eating him alive—messy, hungry, more than he thought he could handle—and then Kirishima tilted his head, pressing harder, deeper. Bakugou froze when he felt it—Kirishima’s tongue brushing against the seam of his lips, soft but sure. His chest seized, heat surging through him so fast it short-circuited his brain. Kirishima pulled back just a fraction, close enough that their noses brushed. “It’s okay,” he murmured, breath hot against Bakugou’s mouth. “Just open for me.”

Bakugou’s jaw clenched, his pride screaming to shove him off, to snarl something sharp—but his body betrayed him. His lips parted on a shaky breath, and Kirishima was right there, sliding his tongue against his for the first time. Bakugou’s hands spasmed against Kirishima’s ass, dragging him closer with a desperate force he didn’t know he had in him. His tongue moved clumsy at first, but the taste—hot, wet, overwhelming—pulled a sound from his chest he couldn’t choke back.

Kirishima deepened the kiss, guiding him with slow strokes of his tongue against his until Bakugou found the rhythm, found the hunger that had been clawing at him for weeks. It was intoxicating. Dizzying. His whole body felt too hot, like he was burning alive under Kirishima’s weight, every nerve tuned to the slick slide of their mouths. The second he caught his breath, he surged back in, lips colliding with Kirishima’s in something rougher, needier. His pride was gone, burned up in the heat of it. All that was left was hunger clawing through him, desperate to taste more.

Kirishima groaned low, answering him with equal force, their mouths colliding, tongues sliding in a messy rhythm that made Bakugou’s head spin. His hands tightened, dragging Kirishima down hard against him, the weight grounding and maddening all at once. Then Kirishima did it—slipped his teeth against Bakugou’s bottom lip, sharp enough to sting before he tugged, playful and hot.

Bakugou gasped, a raw sound tearing out of him before he could stop it. His whole body jolted, the noise muffled against Kirishima’s mouth but loud enough to hang between them. Kirishima smirked into the kiss, chasing the sound, biting again softer this time, soothing it with his tongue. Bakugou cursed against his lips, half turning into a moan, his chest heaving like he’d just run a marathon. Every drag of teeth, every slick slide of tongue, sent his brain into static. He couldn’t think, couldn’t stop—didn’t want to stop. His body betrayed him completely, hips twitching up before he could rein himself in, pulling Kirishima closer like instinct.

The kiss had already gone sloppy—tongues tangling, teeth dragging, heat spilling between them—but when Kirishima shifted his hips, slow and purposeful, dragging down hard against Bakugou’s, the world white-noised out. Bakugou gasped into his mouth, the sound torn and desperate, hips jerking up it. Kirishima did it again—steady, grinding down in deliberate strokes that sent sparks detonating through Bakugou’s gut. It was different than the frantic clash of their mouths. This was controlled. Intentional. Kirishima wanted him to feel it, wanted to see how fast he would unravel.

“Fuck—” Bakugou broke, the word caught between a groan and a snarl. His fingers dug into Kirishima’s waist, dragging him down harder, trying to match that rhythm and losing his mind with every grind.

Kirishima groaned too, forehead pressed to Bakugou’s temple, but he slowed just enough to speak, voice low, breathless. “Is this—Bakugou, is this okay—”

He didn’t even get the full sentence out. Bakugou’s hand shot up, fast and rough, grabbing at his throat—not choking, not crushing, just holding him still, forcing him down. His eyes burned, pupils blown wide as he whispered against his jaw. “Don’t you fucking stop.”

Then his mouth was on Kirishima’s neck, hot and vicious, kissing and biting like he wanted to brand him, every drag of tongue and teeth matched by the frantic roll of his hips. Kirishima’s answering moan ripped out raw, so loud it vibrated against Bakugou’s lips, and that was it. Bakugou lost every last piece of himself, grinding up hard, chasing friction like he’d never needed anything more in his goddamn life.

The rhythm wasn’t enough. It would never be enough, not with clothes still between them, but Bakugou couldn’t stop chasing it anyway. His cock strained against his sweats, every grind sparking like a fuse burning closer and closer. Kirishima was a mess above him—hair sticking to his forehead with sweat, crimson eyes heavy-lidded, lips kiss-bitten and wet. He braced himself with one hand on Bakugou’s shoulder, the other digging into his thigh for leverage as he rocked his hips down, finding a brutal pace that made Bakugou’s vision haze.

“God—fuck—” Bakugou rasped, breaking the kiss just to breathe, his chest heaving. He forced his eyes open, and it almost knocked him sideways, how good Kirishima looked like this. His cheeks flushed deep, sweat sliding down the curve of his jaw, his mouth parted in a breathless groan as he ground down harder.

Hot. He was so fucking hot it was unbearable.

Bakugou’s grip slid from his waist to his ass again, dragging him down so their cocks rubbed tighter together, the friction biting through fabric. He watched Kirishima shudder, hips stuttering for half a second before he caught himself, grinding down with a low, guttural moan that Bakugou swore he’d never forget for the rest of his life. “You’re—” Bakugou’s voice cracked, his throat tight. “—you’re so fucking hot.”

The words slipped out raw, unfiltered, and Kirishima’s head snapped up, his gaze locking with his. His lips twitched into a wrecked grin, hair falling wild into his face, and it just made him grind harder, like the praise lit him up from the inside. “Bakugou—” he groaned, voice breaking as his balance wavered, his nails biting through Bakugou’s shirt. Bakugou didn’t let him falter. He shoved up into him, meeting every roll, every push, every fucking desperate grind until the air between them was thick with sweat and heat.

He couldn’t stop staring—at the curve of his mouth, at the way his eyes squeezed shut when he hit just right, at the red flush crawling down his throat. Kirishima was writhing in his lap, grinding him down into the couch, and Bakugou couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t do anything but take it all in. His teeth found Kirishima’s collarbone, biting hard enough to bruise, and his whole body jolted, the sound that tore out of him nothing short of wrecked.

Bakugou cursed again, half a groan, half a laugh. “You—shit—you like it when I—when I tell you—” His voice cracked, forehead slamming into Kirishima’s shoulder, sweat sticking his bangs down. His brain should’ve cut him off, but his body was moving too fast, words spilling out between every ragged breath.

Kirishima nodded against his neck, his answer not even words—just a choked sound, high and rough, hips stuttering like he couldn’t hold steady. That was when it hit Bakugou. Sharp. Clear. Kirishima wasn’t just reacting—he was coming apart because of what Bakugou was saying, because Bakugou was saying it. The realization shot through him harder than the heat curling in his gut, hotter than the friction grinding them closer and closer.

“Oh, fuck,” Bakugou rasped, his eyes squeezing shut, every nerve alive. “You love it. You fucking love it.”

Kirishima gasped, head tipping back, and Bakugou felt him clench where their bodies pressed tight, his nails biting down hard into Bakugou’s shoulders.

A wild, shaky laugh punched out of Bakugou’s chest, disbelief tangled in lust. “Holy shit—you want me to say it—don’t you? You want me to tell you how fucking hot you are—” His words broke with a moan as Kirishima rolled his hips down, grinding deliberate, making sparks scatter down Bakugou’s spine.

“You’re so—ah, fuck—you’re so good, Kirishima. Perfect—” He grabbed a fistful of his shirt, yanking him closer, words stuttering against his jaw. “You feel so fucking good—you’re driving me insane.”

Kirishima moaned, loud and raw, the sound vibrating straight through Bakugou’s chest. His hips faltered, but only to press harder, messier, chasing every word like it was oxygen. “Bakugou—fuck—I’m close—” His voice cracked, head tipping back, sweat dripping down his throat. His grip on Bakugou’s shoulders was iron, nails digging in as if letting go would kill him.

Bakugou’s chest heaved, every inhale broken, every exhale shaking. He could feel it—the way Kirishima’s whole body was tensing, trembling, barely holding together. His mind flashed, unbidden, to that night through the wall. To the voice that had wrecked him, pulled him past the point of no return. To the words that sealed it. His lips brushed Kirishima’s ear, his voice dropping to something low, cruel in its precision. “Cum for me.”

The effect was immediate. Kirishima choked on a sound, half-moan, half-cry, his hips jerking hard as he ground down one final desperate time. His whole body shook apart in Bakugou’s arms, the tension snapping as he buried his face into Bakugou’s neck, teeth biting down to muffle the raw noise that ripped out of him. The sight of him unraveling, the sound of his voice breaking apart, the fact that he’d cum the second he ordered it—fuck, it hit him like a detonation inside his chest. His breath hitched, and before he could stop it, heat surged low, breaking him open in a rush he hadn’t braced for.

“Fuck—” The curse tore out of him as he spilled hard, his whole body locking tight around Kirishima, forehead pressing to his shoulder as he rode it out. His thighs shook, every nerve lit up, every inhale ragged, until he was left trembling, the aftershocks dragging out longer than he thought possible. They clung to each other through it, Kirishima still panting against his neck, Bakugou still reeling in the haze of it, pulse thundering out of control. He hadn’t meant to—hadn’t even realized he was that close—but fuck if his body hadn’t betrayed him, dragged over the edge just by watching Kirishima fall apart.

Kirishima breathed raggedly into Bakugou’s shoulder, his chest heaving against him. His arms wrapped tight around Bakugou’s torso, gripping like he’d drown if he let go, his thighs locked firm at Bakugou’s hips. Bakugou wasn’t moving either—couldn’t have, even if he wanted to. His own arms had come up on instinct, holding Kirishima’s back, palms pressed flat to the sweat-slick muscle. The tremor still running through Kirishima’s body shuddered against his own, their heartbeats pounding loud, almost indistinguishable from each other.

Kirishima didn’t move, didn’t say anything at first—just the quick, shallow rise and fall of his chest and the hammer of his heart, loud enough Bakugou could feel it in his jaw where Kirishima’s temple pressed against his neck.

Bakugou frowned, his voice cutting through the silence, low and gruff. “You okay?”

Kirishima shook his head immediately, the motion brushing his hair against Bakugou’s skin. He only clung tighter, voice muffled into Bakugou’s neck. “I just—I need a minute.”

Something in the tone made Bakugou pause, his scowl softening. He didn’t get it—what the hell was going on in Kirishima’s head—but he didn’t pull away either. Instead, he adjusted his grip, arms steadying him, keeping him close without a word. His own chest ached with exhaustion, the last drops of adrenaline fading into bone-deep weariness, but he held Kirishima anyway, sitting in the heavy quiet that lingered after everything broke open.

Once Kirishima’s breathing finally evened out, Bakugou shifted just slightly, clearing his throat. The sweat cooling on his skin, the stickiness in his pants—everything was starting to feel weird, uncomfortable, grounding him in a way he didn’t want. His voice came out quieter than he expected, stripped raw.

“Did I… do anything wrong?” It wasn’t sharp, wasn’t defensive. It was soft. Softer than he’d ever heard himself sound, and judging by the way Kirishima’s grip didn’t falter, it landed exactly how he meant it to.

Kirishima shook his head against his neck, a long breath sighing out hot against Bakugou’s skin. “No, you didn’t.” He swallowed, voice low and rough. “I just… I need you to hold me. It’s all a bit overwhelming. I don’t know—sometimes I get like that after I… and I don’t know why.”

Bakugou could feel the words rumble through him, muffled but steady.  He hummed, the sound low in his chest, and nodded once. “Okay.”

That was all he said, because really—what else was there? After all that, after the mess of heat and noise, if Kirishima wanted to be held, then Bakugou would hold him. 

Kirishima pulled back just a little, enough that Bakugou could see the guilt written across his face. His voice cracked low. “Sorry. I don’t know why I get like that. I didn’t mean to—”

Bakugou’s chest twisted. He didn’t know what to say—hell, he never did. Words slipped through his fingers like sand, useless when it came to comfort, but his hands… his hands knew what to do. He lifted one, rough palm steady as he cupped Kirishima’s face, thumb brushing over the flushed line of his cheek. Without thinking too hard, he leaned forward and pressed his lips to Kirishima’s jaw. Not hungry, not rushed. Just soft. Gentle in a way that felt almost foreign to him.

Kirishima’s breath hitched, his shoulders loosening as he leaned into the touch. His crimson eyes softened, glassy and searching, before he tilted just enough to kiss Bakugou back—this time on the mouth. It was slow, unhurried, a quiet press of lips that carried more weight than heat. When he pulled away, he didn’t go far, only nestling back into Bakugou’s neck like it was the most natural place to be. Bakugou let him, his other arm circling tighter around him, chest aching in a way he didn’t hate.

No words, no apologies. Just quiet, and the warmth of Kirishima breathing against his skin.

The next morning, the same stupid-ass smirk tugged at Bakugou’s mouth before he was even fully awake.

There was no awkward tension last night, just Kirishima shifting slowly off of him, laughing under his breath at the mess clinging to both their sweatpants before stretching, broad shoulders rolling loose as if nothing about it had been heavy. “Shower,” he muttered, still grinning, and padded off toward the bathroom. Bakugou took his own turn after, the hot water scalding, steam curling tight around his chest—but the knot of dread that usually followed a night like that never came. When he finally shut the bathroom door behind him, towel slung low at his hips, there was a knock against it.

Kirishima.

A light rap against the wood before his voice came through, soft. “Goodnight, Bakugou.” A pause. Then the door cracked open an inch, crimson eyes catching his for a second before Kirishima leaned in, kissing him again, gently enough to make Bakugou’s heart skip. Then he was gone, leaving Bakugou standing there, his chest pulled tight and his smirk impossible to hide. Later, when he finally laid down, the sheets cool against his skin, he slept without fighting it. 

Bakugou rode the high into work, muscles aching but his chest light. Jeanist gave him a flat, suspicious look when Bakugou walked in still smirking, but he didn’t bother explaining. He showered fast afterward, then bolted for the studio. For once, he wasn’t late.

He dropped into the makeup chair with a grunt, sighing as the ache in his body caught up all at once. The stylist scowled at his damp hair but combed through it anyway, tugging just enough to keep him awake. If they hadn’t, he would’ve dozed right off, head lolling in the chair. Makeup was quick—concealer under his eyes, a brush of powder. Nothing to cover the stubborn smirk plastered to his face.

“Evening,” Dengo greeted from across the room, already directing a photographer to keep a camera rolling. “Behind the scenes today—let’s show people Dynamite’s human side.”

Bakugou grunted, too tired to argue, eyelids dragging. From the corner of his vision, Miyake appeared, brisk and efficient as always. She tossed something at him with a snap of her wrist. “Just these.”

Inferno-branded pants landed in his lap. He clenched his jaw, teeth grinding, but didn’t protest. He stalked to the corner, changed quick, and stepped out shirtless into the lights. The flash tested against his skin, harsh and hot.

Dengo’s eyes swept him, and then his mouth tilted into a slow smile. “It’s fine,” he said, tone almost teasing. “Maybe except for the bite mark.”

The room buzzed on, assistants moving, Miyake talking, cameras clicking—but Bakugou’s blood went ice cold. His head snapped toward the mirror, his body moving on autopilot before his brain caught up. He leaned forward, jaw tight, and there it was—faint but undeniable at the base of his neck. A perfect fucking bite mark, teeth sunk deep enough that even a night’s sleep hadn’t faded it. Kirishima’s teeth.

He cursed him six ways from Sunday in his head. Stupid shitty hair, dumbass teeth, what kind of animal fucking bites like that—

“Komugi, cover that up,” Miyake ordered crisply, already flipping through notes like it was nothing.

The stylist—Komugi—chuckled under their breath as they pulled a palette closer. “Damn, somebody had fun last night.”

Bakugou’s scowl sharpened, his whole body vibrating with the urge to explode. He forced himself back into the chair, fists digging into his thighs, jaw locked so tight it ached. He didn’t say a word, not one, because if he opened his mouth it wouldn’t stop. The brush dabbed cool across his skin, the laughter still humming behind him. Bakugou kept his eyes fixed dead ahead, every muscle screaming, his thoughts blistering with one name.

Kirishima.

“Jesus, Dynamite. Whoever left this? They were hungry.” Bakugou’s glare could have leveled a building. He didn’t move, didn’t breathe, just let them dab the concealer against his skin.

Komugi hummed thoughtfully. “Sharp teeth, too.” They tapped at the mark, chuckling again. “Careful, if you keep showing up like this, people are gonna start asking questions.”

That one nearly broke him. His scowl darkened, his chest tight with the effort not to snarl. He forced his reflection to stay blank, eyes locked on his own face in the mirror, the bite fading slowly under layers of beige. His nails dug crescents into his thighs. Shut the fuck up, shut the fuck up, shut the fuck up.

Finally, Komugi leaned back, satisfied. “There. Like it never happened.” They grinned, tossing the brush back onto the table. “Shame, though. It was kinda sexy.”

Bakugou’s jaw cracked as he ground his teeth, the only thing keeping him from detonating right there on the spot. His thoughts hissed like fire in his skull.

Shitty. Fucking. Hair.

They hustled him onto the set after the mark was covered, lights flaring hot, cameras already snapping. Just pants, no shirt, the Inferno logo catching sharp in the spotlight. Bakugou hated it at first—every muscle taut, jaw hard—but the more he moved, the more it felt like a fight. Pose, shift, glare. His body knew how to obey orders, and that was all this was.

“Good,” Dengo called, bouncing on the balls of his feet, camera flashing. “Now lean back—perfect. Flex your arm—yeah, that’s strong. You’re fire, Dynamite, keep it burning.”

Bakugou huffed, turning his head. “Okay,” Dengo grinned, too damn giddy for someone pointing a lens, “pretend the camera’s whoever you were with last night.”

Bakugou froze. His glare snapped sharp toward Dengo, murderous, and the assistants around them tensed like they expected an explosion,b ut Dengo only smiled wider, like he’d been waiting for it. Bakugou’s scowl cracked. Not much—just a twitch at the corner of his mouth, a smirk that slipped free before he could bury it. Heat prickled sharp in his stomach at the thought of Kirishima, teeth and lips and all. He turned his head fast, trying to swallow it down.

“No, don’t turn away!” Dengo’s voice pitched high, gleeful. “Let us see it, Dynamite!”

The shutter fired rapid, staccato bursts. Bakugou didn’t fight it. He smirked right at the camera, sharp and hungry, and let it catch him in the act. The last shutter clicked, the lights dimmed, and for the first time in hours, Bakugou unclenched his jaw. The set buzz quieted, assistants finally lowering their clipboards, stylists stashing away their kits.

“That’s a wrap!” Dengo called, beaming like he’d just won the lottery.

The crew broke into cheers, clapping loud enough to echo against the concrete walls. Bakugou blinked, thrown for half a second. It was stupid—infantilizing, even—but he didn’t fight it. He let Dengo jog up, hand outstretched, and smacked his palm against his in a sharp high-five.

“You did an amazing job!” Dengo gushed, spinning back toward the room. “Didn’t he, guys?”

More applause, whistles this time. A couple of stylists clapped above their heads like they were at a concert. Bakugou rolled his eyes, but he didn’t storm out, not yet. He let it happen, let it wash over him—their excitement, their praise, even if it was all for a job he hadn’t wanted in the first place. Somewhere in his chest, something unfurled, slow and begrudging.

Dengo rattled on, already pointing to the monitor where stills flickered. “We’ll edit everything for the teaser, the official video, all of it. You’ll have it sent to you and your team in a couple days, then you decide when to post. Easy as that.”

Bakugou grunted, shifting his weight, but he stayed put. For once, he didn’t argue, didn’t snap. He soaked it in, all of it—the clapping, the recognition, the fact that he’d done it and done it well. The clapping faded to chatter, the crew already moving to pack down equipment. Dengo came bouncing back, cheeks pink with leftover adrenaline, camera still hanging at his hip.

Bakugou shifted, words dragging up his throat like barbed wire. “...Thanks.”

Dengo blinked, caught off guard. For a second, he actually shut up. Then his grin split wide. “Hey, no problem. You killed it. Seriously.” He waved him off with a flutter of his hand like it was nothing, already turning back to bark instructions at a tech. Bakugou tugged the orange zip-up off the rack, the one they’d draped him in earlier. He didn’t bother zipping it, just shrugged it over his arms, hugging the fabric around himself like armor as he scooped up the rest of his things.

The studio door opened with a hiss, the cold air slapping him in the face, sharp and fresh. He breathed it in, deeper than he meant to. His boots struck hard against the pavement as he started toward home, hands shoved into his pockets, jacket flaring with each step. For once, his mouth curved up without a fight. Just a small thing, stubborn and sharp, but real. His own fucking clothes. His name on people’s backs. Maybe—for once—he was a little excited.

Family Night was loud, the apartment buzzing with overlapping voices, crumbs scattered across Mina and Jirou’s coffee table. Bakugou sat at the edge of the couch, plate balanced on his knee, phone buzzing in his pocket. He fished it out, thumb swiping lazily. His inbox lit up—one fat file folder from Miyake, subject line: FINALIZED MEDIA PACKAGE. His gut twisted, but curiosity won. He tapped it open. The screen filled with thumbnails—video reels, edits, and high-res stills. The Inferno campaign, polished and real. 

Him in Inferno pants, shirtless, shoulders sharp under the light. Him laughing on the couch, orange zip-up loose. Him licking chip dust from his thumb, smirk curling at the corner of his mouth. He swallowed, the images hitting harder now that they were finished, glossy, real.

“WAIT—WHAT IS THAT?!” Mina’s voice blew out right in his ear. He jerked, fumbling, trying to thumb the phone dark. Too late.

“Shut the fuck up—” he snapped, but she was already lunging, climbing half onto his lap with a war cry.

“LET ME SEEEE!”

Her nails scraped at his wrist. He twisted, holding the phone away, muscles straining, the two of them grappling like kids in a playground brawl. She shoved her shoulder into his chest, and he shoved back, teeth bared, trying to pry her off. The couch cushions groaned, dipping under their weight as they thrashed.

“GET THE FUCK OFF ME!”

“JUST ONE LOOK!” Mina screeched, grinning maniacally.

They were locked in a tug-of-war, Bakugou’s grip iron, Mina clawing at his fingers with both hands. He tried to stand, hauling the phone higher, but she hung off him like a barnacle, one knee digging into his thigh, her other arm wrapped tight around his elbow as she wrenched at his grip. Sero was doubled over laughing. Kaminari shouted, “Mina, win this for ALL of us!” Jirou groaned into her hand, already knowing what was coming.

Bakugou cursed so loud it cracked his throat, twisting hard, but Mina’s determination was feral. She shoved her whole weight forward, the couch jolting, and with one last vicious yank she ripped the phone clean from his hands.

“FUCK—” he snarled, nearly pitching forward as she went tumbling off his lap. She landed flat on the floor with a loud thud but rolled quick, crab-scurrying backwards on her hands and feet, the phone clutched to her chest like a prize.

“MINA—!” She scrambled upright in one wild motion, face flushed, hair flying, brandishing the phone behind her back as she danced just out of his reach. Bakugou was already on his feet, chest heaving, glare sharp enough to slice her in half.

Mina’s grin was sharp and wicked. “What. Is. THIS?”

The whole room went silent, their laughter collapsing into tense anticipation, everyone’s eyes swinging between Mina and Bakugou like they were about to witness a live execution. Bakugou lunged. Mina shrieked and darted, dodging around the coffee table with the phone clutched like contraband.

“GIVE IT THE FUCK BACK!”

“Nope!” she howled, swiping frantically, eyes widening as images flashed by. “OH MY GOD—”

She skidded behind the couch, laughing so hard her words broke into wheezes. Bakugou vaulted the armrest, landing half a step from her, teeth bared. She juked left. He grabbed. She ducked, shrieking again, ponytail flying as she bolted for the other side. It turned into a full-blown chase, Mina squealing, Bakugou snarling, their friends howling in the background. 

“STOP RUNNING!”

“THEN STOP CHASING ME!” she screamed back, swiping again. Then her voice went up two octaves. “HOLY SHIT.” She spun, phone raised high like a trophy. “BAKUGOU WHAT IS THIS.”

The screen glowed with that shot—the couch, the zip-up, his tongue dragging slow over his thumb, that smirk curling dangerous at the corner of his mouth. Of course, that was when Kirishima emerged from his room, the kitten tucked in his arm, blinking at the chaos. “What the hell is going on?”

Bakugou didn’t hesitate. Kirishima gave the distraction, and Bakugou was taking his chance. He tackled Mina, both of them crashing onto the couch in a mess of limbs. She laughed manically under him, arms locked tight around the phone. “Give it!” he growled, trying to pry her wrists apart.

“Over my dead body!” she shrieked back, bucking her hips up to knock him off. He straddled her, pinning her arms—but she was quicker. With one last wild effort, Mina hurled the phone across the room. “JIRRRROOOOUUU!” she screamed.

Bakugou’s head snapped up just in time to see Jirou catch it neatly, her jaw dropping the second she looked at the screen. Mina took her chance to pin him, but he already lost. “Are you fucking kidding me,” Jirou whispered, stunned.

Sero leaned over her shoulder. “Ohhh, yo.” He let out a low whistle. “Bakubro, you’ve been hiding THIS from us?”

Kaminari staggered closer, tissue still in hand, his eyes bugging out as he gasped. “Bro. BRO.”

Bakugou groaned into the cushion Mina had him pinned to, face hot, humiliation chewing through him. He didn’t even bother fighting her anymore—until he did. In one sharp twist, he hooked an arm around her waist, yanking her clean off balance. She shrieked, laughing as he hauled her up and dumped her back onto the couch, softer than his temper wanted to. By the time she stopped giggling, Bakugou was already stalking across the room, hand outstretched for his phone. Jirou had it now, still sitting cross-legged on the floor with her earbuds around her neck, staring at the screen like she couldn’t believe what she was seeing. Her jaw was dropped, thumb frozen mid-swipe.

“Give it back.” Bakugou’s voice was low, dangerous.

“Uh—” Jirou blinked, eyes flicking from him to the image on the phone. “Guys…what the hell.”

Kaminari sneezed violently, then still managed to choke out, “Dude, no way.”

Meanwhile, Kirishima was the only one not looking, bouncing the kitten in his arms, confusion written all over his face. “Guys? What is it? Show me!” His voice was bright, innocent—too innocent.

Mina, still draped across the couch where Bakugou had left her, perked right up, eyes glinting like a fox. “Ohhh, Kiri, you’re gonna die when you see this—”

“Don’t.” Bakugou snapped, sharper now, reaching for Jirou. Jirou’s brows lifted, her thumb hovering protectively over the phone. She glanced between him and Kirishima, lips twitching like she couldn’t decide if she wanted to stir the pot or not.

“Why am I the only one in the dark?” Kirishima laughed, his grin boyish and unbothered as he jiggled the kitten like it might answer him. “What’s so bad about showing me?”

Bakugou froze, throat tight, glaring at Jirou like his life depended on it. Bakugou lunged before Jirou could even blink, snatching the phone clean from her hands with a growl. “Fuck off.” He spun on his heel, shoving it tight against his chest like it might fuse there if he held hard enough—only to slam straight into a wall of red hair and muscle.

Kirishima.

Bakugou froze, too late. His phone was already plucked neatly from his grip with one big, calloused hand, like stealing candy from a kid. “Thanks, man,” Kirishima said easily, brows furrowed in confusion as he angled the phone up.

“Give it back.” Bakugou’s voice cracked sharp through the room.

“No way, you’ve been guarding this like it’s state secrets.” Kirishima frowned down at the screen, thumb flicking before Bakugou could grab it again. His breath caught audibly, the easy grin he’d been wearing gone in a second. Kirishima finally dragged his gaze up from the phone, locking on Bakugou with a look that made Bakugou’s stomach twist and burn all at once.

“Oh my god,” he breathed, eyebrows shooting up, his jaw dropping slightly before pulling into a half-smirk he couldn’t contain. “Bakugou—” his voice cracked on it, a sharp little laugh cutting through the tension, “what the hell, man?”

Kirishima didn’t move, didn’t hand it over, still staring like he’d just seen something illegal. “That’s—you look—” He tripped over the words, shaking his head, lips parting again, disbelief tinted with something heavier. “Oh my god. You look really hot—”

He heard a faint snort from the other side of the room, but he didn’t dare turn around. Bakugou lunged, fingers swiping at the phone, but Kirishima just leaned back, holding it high over his head like a goddamn bully. “What even is this?” Kirishima demanded, eyes flicking between the screen and Bakugou’s red face.

“My clothing brand!” Bakugou barked, like volume would make it less humiliating. “PR shit—they said I needed to stop being such a hardass all the time, my parents are designers, so they shoved me into it, okay? That’s it!”

Kirishima’s mouth dropped open further, looking from Bakugou to the phone again. “Since when, man? You didn’t tell me about this!”

“I don’t fucking need to tell you everything going on in my life, shitty hair,” Bakugou shot back, ears red, clutching the phone tight like it might explode in his hands.

“This is kinda a big deal!” Mina cut in before the tension could thicken, bouncing on the couch, eyes glittering. “Like—actually huge! Can we see more of the clothes?”

“Yeah, man, that’s sick,” Sero said quickly, already grinning as he leaned forward. “You’ve been hiding this from us?”

Bakugou’s jaw locked tight, his pulse slamming in his throat. He could feel Kirishima’s gaze on him—steady, unreadable—and it made his skin itch. Mina, mercifully, leaned forward again, all bright teeth and soft warmth.

“Bakugou,” she said gently, “this is amazing. Really. Don’t look at us like that—we’re proud of you and we wanna see the clothes.”

He glared at her, sharp and suspicious, but the words landed anyway, a strange warmth pressing heavy in his chest. Gratitude—ugly, unwanted, but impossible to shove down. He rolled his eyes like it hurt him.

“Fucking fine.”

He dropped onto the couch with a grunt, phone in hand. The reaction was instant—everyone leapt up like kids at recess, crowding into his space without shame. Mina plopped down next to him, squished so close their arms pressed together. Kirishima took the other side, thigh solid against his, the heat of him impossible to ignore. Sero flopped behind them, chin hooking onto Bakugou’s shoulder to peer at the screen, his breath tickling his ear. Kaminari whined about the angle until he wormed half his body onto Mina’s lap, neck craned dramatically, while Jirou claimed the space next to Sero, leaning in over the back of the couch.

“Fucking took my phone before I saw the damn pictures,” Bakugou snapped, thumb jabbing at the screen.

“Sorryyy,” Mina sang, not sorry at all, grinning wide enough to show teeth.

He swiped through the photos anyway, ignoring their obnoxious chorus of ooo’s and aaah’s. The orange zip-up, the stupid couch shots, the sharper black-and-gray set—they were all there, professional, polished, every flash reminding him this was real. His parents’ designs. His face. His brand. A quiet pressure shifted on his thigh. He didn’t look, didn’t dare, but he felt it—Kirishima’s fingers, tapping lightly against his leg. When Bakugou paused on a picture too long, those fingers pressed down, firm and deliberate, like a silent anchor.

They swiped to the next file and Bakugou groaned, already knowing what it was by the thumbnail. “Fucking Dengo,” he muttered, but he pressed play anyway.

The video opened with Dengo’s voice, way too chipper, crouched in front of him mid-shoot. “Chin down a little, shoulders loose—yes, that’s better. See? Look.” The screen flashed to photos, Bakugou staring flatly, dead-eyed, like he was seconds from walking off set. He gave the barest nod of acknowledgment, bored as hell, and it cut straight to the next clip.

Now he was in the makeup chair, Komugi fussing with his hair while Bakugou’s eyelids grew heavier and heavier. He remembered that day, the way exhaustion sat on his bones like lead. They’d crammed the campaign shoot and promo video into the same schedule, and he was fucking cooked. Sure enough, on screen, his head lolled sideways until his eyes finally shut. Komugi’s laugh rang out, high and bright, as they poked him with a makeup brush.

“Wake up, superstar,” Komugi teased. Off-camera, Dengo leaned into the frame, grinning like an idiot, before Miyake’s voice cracked across the studio. “We don’t have time for this!”

Everyone in the video startled, even the poor camera guy, the shot jolting sideways. The clip cut again—Bakugou glaring straight down the lens this time, unimpressed, like the camera itself had personally offended him. Behind him, Miyake was pacing, a tape measure in hand, barking orders at someone unseen. On the couch, Mina clapped a hand over her mouth to muffle her giggles, Jirou smirked knowingly, and Sero outright laughed. “God, you look like you’re on The Office,” he wheezed.

Bakugou glared at the phone, his ears hot. “This is so fucking stupid.”

The next clip bled onto the screen—Bakugou at a table, shoulders hunched, a red pencil gripped tight between his fingers. His brows were furrowed in concentration as he dragged a line across a sketch. His mom was perched at the edge of the table, watching carefully. When the line was done, Mitsuki tilted her head, the corners of her mouth softening. Slowly, she reached out, ruffling his hair with one hand.

“Good work, Sunshine.” The camera caught it perfectly—Bakugou scowling, yanking his head away like a pissed-off cat.

The montage carried on—quick flashes of him in the chair again, Komugi swatting at his hair while he batted them away, Miyake tossing clothes at him mid-complaint, the infamous chip scene spliced in like it was cinematic gold, the slow suck of his fingers, Kirishima’s fingers digging into his thigh again.

The video ended on Dengo’s voice, sharp over the set noise—“And that’s a wrap!”—followed by applause and laughter from the crew. Onscreen, Bakugou was standing shirtless under the lights, his hair damp with whatever product was in it, and he actually let Dengo high-five him. He’d rolled his eyes, but hadn’t pulled away, the corner of his mouth twitching upward before the clip faded to black.

“Cute!” Mina squealed first, clutching at Jirou’s arm.

“You should post it.” Kaminari said, pointing like it was law.

“No,” Bakugou snapped, but not with much force. “Just—behind the scenes shit he insisted on.”

“Oh, c’mon, it’s good!” Sero leaned forward, grinning. “Maybe not right away, but after the official drop? People would eat that shit up.”

“Exactly,” Jirou said. “Campaign first, then that. Makes you look like a real person instead of just—” she waved vaguely at the phone.

It didn’t take long for the room to spiral, voices layering over each other, Mina launching herself into the center like a commander at war, hands flying as she argued over release schedules and hashtags. Kaminari was nodding furiously at her like he had any idea what he was agreeing to.

Bakugou sat still for a beat, jaw tight, the noise washing over him. He hated this—hated the type of spotlight, hated the endless opinions, hated how exposed he felt after they’d all just seen him in ways he’d barely seen himself, but mostly, he hated that small part of him that liked it.  It wasn’t just Inferno anymore. That had been the original pitch: Dynamite leading a single line, one explosive image, but the brand wanted more. They wanted unity—multiple Heroes, multiple faces, one fire under different colors. Something people could rally behind. Something bigger than just him.

His parents had started with Mina—bright pastels, pink and lavender and glitter-dipped teal. Colors they thought captured her spark. It hadn’t worked. Bakugoy had looked at the first mock-ups, wrinkled his nose, said they were fine but not her. Nobody’s gonna buy this crap, he’d told his mom, sharp and flat, red pencil in his hand. Mitsuki hadn’t argued. She’d just arched a brow, shoved the pad closer, and said, Then you fix it.

So he did. He’d cut the skirts short, slashed into the lines, thickened the colors until they popped. Neon pink against dark black, sharp blocks of purple and green. He’d scribbled Candy in his own scrawl, stamped it over the ass, over the chest, big enough to grab attention. Loud, sweet, impossible to ignore. A punch in the mouth. Mina.

Now she was in front of him, bouncing ideas off air, blind to the work he’d already burned through for her. She didn’t even know. The pressure built in his chest, rising higher, hotter. He didn’t want to do this, didn’t want to show them anything more, but his fingers had already twitched toward the folder leaning against his bedroom door. They already carried him across the room before his head caught up.

He came back in silence, portfolio in hand, his scowl fixed like armor. He stood over Mina for a beat, her grin still shining, her words still tumbling into the fray. Then he dropped it, the weight of it landed in her lap with a smack. She froze, blinking down at it, the noise around them slowing into curious murmurs. Her hands curled around the edges, fingertips brushing the heavy paper like it might burn her.

“What’s this?” she asked finally, lifting her eyes to him.

Bakugou only shoved himself back onto the couch, arms folded tight across his chest. His ears burned, but he said nothing. Her eyes darted across each page like she couldn’t take them in fast enough. The room was quiet for once, all of them leaning in as she flipped—short skirts, bold lettering, loud colors that screamed her name even in pencil. Candy stamped across the back of sweatpants, Pinky curled sharp over cropped jackets, metallic accessories sketched with detail that looked like they could’ve come straight out of her closet.

She flipped another page, lips parting. “Bakugou… this is…” Her voice faltered, the rare sound of her at a loss.

Bakugou shifted in his seat, elbows on his knees, scowl fixed to cover the tension under his skin. He hated how hot his ears felt. “Its yours if you want it,” he muttered finally. “A line, your own shit.”

Mina’s head snapped up, crimson eyes wide. The air shifted. Kaminari’s jaw went slack, Sero’s brows hit his hairline. Kirishima was staring openly at Bakugou, his expression soft. 

“Would I—” Mina choked on a laugh, tears springing hot to her eyes as she slammed the portfolio shut and stood, portfolio hugged tight to her chest like she was afraid it would disappear. “Bakugou, are you kidding me? YES. This is like… career-changing! This is—this is me. You did this? For me?!”

Bakugou leaned back against the couch, clicking his tongue, face screwed up in annoyance. “I said don’t make a big deal out of it.”

Mina screamed, full-volume, hopping in place before she lunged and hugged him again, nearly knocking them both sideways. “I’m making a HUGE deal out of it!” The others burst out laughing, but there was no mistaking the undertone of awe—because this wasn’t just Bakugou being thoughtful. This was Bakugou pouring hours into designing something for her, into imagining a world where she could shine just as much as he could.

Bakugou shoved at Mina half-heartedly, muttering, “You’re so fucking loud.”

The apartment was finally quiet. Mina’s shrieks had faded into memory, Kaminari’s allergies had left a trail of tissues in the trash, and even Sero’s dramatic whistling was gone. Bakugou sat on the edge of his bed, phone dark on the nightstand, the orange zip-up still hanging loose over his shoulders. A knock broke the silence.

He groaned, tilting his head back against the wall. “Come in,” he muttered, voice rough.

The door opened a crack, then wider. Kirishima padded in, hair damp from a shower, plaid pajama pants hanging loose on his hips. Brick dangled from his arms like royalty, tail flicking as he was carried over. Without asking, Kirishima sprawled across Bakugou’s bed, dropping Brick on the comforter. The kitten immediately began climbing his way up the blankets, little claws catching fabric.

Bakugou raised a brow. “The hell are you doing?”

“Returning our son,” Kirishima said, grin lazy as he settled deeper into the sheets. “He was terrorizing Mina’s plants.”

“Tch. Figures.” Bakugou reached to scoop Brick up, but the kitten batted at his fingers, purring like a motor. He sighed, letting the small weight curl into his lap. When he looked up again, Kirishima was already watching him. That same knowing look, crimson eyes soft under the dim light of Bakugou’s lamp. No teasing, no noise, just steady warmth.

“What?” Bakugou asked, sharper than he meant, heat crawling up his neck.

Kirishima only shrugged, smile tugging wider as he reached out, brushing his knuckles against Brick’s fur. “Nothing. Just… you, Inferno, all of it. I’m proud of you, man.”

Bakugou’s throat tightened, words choking on the way out. He glanced down at Brick instead, scratching absently behind his ears. “…Yeah.”

Kirishima leaned back on the pillow, arms folded behind his head, but his gaze never left Bakugou. The quiet stretched, not uncomfortable—just full. Brick purred louder, the steady rumble vibrating against Bakugou’s palm. Suddenly the bed dipped with Kirishima’s weight. He didn’t even bother looking up. “The hell do you want?” he muttered, his hand still scratching absently at the kitten’s ear.

Kirishima didn’t answer, just shifted closer until Bakugou finally turned—and found him leaning in, red hair shadowing his eyes. A hand braced gentle against Bakugou’s chest, nudging him down into the mattress. Bakugou let him, breath catching sharp in his throat as Kirishima bent over him, close enough to taste the warmth of his breath. The kiss was soft. Too soft. Nothing like the heat that usually burned between them. Just lips pressing against his, lingering a beat too long before Kirishima pulled back, grinning like he’d gotten away with something.

“You looked so damn good in that picture,” Kirishima whispered, the words brushing hot against Bakugou’s ear. Bakugou blinked up at him, throat dry, his whole body caught between stiff and molten.

Kirishima straightened, petting Brick a few times like nothing had happened. He was practically bouncing, smile wide, steps light as he backed toward the door. “Night, Bakubro!” he called, sing-song and easy, slipping out with a skip in his step and the door clicking shut behind him.

The room went silent again. Bakugou stared at the ceiling, still flat on his back, lips burning, pulse hammering out of control.

He dragged a hand down his face, groaning into the dark. “What the fuck,” he hissed, voice breaking.

Bakugou sat hunched on the edge of his bed, phone burning in his hand. Brick purred at his feet, kneading the blanket like he had no idea his owner was about to ruin his own peace. The file Miyake and Dengo sent glared up at him, waiting. He should’ve waited until morning. He should’ve run it by his team. But the echo of Kirishima’s voice still lingered—You looked so damn good in that picture—and it set his jaw tight.

Fine. Fuck it.

He opened the first file.

The teaser was lean, sharp. No words until the very end. Just flickers: A cut of the Inferno logo etched bold across his back; a flash of him draped over the couch in the orange zip-up, the light catching sharp against the fabric; his hand adjusting the gold chain, camera catching the glint against his collarbone.; he Inferno pants, black and clean, the waistband riding sharp on his hips.; one second of him turning, head low. Each clip snapped to black, faster than a heartbeat, the music pulsing low and gritty under it all. Then, finally: INFERNO. COMING SOON. That was it. No context. No warmth. Just flame.

He typed the caption the way they instructed, clipped and plain.

coming soon.

No hashtags. No PR gloss.

His chest was still tight, his thumb restless. He swiped through the folder again, ignoring the safer stills, the couch shots, the quiet ones. His hand stopped on that photo. The one he hadn’t been able to shake. The one Kirishima wouldn’t let him forget. Half-lidded eyes. A smirk sharp as a blade. His tongue dragging slow over his thumb. The Inferno necklace burning bright against his chest.

It was obscene. He posted it anyway. The caption was short, colder than the fire in the photo.

11.20.

The date of when everything would come out. Nothing else.

He tossed the phone aside, dropped back onto his mattress, arm slung over his eyes like he could block out what he’d just done. Brick clawed his way up to his stomach and curled there, purring. Bakugou’s lips twisted, his heart still hammering too fast.

His phone vibrated against the sheets within minutes, notifications going feral. He ignored them, arm still over his eyes. But he could feel it, the chaos building. By the time his stubbornness cracked enough to reach for the screen again, his notifications were stacked, all from either his socials blowing up or his messages. 

Buzzkill #1: ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MIND?

He cursed under his breath, flipping over after moving Brick off of him, face buried in the pillow. The numbers were already climbing—comments in the thousands, likes ticking like wildfire. It hadn’t even been five minutes. Four, maybe. His phone was already running hot in his palm, the numbers rolling up faster than he could blink.

The comments stacked underneath, questions flying faster than he could scroll:

Comments:

@DYNAMITE?? LAUNCHING SOMETHING??
Wait is this a movie?? Wtf is happening
nahhh this has to be clothes
OMFG A NEW HERO LINE????
the music goes hard who did the music
why do I feel like he’s about to punch me and sell me a hoodie at the same time

That was fine. Good. It was hype, exactly the way PR wanted. The photo. God. The photo was nuclear. A handful of comments had to go—he didn’t even want to read them. Too explicit, too deranged, his thumb deleting them in disgust, though his ears burned hot the entire time.

Comments:

WHAT THE FUCK.

why is this actually SEXY I feel unsafe

Sir this is a family platform

delete this rn (but also don’t)

THE NECKLACE THE NECKLACE THE NECKLACE.

im fighting for my life rn

never thought I’d simp for @Dynamite but here we are

omfg the tongue i cant 

THIS IS LOWKEY CRAZY?

step on me

He knows what he’s doing. he 100% knows.

WHY AM I SWEATING??

@Pinky – @Chargebolt LOOK AT HIMMMMMM

I love @Pinky and @Dynamites friendship 

@Chargebolt – BROOOOOOO AAAAAAAAAAAAAAA🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥

bros feral💀

@Chargebolt stays doing too much fr

@Cellophane – bro this is literally porn-adjacent idk how to feel rn

WHY IS @CELLOPHANE HERE HELLO?

Bakugou’s snort ripped out before he could stop it, and he launched his phone to the other side of the bed, burying his face into his pillow. His whole body felt overheated, heart caught between dread, embarrassment, and something dangerously close to pride. He didn’t know what the fuck to feel. 

All he knew was that Inferno was alive now, burning too wild to smother it.

Chapter Text

CANDY

The conference room was cold, all glass and chrome, the kind of place where every scrape of a chair echoed like judgment. Bakugou sat low in his seat, arms crossed tight, refusing to look at the massive screen at the front of the room. He already knew what was on it. The necklace. The smirk. The fucking tongue. Miyake’s clicker snapped sharply against the desk, her voice slicing through the silence. “Do you have any idea what you did? You dropped softcore porn to millions of followers at midnight. Without clearance OR any context. You hijacked an entire campaign rollout we spent months timing down to the second.”

Bakugou’s head shot up, scowl already carved into his face. “It’s not porn! You’re the ones who took the damn picture, shoved it in a folder, and said you wanted to use it!”

Miyake’s jaw tightened. “Wanted to use it carefully, Dynamite. Not like some midnight thirst trap! Do you realize you’ve put us in crisis mode?”

From the corner, Dengo practically bounced out of his chair, tablet clutched in both hands. “Crisis mode? Babe, this is a coronation.” He spun the screen around, graphs climbing like wildfire, notifications stacked to the ceiling. “Look at these numbers! TikToks, edits, reaction threads—it’s feral out there. He’s viral.”

“Don’t say feral,” Bakugou snapped, heat creeping up his ears. “I don’t wanna hear the word feral in a meeting about this shit.”

“It’s not just your face,” Dengo said gleefully, flicking through screenshots of trending posts. “It’s the vibe. The necklace, the smirk—mmph. People are fighting for their lives out there.”

Miyake groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose. “God help me. I hate this, but he’s right—it’s got people talking. Too much, maybe, but talking all the same.” Her eyes locked on Bakugou, hard and unflinching. “Don’t you ever pull a stunt like that again. One more rogue post and I swear I will staple your thumbs together.”

Bakugou leaned back in his chair, lips twitching into something between a sneer and a smirk. He wasn’t about to admit it out loud, but he knew. He knew it worked. He knew because his phone hadn’t stopped vibrating since last night, because his idiot friends wouldn’t leave him alone, because Kirishima especially wouldn’t let him breathe. Kirishima, who knew exactly why he’d done it. Who’d made it very clear the night before, voice low in his ear, smile sharp in the dark—you looked so damn good in that picture.

It pissed him off, how right he was. Pissed him off even more that it was Kirishima who knew it. By the time he escaped the PR meeting and slammed the apartment door behind him, his phone was still buzzing like a wasp nest in his pocket. He threw it onto the couch, Brick immediately pawing at it like the menace he was, screen lighting up under tiny claws. Bakugou cursed under his breath, scooped it back up, and made the mistake of unlocking it. It wasn’t the Family thread this time. It was worse.

1-A GROUPCHAT

Pikachu: how’s everyone feeling rn 😏

Invisible: omg?? [photo attached]

Shouji: …wow

Pikachu: AWOOGA 🥵🔥

Ears: unsubtle.

Cheeks: leave him alone guys 😂 u look great btw 

fucking rat traitor: TRÈS CHIC!! ✨

Class Prez: Bakugou, this is highly inappropriate! You cannot simply post indecent material and call it hero branding! 

Class Prez: These were very high-quality photos, though. Congratulations.  

Pikachu: Stop tryna take my man Iida ☹️

Tail: ngl he looks cool tho

Koda: 🤭

Pinky: Koda pls 😭😭😭

Tape: yeah congrats bro. congrats on soft-core porn

Cheeks: SERO 😭

Me: die🖕

Bakugou groaned, dragging a hand down his face, thumbs hovering uselessly over the screen. His only reply was the middle-finger emoji, shot like a bullet into the thread. He shouldn’t have opened it again.

Tape: oh what’s this? 👀 you gonna suck on that finger too??

Izuku: …damn 😬

Shitty Hair: LET HIM GET UP

Pinky: NAHHHHH 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

Invisible: i cannot BREATHE

Guy w bird: A fatal strike indeed.

Class Prez: MIDORIYA!!! You, of all, should not be encouraging this indecency!

Tape: nahhhhhh this is history. someone screenshot this whole thread.

Bakugou could hear Jirou’s sharp bark of laughter echo from across the hall, clear as if she’d been sitting in the room with him. Kaminari was spamming AWOOGA in all caps, Mina was sending the photo again and again until it filled the chat.  “Fucking kill me,” he muttered into his hands, Brick meowing as if in agreement.

The month blurred.

PR meetings stacked on top of agency shifts, Jeanist refusing to ease the load even as Bakugou was yanked to photoshoots to update the campaign after he went AWOL on his supposed days off. The hours didn’t just run together—they folded into each other until days vanished without him noticing. He didn’t ask for less. He never would. That wasn’t who he was. If anything, he pushed harder, stretched thinner. Told himself it was proof he could take it, that he wasn’t going to break under the weight. Something had to give.

He came home late, half-dead on his feet. The apartment was dark, quiet except for the hum of the fridge. Light leaked under Kirishima’s door — soft, steady. He barely made it to the counter before it opened. Kirishima stepped out, hair messy, t-shirt hanging loose, that tired look still written across his face. “Hey,” he said quietly. “We need to talk.”

Bakugou rubbed a hand over his eyes. “Can it wait?”

Kirishima hesitated. “You’ve been running yourself ragged, man. You barely sleep, you look like you’re ready to collapse. I’m just—”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine.” Kirishima’s voice cracked a little. “You haven’t even looked at me since that night. I’m not asking for a full-on talk or anything, I just need to know you’re okay.”

He dropped his bag onto the counter with a dull thud. “Kirishima, I’ve got work at seven. I don’t have time for this.”

Kirishima frowned, stepping closer. “You’re allowed to breathe, y’know? You don’t have to keep pushing until you're exhausted.”

Bakugou barked out a sharp laugh. “Yeah, I do.”

The silence that followed was thick. Kirishima didn’t move. Just stood there, jaw tight, eyes soft. “You’re gonna burn out,” he said finally. “And I don’t wanna watch that happen.”

Bakugou’s throat went dry. He didn’t have the energy to fight, but the way Kirishima looked at him — worried, patient, hoping — made his chest hurt. He could see it. That quiet fear under the surface, the kind that wasn’t about anger or rejection, but loss, like he was already losing him. It made something in him twist. He turned away, fingers gripping the edge of the counter. “I can’t—” The words caught, came out rougher than he meant. “I can’t deal with that right now. Any of it.”

“I’m not asking for anything like… I don’t know,” Kirishima said softly, stumbling over his words a bit. “Just… you keep shutting me out, and I don’t even know if we’re okay.”

Bakugou’s breath came shallow. We. The word stung. He didn’t know what they were. He didn’t know how to name it without breaking it. What would Kirishima expect from him? Texts? Closeness? Affection? He didn’t even know how to want those things, not without screwing them up, let alone give them. Finally, he turned his head, voice low. “Friends,” he said. “With… benefits. That’s all I’ve got for you right now.”

He wasn’t built for this. Not for relationships. Not for someone waiting on him to open up. Kirishima had to know that — had to. They’d been friends for years. He’d seen the worst parts of him, the stubbornness, the temper, the way Bakugou clenched his own heart in a fist and called it discipline. What did he expect? Some grand confession? Something soft and steady and simple? That wasn’t him. It never had been. Yeah, they’d done what they did — he wasn’t going to pretend he hadn’t wanted it. He had. It was the farthest he’d ever gone with anyone, and it still replayed in flashes he couldn’t stop — Kirishima’s hands, the heat, the quiet. He could admit that much to himself, but more than that? He didn’t have it in him. He couldn’t give what Kirishima probably wanted — the kind of easy warmth that came naturally to him. Bakugou didn’t know how to let anyone in that far without losing his footing. Without losing himself.

Maybe he was a coward. Maybe he was scared. He could rationalize it — he always could. He was too busy, too focused, too… something, but a relationship? With Kirishima? Would Kirishima even want that? Were they even compatible beyond what they already were? What did a relationship even require — patience, time, space? He didn’t have any of that to give. Not now. Maybe not ever. Questions like that burned holes in his skull. He didn’t have the energy for them, not when the rest of his life was already pulling him apart.

Kirishima’s mouth parted, eyes flickering — not surprised, just… something Bakugou did not know how to read. Bakugou forced himself to meet it. “If you need a label for what this is… there. That’s it.”

For a second, neither of them spoke. Then Kirishima nodded, barely. “Okay,” he said. “If that’s what you can give.”

The door closed softly behind him. Bakugou stayed there, staring at the empty hallway until it blurred. His chest ached in that deep, unfamiliar way he hated — like regret, only heavier. He’d liked what they did, more than he wanted to admit, but he couldn’t think about that now, couldn’t think about him. Not when the world wouldn’t stop spinning long enough to let him catch his breath.

Brick started sleeping with Mina more often, the kitten curling up at her apartment because Bakugou was never home. Not that Kirishima couldn't take care of him, but Kirishima was also busy, Mina was slightly less so. He came in too late, left too early, nights and mornings collapsing into each other until the small weight that used to greet him just stopped waiting. He noticed, but he didn’t fix it. His world had shrunk too tight to hold anything else—just the work and the campaign, nothing beyond it. Halloween slipped by without him even registering. The squad group chat exploded with photos of Mina dressed like a devil, Kaminari wrapped in LED lights, Jirou rolling her eyes in black lipstick, and Sero in some half-assed cowboy hat. Even Kirishima, grinning wide with fake fangs, arm slung around their shoulders. The whole crew lit up his phone with laughter, teasing, and exclamation points.

He didn’t reply. Didn’t even open half the messages. The pumpkins rotted on Mina’s doorstep until he threw them away while his alarm blared him into another patrol.

The Ignition website crept to life in pieces. He saw it in flashes—mockups spread across Miyake’s laptop, then half-finished pages glowing under studio lights, a skeleton filling itself with color and flame. The orange-black branding of Inferno crawled outward until it felt alive, pulsing like fire against his eyelids every time he blinked. Investors circled closer. PR’s leash pulled tighter. He let himself be led, shoved, directed, because what else was he supposed to do?

He told himself it was worth it. If this was what it took, he would do it. He’d swallow the noise, the teasing, the sleepless nights. He’d pose, he’d sell, he’d burn himself to the bone if it meant building something no one could take away from him. If it meant Ground Zero—his own agency, his own future—stood solid. That was the new problem. Investors weren’t just circling anymore. They wanted to meet. They wanted to talk, to see more, to know what came after Ignition. This meant two things: Ignition couldn’t stop. Lines had to keep moving, keep scaling, no room for missteps. Ground Zero—the thing he’d only let himself picture in fleeting, furious daydreams—wasn’t a dream anymore. It was a possibility. A contract waiting in the wings.

It should’ve been exciting. It was. Somewhere deep under the weight, he felt it: the hunger, the fire, the rush of finally seeing the shape of his ambition take form. He’d wanted this for years. He’d bleed for it, fight tooth and nail for it. He already was. but the more real it got, the heavier it pressed. Ground Zero wasn’t just an idea anymore. It was coming. It meant every move counted. It meant no turning back.

Every night ended the same. He slammed into bed like a body falling, every muscle pulled so tight he thought they’d snap. He was too wired to sleep, too tired to move. His eyes burned in the dark. His chest heaved shallow, restless, like he’d just finished running, though he hadn’t moved at all.

Sometimes the air got sharp. Too sharp. His ribs cinched tight, a band of pressure that wouldn’t let him inhale properly. He’d sit there in the dark, fists twisted in the blanket, trying to force a steady breath, counting seconds in his head like it would ground him. One, two, three—no good. His throat wouldn’t open. Four, five—his chest jerked instead, breath breaking short. Panic thrummed in his skull, hot and blinding, his body demanding he move, but his limbs refusing.

It passed. It always passed, but the aftershocks left him shaking, staring at the ceiling, telling himself it was nothing. Just exhaustion, just stress. Nothing he couldn’t fight through.

The house smelled the same as it always had. Soy sauce, sesame oil, and the faint bite of ginger still clinging to the air from Masaru’s cooking. Steam curled from the pan as he moved between the stove and the table, quiet and steady, setting down dish after dish with practiced ease. The clink of ceramic filled the silence like background noise, the rhythm of a house that had been lived in for years. Mitsuki sat slouched at the head of the table, a cigarette balanced between two fingers, smoke curling sharply around her profile. Her eyes were already on him the second he walked in, taking stock, measuring, judging.

Bakugou sat stiff across from her, arms crossed tight against his chest. His shoulders pulled like wire, his jaw clenched until it ached. He hadn’t wanted to come. He didn’t have the time, didn’t have the energy, didn’t have anything left to give to a family dinner when every hour outside was already dragging him thinner than bone, but it was “family dinner,” and Mitsuki didn’t take no for an answer. He knew better than to try, so he sat there, silent, the weight of her stare pressing harder than the steam rising from the table.

Masaru tried to fill the silence with small talk — a quiet comment about the agency, a mention of how proud they were, how hard he was working. It barely landed. The sound of chopsticks against porcelain, the faint hiss of oil still cooling on the stove, the soft, heavy sound of breathing between sentences.

“Did you eat today?” Mitsuki asked suddenly, tone deceptively even.

“Yeah.”

“Doesn’t look like it,” she muttered, tapping ash into the tray. “You’ve lost weight.”

He didn’t respond. The silence stretched again, long and brittle.

“You could at least say something,” she said finally, her patience thinning. “You come home once in a blue moon, and you sit there like a stranger.”

“I’m tired.”

“Then act like you’re glad to be here.” The edge in her voice sharpened, smoke curling tighter around her words. “Your campaign’s everywhere. Your face is everywhere. You should be grateful.”

There it was — that word. Grateful. The air shifted. Bakugou’s leg bounced under the table, restless, his nails biting half-moons into his arm where they pressed. “I am grateful,” he said, the words bitten off sharper than he intended. His chest pulled tight, anger and exhaustion tangling hot. “I’m just not gonna sit here and shout your praises every five seconds.”

Mitsuki’s eyes narrowed, the corners of her mouth twisting into something sour. “Our work is what got you here.” Her voice rose with the smoke, sharp and unwavering. “Don’t forget that.”

He could see it now — the way her hand trembled when she took another drag, how the edge in her voice wasn’t pride but pressure. Years of it. She’d built him like this — hard, relentless, unyielding — and now she was angry that it was staring back at her. The burn in his chest snapped hotter, climbing fast up his throat. “No.” His voice cracked through the air, louder than he meant, harsher than he’d planned. “I built everything to be here. Don’t sit there and try to take that away from me.”

Masaru moved quietly at the edge, setting down the last plate with careful precision, his voice the same low calm it always was. “Katsuki—”

The words didn’t reach him, not when everything inside him was already shoving hard against the walls of his chest, demanding to be let out. His voice climbed louder, harsher, every syllable sharpened into shrapnel. “I’m busting my ass every single day, and it’s never fucking enough. I can’t just be a good enough hero—I have to do all this extra shit too. Pose. Sell. Smile, or no one gives a damn.” His fist slammed against the wood of the table, dishes rattling, steam shivering in the air. “What the hell kind of hero culture is that?!”

Mitsuki’s hand shot out, slamming her cigarette into the ashtray with enough force to scatter sparks. “Stop fucking complaining,” she snapped, eyes blazing. “You have opportunities not a lot of other heroes have. I can't with you! That’s all you ever do—complain, complain, complain—”

“I died, and that is still not enough!” The words ripped out of him before he could swallow them down, raw and jagged, shaking the whole room. The silence that followed was brutal. Mitsuki froze, her cigarette crushed flat under her hand. Masaru’s eyes widened, a sharp intake of breath breaking the air. “Don’t you bring that up,” Mitsuki said, her voice cracking under the steel. Her eyes flared, but there was something else there too—hurt, old, and festering.

“Why the fuck not?” His voice broke sharply, the anger shaking with something darker, something that felt like it would split him open. “I can’t bring up my own fucking death?” His fists dug into the table, the wood groaning under his grip.

“Don’t talk like that in this house.” Mitsuki’s voice rose to a shout, every line in her face pulled tight. “You think you’re the only one who suffered? You think it didn’t kill us, too? Waiting for a call, a text, something from you, just to be told you were in a hospital? That our only son—our baby—had died?”

The silence afterward was deafening. The air hung thick with smoke and steam, the smell of sesame oil sharp in his throat. Bakugou’s chest heaved, breath ragged, trembling under the weight of his own words. His hands shook where they pressed into the table, his vision edged hot. The chair screeched loudly against the floor as he shoved it back, the sound cutting through the silence like a blade. He stood, jaw locked, every muscle strung tight with fury. “Fuck this,” he muttered, low but shaking, the words meant for no one and everyone at once.

“Katsuki—” Masaru started, voice breaking quietly in the corner. The door slammed before he could finish, the walls of the house rattling with the impact. The night air hit him sharp, cold, but it didn’t ease the fire burning through his chest. His fists clenched hard, his jaw set like stone, each step down the street loud and uneven. The pressure didn’t lift. If anything, it pressed harder, the weight of the world clawing at his ribs with every breath.

Later that night, his phone buzzed where it sat facedown on the counter. He almost didn’t check it. When he did, the screen lit up with a string of messages.

Mom: I’m sorry, sunshine. You work your ass off, I know that. You deserve recognition for that. I’m the world’s worst mother and all that shit.
Me: whatever I already forgot about it
Mom: k
Mom: we love you, Katsuki

He stared at it for a long time, thumb hovering over the keyboard, something caught between guilt and relief clawing at his chest. He didn’t reply. He just turned the phone over again, screen down, and sat there in the dark until the noise in his head went quiet enough to breathe.

Two weeks before launch, PR gave him another picture. The conference room smelled faintly of coffee gone stale, paper, and ink sharp in the air. Files spread across the polished table, sketches, print mockups, schedules lined with red ink. Bakugou sat at the far end, his chair pushed back like he needed space, shoulders drawn tight as wire. Miyake stood at the head of the table, flipping through a stack of papers with her usual clean precision, her smile steady but her tone clipped.

“Why hasn’t your mother sent in the designs for Candy yet?” she asked without looking up.

The words cut sharply, right through him. Bakugou’s teeth ground together, his jaw tight. “I gave you some of mine,” he muttered, voice sharp. “Isn’t that enough?”

Her eyes flicked up, patient but firm. “You’re no designer, Dynamite.”

His chest snapped hot. The words weren’t new, but coming after last week—after Mitsuki’s voice calling him ungrateful, after the fight that ended with him slamming her door—it sliced deeper. He leaned forward, eyes burning. “Yeah, well hers were shit. That’s the whole reason I did it in the first place. She asked me to fix them—”

“Okay,” Miyake cut in, her voice rising just enough, hands raised flat as if calming the air. “I don’t need you to flip out on me—”

“I’m not!” His voice cracked against the walls, too loud, too raw. He could feel the stares immediately, everyone at the table going still, Dengo shifting uncomfortably in his chair. Bakugou’s breath came too fast, his nails biting into the edge of the table. “I’m fucking not. You’re discrediting everything I’ve fucking done—”

“Dynamite,” Miyake said carefully, the calm creeping back into her tone, like she was soothing an animal ready to bite. “You should leave the designing to the designers—”

“Oh, should I leave the modeling to the models too?” His laugh was sharp, ugly. “Yeah, let me go let Mina know that when we need her in some fucking photos.”

The silence slammed down heavily. It rang in the room, thick enough to suffocate. Someone shifted in their chair, the scrape of fabric too loud. Dengo ducked his head, pretending to scribble something, eyes darting anywhere but at him. Bakugou’s chest heaved. The fire that had pushed him up cracked, leaving nothing but exhaustion in its place. His hands dragged down his face, muffling the sound of his sigh. He hated the way his fingers trembled against his skin, hated the burn building behind his eyes, hated how much control he was losing right in front of them.

“I’m not trying to discredit you,” Miyake said again, softer this time, cautious.

“Then actually take a look at my work,” he spat back, but the bite was gone. The words came muffled through his hands, cracked and hollow, nothing left in them but the thrum of exhaustion.

The room stayed silent. He stayed folded forward, face hidden in his hands, willing the pressure in his chest to ease before it split him open. His hands slipped down his face at last, palms dragging over skin gone hot, and he forced them flat against the table just to steady the shake in his fingers. A sigh ripped through him, heavy, frayed at the edges, the kind that sounded more like defeat than release. He hated that it came out at all. Miyake watched him closely, her posture easing as she folded the papers back into a neat stack. Her eyes flickered over him, reading him the same way she read charts and headlines—clinical, patient, but sharp enough to cut through the cracks he tried to hide. She exhaled through her nose, then waved a hand, dismissing the weight of the meeting with a single, decisive gesture.

“We’re done today,” she said, her tone clipped, but not cruel. “Post the picture we sent to your email tonight. Actually use the caption this time.” The firmness in her voice left no space for argument, but then she paused, and something in her softened, just slightly. “And get some proper sleep, okay? We can meet tomorrow morning.”

The words landed like a bruise, heavier for their kindness. Bakugou looked away immediately, jaw grinding tight, glaring hard at the polished surface of the table like it had insulted him. Sleep. As if it were that simple. As if he hadn’t been choking on the silence of his own bedroom for weeks, staring at the ceiling until the numbers on his phone, Kirishima, PR shoots, his mother, and everything blurred together.

Dengo’s chair scraped against the floor as he stood, his usual grin tempered into something quieter. He stepped close enough that Bakugou could feel the shift in the air, a hand landing warm and steady on his shoulder. Just a brief squeeze—no words, no theatrics, none of the usual dramatic flair. Then he was gone, trailing after the others, leaving Bakugou sitting in the heavy quiet of the emptied room. His hands curled into fists against the table. His chest still ached. He hated how hollow the room sounded without their voices, how it felt like he’d been left alone with the echo of his own cracks. When he finally got the email notification, he opened it, the photo glaring at him.

A black-and-white shot, except for the stitching—bright orange and green cut sharply against grayscale. Ignition pants, clean lines, logo blazing bold at the cuff. His skin caught the light like steel, bare from the waist up. The angle was low, shot from the ground, the world tilted beneath him. He wasn’t even looking at the camera. His head turned away, gaze caught on something else. Detached. Untouchable.

If he had to pick, this was his favorite. Not that he’d ever say it. Not that he gave a shit.

The caption was already written for him: two weeks out.

He posted it without a thought, thumb hitting send before the doubt could creep in. Notifications buzzed within minutes, numbers climbing in the corner of the screen just like before. Comments piled high—too fast to read, too loud to keep up. He didn’t try to. He tossed the phone face-down on the desk, the buzz rattling against the wood, a low hum he ignored until the battery ran hot. He told himself it didn’t matter. That it was fine. That Inferno was almost here, and that was all that mattered.

The apartment was dark when he shoved the door open, silence heavy enough to press against his ears. Notifications had burned his phone so hot he’d had to kill it an hour ago, shoving it deep in his bag just to breathe. The only sound now was the harsh scrape of metal as he stripped, gear clattering to the floor like dropped chains. He didn’t bother with care. Every step to the shower was weighted, every muscle pulling tight as if he could hold the whole month together with just his teeth.

It was late—too late. Steam still clung to his skin by the time he dragged himself into his room, toweling his hair, tossing the damp cloth at the chair in the corner. He expected the apartment to be still. Kirishima should’ve been out cold by now, but when he glanced down the hall, he saw the sliver of light under his door, faint but steady. He caught himself looking for Brick, scanning the floor, the bed, the desk. Empty. Right—Mina had him this week. The kitten was curled up somewhere loud and pink, probably sleeping on a pile of candy-colored blankets.

Bakugou collapsed onto the mattress with a groan, the springs creaking under his weight. The glow of his phone cut too sharply against the dark, and he squinted down at the time. 1:03. Five hours until another goddamn PR meeting, before a twelve-hour shift under Jeanist’s suffocating denim grip. His jaw locked hard, the thought alone enough to make him grit his teeth.

He shut his eyes. Tried to will sleep, but his shoulders stayed knotted, his chest too tight, his body still wound like wire stretched thin. He stared at the ceiling, silent and seething, waiting for exhaustion to drag him under. Counting sheep would’ve been less humiliating. The knock was so soft he almost thought he imagined it. His throat worked once, dry, before he managed to mumble, “Come in.”

The door opened. Kirishima leaned in, hair mussed from the pillow, plaid pants slung low on his hips, eyes half-lidded with sleep. The light from the hall framed him warm, soft, nothing like the noise outside. “You were so loud when you came in,” Kirishima said through a yawn, his jaw cracking. His hair stuck up in wild spikes, softer than usual, like he hadn’t even bothered to fix it before stumbling across the hall.

Bakugou dragged a hand down his face. “Your light was on.”

“I fell asleep with it on.” Kirishima shuffled closer, the floorboards creaking under his bare feet. He didn’t wait for an invite, just slinked over and dropped onto the bed like he belonged there, stretching out flat beside him. His eyes slid shut immediately, the weight of him heavy in the mattress.

Bakugou rolled toward the wall, muttering, “Just go back to bed, shitty hair.”

“Nooo,” Kirishima whined, his voice muffled against the blanket. He turned his face into the mattress, words slurring around the fabric. “I wanted to say hi. Feels like it’s been so long since I’ve even seen you.”

The words hit low, quieter than usual, free of the bright edge Kirishima usually carried. Just raw honesty, left out in the dark. Bakugou’s chest tightened. He shut his eyes, willing himself to ignore it, but the warmth bleeding across the sheets made it impossible to pretend he was alone. The silence pressed in, heavy enough to choke. Bakugou’s shoulders twitched against the sheets, his jaw clenched tight, every muscle wound too taut to let sleep come. The sound of Kirishima’s slow breathing beside him only made it worse.

“I can’t fucking fall asleep,” he snapped finally, voice cutting into the dark.

Kirishima hummed low, the sound lazy, drowsy. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled, words softened by exhaustion. Bakugou scoffed, the sound sharp, bitter. He shoved himself upright, the headboard catching the back of his skull with a dull thunk. Pain bloomed at the spot, but he didn’t care, dragging a hand through his damp hair with a frustrated growl. The silence stretched again, longer this time, thicker, until it felt like a weight pressing down on the room.

When Bakugou finally glanced over, Kirishima was watching him. Not with the usual grin, not with that easy warmth he wore like armor. His hair was mussed, eyes heavy-lidded, mouth soft from sleep. Everything about him looked unguarded, vulnerable—except for the look in his eyes. That was new, sharp in a way that didn’t match the rest of him, something Bakugou couldn’t name, couldn’t brace against. The corner of Kirishima’s mouth ticked up, just a fraction. “Do you want me to help you with that?”

The words landed low, heavy in Bakugou’s chest, burning hot through the exhaustion, through the irritation, through everything he’d been holding in for weeks. Bakugou didn’t answer. His throat worked once, tight, but no words came. He just gave the smallest nod, barely a dip of his chin, but it was enough.

Kirishima’s eyes darkened, that soft grin fading into something deeper. He pushed up onto his hands and knees, crawling across the mattress until the warmth of him closed in. The blankets shifted with the weight, then peeled back as Kirishima tugged the comforter off in one steady pull. The air hit Bakugou’s bare skin, cool enough to make him shiver. His breath stuttered out in a sharp gasp, swallowed instantly as Kirishima leaned down and covered his mouth with his own.

The kiss was hot, unhurried, but heavy. Kirishima’s hand braced against the sheets near Bakugou’s head as if to pin him there. Bakugou’s fists curled tight in the mattress, caught between the shock of cold and the heat pouring into him from Kirishima’s mouth. Bakugou didn’t think, didn’t hesitate. The second Kirishima’s mouth pressed to his, he grabbed him by the hips and yanked him closer, dragging him straight into his lap. The mattress dipped, heat and weight crashing against him, Kirishima’s surprised grunt swallowed between their mouths.

Kirishima adjusted instantly, legs bracketing Bakugou’s thighs, palms flattening against his chest for balance. The kiss turned sharper, hungrier, their teeth clicking once, Bakugou tilting his head to chase deeper, harder. His breath came rough through his nose, muffled by the way Kirishima wouldn’t let him go, wouldn’t give him room to think. Every nerve screamed alive under the drag of Kirishima’s body against his, the pressure grounding and unbearable all at once. A month of silence, of swallowing down every urge, of holding his jaw so tight it ached—spilling out now in the bruising pull of his hands, the way his thumbs dug into Kirishima’s waist like he could anchor himself there and nowhere else.

Kirishima shifted in his lap, the movement dragging heat sharply across Bakugou’s thighs. His hands slid lower, tracing the lines of Bakugou’s sides, down the ridges of his abdomen until his fingers brushed the waistband of his pants. Bakugou’s whole body jolted, a shiver tearing out of him before he could stop it. Kirishima pulled back just enough to breathe against his mouth, lips brushing with every word. “Damn, you’re tense.” His voice was low, almost amused, though his eyes stayed dark and steady. One hand pressed firmer against Bakugou’s hip, thumb stroking over the fabric. “No wonder you couldn’t sleep.”

Kirishima’s hand lingered at the line of his waistband, warm even through the fabric. His thumb traced small circles there, steady, grounding, until he pulled back just enough to look him in the eye. His voice came low, careful, but threaded with something hotter. "Could I…?” His thumb pressed a little firmer. “Touch you? I wanna help you.”

Bakugou’s breath stuttered. His whole body felt strung tight, chest heaving with every shallow pull of air. He didn’t answer, couldn’t—his throat locked up, the question ringing in his head too loud, too sharp. Kirishima didn’t push. His hand slipped away, easing back from Bakugou’s waist, resting light against his thigh instead. He stayed there, waiting, gaze steady and patient even in the low light. No teasing this time, no grin. Just quiet.

Bakugou’s pulse pounded in his ears, drowning out the silence. His skin burned where Kirishima had touched, colder now that the hand was gone. Every muscle screamed with the urge to snap yes, to grab him, to demand—but the word jammed in his teeth like always. Bakugou’s nod was sharp, clipped, like yanking a Band-Aid off. That should’ve been enough. It was already too much, but Kirishima didn’t move. Didn’t even blink. His hand stayed steady against his thigh, his voice maddeningly calm.

“Not enough,” Kirishima murmured, low and unshakable. “I want to hear you say it.”

Bakugou’s gut clenched, fire crawling up his throat. What the fuck do you mean not enough? His head buzzed like static, every instinct screaming at him to bark back, to shove him off, to do anything but choke on the words clawing at his tongue.

His teeth ground together. “—yeah,” he forced out, like spitting glass. Kirishima only shifted closer, one hand braced on the mattress, the other dipping lower, his fingers just barely sliding under the waistband of Bakugou’s pants. Not even a full touch—just the tips of his fingers dragging against bare skin, slow, teasing. Bakugou’s breath stuttered out sharply, his chest heaving against the pressure of it.

“No,” Kirishima said again, soft but relentless, lips brushing close enough to taste his breath. “Say the whole thing.”

Bakugou’s head thunked back against the headboard with a dull crack, frustration and want twisting hot in his gut. Goddammit. Why do you gotta—fuck— His fists knotted tight in the sheets, body trembling with how close those fingers hovered, every nerve alive under the shallow scrape of nails against skin. He dragged his eyes back down, crimson meeting crimson, his breath shattering out between clenched teeth.

“…I—” His voice cracked. He swallowed, tried again, raw and wrecked. “…I want you to touch me.”

Kirishima’s grin spread wide, slow and sure, lighting his whole face. He kissed him hard, quick, enough to steal what little air Bakugou had left. His whisper came hot against his lips, warm and teasing but steady as bedrock, “Good. That’s all you had to say.”

Kirishima didn’t rush, didn’t pounce like Bakugou’s frayed nerves expected. He took his time, kissing him soft, steady, while his hand slid back to Bakugou’s waistband. Fingers dipped beneath it again, teasing, dragging light over skin but never giving more than the barest touch. Bakugou shuddered, his breath hitching raggedly against Kirishima’s mouth. He tried to grind closer, to force something more, but Kirishima only pulled back enough to laugh quietly, lips brushing the edge of his jaw. “Easy, Bakugou. I’ve got you.”

“Don’t—” Bakugou’s voice cracked, his throat raw. His fists clenched hard in the sheets, his whole body twitching under the careful drag of Kirishima’s hand. “Don’t fucking tease me.”

“I’m not.” Kirishima’s grin curved slowly, his voice a low rumble. “I’m helping. Remember?”

Kirishima’s hand dipped lower again, just enough to brush heat through thin fabric, the faintest drag of his palm against bare skin before retreating. Bakugou jolted, a choked sound spilling from his throat. It wasn’t even a touch—just a promise of one—and it was too much. He’s gonna kill me. His fingers fisted in the sheets, knuckles white. His head tipped back against the headboard again with a soft crack, eyes screwed shut, chest heaving like he’d been running. Every nerve screamed for more and got nothing.

Kirishima’s thumb stroked slowly against his hipbone, patient, deliberate. His mouth hovered at Bakugou’s jaw, breath hot, whispering against his skin like smoke. “You’re shaking,” he murmured. “Relax.”

I can’t relax. I can’t—

Bakugou forced his eyes open, ready to snarl, to shove him off, but the sight stopped him dead. Kirishima was watching him. Not just watching—enjoying. His hair was a messy halo, eyes dark, lips curved into a slow, sharp smile that looked almost sinful in the low light. It wasn’t his usual grin. This one was darker, hungrier, a quiet kind of sadism that sent a spike of heat straight through Bakugou’s gut.

It should’ve pissed him off. It did, but it also—fuck.

Kirishima’s teasing finally broke, his hand slipping lower with a slow, deliberate drag. His fingers wrapped him properly for the first time, hot and solid and real, and Bakugou’s whole body jolted like he’d been struck. A ragged, helpless sound ripped out of his throat before he could swallow it down. His hips bucked hard into the touch, desperate, years of control shredded in a heartbeat. His fists knotted in the sheets, pulling them tight enough to tear, his breath splitting into sharp, broken gasps.

Fuck. Fuck, it’s too much. 

Then Kirishima eased off, pulling back, his palm retreating to the safety of Bakugou’s hip like it had all been nothing. Bakugou’s eyes flew open, wild, chest heaving. “You—” His voice cracked into a growl, low and ragged. “The fuck are you doing?!”

Kirishima only leaned close again, a grin spreading slowly and wickedly across his face. He caught Bakugou’s mouth in another kiss, slow enough to smother the curse, swallowing the frustrated sound against his lips. When he pulled back, his forehead pressed to Bakugou’s, his voice dropped to a whisper. “Feels good, doesn’t it?” He murmured, dark and steady, eyes locked on Bakugou’s flushed face. Bakugou’s chest lurched, fury and heat clashing so hard he could barely breathe. His whole body twitched with the need for more, with the rage of having it ripped away.

“Fuck you,” he spat, but it sounded broken, desperate, like begging in disguise.

Kirishima pulled back just enough to see him, that slow, wicked grin curving sharper. His thumb brushed idly over Bakugou’s hip, steady as bedrock, his other hand hovering just close enough to taunt. “Oh?” he murmured, tilting his head. “Fuck me? That's what you want?”

Bakugou’s chest heaved, his jaw snapping shut tight, but the flush crawling up his throat gave him away. Kirishima’s grin widened, teeth catching the low light, a sadistic edge glinting in his eyes. “You make it so easy to tease you.” He said it with a small laugh, a reminder that this was still his Kirishima, not some imposter behind that slightly crazed smile. 

His hand slid down again, just enough for his fingers to curl, hot and real for a second—then pulling back just as Bakugou’s hips jerked into it. A laugh rumbled in his chest, low and breathless. “Look at you. You’re gonna tear these sheets in half.”

“Stop—fucking—” Bakugou’s voice cracked on every word, fury burning straight into helplessness, his fists twisting so hard in the blanket he thought it might rip apart in his hands. His head knocked back against the headboard again with a dull thud, his throat straining around the noise clawing to get out. Kirishima kissed him again, swallowing the growl that escaped, his hand ghosting over heat just enough to keep him trembling. When he pulled back, lips brushing his ear, his voice dropped to a whisper, dark and amused.

“You’re not mad, though. You like this.”

Bakugou’s breath came ragged, every nerve screaming denial he couldn’t get past his teeth. His body answered for him, jerking into every touch, chasing what kept being taken away. Kirishima’s chuckle was low, dangerous. “Yeah. I knew it.”

At first, he fought it. His shoulders pinned hard against the headboard, jaw locked, every muscle tense like he could hold himself together by sheer force. His head tipped back sharply, eyes screwed shut, teeth grinding while his chest heaved. He told himself he could take it. That he wasn’t giving Kirishima the satisfaction. Then Kirishima’s hand wrapped him again, stroking slow, steady, unhurried—real this time, enough to burn through every defense. The sound that ripped out of Bakugou’s throat was nothing like anger. His back arched, sharp at first, then twisting. His hips jerked helplessly into the touch, chasing every stroke like it might disappear any second. It did. Each time Kirishima pulled away, Bakugou gasped like he’d been punched, breath breaking, chest collapsing inward.

Kirishima chuckled low, leaning close enough for his lips to brush Bakugou’s ear. “God, listen to you,” he murmured. “Didn’t think I’d ever get you squirming like this.”

“Shut—shut the fuck up,” Bakugou rasped, but it came out cracked, desperate, the edge gone from it.

The rhythm repeated, cruel and careful, until the anger thinned into something else—something rawer. His fists, once tight in the sheets, loosened and clawed helplessly. His head knocked against the headboard with dull thuds he barely felt. The curses died on his tongue, replaced with ragged, breathless sounds spilling free, gasps and moans breaking between clenched teeth. Kirishima only grinned wider, sliding his hand back down, stroking him again, slower this time, watching the way Bakugou’s face twisted, eyes clenched tight, lips parting around ragged moans he couldn’t hold back.

“That’s it,” he teased softly. “Feels good, huh? You don’t even have to say it. I can see it all over you.”

He was writhing now, twisting under the hand that gave and stole in equal measure, his body betraying him in every twitch. His thighs trembled, every shallow thrust giving him away.

Fuck—fuck, I can’t—I can’t take this—

A sound broke free, high and desperate, and Bakugou bit it down too late, his eyes still screwed shut. Shame burned hot across his face, but his body only moved harder, chasing touch even when it vanished. Kirishima’s hand hovered low, just enough to make Bakugou twitch, his whole body pulled taut like a wire about to snap. The grin he wore was slow, easy, infuriating.

“I’ll keep going,” he murmured, his thumb brushing lazy circles against Bakugou’s hip like he had all the time in the world. “But you’ve gotta ask nicely.”

His jaw was locked so tight it ached, every muscle trembling with the effort of holding back, but the word still broke free, raw and hoarse. “Please.”

His eyes snapped open with it, chest heaving, mouth falling open around shallow breaths. Humiliation thrummed through him like a second pulse, every gasp rattling out of him loud in the quiet room. Right there, close enough to touch, Kirishima’s lips curled into a slow grin.

“Okay,” he said simply, voice low, steady. His hand slid back down, fingers wrapping him again through the thin fabric of his pants, stroking just enough to drag a sound out of Bakugou that he didn’t recognize as his own. His hips jerked up helplessly, the friction too sharp, too much, his throat working around the noise clawing its way out.

Something cracked inside him. Pride, control—whatever it was, it collapsed in a rush. The words tore out of him fast and frantic, unstoppable. “Please, fuck— Don’t stop.” The litany spilled faster than he could choke it back, humiliation burning his skin hot, his fists twisted in the sheets until his knuckles ached. Kirishima’s hand stilled. For a heartbeat, Bakugou thought he might pull away again, thought he might drag him through more of this torture—but then he looked up. Kirishima’s grin had softened. The sharp edge had melted away, his lips curved in something gentler, eyes steady in the low light. Amused, sure, but not cruel, he wasn’t laughing at him, but trying to anchor him.

“Okay,” Kirishima said softly, a laugh under his breath. “Okay, breathe. I won’t tease you anymore.”

The words hit like a shock, easing something in Bakugou’s chest even as it pulled a shudder from his throat. His eyes screwed shut, the shame unbearable, but that look lingered behind his lids anyway—the softened smile, the patience, the steady heat in crimson eyes. Kirishima kissed him once on the cheek, then at the corner of his mouth, then more slowly at his lips. Each press was grounding, tender in a way that burned almost worse than the teasing.

His hand settled low at Bakugou’s waistband. “Can I take these off?”

Bakugou’s nod was sharp, desperate, his body twitching with every breath. Kirishima tugged the fabric down just enough, baring him to the cool air. A violent shiver tore through him, and then Kirishima’s hand wrapped him steady, stroking slowly, deliberately. The moan that ripped out of Bakugou’s throat was a raw, helpless thing that was high-pitched and needy, more of a whimper than anything. His back arched, his hips jerking into the touch, every nerve screaming at once. The rhythm was mercilessly steady, pleasure building too fast, too sharp, almost unbearable.

The rhythm was steady, merciless. Kirishima’s hand stroked him with a patience that burned, dragging him higher with every pass. Bakugou writhed against it, fists twisting in the sheets, gasps breaking into ragged moans. His body was too tense, wound tight for too long, every nerve frayed from weeks of pressure. The sound of it was unbearable—his own voice cracking, spilling pleas between curses, humiliated and undone. His chest heaved like he couldn’t get enough air, his mouth falling open around every gasp.

Then it hit, a tremor deep in his chest, sharper than the rest. His throat closed, and when the next moan broke free, it carried a hitch, jagged and unsteady. Kirishima noticed instantly. His hand slowed, thumb brushing soft instead of firm, his grin faltering into a flicker of alarm. “Bakugou—”

Bakugou shook his head hard, the movement jerky, desperate. His hair clung damp to his forehead, eyes screwed shut. “Don’t—” His voice cracked, splitting raw. “Don’t stop. Please.”

Kirishima hesitated, caught between concern and disbelief, eyes wide in the low light, but he continued slowly. Then Bakugou’s head tipped back, a broken sound spilling out of him—half moan, half sob—as tears gathered hot at the corners of his eyes. Humiliation scorched through him, but he couldn’t stop. His chest shuddered, breaths tearing in shallow bursts, each stroke pulling him higher, pushing him past the edge of what he could hold. The tears slipped free anyway, streaking hot down his temples, mixing with the damp heat of his skin.

“Please—” His voice cracked again, begging spilling out wrecked and unstoppable. “Please, faster—”

Kirishima’s mouth parted, eyes flickering wide with shock, but his expression shifted—softened, steadied, even as something darker tugged at the corners of his face. He pressed a kiss to Bakugou’s temple, warm against the dampness there, and tightened his hand again. “Okay,” he whispered, low and sure. “Okay. I’ve got you.”

Kirishima’s hand tightened again, stroking steady, relentless, dragging him higher with no room to breathe. Bakugou’s body arched, every muscle trembling, gasps and moans spilling raw from his throat. His chest shuddered with every sound, tears streaking hot across his cheeks, humiliation and ecstasy twisting so tight he couldn’t tell them apart anymore.

“Please—fuck—please, don’t—stop—” The words cracked into sobs, every syllable shattered, his fists clawing at the sheets like he could hold himself together through sheer force.

Kirishima kissed his temple, his cheek, his jaw, whispering steadily against his skin. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

The pleasure crested sharply and violently, his body jerking helplessly into Kirishima’s hand as a ragged moan tore out of him, raw and humiliating. His whole frame shook, gasps breaking into breathy sobs as release hit, white-hot and overwhelming, tearing every last bit of control away. He writhed through it, every stroke pulling another broken sound out of him, tears slipping faster, his chest heaving until he thought he might choke on the air. It was too much, far too much, but he couldn’t stop, couldn’t pull away, couldn’t do anything but fall apart under Kirishima’s hand.

Bakugou couldn’t get his breathing under control. Every inhale caught ragged in his chest, every exhale breaking unevenly, his body trembling long after the heat should’ve burned out. He dragged a hand down his face, trying to hide the wetness clinging to his skin, but the tremors in his fingers betrayed him. Kirishima only pulled him closer, steady arms wrapping around him, lips brushing against his temple. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice low, gentle. “I shouldn’t have teased you that much.”

The words twisted sharply in Bakugou’s chest, shame burning hotter than the tears. He wanted to snarl, shove him off, crawl out of his own skin—but instead, something broke loose. His voice cracked out rough, hoarse, wrecked beyond pride.

“Don’t—” His throat closed on the word, forcing him to swallow hard before he could get it out. “Don’t apologize.”

The silence that followed felt suffocating, like the whole room was holding its breath. Kirishima’s hand kept moving slowly over his back, steady and grounding, but his eyes were wide, stunned, something sharp and warm flashing behind them. Bakugou squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his forehead into Kirishima’s shoulder, as if that could hide the truth already torn out of him. His chest hitched once, another broken breath escaping, but he didn’t pull away. Kirishima kissed the side of his head again, softer this time, his voice almost a whisper. “Okay. I’ve got you.”

Bakugou surfaced slowly, dragged out of sleep like he’d been swimming too deep. His eyes ached, sore and puffy, the kind of sting that betrayed the hours he’d spent wrung out and breaking apart. He shifted against the sheets, confused at first by how clean he felt, how the clammy stickiness he half-remembered was gone. His gaze dragged down, and it hit him. His pants were on again, his shirt tugged back into place. His hands, though clenched now in the fabric of the blanket, didn’t ache from their grip. The mess of last night had been erased, carefully. Not by him.

Kirishima.

Bakugou’s throat went tight, eyes flicking sideways. The idiot was still asleep, hair a wild mess, face softened into something Bakugou wanted to kiss. His arm was heavy across Bakugou’s waist, keeping him anchored, their legs tangled like he hadn’t even tried to untangle himself once the night ended. Bakugou’s chest pulled, uncomfortable and too much, but also… steady. His head sank back into the pillow, and for one dangerous second, he let himself breathe there.

Until the alarm bell of reality crashed back in. He reached blindly for his phone, dragging it off the nightstand. The screen lit too bright, stabbing his eyes, but the numbers hit harder. 9:27.

His heart plummeted.

“Fuck.” His voice was raw, cracking in the quiet. He sat up too fast, Kirishima’s arm sliding off his waist, the sheets dragging low. Notifications flooded the screen — missed calls, stacked texts, his inbox burning red with subject lines from Miyake, the agency, half a dozen PR assistants who had probably been hounding him since dawn. The numbers didn’t change. 9:27.

Bakugou stared at the screen like it might blink into something else if he glared hard enough. His thumb hovered over the flood of notifications, unread messages stacked into walls he didn’t have the energy to climb. His chest felt hollow, the shock heavy as lead.

Too late. He was too fucking late.

The thought barely registered before he was on his feet, phone clenched tight in his hand. The sheets yanked down with him, Kirishima shifting as the sudden movement dragged the warmth away. Bakugou stood there, muscles locked, staring at the floorboards like maybe they’d give him answers, like maybe if he stood still enough, the day would roll backward and undo itself. Behind him, a low groan broke the silence. Kirishima’s voice, rough and slurred with sleep. “...Bakugou?”

Bakugou’s head snapped up, guilt crawling hot under his skin even though he hadn’t done anything yet. He glanced back just enough to see Kirishima pushing up on his elbows, hair sticking up in every direction, eyes barely open. The sheets pooled low around his hips, arm reaching out toward the empty space Bakugou had just abandoned.

“Shit,” he muttered, low and sharp, but it sounded too thin in the space between them.

“Come back to bed,” Kirishima mumbled, voice low and rough with sleep. He rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand, squinting toward the empty side of the mattress. “It’s too early.”

“Work,” Bakugou muttered, clipped. His voice was raw, half from sleep, half from everything else. “We both have fucking jobs.”

That woke Kirishima a little more. He sat up straighter, frowning, the blanket slipping off his shoulders. “Work? What time is it?”

Bakugou’s phone was still lit in his hand. He didn’t answer, just turned the screen toward him. 9:27.

It only took a second. Kirishima blinked, paused—then launched out of bed like he’d been shocked, the mattress bouncing with the force. Bakugou cursed under his breath, already tearing into his closet for his gear. His fingers moved fast, furious, straps snapping, buckles clanging. He didn’t have time to think, didn’t have time to answer the forty-seven texts Miyake had blown up his phone with, didn’t have time to worry about what excuse might work. Jeanist came first. Jeanist always came first.

He shoved past the sheets, ripped his door open, boots heavy against the wood floor. The bathroom light flicked on, blinding, the faucet screaming to life as he scrubbed his teeth like it could erase the night before. His reflection stared back at him, and for one heartbeat, he froze. Dark eyes. Red smudges underneath. The evidence of tears he never wanted anyone to see. His skin looked sallow, stretched too thin, exhaustion carved into every line of his face. He hated it. Hated the weakness that clung to him, hated how his chest still throbbed when he thought about it.

The way Kirishima had held him.
The way he’d begged.
The way he’d given everything away, just for that release.

Bakugou’s hand tightened on the faucet, his knuckles pale. He turned the water off too hard, the pipes rattling, and spat into the sink. He didn’t have time for this. Didn’t have time to think about how Kirishima would want to talk. How Kirishima needed to talk. He couldn’t get past the fact that he had begged for it, and he’d meant every word. The bathroom door slammed open, and suddenly Kirishima was there, half-dressed, yanking on his headpiece as he barreled past.

They collided in the hallway minutes later, both in full gear now, both clunking heavily down the stairs, boots and metal ringing against every step. The door slammed behind them, the cold morning air sharp in their lungs. Bakugou made for the street, already veering toward the direction of Jeanist’s office, when Kirishima caught his arm, grip strong.

“We have to talk about it,” he said, voice low but firm, eyes catching his. “Later.”

Bakugou’s jaw locked. He couldn’t bring himself to nod, couldn’t bring himself to say anything. He just stared as Kirishima released him and sprinted down the opposite street, toward Fatgum’s agency, his red hair catching the morning light. Bakugou didn’t waste another second. His boots pounded against the pavement, lungs burning as he tore through the city toward The Genius Office, every step loud enough to drown the chaos in his head.

The Genius Office gleamed like always, polished steel and denim-blue banners catching the morning light. Too clean, too perfect, too suffocating. Bakugou shoved through the glass doors anyway, boots hitting tile like gunshots, chest heaving from the sprint. He was late, and the weight of it sat on him like lead. He was already gearing himself up for it—the lecture, the disappointed tirade, the reminder that punctuality defined professionalism. He’d heard it all before. He braced his jaw, shoulders squared, ready to take it.

Jeanist was waiting at the end of the hall, arms crossed, suit pressed crisp, gaze steady. His eyes swept over him once. Slow. Measuring. They lingered at the edges of his face, at the faint redness that sleep hadn’t erased, at the strap hanging unevenly from his gear. The silence dragged just long enough for Bakugou to feel it in his chest. Jeanist exhaled, straightening the cuff of his sleeve. “We patrol in five,” he said simply. “Be ready.”

Bakugou blinked, caught between bracing for impact and suddenly having nothing to hit back against. He adjusted the strap on his gauntlet, sharp and quick, jaw tight. “Tch. Fine.”

Jeanist gave the smallest nod, already turning on his heel, the hem of his jacket cutting sharply through the air. Routine. As if nothing was wrong. As if he hadn’t just scanned Bakugou down to the bone and made a quiet decision to leave it be. Bakugou’s chest burned with something he couldn’t name, a knot of relief and irritation tangled too tight to separate. He slammed the last buckle into place and followed, his steps heavy but steady.

The rain came down hard, hissing against the flames as smoke poured out the shattered windows. The apartment complex was half-choked with fire, the night split by sirens and shouts, but all Bakugou heard was Jeanist’s voice barking orders through the downpour. He didn’t see the villain. Didn’t even think about it. His orders were clear—get people out, and so he did. His body moved like instinct, blasting through black smoke, busting down doors, smashing glass with his gauntlets when fire blocked the halls. He carried an old man over his shoulder, muscles screaming under the weight, then sprinted back in for a mother half-conscious, her lungs burning too hard to move. His arm caught on a pipe at one point, metal biting into his skin, hot blood slicking down through the grime, but he didn’t stop. 

Every second mattered.

By the time the last cries echoed from the top floor, Bakugou was already moving. He slammed through a charred doorway, smoke thick enough to claw at his eyes, and found her. A little girl, no older than four, covered head to toe in soot. Her hands clutched a grimy stuffed animal tight against her chest, her cheeks streaked with tears. Her mother was gone—already being carried out by another hero—but she was still here, alone, sobbing into the dark.

Bakugou crouched low, chest heaving, and wiped the dirt from her hair with hands still shaking from the adrenaline. Miyake’s voice rang in his head, sharp as ever—be nicer, Dynamite, for once in your life—and for the first time, he tried. He forced his voice low, steady, even when his lungs burned. He didn’t even remember the words, something rough and clipped, but softer than usual. Just enough. The girl blinked up at him, wide-eyed, trembling, and then, without a sound, she pushed forward, worming her way into his arms. Her stuffed animal pressed against his chest, her tears soaking into his top. He froze for half a second, chest twisting hard, then shifted her higher in his arms and bolted for the stairs.

The rain hit him first, cold against his raw skin, and then the shouts followed—the relief of the crowd, the barked orders of fire crews, Jeanist’s voice still booming over it all. Bakugou didn’t hear any of it. All he felt was the small weight in his arms, the steady beat of her little heart against his chest as he carried her out of the flames. The girl’s mother stumbled forward, coughing hard, skin streaked with soot. She nearly collapsed into his arms the second he lowered the child into them. Her hands clutched tight, trembling, tears streaking clean lines down her dirt-stained face.

“Thank you,” she rasped, her voice breaking, over and over. “Thank you, thank you, thank you—”

Bakugou gave a curt nod, stepping back before the gratitude could choke him more than the smoke already had. The rain soaked him through, dripping from his lashes, blood mixing with water down his arm. He dragged in a sharp breath, ready to follow Jeanist’s barked orders again—until a voice cut through the chaos.

“Please!” A woman’s scream, desperate, tearing at the storm. She was clinging to the barricade, fighting against two officers holding her back. Her hair stuck to her face in wet strands, her hands raw where they clawed at the police.

“Ma’am, the building is going to collapse any minute,” one of the officers tried, his tone firm but strained.

“He’s all I have!” she sobbed, voice ragged. “Please—my cat, he’s still inside—please!”

Bakugou froze, chest tightening, the rain suddenly colder against his skin. Brick’s face flashed in his head—dumb little claws, sharp mewls, curling up against him after long nights. His throat constricted. For one second, he saw his fuck-ass kitten alone in the fire, waiting, terrified. Before the thought could unravel him, he moved. His boots splashed hard against the puddles, water spraying as he stalked toward them. “What floor?” Bakugou snapped, water dripping from his hair, his jaw clenched tight.

The officer blinked at him, startled. The woman clutched his arm like she’d just been thrown a rope in the middle of the ocean. “Seventh,” she said quickly, voice breaking. “Left side, near the stairwell—please, he’ll be hiding—”

Bakugou exhaled through his nose, sharp and annoyed, but it was mostly to keep his chest from tightening again. “Tch. Fine.”

He shrugged her off and stalked back toward the building, boots splashing hard through puddles. The heat hit as soon as he crossed the threshold again, smoke clawing at his throat. He muttered under his breath the whole climb. “Back in the damn fire for a cat. Un-fucking-believable.”

The seventh floor groaned under his boots, the ceiling half-caved, ash falling like snow. He kicked open the first door on the left; the apartment was filled with smoke, but still intact. His ears strained over the hiss of flame, the creak of buckling beams—then he heard it. A sharp, pitiful mewl from under a table. “...You’ve gotta be kidding me,” he muttered, crouching low. The eyes that blinked back at him glowed faintly in the dark, a small gray blur trembling against the wall. Bakugou reached under, ignoring the scorch of heat on his arm as the cat resisted, claws catching on the wood.

“Quit it,” he hissed, finally scooping the squirming ball of fur against his chest. It yowled, frantic, paws scrabbling against his jacket. He tucked it tighter, turned on his heel, and blasted the nearest window wide open. The rain hit them both as he landed outside, the crowd jolting with shouts as they saw what was in his arms. The woman broke free from the officers and rushed forward, hands outstretched, crying openly now.

Bakugou shoved the cat into her arms without ceremony, soaked and glaring. “There, don’t lose him again.”

The woman nearly collapsed when Bakugou shoved the cat into her arms. She cradled it like a newborn, pressing her face into its damp fur, crying out thank-yous between coughs. The damn thing didn’t even appreciate it. One last twist of its claws before he let go, a sharp rake across his cheek, a hot sting cutting through the rain. He hissed, jerking back with a scowl, hand snapping up too late to stop it. The crowd didn’t notice, already buzzing with relief, but Bakugou could feel the thin line of blood tracking down his face, mixing with the water.

“Ungrateful little shit,” he muttered, swiping his sleeve across the scratch. His chest was still heaving, smoke burning in his lungs, but somewhere under the irritation was a flicker he couldn’t kill. He thought of Brick again, imagined Mina screaming bloody murder if he’d left him behind. He hated the comparison—hated that his chest softened at all—but he knew, deep down, it was worth it.

Jeanist was waiting at the edge of the cordon, suit damp but immaculate, the chaos reflected in his dark shades. He didn’t speak right away, just let his gaze track slowly from the gash on Bakugou’s cheek to the soaked state of his gear, then back up again. His expression barely shifted—mouth pressed thin, brows low, eyes unreadable. Disapproval and reluctant approval balanced perfectly in that one look. When he finally spoke, his tone was flat, clipped. “Good work. Saving a cat.”

Bakugou’s scowl deepened. “Don’t start.”

Jeanist didn’t. He only turned back toward the street, issuing the next order as if the conversation was already finished, as if Bakugou’s entire detour hadn’t even been worth raising his voice over. That look lingered, though—quiet, steady, like he was filing it away. Bakugou clenched his jaw, adjusting his gauntlet strap again just to keep his hands busy, the scratch stinging every time the rain touched it. By the time the patrol ended, Bakugou’s phone was so hot with missed calls that it burned in his pocket. Forty-seven texts, five voicemails, emails stacked on emails. He braced himself for it as he finally thumbed the screen back to life, scrolling fast, heart hammering with every new subject line screaming his name.

The first notification that cut through wasn’t hers. It was a news alert.

DYNAMITE RESCUES CHILD, SAVES CAT FROM COLLAPSE.

His thumb hovered, swiping it open despite himself. The headline burned across the screen, his face plastered underneath—soaked, scowling, a thin red scratch cutting down his cheek as he carried the squirming cat through the rain. The photo was already viral, shared a thousand times over with captions swinging between awe and feral laughter.

He barely had time to curse before Miyake’s name lit the top of his screen, her texts stacked into a wall:

Buzzkill #1: Saw the footage.
Buzzkill #1: Do you have any idea what you just did?
Buzzkill #1: You missed the meeting, Dynamite. But—
Buzzkill #1: The internet is eating this alive.
Buzzkill #1: “Hero who saved the cat.” Do you understand? Do you GET IT? This is perfect.

Bakugou grit his teeth, thumb flying across the keyboard before he could stop himself.

Me: it was a fucking CAT.

The typing dots blinked.

Buzzkill #1: And that cat just saved your ass.

He’d never live it down.

Yet—he remembered the little girl clutching her stuffed animal, the woman sobbing into her cat’s fur. He remembered Brick. His chest tightened, conflicted, and he shoved the thought down hard as he adjusted his gauntlet strap. “Fucking cat,” he muttered again, softer this time.

He didn’t go to his own apartment right away. His boots carried him across town almost on their own, rain still dripping from his gear, the scratch on his cheek stinging with every step. By the time he reached Mina and Jirou’s apartment, his jaw was tight, but his chest felt too hollow to turn back. The door wasn’t locked. It never was. He pushed it open without knocking, stepping into the chaos of bright pillows, tangled blankets, and the faint hum of Jirou’s amp buzzing from her room. Mina popped her head out of the kitchen, a wide grin already pulling at her face.

“THE CAT HERO RETURNS!” she shouted, throwing her arms up. “Do you sign autographs now, or just—”

“Where’s Brick?” He muttered, cutting her off. She blinked, caught off guard by the flatness of his tone. Then her grin softened, just a little. She jerked her thumb toward the couch.

Bakugou followed the motion, and there he was. Curled up in the mess of blankets, tiny chest rising and falling, ears twitching at the sound of boots on hardwood. Brick blinked awake slowly, blinking wide eyes before letting out a squeaky mewl. Something in Bakugou’s chest cracked open. He crouched down low, reaching out a hand. Brick stretched once, yawning wide enough to show his little teeth, before stumbling clumsily into Bakugou’s palm. Claws hooked into his sleeve, climbing without hesitation up into his arms.

Bakugou scooped him up against his chest, tucking him under his chin, the steady purr already rumbling like a motor. His throat tightened. He didn’t say anything—not with Mina leaning in the doorway, watching him with that knowing smile—but his arms curled tighter around the small weight anyway.

The hallway was silent when he pushed into his own apartment, Brick tucked against his chest like contraband. He set the kitten down carefully, letting him roam free, tiny paws pattering over the wood floor as his nose went straight for the discarded boots by the door. Bakugou sank down onto the step, dragging at the laces with stiff fingers until they came loose, pulling them off one by one. His feet hit the hardwood, sore and raw, the grain pressing sharp through damp socks.

He exhaled through his teeth, the sound cutting harshly in the quiet. Brick meowed like it was an answer, darting toward his room before vaulting—clumsy, determined—straight onto the bed. Bakugou snorted, shaking his head, but let him stay there, the small lump already burrowing into the blankets. His gear peeled off in heavy layers, wet fabric clinging stubbornly until it slapped against the floor. The straps of his gauntlets rattled when they hit the chair. He rolled his shoulders out, stiff from the fight, the save, the weight of every gaze that hadn’t left him all day.

The shower hissed when he stepped inside, steam clouding up quickly, wrapping heat around him until it sank through the chill in his bones. He braced both palms flat against the tile, water beating down his back, dragging the soot and blood and rain down the drain. For the first time in weeks, he wasn’t moving to a deadline. No meeting waiting. No Jeanist’s schedule breathing down his neck. No photoshoots.

Tomorrow, finally, was his.

He shut his eyes, steam burning against them, and let out a low curse. Except it wasn’t. Not really. Not with Kirishima’s voice still echoing in his head—we have to talk about it later.

Bakugou dropped his head forward, water running off his hair in sheets, jaw clenching hard enough to ache. Brick was waiting, curled up on his bed. The first free day in weeks was finally his, and still, all he could think about was how the hell he was supposed to face Kirishima after begging for him like that.

The next morning crept in slowly, sunlight cutting sharply across the blinds. For once, there wasn’t an alarm dragging him out of bed, no meeting to sprint toward, no patrol schedule hammering his phone. Just Brick’s paws pressing against his chest, a tiny mewl vibrating like a demand until Bakugou grunted awake. He scooped the kitten up with one hand, rubbing the sleep from his eyes with the other. His muscles still ached, the scratch on his face stung when he shifted, but the weight in his chest was lighter than it had been in weeks. Tomorrow wasn’t a promise anymore—it was here. A full day off.

By the time he padded into the kitchen, Brick trailing at his ankles, the apartment smelled faint of coffee and oil. He cracked eggs into the pan, the hiss filling the silence, the spatula scraping against metal. He moved on autopilot—bread in the toaster, rice steaming, protein lined up the way he always did. Brick sat on the floor, tail flicking, eyes locked on every move like he was supervising. Bakugou’s phone sat face down on the table. He didn’t need to check it to know it was buzzing—articles, mentions, probably another wall of texts from Miyake about the cat save. He ignored it, focusing on the pan, the smell of breakfast thick in the air.

The silence wasn’t as quiet as he wanted because he knew Kirishima had the day off too. They’d even texted about it—back when Bakugou had been drowning in work and meetings, their exchanges brief, clipped, just enough to mark this day on the calendar. 

Shitty Hair: Off Sunday? 

Me: Yeah. u? 

Shitty Hair: yeah, finally

He had been excited. Genuinely. The thought of one day when the world wasn’t clawing at him had been enough to keep him moving, but now it hummed under his skin like static, every clatter of the pan reminding him of the words still waiting between them. Bakugou gripped the handle of the pan tighter. Today was his, but it was Kirishima’s too, and sooner or later, the door across the hall was going to open. Oh god, Kirishima. 

He was… adapting. Fine. What else was there to fucking say? He wasn’t broken over it, wasn’t losing his grip. Just—sometimes he’d wake up hard out of his mind, breath caught in his throat, dreams of Kirishima’s mouth or hands still clinging to him. He’d grit his teeth, shove the blanket off, and pretend it hadn’t happened. Pretend it was just stress, just exhaustion twisting his head into knots. He wasn’t about to fucking say it out loud, not to anyone.

What pissed him off more was how little he saw him these days. Before they started… friends with benefits—hooking up, fucking around, whatever—he saw him all the damn time. Kirishima was always there, filling space with noise and stupid grins, the anchor to every long night. But now? Now that Bakugou’s body had caught up with the pull in his chest, now that his dick actually decided to get hard over it, suddenly, they had no time. Agencies. Meetings stacked to the ceiling. They’d barely even talked outside of quick texts, just enough to circle today like it mattered. It pissed him off because, as much as he hated to admit it, as much as he wanted to shove it all down deep, he missed him. The other night was proof enough of that, the way he begged—

The spatula clattered harder than he meant it to against the pan. Brick jumped, tail puffing, glaring up at him like he’d lost his mind. Bakugou scowled back.

The apartment had been silent but for the hiss of the pan, the occasional scrape of spatula against metal. Bakugou’s thoughts churned loudly under it, chewing at the quiet until his chest was tight. Then a door creaked open. Kirishima shuffled out, stretching his arms over his head, a yawn cracking his jaw wide. His hair was a mess, sticking in every direction, pajama pants hanging loose on his hips. He rubbed at one eye, squinting toward the kitchen—only to light up the second he spotted Brick on the counter.

“Brick! Little dude!” The kitten perked at the sound, tail flicking, and the second Kirishima stepped close, he pounced. Tiny claws hooked straight into his leg, climbing with all the feral determination of a jungle cat.

“Ow—shit! Get off of me!” Kirishima yelped, stumbling back as Brick clung harder, claws digging through the thin cotton of his pants. He hopped in place, trying to shake him loose, but the kitten only latched tighter, batting gleefully at the fabric like it was a scratching post. Bakugou snorted, the sound sharp as he flipped the eggs. Kirishima shot him a betrayed look as he wiggled around the kitchen, half-laughing, half-yelling. “He’s trying to kill me, man!”

Brick let out a triumphant little mewl, still clamped tight, and for the first time all morning, the apartment felt full—too loud, too messy, but alive in a way Bakugou hadn’t realized he’d missed until right then. Brick finally released his death grip with one last swipe, springing to the floor before darting off toward the couch. His tail was puffed out like a bottlebrush, ears flat, the picture of tiny evil. He scrambled up onto a pillow, glaring at them both like he’d just won some great battle.

Kirishima groaned, dragging out a long, theatrical “owwwww” as he limped toward the counter. He hooked his fingers under his pajama pants and yanked them up, thrusting his shin out like evidence. “Look at my leg!”

Bakugou glanced down once. The smallest scratch on the planet stared back at him, barely even red, let alone bleeding. He rolled his eyes so hard it hurt. “You should go to the hospital.”

“Dude, it stings!” Kirishima protested, but his grin was already tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Bakugou ignored him, sliding the last egg onto a plate and shoving it into Kirishima’s hands. “Eat.”

Kirishima’s whole face lit up, the scratch instantly forgotten. “Thank you!” he beamed, leaning in before Bakugou could dodge. A quick press of lips against his cheek—warm, easy, thoughtless—and then he was already bounding toward the table, plate in hand. Bakugou froze for a beat, spatula still in his hand, the ghost of the kiss burning hot on his face. Kirishima plopped down, already digging in, not a hint of awkwardness in his posture. No hesitation, no careful tiptoeing around what had happened between them. Just—normal. Bakugou exhaled through his nose, the knot in his chest loosening by a fraction. Good. Fine. If Kirishima wasn’t going to make it weird, then neither would he.

Bakugou had barely dropped into the chair when Kirishima’s voice cut the air.

“So, about the other night…”

The spoon froze halfway to his mouth. The words dropped like a weight between them, pulling the easy noise of breakfast straight out of the room. Kirishima’s voice wasn’t bright anymore, wasn’t carrying that usual bounce. His grin had faded, his face settled into something serious, eyes fixed steadily on him, concerned. Bakugou’s chest tightened. He sighed hard, already bracing, setting his spoon down with a dull scrape.

Kirishima leaned forward, elbows braced against the table. “I’m really, really sorry if I was doing too much—”

Heat slammed into Bakugou’s face, crawling hot under his skin. His throat burned, his ears caught fire. He wanted to throw something, anything, just to drown out the humiliation sparking through him. “I already told you not to fucking apologize,” he snapped, sharper than he meant, his voice low and jagged.

“I know,” Kirishima said quickly, words tumbling out before Bakugou could cut him down further. His expression softened, jaw tense, like he was forcing every word into place. “But I wanted to tease you, not… not make you cry.”

The silence hit harder than the words. Kirishima’s hand slid across the table, slow, deliberate. It settled over Bakugou’s big and warm, steady in a way that felt unbearable. Bakugou scowled down at it, jaw clenched, but he didn’t move. His pulse thudded too loudly in his ears.

“I just…” Kirishima’s voice dropped low, careful. “I want you to be able to tell me if you need me to stop. If you don’t like something—”

Bakugou’s chest went tight, too tight, the words ripping out of him before he could stop them. “I liked it, Kirishima.”

The admission cracked in the air, sharp and raw, hanging between them with nowhere to go. His face burned, his grip locked around the fork like it was the only thing keeping him upright. He couldn’t look up, couldn’t risk seeing what the hell was written on Kirishima’s face. All he could hear was the rain starting up again against the windows, the hum of the fridge, the way his own pulse hammered like a drum in his throat. “…Then why did you cry?”

Bakugou’s breath caught. His eyes snapped up before he could stop himself, meeting Kirishima’s steady crimson gaze. Not accusing. Not mocking. Just… searching.

The question lodged in his throat, clawing against everything in him that wanted to clamp his mouth shut. His nails dug into the underside of the table, every muscle pulled taut. “Because—” His voice cracked sharply, and he bit it back, teeth grinding as his chest pulled tight. Kirishima’s fingers curled gently against his knuckles, waiting. Bakugou dropped his eyes, heat flooding his face, humiliation crawling under his skin. He sucked in a breath, the words clawing out rough. “Because it was too much, alright? I was—” He stopped, throat working, his voice rasping low. “It felt too good… so fucking good, and I didn’t want you to stop.”

It landed between them like a punch, sharp and breathless, but even he knew it wasn’t the whole answer. He could feel it in the silence that followed—the way Kirishima stayed quiet, waiting, the weight of his gaze steady, patient. Bakugou’s chest squeezed tighter, his fingernails digging into his palm. “I was…” He ground his teeth, frustration biting at his throat, until the words tore free, quieter than before. “I was having a terrible fucking day. I’ve been having terrible days.” His voice cracked raw on the repetition, but he forced himself to keep going. “And it felt really good to… get everything out.”

His breath rattled, sharp through his nose. The confession sat like lead in his chest, heavy but… lighter somehow, too, because it was true. The memory of it—of breaking apart, of crying into Kirishima’s shoulder like a fucking mess—didn’t twist as hard as he thought it would when he spoke it out loud. He stopped there, shoulders locked, refusing to lift his eyes again. He felt ten times better after, like his ribs weren’t caving in anymore. Like he could breathe. He’d actually slept—out cold in minutes, held steady until morning. First time in weeks. He’d needed it, and Kirishima… Kirishima had given it to him, like he always fucking did.

Another part of him—some sick, twisted part—liked it. Liked being pushed past his limit, undone piece by piece until he was nothing but wreckage in Kirishima’s hands. Liked the raw edge of it, the way it stripped him bare, left him with no armor, no control. His. Completely his. Maybe that’s why the humiliation sat so heavy in his gut, because buried under it was something worse: he liked asking for what he wanted. Liked the sharp, dizzy satisfaction of giving in, of hearing his own voice crack on a plea and seeing Kirishima’s eyes darken in answer. He liked knowing it wasn’t one-sided—that Kirishima wanted it too, wanted him, every broken, begging piece.

The thought seared hot, too raw to look at directly, and he scowled harder at the table, willing it all back down where it belonged.

Kirishima didn’t move. His hand stayed warm, steady over Bakugou’s, thumb brushing like it was nothing, like he wasn’t pinning him down with his silence. His eyes were too focused, too patient, watching him like he had all the time in the world. Bakugou shifted in his chair, heat crawling up his neck. “What?” he barked, sharper than he intended, like the sound alone might crack the weight between them.

Kirishima’s head tilted, his gaze narrowing slightly. “What else?” he asked, quiet but pointed. Bakugou’s chest tightened. His throat worked hard, words stuck jagged on the way out. He could’ve lied, could’ve shrugged it off, but Kirishima’s stare burned too steady, too close. The silence stretched, his nails digging crescent moons into his palms, until finally—

“…I really liked it.”

It landed heavy, low, and raw, the only thing he could force out. Just that, but it said everything. For a moment, Kirishima stayed still, the words hanging in the quiet space between them. Then, slow as a fuse catching flame, his mouth curved. The grin built deliberately, curling at the corners of his lips, spreading wider, sharp and knowing, until it lit his whole face. Bakugou’s pulse spiked.

“Did you?” Kirishima said at last, voice dipped low, teasing edged like a blade.

Bakugou’s ears burned hot. His scowl came fast, desperate to cover the way his chest lurched, the way his stomach twisted. “Don’t fucking start.”

“Don’t start what?” Kirishima leaned forward slightly, grin carved wider, like he’d just pried open a secret Bakugou thought he’d buried deep.

The spoon clattered against the plate as Bakugou shoved it aside, heat flooding him. He couldn’t decide if he wanted to kill him or kiss him just to shut him up. He went with the latter, the chair screeching back as Bakugou shoved it. He stalked forward, fists curling, intent written all over him. Kirishima didn’t flinch. He sat there, still grinning, eyes locked steady on him. If anything, the look in his face only sharpened, hunger cutting through the curve of his mouth. Bakugou reached for his shirt, ready to drag him up, when Kirishima’s hands snapped firm to his waist. In one smooth motion, he yanked Bakugou forward, pulling him down into his lap. The sudden shift knocked the air out of him, the chair rocking under their weight.

Before Bakugou could bark a word, Kirishima’s mouth was already on his—hot, insistent, kissing him like he’d been waiting the whole damn time. His grip tightened at Bakugou’s sides, anchoring him there, and the world snapped into nothing but heat and breath and teeth. Bakugou’s growl caught in his throat, swallowed whole by the kiss. His hands, meant to shove, curled tight in Kirishima’s shirt instead, clinging as his body betrayed him, melting into the press of lips and heat and want. The grin was gone now, replaced with something hungrier—something Bakugou couldn’t fight, not when Kirishima was kissing him like this, not when it felt like the only thing holding him together.

Bakugou bit down hard, teeth catching Kirishima’s lip, then licked at the sting like he was claiming ground. His hands locked at the back of Kirishima’s neck, dragging him closer, kissing him roughly, then breaking just enough to mouth at his jaw, his throat, chasing the pulse thrumming there. He sucked sharply, desperate for a sound—any sound—like noise meant he was winning.

It worked.

Kirishima groaned, breath catching, low and hot against Bakugou’s ear. The sound jolted through him, satisfaction sparking sharply in his chest. Kirishima wasn’t about to give him the last word. With a sudden shift, he surged up from the chair, hauling Bakugou with him. Bakugou’s legs locked tight around his waist, his hands clenching at Kirishima’s shoulders. Kirishima’s palms gripped under him, strong and sure, squeezing his ass as he held him steady. Bakugou’s breath broke in a sound that wasn’t quite a curse, wasn’t quite a moan—half surprise, half fire.

They didn’t break the kiss. Their mouths dragged messily against each other, lips swollen, breath ragged, teeth clashing as Kirishima carried him. The table was seconds away. Kirishima’s arm shot out, sweeping across it, sending a cup spinning off the edge, liquid spilling across the tile, a spoon clattering loud enough to make Brick yowl from the other room. Neither of them cared. Bakugou hit the wood hard, back arching against it, the edge digging into his spine. Kirishima loomed over him, red hair falling wild, lips already tracing lower, teeth scraping as he kissed down his throat, then lower still.

Bakugou gasped, chest heaving, his hoodie shoved high. Kirishima’s hands dragged firmly over his ribs, down his sides, rough but reverent, until they caught at the hem of his shirt. He yanked it up, kissing as he went, mouth hot against skin. “Fuck,” Bakugou hissed, every nerve lit, every sound spilling from him like Kirishima was pulling it straight out of his chest. His fists twisted in red hair, half trying to shove him back, half keeping him there.

The wood bit into his back, cold and unyielding, but Bakugou barely felt it over the heat crawling up his skin. Kirishima’s hands dragged hard, tugging his hoodie and shirt up in one rough pull, until both were gone, tossed somewhere across the kitchen. The air hit his bare skin sharp, his muscles twitching under the sudden chill—only for Kirishima’s mouth to follow, hot and claiming, erasing it. He kissed down hard, teeth scraping over his chest, then lower, the wet drag of his tongue painting fire across his stomach. Bakugou’s head slammed back against the table, a low curse tearing out of him.

“Fuck—” Kirishima grinned against his skin, then sucked slowly at the ridge of muscle, leaving a mark that burned. His lips trailed lower, teeth catching at the sharp line of his hip, tongue pressing into the hollow until Bakugou jerked.

“Shit—Kiri—” Bakugou writhed, fists clenching at the edge of the table, trying to twist free, to shove him off or drag him closer—he didn’t even know which.

Kirishima’s palms pressed flat against his chest, shoving him down hard enough that the table groaned under the weight. “Stay,” he growled against his skin, voice rough with something darker, and his mouth sealed over another spot, sucking until Bakugou gasped. It was unbearable. The heat, the teeth, the wet drag of his tongue licking across his abs—each touch a sharp brand that made Bakugou’s muscles spasm. His nails dug half-moons into the wood, his chest rising hard against Kirishima’s hold. He was being held down, undone, and marked, and every second of it drove him further off the edge.

Kirishima licked slowly across the curve of his stomach, then sank lower, sucking another mark into the skin just above his waistband. Bakugou’s breath broke ragged, humiliation and want colliding sharply in his chest. “Fuck— Kirishima,” he gasped, his voice cracking into something close to a moan.

Kirishima’s mouth dragged lower, teeth catching on skin just above his waistband, sucking sharp until Bakugou cursed through clenched teeth. Then his voice came, low and rough, buzzing against his skin. “I don’t want you to call me Kirishima when we do this.”

Bakugou blinked down at him, chest heaving, breath catching sharp in his throat. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

Kirishima grinned against his hip, lips brushing the thin line of fabric, hot and maddening. He bit gently at the band of his pants, tugging just enough to make Bakugou jolt. “I don’t want you to call me Kirishima while we hook up.”

Heat tore through him, humiliation and want spiking hard. His head thudded back against the table. “Then what the fuck do you want me to call you?”

Kirishima’s eyes lifted, sharp and burning, his grin curling slowly. “Eijirou.”

The name landed heavily, thick in the air. Bakugou’s mouth went dry, but the word still slipped out of him, raw and breathless. “…Eijirou.”

Kirishima’s reaction was instant. His body pressed down harder, his breath shuddering hot against Bakugou’s stomach, the grin breaking into something darker, hungrier. He could see just how wrecked he was by one word, one fucking name. Bakugou’s lips twisted, heat still crawling under his skin. Kirishima leaned in fully now, his weight pressing Bakugou into the wood, the heat of him searing through every inch of contact. Bakugou hissed, chest arching against the pin, but then he felt it—hard, unmistakable, grinding faintly against his hip as Kirishima shifted.

Bakugou’s eyes blew wide. For a moment, all he could do was breathe, sharp and ragged, staring up at the ceiling like the realization itself had stolen his voice.

He’s hard.

The thought sparked like a fuse. Kirishima wasn’t untouchable, wasn’t just the one dragging him apart piece by piece—he was unraveling, too. Just like on the couch, when Bakugou’s voice had wrecked him, when praise had made him come undone faster than anything else. Slowly, Bakugou’s mouth curled. His lips parted around a breath that shivered out more like a laugh, rough and low. “You liked that, huh?” His voice was still ragged, but sharp with a new edge. His hand slid up, fingers curling against the back of Kirishima’s neck, tugging him down until their mouths nearly brushed. His other hand dug into his side, nails biting through fabric. “Hearing me say it.”

Kirishima’s breath hitched, hot against his lips, his eyes dark and wide. Bakugou smirked through his own panting, sharp and unsteady but certain all the same. “Eijirou.”

The reaction was immediate—Kirishima shuddered hard, a low, helpless sound breaking in his throat before he could catch it. His grip on Bakugou’s waist tightened, his hips pressing down like he couldn’t stop himself. Bakugou’s grin split wider, humiliation and desire twisting together, feeding into something almost triumphant. He had him.

The table groaned loudly under their weight, the wood bowing with every grind of Kirishima’s hips. Bakugou’s head snapped back, teeth bared on a hiss. He could feel it, the strain, the damn thing about to give way under them. Kirishima must’ve felt it too, because just when Bakugou thought he’d be driven through the wood itself, Kirishima shifted, his hands dragging hard over Bakugou’s ribs, then slipping lower. He kissed one last mark against his stomach, lips hot, grin curving against his skin—then pulled back.

Bakugou blinked down, breath ragged, as Kirishima’s weight vanished. He dropped fluidly, sinking to his knees on the tile, the sight so sudden it knocked the air out of Bakugou’s lungs.

Bakugou’s hands slammed against the table behind him, holding himself steady as his legs spread instinctively, his hips tipping forward without his permission. His chest rose and fell fast, his face burning, humiliation and want crashing hard together. Kirishima looked up at him, eyes molten, his grin sharp and hungry from below. His palms pressed firm against Bakugou’s thighs, keeping him open, keeping him steady against the edge of the table.

“Fuck,” Bakugou gasped, voice cracking as he braced hard against the wood, his stomach twitching under the hot drag of breath.

Kirishima only leaned closer, his mouth hovering just above the waistband, lips brushing fabric, his teeth catching slowly at the edge. His voice rumbled low, almost smug, vibrating against Bakugou’s skin. “Say it again.” Bakugou’s chest lurched, his grip tightening until the table bit into his palms. He hated it. He loved it. His mouth fell open, the word clawing out of him before he could stop it.

“…Eijirou.”

The sound of it snapped something open. Kirishima’s eyes darkened, his grin spreading wider as his fingers hooked into the waistband of his pants. Bakugou’s breath broke, a sharp, shuddering sound that filled the kitchen. Kirishima’s grin curved slowly, eyes locked sharp as Bakugou panted above him, braced against the table. The sound of his name still hung in the air—Eijirou—and Bakugou swore it did something to him, like he’d set off a trigger.

Kirishima leaned in closer, grip on his thighs tightening, and his voice came low, rough, and almost unsteady. “Do you want this?”

Bakugou’s chest heaved, throat dry, every muscle strung tight. He stared down, humiliation and hunger clawing at his ribs, but the answer still tore out of him, raw and certain. “Yes.”

Kirishima’s eyes flickered, dark and molten, like he’d been waiting for that word and nothing else.

“Are you sure?” His lips brushed the waistband again, teeth catching the fabric, grin sharp against it.

Bakugou’s head slammed back, his voice breaking open. “Yes… please.”

For a beat, the kitchen went silent except for the sound of his ragged breathing. Then Kirishima laughed low, breath hot against his skin, sharp and smug. “Look at you,” he murmured, lips grazing his hip, “you’re learning.”

Bakugou’s whole body jolted, humiliation scorching hotter than ever, mixing with the heat pooling low in his stomach. His hands gripped the edge of the table until his knuckles went white, and still—still—he couldn’t stop the desperate sound that tore out of him in response. Kirishima’s fingers tugged hard at the waistband, and Bakugou gasped as the fabric slid down, the cool air hitting him sharply. His cock sprang free, flushed and hard, every nerve screaming, and Kirishima’s gaze snapped to it like a starving man. Bakugou’s breath stuttered, his face flaming as his own body betrayed him, twitching under the weight of Kirishima’s stare. He wanted to snarl, wanted to cover himself, but his hands stayed locked against the table, his whole body burning with the fact that he’d said yes—that he wanted this.

Kirishima’s mouth curled slowly, hungrily, as he looked back up at him. “Good,” he murmured, voice shaking with heat. “Because I want this too.”

His hands pressed harder into Bakugou’s thighs, pinning him open as his mouth lowered. The first touch was just a lick—hot, slow, deliberate—dragging up the underside of him. Bakugou jolted, his breath tearing out sharp, his hips twitching against Kirishima’s grip. A rough sound caught in his throat, words burning to spill. Stop teasing— The snarl almost left him, his mouth open, teeth bared—

—but then Kirishima’s hand wrapped firm around him, stroking once, twice, and the moan ripped out of him instead, loud and ragged, echoing through the kitchen.

Kirishima’s grin curved around him, and then his mouth sank lower. Heat swallowed him whole, wet and searing, taking him in until Bakugou’s head slammed back, knuckles white against the edge of the table. His voice cracked again, another moan tearing loose, humiliating and raw, but unstoppable. “Fuck—Eijirou—” His voice broke, hips jerking despite the hands holding him down. Kirishima hummed low around him, the vibration shooting sharply through his body, and Bakugou’s breath shattered. Every muscle trembled, the table creaking under his weight as Kirishima took him deeper, no hesitation, no mercy.

Bakugou was losing it, his pride collapsing under the sheer flood of sensation, his whole world narrowing to heat, mouth, and the sound of his own voice breaking. Instinct had his hands flying to Kirishima’s hair, clutching tight. He could feel it already—that ache winding tight, that desperate need clawing up faster than he wanted to admit. He couldn’t take it slow. He couldn’t take being teased. Not now. Not when he was already breaking apart.

The words ripped out of him before he could choke them back. “Fuck—you look so beautiful like this.” His voice cracked, high and ragged, his chest heaving. “Feels so fucking good.”

Kirishima’s rhythm faltered for half a second, the sound vibrating low in his throat, and Bakugou’s lips twisted into a gasp that was almost a grin. He pressed harder, tangling his fingers in red hair, pushing him down with a rough groan. “God—Eijirou—” The name tore from him again, raw and desperate. “Taking me so good. You’re—fuck—you’re perfect.”

Kirishima moaned around him, deep and wrecked, and the vibration nearly undid him. His thighs trembled, his grip tightening until his knuckles ached, praise spilling from his mouth unrestrained, unstoppable. “Don’t stop—don’t you fucking stop—feels too good—” His voice broke again into a moan, humiliation blazing through him, but he couldn’t shut it up. He needed this, needed him, and the more he gave, the hungrier Kirishima’s mouth got.

Bakugou was spiraling, praise and need tangling together, each word pulling Kirishima deeper, faster, closer to taking him apart completely. Bakugou’s words spilled out raw, breaking between gasps, praise tearing free without his permission. Every line of Kirishima’s body trembled in response, his mouth working harder, hungrier, sucking him down like he couldn’t get enough. Bakugou’s head tipped back, eyes screwed shut, and that’s when he felt it—Kirishima’s rhythm falter again, his breath catch low. Forcing his eyes open, Bakugou looked down.

Heat jolted through him like lightning.

Kirishima was on his knees, red hair falling messily around his face, lips stretched wet and obscene around his cock—and one hand fisted in Bakugou’s thigh, holding him steady, while the other had slipped down, pressing against the hard outline in his sweats. He was palming himself, rubbing slow, needy circles as he worked his mouth over Bakugou like he couldn’t fucking help it. Bakugou’s chest lurched, fire sparking so sharply he almost choked. A sound broke out of him, half moan, half curse. “You’re—fuck—you’re touching yourself?”

Kirishima moaned around him at the words, the vibration shooting straight through him. His hips jerked, his thighs trembling, his nails digging crescents into the wood of the table.

The sight burned into him—Kirishima getting himself off just from this, from the taste, from the sound of his voice breaking open praise after praise. It was filthy. It was perfect, and it had Bakugou teetering right on the edge of coming undone. A grin split across his flushed face, sharp and shaky, his voice spilling ragged through his panting. “Fuck—you’re that desperate?” The words dripped with disbelief, with heat, his chest heaving. 

Kirishima moaned again, the sound guttural, almost broken, vibrating around him, and Bakugou gasped, his thighs clenching tight. His grip twisted hard in red hair, pushing him down, chasing the wet heat. “That’s it,” he rasped, every word cracked and raw. Kirishima’s breath stuttered, his hips shifting against his own hand, and Bakugou lost it—praise spilling, cruel and reverent all at once.

“God, you look so good—fucking perfect, Eijirou. On your knees, taking me—shit—you’re mine like this, you know that?”

Kirishima’s moan pitched high, his whole body shuddering, and the sound dragged another broken cry from Bakugou’s chest. His vision blurred at the edges, his stomach pulling tight, every nerve raw, and he knew he was seconds from tipping over, wrecked by the sight, the sound, the power. Bakugou could feel it—Kirishima unraveling under him, every moan louder, every shift of his hips sharper, his hand working himself harder through his sweats. The sight lit Bakugou up from the inside out, fire and triumph burning just as hot as the need clawing at his stomach.

“Fuck—look at you,” he rasped, voice breaking, dragging Kirishima’s head up just enough to see his face. His lips were wet, swollen, his eyes glassy, his breath hitching raggedly around him. “You’re gonna cum just from this, aren’t you?”

Kirishima groaned loudly, guttural, the sound ripping through him, and it was answer enough. He pulled off suddenly with a slick pop, gasping hard, his hand flying down to shove his sweats lower. His palm wrapped around himself, stroking fast, frantic, desperate. Bakugou froze, staring, chest heaving, every muscle locked as he watched Kirishima come undone. Red hair fell into his eyes, his mouth hung open, and within seconds, he was gasping out a broken moan, his body jerking as he came hard, spilling over his hand and onto the tile and onto himself.

Bakugou’s lips parted, his own breath catching sharp, awe, and heat flooding his veins. He couldn’t look away—not from the way Kirishima’s face twisted, not from the raw, unrestrained noise tearing out of him.

“Holy shit,” Bakugou muttered, voice hoarse, his grip still tight in Kirishima’s hair. Kirishima shuddered through the last of it, gasping as his strokes slowed, his hand sticky and trembling. For a second, he just knelt there, ruined, catching his breath with his forehead pressed against Bakugou’s thigh. Bakugou’s hand twitched in his hair, tugging once, not sure if he meant to shove him away or drag him closer. Then Kirishima lifted his head. His cheeks were flushed, his lips red and wet, his hand still sticky where it gripped Bakugou’s thigh for balance. His eyes found Bakugou’s—dark, molten—and then that grin spread across his face. Slow. Sharp. Hungry.

Bakugou’s chest lurched, his stomach twisting, every nerve screaming at once.

“I’m not done,” Kirishima rasped, voice rough and wrecked, but full of heat.  Bakugou’s head slammed back against the table, a ragged moan tearing out of him, humiliation and relief crashing into each other so hard it nearly split him open.

“Fuck—Eijirou—” His voice cracked raw, his thighs trembling as Kirishima sucked deep, no hesitation this time, just heat and wet and relentless hunger. Bakugou’s hands gripped tight in red hair, his breath broken and uneven, his body bowing hard against the table. He couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t do anything but feel Kirishima’s mouth dragging him closer and closer to the edge.

“Shit, you’re so good—so fucking good—” The praise tore out of him, raw and unrestrained, his voice breaking apart as pleasure ripped through him. His body bowed hard off the table, thighs clamping, his whole world narrowing to the wet heat of Kirishima’s mouth and the flood of release he couldn’t hold back. Bakugou’s voice broke rough, his chest heaving, every muscle strung wire-tight. His grip twisted in Kirishima’s hair, his hips trembling. “Eijirou—fuck—I’m gonna—” The warning cracked out of him, desperately. Kirishima didn’t pull back. Didn’t even slow. His eyes flicked up through his lashes, dark and burning, and Bakugou lost the fight entirely.

He came with a strangled moan, sharp and guttural, his nails biting into Kirishima’s scalp. His vision blurred, his breath shattered, every nerve alight as the aftershocks wracked him, shaking him apart piece by piece. Through it all, Kirishima stayed right there, steady, relentless, holding him until the last wave wrung out of him, but he didn’t swallow. No—he pulled back slowly, lips glistening, his mouth still full, that same wicked smirk curling as he climbed up over him. Kirishima’s mouth crushed against his, hot and filthy, the taste of himself smeared across his tongue. Bakugou’s eyes flew wide, a broken noise clawing up his throat as he jerked under the kiss. Kirishima didn’t let up. His hand slid up, cupping Bakugou’s jaw, firm, steady, tilting his head until the kiss went deeper, until the slick heat in his mouth spilled further between their tongues. Bakugou groaned low, the sound wrecked, torn from somewhere he couldn’t bury. His chest heaved, humiliation searing hot under his skin—but Kirishima was everywhere, weight pressing him to the table, mouth relentless, hand holding him steady until there was no choice. No escape.

He swallowed.

The reaction was automatic, raw, and the second it happened, Kirishima felt it—the subtle pull of his throat, the choked gasp that broke between their mouths. Fuck, if it didn’t make him moan, deep and guttural, his whole body shuddering as he kissed Kirishima even harder. Bakugou’s nails dug into his back, a snarl lost somewhere in the wreck of his breathing, but he couldn’t stop—didn’t want to stop. His pride was screaming, his head spinning, but the taste, the heat, the filth of it burned through every defense until all that was left was need.

Kirishima’s mouth dragged off him slow, leaving him raw and shaking, and his hand came up to steady Bakugou’s jaw, thumb brushing the corner of his spit-slick mouth. His voice was rough, almost wrecked itself, but steady enough to cut through Bakugou’s haze. Kirishima’s hand dragged back from his mouth, slick with the mess of him, glistening in the low light. For a second, Bakugou thought he’d wipe it off on his own thigh, casual, like it was nothing. Instead, he brought his fingers up between them, hovering just inches from Bakugou’s lips.

“C’mon,” Kirishima murmured, low, coaxing, the grin tugging sharp at the edge of his mouth. “Clean it up for me.”

Bakugou froze, breath caught like a fist in his chest. His pride screamed at him to shove it away, to snarl something cutting enough to burn this whole moment to the ground, but the weight of Kirishima’s eyes, steady and molten on him, held him in place, and before he could think better of it, his tongue darted out. Heat crawled up his ears as he licked across Kirishima’s knuckles, slow, tasting Kirishima bitter and salty on his skin. Humiliation clawed at his ribs, sharp enough he thought it might break him apart—but underneath it all was that same sick pulse of want, winding tighter every second.

By the time Kirishima’s fingers slid free, wet and shining, Bakugou’s chest was heaving, shame curling hot in his gut.

Kirishima didn’t pull away completely. He pressed his thumb against Bakugou’s lips, sliding it past them just enough to rest heavily on his tongue. Bakugou froze, the taste still bitter in his mouth, heat clawing under his skin. His nails bit into Kirishima’s arms, but he didn’t move.  Kirishima’s grin sharpened, eyes glinting as he leaned closer. “Knew you’d do it,” he murmured, thumb pressing deeper against his tongue, holding him there. “Tough guy act, and here you are… sucking down everything I give you.”

Bakugou’s ears went scarlet, his breath breaking around the thumb, humiliation roaring so loud in his chest it drowned out thought. His jaw worked like he wanted to bite, to spit it out, but the sick twist in his gut told the truth—that he didn’t. Not yet. Kirishima chuckled low, the sound curling hot against his ear. “You look better like this. Can’t even argue, can you?”

Kirishima’s thumb pressed deeper against his tongue, grin cutting wide as he dragged the words out low.  “Bet you’d do it again if I told you to.” His eyes burned hot, steady on Bakugou’s flushed face. Bakugou’s whole body trembled, humiliation roaring through him, but the heat was just as sharp, twisting in his gut until his nails dug half-moons into Kirishima’s arms. He hated it—hated how he couldn’t even spit the thumb out, hated how his chest heaved like it was breaking him apart. A sound came out muffled, ragged against the weight in his mouth. Kirishima’s laugh was low, almost breathless, like he was drunk on the sight. Then—his eyes flickered, breaking from Bakugou just for a second. He blinked, the grin faltering as he actually looked around them.

The kitchen was wrecked.

Bakugou’s hoodie lay half-crumpled near the fridge, his shirt tossed somewhere closer to the hall. One chair had tipped over completely, and another was shoved back at a crooked angle. Water streaked down the wall from the cup they’d knocked over, the spoon glinting on the tile. The floor—fuck—the floor was a mess, streaks and drops catching the morning light. “Oh…” Kirishima’s voice cracked with the realization, half-laugh, half-shock. His grin tugged back slowly, eyes darting from the floor to Bakugou, still pinned under his weight. “…We might’ve gone a little overboard.”

Kirishima’s eyes lingered on the mess for another beat, then slid back to Bakugou. The sight of him—flushed to the roots of his hair, chest still heaving, face half-buried under his own hand—pulled something softer out of him. The grin eased, the sharpness fading, replaced by something steady, warm. Kirishima’s lips brushed softly over his temple, then his cheek, each kiss a balm against the rawness still burning under Bakugou’s skin. The warmth of it spread slowly, steadily, threatening to undo him all over again.

He had no idea what the hell they were doing. One minute they were talking—arguing, even—and the next, they’d torn the kitchen apart like something feral had taken over. It hadn’t been planned, hadn’t been thought out. It was messy, impulsive, way too intense. He didn’t even know if it was healthy. Who did this? Who cried in someone’s arms and then ended up—whatever the hell that was—ten minutes later? What kind of person liked that?

Bakugou kept his eyes fixed on the ceiling, jaw locked tight, refusing to turn his head. He couldn’t. Not when his face was on fire, not when his chest still heaved like he’d been dragged through a war. Looking at Kirishima now would split him wide open, so he stayed rigid, breath shallow, staring anywhere but at him. Kirishima leaned over him, weight still anchoring him to the table, eyes flicking over his face with too much care. His voice dropped low, almost coaxing. “What’s wrong?”

Bakugou’s chest heaved, his throat tight. He could feel his face burning, his ears hot enough to sear off, but the words refused to come. His jaw locked. His fists curled against the wood. How the hell was he supposed to say it? That he didn’t know why he’d gone along with every humiliating thing. That he didn’t know why it lit him up from the inside, why it made his chest feel like it was splitting open. That part of him liked it—liked giving in, liked being shoved past the point of control until all he could do was beg.

The silence stretched, sharp enough to cut. His breath came out rough, uneven, humiliation knotting tighter with every second he couldn’t answer. Kirishima tilted his head, and then that grin tugged at his mouth, softer now, knowing. “Wait… are you embarrassed?”

Kirishima laughed under his breath, low and breathless. “Man, your face—look at you. You’re, like, glowing.” His voice was full of awe, not mockery, something stupidly fond bleeding through. “Every time I say something, you go redder. You pretend to hate it, but I can see it—your whole face gives you away.”

“Shut up,” Bakugou muttered, voice rough, but it came out weak, half-cracked.

Kirishima grinned wider, leaning down just enough that his breath brushed Bakugou’s ear. “Nah, seriously. You’re not the only one who’s into weird shit sometimes. It’s fine, man. You like getting a little flustered—like, when I talk like that? I can feel you react. It’s not bad. It’s kinda… hot, honestly.”

Bakugou went still, muscles locking tight. Kirishima’s voice dropped, steady but softer now. “I don’t do it to mess with you. I just like seeing you like this—real. Not all stiff and perfect like you are when you’re out there. You let go for once. That’s all I wanted, y’know? For you to feel good. You deserve that.” The words hit him harder than anything else had. His chest pulled tight, heat and shame tangling until it was impossible to tell them apart. Kirishima chuckled again, quiet, thumb tracing over the edge of Bakugou’s jaw. “So yeah,” he murmured, smiling against his temple, “maybe you’re kinda a freak. Guess I am too. Works out.”

He paused, thumb still lingering there, eyes flicking down over Bakugou’s face like he couldn’t help himself. His voice came out lower this time, rougher. “I like when I can take control a bit,” he admitted, half-laughing like he was saying something stupid. “Like this—getting you to relax, seeing what you like. I also like when you take it back.” He grinned, sheepish but burning at the edges. “Like on the couch. That—shit, that was—yeah.”

Bakugou’s brow twitched, his voice cutting through the air before Kirishima could dig himself deeper. “Strokes your ego?”

Kirishima groaned, burying his face against Bakugou’s neck for a second, laughter spilling out muffled and warm. “No—okay, yeah, a little, maybe,” he admitted, words shaking with a grin. He leaned back enough to meet Bakugou’s eyes, cheeks red but eyes bright. “I don’t know why, but I like it, and I really like it when you say things.”

Bakugou’s chest kicked tight again, pulse pounding hard enough he felt it in his throat. He didn’t know what the hell to do with that—how easy Kirishima made it sound, how effortlessly he said the kinds of things Bakugou couldn’t even think without combusting. He swallowed, eyes flicking away, voice coming out low. “You talk too much.”

Bakugou’s eyes snapped away, burning. His whole body jerked like he’d been caught in something filthy, shame dragging hot and heavy through him. Kirishima’s grin widened, but the laughter that slipped out wasn’t sharp—it was warm, disbelieving. He leaned closer, thumb brushing slowly across Bakugou’s cheek, his voice dropping to something steady. “Hey, you don’t need to be embarrassed.” His breath ghosted warm against Bakugou’s skin. “You just… like being humiliated a little and I like... well I'm not sure what I like! There’s nothing wrong with that.”

The words hit harder than any blow he’d ever taken. Bakugou’s breath split raggedly, his hand flying up to wipe at his face, muffling a curse that cracked under its own weight. His stomach twisted violently, every nerve sparking white-hot. What the fuck was wrong with him? Why did it make his chest pound harder, his gut coil tighter? Why did hearing it out loud—hearing Kirishima say it—make it worse? Kirishima chuckled low, the sound soft, fond, as he pressed a kiss against the corner of Bakugou’s mouth. “I mean it. Nothing wrong with it, not with me.”

And seriously—what the hell was wrong with Kirishima? Since when did he talk like that? Bakugou had known him for years, had fought beside him, laughed with him, lived with him—and never once did he think the guy could even form those kinds of words. Not with that grin, not with that voice that went low and rough like that. It shouldn’t have been possible. It shouldn’t have sounded that good. The realization hit like a punch to the ribs. He didn’t know Kirishima could be like this—bold, teasing, dirty, calm about it. It wasn’t just that Kirishima wasn’t running; he was leaning in, confident and unflinching, like he’d been waiting for Bakugou to catch up.

Something inside him cracked wide open, a flood of heat and confusion rushing in all at once. He didn’t know if he wanted to bolt or pull him closer. Everything he’d been holding back—every thought he’d buried so deep he could barely name it—came surging to the surface. Bakugou squeezed his eyes shut, refusing to look at him, not when the words rang that deep, not when the shame and the heat tangled until he couldn’t breathe around it.

Kirishima lingered close, still grinning, thumb brushing along Bakugou’s jaw like he wasn’t currently dying of humiliation. “Look… we both—” he hesitated, but his smile tugged wider, brighter, “—we’re clearly kinda kinky. And that’s fine! We could, I don’t know… research stuff? Experiment a little? See what we like, what we don’t like—”

Bakugou blinked at him, utterly dumbfounded. “Experiment?” he rasped. “You just kissed me with MY cum in your mouth and you think we’re only now experimenting?”

The words landed like a slap of sound in the quiet. For a second, Kirishima just stared, mouth open, eyes wide, the color rushing to his ears before the laughter hit him. It came out rough and helpless, breaking the tension clean in half. He tipped his head back, hand over his face, shoulders shaking. Bakugou just watched him, chest still heaving, voice raw. “I didn’t stop you because I’m fucked in the head,” he said, flat, like a confession he hated hearing out loud. Then, quieter, almost under his breath, “You’re also fucked in the head.”

Kirishima’s laughter faltered, the grin still caught at the corner of his mouth as he looked back down at him, eyes bright with disbelief. “What—no judgment? I thought that was the rule.”

Bakugou’s jaw tightened. “No, I’m fucking judging.” He gestured vaguely at the wrecked kitchen, the overturned chair, the mess still cooling on the tile. “This is insane. You’re insane.”

Kirishima blinked at him, the laugh finally dying in his throat. For a heartbeat, the only sound was their breathing — uneven, overlapping, filling the empty space they’d just burned through. Then the corner of his mouth twitched again, a small, incredulous huff slipping out. “Yeah,” he said, voice low, still catching his breath. “Probably.”

Bakugou exhaled slow, trying to steady himself, trying to think—but Kirishima’s eyes were already glinting again, that grin creeping back in like he couldn’t help himself. “But hey…” he started, voice lighter now, teasing, dangerous. “You did like it though, right? ‘Cause I really did.” Bakugou froze. It took a full second for the words to register. When they did, his head snapped up, eyes wide, ears flushing red so fast it hurt. Kirishima’s grin deepened, watching the reaction hit. “What? I’m just being honest,” he said, a laugh already breaking through the edges of his voice. “Can’t lie, Bakugou—that was… yeah.”

Bakugou just stared at him like he couldn’t believe he was hearing this, mouth parting with a disbelieving exhale. “You’re out of your damn mind,” he muttered, voice hoarse. “You actually are.”

Kirishima only laughed harder, the sound spilling bright and unrestrained through the wreck of the kitchen. Bakugou groaned, dragging his hand down over his face, wishing the table would split open and swallow him whole. His ears were blazing, his chest heaving like he’d just run a marathon.

“Shut the fuck up,” he snapped, voice rough and ragged, every word bitten out through clenched teeth. He shoved weakly at Kirishima’s chest, not enough to move him. “You’re making it worse.”

Kirishima’s laughter burst out warm and easy, filling the kitchen like it wasn’t strung with tension. He pressed a kiss against Bakugou’s temple, still smiling against his skin. “Alright, alright. I’ll stop.”

Bakugou’s gut twisted harder, shame and heat tangling until he couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began. He shut his eyes, refusing to look at him, not when his face burned this hot, not when Kirishima’s grin lingered like he’d won. Something twisted in him; Kirishima wouldn’t win. Bakugou dragged his hands down his face, forcing himself upright, every muscle still buzzing. His eyes finally cut to the wreck of the kitchen—the tipped chair, the water streaks, the spoon on the floor, and the mess glinting on the tile. His lip curled, irritation sparking sharply.

“Great,” he muttered, voice rough as gravel. “Now we’ve gotta fucking clean all this shit up.”

Kirishima blinked, then laughed, not an ounce of regret in it. “Yeah, we definitely did a number on—”

Bakugou didn’t hear the rest. His brain was still short-circuiting, replaying everything that had just happened—the way Kirishima had looked at him, the way his voice had dropped, confident, teasing, sure. It was insane. All of it. The kind of thing he shouldn’t have liked, shouldn’t have let happen—and yet, every memory of it hit like a pulse of heat low in his gut. What really threw him was how much Kirishima had liked it when Bakugou pushed back. When he took the control right out of his hands. He’d seen it—Kirishima’s breath catching, the flush that followed, the way he leaned into it instead of pulling away. He’d liked that. The worst part? So had Bakugou. He liked the struggle. The back-and-forth. The feeling of losing control just long enough to take it back. He liked that Kirishima didn’t shy away from it—that he met him there, matched him beat for beat. It was a terrifying kind of honesty, the kind that stripped them both down to something raw and real.

Standing there now, looking at the mess they’d made, it hit him just how far they’d already gone. How much he’d let himself want. His throat worked, a sound caught somewhere between a laugh and a curse.

Bakugou cut him off, eyes narrowing, voice biting low. “Then why don’t you start by cleaning up your mess off the floor, Eijirou?”

Kirishima froze mid-laugh. The change was instant. His grin faltered, lips parting as his breath hitched, like the sound had grabbed him by the throat. The color flushed high up his neck, blooming fast. Bakugou didn’t miss it. He’d remembered the way Kirishima had said it before—say my name when we do this—half teasing, half plea. The silence thickened. Kirishima’s grin came back slow, shakier this time, eyes darker, voice rough around the edges. “Oh,” he breathed out, a small, stunned laugh following. “So that’s what we’re doing.”

Bakugou’s pulse jumped, but he didn’t back off. The air between them was too heavy to ignore now, the heat too close to separate. He moved in, slow, careful, until his chest brushed Kirishima’s. His hands caught in the fabric of Kirishima’s shirt—not pulling, just grounding. “You’re so damn cocky,” Bakugou muttered, voice low but steady, more gravel than threat. “You tell me to say it, you push, and then act all surprised when I do?”

Kirishima’s smirk didn’t falter; if anything, it curved sharper. His breath was hot against Bakugou’s mouth, crimson eyes glinting like fire. “Then shut me up.”

The words hit like a match strike. For a split second, neither of them moved—just the sound of their breathing, ragged and uneven, the air between them pulsing. Then Bakugou did. He slammed his mouth against Kirishima’s, teeth clashing, a sound muffled into heat. The impact wasn’t graceful; it was a collapse, a breaking point. Kirishima gasped into it, the sound half a groan, half a laugh, his hands flying up to Bakugou’s shoulders like he’d been waiting for this—like he’d known it was coming all along. The kiss deepened fast, rough and uneven, all breath and instinct. Kirishima bit back, just enough to sting, fingers curling tight in the fabric at Bakugou’s back. Bakugou pressed harder, his own breath catching somewhere between a growl and a gasp, everything shaking loose at once—control, thought, restraint. “You think I won’t?” Bakugou hissed between kisses, voice tearing out raggedly. His hands gripped Kirishima’s thighs, thumbs digging deep, and shoved him back a step. He doesn’t give Kirishima time to respond, hauling him up, the motion rough, effortless with adrenaline. Kirishima’s legs clamped around his waist instantly, dragging them flush, grinding hard. Their mouths crashed together again, wet and furious, as Bakugou stalked him backward until Kirishima hit the counter with a thud, legs cinched tight around his waist.

The plates rattled, the edge digging into Bakugou’s hips as he pressed him down against it, hands spreading wide across his thighs to pin him in place. Bakugou ground forward hard, skin dragging hot, friction sparking sharp enough to steal the air from his lungs. The rush hit too fast—heat flooding his body, his cock straining hard against the rough press of Kirishima’s jeans—and it made his head spin. His breath broke ragged against Kirishima’s mouth, lightheaded from how quickly it slammed into him, from how hard he was.

The world blurred, hot and fast, his chest heaving like he couldn’t breathe around the pressure coiling low in his gut. Every drag of their cocks sent another wave of heat tearing through him, every sound Kirishima made feeding the dizzy rush until Bakugou genuinely thought he might black out from it. Kirishima’s head tipped back against the cabinets, his laugh breaking out rough and breathless between groans. “Fuck—you sound wrecked, man. You like this more than me, admit it—”

Bakugou’s snarl cut sharply through the heat, his teeth dragging at Kirishima’s throat before he snapped his head up, eyes blazing. “You’re one to talk about being fucking kinky,” he spat, breath hot against his ear. His hips ground forward, harder, dragging a choked sound out of him. “You’ve got a fucking praise kink.”

Kirishima’s eyes blew wide, a flush tearing across his face even redder than the strain in his hair. His breath stuttered, his grip on Bakugou’s shoulders faltering for half a beat. Bakugou caught it instantly—the way the words landed, the way it rattled him—and he grinned, feral, victorious. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.” He drove his hips forward again, relentless, voice rasping low. “Shut the fuck up and take it.”

Bakugou felt Kirishima jolt under him, that flush ripping across his face, and he knew he had him. Victory curled hot and sharp in his chest, even as his own breath broke ragged. “Pathetic,” he hissed against his ear, grinding harder, the counter creaking under their weight. “You get off on that shit?” His hand slid up, gripping the back of Kirishima’s neck, forcing his head back so he could see the mess of his face.

Kirishima’s eyes screwed shut, his mouth falling open around a broken groan. Bakugou’s grin twisted, teeth bared, cruel and hungry. “Look at you—chasing it. You wanna be good for me that badly, huh?”

Another thrust, sharp and grinding, and Kirishima gasped, clutching at his shoulders like he was drowning. "That’s it,” Bakugou spat, voice tearing low, wrecked. “Take it. Take it and don’t fucking stop. You’re good—you’re so fucking good for me.” The words came out like venom, but the way Kirishima buckled under them only pushed Bakugou higher, made his head spin faster. Kirishima’s moan split open, raw and desperate, his legs tightening around Bakugou’s waist until there was no space left between them. His whole body shuddered, every line of him trembling under the praise, under the bite of Bakugou’s voice. Bakugou reveled in it—the way control tilted, the way he could twist Kirishima’s heat back on him until they were both unraveling against the counter.

The counter rattled under them, Bakugou driving forward like he could carve victory out of every grind, every sound ripped from Kirishima’s throat. His breath tore ragged, dizzy, heat coiling too fast, too tight, his chest pressed flush to Kirishima’s as he spat the words like curses. “You’re good—fuck—you’re so good for me,” he snarled against his mouth, teeth clashing, lips dragging raw. “My good boy. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”

Kirishima choked on a moan, legs cinching tighter around Bakugou’s waist, grinding back hard enough to bruise. His nails dug crescents into Bakugou’s shoulders, his whole body shuddering under the weight of it. Bakugou’s head spun, heat snapping sharp in his gut, the praise pouring out like it burned his tongue but fed the fire all the same. “You’re perfect. You’re fucking perfect.”

The counter rattled under them, every grind harder than the last. Bakugou’s fingers dug deep into Kirishima’s hips, bruising, holding him pinned like he could keep him there forever. His breath tore ragged, low growls spilling out with every thrust. Kirishima’s head tipped back, his voice breaking open, filth spilling out unchecked. “Fuck— just like that—don’t stop, Bakugou, please—” His nails raked down Bakugou’s shoulders, a choked groan tearing from his chest. “God, I love it when you use me like this—I can take it—”

Sweat stung his eyes, his lungs heaving, but it was nothing compared to the sound Kirishima was making—the broken, filthy moans spilling out of him like he couldn’t stop. “Fuck—Bakugou, I—I can’t—I'm going to cum—” His voice cracked, desperate, his nails clawing down Bakugou’s back. “Just let me—please, please—”

Bakugou’s chest heaved, his snarl catching on a groan, the sound jagged. “Then cum, Eijirou. Fucking cum for me.”

Kirishima’s moan split the air, loud and raw, his whole body locking tight around Bakugou’s waist as he shuddered apart. The heat of him coming undone against him lit Bakugou up like an explosion, snapping every nerve raw. His own orgasm slammed into him a heartbeat later, brutal and blinding, weak sounds tearing out raggedly as his vision whited. His legs gave, knees buckling hard enough that he nearly collapsed against the counter, clutching Kirishima like the only anchor left. The world spun, sweat slick on his skin, chest heaving like he’d just run hundreds of miles. His grip slackened only when he realized his fingers were still digging bruises into Kirishima’s hips, and even then, he could barely lift his head, dazed from how hard it hit him.

Bakugou’s forehead hit Kirishima’s shoulder, breath tearing out in ragged gasps, his body still twitching with aftershocks. Black dots flickered at the edges of his vision; everything felt too bright, too loud, but somehow distant, like he was underwater. He realized belatedly that he was laughing—broken little huffs shaking out of his chest—because what else was there to do? He’d just cum so hard he thought he might pass out on his own damn kitchen counter. Kirishima started laughing too, the sound cracked and breathless but warm, his hands still resting on Bakugou’s back where they’d been gripping him. They both leaned there, pressed together, the counter sticky and cold under Bakugou’s palms.

“Did you…” Kirishima’s voice was hoarse, still bright with disbelief. “Did you call me a fucking good boy?”

Bakugou blinked up at him, eyes heavy, lips parting. His voice rasped low, like gravel. “I don’t know half of what I said.”

Kirishima grinned, head falling back as another laugh tumbled out of him. “Me neither.”

Bakugou stared at him for a beat—messy hair, flushed skin, bruises blooming under his hands—and the corner of his own mouth twitched up. Still dizzy, still dazed, but weirdly light, like something had cracked open between them. Bakugou’s arms trembled as he finally eased Kirishima down from the counter, his slides squeaking against the floor. For a second, he thought he’d just let go, step back, breathe, but his body didn’t listen. His hands lingered, tightening instead of releasing, and before he could stop himself, his head dropped onto Kirishima’s shoulder.

Kirishima stilled, startled only for a heartbeat before his arms wrapped around him without hesitation—tight, grounding, steady. He tugged him close until their chests pressed together, until Bakugou’s weight rested fully against him. Soft kisses trailed through his hair, along his temple, brushing the edge of his jaw. Another pressed gentle into the curve of his neck, lingering like he was afraid Bakugou might slip away if he didn’t hold him everywhere at once. Bakugou huffed against his shoulder, the sound shaky, not quite a laugh. He didn’t pull away, not when it felt this easy to stay. Bakugou swallowed hard, eyes falling shut, the tension slowly bleeding out of his shoulders. For the first time in weeks, maybe longer, he let himself lean in fully, no walls, no fight—just the solid, unshakable warmth of someone holding him like he was worth it.

They stayed like that for a long moment, Bakugou’s head on his shoulder, Kirishima’s lips pressing quiet, unhurried kisses wherever he could reach. The kitchen smelled like sweat and sex and breakfast gone cold, water still dripping faintly from the counter where a cup had tipped. Eventually, Bakugou pulled in a breath, steadying himself, and shifted back—just enough to look at the wreckage. “Fuck,” he muttered. The hoodie on the floor. His shirt crumpled near a tipped chair. A spoon halfway across the room, accompanied by a plate. He almost groaned at the sight.

Kirishima laughed softly, rubbing his back once before letting his hands slide away. “Guess we made a mess, huh?”

Bakugou rolled his eyes, bending to grab his hoodie. “No shit.” He shook it out, tossing it onto the back of a chair, but his movements lacked bite. There was no bark in his voice, just weariness softened by the edge of something warmer. Kirishima joined him without a word, picking up the cup, mopping at the spilled water with a dish towel. He hummed as he moved, off-key, aimless, the kind of noise that filled space without demanding anything. When Bakugou straightened again, he found Kirishima already crouched to set the chair back on its legs, grinning up at him like none of this was strange.

When it was finally done, the kitchen looked normal again—like nothing had happened. But Bakugou could still feel it thrumming in his skin, the heat of Kirishima’s arms, the press of his mouth against his hair. He stood there with the dish towel in hand, caught in the quiet, until Kirishima leaned close and bumped him again, gentler this time. "See? Teamwork,” he said, smile easy.

Kirishima bent to pick up a cup from the floor, setting it gently in the sink. When he turned back, his eyes landed on Bakugou, lingering in a way that made the back of his neck prickle. His grin faltered, something softer slipping through. “Hey…” Kirishima’s voice was quieter than the hum of the fridge, almost swallowed by the room. He scratched at the back of his neck, shifting from one foot to the other. “I know you’re probably… tired. I’m not asking for more, I swear.”

Bakugou frowned, straightening, bracing for something dumb. “Spit it out.”

Kirishima’s smile pulled, small and hesitant—shy in a way Bakugou had never seen on him. “I just… I just wanna shower with you.”

The words landed like a weight dropped in his gut. Bakugou blinked, heat crawling up his ears, the rest of him suddenly too aware of his half-bare skin. Out of everything they’d done—all the kissing, the grinding, the desperate hands—it hadn’t been this. Not fully. Never stripped down to nothing. His stomach twisted, shame and hesitation locking up his jaw. “I…” He cut himself off, teeth grinding, shoulders rigid.

Kirishima’s brows pinched, but he didn’t push. He stepped closer, voice steady but still carrying that edge of nerves. “It doesn’t have to be a big deal. I just… wanna stand there with you. Wash all this off.” His smile softened, earnest enough it ached. “That’s all.”

Bakugou just stared at him for a second, the words catching somewhere in his throat. This whole thing was already weird. A conversation about why he’d cried had turned into them half-destroying a kitchen — cabinets dented, water still dripping from the sink, the air still charged enough to sting. Now the fucker wanted to shower with him? It was humiliating that this—just being seen—was harder than anything else. He looked at Kirishima, really looked at him, his eyes soft, everything about him so soft, comforting. Bakugou would be okay. He shoved off the counter, yanking his sweats down in one rough motion, ears burning hot. “Don’t make it fucking weird.” Kirishima’s grin returned, wide and relieved, the tension breaking from his shoulders. He just reached out, lacing their fingers together, and tugged him gently down the hall.

The bathroom light was soft, steam already curling up the mirror. Bakugou stood stiff, jaw locked, as Kirishima tugged his sweats the rest of the way down. His hoodie and shirt were already gone, scattered somewhere across the hall. Now there was nothing left between him and the heat of the room, and for the first time he felt like he couldn’t hide behind anything—no quirk, no snarl, no half-zipped pants. Just skin, pale under the harsh light. Exposed.

He clenched his fists at his sides, every muscle burning with discomfort, but then Kirishima leaned in, lips brushing his cheek, his temple, then down to the sharp edge of his jaw. Gentle. Feather-light. The kind of touch Bakugou had no idea what to do with, except feel his throat loosen as something in his chest eased just enough for him to breathe. Without thinking, he reached for Kirishima’s shirt, tugging it up and over broad shoulders. The sight was familiar—he’d seen it a hundred times, sweaty from training or after patrol—but it still made his pulse spike. And then his hands drifted lower.

Kirishima’s grin faltered. Not gone, but tight, uncertain. His body went still under Bakugou’s touch as his fingers brushed the waistband of his sweats. For the first time, he looked like the one bracing, not sure if he wanted to be fully seen. Bakugou froze, breath caught in his chest. He knew that feeling. Knew it too well. The thought of Kirishima standing there with the same knot in his stomach—it twisted something sharp in him. So instead of pulling back, he leaned forward, pressing his mouth to the curve of Kirishima’s neck. Just a kiss, soft, lingering. One more down the center of his chest. “It’s fine,” he muttered against his skin, voice low, rougher than he meant it.

Kirishima’s eyes fluttered shut, the tightness in his smile easing as Bakugou worked the drawstring loose. The pants slid down, pooling at his ankles with a soft thud.  They stood there, both of them bare now, both of them stripped of everything but the steam curling around their bodies. For the first time, neither of them had to cover it. The steam wrapped them like a veil, hot water streaming down their shoulders, washing away the stickiness of sweat and the chaos of the kitchen. For once, there was no rush, no urgency pressing at Bakugou’s ribs. Just the steady hiss of water and the heat soaking into his skin.

Kirishima’s hand found his under the spray, fingers lacing tight, grounding him against the tile. Bakugou let it happen, let himself lean into the warmth, though his chest still buzzed with the discomfort of being bare. It should’ve been too much—was too much—but Kirishima’s grip held steady, never pushing, never asking for more than what Bakugou could give.

They washed each other quietly, trade-offs without a word. Soap lathered in big, calloused hands rubbed down Bakugou’s arms, over the curve of his shoulders, fingers kneading gently into the knots of muscle. In return, Bakugou worked the suds through Kirishima’s hair, spiking it up only for the water to press it flat again. His hands trailed over his chest, down his sides, slow and careful, mouth brushing lazy kisses against damp skin as if to mark every inch he touched.

Sometimes they kissed—just soft presses of lips, wet with steam, lingering a moment longer than necessary. Not hungry, not teasing. Just closeness, simple and quiet.

When Kirishima finally spoke, it was a whisper, almost drowned by the spray. “Thank you.”

Bakugou blinked, pulling back just enough to scowl at him, though the softness of it barely held. “…For what?”

Kirishima shrugged, a small smile tugging at his mouth, eyes bright even under the haze of steam. “For showering with me.”

Bakugou’s chest squeezed, too tight, too raw. He rolled his eyes, huffing out a grumble that sounded more like surrender than annoyance, and tugged him closer, pressing his forehead to Kirishima’s. Neither of them said anything else. They didn’t have to. The water ran hot, the room fogged thick, and for the first time in weeks, Bakugou let himself stand still and just be.

The weeks blurred again, but different this time. Not with the crushing press of deadlines or the gnawing pit of exhaustion—this time it was lighter, almost manageable. Bakugou finally figured out how to carve his hours, how to keep the hero work from swallowing the PR, how to keep himself from burning out before he even started. Kirishima was everywhere in the gaps.

Their agencies weren’t far from each other, just a handful of streets between. It meant lunch breaks became something new—ten stolen minutes in some back alley, Kirishima’s back pressed against the wall, their lips locked in rough, hurried kisses that broke into laughter when one of them swore too loudly. Sometimes it was just touching, leaning into each other, sharing a stupid snack they’d grabbed on the run. Little pieces of normal shoved into the chaos, and it worked. It kept Bakugou sane.

Still, there were moments—quiet ones, in the space after laughter or before they pulled apart—where doubt crept in. He didn’t really know if what they were doing was okay. If this counted as something, or if it was just a mess they’d both decided not to name. It wasn’t clean, or simple, or even fair. But it felt good. It steadied him. So he ran with that feeling. He let Kirishima lead most of the time—followed his cues, his warmth, his stupid grin that made everything feel easier. Bakugou never asked for anything outright; he didn’t have to. Kirishima always teased it out of him anyway, patient and relentless in a way that made his chest tighten. It was confusing as hell, and maybe it was wrong, but it was the only thing that made sense lately.

Inferno launched like wildfire. The site nearly crashed the first day, half the stock gone in hours, most of it sold out by the end of the week. His parents were so damn excited, they were well known and well off, but never regarded like this. Miyake was smug for once, not sharp, and so thrilled she gave him a rare gift: a few days without PR meetings. It felt like breathing clean air again. People wanted more, and Miyake made damn sure they would get it.

He had to keep posting. Not just campaign shots, but something. A steady stream, curated but personal. He hated it, hated the idea of showing more than he wanted to, but he did it anyway. He posted a photo of Brick sprawled on the couch, tiny paws in the air, orange sunlight cutting across his fur. The reaction was immediate. Comments blew up, not with thirst or speculation, but with soft awe.

Comments:

GUYSSSS saved a cat during the fireeee thiis all makes os much more sense

Dynamite’s a softie confirmed

hes showing us his son yall 💔

Bakugou grumbled about it, but the truth was it settled warm in his chest, too heavy to ignore. Brick was his, and people liked him for it, and for once it didn’t feel like PR bullshit. The warmth didn’t stop there. When he dropped Brick off, Mina was buzzing around her apartment, hair piled up in some messy bun, the smell of nail polish sharp in the air. She scooped the kitten out of his arms with a dramatic coo, pressing her nose to his fur as Brick meowed in protest. Bakugou stood there for half a second, shifting his weight, ready to leave, but something about the way her shoulders slumped when she thought no one was looking, the way her laugh rang a little too forced when Jirou called something from the other room—it tugged at him. Before he could think better of it, he reached out, slid an arm around her shoulders, and pulled her into a quick side hug.

“Take care of the little shit,” he muttered, releasing her just as fast, already moving for the door. Mina blinked, caught off guard, but by the time she opened her mouth to say something, he was gone. It wasn’t until later, when his phone buzzed, that it clicked.

Pinky: thanks. I needed that today.

He stared at the text, thumb hovering uselessly over the keyboard, his chest tight in a way he couldn’t pin down. He hadn’t thought about it—hadn’t meant anything by it, but maybe he’d read her without realizing— or maybe he really was just a big fucking softie, the way everyone kept saying.

Family night was always loud. Mina’s apartment buzzed with music and chatter, a spread of takeout boxes crowding the table, the couch already claimed by Sero’s long legs. Kaminari had a drink in one hand, chopsticks in the other, running his mouth like always. Bakugou noticed it the second they walked in—the way Kirishima lit up brighter than the damn lights strung across the ceiling. His laugh cracked louder than anyone else’s, shoulders loose, face open in a way Bakugou hadn’t seen in weeks. He was glowing, and Bakugou knew, without a doubt, it was because of him.

Jirou leaned back against the arm of the couch, sharp eyes flicking from Kirishima to Bakugou and back again. “What the hell’s got you so shiny lately?” she asked, deadpan but curious. “You’re practically radioactive.”

Kirishima only laughed harder, rubbing at the back of his neck, cheeks faintly pink. “What? I’m just in a good mood!”

Kaminari grinned like a fox, shoving a mouthful of noodles in before adding, “Nah, Jirou’s right. Look at him. Dude’s glowing. Someone got him pregnant or something.”

Mina choked on her drink and  Sero howled into the couch cushions. Bakugou scowled, hiding his face in his cup, but it was useless. The giddiness curled hot in his chest, sharp and unfamiliar. Kirishima’s laugh rang louder than the teasing, wide and wild, and Bakugou couldn’t stop himself from watching, couldn’t stop the heat that twisted in his stomach, knowing that laugh, that glow, that stupid grin—it was because of him.

That wasn’t normal. Right? That didn’t just happen in a friends-with-benefits thing. People didn’t look at each other like that. Didn’t feel their chest go tight just because the other one laughed too loud across a room. It wasn’t supposed to mean anything—not the glances, not the quiet texts, not the way his own voice softened whenever it was just the two of them. He knew it. He knew it. But knowing didn’t stop it.

Maybe it was dangerous, letting himself ride the high like this—pretending it was fine, pretending it didn’t feel like standing too close to an open flame. He’d always been good at burning without flinching. So he told himself it was the same thing. Still, when Kirishima’s eyes flicked across the room, just for a second, meeting his with something warm and steady—Bakugou had to look away, to breathe properly. His pulse wouldn’t slow. His chest felt too tight for how easy the moment should’ve been.

Bakugou sat back against the couch beside Mina, Brick squirming in his lap, little teeth snapping sharp at his fingers. The damn fur-ball had grown fast, heavier now, meaner too, and when he actually broke skin, Bakugou hissed, peeling his hand back. “Hey—” Mina’s head whipped around like a hawk, her glare sharp enough to cut steel. “Brick! No biting!” The kitten stilled, ears folding flat. Then, with perfect dramatics, he butted his head against Bakugou’s stomach like an apology. Bakugou muttered something under his breath, scratching behind his ears anyway. That was when Mina’s hand suddenly caught his jaw, tilting his face up toward the light.

“The fuck are you—” Bakugou growled, jerking back, but the noise that ripped out of her—sharp, stunned—froze him cold. Mina’s eyes went wide. Her hand dropped. Her mouth actually hung open.

“What,” Bakugou snapped, sitting straighter, blood already heating in his veins. She didn’t answer, just stared, shaking her head, blinking fast, like she couldn’t believe what she was seeing.

Jirou laughed softly, raising a brow as she leaned forward. “What? What’s wrong?”

Mina pressed her fingers to her lips, looking scandalized, like she’d stumbled onto state secrets. She still wasn’t speaking, and that silence pressed in heavy, dragging everyone’s attention toward her. Bakugou’s glare sharpened, a pit opening in his stomach. Then—fuck—he felt it. The memory slammed back all at once: Kirishima’s mouth on his throat, teeth scraping, lips sucking bruises into skin. The way he’d sighed, the way Kirishima had laughed against him, muttering, don’t worry, it’s not that bad.

Bakugou’s blood ran hot. No, no fucking way.

Across the table, Kirishima shifted, eyes flicking from Mina to Bakugou—and then froze. His hand clamped over his mouth like he could hold the laugh in, but his shoulders were already shaking. “Wait, wait—” Kaminari’s head darted between them, confusion mounting. “Now Kiri gets it? Guys, seriously, I’m lost here!”

Sero finally looked up from his phone, frowning. Bakugou could’ve murdered Kirishima on the spot. He’d said it wasn’t bad. Swore there was barely a mark, and Bakugou, fucking idiot that he was, believed him. Threw on a shirt high enough to cover anything faint. He should have fucking played it safe. Mina’s voice finally broke the tension, low and scandalized, the question cutting like glass.

“…Bakugou. Is that a hickey?”

...

“WHATTTTTTT?!” Kaminari’s scream cracked so loud half the room jumped. He shot to his feet like the couch had electrocuted him, hands in his hair. “NO. No way. NO FUCKING WAY—”

Sero nearly dropped his phone, scrambling upright with his eyes bugging out of his head. “Holy shit—holy shit, is it actually—”

Jirou’s jaw fell open, her usual composure obliterated. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Then, over all of it, Kirishima broke. He threw his head back and laughed—loud, unstoppable, clutching his stomach like it hurt. His face was red, his eyes wet, and he didn’t even try to stop himself. He doubled over in his seat, wheezing, his hand slapping against the table. Bakugou could’ve killed him. Would’ve, if murder didn’t mean jail time and losing his goddamn hero license. Heat flooded up his neck to his ears, his chest squeezing so hard it almost hurt.

“You—” he snarled, voice cracking as he whipped on Kirishima. “You fucking—lied!”

Kirishima only laughed harder, his palm slamming against the table again. “I—pfft—I said it wasn’t that bad!”

“NOT THAT BAD?!” Bakugou barked, standing now, fuming, Brick scrambling off his lap like even the cat knew his life was in danger. “You said there wasn’t a mark, shitty hair! There’s a difference!”

Kirishima couldn’t even respond. He was laughing too hard, doubled over, gasping for breath, red-faced and glowing. Everyone else was losing their minds too—Kaminari pacing like he’d just witnessed the second coming, Sero bent over wheezing, Jirou muttering “oh my god” under her breath. It was chaos and Bakugou wanted the earth to open up and swallow him whole.

“KIRISHIMA. YOU KNEWWWW?” Kaminari rounded on him so fast it was like whiplash. He was pointing with both hands, eyes bugging out of his skull. “YOU KNEW ABOUT THIS? YOU LET THIS HAPPEN TO SAINT BAKUGOU?!”

Sero was bent double, wheezing into his sleeve. “Saint Bakugou is crazy,” he managed between gasps, “but he’s not wrong—like who the hell even gets near Bakugou long enough to leave a mark?”

“Oh my god,” Jirou muttered, still staring like she couldn’t decide whether to laugh or throw up.

Through it all, Kirishima—still red-faced, still laughing—could only lift his hands in mock surrender, grin stretched wide and helpless. He looked like someone who’d just won the lottery and couldn’t stop laughing about it. “WHO IS IT?” Kaminari demanded, whipping back to Bakugou, his voice high-pitched with hysteria. “WHO DID THIS? WHO TOOK THE VIRGINITY OF OUR VERY SCARY LORD AND SAVIOR—”

Bakugou’s face burned so hot he thought his skin might peel off. “I will fucking kill you, Pikachu.” Kirishima’s laughter cracked louder at that, so bright and easy it only made it worse, and Mina—sweet, sharp Mina—wasn’t laughing at all. She was watching, eyes flicking between the glow rolling off Kirishima like sunlight, the way Bakugou’s shoulders hunched and ears burned, the hickey blooming across his throat like fire. Her lips pressed together. Two and two. 

The rain hadn’t let up since morning, a steady curtain pouring across the streets, pooling in the gutters, beating soft against the black umbrella Bakugou held angled above them. Mina pressed close under his side, her arm looped around his waist like it belonged there, glitter-pink nails flashing when she adjusted her grip. He let her. Brick was safe at home with Jirou for the day, and Mina had begged him not to ditch her for this shoot, so here they were—two silhouettes walking shoulder-to-shoulder through the rain, the city humming around them.

The arm at his waist made his own hang useless and awkward, brushing against her jacket every other step. It annoyed him more than it should’ve, the stiffness crawling under his skin until finally, with a muttered curse, he lifted it and slung it across her shoulders instead. Mina squealed with delight, tugging him closer, and he huffed through his nose, jaw tight, but he didn’t move away. She was buzzing beside him, practically bouncing with each step despite the wet pavement and the puddles splashing at their boots. For the first few blocks, she filled the silence with chatter about fabrics and color palettes, until finally, when the studio’s glow came into view, she dropped her voice.

“Sorry about, like… exposing you to everyone,” she said suddenly, her arm tightening around him. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you. I was in shock, but that’s no excuse—”

“It’s whatever, Mina. I don’t fucking care.” The words came out blunt, stripped bare of any bite. He meant them, and that was probably what shut her up more than anything.

She tilted her face up at him, wide-eyed, then nodded, her smile curling back in. “Okay!” she chirped, bright as sunshine against the gray. Then, because she was Mina, her grin turned sly, her voice dipping like a secret slipped between them. “I’m glad you and Kiri figured everything out.”

Bakugou nearly dropped the umbrella, sputtering. “Shut up!”

She only laughed, sing-song and wicked, and just like that, they were stepping into the studio doors, the storm left behind. Inside, the place was blinding—lights blazing from every corner, bouncing off white walls, making every shade of fabric scream. Color pulsed from the racks, pinks and greens, glossy metallics, pastels so bright they looked wet under the bulbs. Stylists weaved between clothing racks like bees in a hive, chatter spilling over the steady clatter of shoes across tile. Mina squealed again, louder this time, bolting toward the back of the room the second she spotted Dengo. The two of them collided like fireworks, voices rising in instant tandem as they gestured wildly at each other, practically vibrating with shared excitement.

Bakugou stood there a moment, umbrella dripping onto the mat by the door, watching Mina fold seamlessly into the chaos. He sighed through his nose, rolled his shoulders back, and braced himself. The storm outside had been quieter than this. He hadn’t planned on being here for a Candy shoot—hell, he hadn’t even planned on being in Candy at all—but Mina had pestered him until he caved. “You’re my best friend, you have to. It won’t feel right without you,” and now here he was, standing in the middle of the blindingly bright studio while stylists shoved pastel into his arms like it was gospel.

The clothes were familiar and not, the cuts echoing Inferno but softer, lighter. The zip-up was pastel pink, the kind of shade that would’ve made him scoff a year ago, but the fabric was the same as the orange one he wore until it frayed. It felt good, warm, and he hated that it almost comforted him. Beneath it they gave him another white wife-beater, except shorter this time, cut just enough that whenever he lifted his arms—even a little—the fabric slid high, exposing the sharp lines of his hips. He looked... violently gay. The sweats matched the jacket, the same pink, the same material. He could’ve lived with those, even liked the way they sat low and loose on his hips, but then Komugi crouched in front of him, tugging the waistband down just enough to make the Candy boxers peek out. Bright against his skin, the lettering stretched bold across the band, CANDY repeated in soft block letters.

“Perfect,” Komugi said, satisfaction in their voice as they adjusted the angle, their fingers brushing deliberately against the seam. “We want people to know it’s Candy before they even see the logo.”

Bakugou gritted his teeth, glaring down at them, but they didn’t look up. The waistband snapped against his hip when they stepped back, appraising their work like he was a mannequin. His jaw ached from how tight he held it, the urge to snarl sitting hot in his throat. The lights caught the white tank when he shifted, sliding it higher, baring more than he liked. The studio chatter hummed on, stylists snapping clips and cameras adjusting angles, and Mina—off to the side, clapped her hands like Christmas had come early.

“See?!” she shouted, beaming, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “He looks amazing! Doesn’t he look amazing?”

Bakugou gave her a flat look, but she only grinned wider, twirling in place. It wasn’t Inferno. It wasn’t fire and grit and dark edges, but under the harsh lights, the pink clung to him anyway, Candy scrawled across his skin for the world to see. The lights shifted, camera shutters clicking like gunfire, and Mina moved with them, every inch of her buzzing with excitement. She threw herself into each pose, chin tilted too high, shoulders angled too sharp, hands flying around like she was on a stage instead of a set. Dengo had to stop her more than once, laughter undercutting his instructions as he reminded her, “Relax, Pinky. Breathe. Hold the pose—don’t fight it.”

Bakugou stood off to the side, hands buried deep in the pockets of his pink sweats, scowl carved tight into his face, but even through the heat of the lights, through the hum of stylists and the grating click of the camera, he found himself watching her. She was adorable, damn it. Posing dumbly with an overblown grin one second, rolling her eyes and snapping into a sharper stance the next. Every time she corrected herself, he caught the flash of determination under the glitter, the way she wanted to nail it.

Against his will, a smile tugged at his mouth, small but there, hidden quick behind his hand when Komugi passed by with another hanger. He let his hand move to hold his head up, his smile unguarded when they passed. Mina looked good, more than good. The Candy set wrapped her in denim-blue, the tube top clinging sharp against her shoulders, the mini skirt hitting her thighs just right. The deep color lit up against her skin, making her glow like the damn lights were chasing her. This was his design she was wearing, smiling at him widely every so often, and he could only look away to cover how proud he felt. 

Dengo would shove the monitors toward her to show the shots, Mina squealing or groaning depending on how she looked. Bakugou leaned closer than he meant to, catching glimpses. She looked strong. She looked happy. He dropped his eyes before she could catch him staring, jaw clenching, but the warmth stayed stubborn in his chest anyway. They shoved him under the lights, the pastel pink of his hoodie glowing hot against the backdrop. Bakugou already looked like he wanted to kill someone, jaw set tight, hands stuffed in his sweats. Then Dengo plopped a lollipop in his hand. Blue. Ridiculous.

Bakugou glared down at it. “…The fuck is this?”

“Prop,” Komugi sing-songed, fixing the hood so it sat just right on his shoulders. “Don’t bite it. Just hold it or put it in your mouth. It will add some color. Candy, sweetness, fun. Got it?”

The lights burned hot against his skin, the pastel pink zip-up glowing like sugar. Bakugou stood stiff, jaw clenched, the blue lollipop pinched awkwardly between his fingers. Komugi had just finished tugging at his waistband to make the Candy logo flash, and the only instruction—don’t bite it—was already grating against his skull. From across the set, Mina’s voice hit him like a live wire. “Ooooh, work it, Bakubabe! Very sexy!”

Dengo’s laugh cracked through the air, camera snapping furiously. “Wow, Bakubabe. That’s a good one. Gonna use that.”

Bakugou groaned, dragging a hand down his face. He shoved the lollipop between his teeth if only to keep from screaming, scrunching his nose at the sugary taste. The click of the camera followed, and Mina gasped like she’d just found treasure. “Oh that one was actually kinda cute! You don’t look vicious and mean—you look like a little puppy—”

“Mina, shut the fuck up!”

“Okay, okay—” Dengo was already wheezing, waving a hand like this was the best entertainment he’d ever had. “We’ll do this first, I guess. Pinky, get in there with Dynamite. and Dynamite—please, for the love of god—pretend you actually like her.”

“YES!” Mina cheered, sprinting onto the set and climbing the step stool they’d left nearby. She looped her arms around Bakugou’s middle, squeezing like she’d never let go, her cheek pressing against his shoulder as she grinned wide at the camera. Bakugou stared down at her, caught somewhere between strangling her and shoving her off the stool, but the lens clicked, and Dengo hummed, grinning. “Honestly? Kinda cute. I like it. Keep it up!”

Bakugou sighed, shoulders sagging, because there was no winning this fight. Mina only doubled down, planting a loud, exaggerated kiss on his cheek, leaving behind a faint lipstick print. She bounced back to beam at the camera like she’d just crowned herself queen of the world. The studio roared with laughter, and Bakugou groaned again, the lollipop stick threatening to snap in his fist. The flash caught it all: the scowl, the reluctant softening, the mark on his cheek that said more than he ever would.

“Alright, one more,” Dengo said, camera already clicking rapid-fire. “Closer this time. Give me fun. Give me sweet.”

Mina gasped like she’d been waiting for this her whole life. She spun back toward Bakugou, mischief flashing in her eyes, and before he could stop her, she pinched his cheeks between her fingers, squishing his face so his lips puckered around the lollipop still jammed in his mouth. “Hold still, Bakubabe!” she cackled, nails flashing as she pressed.

Bakugou froze, eyes wide, pink hoodie bunched awkwardly under her grip. The faint lipstick mark she’d left on his cheek glowed under the lights, her candy bracelet clinking as it slipped down her wrist. Each nail shimmered—C, A, N, D, Y spelled out across her fingers in pastel polish as they pressed into his jaw. The camera snapped. Once. Twice. Then a barrage.

“Yes! Yes! That’s it!” Dengo practically shouted, voice echoing in the studio. “That’s the shot! Perfect!”

Bakugou groaned low in his chest, glaring past the lollipop stick between his teeth, but the expression wasn’t fierce. Not this time. It was caught somewhere between exasperation and softness, the tiniest crack of boyish warmth showing under the fire. Mina’s grin was huge, triumphant, her bracelets jangling as she squeezed tighter, tilting her head against his shoulder. The whole thing was ridiculous. Over the top. 

Perfectly them.

The image locked in the camera’s screen: Dynamite scowling like a pink-wrapped puppy, Candy sparkling beside him, their energy colliding so loud it almost hummed. A kiss mark, a candy bracelet, a lollipop, and a glare that couldn’t quite hide how much he cared. “Alright, alright—one more while the light’s perfect!” Dengo called, breathless with excitement, camera still raised.

Mina beamed, eyes flicking to the faint lipstick print on Bakugou’s cheek. Her grin turned mischievous. “Hold still,” she whispered, climbing just a little higher on the step stool. Bakugou groaned. “Don’t you—”

Before he could finish, she leaned in and pressed her lips right over the mark she’d already left, exaggerated and playful, her candy bracelet jingling against his hoodie as she held him steady. The camera exploded with clicks. “Yes! Yes, Candy, perfect! That’s the one!” Dengo’s voice was wild, echoing in the bright studio.

Bakugou stood stiff, eyes rolling hard enough to crack, but the image told a different story. Mina’s lips curved into a teasing smile as they lingered on his cheek, her nails flashing CANDY against his collarbone. The pastel lollipop still jutted awkwardly from his mouth, his glare dulled by the way his jaw tensed—not furious, not vicious. Just begrudgingly letting her have her moment. In the screen’s preview, the shot was undeniable: Candy all radiant pink, Dynamite all reluctant scowl, the kiss mark sealing them together. Chaos bottled into one frame, sweet and sharp at the same time. The studio roared, stylists clapping, Komugi whistling low, and Mina bounced back to beam at him like she’d just won gold. Bakugou dragged a hand down his face, muttering under his breath.

“I fucking hate you.”

Mina only grinned wider. “Love you too, Bakubabe.”

The studio buzz dulled as the lights powered down, cords being reeled in and backdrops folded away. Bakugou tugged the zipper of the pastel hoodie down just enough to breathe, rolling his shoulders out of the stiffness the day had carved into them. He caught sight of Dengo in the corner, barking instructions and laughing too loud, one of his assistants still holding a camera steady on the chaos. BTS footage. Of course. Dengo never let anything slip through his fingers. Mina bounded over, a blur of pink and denim, her grin as blinding as the lights had been. She wrapped her arms around Bakugou before he could dodge, squeezing tight. “Ugh, you killed it, Bakubabe.”

He scoffed, patting her shoulder once like it was a chore. Still, he didn’t push her off. Her gaze flicked over his hoodie, eyes bright with something sly. “You’re keeping that.”

“The hell I am,” he shot back, yanking at the drawstring. “You keep your own damn outfit.”

She gasped like he’d insulted her bloodline. “Of course I am. An amazing designer made it.”

Bakugou rolled his eyes, a smirk tugging faintly at his mouth as he tilted his head. “Oh, yeah? Who’s that?”

Mina grinned, teeth flashing, wagging a finger at him like she wouldn’t let him bait her. “Nice try.”

He snorted, shaking his head, but his hands lingered in the hoodie’s pockets instead of peeling it off. The day wrapped, the crew scattering, Komugi calling after them not to destroy the clothes before the launch. Bakugou followed Mina out into the drizzle, umbrella stretched over them both again, her laughter ringing bright against the wet pavement.

A few weeks later, the door to the apartment nearly flew off its hinges.

“THE PICTURES ARE HERE!!!!” Mina’s voice barreled in before her, echoing down the hall. She burst into the living room clutching a thick envelope, cheeks flushed, curls damp from the rain outside. Kirishima jolted upright from the couch, Brick leaping out of his lap at the sudden noise. Bakugou appeared in the doorway of the kitchen, towel slung around his neck, eyes narrowing immediately.

“What the fuck are you screaming about now?”

Mina held the envelope aloft like it was a trophy. “Candy! The final shots! They’re here!”

Mina had them all on edge for days. Every time she walked into the apartment, she’d dangle the envelope or wave her phone around, promising she’d show them the shots “soon, soon, soon.” She claimed it was only fair—they’d all been there to gawk at Bakugou’s Inferno launch whether he wanted it or not, so Candy deserved the same treatment. Bakugou grumbled every time she brought it up, but no one listened. Not when Mina was bouncing on her toes, vibrating with excitement, and not when Kirishima backed her up with his easy grin, murmuring something about team spirit.

By the time the night came, the living room was packed. Jirou had her legs pulled up on the couch arm, Kaminari sprawled across the rug like he was at a sleepover, Brick perched smugly on the back of the couch like he knew he was part of the event too. He started taking allergy medication before he came over, so thankfully he wasn't sneezing obnoxiously the entire night. Sero arrived last, shoulders slumped under his hero gear, hair damp with rain. He didn’t even bother changing, just dropped onto the nearest seat with a groan. Kirishima gave him a sympathetic smile, clapping a hand to his back and rubbing at the knots in his shoulders until Sero hummed out a soft thanks.

“OKAY OKAY OKAY—” Mina practically shrieked, spinning in front of the TV. “I’M EXCITED!!!!”

She fumbled with her phone, nearly dropping it in her haste, then connected the screen share. The TV blinked from black to bright, and suddenly the first glossy shot filled the room. All eyes locked on the screen. Bakugou stayed half in the doorway, arms folded tight over his chest, pretending like he didn’t care, but his gaze still flicked up. The room went silent. Anticipation humming like static. The screen flickered once more, the Candy logo shimmering pastel, and then the music kicked in—bright, glossy pop. Bakugou didn’t recognize it, but Kaminari’s jaw dropped like he’d just won the lottery.

“NO FUCKING WAY,” Kaminari shouted, already belting the lyrics word-for-word like he’d been waiting for this moment his entire life. His voice was surprisingly nice, fist pumping as if this were his concert. Mina struck her first pose on screen—purples wrapped around her frame, pastel greens melting against the backdrop. The lights softened her skin to gold, the camera eating her up as she popped a piece of bubblegum between her teeth.

“WOOO!” Jirou hollered from the couch, laughter tugging at her mouth even as she clapped. Bakugou shifted on his feet, arms still folded, but his eyes stayed locked on the screen. He wasn’t going to say it, but—she did look damn good. The shots rolled fast—her wrapped in dark pinks, twirling in a skirt, pastel rings clinking on her fingers as she tossed candy in the air. Then the mood dipped into black and white, her silhouette sharp as she leaned into the camera, sugar gloss smeared across her lips.

Kirishima raised his eyebrows, shaking his head. “Damn, Mina… you look incredible.”

“Damn right she does!” Mina screamed from the center of the room, arms spread wide like she was soaking in their praise. The final cut hit: her hips swaying away from the camera, a candy bracelet catching the light as the word CANDY stretched bold and unapologetic across her ass. The track snapped off right as the beat hit, the last image frozen in place. The room went feral.

“OH MY FUCKING GOD,” Kaminari was howling, slamming both hands into the rug. “OH YOU ATE!”

Jirou nearly fell off the couch from laughing, covering her face. “That was… Mina, that was ridiculous.”

Mina dropped into a mock bow, hair swinging, her grin splitting her face. “Thank you, thank you. No photos, please.”

Sero finally cracked a smile through his exhaustion, clapping slowly like he didn’t have the energy to match their chaos but still couldn’t deny it. Bakugou huffed, dragging a hand over his mouth. “…Tch. Guess it wasn’t total shit.”

“From you?” Mina gasped dramatically, clutching her chest. “That’s like a standing ovation.”

The slideshow clicked forward, flipping through stills, and the room settled into a rhythm—Kaminari whistling every time Mina smirked at the camera, Jirou groaning dramatically when Mina blew a bubblegum bubble like it was an art form, Kirishima hyping her up with low whistles that made Mina preen. Then one photo hit different. Purple shadows cloaked her frame, neon light cutting sharply across her cheekbones. She leaned against a textured wall, chin tilted down, eyes catching the camera with something wicked.

“Holy shit,” Sero muttered from his slouch, his voice suddenly sharp with energy. He sat up straighter, rubbing his eyes like he had to double-check he wasn’t hallucinating. “That… is crazy.”

Mina squealed, clapping her hands together. “YES! Finally, someone appreciates the purple set!”

The others laughed, teasing him, but Jirou hummed low in agreement, crossing her arms, a smile wide on her face. The TV blinked alive again, Mina bouncing where she stood, grin sharp enough to split her face. “Wait, wait—” Jirou said, narrowing her eyes as the bubblegum intro started up again. “Didn’t we just see this?”

“Yeah, Mina, you literally just showed us this exact thing,” Sero added, dragging a hand down his face.

Kaminari perked up instantly, already belting along with the lyrics like he hadn’t just screamed them five minutes ago. “NO COMPLAINTS HERE! THIS SONG IS SO GOOD.”

Mina waved them all off with both hands. “JUST. WAIT.”

Bakugou slumped further into the couch cushions, one arm locked around Brick to keep him still. His fingers tapped impatiently against his bicep, scowl fixed, but his chest tightened. If she was hyping this up—The campaign rolled exactly the same at first: Mina in purple, in greens, in black and white, chewing gum, blowing kisses. The squad hollered anyway, Kaminari’s voice cracking as he sang along, Sero whistling at the skirt shot like it was brand new.

Then the music warped. Slowed. Faded down to that heavy bass. Instead of cutting to Mina walking off with Candy splayed over her ass, the screen lit up with Bakugou’s waist. The waistband first—pale pink, candy printed sharply around the elastic. Then the shot widened, showing his shirt rucked up, his jaw flexing as he bit down on the lollipop stick. “Ohhh,” Jirou said, voice low and sharp.

“Oh, shit,” Sero added, leaning forward like he couldn’t look away.

Kaminari threw his hands to his head. “OH MY FUCKING GOD. OH MY GOD. OH MY GOD.” His voice cracked halfway, pointing at the screen with wild eyes. “LOOK AT HIM. LOOK AT HER. YOU TWO ARE—”

“Shut the fuck up,” Bakugou muttered automatically, ears going red as the footage kept rolling. The cuts came hot and fast—Mina’s glossy lips, Bakugou’s scowl around the candy, her hand smooshing his cheeks until he looked ridiculous. Then the lipstick mark, pink as hell against his sharp jaw.

“Cute!” Mina cheered, clapping her hands together like this was a school play. “I told you the pink looked good, Bakubabe!”

Kaminari was still babbling, gesturing wildly at the TV. “YOU GUYS— YOU’RE BOTH SO HOT, THIS IS ILLEGAL—”

Bakugou shifted again, uncomfortable heat crawling up his neck. This wasn’t his, wasn’t supposed to be about him. It was Mina’s campaign, Mina’s spotlight, Mina’s face plastered across Japan. The fact that he was even in this video felt… wrong, like he was stealing from her. The thought of that—of him, Bakugou Katsuki, feeling small about being the center of attention—would’ve had his younger self rolling in his grave. The bass thudded lower, rolling like thunder, the screen cutting from sharp flashes of Mina’s smirk to Bakugou’s glare, then back again—her glossy lips, his jaw tight around the lollipop stick. The lipstick stamp glared against his cheekbone, Mina’s candy bracelet glittering as her fingers pinched his face.

The camera pulled wide. Mina strutted forward, heels clicking, ass swaying, her lip gloss catching the light as she turned her head away. The shot lingered just long enough for the Candy logo printed boldly across her ass to shine before Bakugou stormed into frame, all swagger and bite. He hooked an arm over her shoulder without hesitation, dragging her in like he owned the space, lollipop still jutting from his mouth. He didn’t even look at her—his eyes cut straight to the camera, narrowed, daring, slightly cocky.  The screen cut to black. The Candy logo pulsed pastel-pink one last time. 

“Oh my GODDDD,” Kaminari howled, collapsing backwards like he’d been struck by lightning. “THAT ENDING—THAT LOOK—BAKUGOU WHAT THE FUCK.”

People talked over each other, the noise in the apartment so loud Bakugou was rolling his eyes. Mina saying how she would post the second part of the campaign later, further down the line, which made Bakugou feel less like a piece of shit for stealing her thunder. She wanted him in it, though, a small part of him said.  “Awwwwww,” Kaminari finally broke, voice syrupy sweet. “Look at you two! That’s so—”

“Bro, shut the fuck up,” Sero cut in immediately, tossing a cushion at his head.

“You shut up,” Kaminari snapped back, clutching the pillow dramatically. “Don’t kill the vibe!”

“You are the loudest you have ever been.” Sero shot back, already half-laughing.

“Both of you are ruining the moment. Why don’t you BOTH shut up?” Jirou asked, pinching the bridge of her nose.

Sero rolled his eyes at her. “Ji YOU shut up—” 

Kirishima threw a hand up, “Don't tell Jirou to shut up—” 

That was it—the four of them tumbled into a pile of bickering noise, voices climbing over each other, Kaminari hollering about vibes, Sero throwing back retorts, Jirou firing sharp words like knives, Kirishima cutting through them all like a shield. Through it all, Mina turned her head slowly, the noise behind her muffled as she caught Bakugou’s eye. Her smile had softened into something smaller, something warmer, almost knowing. Bakugou clicked his tongue, tearing his gaze away, heat crawling up his ears. He scowled at the floor, the sweetness of it all gnawing at him. It was too much—like eating spoonfuls of sugar, thick and cloying, exactly the kind of thing he hated.

Except he didn’t. Not really. It sat heavy in his chest, that video, those words, Mina’s grin. Sweet as candy. Sickening. 

The living room had devolved into total chaos, voices overlapping, Kaminari’s “vibe” argument now on its fifth round. Mina finally threw a cushion into the pile, screeching her defense as Jirou clapped back, Kirishima firing off his own retorts with the loyalty of a guard dog. Bakugou slipped away in the noise. No one noticed when he pushed off the couch, Brick stretching lazily at his thigh before resettling. He ducked into his room, the familiar clutter of sketches and notes stacked sharply on his desk. His hand hovered over the pile before he grabbed one—fresh pages bound together, corners still neat.

When he stepped back into the living room, the argument was still roaring. He kept the folder tucked behind his back, settling back onto the couch with a quiet huff. Then Kaminari’s head snapped up, eyes narrowing, mouth splitting into a grin. “EVERYONE SHUT UP,” he shouted over the mess, finger stabbing toward Bakugou. “HE’S GOT ANOTHER ONE—ANOTHER PORTFOLIO!”

The room broke into laughter, all arguments instantly abandoned. “Aww, it’s like a tradition now!” Sero said, tone slipping into something weirdly fond. The realization hit him a second later, and he grimaced, trying to swallow it back. Bakugou snorted, low and sharp, finally pulling the folder into view. The way everyone immediately leaned forward, crowding around him, was ridiculous, but he didn’t tell them to back off.

Mina was bouncing against the arm of the couch, practically vibrating. “Hurry up and tell us who it is before I lose my mind!”

He let the silence stretch, glaring at the folder in his hands like it might bite him. Then he clicked his tongue, shoulders stiff, and dropped it onto the coffee table with a solid thud, then slid it forward. The folder landed against Kirishima’s knee with a dull thud. For a second, he just stared at it, blinking, like it didn’t make sense sitting there. His hands hovered, hesitant, before he glanced up at Bakugou, his grin faltering into something wide-eyed, almost vulnerable.

“…No way,” he whispered, voice low, almost like it wasn’t meant for anyone else to hear.

Bakugou only crossed his arms, leaning back into the couch, lips twitching as if he was holding something back. Kirishima’s smile dipped further, eyes searching. “Seriously?”

The room buzzed—Kaminari bouncing closer, shoving his shoulder against Kirishima’s like a kid who couldn’t contain himself. “Dude. DUDE. You’re up next—holy shit—”

Bakugou rolled his eyes at Kaminari treating this like the damn lottery. Kirishima didn’t react to him, his gaze glued to Bakugou. “Seriously?” he repeated, softer this time, like he needed to hear it straight from him. Bakugou snorted, shaking his head in amusement, and without looking directly at him, he slid his pinky across the table, brushing against Kirishima’s hand. “Yes, shitty hair.”

It was small, subtle, but enough, Kirishima wrapping his own pinky around Bakugou’s in muted disbelief.  Kirishima’s face split open, his voice erupting loud enough to rattle the walls. “NO WAY—ARE YOU BEING SERIOUS?”

This time, he couldn’t sit still. He shot up to his feet, bouncing like his body couldn’t contain the joy ripping through him. His fists pumped once, twice, his grin blinding. Sero was up a second later, swept into it without hesitation, grabbing Kirishima’s arm and jumping with him, both of them hollering like they hadn’t been at each other’s throats ten minutes ago. The couch shook with their energy, Kaminari whooping from the rug, Jirou pinching her nose but smiling despite herself. Mina clapped so hard that it reverberated around the room. Bakugou only rolled his eyes, but his mouth betrayed him—curling just slightly at the corners as he watched Kirishima glow brighter than he’d ever seen.

Brick darted under the table the second they all piled onto the couch, tails of blankets and elbows everywhere as they crowded in close around Kirishima. He balanced the portfolio in his lap, hands careful as he flipped it open. “My parents did a lot of this one,” Bakugou muttered, his voice rough but honest. What he didn’t say—what sat hot in the back of his throat—was that the name was all him. The one thing he wouldn’t hand over. He’d tied it together, every line, every shade.

“Lover Boy,” Jirou read, her smirk softening into something closer to a smile. “That fits him so well.”

She wasn’t wrong. Kirishima was the lover boy. The big dumb puppy of the group, always glowing with kindness, always smiling so hard it hurt, always too earnest for his own good. Lover Boy wasn’t just a name. It was him. The designs proved it—page after page of softer reds, warm shades that spoke to his brightness. Tanks and sleeveless cuts that celebrated the muscle stacked on his frame, pieces that were bold without being sharp, strong without losing the softness. It was Kirishima, captured in fabric and line work, stripped bare and reimagined in color.

Kirishima’s throat bobbed as he turned the page. Then his eyes flicked up, locking on Bakugou’s across the crowd. They were wide, round, glassy in a way that made Bakugou’s stomach twist.

“Thank you,” he said softly. The words dropped like an anchor in the noise of the room, steady and raw. Before Bakugou could react, Kirishima’s head tilted, dropping briefly against his shoulder. Just for a moment—like a hug disguised as nothing at all. Bakugou froze, pulse rattling, heat crawling high in his chest. He didn’t shove him off. Didn’t even move, just let it happen, brick wall scowl hiding the fire threatening to burn through him.

The apartment was quiet again, the buzz of the night thinning out as the door clicked shut behind the last of their friends. Brick padded out from hiding, leaping onto the arm of the couch before curling himself into a tiny loaf, tail twitching in his sleep. Kirishima was sprawled half on top of him, the weight of his body warm, grounding. His lips brushed Bakugou’s in slow, lazy kisses, not demanding, just soft—like thank you's without words. “You did a good job with Mina,” he murmured finally, pulling back just far enough to meet Bakugou’s eyes. His smile was small but certain, the kind that curled warm in his chest. “You two looked really good.”

Bakugou huffed out something close to a scoff, though it didn’t carry any bite, his mouth catching Kirishima’s again before he could say more.

“And I like Lover Boy a lot,” Kirishima added once they broke apart, voice quieter now, like it wasn’t just about the designs, not really. “It’s really nice.”

The silence stretched between them, heavy and comfortable. Bakugou only hummed, low in his throat, and kissed him again—soft, sure, the kind of kiss that said more than he ever would out loud. Kirishima’s thumb brushed the edge of the portfolio where it still sat on the table, but his eyes were on Bakugou, mischievous even as his voice softened. “So… why Lover Boy, huh? You gonna tell me, or keep pretending it’s just because I wear a lot of red?”

Bakugou rolled his eyes, leaning back against the couch cushions, but the words caught in his throat. He hated how easily Kirishima could drag things out of him, hated how much he wanted to actually answer.

“Tch.” He sucked in a breath, finally dragging his gaze back to him. “It’s ‘cause you love, dumbass.”

Bakugou had been noticing it more lately—the way Kirishima moved through the world, like everything deserved a piece of his heart. Not that what they were doing was love. It wasn’t. It couldn’t be. But still… it made him think. About what it must feel like to be the person Kirishima really loved. To be seen that way, cared for that way, without having to earn it. Kirishima loved with his whole damn chest, no restraint, no half-measures. It was stupid and reckless and everything Bakugou had spent his whole life avoiding—and it scared the hell out of him how much he admired it.

Kirishima blinked, thrown by the bluntness, but Bakugou didn’t stop. “You don’t shut up about the people you care about, even when it annoys the shit out of me. You love your family, friends, your work, and every stupid stray animal we trip over. You don’t hold it back, you don’t hide it. You’re—” He clenched his jaw, the words scraping raw as they forced their way out. “You’re unashamed. It’s… It’s who you are.”

The silence after was heavy, the kind that pressed down until it ached. Kirishima’s eyes went wide, glassy, tears brightening them in the low light. His chest rose like he was holding his breath, and when he spoke, his voice cracked with how hard it was to steady it. “I don’t want you to… misunderstand what I’m trying to say to you, Bakugou. I—” Kirishima’s throat worked, trembling around the words. “I just need you to know. Because I’ve known this for a long time, even back at U.A., Bakugou prepares himself for whatever Kirishima would say next, his eyes sharpening slightly. 

“I really do love you.” Nothing else, just that he loved him, full stop, because he did. It was the truest thing he’d ever said, Bakugou staring at him, heat crawling tight in his chest. It wasn’t a confession, not really. Kirishima wasn’t asking for anything. He wasn’t expecting it back. He just meant it. It was love, plain and unadorned, the kind that existed quietly beneath everything else.

For once, Bakugou understood that. Maybe he couldn’t name it or define it, but he knew it when he felt it — the kind of love that didn’t want something from you, that didn’t come with conditions. Kirishima had always had that in him, had always handed it out like it didn’t cost him anything. Bakugou used to think it made him naive. Now he knew it made him strong. The words hung between them, and Bakugou’s throat tightened. He couldn’t say it back. He couldn’t even think it without something in his chest clawing at his ribs. He’d never been able to—not to his parents, not to anyone. The words had always caught somewhere between his heart and his mouth and refused to move.

 Kirishima didn’t need him to say it. He just needed to know he’d been heard. Bakugou nodded once, slow, deliberate, like the movement itself cost something. His voice came out low and rough, quiet but certain. “I know, Ei.”

The nickname slipped out before he realized he’d chosen it. Ei. It wasn’t planned, but it was everything—his way of saying it back without having to speak the words that felt too big for his throat. A word he’d never used outside of heat or teasing, now softened into something that meant I hear you. I feel it too. Kirishima froze for half a second, eyes wide and wet, before his face broke open with a small, trembling smile. It was all the confirmation Bakugou needed—that he’d understood. Bakugou held his gaze, chest tight but steady, and for once, he didn’t feel the need to fill the silence or run from it. “Ei” was enough. It was everything he could give, and Kirishima took it like it was more than enough.

Kirishima blinked, eyes wide, glassy at the edges, but before either of them could break the moment, Mina’s name lit up Bakugou’s phone where it sat on the table. A new message.

Pinky: Dengo says this one’s for you.

There was a link attached. Bakugou hesitated, thumb hovering, before opening it. Kirishima leaned closer, shoulder pressed against his, and his phone flickered back to life as the file cast up. The pop beats from earlier were gone, replaced by something slower, warmer, threaded with a quiet sweetness that made the room go still.

The first clip rolled: Mina bouncing on her toes before the camera, hair tied up high, squealing, “OH MY GOD I’M SO EXCITED.” She twirled once, nearly knocking over a light, Dengo’s laughter spilling from behind the lens. The music swelled, carrying into shots of Bakugou in the background, arms crossed, expression tight as ever—but his eyes stayed locked on Mina as she posed. The camera lingered on the moment he leaned toward Dengo, muttering something low, though his gaze never shifted from her. Then came the candid clips: Mina laughing with her mouth wide open, clutching a lollipop bigger than her face; Mina talking a mile a minute with the stylist, hands flying; Mina perched on a stool, her legs swinging, announcing loudly, “He’s like a brother, you know? Annoying as hell, but—” she shrugged, grin splitting wide, “family.”

The footage shifted again. Not Mina this time. Bakugou, hunched over a sketchpad, pencil scratching hard against the page, jaw tight in focus. His designs flashed across the screen—jacket hems, stitching patterns, notes scrawled in his sharp handwriting. Then, a clip of him at a PR meeting, lips pressed thin, shoulders stiff, Mina peeking into the frame with a wave before he shoved her off camera with a glare. The music lifted one last time, the edits coming faster, clips flipping between the two of them—her posing, him watching, her laughing, him muttering, their banter spilling out in between. Until finally, the last clip:

Mina, leaning into the frame, sing-songing, “You love me.”

Bakugou, flat as stone, dead serious: “I hate you.”

She only lit up brighter, eyes sparkling. “I love you too!!”

The screen went black, soft music trailing off into the quiet. Bakugou didn’t move. His chest still felt too tight, too hot, like the video had peeled him open in a way he didn’t consent to, and yet—he hadn’t hated it. Not even close.

Kirishima shifted beside him, their shoulders pressed together, his hand still tangled with Bakugou’s. A beat passed before he let out a soft little noise, somewhere between a chuckle and a sigh.  Kirishima let out a low “aww,” squeezing his hand before leaning in with that dopey grin. “Sweet... like candy.” He laughed at himself, bright and loud, shaking his head. “Ha! I’m hilarious.”

Kirishima just laughed harder, his shoulders shaking, and Bakugou let him. He didn’t roll his eyes or bark back—didn’t have it in him. His head was too full, the weight of the video pressing down. He’d seen what happened last time. When Dengo cut together that messy reel for Inferno—him working, snapping at the team, everyone catching those raw, unguarded scraps. People ate it up, calling it real, human. Dengo knew exactly what he was doing with these BTS clips, no matter how dumb Bakugou thought they looked on the surface. Candy wasn’t his. It wasn’t supposed to be for him. Mina didn’t need the boost—her name was already out there, her hero work solid, her image steady. She was right where she wanted to be.

He wasn’t.

He was still clawing, still bleeding to climb higher. Yet when he’d gone to his parents for designs, it hadn’t been for Kirishima. Not the obvious move. Not the smart one. Kirishima, who was already rising so fast people were whispering about him cracking Top 10, his face plastered next to Fatgum’s on every damn hero ranking site. Kirishima, who was likable, who was built to shine in this kind of spotlight. No. Bakugou had asked for Mina first because he wanted her to shine, wanted her to have some fun. He wanted her to have this. Maybe that made him soft, softer than he’d ever admit. Soft for his friends. For—

Family.

Her voice from the video rang in his ears, clear as if she’d said it in the room. Bakugou clenched his jaw, blinking hard against the heat crawling in his chest. Maybe it was all Kirishima’s fault.

Bakugou had been hard his whole life, walls like steel, teeth bared at anyone who got too close. but somewhere along the way, that bastard with the sharp grin and louder heart had slipped through the cracks. He’d gotten in, wormed his way past every defense, and instead of tearing Bakugou apart, he’d done the opposite. He held him together, he hugged his heart instead of stomping on it. And now? Now Bakugou was cracked wide open, bleeding out, and everyone could see it. Everyone. Maybe he’d always been this way. A sentimental piece of shit pretending not to be. He’d carried that All Might card around for years, still did, the weight of it pressing constantly against his pocket, now signed. Always with him. He thought of Izuku—of UA—of all the years he wasted chasing him, fighting him, trying to outpace him. Only to realize bitterly there was no chase to be had. Not anymore. Not after he gave up.

The first crack was never Izuku. It was Kirishima.

Always Kirishima.

Kirishima, who he bent for, who he snapped for, who he eventually broke open completely for. Who made it so damn easy to give himself away—pieces at a time. A smile here, a laugh there, hugs to Mina, softened words he’d never offer anyone else. Kisses now. Touch. All the shit he thought he couldn’t do, shit that made him choke when he tried to say it out loud—he could show it. Show it in the only way he knew how. With actions, with every piece of himself he offered and trusted to be kept safe.

He loved them all. Mina, Kirishima, and even Izuku in some twisted way, after years of bitter hatred and arguments. Kirishima—fuck. That was different, louder, that was the kind of love that unraveled him, that left him raw, that made him terrified and grateful all at once. The words stuck in his throat, thick and burning, but his hands still twitched with the urge to reach out. To show him, to give more. “Hey,” Kirishima murmured, voice low, breaking through the silence. His weight was still sprawled heavily across Bakugou, chest pressed close, heartbeat thudding hard enough that Bakugou could feel it through his ribs. Kirishima braced his palms on either side of him, leaning up just enough to search his face. Crimson eyes soft, concerned. “What’s up?”

Bakugou’s throat locked. Every word that had been clawing at him a moment ago—family, love, yours—all of it burned and died before it could reach his tongue. He’d choke on it. So he did the only thing he could. He dragged Kirishima up by the jaw, both hands cupping his face like he’d break if he didn’t hold on tight, and kissed him. Hard at first, then softer, pouring everything into it—every crack, every secret, every admission he couldn’t spit out loud. His thumbs brushed against his soft skin, the kiss steady, anchored, tender in a way Bakugou barely knew he was capable of.

Kirishima melted into it instantly, sighing against his mouth, like he understood anyway.

A month passed in a blur.

Inferno burned hot, and Candy caught flame right after. Mina’s line had sold out in days, colors gone from the site before anyone could blink. Even a month later, the original campaign video was still floating around, Mina’s face plastered across timelines, edits of her posing and eating candy getting cut to every pop song under the sun. Then came the second campaign video. The one with Dynamite.

It hit just as hard—her strutting in purple lights, his scowl framed with that stupid lollipop, the two of them side by side, Mina glittering while he leaned back in pink sweats and glared into the camera like it owed him money. The final shot—her walking off, his arm thrown casually over her shoulders—had people clipping it on loop. He scrolled through the comments, jaw ticking.

Comments:

Pinky serving looks again 🔥
Dynamite in pink??? didn’t have that on my bingo card but okay 👀
nahhh this is couple coded as hell
new hero power couple?? dynamite x pinky hello???
she ate, he’s just the accessory tbh lol

His stomach twisted. It wasn’t every comment—most of them thirsted after Mina, praised the line, hyped her the way she deserved, but enough people were spinning it into something else. A glossy, PR-manufactured romance. Him and Mina. The thought made his skin crawl. Mina was his friend. His family. Not that. Never that. His phone buzzed in his hand, screen lighting with Mina’s name. She’d sent him a screenshot of an article already circulating:

“New Hero Couple? Dynamite & Pinky Heat Up Campaign Trail With Candy Collab.”

Followed by a flood of laughing emojis. Bakugou cursed under his breath, tossing the phone onto the mattress like it burned. He stared at the ceiling, jaw tight, heartbeat thrumming loud. The BTS video still sat in his gallery. He hadn’t touched it since Mina gave it to him, but now, with the chatter building, he could see the point. Inferno’s BTS had shifted everything—it made people feel something, called it raw, real. Candy didn’t need that, Mina didn’t need that, but maybe he did. It was the only way to shut this shit down before it got worse.

Snow crunched under his boots, slush spattering up his calves as he stalked back down the street. Steam still rose from the crater he’d blasted into the asphalt, smoke curling into the air as the last echoes of his explosions faded. The villain was cuffed and dragged off, and the girl he’d helped—some first-year student with wide eyes—was clutching her backpack like it was gold. “Thank you!” she shouted after him, voice high with relief. He only lifted a hand in a dismissive wave, not slowing his stride.

Then— “Hey! Are you and Pinky dating?”

He froze mid-step, shoulders stiff, heat ripping up the back of his neck despite the biting cold. His head whipped back, glare sharp enough to cut through the air. “Mind your own damn business!” he barked, the words cracking like thunder, and blasted away before she could sputter out another word. By the time he hit the alley two streets over, his pulse was still hammering. The snow muted the world, his breath pluming out in white clouds, steam rising off his gear. He leaned against the brick wall, teeth grinding. His glove creaked as he dug his phone out. He typed with sharp jabs of his thumb, sending it to Buzzkill #1 without context:

Me: posting candy bts

No further explanation. He flipped to his gallery, found the damn video, and scowled at the thumbnail—Mina bouncing on her toes, him in the background. He hesitated only long enough to curse Miyake under his breath for piling his feed this high in the first place. His official account was a mess now—Inferno launches, PR garbage, Candy posts, Brick pictures—shit he never would’ve imagined himself agreeing to, and now this.

Bakugou pressed the post anyway, jaw set tight, snow hissing against the warmth of his skin as he shoved his phone back into his pocket and pushed off the wall. He didn’t check comments, didn’t wait to see it go live. He was already moving again, explosions sparking at his palms, smoke trailing behind him as he shot back into the sky. It took him days to cave. Days of Mina spamming his phone with heart emojis, “awwws,” and obnoxious screenshots of her favorite comments.

Pinky: Aww I can’t believe you actually posted it!! 

Every damn morning, every break between patrols—her voice in his head even when she wasn’t there. So finally, three nights later, sprawled on his bed with Brick curled like a rock against his hip, he gave in. He unlocked his phone, thumb hovering like it was going to explode if he pressed the app. The post was still pinned at the top of his feed, with views in the hundreds of thousands. He braced himself for the same bullshit questions—dating rumors, tabloid trash, nosy extras who had no idea what they were talking about, but as he scrolled, his chest loosened.

the way he looks at her guys I cant ☹️💔 cutie patoties 

nah this is sibling energy, don’t play— look at them, that’s a brother-sister bond if I’ve ever seen one

wait wait wait… HE MADE THE DESIGNS FOR THIS?? since when does Dynamite design clothes??

I mean his parents are designers so it must run in his blood or sm

ok but Pinky ate this campaign UP, she’s glowing
Dynamite giving supportive big bro vibes, this is so cute actually??

He snorted, half a laugh and half a scoff, rubbing a hand down his face. For once, it wasn’t a storm of speculation. It wasn’t who he was dating—it was mostly people getting the point. Yeah, maybe a little too many comments about how “sweet” he looked when he stared at her off-camera, but still, better than the alternative.

Bakugou’s breath came hot against Kirishima’s mouth, every kiss rougher, hungrier, like he couldn’t get deep enough. His ungloved hands scraped against the plates of Kirishima’s costume, dragging lower, squeezing at his waist, then his hips. This is insane. The thought pulsed once in his skull, weak as hell compared to the thunder in his veins. They were supposed to be patrolling—supposed to be keeping the streets safe—but here he was, grinding against him in a shadowed alley where anyone could fucking see, and God help him, he didn’t care.

Kirishima’s head tipped back against the wall, a soft groan breaking out of him before Bakugou crashed his mouth back down to silence it, swallowing the sound. “Shut up,” Bakugou growled into the kiss, though his hands betrayed him, desperate, roaming every inch of hard muscle under his palms. “You’re too fucking loud.”

“Y-you’re the one—” Kirishima’s protest cut into a gasp when Bakugou rolled his hips harder, teeth catching his jaw, his throat. His laugh was breathless, choked. “—who started this.”

“Yeah,” Bakugou muttered, the words ragged, lips brushing his pulse point, eyeing Kirishima’s headpiece lying around on the floor. 

The danger of it was everywhere—the open street just beyond, the muffled sounds of people passing by, the fact that one of their communicators could go off at any second. It should’ve sobered him. Should’ve sent him bolting back into duty mode. Instead, it burned through him, hotter than fire, fueling the way he held Kirishima pinned. Every breath, every sound Kirishima made only twisted the knife deeper: he liked this. The risk, the possibility of getting caught, the way Bakugou had him cornered, undone.

Bakugou knew then—fuck, I’ve got a problem. He couldn’t stop reaching for him, couldn’t stop needing him, even if it meant throwing hero work to the wind for a few stolen minutes in the dark. Bakugou’s hands dragged lower, shameless now, gripping Kirishima’s ass through his gear, grinding him up against the wall. His breath came sharp between their mouths, each kiss slicker, messier, his tongue sliding against Kirishima’s like he was trying to devour him whole.

Kirishima’s hands clutched at his shoulders, his voice low and ragged, muffled by Bakugou’s mouth. “Bakugou—fuck—someone could—”

“Don’t care,” Bakugou growled, sucking hard at his throat until a mark bloomed red against the pale skin above his collar. His hand cupped Kirishima shamelessly through his pants, squeezing until the bigger man shuddered, a broken sound spilling out of him. It was reckless, it was wrong, but it felt so fucking good. The danger of it only made him harder, made every grind of their hips sharper, hungrier. Kirishima’s teeth sank into his lip, muffling his own groan, and Bakugou nearly lost it, heat flashing through him like he’d combust right there.

Then—voices. Footsteps. Too close. Bakugou froze, chest heaving, lips still ghosting Kirishima’s, their foreheads pressed together as both of them tried to calm their breathing. The chatter grew louder—two people turning down the street, shoes scuffing against the wet pavement. For one reckless second, Bakugou almost didn’t stop. His hand still pressed against Kirishima’s cock, his body still flush against his, the heat of it unbearable. His blood screamed keep going, but instinct finally won. He tore himself back, gasping, every nerve sparking, every muscle screaming at the loss.

Without a word, he straightened his jacket, shoved his gloves back on, and strode out of the alley, boots splashing through the slush. He didn’t even look back, didn’t risk it—not when his chest still thundered like a war drum, not when his lips still tingled with the taste of Kirishima. To anyone watching, he looked casual, in control, just a pro hero walking his beat. Inside? He was burning alive. It didn’t stop there, it never did with them. It had already been happening—quiet touches, stolen moments—but now it was bleeding into everything. A sickness that spread through his days.

Family Night became the worst kind of test. Mina ranting about some designer while Kaminari argued with Jirou over the aux, Sero sprawled half-asleep on the floor—and Bakugou pressed against Kirishima on the couch, their shoulders brushing, knees bumping under the blanket thrown over them. His hand would slide down, inch by inch, until his fingers curled into Kirishima’s thigh. Kirishima, always the reckless bastard, never pushed him off. Sometimes he even leaned into it, sliding his hands up even more, eyes flicking toward Bakugou with that sharp glint that made his chest clench.

The kitchen was worse. Too many times, he found himself shoving Kirishima against the counter when everyone else was distracted, mouths crashing together, dishes rattling around them. Quick, heated, frantic—until one of them broke away, panting, lips swollen, pretending nothing had happened as they walked back into the living room. Patrols—fuck, patrols had become unbearable. It started with brushing past each other too closely, a hand lingering on his shoulder longer than necessary, quick grins behind the cover of their gear. Then it turned into back-alley kisses, pressed hard against brick walls, Kirishima laughing breathlessly against his mouth until Bakugou shut him up with another kiss.

It was insane. Dangerous. Stupid.

Bakugou couldn’t stop. Every time he caught Kirishima’s grin, every time he felt the weight of his hands, the heat of him, it sparked like a fuse, demanding more. He knew it was bleeding into their work, into their lives, into everything—and still, he let it.

Bakugou’s mouth was on Kirishima’s neck, sharp and claiming, one hand splayed across his chest as the other tugged his waistband forward like he couldn’t get enough. Kirishima’s laugh—low and rumbling—cut off when Bakugou bit down, sucking hard until he knew it would bruise. Kirishima just tipped his head back, offering more, his hands gripping the counter edge behind him like he was daring Bakugou to push further. The sun was barely up, light pooling through the window in lazy stripes, catching the line of Kirishima’s jaw, the glint of sweat at Bakugou’s hairline. Their mornings had become like this—stolen, desperate, before the rest of the world could claw them back into duty.

Bakugou shoved Kirishima’s shirt off his shoulders, tossing it across the room. It landed squarely on Brick, who yowled in outrage before worming out and darting off the couch, tail puffed like static. Kirishima barked a laugh—quick, breathless—only for Bakugou to silence him with another kiss, swallowing the sound down like it belonged to him. Bakugou’s hand was still fisted in Kirishima’s waistband, his lips hovering over the fresh mark he’d just bitten into, when Mina’s voice shattered the morning.

“Oh my god.”

Time stopped. For one stupid second, Bakugou thought maybe if he didn’t move, didn’t breathe, she’d vanish. Just a hallucination, but then his eyes darted over, and there she was—frozen in the doorway, clutching an unopened jar in her hands, apples spilled across the floor from her dropped bag. Her mouth was wide, her gaze bouncing between them, and Bakugou’s entire body turned to stone. Nobody spoke. The only sound was Brick darting across the room with a hiss, claws skittering on the wood.

Then Mina blinked. Her jaw snapped shut, and—god help him—her lips curved into a smirk. “I’ll just… ask someone else,” she said, voice pitching high with mock innocence. Her eyes flicked from Bakugou to Kirishima, back again. “You two… carry on! I guess—” She bumped the wall backing out, snorting at her own stumble, and waved a flustered hand. “I won’t say anything—wow—just… okay, bye guys!”

Then she was gone. The door clicked shut. Bakugou didn’t move. His pulse thundered in his ears, words bottlenecked in his throat. What the fuck could he even say to fix that? It was Kirishima who broke first. His shoulders trembled under Bakugou’s hand, chest shaking. Bakugou turned sharply to glare at him—and froze again. Kirishima was laughing. Quiet at first, embarrassed, his whole face red as hell, ears burning bright, his hair betraying him as the black bled out into crimson at the tips. He looked too good. Too soft, too happy, the same way he had when this whole mess started, when Bakugou had shoved him onto the counter in the first place.

“I told you they’d find out,” Kirishima managed through another laugh, rubbing the back of his neck like he hadn’t just been caught half-naked on their counter. His grin was sheepish, but the sound of it was delirious, bubbling over until it was almost contagious. Bakugou just huffed into the air, jaw tight, still locked in place like his body hadn’t caught up to what happened. He couldn’t believe it. 

“It’s not funny,” Bakugou muttered, jaw tight, eyes still locked on the door Mina had just vanished through. His chest felt hollow, tight like he’d swallowed a live wire. “She’s gonna fucking tell. She always does.”

He knew Mina already knew, but now that she knew Kirishima knew it was a different game. Kirishima shook his head, his laugh quieter this time, breath puffing warm against Bakugou’s cheek. “She won’t,” he said, steady as stone. “Even if she does—it’s okay.”

Bakugou turned to glare at him, to snap back—but the words slipped away the second Kirishima leaned closer, eyes soft in that way that always gutted him. The steady press of his voice, the curve of his mouth—comfort curled like a hook in his chest, dragging him forward. They were kissing again. Messy, greedy, picking up right where they’d left off. Kirishima’s mouth was shameless, demanding, like he had nothing to hide. Bakugou’s was the opposite—every snap of teeth, every groan, threaded through with heat and humiliation.

It only deepened, rougher, until Bakugou felt himself sliding to his knees, palms braced hard against Kirishima’s thighs, Kirishima sliding off the counter so he could reach. His pulse hammered, shame flooding hot, but he didn’t stop. Not when Kirishima’s cock pressed against his lips, not when his hand tightened in blond hair and pushed. Bakugou opened up, jaw aching, throat already working.

Bakugou’s jaw ached, spit slicking his chin, every gag making his throat burn, but he didn’t pull back. Not when he could hear the rough, low laughter spilling out of Kirishima above him, not when every word made his face burn hotter. “Fuck, Bakugou—look at you. On your knees like you were made for this.” His hand fisted tight in blond hair, tugging him deeper, sharp tugs that made Bakugou choke. “So desperate to please, huh? Bet you love it, bet you’re fucking hard right now, just from this.”

Bakugou wanted to snap at him, wanted to tell him to shut his goddamn mouth—but he couldn’t. His throat was too full, his pride too heavy, humiliation curling in his stomach like fire, so he doubled down. Hollowed his cheeks, worked his tongue the way he remembered, dragging every ragged sound he could out of Kirishima’s throat. The smirk above him cracked, broke into a moan, low and breathless. Bakugou felt like victory, heat rushing through him at the sound. His humiliation turned into fuel, every taunt making him push harder, take more. He was going to shut him up, drag that voice into incoherent noise.

Kirishima’s words tangled into curses, into broken groans, hips jerking helplessly. “Shit—Bakugou, you’re—fuck, you’re gonna—” His head snapped back, teeth clenched, voice dissolving into noise as he came, spilling hot down Bakugou’s throat. Bakugou swallowed what he could, the rest spilling down his chin, but he didn’t stop until Kirishima’s grip loosened, until he was panting and wrung out above him, chest heaving. When Bakugou finally pulled back, he looked up—smug despite his wet chin, chest heaving like he’d run miles.

Bakugou barely had time to catch his breath before Kirishima’s hand was at his jaw, thumb dragging through the mess smeared across his chin. His grin was sharp, breath still uneven, but his voice came low, rough. “Can’t waste this, Bakugou.”

Before Bakugou could move, Kirishima’s fingers pressed to his lips, slick and heavy, and Bakugou’s body betrayed him. His mouth fell open, heat flooding under his skin as Kirishima pushed it inside. He took it, tongue curling, swallowing it down as his own hum rattled in his chest. The sound it pulled out of Kirishima was nasty, filthy, as Kirishima dragged Bakugou up, switching their positions. His other hand was already at Bakugou’s waist, fumbling with his pants, shoving them down with a hunger that left no room for teasing now.

“My turn,” Kirishima murmured, voice wrecked but certain, lips brushing against Bakugou’s jaw as his hands slid lower, claiming. Bakugou’s head slammed back against the cabinets, a sharp exhale punching from his chest, because fuck—he wanted it, wanted him, and every part of him was ready to give in.

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, the cart rattling unevenly against the tiled floor as they wove through the produce section. Kirishima’s shirt kept riding up when he reached for things—each shift flashing the constellation of marks Bakugou had left across his hips, neck, everywhere. Hickeys, scratches, bites. Some faded into faint shadows, others were still red and fresh. All of them his.

“Grab the green ones, not the red ones,” Bakugou muttered, nodding toward the apple display.

“Got it,” Kirishima said easily, scooping up a handful of Granny Smiths like it was the most important mission of the day. He jogged a few steps to find a bag, his grin wide as he dropped them in, tying it up with unnecessary flourish before tossing it into the cart. Bakugou’s jaw worked. He could feel the thought pressing at the back of his teeth, demanding to be spat out. By the time Kirishima turned back to him, swinging the empty produce bag like a trophy, it ripped free.

“You should call me Katsuki—” The words hit the air too sharply, too fast. He ground his molars and forced the rest out. “—in bed. While we have this… arrangement.”

An elderly lady passing by stopped dead, blinking at them like she’d just stepped into the middle of a soap opera. She gave a scandalized sniff before shuffling off, muttering something under her breath about young people. Kirishima didn’t even look her way. His straight face only wavered with the twitch of amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Okay,” he said slowly, voice dipping low, like he was rolling the thought around in his head. He glanced at the list on his phone like nothing happened, thumb scrolling, before he added, casual as ever, “What made you think of that?”

“Just—” Bakugou snapped, then faltered, scowling at the lettuce display to avoid his gaze. “Just fucking thinking how you should. It makes sense. I call you Eijirou.”

Kirishima hummed, nonchalant, tossing another vegetable into the cart. He gave one last look around the aisle, checking if anyone was close, and then leaned in—quick, soft, barely a brush of lips against Bakugou’s. He pulled back almost instantly, but not before Bakugou could feel his grin.

“Okay,” Kirishima murmured, his voice pitched just for him, warm and steady. “Katsuki.”

Then he was gone, strolling down another aisle like nothing had happened, while Bakugou stood frozen, heart hammering so loud it drowned out the hum of the lights above. 

Maybe he was addicted. Addicted to hearing it, the way his name rolled off Kirishima’s lips. Katsuki. It didn’t matter if it was high on pleasure, gasped and broken, or soft and ordinary, like when Kirishima leaned into the couch with a lazy grin and asked, “Do you want to watch a movie, Katsuki?” It always hit the same—deep, right in the center of his chest, sharp enough to hollow him out and full enough to make him ache.

Maybe it wasn’t just his name. Maybe it was Kirishima. Maybe he was addicted to him. What was the fucking difference? Bakugou could feel himself sinking, drowning in everything Kirishima gave him, everything he took, everything he was. He didn’t fight it, he let it happen. He let Kirishima devour him whole, piece by piece, until there was nothing left but this pull between them, brutal and soft all at once. It was more than fine, because for the first time, Bakugou was willing—willing to give every single bit of himself over. To Kirishima. To Eijirou.

Chapter Text

Lover Boy

Bakugou had been relieved when they told him he wouldn’t be outright part of Lover Boy’s campaign. No cameras shoved in his face. No staged videos. No fucking lights burning spots into his eyes. Lover Boy was Kirishima’s line, through and through. Bakugou should’ve been able to wash his hands of it, kick back, and let the PR vultures chew on someone else for once.

Instead, he was at the studio.

He didn’t even know how it happened. Some bullshit about needing his “input” for clothing choices, for brand continuity. It was his name stamped on the damn label, after all, and since his parents and Miyake were unavailable, apparently that made him the stand-in authority. Which was how he ended up stuck in a cold metal chair shoved into the corner, arms folded tight, glowering at the flood of lights and cameras like he could will them all to short-circuit. It was supposed to be Kirishima’s shoot, his campaign, but somehow Bakugou was the one who felt like he was under a spotlight.

The studio was alive in a way that grated on him—everywhere he looked, something buzzed or clicked or flashed. Komugi crouched at Kirishima’s side, tugging at fabric, smoothing hems, sharp-eyed and muttering about “clean lines” and “falling drape.” Dengo, on the other hand, was a fucking hurricane—his voice rising above the hum of equipment, echoing like he owned the room. “YES, Lover Boy, that’s it! Give me that grin—natural, you’re glowing—hold it, hold it—” His camera fired in bursts so fast it sounded like gunfire.

Bakugou ground his teeth because, of course, Kirishima was good at this.

Loose red knits draped over his frame, slouchy trousers cinched low at his hips, the kind of clothes that should’ve swallowed a person whole, but on Kirishima, fuck. He carried them like they were his skin, rolling his shoulders, flashing that easy grin, laughing loud enough to make the air vibrate. Even the stupid props worked—Bakugou nearly choked when someone set a wriggling a real, live puppy in Kirishima’s arms. Kirishima himself was awwing, cooing at the puppy, spluttering when the puppy licked at his jaw. The whole set lit up with it. 

Bakugou sat stone-still. His jaw ticked once, twice, his nails dug half-moons into his arms where they were folded tight across his chest. He refused to move, refused to give anyone the satisfaction of seeing how the sight hit him. This wasn’t just Kirishima. It was him in another skin—something softer, lighter, unashamed of it. He looked stupidly happy, cheeks flushed, hair falling across his forehead as he gently placed the puppy into Komugi’s arms. Bakugou hated how badly he wanted to commit every second of it to memory.

They’d changed his hair for this shoot. Back to black. Something Kirishima had wanted to do anyway—get ahead of it before his name got too big, before the image everyone knew as Red Riot started to feel more like a costume than a person. It felt strange, though. The red had been part of him for so long that washing it away felt like erasing something sacred. Bakugou knew it the second he saw Kirishima hesitate, the black dye half mixed in the bowl, both of them crammed in the small bathroom near the sink. He’d done this a hundred times before—dyed Kirishima’s hair red in dorm bathrooms, before missions, once in a hotel with a towel shoved under the door to keep the steam from fogging up the mirror, but this time was different. He’d never dealt with a crying Kirishima over it.

When it was done—when the last streak of red had rinsed down the drain and the black settled glossy and dark—Kirishima just stared at himself. Silent. Then his throat closed up, and the tears hit all at once. Bakugou froze, still clutching the towel, the air thick with steam. He’d faced villains with less panic than he felt in that moment. Kirishima’s hands shook once before he pressed them to his face, voice cracking out small, wet, and broken. “It’s so weird. I know it’s just hair but… it feels like saying goodbye.”

Bakugou didn’t know what the hell to do with that. He hovered—awkward, too still—until Kirishima stepped into him, head pressing against his chest like it was the most natural thing in the world. Instinct took over before thought could. His arms came up around him, slow but sure. He didn’t say it’s fine or it looks good—he just held him there until the shaking stopped. Then, in that messy, quiet aftermath, Bakugou mumbled the thing that fixed it all. “Add red tips.”

Kirishima sniffed, blinking up at him through the mess of black hair. “What?”

Bakugou shrugged, voice gruff. “Saw it on someone once. Looked cool, I guess.”

So they did. Kirishima sat back down on the stool, towel still looped around his shoulders, while Bakugou went back to work. He sectioned off the tips, dragging color through with careful hands. It was clumsy but steady, both of them leaning too close to the mirror, talking low about nothing that mattered. The air smelled like chemicals and shampoo and something warm beneath it. When it was done and the red dried bright at the ends, Kirishima caught sight of himself in the mirror and smiled—wide, honest, whole again. Bakugou had never been so relieved to see that stupid grin.

“Looks sick,” Kirishima said, wiping at his eyes. Bakugou just grunted, tugging the towel off his shoulders, pretending he didn’t feel the warmth spreading through his chest. Kirishima could’ve dyed his hair neon yellow and still looked good. But somehow, this—black and red, soft and sharp all at once—felt more like him than anything ever had.

Komugi caught him staring. They tugged Kirishima’s sweater collar wider, tilting their head at Bakugou with a smirk sharp enough to cut glass. “Don’t drool on my work, Dynamite. At least wait until I’ve finished dressing him.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Bakugou muttered, but his voice was rougher than he wanted, tight around the edges. He couldn’t look away.

To everyone else, Kirishima was golden retriever energy, sunshine packaged into a perfect campaign. That’s what Lover Boy was selling—loose clothes and easy smiles, trust, devotion, the kind of love that didn’t scare people off. Bakugou knew better, he saw the side nobody here could imagine. The sharp grin turned hungry in the dark. The teasing that burned until Bakugou broke. The dirty words, the rough hands, the way Kirishima could hold him down until he shattered and then piece him back together with soft kisses, steady words, care threaded through every breath. Bakugou swallowed hard, heat rising in his chest.

Dengo shrieked again, nearly dropping his camera. “YES! YES, Lover Boy, that’s the shot! Oh my god, Komugi, are you seeing this?! He’s a natural—fuck me, we’ll need a whole new roll—”

Kirishima only laughed, tugging the sweater hem higher over his head when Komugi motioned for the next outfit. The slouchy knit fell away, revealing the fitted black compression shirt underneath—one of Bakugou’s designs, his influence threaded into every seam. It clung to Kirishima’s chest, to the muscle of his arms, sharper, harder than the puppy-and-sweater vibe from before. Bakugou’s stomach twisted. This was the Kirishima he knew best. The one who could throw him down and kiss him until his lips bruised, the one who made him beg, who tore him apart just to build him back up again. Watching him step into the light like that made Bakugou feel like the floor had dropped out beneath him.

Bakugou lasted five more minutes. That was it. Five minutes of watching Kirishima roll his shoulders under the compression shirt, the fabric pulling tight across his chest, the whole studio buzzing like they’d just struck gold. Dengo’s camera firing like gunshots, Komugi’s voice sharp with satisfaction, techs running cables across the floor — and Kirishima right in the center of it, radiant. Bakugou’s skin felt too hot. His jaw ached from clenching. His pulse climbed until every thud in his veins felt louder than the music pounding from the speakers. So he got up, no announcement, no excuses. He left his chair shoved against the wall and shoved out the door, boots striking down the hall like they might set off alarms. Nobody noticed. If anyone clocked his absence, it was Kirishima — but by then Bakugou was already gone, lungs dragging in cold air like he’d escaped a fire.

The gym didn’t help.

He punished the bag until his arms shook, sweat burning his eyes, fists splitting skin inside the gloves. He pushed through drills until his lungs scraped raw, until he was sure his body would collapse before his mind did, but when he finally staggered out, chest heaving, the ache was still there. Sharper. Hungrier. Kirishima’s grin burned into the back of his eyes, the weight of him in those clothes etched into his skin like a bruise that wouldn’t fade. What he felt—whatever the hell this was—wasn’t normal anymore. He knew that much. It wasn’t just the sex, though god, it was good. Too good. It was the way it bled into everything else. The way Kirishima’s voice stuck to him even after he left, echoing in the quiet; the way his handprint still burned faint against his chest hours later. Every look, every lingering touch, every stupid smile was starting to seep under his skin, curling through muscle and nerve until it felt like Kirishima existed in every inch of him.

It was so good—so fucking good—that it scared him, because it wasn’t supposed to be. It wasn’t supposed to feel like this. Not the warmth after, not the way his chest tightened when Kirishima laughed, not the pull that kept him wanting to reach for him even when he swore he wouldn’t. It wasn’t just physical anymore. It was everything. All-consuming. Overwhelming.

So good it hurt.
So horribly, horribly bad.

He showered there, not ready to go home to see him. He let the hot steam roll over his aching muscles, and by the time he got back to the apartment, he was wrecked and restless, the storm still roaring in his chest. Kirishima was waiting. The second Bakugou saw him — hair mussed from hours under Komugi’s hands, lips still pink from biting back grins during the shoot — the ground gave out beneath him.

The truth was—sex had become the only place he could say anything at all.
The only time he didn’t have to translate what was clawing at his chest into something smaller, quieter, something he could survive. Every time Kirishima touched him, every time he let himself give in, it was like the part of him that could never speak finally found a language. He hated it. He needed it. Outside of it, he was fine. He was Bakugou Katsuki, all edges and control. He knew what to say, when to shut down, how to keep his hands busy so no one saw how restless he really was, but in bed—when Kirishima’s breath ghosted over his throat, when his name came out like a prayer instead of a punchline—something in him slipped. The armor cracked, and everything he’d buried underneath poured out before he could stop it.

He said things he didn’t recognize as his own voice. Pleas. Praises. Half-broken sounds that made his stomach twist when he remembered them later. Things like please and right there and Kirishima, said like it meant more than a name. He’d wake up the next morning remembering the way Kirishima had looked at him—like he’d seen through every defense he had—and it would make him sick with something he couldn’t name.

He didn’t talk like that. He didn’t do that, and yet, in those moments, he meant every goddamn word.

That was the worst part. The truth was, it wasn’t about release anymore. It was about connection, even if he couldn’t admit it. The way Kirishima’s hands found him like they’d always known where to land. The way he laughed softly when Bakugou lost his balance, and didn’t make him feel small for it. The way every kiss after wasn’t sharp, wasn’t demanding—it lingered, patient, waiting for him to breathe again. That was what killed him, because that wasn’t just sex. That wasn’t friends with benefits. That wasn’t something you came back from.

It was starting to bleed into everything, the way he talked, the way he fucking thought. Kirishima had become this constant echo in his head—showing up in the smallest things. A flash of red hair in the crowd. A laugh too familiar on the street. The smell of his cologne on Bakugou’s hoodie, the one he couldn’t bring himself to wash. It wasn’t just presence anymore. It was possession, and he’d let it happen one touch at a time.

He’d never been good with words. Never learned how to string them together without them coming out like weapons. But with his body—with touch, pressure, rhythm—he could tell Kirishima everything he couldn’t say out loud. You make me feel safe. You make me lose control. You make me want. He could say it in the way he held him, the way he whispered his name between breaths, the way he never pulled away too soon. Kirishima seemed to understand. He always fucking did. He never pushed. Never asked for declarations or labels. He just smiled at him afterward, warm and dumb and happy, and Bakugou would feel something in his chest tear a little wider each time. Then, when the air cleared and the sweat cooled, everything reset. Back to the teasing. Back to the stupid jokes. Back to normal. Or whatever passed for normal now. Maybe there was more touching. Maybe the flirting had sharpened, slid under the skin more than it used to. He didn’t know. He never fucking knew.

He was at a loss—completely. He didn’t know if this was real or dangerous or both. He only knew it felt good, too good, and he didn’t know how to stop wanting it.

“You left,” Kirishima said, quiet, like he wasn’t sure if he should push. His voice held no accusation, only that open steadiness that made Bakugou’s stomach twist. Bakugou didn’t answer. The dam had already split.

He crossed the room in two strides, shoving Kirishima back onto the couch, his mouth crushing down before the other man could say another word. It wasn’t controlled, wasn’t planned — it was desperate, messy, raw. His hands mapped every inch of skin they could reach, dragging Kirishima’s shirt up, mouthing along the sharp cut of his ribs, biting down on the slope of muscle just to hear the broken sound it pulled from his throat. “You did so fucking good today,” Bakugou muttered against his skin, voice rough, raw like it had been dragged through glass. He kissed lower, chest to stomach, every word a confession slipping past his defenses. “You don’t even get it, do you? How good you are. How fucking—” His teeth scraped, his lips softened. “—perfect.”

Kirishima sucked in a breath, sharp and shaking. His fingers tangled in Bakugou’s hair, tugging just enough to ground himself. His body arched into every kiss, every bite, every desperate claim Bakugou lay down his torso.

“Katsuki,” he breathed, and this time his voice was wrecked, not amused — surprised, turned on, stripped down to something raw. The name ripped something loose in him. Bakugou shoved him harder into the couch cushions, mouth dragging down his chest in frantic, open-mouthed kisses. He pushed the hem of Kirishima’s shirt higher, teeth scraping lightly across skin before yanking the fabric up and over his head, tossing it somewhere behind them without looking. Kirishima’s chest was bare now, rising and falling in heavy pulls, muscles shifting under Bakugou’s mouth as he kissed and bit his way lower. His hands roamed greedy, squeezing at his waist, his hips, tugging at the band of his sweats until they dipped low enough to show the sharp cut of muscle at his stomach. Kirishima groaned, head tipping back, fingers twisting tight in blond hair. “Katsuki—fuck—”

Bakugou grunted, more animal than man, shoving his palm flat against the bulge straining his pants. Kirishima jolted under the touch, hips arching instinctively. Bakugou smirked against his stomach, then hooked his fingers under the waistband and shoved it down roughly, dragging the fabric low enough to free him. Bakugou wrapped his hand around him without hesitation, squeezing tight, dragging up slowly. Kirishima cursed, the word muffled by his own bitten lip, his body jerking helplessly into the touch. “Fuck,” he gasped, voice breaking as Bakugou worked him, rough and steady, each pump dragging slick through his hand. “Katsuki—”

Bakugou’s mouth trailed lower, biting hard at the line of his hip, sucking at the skin just to hear him whine. That was when Kirishima grabbed at his wrist, gasping through clenched teeth. “No marks—fuck—don’t leave marks, I can’t—I can’t show up to the next shoot like that—”

Bakugou’s head snapped up, eyes narrowing, his hand never slowing. His voice came out low, dangerous. “Then how the fuck are they supposed to know you’re mine?”

Kirishima’s breath caught, his body shuddering like the words alone nearly unraveled him. His head snapped back against the couch, a moan ripping out of his throat before he could stop it. “Yours,” he panted, hips bucking into Bakugou’s fist, voice dissolving into wrecked sound. “Katsuki—fuck—I’m yours, I’m all yours—”

Bakugou’s gut twisted. It had been a slip—a stupid, reckless slip. The words weren’t supposed to come out. They weren’t supposed to mean anything, but they did. The second they left his mouth, he knew it. Felt it like an explosion behind his ribs. Kirishima wasn’t his, not really, not officially. They hadn’t put words to whatever this was. They’d both been careful—so careful—to keep it unspoken, to pretend it was still simple, but it wasn’t. It hadn’t been for a long time. He could lie to himself about what they were doing, about the way it felt, about how easy it was to fall back into teasing once the heat burned out—but he couldn’t lie about this. The way it tore out of him without warning, the way his voice shook around it like he was saying something truer than he’d meant to.

Mine.

He hadn’t said it to anyone in his life. Not like that. Not with that kind of weight. He didn’t even know he had that kind of word in him, but hearing it out loud, seeing the way Kirishima reacted to it—how he melted under it—it hit something he couldn’t pull back from. It wasn’t just possessiveness. It wasn’t ego. It was that same unnamed ache that had been gnawing at him for weeks, that need to claim something that wasn’t about control at all. It was about recognition. About being seen. About Kirishima looking at him like that and knowing exactly who he was and still staying.

He didn’t want to name it because naming it meant it was real. It meant there were rules, boundaries, consequences—and he didn’t know how to exist inside any of that. God, it felt right. The word fit too easily in his mouth, like it had been sitting there all along, waiting to be said. The problem was, now that it was out, he couldn’t take it back. It didn’t matter how many times he told himself it didn’t mean anything, that it was just heat-of-the-moment, that it was just noise. The truth lingered, humming under his skin, whispering in the back of his head every time Kirishima touched him after.

He looked like he meant it. His whole body arching up into Bakugou’s hand, eyes squeezed shut, teeth sinking into his lip like he couldn’t bear the sounds spilling out of him. His voice cracked on every word, broken and needy, but steady on that one refrain: yours, yours, yours. Bakugou’s chest ached, hot and sharp, and his hand tightened instinctively, pumping him harder, faster, like he could drag every last shred of that devotion out into the open.

“Say it again,” he rasped, voice low, jagged, his forehead pressed hard to Kirishima’s chest. “Say it.”

Kirishima shattered, his moans tangled into the words, spilling out between gasps, louder, more desperate with every stroke. “Yours—Katsuki, fuck, I’m yours, I’m yours—” Bakugou’s hand twisted at the head, and Kirishima cried out, his body jerking, spilling hot into Bakugou’s fist. His stomach clenched, his thighs trembled, every sound breaking loose like he couldn’t hold it in anymore. Bakugou worked him through it, relentless, milking every shudder, every twitch, until Kirishima sagged against the couch, spent and wrecked, sweat glinting at his temple, chest still heaving.

He looked ruined. Beautiful.

His.

The conference room was too clean. Chrome table, untouched water bottles lined in a row, a folder of numbers fanned open like Bakugou was supposed to care about them. He sat stiff in the chair, one leg bouncing, arms crossed as Miyake droned on about investor pitches. “They’re circling,” she said, tapping a manicured nail against the spreadsheet. “We’ve got three serious calls this week. Two of them are solid, one is a stretch. None are… ideal, but—”

“Then fuck ‘em,” Bakugou cut in, sharp as a blade.

Miyake’s lips pressed into a thin line. She looked up at him with that practiced patience she’d perfected over months of wrangling him. “That’s not how this works, Dynamite. You don’t get to wave your hand and demand the perfect option to just appear. We take what we can get, and we build from there.”

He bristled, leaning forward in his chair, palms flat on the table. “No. If we’re building Ground Zero, I’m not settling. I want the best building. The best space. The best contracts. No half-assed bullshit. This is mine. I’m not tying my name to scraps.”

Her sigh was long, slow. For a second, her composure cracked—just enough for the edge of exasperation to slip through. “You do realize most heroes would kill for the scraps you’re turning your nose up at? You’ve got fire under you, I’ll give you that, but you don’t have the leverage yet.”

He glared, jaw tight. “Then I’ll fucking make it.”

Silence hung for a beat, only the faint hum of the overhead lights filling the gap. Miyake studied him, her expression unreadable. He hated that look—the one people always gave him when they thought he was being difficult instead of right. Like he was just another temper they had to manage, like the numbers in the folder meant more than he did. He was so sick of it. Sick of everyone acting like he didn’t know what the hell he was doing, like he hadn’t earned the right to demand more. Ignition wasn’t even his idea. It was PR bullshit. A campaign cooked up to keep his face marketable while everyone else got to decide what his future looked like. He hadn’t wanted to do it, but he had. He’d turned it into something real.

Candy had exploded because of him—not because of the brand, not because of the committee, but because of the blood he’d poured into it. His control. His vision. His fucking work. He’d built all of it from scraps and made it shine. He’d worked with what he had, just like he always did. So yeah—he was done settling. Done watching everyone else shape his name into something convenient for them. Miyake closed the folder with a snap, sliding it aside. “Fine,” she said at last. “We wait. We hold off until Lover Boy drops, see what numbers it pulls, and reassess. If it explodes like Candy did—hell, if it does half as well—you’ll have more leverage. Maybe enough to play hardball.”

Bakugou felt the tension in his shoulders ease, just barely. He leaned back in the chair, arms folding across his chest again, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth. "Good,” he muttered. “That’s what I want.”

Miyake gave him a long look, somewhere between admiration and exasperation. “You’re impossible,” she said flatly, standing to gather her notes. “But impossible gets headlines, so I suppose I’ll let you have this one.”

Bakugou huffed, satisfied, ignoring the warmth in his chest that came with the small win.

So they waited.

A month had passed by, winter sinking its claws in deep. January was a bastard—snow piled heavy on the streets, wind sharp enough to cut skin, and the cold crawling into his bones no matter how many layers he pulled on. Bakugou hated it. He hated cold weather more than rain, hated the way it slowed everything, numbed everything, made his skin prickle until he wanted to explode just to thaw himself out. Kirishima did his best to speed things along. He threw himself into the studio whenever he could, burning himself down to the bone to keep shoots on track, always grinning for the camera, no matter how late it ran. Which meant less time at the apartment. Fewer nights in Bakugou’s bed. Sometimes he’d crawl in late, hair still stiff from gel, makeup faint on his skin, dropping face-first onto the mattress and passing out cold.

Bakugou embraced when Kirishima would climb into his bed, able to cuddle him, Kirishima kissing him, before sleeping soundly, like he owned the place. A small part of Bakugou was itching for anything more because of how fucking horny he was. Bakugou told himself he could wait. Told himself to stop being so goddamn lustful, to quit lying there hard in his pants while Kirishima slept just out of reach. He’d clench his jaw, fists curled tight in the sheets, telling himself this was for him, that Kirishima was working this hard for him, for Ground Zero. That should’ve been enough, but that thought didn’t make it easier. It made it worse.

Finally, though—finally—the filming wrapped. Edits were being made, and the last clips were polished. The campaign was nearly in his hands. Lover Boy was coming fast on the heels of Candy, with barely a breath between them other than New Years. There hadn’t been time to really prepare, no perfect rollout window, no “optimal” launch. Too close to the holiday season, too far from the next wave of sales. Bakugou had snarled about it more than once, snapping at Miyake that the timing was shit, but Dengo had been relentless, buzzing about momentum, and Miyake just waved her charts and projections at him, insistent.

“It’ll be fine,” she’d said, smug as always. “A big name like Red Riot fronting the line? You could drop it on a Tuesday at two in the morning, and it would still trend.”

Bakugou had only grunted in response, refusing to give her the satisfaction of agreeing out loud, but he’d known she was right. Kirishima’s name carried heat; his face carried more. The idiot could grin into a camera and make half the city swoon without even trying. If that was what it took to push Ground Zero higher, then fine. Bakugou could live with it. A few days later, Kirishima got the text — then the email. A fat file of edits, pictures, and video cuts, stamped clean with IGNITION branding. He barely finished skimming the first few thumbnails before his fingers were already flying across his phone.

Shitty hair: when can we all meet?

Shitty hair:  Lover Boy stuff is here!!

The replies had poured in fast, a flurry of half-shocked, half-excited chaos.

Pikachu: ALREADY??? holy shit.
Pinky: drop everything. everyone. living room. now.
Tape: I can be there Thurs
Ears: thats fine w me

By the time Thursday rolled around, the couch was overcrowded — elbows digging into ribs, knees pressing too close, leftover takeout containers stacked on the coffee table. Kaminari had wedged himself in the corner like a king on his throne, Mina perched on the armrest, hugging a pillow, Jirou sat low with her earbuds coiled in her lap, and Sero stretched himself out across the rug like the floor was his territory. Kirishima sat dead center with the laptop balanced on his knees, his grin too big, too nervous, cheeks already flushed before he’d even opened the file.

“Why so secretive, huh?” Kaminari drawled, leaning in to bump his shoulder. “We barely heard a thing about this, and now you’re just, like—bam. Campaign reveal out of nowhere.”

“Yeah,” Mina chimed, squinting at him with fake suspicion. “You’ve been sneaking off to the studio for weeks, and we've got almost nothing. Don’t think I didn’t notice. What’s with all the mystery?”

Jirou smirked, resting her chin in her palm. “He’s stalling because it’s bad. Watch.”

Kirishima laughed, rubbing the back of his neck like he always did when he was nervous. “C’mon, it’s not a big deal. Just—don’t laugh, okay?”

Sero tipped his head back against the couch, smirking. “Not gonna lie, I’m just excited to hear Kaminari scream in my ear, thirsting over Bakugou again.”

Bakugou scowled, Brick warm against his thigh. “I’m not in this one.”

That earned him a chorus of groans — Mina dragging it into a long, dramatic “aww,” Jirou raising an eyebrow like she’d been cheated out of entertainment, and Kaminari clutching his chest like he’d just been betrayed by God himself. "Why not?” Mina demanded.

Bakugou shifted, arms crossing tight over his chest. “You insisted I was in Candy, and I barely wanted to do Inferno in the first place. I wasn’t doing that shit again. Shitty hair didn’t ask, anyway.”

Kirishima’s grin crooked, sheepish, ears red. “I spared him.”

“Boo,” Kaminari groaned, flopping sideways across the couch cushions. “You robbed us of Lover Boy Dynamite.”

“Shut the hell up,” Bakugou snapped, heat crawling up his neck despite himself.

“I’m surprised,” Mina said, eyes flicking between the two of them, her voice pitched just enough to needle. “You would’ve looked good together.”

Heat slammed into Bakugou’s face so fast it almost knocked him sideways. He wanted to drop-kick her. Embarrassment flooded his veins, hot and sharp, dragging him back to the memory of her standing in the doorway weeks ago, catching them tangled together on the counter. Her gasp, the apples spilling across the floor. Worse was remembering what happened after. How quickly Kirishima’s steady hands had pulled him back in, how easily Bakugou had let himself be kissed until his lips burned, until he’d sunk to his knees without a second thought. The sound of his own breathless groans mixed with Kirishima’s low encouragement still branded into his skull.

A sharp tsk cut through the haze. Kirishima, maybe unintentional, but the sound slipped out anyway. Sero blinked, confused, eyes bouncing back and forth between the three. 

“OKAY JUST START ITTTT!” Kaminari bellowed, throwing himself across the back cushions.

Kirishima barked out a laugh, eyes crinkling. “Okay, okay—”

He clicked play, and the room dimmed as the first notes of the campaign song curled low and steady through the speakers. The first shots came easy. Close-ups of fabric, textures sliding under the lights — Kirishima’s sweater hanging loose at the wrists, the soft roll of a collar as he laughed. It was mostly clothes, and Bakugou reminded himself of that with every cut. Focus on the stitches, the palette, the way the line moved. This was Ignition. This was branding. Not him.

The edit carried weight. Even when the frame was locked on a jacket hem or the sheen of a scarf, Kirishima bled through anyway — in the tug of his grin, the way his hands lingered when he adjusted someone else’s sleeve, the curve of his shoulders when he leaned close. By the pre-chorus, it was impossible to ignore. The camera pulled back — three of them styled in matching reds and blacks, a living triptych on the studio couch. Kirishima at the center. The girl across his arm. The guy at his shoulder. The clothes matched, clean, cohesive, but it didn’t look like mannequins in a lineup. It looked like a story.

Bakugou’s stomach twisted. He understood now why this one had been secretive, why Kirishima hadn’t dropped hints the way Mina had with Candy. It wasn’t just about jackets and shirts. This campaign had a narrative, soft at first, easy to miss — Kirishima the anchor, orbiting between people, drawing them in like it was natural, like he couldn’t help it. The chorus dropped, and the edit went for the throat. The guy leaned in first, fingers ghosting over the collar of Kirishima’s jacket, tugging it straighter like he was the one who put him together. The girl followed, sliding closer until her arm draped casually across his chest, the angle cutting sharply on the line of the shirt stretched over muscle. The camera framed them tight, fabrics overlapping, palettes colliding — red on red on red — and Kirishima sat there at the center, grin fading into something heavier, like he knew exactly what it looked like.

They were too close. Too goddamn close. Bakugou’s pulse spiked, heat flooding under his skin. He told himself it was the styling, the direction, the PR narrative — but watching them sink into him, watching him let them, made his chest clench like a vice. Kaminari broke first.

“OKAY, OKAY, WAIT—HOLD ON!” His voice cracked, too loud in the cramped apartment, pausing the video. “WOAH—YOU—THIS IS CRAZY!” He threw himself sideways into Sero, yelling like he couldn’t contain it.

“Holy shit,” Sero muttered, not even pushing him off, eyes still locked on the screen.

Jirou’s lips parted, eyebrows climbing. “Yeah, it’s… oh wow.”

Mina was the worst — leaning forward, eyes wide, her voice pitching smug even through the awe. “I get why you were so secretive about it now… it’s gonna be—”

“Controversial,” Kirishima finished for her, his laugh sheepish, fingers rubbing the back of his neck. His grin wavered, softer now, honest. “I know.”

Bakugou clenched his jaw so hard it ached. Mina’s words still hung in the air, Kirishima’s sheepish “controversial, I know” rolling low over them, when Bakugou’s chest locked tight. He knew what controversial meant. Not trending, not hype, not edits and memes, and thirsty extras online. It meant old men on morning talk shows sneering into cameras, it meant headlines that used words like inappropriate and disgraceful, it meant parents bitching that heroes shouldn’t be “confusing” their kids. It meant knives sharpened against the throat of someone who didn’t deserve it.

Kirishima—fuck, Kirishima—was the last person who deserved it. The idea of him catching shit from stuck-up old heads, the kind of dinosaurs who’d never see him for what he was, made Bakugou’s vision spark white. Violent didn’t even begin to cover it.

Under the heat, something colder crawled in. The kind he didn’t like to look at too long, because it wasn’t just anger. It was fear. Not of Kirishima. Never of him. Of what it meant. He wasn’t stupid. He knew how the public worked. How fast a headline could twist, how one photo, one off-hand comment could turn a person into a fucking target. He’d seen what people did to heroes who didn’t fit the mold—who smiled too soft, touched too close, looked too happy in a picture that wasn’t “just friendly.” Maybe part of him… yeah, part of him flinched at that. The idea of someone looking at them and knowing. Not because he was ashamed of it, not because it was wrong, or because he’d been taught his whole life that it was dangerous. His parents would have never, its all him. Its something that it could be used against them, that it could ruin everything they’d built.

He’d spent years learning to armor himself against every weakness, and this—whatever this was—felt like handing someone a loaded gun and daring them to pull the trigger.

So yeah, the campaign wasn’t disgusting. It was brilliant. It was bold. It was Kirishima, but when Bakugou looked at those photos, saw the warmth, the touch, the suggestion—it made something in his gut twist. Not because it was too much, because it was too honest. It showed the world something Bakugou had spent these last few months pretending didn’t exist in him, that had always been in him, since the day he was fucking born. He didn’t know how to live with that.

That fury tangled with something worse, something uglier. Because it wasn’t just the risk, it wasn’t just the thought of the backlash. It was the way those extras had been all over him on set—too close, leaning in like they had a right, like they could touch him, claim him, smile into his space like he belonged to them. It was petty, it was stupid, it was something he had no right to feel—but it coiled low in his gut anyway, jealousy burning sharp and relentless. It didn’t matter that he knew how good the campaign was, how much work Kirishima had put into it, how fucking proud he was. Watching someone else get to touch him, watching the world look at him like that—it twisted everything inside him tight, like a fuse burning toward something dangerous.

Maybe that’s what scared him most of all, because it wasn’t anger. It was want—raw, aching, territorial—and for once in his life, Bakugou couldn’t blow it up or bury it. Bakugou dug his nails into his palm, jaw ticking. He couldn’t untangle which part was worse—the thought of Kirishima getting hate he didn’t deserve, or the thought of anyone else laying claim to him, even for a second, even for a shoot. For one wild second, Bakugou almost wanted to say it out loud. No. Scrap it. Pull the whole damn campaign. Find something else. Ignition didn’t need this—he didn’t need this. They could figure out another angle, another drop, one that didn’t have Kirishima walking into fire with a smile like it wouldn’t burn.

Kirishima was already speaking, voice steady, that bashful laugh gone. “I’m not hiding my sexuality from anyone—I mean, if the media has a problem, then whatever. All press is good press, I guess.”

The squad hummed around him—agreeing, Kaminari obnoxiously agreeing too loudly, but Bakugou’s blood ran hotter, his chest squeezing like a vice. It wasn’t just that. It wasn’t just about press, or trend cycles, or media spins. Japan wasn’t the 1900s, no—but it wasn’t perfect either. Not right now.  He’d seen careers tank for less. He’d seen how quick old heads could drag someone down just for stepping one inch outside their neat little boxes. The idea of them going after Kirishima—Kirishima—made his stomach twist with something close to rage.

What if it stuck? What if all anyone saw was this campaign, this hint of something that wasn’t even him, and they used it to paint him wrong? To box him in, drag him down, smother everything good about him until the shine dimmed? Bakugou’s hands curled into fists. He hated it. Hated all of it—the risk, the press, the extras on screen, the smug little smirks of the models leaning into him like he was theirs. It was petty, it was stupid, but it burned anyway, jealousy and anger tangled so deep he couldn’t tell them apart.

Kaminari, still buzzing, slapped the remote back down like he couldn’t take the silence any longer. “Alright, alright, keep it rolling—”

The screen flickered back to life. Just one last shot. Kirishima stood alone now, the others gone, framed in the wash of deep red. The compression shirt clung tight, shadows cutting every line of him into sharp relief. For a moment, his face was carved clean, straight—no grin, no laugh, no easy warmth. Just raw intensity, a stare that dared the world to look back. Then it shifted. Subtle. Slow. The corner of his mouth curled, spreading into a grin that wasn’t sweet at all—cocky, hot, like he knew exactly how it would land, like he knew everyone watching would feel it. Bakugou’s Kirishima— Eijirou—was staring him right in the face. The music bled out, the last line hitting low, and the screen cut to black.

Two words lingered, bold and white against the dark:

LOVER BOY.

The room broke all at once—Kaminari screaming into his hands, Mina squealing, Sero muttering a low whistle, Jirou just shaking her head like she’d witnessed a cultural reset. Bakugou stayed frozen, heat pounding through him like fire in his veins. When he finally dragged his gaze up from the blank screen, Kirishima’s eyes were already on him. Not smug, not cocky—just questioning, steady. Like he wanted to know what Bakugou thought. All Bakugou knew were three things.

One: he was already angry at the world for their reactions, for the headlines and the think pieces and the old heads who would twist this into something it wasn’t.

Two: he was jealous. Jealous of those actors pressed in close, styled like they had any right to touch him, to orbit him, to look at him like that when it wasn’t theirs to claim. Kirishima wouldn’t hear the end of it later, no fucking way.

Three: fuck. Kirishima looked so fucking hot in that campaign. The second everyone left, Kirishima was his.

The door shut with a final snap, the sound cutting through the apartment like a trigger.

Before Kirishima could even turn, Bakugou had him. His palms slammed hard against his chest, driving him back until his shoulders hit the door with a heavy thud. The wood rattled in its frame, and through the paper-thin walls came a muffled startle — Kaminari’s voice, high and confused on the other side. Bakugou didn’t care. His mouth was already on him, fierce and demanding, tongue pushing past his lips before Kirishima had time to breathe. Kirishima gasped into it, the sound breaking quickly into a moan, muffled against Bakugou’s mouth. His hands hovered at first, shocked, then clutched at his shoulders, gripping tight like he wasn’t about to push him away — he was anchoring himself, bracing against the force of it.

Bakugou kissed like he was starving, like the whole damn world had been gnawing at his patience all night, and he couldn’t hold it back anymore. His teeth grazed Kirishima’s lip, sharp and claiming, his tongue sliding deeper to taste, to take, to drown himself in the heat of him. Kirishima let him. More than that — he leaned into it, chest rising quick against Bakugou’s, mouth parting wider to let him in. The moan he gave, low and unsteady, vibrated through Bakugou’s chest like fuel.

Bakugou’s hands fisted in the fabric of his shirt, dragging him closer until there was no space left, just heat pressed against heat, the faint scent of cologne and sweat and him. His whole body burned with it, a fever he couldn’t sweat out, couldn’t fight off. The kiss broke for half a second — wet, ragged, breathless. Kirishima’s head hit the door, his lips red and swollen, breath coming fast. His eyes were blown wide, half-shocked, half something darker.

“Katsuki—” he rasped, voice already wrecked, like the single word cost him. Bakugou didn’t let him say more. He swallowed it with another kiss, rougher, hungrier, pinning him hard enough that the hinges groaned.

Bakugou broke the kiss just enough to speak, lips dragging along Kirishima’s jaw, hot breath searing against his skin. “Bet those extras loved it,” he muttered, voice low, bitter, his teeth catching at the edge of his throat. “Hands all over you. Climbing on you.”

Kirishima’s laugh broke out, shaky but real, spilling warm against his ear. “Oh, so that’s what this is.” His fingers tightened at Bakugou’s shoulders, tugging him closer like he wasn’t about to let him go even if he wanted to. “You’re jealous.”

“Fuck off, I’m not jealous,” Bakugou protested, but the flush burned high on his cheeks, impossible to hide when their faces were this close. His mouth found his collarbone, sucking bruises he knew Kirishima didn’t want, didn’t need, but he couldn’t stop. It wasn’t even about marking him anymore—it was about control, about trying to anchor something that was already slipping through his hands.

Kirishima tipped his head back against the door, groaning low. “Didn’t I already say I was yours?” His voice was soft, steady, cutting through Bakugou’s haze like a blade. He leaned forward just enough, lips brushing his temple, his breath warm. “I meant it, Katsuki.”

The words hit harder than any punch. Bakugou froze, teeth still pressed against his skin, the fire in his gut twisting sharply. His hands clenched in the fabric at Kirishima’s sides, pulling tight like he was trying to ground himself, like he could hold the words down and stop them from rattling through his ribs. He wanted to say something back. Hell, part of him almost did—the words were right there, crowding his throat, clawing to get out. The second they formed, panic clawed up after them. Because what then? What did you call this—this thing that had devoured them whole without either of them meaning to?

They weren’t together.
They weren’t anything that simple.

So instead, he kissed him—hard, desperate, like he could shove every thought, every confession, every unspoken truth down his throat and keep it there. Kirishima met him with the same hunger, same inevitability, like they both knew they were standing on the edge of something that would either destroy them or define them. Bakugou didn’t break the kiss when Kirishima pushed off the door. His hand was fisted in his shirt, dragging him forward, their mouths still locked, teeth clashing in the scramble. They moved blind, bumping into the couch hard enough that Bakugou barked a curse against his lips, but neither of them let go.

Kirishima laughed into the kiss — breathless, ragged — before swallowing his own sound down when Bakugou shoved him back, hands sliding under his shirt, fingers splayed wide over hot skin.

They stumbled again, half-tripping over the arm of the couch, hips slamming together as they fumbled their way toward the hall. Kirishima’s back hit the wall, then the edge of the doorframe, his groan cut off when Bakugou’s tongue slid back into his mouth, relentless. By the time they crashed into Kirishima's room, they were a mess of hands and mouths, shirts tugged half up, hair mussed, neither willing to separate long enough to breathe. Bakugou shoved him down onto the bed, following instantly, their lips never parting, hands still roaming rough and desperate, as if either of them stopped for even a second, the whole thing might vanish.

Bakugou straddled Kirishima’s lap like he was built to be there, thighs bracketing his hips, every movement sharp and restless. Their mouths crashed together, wet and unrelenting, until Kirishima’s hands slid lower—down his back, gripping hard at his ass, pulling him closer with a growl that rumbled up his chest. Then Kirishima’s palm pressed between them, right over the ache straining his sweats, and everything snapped loose. Bakugou’s head jerked back, lips parting on a moan so raw it barely sounded like him—low and sensual, spilling out of his throat as his eyes fluttered, rolling back just enough to betray him. His chest heaved, sweat beading at his temple, and his hips rocked down helplessly, chasing the pressure. Kirishima froze—not pulling away, but looking. Really looking. His grin curved slowly, eyes dark, his thumb pressing a little firmer just to watch Bakugou writhe.

“You’re needy today,” he murmured, voice low and edged with something smug.

Bakugou groaned, shoving harder against his hand, nails biting at the back of his neck like he couldn’t stand another second without more. “It’s been too long,” he gasped, words torn from him in shreds. His forehead dropped against Kirishima’s, breaths mixing hot, uneven. “I need this. I need you.”

Kirishima’s hand stayed pressed against him, heavy and taunting, making Bakugou grind down helplessly like he had no control left in his body. His moans slipped out raw, ragged, muffled only when Kirishima caught them with his mouth. “Do you want me to make you feel good?” Kirishima murmured, his grin curling against Bakugou’s lips.

Bakugou nodded too fast, too eager, his breath catching as his hips rolled harder against his hand. He hated how shameless he felt, how much he wanted it—but not enough to stop. Kirishima hummed, the sound low and smug, thumb brushing slow circles that made Bakugou twitch. “Hmm. Did you do what I asked earlier?”

The words hit like a detonation. Bakugou froze, his whole body tightening as the memory hit—awkward, rushed, standing under steaming water in the shower, jaw clenched, fingers fumbling exactly the way Kirishima had told him to. He’d done it because he knew this moment was coming, because Kirishima had said he should, because deep down he wanted to be ready. His chest burned hot, shame and need tangled sharp in his throat. He gave a single, sharp nod. “Yeah.”

Kirishima’s grin turned wicked, eyes dark and hungry like he’d been waiting for this exact answer. “Good,” he murmured, kissing him slowly, letting the tension stretch until Bakugou’s whole body was wound tight, trembling. When he finally pulled back, his voice dropped to a low rasp. “Then you’re ready for me.”

He slid his hand away, leaving Bakugou shuddering at the loss, before reaching sideways and yanking open the bedside drawer. The faint scrape of wood was loud in the charged silence. When he came back with a bottle in hand, his smile was sharp, hungry, full of promise. Bakugou’s eyes widened a bit, his breath audibly stuttering at the sight of the bottle of lube. Kirishima froze instantly, hand retreating like Bakugou had burned him. “Hey—” his voice softened, steady, searching his face. “We don’t have to. Not if you don’t want it. Not tonight.”

Bakugou’s jaw locked, throat working. His heart hammered so loud it drowned out the silence between them. He forced it out before he lost his nerve, low and guttural, like it cost him. “I want to. I want to fucking do it.”

The words sat heavy in the air, heavier than he could stand. He’d never said them before. Never even wanted to. Not with anyone. For years, he’d been convinced it wasn’t in him—that the whole thing was some sick joke people pretended to enjoy, something he could live his whole life without. Now? He wanted to know. He wanted to feel it. He wasn’t ready to go all the way, not yet, but he wanted to explore, wanted to hand more of himself over. 

When he looked up, Kirishima’s face carved it deeper. Shock hit first—quick, wide-eyed—but it faded fast, burned out, and what replaced it made Bakugou’s stomach twist. Hunger. Dark and sharp, curling into a grin that was all teeth, all lust. He’d seen that look already today, in the campaign. Kirishima laughing with strangers, leaning close, eyes gleaming with desire that wasn’t real but looked real enough. Even if it was just acting, even if it was for the cameras, it made Bakugou sick. That hunger, that heat—he only wanted to see it when Kirishima’s eyes were on him.

Kirishima didn’t move right away, his hand still heavy at Bakugou’s hip, his eyes gleaming in the low light. Instead, he leaned in close, close enough that Bakugou could feel his breath warm against his cheek, close enough that it made his chest seize. His voice dropped lower, smooth and coaxing, curling into Bakugou’s ear like a dare. “How badly do you want it?” The question hit harder than any shove, and Bakugou froze, his lips parting but no answer coming out. His mind went blank, a mess of static, his body too wound up to form words. He wanted it, wanted him, wanted something he’d never been able to name before tonight, but the weight of it was too much, too raw, and all he could do was stare back at him with heat crawling up his throat.

Kirishima chuckled, low and rough, the sound vibrating against Bakugou’s skin as he pressed their foreheads together. His hand dragged lazily along his thigh, just enough pressure to keep him trembling. “Tell me,” he murmured, his grin curling wider, sharper. “What are you willing to do for it?”

Bakugou’s breath came harsh, uneven, his pride screaming at him to bite back, to spit something cutting, to regain control, but the tension in his body, the way his cock strained hot and insistent against his sweats, betrayed him. His jaw clenched, his throat worked, and the only thing that ripped out was the truth, low and guttural, humiliating in how naked it sounded. “Anything.”

Kirishima pulled back just enough to look at him, his eyes dark, pupils blown, lips twitching into a grin that looked far too wicked on his usually open, easy face. “Anything, huh?” he echoed, his tone playful but edged with heat, testing him, pushing him. His hand pressed firmer between his legs, slow and deliberate. “You’d do anything just for me to finger you?”

The word—finger—landed like a strike, direct and dirty. Bakugou’s breath caught, his whole body jolting as if the sound alone had touched him. Shame surged up hot, curling through his stomach, clashing hard with the flood of want that burned straight down his spine. His cock twitched in his pants, humiliating proof of just how much the word itself undid him. Kirishima saw it—Bakugou could see that he saw it, and it only made the grin on his lips grow darker, more knowing. He leaned in closer, his voice dropping low, almost gentle in contrast to the sharpness of the words. “You’re such a slut for me.”

The word crashed through his chest, humiliation blooming hot, twisting tight with a rush of pleasure so sharp it made him dizzy. Bakugou shuddered, his whole body jerking like he’d been shocked, a strangled sound breaking out of his throat before he could bite it back. His lips parted, his eyes fluttered, and for one horrifying second, he couldn’t tell if he wanted to curse Kirishima out or beg him for more. Kirishima’s grin softened at the edges, though the heat in his eyes didn’t fade. “Did you like that?” he asked, tilting his head just slightly, like he was honestly curious. “I almost feel bad for saying it.”

The almost in his tone made Bakugou snort, sharp and unsteady, but it was useless trying to hide the way his body betrayed him—the flush across his chest, the twitch of his hips, the raw sound that had already slipped out. He’d liked it, liked it too much, and Kirishima damn well knew it. Still, Kirishima lingered, waiting, giving him the space to answer. Bakugou’s throat worked, his pride clawing at him, but he forced it out, rough and clipped. “Yes.”

The grin lingered, but then Kirishima leaned in again, catching Bakugou’s mouth with his own. The kiss was softer this time, unhurried, the kind that stole Bakugou’s breath not with force but with warmth. It was a jarring contrast to the sharp word that had just wrecked him, and somehow, it made him melt even more. Kirishima’s hands moved steadily, sure, tugging at the hem of Bakugou’s shirt. He broke the kiss only long enough to pull it over his head, dropping it aside, then pressed their mouths back together before Bakugou could even think about covering himself. His palms skimmed over bare skin, warm and grounding, and Bakugou shivered under the touch, heat licking up his chest.

Then Kirishima pulled back just enough to strip his own shirt off, tossing it aside with the same ease. He gave Bakugou a quick grin, almost sheepish, before leaning back in, his voice low against his mouth. “Didn’t want you feeling like the only one exposed.”

Something twisted sharply in Bakugou’s gut at that—half embarrassment, half gratitude. His hands moved roughly, fumbling at Kirishima’s sweats, dragging them down just enough to feel skin on skin, to remind himself they were both here, both doing this. Kirishima leaned back just a little, enough to let his eyes roam, his hands sliding slow over Bakugou’s chest, his ribs, the sharp lines of muscle along his stomach. His grin softened into something steadier, warmer, though the heat never left his eyes.

“God, Katsuki,” he murmured, voice low, reverent in a way that made Bakugou’s pulse hammer. “You look so good.”

Bakugou’s face burned instantly, the flush crawling high up his neck. He scoffed, trying to mask it, but his body betrayed him—chest rising sharply under Kirishima’s palms, muscles tensing at the open admiration. Compliments like that never sat right, not when they came so easily to others, but from Kirishima… it was almost unbearable. Kirishima pressed a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth, then trailed lower, mouthing at the line of his throat, his collarbone, before straightening again. His smile curved wickedly as his hand reached to the side, fingers closing around the bottle he’d left waiting on the mattress.

The click of the cap echoed in the room, sharp against the silence, and Bakugou’s chest seized all over again.

“Lay down,” Kirishima murmured, voice steady, soft enough to calm. Bakugou swallowed hard, his body tense, but he obeyed. He shifted back on the mattress until his head brushed the headboard, propped halfway against it, his chest rising sharp with every breath. Kirishima followed, climbing over him with an ease that made Bakugou’s gut twist, his broad frame hovering, caging him in without ever making him feel trapped.

He was so nervous his body betrayed him, the edge of his arousal slipping, going soft despite the heat still coiled in his stomach. Shame prickled hot across his skin, but Kirishima didn’t flinch, didn’t frown. He just smiled, easy, warm, like he didn’t mind at all. The bottle sat open on the mattress beside them, forgotten for the moment as Kirishima leaned down, pressing his mouth to Bakugou’s skin. Slow, steady kisses trailed across his collarbone, down his chest, over the hard lines of his stomach. Each one lingered, warm and grounding, pulling low, shaky breaths out of Bakugou’s throat. His hands fisted in the sheets, his jaw clenched tight, but little by little, the tension bled out of his muscles under Kirishima’s mouth.

Kirishima’s mouth dragged up his chest again, lips soft against his skin, and when he pulled back just enough to breathe, his voice came low, steady, curling warm into Bakugou’s ear.

“You’re so beautiful, Katsuki. You’re safe with me.”

The words hit like a sucker punch. Any other time, Bakugou would’ve rolled his eyes, shoved him off, and told him to shut the hell up, but here, now, with Kirishima looking at him like he meant every syllable—fuck, it hit too damn hard. His throat locked up, a burn crawling behind his ribs. His hands shook faintly against the mattress, traitorous tremors he couldn’t hide. He curled them into fists, one clutching a fistful of comforter just to ground himself, anchoring to the fabric like it would keep him steady.

The tension was bleeding out of him anyway. Every kiss, every scrape of teeth against his skin, every word replaying in his head—safe, beautiful, mine—it stripped him down piece by piece. He clung to them even as his chest heaved, letting them loop through his mind, letting himself believe them if only for this moment. Kirishima kissed him again, slower now, his grin softened into something steady, sure, and Bakugou’s body no longer betraying him—heat stirring low in his gut, rising again, his pride clawing at him, but his want was stronger. Kirishima’s lips brushed across Bakugou’s chest, his voice barely a whisper against his skin.

“I’m gonna make you feel so good, Katsuki. You don’t even know.” Another kiss, lower this time, heat curling in its wake. “I’ve wanted this too. For so long.”

Bakugou’s chest seized, his breath catching sharp, but the words threaded through him like hooks, dragging him deeper, grounding him even as his pulse hammered. His fists still twisted in the comforter, but less from panic now and more from holding himself together. Kirishima smiled against his skin, and when he lifted his head again, there was something sharper in his eyes—still soft, but edged with heat. He pressed a kiss to the corner of Bakugou’s mouth before murmuring, low, teasing, “You’re already doing so good for me.”

The praise made Bakugou flush hotter, his jaw clenching, but he didn’t look away. Kirishima’s grin curved wider, catching the way his chest heaved.

Kirishima finally reached for the bottle, his fingers curling around it with that same easy certainty that made Bakugou’s chest feel too tight. The faint slick sound of the cap twisting sent a rush of nerves down his spine. His whole body tensed, shoulders locking, but his eyes didn’t waver. He held Kirishima’s gaze, unflinching even as heat crawled high up his throat. Kirishima shifted lower, his big hands coaxing Bakugou’s legs apart, steady, patient. Bakugou let him, every muscle stiff, until Kirishima was settled between his thighs, sitting back on his knees like he had all the time in the world.

It was humiliating, being laid out like this, every inch of him bare and exposed under that sharp, steady stare. Bakugou had to rip his gaze away, head tipping back, eyes squeezing shut as he stared up at the ceiling instead. His fists twisted tighter in the sheets.

“Are you ready, Katsuki?” Kirishima’s voice came low, careful but firm. Bakugou’s throat worked. No words came. The answer sat heavy in his chest, but his pride clawed at him, kept his mouth shut. A beat of silence stretched, and then Kirishima leaned closer, his voice dropping even lower, rough at the edges. “I need to hear you.”

Bakugou’s jaw clenched so tight it ached. The word scraped up anyway, broken and small. “...Yes.”

Kirishima’s fingers dipped into the bottle, slicking up with slow, deliberate care. Bakugou couldn’t bring himself to watch—his chest rose sharply, eyes locked on the ceiling as if he stared hard enough he could burn a hole straight through it. Then the touch came, cool, slick, dragging over him where no one had ever touched before, and Bakugou flinched, a wince breaking across his face before he could stop it. The cold bit into him, a sharp shock against the heat of his body, and his jaw locked tight, teeth grinding.

Kirishima’s hand stilled, patient. “Katsuki,” he said softly, coaxing, the sound low enough it hummed in his chest. “You’re gonna have to relax if we do this, okay?” His other palm pressed warm against Bakugou’s thigh, steadying him. “I need you to stop tensing and breathe.”

Bakugou sucked in air through his nose, shaky, his fists still twisted tight in the sheets. Every instinct screamed at him to fight the vulnerability, to shove Kirishima off and bark something cutting just to shield himself, but he didn’t move. His body stayed open, legs spread around Kirishima’s broad frame, chest heaving. He forced his lungs to expand, forced the air out slowly, jaw still clenched like a vice. His pride was a knife lodged in his throat, but he held Kirishima’s words in his mind—relax, breathe—looping them until his muscles eased, fraction by fraction. Kirishima waited until the tight coil in Bakugou’s muscles eased under his palms, until the rigid line of his body softened just enough. Then, with one more stroke of his hand over Bakugou’s thigh, he pressed in.

The intrusion was sharp, unexpected. Bakugou’s whole body jolted, a rough gasp ripping out of him before he could bite it back. His hands flailed for a moment, grasping at nothing, before one found Kirishima’s forearm and latched on, grip iron-tight. It hurt more than he’d expected—more than he’d let himself imagine—and his breath came ragged, chest heaving. Every nerve screamed, his body clenching down around the unfamiliar stretch, panic spiking bright and hot.

Kirishima leaned closer, voice low, words muffled by the roar in Bakugou’s ears. He didn’t catch them, couldn’t focus past the raw sensation tearing through him, but then Kirishima’s slicked forearm slid free from his grip. For one awful second, Bakugou thought he’d pulled away entirely—until Kirishima’s other hand caught his own, their fingers lacing together firm, steady. The contact grounded him instantly, the warmth of it cutting through the sharp edge of pain. Bakugou’s breathing stuttered, but he squeezed back, clinging to it like a lifeline. Kirishima’s thumb brushed slowly over his knuckles, patient, waiting. The finger inside him remained still, allowing him to adjust.

Kirishima didn’t rush him. He stayed still, patient as stone, thumb brushing slow arcs over Bakugou’s knuckles until the raw edge dulled, until Bakugou’s chest stopped jerking like he was drowning. Only when Bakugou huffed out a sharp breath—more frustrated than pained—did he move again. The shift was subtle, careful. The slow drag of his finger pulling out, then sliding back in. Bakugou winced at the stretch, jaw clenched so tight it ached, but he didn’t yank away. He forced himself to take it, to breathe through it, even as his body screamed at the invasion.

“Breathe, Katsuki,” Kirishima murmured, steady and close, his voice a tether. “Don’t hold your breath.”

Bakugou hadn’t even realized he was. His lungs burned, his chest locked tight—until he exhaled all at once, a ragged rush of air that left him trembling. He dragged in another breath, shakier this time, and tried to loosen his grip on the comforter, to stop clenching around the finger still inside him. Relax. You wanted this. You asked for this. So fucking take it.

Kirishima’s finger eased deeper, pressing into a place Bakugou hadn’t known existed, and the shock of it tore another gasp from him. His hand clamped down around Kirishima’s, knuckles white, before slowly loosening as the sharpness ebbed. His chest rose and fell hard, breath catching, but he didn’t let go. Kirishima’s palm stayed warm against his own, steady, holding him through it. Kirishima kept the rhythm steady, careful, never pushing too far, too fast. Each glide in and out tugged a wince across Bakugou’s face at first, his body rebelling against the unfamiliar stretch. But Kirishima didn’t falter, didn’t let frustration creep in—he just held his hand tighter, grounding him with every slow drag of his thumb over Bakugou’s skin.

Little by little, the edge dulled. The sharp ache began to melt, replaced by something Bakugou couldn’t name. His jaw stayed tight, his chest still rose too fast, but the coil of tension inside him loosened one knot at a time. His eyes slipped shut before he realized it, lashes trembling against flushed skin. Kirishima shifted the angle, his finger sliding a little deeper, and Bakugou’s breath hitched—not the harsh gasp of pain this time, but something softer, a startled sound that sent heat flooding up his neck. His grip on Kirishima’s hand loosened, his body unconsciously letting go even as his pride clung to every ounce of control.

The pace picked up, just slightly, Kirishima’s touch more certain now. Each slow press deeper sent sparks through him, enough that his lips parted on an exhale he couldn’t bite back. The uncomfortableness was still there, lingering at the edges, but it wasn’t unbearable anymore—it was shifting, warping into something he didn’t know how to process. Bakugou barely noticed Kirishima speaking at first—his voice was just a low hum against the haze of sensation, drowned out by the pulse hammering in his ears. It wasn’t until Kirishima laughed, quietly and warmly, that his eyes snapped open, dragging him back into the room.

“What?” he snapped, breathless, his voice coming rougher than he intended.

Kirishima’s grin curved slowly, teasing, though his hand never faltered in its careful rhythm. “I asked if it’s starting to feel good.”

Bakugou rolled his eyes hard, trying to cover the flush climbing up his throat. Typical shitty question, typical shitty timing—but the answer clawed its way out before he could choke it down.

“…Yeah,” he ground out, jaw tight, the word ragged and low.

“I’m going to add another finger, okay?” Kirishima’s voice was steady, low, like he was coaxing more than asking. Bakugou only managed a sharp nod, his throat too tight to answer. He braced himself, knuckles white in the sheets, and then—fuck. The stretch ripped through him, sharper, fuller, his body clenching so hard around the intrusion that his breath stuttered out ragged.

Kirishima clicked his tongue softly, the sound maddeningly gentle. “Katsuki, relax. You’ve gotta relax for me.”

Bakugou grit his teeth, trying, but every muscle screamed rebellion, locking tight no matter how badly he wanted to loosen up. The first few movements burned, his chest heaving like he’d been punched, but Kirishima didn’t push—he stilled, gave him space, his hand still warm in Bakugou’s grip, thumb drawing slow circles against his skin. It felt like forever before Bakugou’s body yielded, before the jagged edge dulled enough to breathe through. His eyes squeezed shut, his chest rising and falling in heavy bursts, sweat already beading at his temples from the effort of just taking it.

When Kirishima finally moved again, easing the rhythm back, it was all Bakugou could do to gasp and clutch at him harder, the room otherwise silent save for the harsh drag of his breath and the soft, slick sound of Kirishima’s hand working slowly between his legs. The burn hadn’t vanished—not completely—but something was bleeding through it now, faint flickers that made his stomach jolt and his breath catch in ways he couldn’t anticipate. Each careful thrust of Kirishima’s fingers brushed deeper, dragging sparks out of him that he didn’t want to name, didn’t want to acknowledge.

Embarrassment crawled hot under his skin. He could feel the way his body betrayed him, clenching and loosening with each push, his hips twitching against the mattress like they had a mind of their own. He bit down hard on the inside of his cheek, jaw locked, swallowing every sound that tried to claw its way out. He wouldn’t—couldn’t—let it show. Kirishima didn’t seem to notice, or maybe he did, and just didn’t call him on it. He only adjusted the angle, his pace quickening slightly, more certain now, and the flickers grew sharper. Pleasure curled into the edges of each gasp, enough to make Bakugou’s eyelids clamp down tight, shutting out everything but the rhythm, the heat building low in his gut.

The room was still silent except for the wet slide of Kirishima’s fingers and Bakugou’s harsh breathing—but inside, he was a storm, his pride warring with the raw want clawing to the surface.

“Katsuki,” Kirishima’s voice was low, coaxing, as his fingers moved steadily, deep. “Does it feel good?”

Bakugou’s jaw clenched. He didn’t answer, his pride curled up sharp in his chest, choking the word down even as his body arched, even as his breath stuttered. He bit down harder, silence burning in his throat. “I want to hear you.” The words were softer this time, a whisper close to his ear. “C’mon, let me hear you, Katsuki.”

Bakugou’s grip tightened hard in the sheets, a ragged moan tearing out of him before he could stop it—sharp, broken, too raw. His eyes flew open, wide, humiliated, but Kirishima’s answering grin only deepened, heat flickering bright in his gaze. “Oh,” he said, dragging it out with a teasing lilt. “So it does feel good?”

Bakugou’s chest heaved. He gave a sharp nod first, then forced the word out, rough and bitten through his teeth. “Y—yes.” The last hissed out of him, trailing into another sound he couldn’t catch in time, small and shuddering.

“That's right,” Kirishima murmured, his tone so warm it made Bakugou’s stomach flip. The pace of his fingers shifted, deliberate now, curling slowly and deeply. “Don’t hold back from me.”

Bakugou’s nails bit into the sheets, his jaw tight, but every movement dragged another spark out of him, harder to choke down than the last. His chest rose sharply, shoulders trembling as he ground his teeth against the next sound clawing up his throat. Kirishima leaned in, his breath hot against Bakugou’s ear. “You sound so fucking hot when you let go. Don’t you dare hide it from me.” He pressed a kiss to his temple, soft and quick, then whispered lower, filth threading through. “I want to hear how good I’m making you feel. How needy you are for me. For my fingers—” His hand curled, pressing deeper, pulling a shocked gasp out of Bakugou’s chest. “—fucking you open, making you mine.”

The curl hit deep and sudden, and Bakugou gasped, loud, unguarded, shame burning through him as the sound echoed in the room. He clenched harder at the comforter, every muscle straining to stay put, his body trembling beneath the slow drag of Kirishima’s touch. He was grinning now, mouth trailing along Bakugou’s jaw, his throat, leaving hot kisses between each filthy word.

“There it is,” Kirishima whispered, his grin audible, his mouth dragging along Bakugou’s jaw and down his throat, kissing between each word. “You love this. Letting me inside you, letting me take care of you. God, Katsuki—you’re so fucking beautiful like this. Laid out, shaking for me, moaning even when you try not to.”

Bakugou shut his eyes tighter, swallowing hard, but the betrayal of his body was obvious. Another moan ripped free, ragged and broken, spilling into the heat of Kirishima’s mouth. Kirishima chuckled low against his skin, wicked satisfaction threaded through it, and licked up the sound like it belonged to him. “That’s it,” he coaxed, his fingers working him deeper, firmer now. “That’s what I wanted. Give me more.”

Kirishima’s fingers curled just right, pressing deeper — and Bakugou shattered. sHis whole body jolted, a moan ripping out of him so loud and desperate it made his ears burn. “Oh fuck—fuck—what the fuck—” The words tumbled out raw, frantic, on repeat as his back arched off the bed, every muscle straining against the flood of sensation. He couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t do anything but gasp the same curse over and over.

Kirishima’s grin was audible in his voice, smug and fond all at once. He pressed the spot again, deliberately, watching Bakugou fall apart under it. “That—” Another thrust, slower, cruelly precise. “—is your prostate.”

Bakugou choked on another sound, his head snapping back against the pillows. “Shut—shut the fuck up—” But his voice cracked halfway through, dissolving into another moan that betrayed him completely. His hand shot out, grabbing Kirishima’s wrist like he could stop him, like he should have wanted to, but his grip trembled, weak, nothing but an anchor as the pleasure crashed through him. Kirishima leaned down, his mouth at Bakugou’s ear, laughing low and husky. “Feels good, huh?”

Bakugou’s only answer was another broken curse, his hips twitching despite himself, his chest heaving like he was drowning. Bakugou’s moans cracked, climbing higher without his permission, raspy and pitching up sharp as Kirishima worked him over, unrelenting. Each curl against that spot wrenched another sound out of him, each louder, more desperate than the last, until his voice didn’t even sound like his own anymore. Kirishima’s grin was wicked, his words a low tease against Bakugou’s ear. “I’ve never heard you sound like this before.” He pressed in deeper, dragging another sharp cry out of him. “It must feel really good, huh?”

Bakugou’s head jerked in a frantic nod, his throat working around a broken chorus of yeses. “Y-yes—yes—fuck, yes—” The word dissolved into another moan, his chest heaving, his grip on Kirishima’s wrist trembling and weak.

Every sound poured out of him without filter, shame curling hot in his gut even as his body begged for more, desperate to keep Kirishima’s fingers right where they were. The pleasure was climbing sharply, unbearable, Bakugou’s voice cracking higher with every thrust of Kirishima’s fingers, every curl that lit him up from the inside. His moans had slipped into broken pleas, “yes” spilling raw from his throat, over and over.

Then—nothing.

Kirishima pulled back, slow and deliberate, his fingers sliding out with a slick sound that left Bakugou’s chest lurching upward, gasping like something vital had just been torn away. His hands flailed against the sheets before finding Kirishima’s wrist again, clutching weakly, his body trembling, desperate. “No—no, don’t—” The words tumbled out before his brain caught up, ragged and wrecked, his pride nowhere to be found. “Please.”

Kirishima froze, eyes wide, stunned into silence by the sound of it—Bakugou Katsuki, begging, desperate, gasping, please. Kirishima stilled above him, lips quirking, eyes burning. “Please what, Katsuki?” he murmured, dragging the question out like he already knew the answer.

Bakugou’s pride didn’t even try to save him. His voice cracked open, desperate and wrecked. “Please—fuck—please keep fucking me with your fingers.” The words sounded insane in his own mouth, filthy and shameless, but he didn’t care—not when he needed it, needed him.

Kirishima hummed low in his throat, tilting his head like he was actually considering it. “Mmh,” he drawled. “I dunno if I should.”

Bakugou’s mouth opened, half to snarl, half to beg again—he didn’t even know which—but before he could force anything out, Kirishima’s fingers slid back in, deep and unrelenting. The sound that ripped from Bakugou’s throat wasn’t even a moan. It was a strangled, cracked squeal, high and pathetic, shoving him deeper into humiliation as his back arched off the mattress, his hands clawing helplessly at the sheets. Kirishima’s grin was wicked as he pressed in harder, curling his fingers until Bakugou’s voice broke into wrecked noise again. “God,” he whispered, savoring it. “Listen to you.”

Bakugou couldn’t even hear himself anymore. His own voice sounded distant, ragged moans spilling out between gasps, climbing higher and sharper until they cracked into broken cries. His head thudded back against the pillows, jaw slack, sweat dampening his hairline as the words tumbled out of him without thought.

“Oh my fucking god—oh my god—” His chest heaved, every muscle shuddering as Kirishima’s fingers curled deep, unrelenting. “Eijirou—fuck—” The curses dissolved into noise, every sound pathetic and ruined, humiliating and unstoppable.

Kirishima watched him like he’d never seen anything so unreal in his life. His grin faltered, his lips parting in disbelief as his gaze dragged over Bakugou’s trembling body, the wet flush high on his cheeks, the tears unshed at the corners of his eyes. “You… you, holy shit—” he muttered, almost to himself, his tone hushed and awed even as his fingers worked steadily inside him.

Bakugou clawed at the sheets, shaking his head weakly, not even sure if he was denying or agreeing. He couldn’t get himself together. Every time he tried to drag air into his lungs, another moan ripped out of him, every nerve in his body betraying him. He wanted to fight it, wanted to snap something cruel back—but all that came out was a wrecked, “Don’t stop—please don’t stop—”

Kirishima huffed a laugh, half shocked, half wrecked himself. “You’re unbelievable, Katsuki,” he rasped, his hand unrelenting as he drove his fingers deeper, teasing even as awe bled through. “I didn’t know you could sound like this.” Bakugou’s only answer was another desperate, cracked moan, his hips twitching despite his will, his body begging even when his pride burned to ash. It was building sharply in his gut, climbing higher with every curl of Kirishima’s fingers until he swore he was seconds from breaking. His chest heaved, sweat slick against his temples, his hands tearing at the sheets as if they could anchor him.

The pressure stayed, brutal and choking, his cock leaking messily against his stomach, his body screaming for release and getting nothing. His throat worked around a sob as frustration burned through him, hotter than shame. “I—I can’t—” The words tumbled out, broken, his pride shattering with them. “I can’t—oh, fuck—”

His body moved before he could think, his hand jerking down to grab himself, desperate to push over the edge. But Kirishima’s grip caught his wrist hard, pinning it to the sheets before he could touch. “No.” The word was firm, unyielding, his voice rough but steady. “If you touch yourself, I’ll stop.”

Bakugou froze, chest lurching, his eyes flying wide. His arm trembled helplessly in Kirishima’s hold—and then the tears he didn't even know were building finally broke loose. Maybe it was the undercurrent of shame, maybe it was the pleasure, but he couldn't take it, couldn't take this. He was burning so hot, his face, his entire body. He wiped at them, taking away any evidence of them, but Kirishima saw, he always saw. Raspy moans tore from his throat, sharp and cracked, each one higher than the last until they collapsed into whines, his jaw falling slack as the humiliation and pleasure tangled, too much to bear. “Ei—oh, fuck, please—” His body shook beneath the relentless rhythm, every nerve alight, every breath a gasp.

Bakugou was trembling, every muscle pulled tight as a bowstring, his body begging even if his mouth couldn’t shape the words. His thighs shook, his grip on the sheets gone white-knuckled, but it was the way he clenched helplessly around Kirishima’s fingers that gave him away. Each curl dragged another pulse out of him, tight and desperate, squeezing like he couldn’t bear to let go. Kirishima groaned low in his throat, his eyes dark as he felt it. “God, Katsuki—” His grin curved wickedly. “You’re clenching so hard around my fingers.”

The words shot straight through him, ripping a strangled moan from Bakugou’s chest, high and broken. His head thudded back against the pillow, his face flushed scarlet as the tears burned fresh at his lashes. Bakugou’s mouth opened, but only wrecked noise came out—a sob, a whimper, a string of curses torn apart by pleasure. He couldn’t stop clenching, couldn’t stop shaking, his body betraying him with every desperate flutter around Kirishima’s hand. Kirishima pressed his forehead to Bakugou’s temple, breath hot against his ear. “Look at you. Crying, begging, taking it so good. You love this, don’t you? Love being my needy fucking slut.”

Kirishima’s fingers kept driving into him, curling relentlessly, every thrust dragging another ragged cry from Bakugou’s chest. His voice was wrecked, pitch climbing higher and higher, rasping into moans so loud Bakugou almost worried about the neighbors—but he didn’t stop, not when it felt like this.  “You can do it,” Kirishima whispered, his voice rough, coaxing, even as his grin stayed sharp. “You’re taking me so well, Katsuki. You’re so perfect—fuck—you’re so tight around me, so desperate. You can cum for me. I know you can.”

Bakugou’s throat was raw as he gasped for air, his voice breaking apart. “I—I can’t—” His body trembled violently, clenching around Kirishima’s fingers like a vice, every nerve screaming.

“Yes, you can,” Kirishima growled, pressing in harder, his pace brutal. “You’re gonna cum just from my fingers. You’re just begging to be fucked open—and you love it, don’t you?”

A sob tore out of Bakugou, high and broken, his body arching off the mattress. “Yes—fuck—yes, I love it—I—oh, fuck—” His voice pitched up sharp, cracking into near-screams as the heat in his stomach finally snapped. It hit him all at once—violent, overwhelming. His cock spilled across his stomach in hot, messy spurts, his body shaking uncontrollably, every muscle spasming as he came harder than he ever had in his life. His moans ripped out high and desperate, filling the room, his whole frame trembling like he was coming apart at the seams.

Kirishima held him through it, hand still working him mercilessly as Bakugou sobbed and gasped, every sound wrecked, every nerve alight. “That’s it,” he whispered, reverent even through the filth. “You’re so fucking beautiful when you fall apart for me.”

Bakugou’s body shook, sweat streaking his forehead, his chest heaving as the orgasm tore him down to nothing, until there was nothing left, just wrecked moans and shuddering gasps spilling from his lips. Even when it ebbed, Bakugou lay trembling, every nerve fried, his body jerking in aftershocks he couldn’t control. Kirishima slowed, gentling his touch, until finally—finally—he slid his fingers free. Bakugou gasped at the empty drag, his thighs twitching, legs shaking as they fell open against the mattress.

For a long moment, he just lay there, chest heaving, eyes fixed blankly on the ceiling like it might explain what the hell just happened to him. His jaw worked soundlessly, a choked, “Holy shit—oh, fuck—” tumbling out on repeat, half under his breath.

When he finally turned his head, his dazed stare found Kirishima hovering above him, flushed and grinning. There was awe in his eyes—pride, hunger, something unbearably soft—but mostly, he looked like he was about to burst out laughing. Kirishima leaned closer, brushing damp hair off Bakugou’s forehead, his grin tugging wide. “You okay?” he murmured, voice low, threaded with concern beneath the warmth. Bakugou turned his head toward him, eyes still dazed, and gave him a look—flat, incredulous, like what the fuck do you think? He didn’t bother with words, just let the expression do the talking, his chest still shuddering with uneven breaths.

Kirishima burst out laughing, the sound soft, helpless. He kissed Bakugou’s temple quickly and lightly, still grinning. “Yeah. Thought so.”

Bakugou turned his head, eyes dragging up to meet Kirishima’s. He was still wrecked, body limp against the mattress, brain not ready to process anything past his own release—so when his gaze caught on the streaks across Kirishima’s abs, glinting wet against the cut of his stomach, he froze.

Confusion flickered sharply across his face, and the words came out rough. “Wait—what the fuck—”

Kirishima rubbed at the back of his neck, sheepish even as his grin tugged wide. “Yeah, uh… You were so hot I just—” he glanced down at himself, unbothered. “Yeah. Guess we both came untouched today.”

For a second, Bakugou just blinked at him, still dazed, his brain catching up. Then—sudden, unrestrained—he barked out a laugh, sharp and startled, chest hitching with it. The sound scraped raw from his throat, but it was real, shaking loose some of the tension still clinging to him. Kirishima laughed too, softer, relief bleeding through, before he leaned down and kissed the corner of Bakugou’s mouth, warm and quick. Kirishima reached up first, dragging his thumb gently under Bakugou’s eye, catching the wet streaks there. It wasn’t the first time tonight—hell, it felt like Bakugou had done nothing but cry, breaking apart in Kirishima’s hands again and again. He wasn’t ashamed of it anymore, not when Kirishima was looking at him like that, not when every tear had been dragged out of him by pleasure so sharp it carved right through him.

Kirishima kissed him again, soft this time, reverent, before pushing to his feet. The sound of the bathroom door, the faint splash of running water, all blurred together while Bakugou slumped back against the pillows, chest still rising hard, eyes half-lidded. When Kirishima came back, he carried tissues, his grin small and tender. He cleaned Bakugou first, careful with every touch, wiping him down like he was something fragile, something to be handled with care. Bakugou shifted to sit up, only to wince, a sharp hiss escaping between his teeth. Kirishima’s frown was instant, the line of his shoulders tense, but Bakugou waved him off with a rough sigh. “Tch. It’s fine.” The words were clipped, but they softened as he leaned back again, letting himself be fussed over. It had been his first time letting anyone inside him—of course, it would hurt. He wasn’t an idiot.

Kirishima laughed at the sound of his sigh, the tension draining from his face, and the warmth of it cut through the quiet like sunlight. He tossed the tissues away and slid back into bed, stretching out beside him. For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The glow of it all hung heavy, a heady mix of exhaustion and satisfaction, every inch of silence full instead of empty. Kirishima pulled the covers back, patting the space beside him like it was the most natural thing in the world. Bakugou swung his legs off the bed, muscles aching, fully intent on heading down the hall.

“Where are you going?”

The question stopped him mid-step. Kirishima’s voice was small, stripped of the usual confidence, and when Bakugou turned, he caught him frowning, his expression almost… worried. Bakugou blinked at him, heavy-eyed, exhausted. “My room,” he got out flatly, like the answer should’ve been obvious.

Kirishima swallowed, his throat bobbing, and the next words came hesitant, soft. “Can you… please stay? I—” He scratched at his jaw, suddenly shy in a way that tugged at Bakugou’s chest. “I want to cuddle.”

Bakugou stared at him for half a heartbeat, something in his chest lurching, before exhaustion bulldozed any hesitation. He didn’t need to be told twice. He was so wrecked he’d sleep anywhere—hell, maybe even Mineta’s bed if it came to it. No, not even. He wasn’t that desperate. Without another word, he slipped under the covers, still naked, still sticky, still too wrung out to care. The sheets were cool against his overheated skin, the weight of the blanket a relief.

Kirishima moved the second he was settled, rolling straight into him, no hesitation there. Bakugou shifted automatically, opening his arms, letting Kirishima press halfway on top of him. The warmth of him settled heavy and solid, his head tucked beneath Bakugou’s jaw, his breath ghosting steadily against the crook of his neck. Bakugou’s hand slid up, palm broad against Kirishima’s back, holding him there without thinking. For once, there was no tension left in his body—just heat, exhaustion, and the quiet, steady comfort of having him close.

Bakugou shifted just enough to get comfortable, one arm locked around Kirishima’s waist, the other sliding lazily up his back. His fingertips dragged without thought, tracing aimless shapes across warm skin—lines, half-circles, patterns that didn’t mean anything except that he couldn’t stop touching him. Each pass made Kirishima melt further against him, his chest rising and falling in slow, even rhythm. Kirishima was out almost as soon as he’d settled, his breath warm against Bakugou’s neck, his weight sinking heavy and solid. It was like he’d been waiting for this exact spot all along, the curve of Bakugou’s body, the crook of his neck—a place that seemed to switch the lights off in him instantly, as if sleep itself had been hiding there, waiting.

Bakugou huffed quietly, more a breath than a sound, the corner of his mouth twitching at the thought. He kept tracing patterns, his eyelids dragging lower with every pass, every exhale. The warmth, the weight, the quiet—it all pulled at him, steady as a tide. By the time his fingers stilled against Kirishima’s back, his chest rising slower now, Bakugou had already slipped under, sleep claiming him in the same quiet way he’d been holding on all night.

The morning bled in slow, pale light across the curtains, spilling over the tangle of sheets. Bakugou blinked awake, groggy, his throat still raw, his body heavy and sore in places he’d never admit out loud. The first thing he registered wasn’t the ache, though—it was the weight pressed against him. Kirishima was sprawled half on top of him, head tucked into the crook of his neck, hair tickling at his jaw. His breath was slow, steady, fogging warm against Bakugou’s skin. The bastard looked like he hadn’t moved an inch all night, like he’d just melted there and fused to the mattress.

Bakugou shifted slightly, just enough to get feeling back in his arm, and Kirishima hummed in his sleep, burrowing closer without even waking. Bakugou froze, heart lurching, then exhaled sharply through his nose, glaring at the ceiling. He should’ve been annoyed. He should’ve shoved him off. Instead, he found himself tracing lazy circles at the small of Kirishima’s back again, like his body hadn’t gotten the memo that the night was over. The room was quiet except for their breathing, the kind of quiet that felt like it was holding the rest of the world at bay. Bakugou let himself sink into it for a minute longer, just listening, his chest tightening in a way he didn’t want to name.

Eventually, Kirishima stirred, groggy and warm, rubbing his nose against Bakugou’s neck before blinking his eyes open. He lifted his head just enough to grin down at him, hair a wild mess, voice gravelly with sleep. “Morning, Katsuki.”

Bakugou’s scowl was half-hearted at best. “…Morning.”

Kirishima chuckled, soft and easy, like the night hadn’t left them both wrecked, like this was the most natural way to wake up. Kirishima stretched like a cat before peeling himself away, groaning as he sat up on the edge of the bed. He scrubbed a hand through his messy hair, turning just enough to grin at Bakugou still sprawled under the covers.

“You’re dangerous when you’re sleeping,” he murmured, voice still low and rough. His hand slid across Bakugou’s stomach, teasing at the lines of muscle. “You kick.”

Bakugou swatted at him without heat. “No, I fucking don’t.”

Kirishima laughed under his breath, leaning down to steal a kiss before finally standing. He tugged on his own sweats, then tossed another pair across the room, the fabric hitting Bakugou square in the chest. “Here. You’re not walking out there naked. Well—unless you want to.”

Bakugou muttered something sharp, but he slipped them on anyway, ignoring the way Kirishima’s grin widened. His body was still sore, shifting against the waistband with a wince as he stood, bracing a hand on the counter by the stove once they shuffled into the kitchen. Kirishima leaned against the fridge, arms crossed, still watching him with that same fond smile, like he was trying not to laugh. “You good?”

Bakugou shot him a glare over his shoulder. “I’m fucking fine.”

Kirishima just hummed, all warmth and mischief, padding closer to drape himself against Bakugou’s back. His arms circled his waist, chin hooking onto his shoulder. “You’re cute when you’re lying.”

“Get off me,” Bakugou grumbled, though his grip on the counter only tightened, his ears betraying him with the heat crawling red up their tips.

It had been hours—hell, a whole night—since the night before, but his body still remembered every damn second of it. Every touch, every sound, every place Kirishima’s hands had been. He’d woken up sore in ways he didn’t have words for, a dull ache settled deep in his muscles, the kind that didn’t go away after a shower or a stretch. The morning had already passed them by, the light outside spilling soft through the kitchen window, and somehow Kirishima was still smiling like they hadn’t wrecked each other last night.

Bakugou didn’t know how he could be so easy about it—so open, so damn bright. His chest was still too tight, thoughts looping back to how far he’d gone, how much he’d let himself give. He’d never thought he’d let anyone do that to him. Not ever. Not with how hard he fought to stay in control of everything, how he built himself out of order and sharp edges, how he kept the world at arm’s length just to survive, but Kirishima had a way of breaking through it. Not with force, not with pressure—just that steady, relentless warmth that made Bakugou want to crawl out of his own skin. He’d looked at him like he wasn’t something to conquer or figure out. Just see. Just touch, and Bakugou, like an idiot, had let him.

Now here he was—barefoot, sore, half-dressed in borrowed sweats, standing in his own kitchen with Kirishima hanging off him like a damn blanket. The air smelled like coffee and whatever shitty candle Mina had left behind last time she came over. It should’ve been domestic. Normal. But nothing about it felt normal, because Kirishima always got like this after—clingy, soft, his voice dropping to that lazy hum that hit somewhere low in Bakugou’s stomach. He’d press close like he couldn’t stand even a breath of distance between them, whisper dumb things like you good? you warm enough? you okay? and Bakugou never knew what to do with any of it.

He hated how much he liked it. Hated that he didn’t shove him off right away. Hated that every time Kirishima’s chest pressed against his back, every time his breath ghosted against his neck, something inside him just… eased.

The kitchen was quiet except for the low hum of the heater and the clink of pans. Bakugou moved like muscle memory, pulling rice from the cooker, setting out miso paste, cracking eggs into a pan. He hated how stiff his legs felt, shifting his weight against the counter every few minutes, but he wasn’t about to admit it out loud. Kirishima didn’t make it easier. He was plastered to Bakugou’s back like a damn barnacle, arms slotted firm around his waist, cheek pressed to the line of his shoulder. Every so often his lips brushed over bare skin, quick kisses dropped with no warning.

“Oi—quit breathing down my neck.”

Kirishima only hummed, grinning against his skin. “Not my fault you smell so good.”

Bakugou rolled his eyes, but didn’t shove him off. He plated the tamagoyaki, slid the pan back, and started stirring the miso soup with Kirishima still hanging off him, anchoring him in place. The weight should’ve been annoying, but instead it pressed warm into him, steady in a way he couldn’t shake. The silence stretched, broken only by the scrape of chopsticks, the faint sizzle of eggs still cooling in the pan. Every time Bakugou shifted to grab something, Kirishima shifted with him, trailing behind like it was nothing. Annoying as hell—but his chest loosened with each kiss pressed carelessly to his shoulder blade, each squeeze of arms at his middle.

By the time he set the bowls on the counter—rice steaming, miso soup curling hot with the smell of dashi—he realized he’d leaned back into every touch without even thinking about it. Even the ones that got in his way. They sat shoulder to shoulder at the counter, bowls set out between them, steam curling into the air. Bakugou dug into his rice first, precise, methodical as always, while Kirishima shoveled his in like he hadn’t eaten in days.

It was quiet for a stretch, just the scrape of chopsticks, the warmth of food filling the space. Then, out of nowhere, Kirishima leaned in, nose brushing against Bakugou’s neck before he pulled back with a grin. “You know you smell like bananas, right?”

Bakugou froze mid-bite, chopsticks clacking against the rim of his bowl. “What the fuck did you just say?”

“Bananas,” Kirishima repeated, unbothered, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Kinda sweet, kinda sharp. Like—” he sniffed again, earning himself a sharp elbow to the ribs— “yeah, definitely bananas.”

“You’re a fucking idiot.” Bakugou scowled, heat crawling up his neck as he shoved another bite of rice into his mouth. “I don’t smell like fucking fruit.”

Kirishima laughed, easy and bright, leaning back with his bowl in hand. “Nah, you do. I like it, though. It’s… you.”

Bakugou groaned into his miso soup, muttering under his breath, “I don’t wanna smell like goddamn bananas,” but the corners of his mouth betrayed him, twitching upward despite himself.

Kirishima leaned closer, nose brushing Bakugou’s neck again with a grin. “Nah, you do. I like it, though. It’s… you. My banana-scented—”

He cut himself off abruptly, the word catching sharp in his throat. The air shifted, heavier all at once. His grin faltered, pinched around the edges, and for a split second, his eyes flicked away from Bakugou’s. The scrape of chopsticks against ceramic was too loud in the silence that followed. Kirishima cleared his throat, forcing a laugh, shoving another bite of rice into his mouth like nothing happened. “—uh, you know. My banana-scented… disaster.” He grinned again, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Bakugou scowled into his soup, jaw tight, pretending like he hadn’t noticed the stumble, the shift, the way the air still buzzed with it, but his heart wouldn’t shut the fuck up, pounding hard in his chest. He knew what that almost-was. He felt it sitting between them now, thick and humming, like a live wire that had sparked and gone quiet before either of them could name it. Kirishima wasn’t subtle—he’d never been subtle—but he was careful with him, always careful, always stopping just short of the line like he knew Bakugou couldn’t handle what came after, and maybe he couldn’t. Maybe that was the problem.

It wasn’t just the word. It was everything packed inside it—the claim, the warmth, the truth that would’ve come out if Kirishima hadn’t swallowed it back. Bakugou’s chest burned with it, like the heat of the miso had turned to fire. He tried to focus on the soup. Tried to keep his breathing even, keep his face blank, like the entire world hadn’t just tilted an inch to the left. But he could still feel Kirishima watching him from across the counter, still feel that nervous laugh hanging in the air, still hear the unspoken mine buried under it.

It shouldn’t have hit this hard. It shouldn’t have made his pulse jump or his gut twist. They’d been toeing that line for months now—crossing it, burning it, pretending not to. Every look, every touch, every goddamn breakfast like this one felt like they were playing house in a dream they weren’t supposed to have. He told himself it didn’t mean anything. That it couldn’t, not if he wanted to be a hero, but his hand tightened around the spoon anyway, knuckles white, because for a split second—before Kirishima caught himself—it had.

Kirishima’s grin wobbled for half a second, then he yanked his phone off the counter like he’d been planning it all along. “Anyway!” he announced, thumb already flying, his voice too bright, too quick. “I’m excited to post the campaign. Gotta time it right—Twitter, Insta, TikTok, all that stuff—make sure it blows up everywhere.”

Bakugou gave him a side-eye sharp enough to cut glass, but Kirishima barreled forward, scrolling through feeds like he hadn’t just almost dropped a bomb at the breakfast table. “Hey—” he started, then smirked, the tease slipping back into his tone. “Other than how violently jealous you were, you never—”

Bakugou’s palm cracked against his shoulder before he could finish, the smack echoing in the kitchen. “Shut the hell up.”

Kirishima only laughed, rolling his shoulder like it didn’t sting at all. “You never said how you felt about it.” His eyes flicked up from the screen, bright and steady now, cutting right through the scowl Bakugou was trying to bury himself in.

“You’re fishing for compliments,” Bakugou muttered, chopping into his miso like it had personally offended him. Kirishima leaned across the counter, phone dangling carelessly in his hand, grin cocked. “I’m not! You could’ve hated it. You didn’t say a word last night, and you always have an opinion, man.”

Bakugou cut him a sharp look, lips twitching. “Yeah, my opinion was that you had extras crawling all over you like fleas.”

Kirishima barked a laugh, cheeks flushing, but he didn’t let up. “See? That’s an opinion! But what about the campaign itself?”

Bakugou’s chopsticks clattered down against the bowl. He scowled, jaw flexing, silence stretching until it was almost unbearable. Then, finally, he exhaled through his nose and muttered, “It was… good. Really good. Bold.” His voice dipped, gruff in a way that almost sounded like concern, though he refused to meet Kirishima’s eyes.

Kirishima’s grin widened, triumphant. “Bold’s good—means people will remember it.”

Bakugou’s gaze flicked up, caught on Kirishima’s face, and the scowl wavered. He shook his head, lips pressed tight before admitting, quieter, “You looked too good.”

Bakugou set his chopsticks down with a deliberate clack, the sound sharp in the quiet kitchen. He leaned back against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest, and finally leveled his gaze at Kirishima. His eyes narrowed, voice low but certain, leaving no room for argument. “Bold campaign like that? The whole damn country’s already thirsting over you.”

Kirishima blinked, caught mid-bite, a flush creeping fast across his cheeks. He let out a laugh that was too high, too awkward, rubbing the back of his neck as if he could scrub the heat off his skin. “Stop. That’s not true—”

Bakugou tilted his head, eyes cutting sharper, the barest curl of his lip tugging at his mouth. It wasn’t quite a smirk—it was too dry, too certain—but it hit just as hard. That be so fucking for real look, the one that could shut down anyone, even Kirishima.

Kirishima dropped his face into his hands with a groan, his laugh muffled against his palms. “Oh my god.” His shoulders shook, ears burning crimson, every bit of him screaming embarrassment even as his grin tried to creep back in. “Everyone’s going to be looking when you drop the campaign,” Bakugou said at last, the words sharp but quieter now, like they weighed more than he meant to give away. Kirishima nodded along, distracted at first as he scrolled through his phone, but his grin faltered when Bakugou slid closer, the shift in tone tugging his attention up.

“They’re all gonna see a different side of you,” Bakugou went on, eyes fixed steady, his jaw tight. “One that’s—” He cut himself off, teeth gritting, but the thought hung anyway, heavy in the air. One that’s mine.

Bakugou’s throat worked around the words he didn’t say, the air between them thick enough to choke on. He hated how close they always got to this—how it always circled back to the same damn place, that same unspoken thing neither of them had the guts to name. He knew he wasn’t ready, knew he couldn’t give Kirishima what he probably wanted—not when he couldn’t even look at himself straight in the mirror without second-guessing what the hell this all was. He wasn’t built for it, for softness, for being seen like that. And yet here he was, standing in his kitchen, heart pounding like he’d just been caught doing something wrong.

Deep down, he wanted to say screw it. He wanted to stop thinking, stop running circles around this thing, stop pretending they were just friends who got carried away. He wanted to grab Kirishima by the shirt and keep him. Not because he was ready, but because he was so damn tired of pretending he wasn’t going insane because of him. It was infuriating—the way Kirishima looked at him like there was nothing wrong with wanting this, with wanting him. Like the world wouldn’t burn the second they stopped pretending. Bakugou could already hear it—the whispers, the headlines, the weight of what it would mean—but even that wasn’t enough to kill the thought.

Kirishima’s breath caught. His phone hit the counter with a dull thud as he leaned forward, red blooming high across his cheeks, his voice dropping low. “I was thinking about you the whole time, Katsuki. Every shoot.” Bakugou’s chest tightened, heat crawling up his neck. He wanted to scoff, to call him dramatic, but the way Kirishima said it—so certain, so easy—knocked the air right out of him. Kirishima smiled then, softer but just as sure, like he could see every unspoken thought written across Bakugou’s face. “I already said I was yours,” calm as anything, like it was the simplest truth in the world.

Bakugou froze. The words hit like a body blow—clean, direct, no time to brace. His breath stuttered once, sharp in his throat, and every muscle in him went rigid. He’d heard Kirishima say it before—half-broken, breathless, in the dark, when everything between them blurred. I’m yours. Back then it was just noise, just heat and instinct and everything Bakugou didn’t have to think about. It didn’t mean this. He told himself that every time. That it was different. That it didn’t count, but now Kirishima was saying it in the daylight, steady and certain, no haze to hide behind, and suddenly it felt real in a way Bakugou wasn’t ready for.

He didn’t know what the hell to do with that. Nobody said things like that to him, never like that. Not without it meaning something. He’d spent months convincing himself this wasn’t real—just convenience, just chemistry, just a way to let off steam before they burned each other alive, but then Kirishima had to go and say it like it was nothing. Like it wasn’t shattering him from the inside out. His first instinct was to scoff, to say something sharp and stupid to shove the weight of it off his chest before it crushed him, but his throat wouldn’t work. The heat crawling up his neck burned too deep, searing under his skin and setting his pulse off like a fuse. Because the truth—the fucked-up, terrifying truth—was that he believed him.

He just didn’t know what believing meant.

What came after that? What was he supposed to do with it? With someone who could look at him like that, say things like that, and mean them? He didn’t know how to be that for anyone. He didn’t know how to be someone’s boyfriend, didn’t even know what the word required—what it would make him, what it would take from him. All he knew was how to fight, how to build, how to burn for something, not how to keep it steady once he had it. Kirishima—goddamn Kirishima—made it sound so simple. So easy. Like it wasn’t heavy, like it didn’t come with every risk Bakugou had spent his life avoiding.

He wanted to look away, to break the tension, to breathe again, but he couldn’t. Kirishima’s gaze held him there—steady, open, terrifyingly soft.

Bakugou’s fingers twitched against his thighs His chest hurt. His head hurt worse. Every part of him wanted to move, to punch the wall, to do something. Bakugou didn’t give himself more time to think. He just leaned in, closed the distance, and pressed his mouth to Kirishima’s. It wasn’t rough, not rushed—it was steady, lingering, full of things he’d never once put into words. Heat curled low in his stomach, tight, his chest pulling taut as Kirishima stilled under him, then softened like every part of him had been waiting for this.

He pulled back just enough to look at him, eyes sharp but unreadable, and watched Kirishima falter. His grin didn’t come easy this time—it broke across his face slowly, shakily, his cheeks flaming red as he turned his head away, a bashful smile betraying him anyway. “Jesus,” Kirishima breathed, half-laugh, half-exhale, like the ground had just dropped out beneath him. Bakugou’s smirk tugged sharply at the corner of his mouth as he reached for his bowl again, pretending to focus on anything else. 

Bakugou buried himself in work again, pushing harder than usual on patrols, grinding longer at the gym, blowing off steam in the training rooms. His phone stayed in his bag, notifications muted. He didn’t look when Lover Boy launched. Not the first night, not the next. His anxiety spiked every time he thought about it, stomach flipping sharp enough he had to snarl at himself to shut up. Miyake was on his ass about posting—he hadn’t touched his socials in days—but he ignored her, too.

He didn’t want to think about it. Didn’t want to see it, didn’t want to see him. Didn’t want to watch the way the world would twist something so good into something ugly.

That’s what they always did, didn’t they? Turned people into targets for being brave enough to exist out loud. Lover Boy wasn’t subtle—it was Kirishima stripped raw, softer, bolder, unapologetic in every way Bakugou couldn’t be. The idea of seeing him like that, knowing how the public would eat it alive, made Bakugou’s stomach twist. He didn’t want to think about what would fall on him. On them. On Kirishima. About the comments, the clips, the think pieces calling it “too much,” “too suggestive,” “too political.” About strangers deciding who Kirishima was allowed to love and what that said about both of them. About him—the rumors, the headlines, the whispers that would start. The scrutiny.

All because Kirishima liked men and women and whatever fell in between.

He told himself it wasn’t fear, that it was about protecting Kirishima, about keeping him safe from the noise—but deep down he knew that wasn’t the whole truth. The fear wasn’t just about the world seeing Kirishima that way. It was about the world seeing him that way. He could handle being hated. He always had, but this—this was different. This was personal in a way that scared the hell out of him. It wasn’t about hero rankings or PR or image anymore. It was about Kirishima, about how much he’d already let him in, about how much it would destroy him to watch someone else tear that apart. So he buried it. Buried everything. Trained harder. Slept less. Pretended he didn’t care. 

When he finally sat down, thumb hovering over the app, his chest felt tight. He braced himself for it—the speculation, the backlash, the endless dissecting from people who didn’t know a damn thing about Kirishima. The reaction was immediate. Comments blew up, not with cruelty, but with something else entirely. A different kind of noise.

LOVER BOY ERAAAAAA 🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥
nah bc this campaign is insane??? he’s unreal
I didn’t know Red Riot had THAT in him 👀
ok but the CLOTHES?? these fits >>> candy, sorry not sorry
jesus christ, he’s so boyfriend-coded help
Dynamite cooked with this one, these cuts go crazy
is this him coming out?? idk but either way it’s bold af
gramps in the comments crying, but the rest of us are EATING
if my man doesn’t look at me the way Kirishima looked at the camera, I don’t want him 💔

Bakugou stared, thumb frozen. The chatter was there—people asking questions, speculating—but it was buried under waves of praise, awe, and thirst. Praise for the clothes, for the risk, for Kirishima himself. The worst part? The ones that twisted his gut weren’t about the line at all. They were about him—the way he looked, the way he smiled, the way strangers swore they could read something in his eyes that Bakugou never wanted anyone else to see. Bakugou scrolled further, jaw tight, until familiar names started popping out in the mess of replies.

@Pinky: SCREAMINGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG 🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥
@Chargebolt: he’s literally the hottest pro hero alive don’t @ me
@randomuser12: idk man feels like he’s tryna be something he’s not 😬

@Chargebold: LMAO shut the fuck up ur fav could NEVER 😭😭😭
@randomuser12: ??? all I said was it feels fake
@Chargebolt: nah nah nah don’t backpedal now coward, drop ur location

Sero had jumped in too, his username tagged beneath Kaminari’s wall of all-caps.

@Cellophane: bro chill he’s like 14 arguing with you 💀
@Chargebolt: IDC I’LL FIGHT A CHILD FOR RED RIOT 😤

He shoved his phone into his pocket, jaw tight, as Jeanist motioned for him to move. No more time to stew. Patrol came first. The streets were cold, January air biting at his face as they cut through the district together, Jeanist steady beside him, offering the occasional measured word. Bakugou barely heard them. His mind was already tuned to the city’s pulse—the shift of sound, the way unease always carried. Then the call came through. Hostage situation. Upper floors of a downtown business building, villain barricaded in, panicked voice on the comms asking for speed, precision.

Jeanist barely had time to nod before Bakugou was gone.

He launched himself upward, explosions cracking hot against the glass as he barreled through a top-floor window. Shards rained behind him. The hostage screamed, the villain spun, but Bakugou was already there, faster than the man could blink. One arm hooked hard around the hostage’s torso, ripping them free, his boots detonating against the floor as he propelled them both back out the same broken window. The villain didn’t even get the chance to breathe.

The hostage’s shrieks cut sharply in his ear, but Bakugou held tight, bracing as he dropped back into the open air, angling toward the evacuation point below. The crowd gasped when they saw him descend—civilians lined up outside the building, huddled against the winter chill, reporters already in place, cameras trained skyward. Bakugou landed hard, boots sparking against the pavement, setting the man down with a shove toward waiting medics. The hostage staggered away, still trembling, still sobbing.

Then the questions came. A dozen voices at once, sharp and demanding. 

“Dynamite, can you confirm if there are more hostages?”
“What’s the condition inside?”
“Did you see the villain? Was this Quirk-related?”
“Do you think this attack was connected to recent hero controversies—?”

Mics and cameras shoved forward, a crush of sound, but Bakugou ignored it all, chest heaving as smoke curled from his palms. His eyes stayed fixed on the broken window above, his whole body coiled, ready to launch back in. Jeanist cut through the chaos with practiced calm, silk threads snapping sharp as he wrapped the villain tight. The man thrashed, snarling, every ounce of fight useless against the steady bind. Police swarmed in, slipping quirk cuffs then actual cuffs over wrists, barking orders into their radios as the villain bucked and cursed, refusing the inevitable.

Bakugou stood off to the side, smoke still curling from his hands, chest rising steadily. He glanced at Jeanist, sharp and short. “That’s all?”

Jeanist gave a single nod, still directing officers as they wrestled the villain toward the squad car. That was enough for Bakugou. He turned, and the wall of reporters closed in instantly, mics and cameras shoved forward, voices tangling into one suffocating blur.

“Dynamite, what—”
“Were there—”
“Can you—”

The crush of noise grated at his ears, a dozen questions flying at once, indistinguishable. His eye twitched, patience threadbare. "What?” he snapped, the word cut short and sharp, spit out like shrapnel. The crowd stuttered, voices faltering just long enough for the silence to sting. The reporters glanced at each other, scrambling to reorganize, but Bakugou was already glaring, jaw tight, daring them to try again—one at a fucking time. The mics bristled like spears in his face, voices cutting through the winter air one after another, no rhythm, no order.

“Was the hostage harmed?”
“Did you coordinate with Jeanist beforehand?”
“What does this say about Dynamite’s growth as a hero?”

Bakugou’s patience snapped like glass. He bared his teeth. “Didn’t you just see me drag that guy out the window? He’s fine. Breathing. Go ask him yourself if you’re that desperate.”

A ripple of uneasy laughter, cameras flashing, but the tone shifted in a heartbeat. “Speaking of desperate—” a woman in a tailored coat leaned forward, her voice smooth and cutting. “Inferno’s already fading. Do you think Ignition is propping itself up with Lover Boy because it couldn’t stand on its own?”

Another voice jumped on the tail of hers, sharper. “And Lover Boy—are you comfortable with the… sexual undertones of the campaign? Red Riot pressed up against models, draping himself over men and women alike—does this signal something about his orientation, or was that just the gimmick?”

Bakugou’s shoulders went rigid, jaw clenching so hard it hurt. A third, hungrier voice from the back: “Do you think it’s responsible, pushing those kinds of images on young fans? Heroes blurring the line between role models and sex appeal? Or is Ignition just selling bodies now?”

The crowd murmured, a low buzz that felt like gnats in his skull, and then, sharper than all the rest, the one that made his palms spark with heat—

“Dynamite, do you endorse it? Red Riot parading his sexuality in front of the nation? Or is this just another PR stunt—something you got dragged into?”

Bakugou’s vision tunneled. The cameras, the mics, the hungry eyes—it all narrowed to static, the words clawing at his skull. His chest heaved once, twice. A growl ripped from his throat, smoke curling off his gloves as his hands curled into fists. The reporters flinched back at the sight of it, but not fast enough to miss the look in his eyes. He was seconds away from blowing the whole street sky-high. Bakugou’s teeth ground so loud it was a wonder the mics didn’t pick it up. His palms sparked once, twice, heat radiating off him in angry waves.

“Are you serious right now?” His voice cracked like a whip across the crowd, sharp enough to make half the front line of reporters jolt. “You’re asking me about that—after I just pulled a hostage out of a goddamn building? That’s what’s eating you? Who Red Riot’s fucking?”

A murmur shot through the crowd—shock, a few stifled laughs, every camera lens zeroing in tighter. Someone tried to stammer out a follow-up, but he cut them down before the words even landed. Bakugou could feel his pulse hammering against his throat, too fast, too loud, like the air itself was trying to suffocate him. Every word out of that reporter’s mouth was another spark in a pile of dynamite. He knew this was coming — the speculation, the cheap headlines, the vultures picking apart every frame of Lover Boy like it was proof of something — but hearing it said out loud, in front of cameras, made his blood boil.

It wasn’t just disrespect. It was danger.

He didn’t want to think about what this meant for Kirishima, about how easily admiration could curdle into hate once people had a label to slap on it. He didn’t want to imagine the headlines, the talk show panels, the smug “concerned citizens” asking what kind of example Red Riot was setting for their kids. He could already see the spin — that the campaign wasn’t about heroism anymore, it was about sexuality, like being seen made you unfit to save people.

“He can fuck or be with whoever the hell he wants. Man, woman, both, neither. It’s none of your goddamn business. You think his sexuality changes how hard he hits on the street, change the fact that he’s the reason half of you clowns sleep safe at night? No! So why the fuck are you asking me this garbage? You’re all pissed because—” Bakugou’s mouth outran his brain. “—he looks really fucking hot in a sweater.”

The crowd went silent. Cameras flashed. He could feel Miyake’s horrified stare from here already, but the damage was already done. The words had ripped out of him too fast, too sharp, and he didn’t care, because he meant it. He meant every damn word. He was done watching Kirishima get torn apart for something that should’ve been simple, human. Done watching the same people who cheered them on in battle flinch the second someone dared to exist outside their tiny idea of normal.

The guy just wouldn’t shut the hell up. His tie was crooked, his voice sharp, each question nastier than the last. “So you don’t deny Lover Boy is exploiting sexuality for sales? That Red Riot’s image is being twisted? Doesn’t it bother you—”

Bakugou snatched the mic right out of his hand. The sound it made — the metallic crack against his palm — echoed through the room like a gunshot. The crowd gasped, flashes popping like fireworks as Bakugou held it up between them, close enough that his own growl crackled through the speakers. His glare cut through the noise, feral and unwavering. “Why do you wanna know so bad, huh?” He took a slow, deliberate step forward, voice dropping until it vibrated through the mic, each word edged like a blade. “What’s your angle? You want Red Riot’s number or something? You that desperate to find out firsthand?”

The reporter flinched, stammering, but Bakugou didn’t give him the chance to speak. He shoved the mic closer, close enough that his own breath hit the receiver, static biting through the speakers. “Go on,” he said, quiet now, dangerous. “Say it. You got something you wanna tell everyone?” The crowd went still, except for the few laughing their asses off. Cameras clicked like gunfire, but Bakugou didn’t flinch. His eyes burned straight through the man, daring him to say another word, to make this uglier than it already was.

The reporter stammered, eyes wide, words crumbling in his throat. “I—I, no, I didn’t mean—”

Bakugou tilted his head, feigning patience, his grin a knife’s edge. He tapped the mic against his ear, slow, deliberate. “What was that? Couldn’t hear you. Louder.”  The man swallowed, color draining from his face, but nothing came out. Just useless sputtering, sweat catching the winter light. “Yeah.” Bakugou leaned back, voice slicing through the cold. “Didn’t fucking think so.”

The silence was shattered—gasps, nervous laughter, reporters scrambling to get the angle, the villain in cuffs actually cackling as the cops shoved him into the car. Bakugou lowered the mic, eyes sweeping the whole crowd. “Now write this down since you’re so goddamn desperate—Red Riot saves lives. Red Riot busts his ass harder than any of you could ever dream, and if your problem’s with who he is outside the costume?” He tossed the mic back into the reporter’s chest hard enough to make him stumble. “That’s your problem. Not his. Not mine.”

Smoke curled off his gloves as he turned, stalking away, the street still buzzing with the weight of what he’d just dropped. They’d barely cleared the press line when Jeanist cut him a look—measured, sharp, the kind that slipped right under Bakugou’s skin. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to.

Bakugou could still feel the heat crawling up his neck, the adrenaline still sparking at the edges of his vision. He told himself he was justified. He was. Everything he’d said was true. Every word of it. Kirishima didn’t deserve to be reduced to a headline or a hashtag. He didn’t deserve to have the best thing he’d ever made—the courage it took to do it—twisted into something dirty by people who’d never done a day of real work in their lives. Bakugou knew that. He stood by it. He’d say it again if he had to.

The anger curling under his skin now wasn’t the same as the kind that hit on patrol. It wasn’t the clean, focused kind he could channel into a fight. This was different. Messier. Hotter.

He could still feel the moment he’d snapped—the words burning out of his mouth before he’d thought them through. He’d wanted to humiliate that reporter, hurt him for even saying Kirishima’s name like that. For looking at him like that. For turning something real, something good, into a weapon. That wasn’t just anger. That was something else. Something personal. He clenched his jaw, shoving his hands into his pockets to keep from shaking. He wasn’t supposed to care this much. Heroes got criticized every day; it was part of the job. You brushed it off and kept moving. That was what he’d always done, but this time—this time it had felt like they were attacking him.

It was protective in a way that wasn’t normal. A way he didn’t recognize.

You certainly made your stance clear,” Jeanist said, voice smooth but weighted. “Quite… passionately.”

Bakugou scoffed, shoving his hands in his pockets like he could bury the sparks still clinging to his gloves. “I’m not letting anyone talk shit about my—” The word hit the back of his throat and stopped cold.His brain tripped over it, seized up. His chest lurched like someone had yanked a wire inside him. My what? The air went thick, heavy, impossible to swallow. He didn’t even finish it, but Jeanist’s head tilted anyway, eyes narrowing just enough to make Bakugou’s stomach drop. “—about Red Riot,” he forced out finally, clipped and flat, like it hadn’t almost been something else. His jaw locked so tight he could hear his teeth grind. The silence stretched a second too long. Jeanist didn’t call him on it—didn’t have to. The damage was done.

Bakugou’s ears burned. His pulse thundered in his temples, blood pounding hot and stupid. He glared at the pavement like it had personally offended him, jaw working hard to keep his expression blank. What the hell was wrong with him? He’d almost said it. The word had been right there—on his tongue, waiting to drop like a live grenade.

Boyfriend.

He could hear it even now, echoing like a curse. He hadn’t even meant to think it, let alone say it. Maybe it was because he’d been hearing it too much lately—Mina teasing, Kaminari cracking jokes, the way everyone said “you two” like they were one unit. Maybe it was because Kirishima kept looking at him like that, talking like it was already true. Or maybe it was because the word had been chewing through his head for weeks, whispering between every fight, every late-night text, every quiet moment he didn’t know how to name.

Boyfriend?

He wasn’t built for that. Didn’t know what it even meant. Didn’t know how to hold someone without crushing them, how to love someone without setting the whole thing on fire. Yet—there it was. Sitting in his mouth, heavy and unspoken, like his body had decided before his brain could stop it. He swallowed hard, throat tight, and shoved the thought down so deep it scraped on the way out. “Let’s just go,” he muttered, low and dangerous, hoping the noise of the city would swallow it.

Jeanist hummed, not buying it for a second, but he let it drop, his gaze lingering just a beat too long. Jeanist’s brows lifted just slightly, the faintest crease in his mask, sharp as a needle. He didn’t say anything, but the hum in his throat said enough. Bakugou didn’t meet it, didn’t dare. His chest still throbbed with adrenaline, with the echo of the crowd, with the fire he couldn’t explain away.

Miyake was already blowing up his phone before he even made it back to the damn agency. By the time he got inside, she was waiting, tablet in hand, eyes blazing like she’d been camped out refreshing every feed known to man. “Do you ever,” she started, voice sharp as a needle, “think before you open your mouth?”

Bakugou groaned, dragging a hand down his face. She shoved the screen under his nose. Headlines were already up, clips looping in shaky reporter footage: Dynamite Snaps at Reporters Over Red Riot Campaign. Hashtags were trending, his glare plastered across thumbnails.

The comments—god, the comments.

bro is mad protective 👀
he said hot in a sweater i’m screaminggggg
THATS HIS MAN YALL
idc what y’all say this is allyship at its finest king
omg guys 🥴
someone check on that one reporter he looked like he was about to piss himself lmao
ik Red Riot giggling rn
Jeanist in the back looking like a disappointed dad 💀

Miyake pinched the bridge of her nose like she was holding in an aneurysm. “You handed them enough ammo for the next three months. Do you know how many PR fires I’ve had to put out in the last forty-five minutes?”

Bakugou leaned against the counter, arms crossed, teeth grinding. He didn’t even bother arguing. Half the comments made his chest tight in ways he didn’t want to name, and the other half made him want to hunt people down personally. Miyake sighed, swiping the screen dark. “I should’ve expected this. You can’t shut up when it’s him.” Bakugou bristled, heat crawling up his neck. 

Bakugou bristled, heat crawling up his neck. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

She didn’t flinch. Instead, she set her tablet down with a clatter, bracing both palms against the wall like she was physically holding herself back from throttling him. Her eyes locked on his, sharp, relentless. “Fine. Let’s just cut the bullshit. Are you two together?”

Bakugou reeled back like she’d slapped him. “What? No!” he barked, too fast, too loud. “We’re not—fuck no!”

The words hit the air, jagged and ugly, echoing too hard in the small room. Miyake’s brow arched. She didn’t say anything, didn’t have to. The silence did all the talking for her. Bakugou’s pulse slammed in his ears. For a second—just a split second—he’d almost said yes. It would’ve been easier. Cleaner. No explaining, no clarifying, no dissecting whatever this was. How the hell was he supposed to put it into words when he didn’t even know what to call it? They weren’t dating. They weren’t casual either. They’d bled past every line that was supposed to separate the two. It wasn’t supposed to be love, but it wasn’t just fucking anymore, and saying that out loud—trying to make sense of it—felt impossible.

So he’d done what he always did. He shut it down. Fast. Loud. Final. He dropped his gaze, staring hard at the floor like it could anchor him. “We’re not together,” he said again, quieter this time, the fight gone from his voice. It sounded worse that way—flat, hollow, like something scraped out from the inside.

Miyake’s expression softened just barely, but she didn’t press. She just sighed, muttered something under her breath about “heroes and their PR disasters.” 

Bakugou stayed where he was, jaw clenched, every muscle in his body pulled tight. The truth was, saying no had felt worse than saying yes ever could’ve. “I’m not asking to braid each other’s hair and gossip, Dynamite. I’m asking because it’s clearly affecting how you respond in the field, how you handle interviews, how you breathe when someone so much as mentions his name.”

His mouth opened, snapped shut. His chest pumped like a piston, arms flailing as if the movement could conjure an answer. The words tangled in his throat, useless, because what the hell was the answer supposed to be? No? Yes? It was neither. It was both. Bakugou’s arms dropped uselessly to his sides, his scowl faltering just enough to make him look cornered. “I don’t know,” he muttered, the words raw, slipping out before he could chew them down.

Miyake’s head snapped up, eyes narrowing like a blade’s edge. “You don’t know?”

The silence stretched, hot and sharp, Bakugou’s chest heaving like he’d been caught mid-fight. His jaw clicked as he tried to force something else out, anything else, but all that came was a strangled, “I—”

“No.” She held up a hand, cutting him off, voice laced with steel. “I don’t want to know. I don’t need the play-by-play of whatever mess you’ve got going on.” She jabbed a finger at him, sharp enough to pin him in place. “All I need you to know is that you have to get your shit together. We were doing a damn good job at making you likable again, Dynamight, and now—”

“I’m going to fucking say something about that shit regardless,” he snapped, voice cracking through hers, hands slicing the air in jagged cuts. “I’m not going to sit back and accept them talking shit about—” He stopped, throat working, heat crawling up his neck as the word caught in his teeth. “—about Eiji—” His voice faltered, stumbled, then stiffened. “About Red Riot.”

The name hit the air like a slap, too sharp, too obvious. Miyake stared at him for one long, loaded second, lips pressed into a thin, white line. Then she groaned, tipping her head back like she was begging the ceiling for patience. “God, give me strength.”

The room went still for a moment, Miyake pressing her fingers hard into her temples like she could massage answers out of the air. Bakugou stood across from her, arms folded, glaring at the floor like it had offended him personally.

“Okay,” she said finally, each word clipped, desperate for a foothold. “Would you two ever be public?”

Bakugou’s head jerked up. “I don’t know.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Okay. Do you care if people know about you—”

“I don’t fucking know!” he barked, palms slicing the air. The words cracked like an explosion, frustration rattling out of his chest.

The sound of his own voice bounced back at him, too loud, too sharp. Miyake froze mid-sentence. Bakugou felt the walls closing in — the press of her stare, the weight of what he’d just said, what he meant. His breathing came rough, uneven, as if the question itself had dragged something raw to the surface. Because the truth was—he did know. He did care. Way more than he should. He cared about every camera angle, every tabloid headline, every damn word people said about Kirishima. He cared about the idea of someone twisting what they had into gossip, of someone cheapening it, taking something that still didn’t have a name and tearing it apart before he could even figure out what it was. Maybe that was selfish, maybe even hypocritical, but the thought of the world owning any piece of it made his skin crawl.

He didn’t want them looking at Kirishima the way he did. Didn’t want them thinking they could.

That realization hit him hard — a cold, sick punch to the ribs. He’d spent his whole life not giving a damn what people thought, priding himself on it. But now? Now the idea of anyone knowing felt dangerous. Not because he was ashamed of Kirishima — hell no — but because he didn’t know how to live with the fact that he wasn’t ashamed. That maybe he wanted it too much. He scrubbed a hand down his face, trying to hide the tremor in his jaw. “It’s not that simple,” he muttered, voice low, guttural, like the words themselves hurt. “None of this shit is.”

Miyake let out a long, suffering exhale through her nose, shoulders sagging like the weight of his idiocy was crushing her spine. “You know what?” She stabbed a finger in his direction. “Best friend angle. Never fucking fails. Since I don’t know, and clearly you don’t either.”

Bakugou’s scowl deepened, but she bulldozed on before he could open his mouth. “Just… post something of you two being friends. Something simple. Send it to me before you do, I’ll figure out a caption, and for the love of god, Dynamight—don’t say anything else.”

“Fucking fine,” he growled, crossing his arms tighter.

“Fine,” she snapped back, spinning on her heel and storming out, heels clicking like gunshots on the tile.

The door slammed behind her. Bakugou stood in the echo, jaw tight, hands twitching, his chest burning like he’d just gone ten rounds. He couldn’t decide what pissed him off more—that she was right, or that she was the only one who could handle him when he was like this. Bakugou slumped back against a chair, groaning as he finally opened his phone. Notifications stacked like a goddamn tower, the group chat blowing up. He braced himself and scrolled.

Pinky: those interviewers were OUT OF POCKET wtf
Ears: seriously. asking that on live tv? assholes
Tape: they’re lucky you didn’t actually swing at them

He scrolled further, jaw ticking, until Kirishima’s name lit up.

Shitty Hair: thanks for backing me up ☹️

Shitty Hair: I love you and appreciate it ❤️

Bakugou’s chest clenched, heat burning up the back of his neck. He barely had time to process it before—

Pikachu: LMAOOOO nah nah forget all that, HE CALLED YOU REALLY FUCKING HOT KIRI 💀💀💀
Pikachu: in a SWEATER too, im DEAD
Tape: wait wait wait he did???
Pinky: OHHHHH SHIT YOU’RE RIGHT 😭😭😭
Ears: god this is even funnier written out

The thread dissolved into chaos immediately—caps lock screaming, “👀” gifs, and relentless teasing that made Bakugou shut his phone off.  Bakugou groaned so loud that someone startled in the room over. He dropped the phone onto his stomach like it had burned him, covering his face with one hand. The phone buzzed again, another ping from the same chat. He peeked through his fingers. The group chat was in shambles. Kaminari was still spamming gifs, Mina was typing in all caps, Jirou had dropped like three different skull emojis in a row. Bakugou scowled at the flood of messages, thumb flying before he could stop himself.

Pikachu: bakubto u got anything to say for urself 🤔

Me: I said what I said tf

Shitty Hair: …oh? ;)

Me: shut the fuck up. all of you.

Pinky: NOOOO KEEP GOINGGGGG

Pikachu: AHHHHHHHHHHHHH HE FLIRTED BACKKKKKK

Pikachu: BROOO THIS IS BETTER THAN TV I’M CRYING

Ears: i hate all of this. Genuinely.

Tape: nah nah keep going. i’m invested.

Bakugou abandoned the group chat like it was a burning building, thumb jabbing the screen until the endless flood of pings and laughing emojis disappeared. He tossed the phone onto the couch beside him, rubbed a hand down his face, and growled under his breath. His friends were like vultures, circling every time he slipped, waiting to pick apart the scraps. He wasn’t giving them the satisfaction tonight.

Silence only lasted so long. The weight of the phone dragged at him, his pulse still running too hot, his jaw tight. Eventually, he reached for it again, opening photos this time, as if staring down a different battlefield would help. The gallery was chaos—half screenshots of news clippings Miyake made him keep, half blurry action shots that could’ve been taken by a drunk toddler, and too many of Brick sprawled in stupid poses. Then, nestled between the noise, were the ones he pretended not to notice.

Kirishima, caught off guard. Grinning over takeout containers. Passing out on the couch. Sweat-drenched from sparring. Bakugou scowled harder the longer he lingered, as if a deep enough glare might erase the fact that he always circled back to these. Then there was the video from Family Night. The sound hit first—Mina’s muffled giggle behind the camera, breathless with anticipation. Then the frame steadied enough to catch Kirishima crouching low, grinning wide, eyes bright with mischief as he crept behind her. Together, they stalked toward the kitchen where Bakugou stood at the stove. He almost didn’t recognize himself at first—glasses perched on his nose, hair shoved back in a haphazard knot, shoulders broad and loose as he stirred something over the burner. Domestic. Too normal.

He felt them coming, he always did. His head snapped around, voice exploding across the tiny kitchen before they could even get close. “THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?”

Mina shrieked like she’d been stabbed. The camera jolted violently, the sound dissolving into wheezed laughter. Kirishima—unflinching, indestructible Red Riot—dropped like a stone. He hit the floor flat on his back, hands spread, eyes wide in over-the-top shock. Bakugou’s mouth twitched. A short, sharp laugh broke free—rough, almost unwilling, but there. He turned back to the stove like nothing had happened, stirring again with the tiniest curl of his lip still hooked at the corner, his shoulders shaking and his head bent down a bit. 

Mina was howling. Kirishima groaning from the ground. “BAKUGOU, that's not nice!”

The video cut off there. Bakugou sat staring at the thumbnail for a long moment, thumb hovering. He could already hear Miyake in his head—“Best friend angle, it never fails. Post something normal. Post something soft. Don’t say another fucking word.” It wasn’t his style. He hated performing. But staring at the frozen frame of Kirishima on the floor, Mina’s laughter filling the edges, and his own barely-there smile, he thought—maybe it didn’t need to be. Bakugou sent the video to Miyake with a blunt “this work?” and got a reply back in seconds.

Buzzkill #1: Perfect. Here’s the caption—don’t tweak it. 

Buzzkill #1: “Family Night chaos. Always outnumbered, never outmatched. #IgnitionFamily”

Bakugou stared at it, lip curling. Absolutely not.

He pasted the video into his account, left the caption box blank, and hit post. Done. He wasn’t writing a fucking essay. He wasn’t typing out hashtags like a twelve-year-old. It was a video. They’d deal. Phone off. He shoved it in his pocket. Hours later, when he finally dragged himself home after a shift, towel still looped around his neck from the shower, he made the mistake of checking. The video had blown up like a bomb, somehow getting millions of views. His notifications are unreadable. His glasses had been screenshotted to hell. Kirishima’s dramatic floor dive was already a meme template. Mina’s shriek was somebody’s ringtone. Bakugou scowled, thumb hovering over the comments.

he looks so normal here im gonna lose my mind

glasses. GLASSES. GLASSES.

red riot diving to the floor like he’s in a warzone 😭😭😭

Pinky’s scream needs to be studied

@RedRiot: awww family night 🥲

family night looks like the best thing in the world wtf

FAMILY NIGHT. FAMILY FUCKING NIGHT. 💔

he said family night like it’s NORMAL ??? like we’re not all dying here ???

bro they’re literally each other’s family i can’t do this rn

“awww family night” WHY WOULD YOU SAY THAT TO US 😭😭😭

Look at him cooking like a dad STOP

they’re literally cutie patooties idc what anyone says

Red Riot was so dramatic for NO REASON lmaooo protect that man at all costs

Bakugou walked into the conference room expecting a fight. Miyake had spent the whole night riding his ass, scolding him about interviews, threatening to strangle him with his own damn hoodie string if he didn’t “get his shit together.” So when she greeted him at the door with a smile—an actual, genuine smile—he froze like he’d stepped into the wrong universe. “Dynamite.”

Her voice was light. Bright. Too bright. Bakugou narrowed his eyes, already suspicious. “Fucking spit it out.”

Miyake didn’t miss a beat. “We have investors calling constantly. Ground Zero is happening. Soon.”

Bakugou blinked at her. His mouth opened. Nothing came out. She didn’t even notice. She was already pulling up graphs on the screen, clicking through charts, her hands moving fast as she talked. “Ignition sales are going crazy. We had to rent out another warehouse—another warehouse, Katsuki. You know what that means? It means traction. It means demand, and not just here.” Her grin widened. “In America. Your brand is global. Do you understand? Global.”

He didn’t. Not really. The words rolled past him like smoke. His head spun, too full to process, Miyake’s voice buzzing in the background as she pointed at rising lines on a chart, percentages climbing higher than he’d ever seen. “The Lover Boy campaign was a hit over there—it’s crazy. The engagement, the edits, the resale value—we couldn’t have predicted this kind of response, not so fast.”

Ground Zero.
Investors.
Worldwide.

Bakugou stared at the glowing screen, but the numbers might as well have been in another language. He was losing his goddamn mind. Miyake was still talking, rattling off percentages, profits, shipping routes, projected growth curves—but Bakugou wasn’t hearing any of it anymore. Her words blurred into white noise, his brain stuck on a loop, replaying the only part that mattered.

Ground Zero is happening. Soon.

His chest was tight. Not in the usual way—not anger, not pressure, not the weight of expectation—but something else entirely. It clawed its way up through the shock, pushing against his ribs until it almost hurt. He didn’t know what to do with himself. His mouth hung open, no words coming, just a rasp of air leaving his lungs. His hands curled into fists against his thighs, not out of rage but because there was too much in him to keep still. Then, slowly, it broke through. The corner of his mouth tugged upward, tentative at first, like it wasn’t sure it belonged on his face. But it grew, curved higher, until it was undeniable.

He was smiling. Miyake, mid-ramble, caught it. She stopped, blinking at him, maybe realizing she’d just seen Dynamite—the eternal scowler, the snarler, the growler—actually smile. Not in mockery, not in victory, but in sheer, disbelieving joy. He was excited, he was so fucking excited. Bakugou’s voice finally scraped free, rough and disbelieving. “Who—what? Who the fuck—”

His pulse kicked hard in his throat. He couldn’t sit still, couldn’t keep the smile off his face if he tried. It was real. It fucking worked. All the meetings, the photoshoots, the sleepless nights, the fights he picked with Miyake, the compromises he swore he’d never make but did anyway—it worked. Ignition wasn’t just a side hustle anymore. It wasn’t just a flashy collaboration, or a way to pacify his parents, or proof he could play the game on his own terms. It was bigger. It had gone beyond him, beyond Japan, spilling into the world and catching fire.

Miyake was grinning, flipping through her tablet with manicured nails clicking against the glass as she rattled off details. “We’re vetting now, of course. Some are bullshit, some are… not our caliber, but the list is strong. We’ll narrow it down, make sure you only get the best ones—best building, best backing, best everything.”

He barely heard her. His ears rang, chest hammering, his grin breaking wider with every word. He wanted to move, to run, to yell, to punch something just to bleed off the energy surging through him, but all he could do was sit there, buzzing like a live wire. It wasn’t just a dream anymore.

Ground Zero was happening.

Bakugou damn near skipped down the street, boots crunching through leftover snow like the ground couldn’t hold him. He had so much energy he didn’t know what to do with it—he could’ve blown a hole in the pavement just to let it out. Instead, he barreled through Mina and Jirou’s apartment door without so much as a knock. The slam made Jirou jolt, chips rattling in the bag on her lap, her glare snapping up like a whip. Brick launched himself off the back of the couch, landing with a thud before weaving figure-eights around Bakugou’s legs, tail flicking, demanding attention. Bakugou crouched, scratching behind his ears until Brick leaned so hard into his hand he nearly toppled over. He was so happy he could’ve fucking cooed at the cat, could’ve used that annoying baby voice Mina always weaponized—but thank fuck he still had a shred of dignity left.

He stood, snagging a chip straight out of Jirou’s bag as she made a sound of outrage. He shoved it in his mouth, crunching loudly, still grinning like a fool. Jirou leaned back against the couch, one brow arched, the hint of a smirk tugging at her lips. “What’s got you so happy?” she asked, her tone half-mocking, half-genuinely curious. He tried—really tried—to scowl. To school his face back into its usual sharp lines, but his mouth betrayed him, curving up again, unwilling, unstoppable.

Jirou laughed, shaking her head. “Holy shit, you’re actually smiling.”

Another stolen chip was halfway to his mouth when the door banged open again, Mina storming in with her coat half-off, cheeks pink from the cold.

“What’s got Dynamite looking like he just got lai—”

“Ground Zero,” Bakugou cut her off, the words slipping out on a rush of breath, unstoppable. His heart thundered as he said it again, louder this time, like he needed to hear it out loud. “Ground Zero’s happening.”

For a fraction of a second, the apartment went still. Then Mina screamed—high, piercing, uncontainable. She dropped her coat on the floor and launched herself across the room, throwing her arms around his neck. Bakugou staggered back a step, but he didn’t push her off. Not this time. His stupid ass grin cracked wider as she bounced against him, squealing so loud his ears rang. “Oh my GOD, BAKUGOU! I’m so happy for youuuu!” she shouted right in his face, shaking him by the shoulders as if she could rattle more news out of him. He actually laughed—short, rough, but real—as her words hit him square in the chest. He let her squeeze him tight, Brick skittering out from underfoot as Mina rocked them both like she was trying to lift him off the ground.

Across the room, Jirou huffed, clutching her chips like they were holy. “Congrats,” she muttered, rolling her eyes—but there was a curve at her mouth, too, one she didn’t bother to hide. Bakugou didn’t care how loud Mina was, didn’t care how much Jirou teased. For once, he just stood there, letting it all wash over him, smiling like an idiot while Mina screamed in his ear about how proud she was.

He spent another hour in Mina and Jirou’s living room, Brick finally crawling back out to curl on the couch arm while Mina rattled questions at him like a machine gun, Jirou occasionally cutting in with quieter ones. Investors. Sales charts. America. A whole other warehouse. Every word that left his mouth made Mina’s voice pitch higher, made Jirou’s brow arch just a little further, until finally the night stretched long and he knew he needed to go.

He was still grinning when the door swung open from the other side, and he nearly collided with broad shoulders and a flash of black hair. Kirishima froze, wide-eyed, his tired face snapping sharp with surprise. He was still in his hero gear, dust streaking across the hard edges of it, his headpiece crooked from a long shift, but the second he saw Bakugou’s smile, his whole body went taut, awake. Bakugou didn’t wait, didn’t even let him finish opening the door before the words ripped free. “Ground Zero’s happening.”

Kirishima blinked. Then again, slower, like he had to process it twice. Then, his whole face lit, brighter than Bakugou had ever seen it. His laugh burst out loud and wild as he grabbed Bakugou around the middle, squeezing so hard he lifted him off his feet. “I’M SO PROUD OF YOU!!!” Kirishima roared, voice echoing down the hall.

“Put me the fuck down!” Bakugou barked, but his own laugh betrayed him, raw and real. Kirishima didn’t listen. He half-shoved the door open with one hand, the other locked tight around Bakugou’s waist. His laughter shook through both of them as he carried him inside, dropping his headpiece to the floor without care.

Then he kissed him. It was fierce, sudden, and smothering Bakugou’s protests before he could finish them. Bakugou melted into it without thinking, legs hooking instinctively around Kirishima’s waist, holding on tight. Kirishima’s grin pressed into his mouth, sharp and unrelenting, until he all but tossed Bakugou onto the couch. He followed, braced over him, planting kisses across his face—his jaw, his cheek, the corner of his mouth—anywhere he could reach. “Okay—fucking stop—” Bakugou laughed out, voice cracking as he tried and failed to push Kirishima off. His palms pressed against hard muscle, but Kirishima was a boulder, solid and immovable, leaning down just to pepper another ridiculous kiss against his temple.

Bakugou squirmed, still laughing, breath hitching between sharp exhales as Kirishima rained kisses across his cheekbones, the bridge of his nose, the corner of his mouth. It was relentless, unrestrained, joy spilling out of Kirishima the only way it knew how—loud, bright, physical. When Bakugou finally managed to shove him back a few inches, Kirishima hovered there, grinning down at him like he’d swallowed the sun. His chest rose and fell with quick breaths, his whole face flushed, eyes lit up with that raw, unfiltered excitement.

“You deserve it,” he said, low but certain, no hesitation behind it. “You’ve worked so hard, Katsuki.”

The words punched straight into Bakugou’s chest. He froze, his hands still caught in Kirishima’s gear, the laughter bleeding into something quieter. His smile lingered, stubborn, tugging at his lips even when he tried to hide it. Kirishima didn’t let up. He leaned closer again, resting his forehead against Bakugou’s, their breaths tangling in the space between them. His grin softened, but the pride in his voice stayed just as fierce. “I’m so proud of you.”

Bakugou’s throat worked, his jaw tight, but the only answer he gave was a quiet huff of air—half a scoff, half a laugh—as his hands curled tighter into Kirishima’s chest plate, grounding himself in the weight of it all. Kirishima finally eased down, chest pressed to Bakugou’s as his laughter tapered into something softer, his grin still impossibly wide. Bakugou huffed against his shoulder, face buried in red hair, and muttered, “You smell—”

Kirishima leaned back just enough to raise his brows. “Well, you don’t want me to tell you what you smell like, Mister Bananas—”

“Oh, fuck off—” Bakugou snapped, but his voice cracked with leftover laughter, no real bite behind it.

Kirishima only laughed harder, nuzzling shamelessly against Bakugou’s neck before tugging him upright, practically hauling him off the couch towards the bathroom. “Yeah, no way. I’m cuddling you until you smell like patrol and victory sweat.” Bakugou stumbled after him, still half-protesting, until Kirishima tossed the words out so casually that it knocked the breath out of him. “And you’re getting head—”

Bakugou froze mid-step, nearly tripping over his own feet. His eyes went wide, blinking fast like he wasn’t sure he’d heard right. “Eijirou—”

The name fell rough, stunned, from his lips. His face went hot immediately, his ears burning red as Kirishima looked back over his shoulder with a wicked grin, clearly reveling in the reaction. "To celebrate your success!” Kirishima grinned, like it was the simplest thing in the world, as he swung the bathroom door open and twisted the knob until steam began to rise. Bakugou’s protests died on his tongue. He stood there, pulse racing, watching Kirishima move with that easy certainty—hero gear clattering piece by piece onto the tile, the sound metallic, sharp, echoing in the small space.

Bakugou stripped too, slower, more deliberate, until it was just skin and steam between them. The hot water beat down, washing away the sweat and grime of the day as they scrubbed each other clean, fingers dragging over familiar planes of muscle with casual intimacy. Bakugou’s mouth kept twisting like he wanted to mock Kirishima for missing a spot, but the words never came out. Not when Kirishima’s hands were steady and sure against him.

Then—Kirishima kept his damn promise. He sank, knees hitting wet tile just out of the spray, crimson hair dampened into darker waves. Bakugou’s breath caught hard, his eyes squeezing shut, before his head tipped back against the slick wall with a thud. A broken curse slipped out, low and desperate. When he dared to look down through the haze, Kirishima was already watching him, eyes half-lidded, long lashes dark and wet. That look—that fucking look—had Bakugou’s throat going tight, heat rushing through him so fast it felt unbearable. His hand fisted in Kirishima’s hair without thought, pulling, grounding, clenching hard when a ragged moan tore itself out of his chest. The sound of it echoed against tile, raw and unrestrained, like victory and surrender all at once.

The high carried him for weeks.

Every teasing jab from Mina, every side-eye from Kaminari, every smug grin from Jirou rolled right off his back. For once, Bakugou didn’t give a single shit. He’d earned this. He’d earned all of it. He wasn’t about to let anyone take that away from him. Kirishima was sprawled out on the couch, one arm behind his head, the other holding his phone a few inches from his face, his hair falling in messy spikes across his forehead. The glow of the screen lit his grin in soft flashes—until Bakugou stepped out of the hallway, towel draped around his neck, damp hair dripping, steam still clinging to his skin.

Without a word, Bakugou moved. He dropped the towel onto the armrest, crossed the short distance, and slid straight into Kirishima’s lap. Kirishima’s phone tilted dangerously in his hand as his eyes flicked up, wide with surprise, before his grin spread slowly and sure, curling into something both fond and wicked. The thing was—it didn’t even feel strange anymore. A few months ago, Bakugou would’ve rather detonated the entire apartment than admit how comfortable this made him. The way Kirishima’s hands found his waist like it was nothing, the way their bodies fit, the quiet hum that filled the room when he just let himself be here. It was too easy. Too damn natural. He didn’t have to think when he was like this. Didn’t have to talk or explain. He could just exist—warm, solid, steady—pressed against someone who didn’t expect him to be anything other than what he already was.

It terrified him how much he liked it. How quickly the tension in his shoulders melted when Kirishima’s thumb brushed over his skin, how safe it felt to lean into him without planning an exit, how right it felt to claim space this way—to take it, without apology.

“Hello,” he said simply, voice warm.

Bakugou’s mouth twitched, but he didn’t bother with a smirk. “Hey,” he answered, softer than usual—before closing the gap, kissing him slow, deep. Kirishima made a sound, muffled but bright, as he set the phone aside, wrapping both arms around Bakugou’s waist and pulling him in until their chests slid flush. Bakugou pressed harder into the kiss, tongue brushing against his, before he dragged his lips lower, trailing soft, deliberate kisses down the column of Kirishima’s neck. The air shifted instantly. Kirishima’s head tilted back, a breath hitching sharply when Bakugou sucked gently at the spot just above his collarbone. No teeth, no bite—just soft suction, enough to make his breath catch.

“Mm—Katsuki,” Kirishima murmured, voice low, words dissolving on the tail end of a groan. His fingers dug into Bakugou’s sides as he laughed breathlessly. “What’s this all about?”

Bakugou’s mouth curved against his skin, his voice a rumble against his throat. “I can’t just kiss you because I want to kiss you?” he murmured, his fingers brushing at the hem of Kirishima’s shirt, tugging it up just enough to feel the heat of his skin. Kirishima shivered beneath him, grin crooked, eyes half-lidded but burning as he looked down at Bakugou like he was both a surprise and the only thing in the world that made sense.

Kirishima’s laugh hummed against Bakugou’s mouth as he pulled him closer, strong hands spanning his back, fingertips pressing through the damp fabric of his shirt. The kiss deepened naturally, no rush, just the slow unraveling of breath between them, lips sliding together like they had all the time in the world. Bakugou’s hands roamed higher, tugging Kirishima’s shirt up inch by inch, but he didn’t strip it off yet—just let his palms press against warm skin, holding him there, grounding himself in the steady thrum of Kirishima’s heartbeat. Kirishima shivered again under his touch, his grin breaking into something softer, more reverent, when Bakugou kissed him again. Not rough, not biting—just a steady press, mouths moving together in a rhythm that made Bakugou’s chest ache. Their breaths mingled, growing heavier as Bakugou’s lips wandered, brushing Kirishima’s jaw, the corner of his mouth, his throat. Kirishima tilted his head back without thinking, baring himself to every touch, every kiss.

“Katsuki,” he whispered again, softer this time, like a secret, like it was the only word he could find.

Bakugou froze for half a second, chest tight at the sound, before he leaned back in, kissing him hard enough to chase away the sudden ache that flared behind his ribs. His fingers slid higher under Kirishima’s shirt, feeling every line of muscle, every stuttered breath, and he thought he could lose himself here—just in the heat of him, in the way Kirishima’s hands mapped every inch of his back in return. The air around them seemed to thicken, the world outside the small space of the couch falling away. There was no campaign, no headlines, no noise—just the soft slide of lips, the quiet sounds caught between them, and the warmth pooling low in Bakugou’s stomach with every touch.

Kirishima pulled back only a fraction, his forehead resting against Bakugou’s, his grin fading into something more serious, more intent. His thumbs brushed along Bakugou’s hips, slow and careful, as though he couldn’t quite believe this was happening. “You’re sure?” he murmured, the question so quiet it almost dissolved between their lips.

Bakugou swallowed, his eyes half-lidded but steady, his voice low as it rasped out an “I’m sure.”

Bakugou didn’t answer with more words—he just kissed him again, softer this time, lingering like he was trying to memorize the shape of Kirishima’s mouth. Then he slid back, breath shallow, and grabbed Kirishima’s hand, threading their fingers together. Kirishima blinked at the sudden shift, lips parted in surprise, but he let Bakugou tug him up without question. The weight of his hand in Bakugou’s was warm, steady, grounding.

This was it.

He could feel it—every breath, every heartbeat, every second building to this point. The part where there was no taking it back. No pretending they hadn’t crossed the line a hundred times already. No more running. For someone who’d built his whole damn life on control, on precision, on never letting anyone close enough to see what cracked underneath—this felt like jumping straight off a ledge. He hated how much he shook with it. Hated that he wanted it anyway. There was still that part of him, buried deep, that whispered you shouldn’t. That sick, familiar voice that told him this wasn’t who he was supposed to be, that no one like him got to want this, to need this. Yet, here he was—wanting anyway.

Wanting him.

They moved through the dim apartment in silence, only the quiet scuff of their socks against the floor and the faint creak of the couch as it settled behind them. Bakugou’s grip was firm, leading with an urgency he didn’t bother hiding, though his steps slowed just enough to let Kirishima follow close behind. When they reached his door, Bakugou didn’t hesitate. He pushed it open with his shoulder, the familiar scent of Kirishima’s cologne and laundry soap rushing out to meet them. The room was messier than his own ever was—clothes tossed over a chair, weights shoved to one corner—but Bakugou didn’t give a shit. It was his. It was him.

He pulled Kirishima inside and let the door click shut behind them, still holding his hand tight like he was afraid to let go. For a second, they just stood there, the weight of what was about to happen settling heavily in the air. Bakugou finally turned, tugging Kirishima closer by the hand still locked with his own. His eyes searched his face, the barest flicker of nerves darting across his features before he leaned in, brushing their lips together in another kiss—gentle, patient, but charged with something that made Kirishima’s chest tighten. Kirishima smiled against his mouth, his free hand coming up to cradle the back of Bakugou’s neck, thumbs brushing damp strands of blond hair. He didn’t say anything—not yet. He didn’t need to. The steady weight of Bakugou’s hand in his, the way he was leading him here, was answer enough.

He lifted his other hand, brushing Kirishima’s jaw with the backs of his knuckles, rough skin against soft. Then he kissed him—gentle, unhurried, lingering until Kirishima’s lips parted and their mouths slotted together like they’d been made for it.

When Bakugou pulled back, his chest rising and falling unevenly, he reached for the hem of Kirishima’s shirt. He hesitated only a fraction, eyes flicking up for permission, and Kirishima gave it with the smallest nod, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth like he couldn’t believe this was happening. Bakugou peeled the fabric up slowly, inch by inch, palms dragging across warm skin as he lifted it over broad shoulders. Kirishima raised his arms to help, laughing quietly into the kiss. They broke only long enough to strip the shirt away. It dropped to the floor in a soft thud, forgotten.

Bakugou’s palms pressed flat against his chest, sliding up over firm muscle, the steady beat of his heart drumming beneath his skin. Kirishima sighed at the touch, leaning into it, his own hands roaming lower, tugging lightly at Bakugou’s shirt in return. Bakugou let him, arms lifting as Kirishima tugged it up, his touch reverent as he stripped it away and tossed it aside. For a moment, they just stood there, bare skin brushing bare skin, breathing each other in.

Kirishima’s hands slid down Bakugou’s sides, pausing at his hips. He kissed him again, softer than before, then tugged gently at the waistband of his sweats. Bakugou exhaled shakily, his jaw tight, but he didn’t stop him. He toed his shoes off, the soft scrape of fabric against the floor loud in the silence, then let Kirishima ease his pants down slowly, leaving him in nothing but briefs. Bakugou swallowed hard, the vulnerability like a live wire under his skin, but Kirishima’s gaze wasn’t mocking, wasn’t sharp. It was steady. Admiring. His smile softened as his eyes roamed, his hands sliding slowly over Bakugou’s hips. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, so quiet it felt almost stolen from the air.

Bakugou’s face flamed. His hands curled into fists at his sides, not to lash out but to ground himself, to keep from shaking. He wanted to roll his eyes, to snap something cutting—but the words hit too deep, sinking into his chest, leaving him undone in ways he couldn’t fight. He grabbed at Kirishima’s pants instead, tugging the drawstring loose, pushing them down over his hips with hands that trembled just slightly. Kirishima let him, eyes never leaving his face, until they were both standing there, bare to each other, the space between them charged and fragile all at once.

Then Bakugou kissed him again, harder this time, desperate to fill the silence, to chase away the weight pressing tight behind his ribs. He guided Kirishima backwards, steady but unrelenting, until his back met the mattress. Bakugou followed him down, straddling his hips, their mouths meeting again in a kiss that was softer than it had any right to be, feather-light for someone who kissed like fire and thunder.

Kirishima’s hands roamed instinctively, greedy but reverent, palms sliding up Bakugou’s thighs, over the hard lines of his waist, spanning his ribs like he could memorize every ridge and curve by touch alone. Bakugou hissed when one hand curled up, dragging deliberately over his cock. His head tipped back with a sharp intake of breath, a raw sound slipping out before he could stop it, his throat bared, chest rising hard. Kirishima’s eyes flicked up at the sound, wide and molten, then softened with something closer to awe. He smoothed both hands up Bakugou’s sides, fingertips brushing over scars, over every notch of muscle, until he was touching him everywhere at once—shoulders, chest, the dip of his spine.

Bakugou leaned into it, his hands braced on Kirishima’s chest, fingers curling into firm muscle as if to anchor himself. Their bodies slid together, heat building between them, every movement charged. Kirishima whispered something low, lost between their mouths, and kept his hands moving, like he couldn’t bear to stop. Tracing, revering, claiming every inch of him. Bakugou kissed him again, briefly, almost chaste compared to the fire building in his chest, then pulled back just enough to look down at him, flushed and breathless. For once, he didn’t mask it—didn’t scowl, didn’t cover. He just looked vulnerable and raw before leaning down again, pressing his forehead to Kirishima’s, their breaths mingling.

Kirishima shifted beneath him, one hand slipping away only to reach sideways, pulling the drawer open with a quiet scrape of wood. The sound jolted Bakugou sharper than it should’ve, his chest tightening, breath leaving him in a harsh exhale he hadn’t meant to make. Kirishima froze instantly, his fingers brushing the bottle inside but stopping there, eyes flicking up.

Bakugou’s heart thundered in his ears. It wasn’t that he didn’t want this—he wanted it so badly his body felt strung up and aching—but the moment the reality hit, when it wasn’t just heated kisses and hands roaming, but something more final, more real, fear crept in like cold water. He regretted, for just a second, the certainty he’d carried out of the shower that morning, the way he’d thought he was ready to cross that line.

The air between them shifted, tense and fragile, Bakugou’s throat working around words that refused to come. His knuckles pressed hard against Kirishima’s chest as if he needed the anchor, his jaw clenched so tight it ached. Kirishima, stilling completely, didn’t tug the bottle free. He just looked at him, waiting, all that unshakable patience in his eyes. Bakugou dragged in another breath, shaky but deliberate, and let his chin dip toward the bottle sitting half-forgotten in the drawer. His chest rose and fell once, twice, before he forced the nod.

Kirishima caught it immediately, his own shoulders easing, a small nod given in return as he pulled the bottle out carefully and set it on the mattress within reach. Then, instead of reaching for it right away, he leaned back into Bakugou, wrapping his arms around him like it was the most natural thing in the world, flipping them with practiced ease until Bakugou’s back met the sheets. The shift stole the last of Bakugou’s resistance. His palms clutched at Kirishima’s shoulders as their mouths met again, this kiss softer, steadier, grounding him when his pulse was skittering everywhere else.

When Kirishima finally pulled back, his lips brushed over Bakugou’s temple, his voice low, patient. “I’m going to get you ready, okay?”

Bakugou’s heart fluttered in his ribcage like it was trying to beat out of his chest, his stomach tight with nerves that somehow felt like anticipation too. He could hear his pulse in his ears, fast and uneven, each thud louder than the last. His palms were slick, his throat dry, and even though Kirishima was right there—close, steady, patient—Bakugou couldn’t get his lungs to fill all the way. Everything in him screamed to move, to back out, to pace the room until the panic bled off. But Kirishima’s hands were still on him, warm and careful, grounding him where he stood. For the first time in a long time, Bakugou didn’t want to run. He wanted to stay. “…Okay.” It hung in the air like a vow, quiet but certain, and Kirishima smiled against his skin before reaching for the bottle.

The cap clicked open, the faint scent of the lube mixing with the warmth of the room. Bakugou’s chest rose unevenly as he lay back against the pillows, every nerve in his body alight with tension. His eyes flicked to Kirishima once, then up at the ceiling, forcing himself to keep still as Kirishima’s slick fingers trailed down, gentle, patient.

The first press inside had him gasping, his body jerking despite himself. His hands twitched against the sheets, fisting the comforter like he could hold himself together through sheer force of will. Kirishima leaned closer, murmuring something soft—nonsense reassurance, steady and low—while his thumb rubbed soothing circles over Bakugou’s hip. The discomfort ebbed, not gone but dulled, replaced slowly by something else—something that had Bakugou’s throat working around a swallow, his breaths growing heavier. He forced his muscles to unclench, exhaled, and let himself relax into the stretch.

A second finger slid in after what felt like forever, and Bakugou’s body shivered, tension tightening for a beat before it loosened again. The burn smoothed out, turning into a deeper pull, and that was when the sound slipped from his throat—soft, almost startled, but undeniably a moan. His eyes squeezed shut, his lips parting around it before he bit down on the inside of his cheek to stifle the next. Kirishima kissed his temple, his voice a hushed rasp. “I might have to add a third finger, okay, Katsuki?”

Bakugou’s eyes opened just barely, hazy, his chest heaving as he nodded fast. He couldn’t find words—didn’t trust them not to betray just how badly his heart was racing—but the nod was enough. His throat bobbed, and when Kirishima brushed his lips across his jaw, he let out another soft gasp, his entire body pliant under the slow, careful stretch of his touch. The third finger was different. Even prepared, even expecting it, Bakugou’s body tensed sharply at the stretch, his breath catching on a hiss. His thighs twitched where Kirishima held them open, and for a second, every instinct screamed to push him away.

Kirishima didn’t move until Bakugou did. He stayed there, fingers pressed still, his other hand resting warm and steady on Bakugou’s chest. His thumb brushed back and forth, patient, waiting. Bakugou forced himself to breathe, to push the air out of his lungs instead of holding it. The sting didn’t vanish, but it dulled, softening as his body learned to accept it. He clenched the sheets tighter, his jaw aching from how hard he bit down, but he managed, and when he finally let out the smallest nod, Kirishima began to move again, slow and careful.

The discomfort eased by inches, replaced with something Bakugou couldn’t quite name. Not pleasure, not yet, but the weight of Kirishima’s touch, the gentleness of it, the way his voice whispered through the air—low, steady, always anchoring him—made it bearable. More than that, it made it feel safe. Bakugou let out a shaky laugh, surprising himself, eyes fluttering shut. 

Kirishima chuckled softly, kissing his shoulder. “You’re so beautiful.”

Bakugou scoffed, but the heat in his face betrayed him, and he was grateful—grateful for the dim, golden glow of the lamp washing over the room, for the solid weight of Kirishima’s hands keeping him grounded, for every quiet word of reassurance spoken into his skin. It made his chest ache, the realization slipping in between every breath: this wasn’t just about sex, about trying something new. It was about trust. It was about the way Kirishima touched him like he was precious, like he mattered, like he was loved. 

Kirishima kept moving, steady and patient, until Bakugou’s breathing shifted—until the little hitches in his throat became quiet sounds, until his hips started to tilt ever so slightly into the motion without him realizing. When Kirishima finally eased his fingers out, Bakugou let out a shaky exhale, the sudden emptiness leaving him unmoored. He barely heard whatever Kirishima murmured next, his pulse roaring too loud in his ears as he watched the bottle slick Kirishima’s hand. He reached again into the drawer, pulling out a condom, slipping it on quickly. That spike of anxiety punched through the haze, his body stiffening on instinct.

Kirishima leaned close, his voice grounded, spoken softly against Bakugou’s ear. “Are you sure you want to, Katsuki?”

Bakugou dragged in a breath, his throat tight. He could’ve said no. He could’ve told him to wait, to stop, to not cross this line yet, but instead, “Yes.” The word broke out of him, unsteady, but it was enough. Kirishima nodded once, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek before reaching for a pillow, tapping lightly at Bakugou’s hip. Bakugou lifted without thinking, letting him slide it underneath, the shift tilting his body in a way that had his stomach fluttering all over again.

Kirishima settled back between his legs, slick hands steady as he lined himself up, his expression focused but gentle. “Okay,” he whispered, “I’m going to go slow. You tell me at any point if you want to stop, or if it’s too much—”

“Okay.” Bakugou cut him off fast, sharper than he meant to, not trusting his voice to hold together if Kirishima kept talking. He wanted to tell him to shut up, to just do it already—but the words caught somewhere in his chest, tangled up with fear and want, so all he managed was that single clipped syllable. Kirishima smiled faintly anyway, leaning down to kiss him again before starting to press forward, inch by careful inch. Kirishima pressed forward, careful, measured—and even with all the prep, the stretch had Bakugou’s body jolting tight. His breath tore out in a sharp hiss, his fingers seizing around the sheets until his knuckles ached.

“I know,” Kirishima whispered, voice steady, coaxing, his forehead brushing against Bakugou’s. “I know. Breathe with me.”

The words shouldn’t have made his stomach flip like that, shouldn’t have sent heat racing down his chest when everything else burned with the ache—but they did. Even through the sting, the flutter was there, and Bakugou hated how much he needed to hear it, hated how much it soothed him. Kirishima moved so slowly it was almost unbearable, the kind of patience that gnawed at Bakugou’s nerves. Each inch pushed a wince across his face, his thighs trembling where they bracketed Kirishima’s hips. But little by little, the sharpness dulled, giving way to a deeper fullness, something that stole his breath in a different way.

His hands finally unclenched from the sheets, fingers loosening, searching blindly until they caught at Kirishima’s bicep.

When he dared to look up, he caught Kirishima’s gaze falter, his eyes squeezing shut for a beat as his mouth parted on a low, muffled moan. The sound was quiet, but it went straight through Bakugou, curling hot at the base of his spine, his heart punching against his ribs. The last push had Bakugou jolting, his breath caught sharp in his throat as Kirishima finally bottomed out. For a moment, it was too much—the pressure, the fullness, the way his body felt split open and remade all at once. His chest rose and fell too fast, sweat already beading at his temples.

Then there were Kirishima’s eyes.

Even with the sting still prickling along his nerves, even with his muscles tight and trembling, he couldn’t look away. It was too much—how close Kirishima was, how open his face looked, how he stared back at Bakugou like he was something precious. Bakugou almost wanted to turn his head, to break the intensity of it, but he couldn’t. His whole body flushed hot under the weight of it, his throat working around the words he couldn’t say.

The sting eased little by little, the deep ache shifting into something else—something heavier, sharper, curling low in his stomach. Desire bled in with the nerves, tugging at him until his breath hitched. Kirishima kissed his temple before pulling back just slightly, his hips rocking into the first slow thrust. The drag had Bakugou’s mouth falling open, a broken sound spilling before he could swallow it down. His fingers scrabbled for purchase against Kirishima’s shoulders, his whole body quivering at the sudden rush of sensation.

It wasn’t gentle, not really—not with how much Bakugou felt, how every nerve screamed with the stretch, the fullness—but it was careful. Deliberate. And it had want licking through his veins like fire, pulling gasps from his chest as Kirishima began to move with a rhythm that was torturously slow, giving him time to adjust, to breathe, to want more. Kirishima set the pace, agonizingly slow, every thrust measured like he was terrified of breaking him. But Bakugou could see it—the tremor in his arms where they caged him in, the faint stutter of his hips when instinct pulled faster than he meant to, the sharp inhale through his teeth as he forced himself to steady again.

It was everything.

Bakugou lay beneath him, chest flushed and heaving, eyes wide as he drank it in. Every twitch of restraint, every shudder in Kirishima’s breath, every slip of control—it was raw, unfiltered, laid bare above him. For once, Bakugou wasn’t caught up in his own nerves, his own sharp edges. He was caught on him, on the way, Kirishima was breaking apart slowly, trying so fucking hard to put Bakugou first even when his body begged otherwise. The sight tore a gasp out of him, his own hips shifting upward, tentative but desperate for friction. His fingers dug into Kirishima’s shoulders, clinging, grounding, urging him on without words.

Kirishima’s breath stuttered at the movement, his forehead dropping to Bakugou’s shoulder, a moan vibrating hot against his skin. His hips faltered once more, the pace breaking, and Bakugou’s stomach flipped at the slip—want rushing through him, sharp and insistent. It wasn’t just the stretch anymore. It was the heat of being wanted, of seeing it so clear in Kirishima’s face, in every ragged breath, in every ounce of restraint that barely held. Kirishima’s forehead pressed to his shoulder, his breath hot and uneven against Bakugou’s skin, when the whisper slipped out. Barely there, almost swallowed by the creak of the mattress.

“Faster.”

Kirishima froze for half a heartbeat, then groaned low in his throat like he’d been waiting for permission. His hips picked up immediately, still careful but sharper now, deeper, driving the air from Bakugou’s lungs. It was almost too much at first—the stretch, the burn of being filled and taken further—but the line blurred quickly, the pain bleeding into something hotter, sharper. Bakugou’s mouth fell open around a moan that clawed its way out, ragged and raw, his head tipping back against the pillow.

“More,” he gasped, fingers curling hard into Kirishima’s shoulders, pulling him closer, anchoring him as the heat coiled tight in his stomach. “More—fuck—”

Kirishima answered without hesitation, hips snapping harder, faster, the restraint he’d held onto crumbling under the weight of Bakugou’s voice. Every thrust tore another sound from him, every shift of angle sharper, hotter—until one dragged against something that made Bakugou cry out, his back arching. “Right there—” The words tumbled out, desperate, broken, his thighs trembling around Kirishima’s waist. “Fuck—right there, Eijirou—”

Kirishima gave it to him, again and again, pounding into that spot with unrelenting precision, his own moans spilling ragged between kisses pressed sloppily to Bakugou’s throat, his collarbone, anywhere his mouth could reach. It was too much and not enough all at once, Bakugou begging for more even as his body shook under the weight of it, his voice dissolving into moans and curses that only urged Kirishima harder. Bakugou’s voice broke in Kirishima’s ear, wrecked but steady enough to cut straight through. “You’re so good to me,” he breathed, his hands sliding up to cradle Kirishima’s jaw, forcing him to look. Their eyes met, hot and unflinching, and Bakugou’s chest ached with the weight of it. “Feels so fucking good—feels like you were made for me.”

Kirishima’s breath caught, his rhythm faltering, his eyes shining with something more than lust. “Katsuki…” It was almost a prayer, cracked open, his forehead dropping against Bakugou’s as if the closeness could anchor him. Bakugou kissed him then—messy, desperate, but soft at the edges, their mouths clinging between gasps. Each thrust drove another moan from him, but he swallowed them into Kirishima’s mouth, like giving them away, like offering every piece of himself.

Kirishima groaned against his lips, his hands gentle even as his hips snapped harder, his body trembling with the effort of holding on. “I love—fuck—I love how you feel,” he muttered, almost incoherent, his words muffled between kisses and gasps. Even in the heat, in the sharp, relentless pull of pleasure, the tenderness lingered—the way Kirishima touched him like he was precious, the way he kissed him between moans, the way every word sounded like reverence. Bakugou couldn’t look away. He told himself to, every nerve in him screaming to break the moment before it swallowed him whole, but his eyes stayed pinned to Kirishima’s.

Bakugou felt it building long before the words broke loose. It was unbearable.

The heat was one thing—the drag of Kirishima’s hips, the stretch of him inside, the sweat slicking their bodies—but the eye contact was worse. Every thrust pulled another ragged sound out of Bakugou’s throat, but every second of Kirishima looking at him pulled something deeper, something rawer. It felt like being stripped down past bone, like there was nowhere left to hide. Kirishima didn’t look away. He hadn’t for what felt like forever, those crimson eyes boring into Bakugou’s like they wanted to dig out every secret he’d ever buried. Bakugou couldn’t do it—couldn’t cut the line of sight, couldn’t close his eyes, couldn’t give himself the mercy of pretending this was just physical.

It wasn’t. It never really was. 

His heart thudded high and hard in his chest, panic clawing under his ribs. He knew that look. He knew what it meant, what was brewing in Kirishima’s head. Fuck—fuck—it terrified him. Once it came out, once it was real, there was no taking it back. They’d been teetering here for months. Balancing on a knife’s edge between friendship and something else, pretending it was just lust, just release, just convenience. Bakugou had clung to that lie with his teeth, because anything else—anything more—meant collapse. It meant losing the only person he couldn’t stand to lose.

Now, watching Kirishima’s face crumple, watching his lips part like the truth was already spilling into the air, Bakugou felt the knife tilt.

Don’t say it. Don’t fucking say it. His chest squeezed, every muscle wound tight, as if sheer willpower could hold the words back, because once they were said, the friendship was ruined. The foundation was gone. They’d be standing in free fall with no way back. He saw it anyway—the exact second it broke free. Kirishima’s hips stuttered, his brow furrowed, his jaw clenched, and he whispered it out like it was both confession and curse.

“I love you.”

The world cracked open around Bakugou. His lungs seized, breath caught sharp in his throat like he’d been sucker-punched. The words hung between them, fragile and lethal, and for a heartbeat he swore if he didn’t acknowledge them, maybe they’d dissolve, maybe they’d vanish back into the air where they  belonged.

Shut him up. Tell him he’s wrong. Tell him this isn’t that.

His brain screamed, but his body wouldn’t move. His nails bit into the sheets, his mouth pressed thin, his pulse hammering so hard he thought it would tear free of his chest. Every instinct said run—bite down, explode, anything to keep this from being real. It was ruin, he knew it. The second those words existed between them, there was no going back. No friendship. No pretending. They’d destroyed it. Still—Kirishima didn’t move. His pace stayed slow, careful, his body trembling with restraint as he stared down at Bakugou, waiting. His eyes were wide, desperate, shining with the weight of what he’d confessed. Like if Bakugou gave him nothing, if Bakugou turned away, he might come apart.

Bakugou just stared. At the sweat dripping down his temples, at the tremor in his jaw, at the way his face was so close it blurred. Something inside Bakugou cracked under the pressure. Because he realized then, with bone-deep certainty, that he’d been in love with Kirishima long before this. Long before the bed, the kisses, the heat. It had been there, simmering under his skin for years, and now, in this moment, there was no denying it. The truth pressed up his throat raw and ragged, and he whispered it against Kirishima’s lips.

“I love you too.”

Kirishima crumbled. His face broke, his forehead dropping to Bakugou’s neck, his whole body shuddering as the tears finally spilled. Bakugou felt them hot against his skin, soaking into him, felt the way Kirishima clung tighter like he’d been given permission to fall apart. In that closeness, Bakugou knew Kirishima understood—there was no going back. He’d known it from the second he pushed inside him. Fuck—it felt so good. Too good. Saying it aloud, hearing it answered, feeling the words burn into the air between them like brands—it tore Bakugou open and filled him at the same time.

Kirishima’s hips picked up again, no longer trembling, his rhythm stronger, deeper. Bakugou gasped, his nails carving red trails into Kirishima’s back, his eyes squeezing shut. The pleasure was overwhelming, but the words were worse—because they kept slipping free, helpless.

“I love you,” he gasped, voice breaking. “Fuck—I love you.”

Each one dragged a moan out of Kirishima, wrecked and guttural, like hearing it shattered him all over again. His pace faltered, then surged, faster, deeper, until they were both lost in it—gone to the pleasure, to the devastation, to the fact that there was no taking it back. Neither of them wanted to.

Kirishima’s rhythm grew stronger, his hips snapping into Bakugou with more force now that the weight of the confession was out in the open, no longer trapped in his chest. Each thrust had Bakugou gasping, his breath breaking apart into sharp moans, but it wasn’t just the heat—it was the way Kirishima looked at him, like every word Bakugou had whispered back had torn him open and remade him whole all at once. Their mouths kept finding each other, kisses feverish and trembling, cut off by gasps, by moans, by broken confessions. Kirishima’s hand framed Bakugou’s jaw, tilting his head so he could kiss him deeper, like he couldn’t stand even an inch of distance. Bakugou kissed back just as hard, his own hand coming up to brush away the tears streaking Kirishima’s cheek, smearing saltwater into sweat.

“Eijirou—fuck—you’re—” Bakugou’s words dissolved as Kirishima drove into that spot again, white-hot pleasure lancing through him, his back arching off the sheets. His hand clamped on Kirishima’s shoulder, his nails leaving half-moon marks in flushed skin.

Kirishima’s thrusts were steady, careful even in their urgency, but his face was breaking apart—eyes wet, jaw slack, forehead pressed to Bakugou’s. Every move was as if he was carving those words—I love you—deeper into Bakugou’s chest. Bakugou’s lips found his, and the kiss was messy, desperate, filled with gasps they couldn’t hold back. Kirishima cupped his cheek, his thumb trembling against his skin. “Katsuki—god, you feel… I’m so close—” His voice cracked, almost lost to the sound of their bodies moving together.

Bakugou dragged him closer, their mouths brushing with every ragged breath. “Don’t stop,” he whispered, voice broken, his heart hammering too hard. “Please, Eijirou.”

Every thrust drove Bakugou higher, closer, until he was trembling, until his thighs shook around Kirishima’s waist. His voice pitched higher, frantic and raw. “Don’t stop—fuck, right there—Eijirou, I’m—”

The build snapped all at once, his whole body seizing as he spilled between them, hot and messy across their stomachs. His vision went white, his moans breaking into cries that he couldn’t bite back, every nerve alight. Kirishima followed almost instantly, the sight and sound of Bakugou undone beneath him too much to survive. He buried himself deep, moaning Bakugou’s name into his mouth as he came, his hips jerking erratically, his sweat dripping onto Bakugou’s cheek. They clung to each other through it, kissing desperately even as they shook, Bakugou still swiping at Kirishima’s tears with clumsy fingers, kissing them away when they smeared. When it finally ebbed, when Kirishima collapsed against him, both of them gasping, their lips still brushed together until Kirishima turned his head into his neck. 

The silence pressed in, heavy, suffocating. Bakugou’s chest was still heaving against Kirishima’s, every inhale sharp, every exhale too fast, like he could outrun what he’d just said. What they’d both said.

Kirishima hadn’t moved, arms locked tight around him like he was afraid Bakugou might vanish if he let go. When he finally lifted his head, Bakugou saw it—saw the panic sitting right there in his eyes, under the afterglow. Red rimmed, glassy, wide, like he was realizing the same thing Bakugou had. They couldn’t take it back. Neither of them spoke; the weight of it sat between them, pressing into their lungs, into the space where words should’ve been. Bakugou’s mouth opened, closed, nothing coming out. Kirishima was the first to move. Slowly, carefully, he pulled back, wincing at the shift, the sensitivity. Bakugou’s body clenched on instinct, a raw, involuntary sound ripping from his throat as Kirishima slipped out of him. His face burned, shame and sensitivity colliding, and Kirishima flinched like it hurt him too, his hand twitching as if he wanted to soothe but didn’t dare.

The air was thick. Heavy. Bakugou dragged in a breath, staring at the ceiling, throat working but words refusing to come. Kirishima sat back on his heels, jaw tight, gaze on the sheets instead of him. Kirishima’s voice finally broke the silence, quiet, trembling at the edges. “I’ll go grab some stuff to clean us up. I’ll be right back.”

His hand brushed Bakugou’s hip like he was grounding himself in the promise, but the touch lingered too long — a fraction of a second past what it should’ve. His thumb traced a slow, unconscious circle against Bakugou’s skin before slipping away. It was nothing, a ghost of contact, but it carried everything he didn’t say: please stay. Don’t move. Don’t leave me here alone with this.

When he stood, his movements were careful, almost cautious, like he was trying not to break something fragile between them. His bare feet whispered against the floorboards as he moved toward the bathroom, every step a quiet hesitation. Halfway there, he paused. Bakugou could see it — the way Kirishima’s shoulders tensed, like he was fighting the urge to look back, to make sure Bakugou was still there.

He didn’t, but his voice, when it came again, barely above a whisper, carried the weight of it anyway. “Just… stay put, okay?”

It wasn’t a command. It was a plea disguised as casual — shaky and thin, the kind of thing that cracked if you listened too close. Then he disappeared into the hall, the soft click of the door almost drowned by the pounding in Bakugou’s ears. Bakugou lay there, chest tight, staring at the ceiling like it could anchor him. The scent of them still hung thick in the air — sweat, salt, and something deeper. It made his stomach twist, made his pulse stutter. Every cell in his body screamed to get up, to run, to breathe air that didn’t taste like this — but Kirishima’s voice, that quiet stay put, kept ringing in his head.

Bakugou lay there, staring at the ceiling, chest still heaving, stomach twisting so violently he thought he might be sick. His skin still hummed, oversensitized, but the haze had burned off—leaving the truth behind. The words. I love you. His. Kirishima’s. Both of them. It replayed in his head on an endless loop, every syllable too clear, too heavy. He couldn’t breathe in that room. Couldn’t breathe under the weight of what it meant. For a few seconds, he tried to stay still, to think, but his brain wouldn’t shut up. Images hit him all at once—the Lover Boy campaign, the photos, the press, the goddamn reporters, their voices like ghosts crawling under his skin. Do you two work together often? Are you friends, or something more? He could hear it all, feel the headlines writing themselves. Ground Zero’s Dynamight and Red Riot—Japan’s New Power Couple. The thought made his gut seize. Not because it was disgusting. Because it wasn’t. Because it was too close to real.

He shoved the blankets off, the air hitting his damp skin like punishment.

By the time Kirishima disappeared into the hall, Bakugou was already moving. He dragged his underwear on with shaky hands, pulling the first pair of sweats he could find over them. His shirt clung wrong to his damp skin, but he didn’t care. His boots weren’t even laced when he shoved them on, fingers fumbling against the knots. Every sound in the room felt deafening—the rustle of fabric, the dull thud of his heel against the floor, the rapid drag of his breath. He could still smell him. Them. The room reeked of it, of sweat and salt and warmth, of something that should’ve been good but felt like it might crush him.

He couldn’t do this.
He couldn’t fucking do this.

Fuck, he could already see it: the cameras, the interviews, the headlines. Red Riot’s secret partner. Dynamight’s fall from grace. The world didn’t want to see heroes like that—didn’t want to see him like that. He wasn’t made for softness, for open affection, for love. The thought of it sitting under a microscope, dissected, judged—it made his stomach lurch. Yet what really scared him—what gutted him—was that it wasn’t shame at all. Not really. It was the fear that he’d meant it. That for once, he’d said something true. He yanked his jacket off the back of the chair, shoving his arms through the sleeves. His chest was a live wire, every nerve buzzing. The walls felt like they were closing in, the air too thick to breathe. He needed out. Out before Kirishima came back. Before he looked at him again with those eyes—soft and sure and in love.

The door clicked open down the hall. “Katsuki?” Kirishima’s voice—gentle, uncertain.

Bakugou’s breath hitched, but he didn’t turn around.He didn’t answer. Didn’t even slow down. The hallway groaned under his boots, every step too loud, too final. He hit the front door and slammed it behind him before Kirishima could reach him, the sound splitting through the quiet apartment like a detonation.

Bakugou’s boots slapped against the pavement, laces dragging loose, cold air biting at the sweat still drying on his skin. His phone weighed heavy in his pocket, buzzing with notifications he couldn’t look at. His mind wouldn’t shut the fuck up, replaying it—Kirishima’s voice, broken and certain all at once. I love you. His own voice, ruined, spitting it back when it meant everything.

Now all he could think—suffocating, unbearable—was how badly he wanted to be back there. Not to talk, not to fix it, not even to think. Just to be held. Just to have Kirishima’s arms around him, grounding him the way they always did. The craving hollowed him out, left his chest rattling as his breath picked up, sharper, faster, until he couldn’t pull enough in. He wasn’t even watching where he was going when he clipped someone’s shoulder. “Sorry,” he muttered, voice raw, barely glancing up—

“You alright, kid?” some guy asked, voice blurred, distant, like it came from underwater. Bakugou didn’t answer. He barely registered the question. He didn’t even realize he’d walked outside until the cold wind punched through his clothes, slicing through the leftover heat on his skin. One second he was in the hallway, the next he was halfway down the block, boots hitting wet pavement, headlights streaking across his vision like smears of light. His breath came too fast, white in the night air. The city blurred—the honk of a horn, the rush of footsteps, a dog barking somewhere far off. All of it tangled into one sharp, endless noise.

His chest was tight, every inhale scraping like glass. He shoved past people without looking, words catching in his throat when someone brushed his arm. His hands twitched at his sides, clenching and unclenching like he could hold himself together by sheer force. He didn’t know where he was going. Didn’t even remember deciding to leave. It was like his body had made the choice before his brain caught up—just move, just run, just go. The streetlights stung his eyes, too bright, too close, the noise of the city swelling and fading with every step. His heart wouldn’t slow down.

It wouldn’t stop.

I love you.
I love you too.

It felt like everything was collapsing inward—the warmth of Kirishima’s voice, the safety of that goddamn apartment, the weight of what he’d said—all of it folding into something sharp and unrecognizable in his chest. He’d meant it. That was the worst part. He’d fucking meant it.

He stumbled at the curb, catching himself on a lamppost, knuckles whitening against the metal. The cold bit deep, the world spinning for half a second before he forced it still. His breath came ragged, shoulders shaking with the effort to keep standing. He pressed his palms to his eyes, like he could scrub the night away, the words away, the truth away. But all he saw when he closed them was Kirishima’s face—soft, open, stupidly in love. Bakugou let out a sound somewhere between a curse and a choke, the kind that cracked on the way out.

Bakugou turned, slow like his body was moving through water, and there he was—storming down the street toward him, hair wild, still in sweats, breath clouding in the cold. His eyes were blazing. Angry. Not just angry—hurt. The kind of hurt Bakugou had never seen directed at him before. Kirishima looked wrecked. His face was flushed from the run, jaw tight, but his expression—god, his expression—wasn’t fury. It was disbelief, raw and splintering. His chest heaved like every breath hurt to take. The red in his eyes wasn’t from the cold.

“You just left?” His voice cracked through the space between them, low, strained, like he was holding something back by the skin of his teeth. His fists were clenched, shoulders squared as if he’d sprinted the whole way after him. Bakugou opened his mouth, but nothing came out. The sight of him—sweats hanging loose on his hips, hair sticking up every which way, eyes wide and glassy—knocked the air from his lungs. Kirishima let out a short, shaking breath that came out more like a laugh, bitter and cracked. “You said you loved me.” The words broke halfway through, barely above a whisper. He swallowed hard, voice trembling but sharp around the edges. “You said it, and then you—what? You just got up and left? Like it didn’t mean anything?”

Bakugou’s throat locked. His hands flexed at his sides, words clawing for a way out, but none of them fit. The wind whipped between them, carrying the faint sound of traffic, the city humming like a cruel reminder that the world hadn’t stopped just because his had. His mouth went dry, panic spiking sharply in his gut. He couldn’t get a word out, couldn’t even look away. The streetlights painted Kirishima’s face in harsh gold and shadow, his expression tight—equal parts fury and something far more dangerous.

Kirishima all but herded him into the alley, shoulders squared, jaw set, like he wasn’t giving Bakugou a choice. The city noise dulled here, replaced by the echo of Bakugou’s ragged breathing, the thud of his pulse in his ears. He leaned against the wall, head tipped back, chest heaving, trying to drag air into lungs that refused to cooperate. Kirishima stopped a foot away, chest rising hard with his own breath, but his eyes weren’t furious anymore. They were cracked wide, raw, shining with something Bakugou hated seeing directed at him. .

“Why did you leave me?” Kirishima’s voice cracked on the last word, not loud, but desperate, clawing. “You can’t—Katsuki, we can’t do all of that—” His voice faltered, breath hitching. “—and then you just leave.”

Bakugou’s laugh came out hollow, broken. “I needed some fucking air, Kirishima.” He spit the name out like it would ground him, but it didn’t. His throat worked, his chest still pulling sharp breaths, his hands curling uselessly at his sides. He said it sharp, deliberate—felt the weight of it the second it left his mouth. The name hit like a slap, too formal, too distant. He could see the hurt register in Kirishima’s face, see how it landed, how it gutted him clean. And that was the point, wasn’t it? That was what Bakugou was doing—driving distance between them, any way he could. If he called him Ei, if he said it soft, if he let his voice crack the way it wanted to—he’d never stop.

His throat burned. His chest still pulled in sharp, shallow breaths, his hands curling uselessly at his sides, but he didn’t take it back. Couldn’t. Because taking it back meant admitting what it really was. Meant saying I left because I was scared. Because I meant it. Because it’s you. The silence between them stretched thin, brittle enough to snap. Kirishima just stared at him, lips parted, blinking like he didn’t quite recognize the person in front of him.

Kirishima took a step closer anyway, his hand lifting, tentative now, softer than his voice had been, reaching for Bakugou’s shoulder like he always did—like it was the most natural thing in the world to steady him. The sight of it—the thought of being touched, of unraveling again when he hadn’t even stitched himself back together—sent a cold shock straight up Bakugou’s spine. “Don’t,” he word tore out of him sharper than he meant, Bakugou’s hand flying up to shove Kirishima’s away like the touch itself would burn him alive. The slap of skin on skin cracked in the narrow alleyway, loud enough that it startled even him, but he didn’t take it back.

Kirishima froze mid-step, his arm falling uselessly to his side, his chest still rising with heavy breaths. His face was open, raw, and when he finally spoke, it cut sharper than a blade. “Why would you just leave me like that?” His voice wavered, cracked.

Bakugou’s throat tightened, panic roaring up before thought could form, and the words ripped free before he could choke them down. “We shouldn’t have done it!”

The alley swallowed the shout whole, threw it back at them in echo. Kirishima reeled like he’d been struck. His eyes went wide, bright with shock, hurt flashing across his face in one clean, brutal second. “Why would you say that?”

“Because we were always gonna hurt each other!” Bakugou snapped, pacing a jagged half-circle like if he kept moving he could outrun the words. His hands carved through the air, desperate, useless. His chest was tight, lungs burning, heart pounding like it was trying to escape.

“Then let’s talk it out!” Kirishima’s voice broke around the words, cracked open from the strain. His hand lifted again, a reflex, an instinct, but it hovered midair, trembling, before falling back to his side. Bakugou barked a bitter laugh, sharp and ugly, his head tipping back like he couldn’t stand to look at him. “What the fuck is there to talk about?”

Kirishima’s jaw trembled, his throat working. “We both just said—”

“Nothing that changes anything!” Bakugou roared over him, the sound scraping raw from his chest. His vision tunneled until there was nothing but the red in Kirishima’s eyes, the hurt staring back at him. “I don’t want to fucking be with you.”

The words landed like a detonation. Bakugou saw it happen—the split second where Kirishima’s face broke, the light in his eyes snuffed out, his mouth falling open like he’d forgotten how to breathe. It was one thing to know you were being lied to; it was another to hear the lie from the person who’d made you believe you were safe. Kirishima shook his head slowly, disbelief clouding his expression, but the damage was already there—etched in the slump of his shoulders, in the way his hands clenched and unclenched like he was trying to hold himself together.

Bakugou felt it too, the recoil, the way the words he’d thrown out just to keep them both safe were already carving him up from the inside. He wanted to take them back, to swallow them whole before they finished echoing—but he didn’t. If he gave an inch, if he reached out now, it was over. If he said what he actually meant—I do. I do want to be with you. I don’t know how, and it’s killing me.—he’d never be able to let go.

Bakugou should’ve stopped there—should’ve clamped his mouth shut, should’ve swallowed the rest down—but he couldn’t. The panic had his tongue, had his throat, and the next words spilled like poison.

“It was just something to pass the time. Something to take the edge off.”

Kirishima stilled. Everything in him just… stopped.

Bakugou watched it happen—the light in his eyes dimming, the color draining from his face as the meaning landed, hard and clean. He didn’t need to ask what Bakugou meant. The silence said it for him. That there was nothing else. That every touch, every laugh, every quiet morning had been nothing but filler. Background noise. Something to pass the time. It wasn’t true—god, it wasn’t true—but the words sat there like fact, and Bakugou couldn’t reach far enough to take them back. 

Kirishima’s chest heaved, shallow and uneven, every breath a fight. His hands trembled at his sides before curling into fists, knuckles white, like he was trying to physically hold himself together. He turned away, jaw clenched, his shoulders shaking once, then again, harder this time. He pressed the heel of his palm over his mouth like he could smother it down—like if he just held it in tight enough, the sound wouldn’t escape.

It did anyway. A broken, muffled noise ripped out of him—small, strangled, raw enough to scrape the air itself. It didn’t sound like a sob; it sounded like something breaking. He staggered back a step, his other hand coming up to his face, trying to hide the tears streaking hot down his cheeks. Bakugou could see the tremor in his shoulders, the way his chest jerked when he tried and failed to breathe steady. The sound of it—the soft, helpless gasps between sobs—lodged in Bakugou’s throat like glass.

“I’m not—” he started, the word breaking in half. He swallowed hard, forcing it out, rough and wet around the edges. “I’m not some… some slut, Bakugou.” His throat worked around the name, the sound of it torn and hoarse. “Not some fucking whore you can sleep with, tell me you love me, and then just—” his voice splintered, “—pretend it didn’t mean anything.”

It was quiet, but it hit harder than any shout could’ve.

Bakugou’s lungs stuttered. His fingers twitched at his sides before they moved on their own, reaching out like muscle memory, like something inside him refused to let go even now. “Eijirou—”

The name broke in his mouth, half-breath, half-plea. Kirishima flinched, another sound cracking loose from him—choked, desperate—and he tore himself away before Bakugou could touch him. He didn’t look back, didn’t even try. His hand stayed clamped over his mouth as he stumbled toward the mouth of the alley, his body shaking with each uneven breath. The city lights caught him for one last moment—his hair glinting faintly under the gold glow, his shoulders hunched like the weight of everything was crushing him—and then he was gone. Back toward the apartments. Back into the noise and the light.

“Fuck,” Bakugou rasped, the word scraping out of him like it hurt. His palm hit the wall once, twice, until the sound cracked through the alley. The sting didn’t help. Nothing did. His chest heaved, his stomach twisting so hard he thought he might throw up. He dragged a hand through his hair, gripping tight, yanking at the roots like he could claw the noise out of his head. He could still see him. The tears. The disbelief. The way Kirishima had looked at him like he was someone else entirely.

He’d gone for the jugular. He’d picked at the one thing he knew would hurt, the insecurity he’d seen flicker in Kirishima’s eyes before, the thing he’d sworn he’d never use against him—and he’d used it anyway. Weaponized it. He could still hear himself saying it. Something to pass the time. The words felt foreign now, monstrous. And the worst part wasn’t even that he’d said them. It was that Kirishima had known he was lying. He’d seen right through it. Seen that it wasn’t anger talking—it was fear. Panic. The part of Bakugou that still thought maybe he didn’t deserve any of this. Any of him.

He’d wanted to make it stop—to shove the feelings back down where they belonged—but instead he’d gutted the one person who’d ever made him feel like he wasn’t too much. Eventually, the buzzing wouldn’t stop. It gnawed at him, over and over, until his trembling hand shoved into his pocket. The screen lit his face in the dark, and the pit in his stomach dropped out completely.

14 missed calls. Mina. Kaminari. Sero. Jirou. 

His thumb dragged across the screen, stiff and clumsy. The group chat lit up in a flood of notifications, the kind that made his chest seize and his lungs claw for air.

Pinky: Where the fuck ARE you???

Pikachu: bro answer ur phone its family night??

Ears: Bakugou pls Kiri is so upset

Pinky: Did something happen??? Kirishima’s not coming out of his room.

Tape: BAKUGOU. I swear to god if you said some dumbass shit—

The words blurred. His throat locked up. His eyes stung. Family night. He’d forgotten it was tonight, or maybe he hadn’t forgotten—maybe he’d just blown it to hell with his own hands, wrecked it before it even started. His pulse hammered, and the sinking feeling tore through him, sharp and merciless. Whatever had happened in that alley, whatever the fuck he’d said—Kirishima hadn’t gone to family night. He’d gone to his room, shut the door.

Bakugou could see it in his head, clear as day. The rest of them in that cozy, too-small living room—the coffee table crowded with takeout containers, Kaminari already halfway through a story no one could follow, Mina laughing too loud, trying to fill the gaps. Jirou rolling her eyes, smirking into her drink.

Someone would’ve asked. Where’s Kiri?

The room would’ve faltered for a beat. Just enough for the laughter to thin, for the warmth to fade. Someone would’ve looked out the hallway, then walked into it. Kirishima would’ve come in—shoulders hunched, eyes red, clothes half-twisted like he’d run all the way back. He wouldn’t have said a word. Wouldn’t have looked at any of them. Just kept walking, fast, head down, sneakers scuffing the tile. Bakugou could picture it perfectly: the short silence that followed, the confused glances, Mina’s brows knitting as she stood, half-reaching like she might go after him. Then the soft click of his bedroom door, quiet but final.

The phone rattled in his frozen hand, screen glowing against his palm.

Pinky

He swallowed hard, thumb sliding over accept. The background noise on the other end cut out almost instantly—Kaminari’s laugh sliced mid-way, Sero’s voice dipping into a sharp whisper, the sound of a chair leg scraping against the floor. Then nothing. Just the kind of silence that screamed. Bakugou’s pulse thudded in his ears, breath coming too fast. “What?” he rasped, though it came out smaller than he meant. For a second, no one answered. He thought maybe they’d hung up—until the faintest sounds filtered through: a shuffle, a muffled shh, and then Jirou’s voice, low and careful, like she was talking through a door.

“Hey, Kiri,” she murmured, tone gentle in a way Bakugou had never heard from her before. “Can you open up? Please?”

Something—maybe a quiet sob, maybe just movement—hit the receiver like a fist. His grip tightened until the plastic creaked.

“Where are you,” Mina demanded at last. Her voice cut through the static like glass—sharp, shaking, brittle at the edges. Bakugou could hear it in the way she said his name, the crack underneath all that steel, the worry clawing through even as she tried to keep it steady.

The words jammed in his throat, useless. His mind was a mess of echoes—Kirishima’s voice breaking, the tears, the disbelief, that moment his hand had reached out too late. It played over and over, relentless, every breath replaying the damage he’d done until he could barely stand under the weight of it. He’d said the one thing he swore he never would. He’d picked the exact spot that would hurt most and drove the knife in anyway. And for what? To protect himself? To stop something he couldn’t even name?

No—because he was a coward.

Mina said his name again, quieter this time. “Bakugou.”

Still, nothing. He pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead, shaking his head hard enough that it made the world tilt. His stomach churned. He could still see Kirishima’s face—red-rimmed, raw, looking at him like he’d been gutted from the inside out. It stuck behind his eyes like a burn.

“Where are you?” Mina asked again, softer now, coaxing.

Bakugou opened his mouth, tried to speak—then froze. There was movement on the other end. A sound he knew instantly: the faint whine of a hinge, a door creaking open. Muffled voices, low and careful. Sero’s voice, quiet but sure, saying something he couldn’t make out. The faint shuffle of footsteps across a room. Then the soft click of the door closing again. Bakugou’s heart dropped straight through him. His voice came out rough, barely there. “...Is someone in there with him?”

There was a long pause, long enough that he could hear the air shifting—Kaminari exhaling, shaky and uneven, before his voice broke through, low and miserable. “Guess the ice cream social’s canceled, huh?”

A sharp sound followed—a smack, maybe, or Jirou’s voice slicing through, tight and furious. “Not the time.”

Then Mina, barely above a whisper. Her voice cracked right down the middle, all the fight gone from it. “Sero’s with him,” she said. “Where are you, Bakugou?”

He let out a breath that felt like it scraped his lungs raw. The phone wobbled in his grip, slick with sweat. He wanted to say something—anything. Wanted to ask if Kirishima was okay, if he’d stopped crying, if Sero had said something that helped. All that came out was silence. He pressed the phone closer to his ear, listening to the faint hum on the other end, to the creak of the old apartment floorboards, to the sound of voices blurring low in the background—too far away to make out, but close enough to feel. The silence stretched until it felt unbearable.

Then Mina’s voice came back, softer this time, careful. “Bakugou… are you outside?”

The question sat there for a moment, suspended in the air like smoke. He swallowed hard, the muscles in his jaw tightening until they ached. “Yeah,” he rasped finally. His breath fogged in front of him, curling white in the cold.

Another pause. The faint sound of her exhale brushed through the receiver, shaky and quiet. “Do you have your keys?”

Bakugou’s eyes flicked down to his empty hands, to the pavement, to the faint red streaks across his knuckles from where he’d hit the wall. His chest felt like it was caving in. “...No.”

There was no sigh, no lecture—just a long stretch of silence, heavy and full of something that almost sounded like pity. “Stay there,” she said at last, her voice gentler than he deserved. “Don’t move.”

The line went dead.

Bakugou lowered the phone slowly, the city still humming around him like it didn’t care that his world had just split open. He tipped his head back against the brick, eyes burning, the cold biting hard at his throat. For the first time in years, he didn’t have the strength to run. Bakugou sat frozen, the phone still pressed to his ear. The night pressed heavy around him—air sharp in his lungs, neon from a convenience store flickering down the block, the alley washed in shadow. His breath fogged white in front of him, vanishing before his eyes, just like every ounce of control he thought he had.

Footsteps clattered down the stairwell, quick and purposeful. The alley’s shadows shifted, and then Mina burst into view, pink hair damp from the misting rain, her coat thrown half over her shoulders. Without a word, she tossed something at him—Bakugou’s keys, clinking against his thigh before falling into his lap. “This feels very fucking familiar!” she snapped, throwing her arms wide, her voice ricocheting off the brick walls. Bakugou’s head thumped back against the cold stone with a low groan, his eyes closing. He didn’t even bother to pick the keys up.

“I don’t know what you did,” Mina went on, voice tight with fury and worry, “but he’s pretty upset—”

“I know,” Bakugou muttered.

“Like we can actively hear him crying, upset—”

“I know.”

“So I don’t know—”

Bakugou’s chest seized. The word hit harder than it should have—small, simple, but it cracked something open. He could feel it in his jaw, in his lungs, in the way his hands started to shake.

“Why?” she pressed again, softer this time.

Something inside him snapped.

“Because we had sex!” The words ripped out of him, raw and too loud, echoing in the narrow space between them. His hands flew up, wild, as if he could catch the words and shove them back in his mouth. “Like—full on sex, Mina. He was fucking inside of me—” His voice broke, collapsing on itself, half-snarl, half-plea. “—and he told me he fucking loved me, and I said it back, and then—” He stopped, choking on air, his chest heaving like he’d been punched. “And then I ruined it!”

The air thinned, heavy and electric. Mina didn’t move. She just stared, wide-eyed, like she was afraid even blinking would set him off again.

Bakugou laughed, sharp and ugly, dragging his hands through his hair until it stood on end. “I don’t even know why I said what I said! I just—” His voice cracked, rising again before he could stop it. “I can’t be with him, Mina! I can’t be what he wants! I can’t—fuck—” He dropped his head into his hands, breath tearing out of him. “I can’t be someone’s boyfriend.”

He sucked in a harsh breath, shoulders trembling, voice shaking now instead of shouting. “I fucking hurt him. I knew what I was saying would hurt, and I said it anyway.”

He looked up, eyes bloodshot, throat working. “He knew I was lying. That’s the worst part. He knew, and I still—” His voice fell out, breaking into silence. The quiet that followed was unbearable. Mina didn’t reach for him, didn’t say a word. Just stood there, watching him come undone, the sound of his breathing the only thing left in the room.

“You two are my best friends,” Mina shot back, stepping closer, her eyes sharp but bright with something softer beneath. “I don’t want either of you to be hurt!”

“I knew this was a bad fucking idea,” Bakugou snapped, voice raw, cracking at the edges. “This was gonna fucking end badly, and it did! And I don’t wanna lose him, I don’t! But I just—” His breath hitched hard, his hands shaking where they pressed into his chest. “I couldn’t fucking breathe, Mina! I needed space, and he was too hurt to give it, and I—” He gasped, chest seizing, his whole body jolting like he’d forgotten how to pull in air. “I still—can’t—fucking—breathe.”

Mina’s anger broke like glass. She stepped forward fast, catching his wrist before he could claw at himself again. “Hey—hey, Bakugou, look at me,” she said, voice low but urgent, one hand gripping his shoulder, steadying him. “You’re okay, you’re okay, just—slow down, okay? Breathe with me.”

He shook his head, eyes wild, unfocused. She moved closer, chest almost pressed to his, grounding him with sheer proximity. “In through your nose, come on—” She inhaled deep, exaggerated, like she could drag him into rhythm with her. “Then out, yeah? Just like that. You’ve done worse under fire, remember? You can do this.”

Bakugou tried, but it came out as a ragged choke, his breath catching halfway. His shoulders trembled. Mina didn’t let go. Her hands stayed right there, firm on his arms, voice soft but steady. “You didn’t lose him,” she whispered finally, when his breathing started to even out, each inhale a little less jagged. “Not yet. You hurt him, yeah—but he’s still here. You can fix it, Bakugou.”

Mina’s voice blurred at the edges, drowned under the roaring in his ears. His breaths came too fast, too shallow, dragging sharp through his teeth. His chest refused to expand enough, refused to work. For a split second, it felt like everything inside him was going to cave in—like he might actually collapse right there on the sidewalk. Then he snapped. Not out loud—just inward.

No.

His hands fisted at his sides, nails biting deep into his palms. He locked his jaw until it hurt, forced the air in through his nose, out through his mouth. It wasn’t clean or easy; it sounded more like a growl, like he was fighting himself. But little by little, the edge dulled. The air started coming back, heavy and sour in his throat, but steady. He refused to break. Not here. Not in front of her. Bakugou didn’t answer her. His jaw was locked so tight it ached, his tongue pressed hard to the roof of his mouth. Words built, clogged, but nothing made it out. Mina stared at him for a long moment, her breath puffing white in the cold. Then she let out a sharp exhale, the fight draining from her shoulders.

“Let’s just go inside,” Mina said finally. Her voice wasn’t sharp anymore — it was quieter, frayed at the edges. “You coming to Family Night?”

Bakugou exhaled through his nose, dragging a trembling hand down his face. The motion was heavy, deliberate, like he was trying to scrape the last of the panic off his skin. “Fuck no. Not tonight.”

“Didn’t think so.” Her tone was soft but bone-tired, like she’d spent every ounce of energy just standing here with him. She crossed her arms, shifting her weight from one leg to the other. The streetlight buzzed above them, flickering between gold and shadow, catching the steam still rolling faintly off his shoulders. Neither of them spoke for a long time. Just the hum of traffic and the sharp, distant hiss of rain on pavement. Bakugou could feel his heartbeat finally slowing, the ache in his chest dulling into something cold. In the aftermath, everything suddenly felt… stupid. The yelling, the panic, the running. All of it. He’d been stomping around like some goddamn drama queen — flinging words like grenades, convinced he could outrun the blast. Now there was nothing left but the smoke.

Mina sighed, the sound breaking the quiet. “Well…” she said, her arms tightening around herself. “Get your shit figured out with Kirishima.”

He looked up at her then. Just a glance — enough to meet her eyes under the harsh spill of light. There was no anger left in them, no sharp edge, just that same tired knowing. The kind that didn’t need words to say I care about both of you, but you’re making this impossible. Her gaze didn’t waver.

“He’s really, really hurting, Bakugou.” The words hit their mark clean. His stomach twisted hard, the guilt settling low, solid. He didn’t flinch this time; he didn’t have the energy. He just nodded once, jaw working before the words came, low and rough.

“I know.” It wasn’t enough — it couldn’t be — but it was all he had left in him.

They just stood there for a moment, staring at each other through the heavy dark. The silence stretched until it became almost unbearable. Somewhere above, the city buzzed on, uncaring — laughter spilling from a bar across the street, a siren wailing faint in the distance. Finally, Mina exhaled, sharp and slow, like she was letting him go on purpose. “Get some rest,” she muttered. He didn’t answer. Just watched as she turned, her boots scuffing against the wet pavement. She hesitated once at the mouth of the alley — maybe to look back, maybe just to breathe — but then she kept walking, the glow of her hair disappearing into the stairwell light.

Bakugou stayed where he was. The quiet pressed in, thick and suffocating, the kind that made you too aware of your own heartbeat. He stared down at his hands — knuckles red, still shaking faintly — and let out a bitter laugh under his breath. The sound echoed once, then vanished into the night, leaving him alone with nothing but his keys in his lap and the stupid, hollow ache that wouldn’t quit.

They didn’t talk about it, didn’t see each other.

The silence pressed down heavier than any fight could have. It was violent in its own way, loud in the way it dug under Bakugou’s skin, set his teeth on edge until his jaw ached. He hadn’t meant what he said—not really—but it didn’t matter. The words had left his mouth, sharp and cruel, and now Kirishima was hurt. Beyond hurt.

He was mad. Mad at Bakugou in a way he had never been before. They’d never really fought, not once. Sure, Bakugou fought everyone else—picked arguments like breathing—but not him. Never him. With Kirishima, it had always been easy. They agreed more often than not, and even if something came up, it was spoken plainly, dealt with, moved past. Not this, not after what happened. Not after Kirishima had been inside him, not after both of them had said the words—the ones you couldn’t claw back, the ones that made them something else entirely. Now? Now it was like Kirishima had scrubbed himself from the apartment. From Bakugou’s life. His presence was gone, the weight of him ripped out so thoroughly Bakugou thought he’d lose his mind from the emptiness of it.

It was insane, missing someone you technically lived with, but that’s what it was. Every day, Bakugou walked past his closed door. Every night, the silence on the other side screamed at him. Kirishima didn’t answer the group chat. Didn’t post online. He was a ghost everywhere but the streets, where his red armor still showed up in grainy clips on the news. Even there, though—even in interviews, even smiling with kids—something was wrong. His spark was dulled. His laugh too forced. His answers cut short.

Bakugou knew exactly why and he hated himself for it.

At first, he didn’t think much of it. Kirishima was always a little messy, not slob messy, but casual. Boots kicked off after patrol, gym bag left by the door. Fine. Whatever. Bakugou had gotten used to it. It kept happening. Same spot. Every damn night. Kirishima’s boots, caked with dried mud and city grit, were parked right in the middle of the entryway like they paid rent. Bakugou would trip over them, scowl, and shove them aside with the heel of his foot. The next day, they’d be back.

By the fifth time, his eye twitched when he walked in.
By the seventh, his muttered curses filled the apartment.
By the tenth, his patience split clean in half.

Bakugou came home late, keys jingling, the hallway dim and quiet—except for those fucking boots, sitting there like they’d been waiting for him. His blood boiled, his teeth grit so hard his jaw popped, and without thinking, he snatched them both up.

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me—”

He hurled them down the hall with a sharp twist of his wrist, the pair smacking off the wall with a dull thud. Mud splattered across the plaster and dripped down in ugly streaks, flecks dotting his own doorframe. Some even landed in the hall. He didn’t care, not one bit. He stood there, chest heaving, glaring down the stretch of empty corridor like Kirishima might appear and see the evidence of Bakugou’s little tantrum, but the door stayed closed. The silence mocked him. It was then, staring at mud on the wall, that Bakugou realized—this wasn’t random. It was deliberate. Kirishima was doing this shit on purpose.

That—that—made his blood boil hotter than anything else.

Petty. Childish. Infuriatingly so.
He was being mocked.

The realization hit like a spark to dry kindling. His hands clenched at his sides, nails digging half-moons into his palms. The air in the hall crackled faintly, smoke threatening to curl from the tips of his fingers. He wanted to kick something, punch something—hell, maybe march right up to that door and yell until his throat bled. After everything—after all the silence, the tension, the guilt eating him alive—this was what Kirishima did? Left his damn boots in the doorway like a middle-schooler starting a turf war?

“Un—fucking—believable,” he muttered, voice low and sharp, every syllable bitten through his teeth. “You wanna act like a fucking kid now? Fine.”

He could feel it building in him—the anger, the embarrassment, the frustration—curling up tight, a storm with nowhere to go. It wasn’t just about the boots anymore. It was the space between them, the distance that had gone from quiet to hostile, from cold to unbearable. Kirishima wasn’t saying a word, but somehow he was still winning. Bakugou stood there in the empty hall, glaring at the door, his chest rising and falling too fast. He hated how well Kirishima knew him—how this stupid, passive-aggressive move hit harder than any punch, because it meant Kirishima wasn’t over it. It meant he was angry too.

For some reason, that made Bakugou even angrier.

Bakugou thought the boots were the end of it. He thought Kirishima would take the hint, find his damn shoes in the hallway, and realize Bakugou wasn’t going to put up with it. No—apparently, that was just the opening move. The next day, Bakugou walked into the kitchen and stopped dead. The sink was full. Not just full—packed. Plates stacked at angles, bowls slick with sauce, glasses crusted with protein shake residue, utensils swimming in cold, greasy water. His eye twitched. Kirishima knew, he knew how much Bakugou hated touching soggy food, how the texture made his skin crawl, his teeth grit. It was one of the few chores he avoided if he could help it, and here the sink was, like a goddamn landfill, waiting for him.

Bakugou’s hand twitched on the counter. The dish towel hanging there nearly tore in half when he gripped it. He reached for a glass perched at the edge, and when it slipped in his wet palm, nearly shattering against the others, he cursed loud enough to make the walls shake.

“Fucking unbelievable.”

For a split second, his blood ran hotter than lava. He didn’t know Kirishima had it in him—to be this deliberate, this calculated. To poke at Bakugou’s weak spots like this. Boots in the hall. Now the dishes are in the sink. It wasn’t just laziness. It was war. Kirishima had no idea who the hell he’d just started playing with.

It snowballed fast. Bakugou unplugged his phone the first time he saw it charging in the kitchen. He told himself it was nothing, just a little inconvenience, but when he heard Kirishima groan two hours later about waking up to a dead battery before patrol, Bakugou felt the corner of his mouth twitch. The eggs were worse. Kirishima came back from patrol hungry, cracked open the carton—only to find half of them empty shells tucked neatly back inside. His bellow of “BAKUGOU” shook the entire apartment. Bakugou ignored him, lounging on the couch like he hadn’t heard a damn thing, flipping a page in his book with pointed calm.

It escalated from there. Kirishima started leaving weights scattered across the living room floor, a minefield for Bakugou’s already sore toes. Bakugou “accidentally” swapped the labels on Kirishima’s protein powders. Kirishima dumped the trash but left the bag half-tied, so it sagged open and spilled everywhere. Bakugou started hiding the remote. Kirishima retaliated by eating the last of Bakugou’s favorite spicy ramen and leaving the empty packet in the cupboard.

It was childish. Insane. A cold war waged in silence. He missed him so bad. 

It was absolutely unbearable. The room hummed with noise—Mina’s laugh, Kaminari’s pointless rambling, the crinkle of chip bags, the faint music Jirou had put on low in the background—but none of it mattered. None of it could drown out the static snapping between him and Kirishima. Bakugou lounged stiffly on the couch, his body coiled tight despite the lazy sprawl he was forcing. His gaze cut across the room like a blade, colliding with Kirishima’s and holding there. Kirishima didn’t look away. Not once. His eyes were sharp, narrowed, daring Bakugou to move first. His jaw flexed, his mouth drawn in that tight line Bakugou had memorized years ago.

Fuck, he looked good, too good. Spread out like he owned the damn armchair, shoulders broad, arms crossed, biceps pushing against the seams of a black muscle shirt that made Bakugou want to tear it off his body. Jeans slung low on his hips—Lover Boy jeans, at that. The irony wasn’t lost on him. His lips twitched, but there was no humor in it—just heat and bitterness tangled into something that hurt to look at.

He missed him so fucking bad.

Every breath burned with it, every second of silence drilled the absence deeper. Kirishima’s lashes were thick, shadowing his cheekbones, and Bakugou hated them. Hated how soft they made him look, even while he was glaring, hated that they reminded him of every night he’d traced them with his eyes when Kirishima had been close enough to touch. Jirou shot him a look like she was waiting for him to explode. Sero shifted, restless, clearly betting on which one of them would break first. Mina’s laugh got louder, Kaminari leaned into her shoulder, but it was forced, it was all forced, and Bakugou knew they felt it too—the way the room was splitting right down the middle. Still, neither of them looked away.

They picked something simple—cards, maybe, or a dumb party game Kaminari dragged in just to get everyone laughing. It should’ve been harmless, light, one of those things that filled Family Night with noise and competition and the kind of bickering that never cut too deep.

Except Bakugou and Kirishima ruined it. They didn’t just play. They waged war. Every turn was a battlefield, every move was a sharpened edge. Bakugou could see it in the way Kirishima leaned forward, elbows digging into his knees, eyes never leaving his. Petty bastard was throwing rounds on purpose—slipping, pretending he couldn’t keep track, all so Bakugou would get stuck with the punishment. So Bakugou did the same, and the table knew. Jirou groaned after Bakugou deliberately discarded a winning card. “You two are so annoying.”

“Annoying?” Kaminari was already grinning, catching on. “This is bloodsport. Look at them. They’re not even playing the game anymore, they’re just—”

“Trying to make the other one lose,” Mina finished, like she was waiting for it to implode.

Sero leaned back in his chair, rubbing his forehead. “This was a bad idea. A really, really bad idea.”

He was right, because neither of them cared about the actual game. It was about punishment. It was about making the other one fold first, about forcing their hand, about control. Every card laid down was another spark thrown on gasoline. Bakugou smirked when Kirishima missed another chance at winning. Kirishima raised his brows like, yeah, I did that on purpose. The longer it went on, the more obvious it became—whoever lost was in for something brutal. Bakugou lost. He knew it the second the last card hit the table. His stomach dropped, his hands curled into fists, and the gleam in Kirishima’s eyes told him this was a setup from the start.

“Punishment time!” Mina sang, far too delighted, trying to keep things light.

Bakugou slammed his hand flat against the table, the sharp crack of it echoing through the room. “Like hell I’m letting you shove that shit in my face.” His glare was molten, daring anyone to keep pushing, and yet of course, Mina did.

“You lost,” she said brightly, clapping her hands together like she’d just declared something holy. “Rules are rules.”

“Fuck the rules,” Bakugou spat, leaning back against the couch like he could hold his ground through sheer willpower alone.

“Oh, c’mon, man.” Kaminari leaned so far forward he nearly tipped his chair, grin stretching wide across his face. “It’s whipped cream, not napalm. You’ll live.”

Sero’s smirk was all sharp teeth as he muttered, “Or are you scared of getting a little messy?” and Jirou rolled her eyes, biting her lip to keep the laugh in.

Bakugou’s scowl only deepened, the silence around him stretching taut, but Mina’s grin never wavered. “Punishment stands,” she said, her voice sing-song, merciless. She lifted the paper plate high, whipped cream piled in a ridiculous, fluffy mound. “Pie in the face. Majority rules.”

“I didn’t fucking vote,” Bakugou ground out, but even he knew it was useless.

“That’s because you lost,” Jirou deadpanned, her voice betraying the strain of keeping it steady. Through it all, Kirishima said nothing. He sat with his elbows braced on his knees, expression carved into stone, his silence louder than the teasing, heavier than Bakugou’s anger. He didn’t have to say a damn thing—the tension already crawled up Bakugou’s neck like a fuse burning slow. When Mina finally chirped, “So! Who wants to do the honors?” it was Kirishima who moved first, his voice cutting through the room before anyone else could breathe.

“I will.”

The words were clean, immediate, final. The room shifted on its axis. Mina’s grin faltered into something smaller, uncertain. Jirou stiffened where she sat, eyes flicking nervously between the two of them. Sero pressed his hand to his mouth, shoulders already shaking with a laugh he didn’t dare let out, and Kaminari froze mid-wheeze like he was too stunned to process it. Kirishima rose to his feet with a slow certainty, plate balanced in his hand, and crossed the room. His steps were steady, deliberate, his gaze fixed on Bakugou like he had all the time in the world to savor the moment.

Bakugou didn’t move. He leaned back into the couch, arms braced on his knees, expression ice-cold. His eyes tracked every step Kirishima took, unflinching, unyielding, his jaw tight as stone.

Mina had one hand clutching Jirou’s sleeve, the other covering her mouth, both of them trembling with the effort of holding it together. Sero’s hand was pressed flat across his lips now, his eyes wide as if he couldn’t quite believe he was watching this unfold. Kirishima stopped too close—so close Bakugou could feel the heat radiating off him, could smell the faint tang of his collogne clinging to his skin. The fake sympathy on his face only made it worse, the soft tilt of his head a taunt more than anything else.

“Sorry, man,” Kirishima said, his voice a low purr of smugness wrapped in pretend kindness.

Bakugou’s scowl didn’t waver. He wasn’t backing down, not from this, not from him. Then Kirishima’s hand slid into his hair, strong fingers curling at the base of his skull, and the plate came down hard. The sound—wet, final, cruel—rang through the room as whipped cream exploded across Bakugou’s face, dripping down his jaw, sliding into the collar of his shirt. The plate clattered to the floor, forgotten, while the room erupted around them. Mina shrieked into Jirou’s shoulder, Jirou’s laughter finally breaking free in sharp bursts, Sero twisting away, choking on his own grin, and Kaminari howling so loud he nearly fell off the couch.

Bakugou blinked through the mess, cream sliding into his lashes. His tongue darted out instinctively, catching the sweetness at the corner of his mouth, and the expression that followed wasn’t a smile—it was a warning. His lips curled slowly and dangerously, a promise written sharply across his face. Kirishima stepped back, eyes steady, smug satisfaction radiating from every inch of him, and the heat of his grip still burned at the back of Bakugou’s head. Bakugou’s blood was boiling.

Kirishima didn’t even flinch at the glare Bakugou pinned him with. He just held his ground, smug as hell, and—like the final nail in the coffin—dragged his tongue slowly across his fingers, licking the extra whipped cream off like it was the most casual thing in the world. Bakugou’s eye twitched. His entire body thrummed with heat. That smug bastard. That fucking smug bastard. He wiped his face clean with one slow, deliberate pass of his hand, cream smearing across his cheek, his jaw, dripping between his fingers. He didn’t break eye contact once. Then, just as slowly, he flicked his wrist, sending whipped cream splattering.

It caught Kirishima across the chest, dotted the arm of the couch, and even landed in his hair.

“Oops,” Bakugou said flatly, stone-faced, his voice void of anything resembling remorse.

The room detonated. Kaminari screamed, half-falling onto Mina as he clutched his stomach. Mina was doubled over, choking on her laughter, Jirou pounding on her shoulder for support. Sero slid halfway off the couch, both hands covering his face, his muffled laughter spilling out anyway. Kirishima froze, hands splayed out at his sides as if he could somehow avoid the mess, but whipped cream was already smeared across his tank top, dripping onto his jeans, flecks caught in the spikes of his hair. His face twisted, half a grimace, half disbelief, like he couldn’t decide whether to kill Bakugou or laugh with the others.

He threw his hands up, finally, exasperated. “Are you serious right now?!”

Bakugou just stood, his arms crossed, his scowl sharp enough to cut. He didn’t say another word. He didn’t have to, his smug expression said everything. Kirishima looked two seconds away from launching himself across the room when Sero stumbled forward, half doubled over with laughter, hands out like he could actually stop either of them. “Okay—okay, stop,” he wheezed, his voice cracking from how hard he was laughing. “You’re gonna get whipped cream everywhere.”

It wasn’t convincing in the slightest. He couldn’t even stand straight, one hand braced on the table, the other pointing weakly between them before he nearly collapsed again, shoulders shaking. Mina was gasping into Jirou’s arm, wheezing so hard she had tears in her eyes. Kaminari had flat-out fallen to the floor, pounding his fist against the rug as he screamed. Through all of it, Bakugou and Kirishima just stared each other down. Whipped cream smeared across Bakugou’s jaw, streaked into his blond hair, flecking the black of his shirt. Kirishima wasn’t better off—cream clung to his tank, dotted his jeans, sticky in his spikes. They stood on opposite sides of the room, covered in the mess, their glares locked and sharp enough to draw blood.

Neither of them moved, nor did either of them speak. The room howled around them, but the only thing that existed in that moment was the heat of the standoff, the promise of retaliation simmering like a storm ready to break. Bakugou didn’t even know why he was this mad. Yeah, the pettiness was annoying—the boots, the silence, the passive-aggressive shit—but this? This wasn’t about whipped cream. This was about Kirishima standing there, glaring at him like he wasn’t supposed to. Like he wasn’t supposed to look like that, furious and human and imperfect.

He’d put him on a pedestal for so long—some fucking hero prince who never cracked, never faltered, the one person who always got him. And now here he was, petty as hell, childish, throwing looks that could kill. Bakugou loved him for it. Loved him so much it made his stomach twist. It pissed him off even more. He could feel it sitting under his ribs, hot and unbearable—the ache of knowing every ugly part, every stupid flaw, every thing he wasn’t supposed to love, and loving it anyway. Loving him anyway.

Kirishima, standing there covered in whipped cream and glaring like he wanted to throw the whole can at him, was somehow the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

The whipped cream standoff dissolved into nothing more than sharp glares and a mess nobody wanted to clean up. By the next day, Bakugou was back in a boardroom, the air dry and too bright under fluorescent lights, the sound of papers shuffling and keyboards tapping so far removed from last night’s chaos it made his head ache. Miyake stood at the front, her energy sharp and clipped, all business as usual. “Ground Zero is officially in production,” she announced, her tone leaving no room for misinterpretation. “Our investor meetings went better than expected. Contracts are signed, funding is secured, and we’re moving forward immediately.”

The table hummed with quiet excitement, small smiles, and murmurs of congratulations. Bakugou sat among them, arms crossed, shoulders tight, a twist in his chest that wouldn’t let him breathe right. He should’ve felt triumphant. He should’ve felt like he could set the world on fire with this news. Instead, all he felt was the hollow ache that he couldn’t celebrate it with Kirishima—that the person he wanted to tell first was the one he couldn’t even look at now.

Miyake’s sharp voice cut him out of it. “Ignition needs new designs. The demand is climbing, and your parents are overwhelmed—swamped with the logistics of production, shipping, and expansion. They don’t have the time to design a new line. They want you to take over the next project entirely.” Her eyes landed on him, steady and expectant. “Voltage is yours. All of it.” A heavy silence stretched, everyone turning his way.

Bakugou exhaled through his nose, long and slow, before muttering, “Fine.”

He buried himself in sketchbooks, in sleepless nights hunched over tables, graphite smudged across his fingers. His mind turned restless, circling, and somehow it always came back to Kaminari—loud, grinning, buzzing like a live wire in every corner of his memory. It pissed him off. Pissed him off that even in silence, Kaminari filled the edges of his mind. He shoved that anger into Voltage, channeled it into sharp lines and jagged edges. Harsh whites. Stark blacks. Electric yellows bleeding like lightning across the page. Less warmth, less softness. More bite. Voltage took shape under his hands like an exposed nerve, alive and dangerous, a reflection of every sharp emotion he couldn’t name, every ache he refused to acknowledge.

Bakugou worked himself ragged, every hour split between Jeanist’s agency and Voltage sketches. Jeanist called it “discipline.” Reporters called it his “peak.” Bakugou knew better. It wasn’t discipline. It wasn’t a peak. It was anger, sharpened to a blade and buried in every fight, every villain he slammed into the concrete. He didn’t hold back anymore—every stomp, every blast was fueled by the same restless fury that kept him awake at night, the fury he couldn’t shake no matter how many bodies he dragged out of burning buildings.

Kirishima was part of it. Always part of it.

Their petty war never died down. It festered, mutated, and became something uglier than Bakugou ever meant it to be. The dishes weren’t just dishes anymore—they were deliberate weapons. The boots weren’t just boots—they were bait, traps, reminders that Kirishima could still get under his skin without saying a word. Bakugou retaliated in kind, petty turned venomous, every small act meant to sting. It wasn’t fun anymore—if it ever had been. It was hurt for the sake of hurt. Two people clawing at each other just to prove who could wound deeper.

Their friends felt it too. The next Family Night grew strained, laughter too thin, everyone pretending they couldn’t feel the tension suffocating the room. Jirou’s side-eyes cut sharper each week. Mina’s cheer sounded forced. Even Kaminari shut up sometimes, which was saying something. Neither Bakugou nor Kirishima backed down. Pride held them both by the throat. Bakugou burned with it, Kirishima bristled with it, and they refused to let the other win—whatever winning even meant anymore.

All Bakugou knew was that the apartment didn’t feel like home without Kirishima’s laugh filling the air. Yet, he couldn’t stop himself from striking matches just to watch them both burn.

It had been a month. A month of slammed doors, of boots in the hallway like landmines, of eggshells rotting in the sink just to get under each other’s skin. Finally, Kaminari couldn’t take it anymore. He threw his hands up, exasperated, grinning like he was trying to play it off, but his voice cracked around the edges. “Okay, seriously—are you two done yet? It’s been a month. Whatever this is, it can’t have been that bad. Just get over it already.”

The words landed like a live wire dropped on the table. Nobody laughed. Nobody moved. Mina’s fork clinked against her plate, her shoulders snapping tight as if she wanted to vanish into her chair. Jirou’s face creased, eyes narrowing as she glanced between them, her mouth pressing into a flat line. Even Sero sat forward slightly, his elbows on his knees, as though he already knew he’d have to step in. Kirishima scoffed. A sharp, humorless sound that cut through the silence like a blade.

Bakugou’s stomach turned, heat rushing up his chest. Yeah—it was that bad. He had fucked it up that badly. Hearing Kirishima brush it off with nothing but a scoff made something in him snap. The silence was unbearable, the weight of it pressing down on his lungs until he couldn’t stop himself. His head whipped toward Kirishima, eyes like sharpened glass. “Do you have something to say?”

The air in the room thickened. Heads turned in unison, every eye on him now. Mina’s mouth opened, panic plain, but no sound came out. Jirou shifted back against the couch, her expression clear as day: don’t do this here.

Kirishima didn’t flinch. His arms stayed crossed, his shoulders squared, and when his voice came, it was steady, clipped, ice where it should’ve been fire. “I have nothing to say to you, Bakugou.”

The words dug under his skin like knives. Bakugou’s lip curled, anger sparking at the edges of his vision. “What happened to ‘talk it out,’ huh?”

Mina tried again, too quick, too bright. “Guys, maybe—”

Kirishima turned toward him then, really turned, and his eyes locked on Bakugou’s like they had a thousand times before—only now they weren’t soft, weren’t warm. They were steel, and Bakugou felt it in his chest like a punch. “You left me,” Kirishima said, quiet but sharp, and the whole room went still. Bakugou’s jaw twitched. He felt every gaze press down on him, but all he could see was Kirishima’s face, the hurt carved into it, raw and ugly. His throat closed around the truth—that he had left, that he’d panicked, that he’d broken something he couldn’t glue back together, but admitting that out loud was like sawing off his own arm.

“It was a lot, okay?” The words shot out harsher than he meant, cracking in the air. “You kept pushing, trying to talk, and I couldn’t fucking—”

Kirishima laughed, sharp, bitter, not even close to the sound Bakugou loved. “That’s bullshit. You were scared.”

Scared. The word landed like a blade. Bakugou’s chest seized, fire roaring up in defense before he could choke it back. “YES, I was scared!” His hand slammed the table, silverware clattering. “I didn’t know what the hell to do!”

Kirishima’s eyes flickered, and Bakugou saw it—the fracture, the hurt that hadn’t healed in weeks. It almost stopped him cold. Almost. “You could’ve talked to me,” Kirishima shot back. His voice cracked, just barely, but Bakugou heard it. “We could’ve worked through it—”

“How the fuck was I supposed to talk to you if you wouldn’t even look at me?” Bakugou barked, heat flooding his ears. His pulse hammered. “You iced me out for weeks!”

Kirishima’s mouth tightened. He didn’t answer. Bakugou—god help him—kept going, because he couldn’t bear the silence, couldn’t bear the weight of what they weren’t saying. “The fucking boots in the hallway. The dishes in the sink. Don’t think I didn’t notice that shit. You knew it would get to me—you were pushing me on purpose.”

His words hung jagged in the air, pathetic cover fire. He couldn’t say the real thing, couldn’t say you told me you loved me, and I said it back, and now we can’t go back to how we were, and I don’t know how to survive it.

The room was already brittle, everyone holding their breath like one wrong move would shatter it. Jirou’s discomfort was written plain as day, Mina’s smile had long since cracked, and Kaminari’s leg bounced with restless energy. Sero’s quiet “guys, please,” had dissolved like smoke. Bakugou’s chest heaved. His jaw was aching from how hard he clenched it, his pulse loud in his ears. Every word with Kirishima had been a blade, every look another bruise. He couldn’t breathe in this room, couldn’t stand the way they were all staring, waiting for one of them to explode.

The memory of Kaminari’s words hit Bakugou like a slap. His vision sharpened, tunneled, rage spiking so fast he didn’t think—he just reached across the table, grabbed the thick black portfolio he’d set down earlier, and hurled it into Kaminari’s lap. It hit with a dull thud, pages spilling against his legs.

“There,” Bakugou snarled, voice sharp enough to cut. “There’s your fucking ‘get over it.’”

Silence. Mina’s breath hitched. Jirou blinked fast, like she couldn’t decide whether to flinch or intervene. Kirishima’s jaw went slack, then locked tight again. 

Bakugou’s chest burned. He hadn’t meant to—hadn’t meant to throw Kaminari’s own words back at him like a knife. He hadn’t meant to drag anyone else into this mess, but it was too late now. He could feel the disappointment thick in the air, seeping into his skin. He’d pissed them off, too. Probably ruined family night for good. He talked toward the door. He didn’t wait for anyone to stop him. If he stayed another second, he’d choke. The slam of the apartment door rattled through his bones, echoing down the hall as he crossed it in a few long strides, key twisting hard in his own lock. His chest was too tight, his breath shallow and ragged as he shoved his way inside, beelining to his own room. 

Brick was curled on the bed, head popping up at the sudden bang. The cat startled, ears twitching, a little jump in his spine. Guilt pierced straight through Bakugou’s fury.

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath, his voice cracking. He shut the door more softly this time, wincing as if it mattered now.

Crossing the room, he sank on the edge of the mattress, his hands finding Brick automatically. Soft fur, steady warmth. The one goddamn thing that wasn’t complicated. He stroked slowly, carefully, while his thoughts spiraled viciously: Kirishima’s face, the silence of his friends, Kaminari’s stunned look when the portfolio landed. The next morning hit like a hangover, though he hadn’t touched a drop of alcohol. Just the weight of everything—the argument, the portfolio, the slammed door, his friends’ faces. His phone buzzed relentlessly on the nightstand, the screen lighting up again and again with the same name.

He rubbed his eyes, jaw tight, before finally snatching it up. The screen was full of unread messages, Kaminari’s words stacked one after another like a nervous flood.

Pikachu: ik ur probably not going to apologize but its all good anyway
Pikachu: I should have stfu and not said anything regardless
Pikachu: The designs are really cool btw
Pikachu: i love you. thank you.

Bakugou stared at the last one, his chest squeezing. Kaminari’s way of saying he wasn’t mad. His way of covering for everyone else, smoothing the edges. Bakugou felt his throat work, no words coming out, just the guilt curling tighter. He typed, erased, typed again. Everything sounded wrong—too stiff, too pathetic, too much like he actually cared. Finally, he forced it out:

Me: You’re an idiot. Don’t say shit like that again.

He hesitated, thumb hovering, then added another line before he could overthink it.

Me: Thanks for not being a pain in the ass about it.

He hit send and dropped the phone on his lap, Brick nosing at his hand like he knew something had shifted. Bakugou exhaled hard, already dreading the rest of the day. Kaminari was the easy part. The real damage—the thing he didn’t even want to look at—was Kirishima. Brick was his excuse. Always had been. Dropping the cat off at Mina and Jirou’s gave him the out he needed—somewhere to be, something to do, a reason to show up even when everything else between them was cracked and messy. He lingered longer than he meant to, leaning against their counter while Mina fished Brick’s toy mouse out from under the couch.

“You’re not off the hook,” she’d said, her voice deceptively light as she straightened, dust on her knees. “You still need to figure it out with Kirishima.”

Bakugou nodded, jaw tight, eyes fixed on the floor. “I fucking know, Mina.”

It was easier with Jirou. She wasn’t the type to lecture. She’d just given him a small nod when he muttered his half-assed apology about his childish ass outburst. It was the kind of look that said she wasn’t impressed, but she’d let it go with a shrug. The only one left was Sero, and Bakugou had no idea how to even start with him. Except Sero beat him to it. One evening, there was a knock at his door, and when he opened it, Sero stood there with his Switch tucked under his arm, no words, just a raised brow. Bakugou stepped aside, and Sero walked in like he owned the place.

They ended up on the couch, controllers in hand, Overcooked loading on the screen. No talking. No awkward apologies. Just the two of them running a digital kitchen, plates flying, food orders stacking, working together the way they always had—wordless, instinctive. Sero barking the occasional “left!” or “fire extinguisher, dumbass!” and Bakugou grunting back, their rhythm slipping into place like it never left.

By the time the screen flashed three stars, Bakugou realized he hadn’t thought about the fight in ten whole minutes. Sero leaned back, stretching, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “You’re still an asshole,” he said lightly.

Bakugou huffed, hiding the warmth creeping into his chest. “Yeah, well. You still play like shit.”

That was it. Nothing fixed, not really, but something mended in the silence between them. He and Kirishima were back to not speaking, not interacting, not even looking at each other. Bakugou told himself he was fine with that—for now. His anger still sat heavy and hot in his chest, simmering just beneath the surface, waiting for somewhere to go. He lay in bed, shoulders tight, jaw locked, sheets twisted around his legs. Sleep wouldn’t come. Not after a day like this, not after weeks like this. His brain refused to shut the hell up, dragging him back over everything he’d said, everything he hadn’t, replaying it until the words felt like knives pressed into his skin.

Then he heard it. A sound that nearly made his heart seize—the laugh he hadn’t heard in what felt like forever, muffled through the wall. Kirishima’s laugh. Bright. Unmistakable. For a second, Bakugou stilled completely, breath stuck in his throat. Something cold slipped down his spine, settling like ice in his gut. There was another sound with it. A voice. High, lilting, familiar in the worst fucking way.

Sanae.

That fucking girl Kirishima used to hook up with. Bakugou froze, every nerve in his body misfiring all at once. No. No, there was no fucking way. Kirishima wouldn’t—he couldn’t—not after everything they’d said, everything they’d done. Not after what they’d admitted, what they couldn’t take back. The disbelief clawed at him, sharp and suffocating. His heart thudded so loud it hurt, his chest squeezing tighter with every giggle, every low murmur that slipped through the wall. No fucking way, not with her, not after that. This wasn’t petty anymore. This was a new level of low, mean, fucked up.

No. Fucking. Way.

Chapter Text

Voltage

No. Fucking. Way.

Bakugou was on his feet before he even realized it, sheets tangled around his legs as he shoved off the mattress. The slam of Kirishima’s door against the wall cracked through the apartment like a blast, rattling the frames on the hallway wall.

The laugh—that laugh—died immediately.

Kirishima’s head snapped up, eyes wide, arms full of bundled sweatshirts. Sanae froze where she sat, her ugly-ass hair catching the light in a way that made Bakugou’s chest seize, like the universe was mocking him with every glint. The two of them weren’t even close—she was perched stiff on the edge of the bed, Kirishima standing feet away, caught mid-motion like he’d just been cleaning up. But none of that mattered. The sound of her voice in his apartment, laced with his laugh, was already too much.

“Bakugou, what—” Kirishima started, voice breaking in disbelief.

“Get the fuck out.”

Sanae’s eyes went wide, darting like maybe he couldn’t mean her, maybe someone else stood in the doorway spitting venom, but his glare didn’t shift. He didn’t blink. Her throat worked as she stood, awkward, fumbling with the strap of her bag. The silence stretched long, her movements jerky, like even she knew she didn’t belong here. She looked once at Kirishima, desperate, but he didn’t move—still frozen, still staring at Bakugou like he didn’t recognize him. That left her with nothing. She shuffled past, brushing the doorframe with her shoulder, shrinking as if even her footsteps were too loud. The front door clicked shut a moment later, soft but cutting, the sound of her exit echoing down the hall.

“What the fuck is your problem?” Kirishima got out, surprised. Bakugou didn’t move, neither did Kirishima. They just stared at each other across the room—the air tight, heavy, unbreathable.

Bakugou’s chest heaved, the aftershock of the slam still ringing in his ears. He hadn’t thought—hadn’t planned—just moved. Now, standing in the doorway, he realized too late what he’d actually done. His own voice echoed in his skull, raw and sharp: Get the fuck out. Sanae was gone, the door shut, silence swallowing everything in her wake, and still Bakugou stood there, gaping like an idiot, caught in the gravity of his own outburst. Bakugou just stood there, the world tilted around him, adrenaline curdling into dread. The air still smelled like her perfume—sweet, wrong, lingering—and his hands wouldn’t unclench. He didn’t even remember reaching for the door, or yelling, or the look on Kirishima’s face when she left. Just the sound. Just the slam.

Kirishima moved first. He dropped the sweatshirts onto the bed in a messy heap and stalked forward, shoulders squared, each step cutting into the space between them. Bakugou stumbled back automatically, startled—not just by the movement, but by him. Kirishima never looked like this. His face was tight, his jaw set, every step deliberate. No hesitation. No warmth. Just anger, sharp and focused, like Bakugou was the only thing in the room worth confronting. His back hit the doorframe before he realized he was moving. He jerked sideways, retreating step for step as Kirishima closed in. The hallway felt narrower than usual, walls pressing closer, the air thick with heat and leftover perfume.

Bakugou’s pulse spiked. His body was still catching up to what his mouth had done—what he’d said. Get the fuck out. The words replayed on a loop, harsh and stupid and too loud. Why had he even told her to leave? Because he’d heard her voice where Kirishima’s should’ve been. Because he’d heard them. Because he couldn’t stand the idea of someone else touching him.  Kirishima’s eyes found him again—dark, burning in a way Bakugou had never seen turned on him before—and suddenly it was too close. Too real. Too late to take it back.

“What? Did you hear us or something?” The words landed heavy, bitter, sharp at the edges. But it wasn’t the question that hit—it was the intent. Kirishima knew exactly what he was doing. He wasn’t fumbling, wasn’t guessing, wasn’t naive. The words were chosen, angled like a blade, and Bakugou could feel every syllable sink in. That casual cruelty—the deliberate way he said us—wasn’t an accident. It was a test. A challenge. Maybe even revenge.

Fuck, Bakugou knew it. He knew they hadn’t done anything. Kirishima wasn’t like that. He knew the guy’s tells, knew the way his voice dipped when he was being careful with someone’s feelings, the way he couldn’t hold eye contact when he lied. Kirishima was transparent to him, painfully so. He couldn’t fake guilt if he tried. And yet here he was, standing there with his chin tilted up, throwing a knife made of words straight at him, knowing exactly where it would land.

For once, Kirishima wasn’t careful with him. He wasn’t kind.
He was angry—really angry. And it was almost unbearable to look at.

Bakugou had spent years watching him smile through everything, trying to patch every crack, trying to keep them together. He’d never seen this side before—the raw, bleeding one underneath all that optimism—and it was fucking devastating. There was no shield, no grin, no stupid laugh to soften it. Just pain, hot and reckless and human. The worst part—the part that made Bakugou want to scream—was that he loved it. Loved seeing it. Loved him, like this, even when he was furious and mean and saying things just to cut deep. It was the first time Kirishima wasn’t trying to be perfect, wasn’t trying to be unbreakable, and Bakugou couldn’t look away. He didn’t want to. He wanted to memorize it. The fire in his eyes. The tremor in his voice. The sharp edges that everyone else pretended didn’t exist.

His jaw worked, but nothing came out. He opened his mouth—shut it. Tried again—closed it, useless. The words stuck in his throat like shards of glass, choking him before he could force a single one free. Everything he wanted to say—You’re right. I heard you. I lost it. I can’t stand the thought of you with anyone else.—died before it ever reached his tongue. He was left standing there, glaring and gaping like an idiot, every sound caught behind his teeth while Kirishima’s stare carved him down to the bone. And beneath the humiliation, the anger, the aching shame, there was still that stupid, relentless truth humming through him like electricity.

He could hate every word coming out of Kirishima’s mouth and still fucking love him for saying them.

The silence scraped too long, too raw, and Bakugou’s chest seized with it. His mouth moved before his brain caught up, the words tearing out rough, jagged, defensive. “She’s got no fucking reason to be here after what she said to you.” It hit the air sharp, too sharp—like a reflex dressed up as conviction. He didn’t even know what the hell he meant by it. The second it left his mouth, he wanted to snatch it back, to tear the sound out of the air before it could settle. It wasn’t the point. It wasn’t even the truth. It was just something to say, something to fill the gap before the silence crushed him completely.

Kirishima didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink. He just looked at him—eyes narrowing, shoulders squaring like he’d been waiting for this exact moment. And in that split second, Bakugou knew what was coming. He could see it written all over his face, the shape of the words forming before they even left his mouth. “Not too different from what you said to me.” There it was. Exactly as he’d imagined it.

For a moment—an awful, nauseating moment—Bakugou felt a flash of satisfaction, like some part of him had been waiting for Kirishima to hit back, like if he could predict the blow, it meant he still understood him. It meant they were still connected, even through this mess, even through the anger. The satisfaction rotted fast, turning sour in his throat. Because Kirishima didn’t stop looking at him, and the quiet that followed didn’t feel like a victory. It felt like standing in the wreckage of something he’d built himself, watching it burn and realizing he’d lit the match.

The words gutted him. Cold and simple, but too true to fight. Bakugou’s heart dropped like a stone in his chest, his pulse crashing in his ears, because he was right. He had said it, had spat something vile just to push Kirishima away, and unlike her, he hadn’t meant it for a second. Not one fucking bit. Kirishima’s expression cracked then, the anger clawed back by something worse. Hurt edged in, raw and visible, twisting behind his eyes as he let out a tight breath.

“We didn’t do anything.” His voice came low, steady, but Bakugou could hear the sting underneath. “She was just bringing sweatshirts back. Cordially.”

The way Kirishima said it—calm, controlled, almost polite—shouldn’t have hit as hard as it did, but it did. That was him. That was the Kirishima he knew down to the bone—the one who always told the truth, even when it hurt, who still managed to sound decent while bleeding out. Something ugly twisted in Bakugou’s chest, because of course he hadn’t done anything. Of course he hadn’t crossed that line. Morals had won out, same as always. Still his sunshine. Still the guy who played fair even when Bakugou didn’t.

It almost sounded stupid, the way he said it—like he knew he didn’t owe Bakugou an explanation but gave one anyway. The way his shoulders squared, the way his jaw tightened, like he had to make sure the truth landed. Bakugou nodded once, sharp, unable to stop himself. His heart was racing for no good reason, his throat thick, but guilt tangled around every beat of it. He felt stupid, cornered, and guilty as hell, and worse—he knew exactly why. Kirishima didn’t back off. He held the space between them like a wall, his body tense, broad shoulders squared, eyes narrowing like blades. The silence between them stretched until it felt unbearable, pressing down on Bakugou’s chest with the weight of something inevitable. When he finally spoke, his voice wasn’t loud, but it was sharp, bitter in a way Bakugou wasn’t used to hearing from him.

“Why do you even care so much?”

The words dug under Bakugou’s skin, too direct, too raw. His pulse thundered in his ears, every nerve sparking hot and restless. He knew why—had always known why. It was the problem, the rot under every stupid fight and every slammed door. It was the thing that had been eating him alive since that night, the truth he refused to say out loud because once he did, there was no way to take it back. Here, cornered in the narrow hallway with Kirishima’s stare cutting into him, there was nowhere left to hide. Nowhere to shove the truth except straight through his teeth. His chest rose once, hard, his jaw locking tight before the words ripped free.

“Because I don’t want you with anyone else.”

The sound startled even him—steady, clean, almost calm. There was no stammer, no break. Just the flat certainty of something that had been festering too long to deny anymore. The truth hit the air and hung there, heavy and electric, like a punch that didn’t land but still knocked the wind out of him. He felt the weight of it in his throat, thick and unrelenting. There it was—the ugly center of it all. Not love. Not even jealousy, really. Just that twisted, selfish instinct that said mine. That wanted to keep Kirishima close even after he’d done everything to push him away.

Something low and wild flickered in his chest, like a match catching in the dark. He wasn’t proud of it, but he couldn’t stop feeding it either. He wanted Kirishima to see it—to see the mess, the contradiction, the fucked-up truth of what he was. Kirishima’s expression barely moved, but Bakugou saw it anyway—the flash of disbelief, the flare of anger, the quiet, exhausted understanding that said of course. His jaw tensed, his shoulders squared, and that look—so goddamn annoyed, so heartbreakingly tired—almost made Bakugou laugh.

Bakugou felt it like static under his skin—the awareness that he was inconsistent, hypocritical, a walking contradiction who said one thing and did the opposite, and Kirishima was standing there watching him unravel, unimpressed. He should’ve felt humiliated. Instead, all he could think was how much he still wanted him. He wanted to pull him closer, even now, wanted to burn with him, even if it meant watching everything else fall apart.

“That’s not a fair thing for you to say.” The words landed like a punch, heavy and merciless. There was no tremor, no hesitation — just that steady tone that made Bakugou’s pulse jump, because it meant Kirishima wasn’t going to yell. He was going to stand there and judge him, and somehow that was worse. His throat felt tight, but his voice shot out anyway, jagged and demanding.

“How?”

The word cracked out of him before he even knew what he was asking. It wasn’t a real question — it was instinct, the reflex of someone who’d rather start a fight than sit in the silence of being wrong. It came out too hard, too loud, like it could drown out the noise in his head. He could feel the storm of it building under his skin — the confusion, the want, the ache, all tangled until it didn’t make sense anymore. He didn’t even know what he was trying to get out of this. A reaction? A reason? An excuse to touch him again, to make him stay, even if it was through anger?

Maybe he just needed something to happen, anything to break the stillness.

“Because you can’t say that after hurting me so bad—you have no idea how much you hurt me, Bakugou—”

The sound of his name in that tone—wrecked, accusing, too honest—tore through him like shrapnel. It wasn’t the volume; it was the crack in Kirishima’s voice, the way it broke halfway through like he was choking on the words. His chest heaved, eyes bright with frustration that had nowhere left to go. Kirishima was loud, but not in the way he used to be. Not the easy, teasing kind of loud—the laughter, the shouts across a crowded room. This was jagged, desperate noise, ripped straight from somewhere raw. He was reeling, throwing every bit of it out just to keep from drowning in it. All the anger, all the confusion, all the love that had turned sour in his mouth—it poured out of him like he couldn’t stop it if he tried.

“You don’t get to say that after everything,” he got out, voice shaking, “you don’t get to tell me you don’t want me with anyone else when you’re the one who—”

He cut himself off, breath catching hard, shoulders trembling. The silence that followed was brutal. Bakugou’s chest seized, his hands curling into fists before he could stop them. The heat in his throat climbed fast, that dizzy, pressure-cooker mix of shame and wanting to fix it and not knowing how. His jaw ached with the weight of everything he’d never said. Then—too fast to stop, too quiet to pull back—the words snapped out.

“I’m sorry.”

It landed flat, dead center between them. No tremor, no buildup—just two words, blunt and raw. He meant it. God, he meant it, but it didn’t sound like enough. It didn’t sound like anything at all. It came out the way he’d heard it in his head a thousand times—scrubbed clean of emotion, worn smooth from repetition until all that was left was the shape of regret, not the feeling. He’d said it so many times in silence that the real thing felt empty leaving his mouth. But he knew Kirishima would still hear it. Knew he’d recognize what it cost him to say it out loud. Bakugou didn’t hand out apologies—not because he didn’t care, but because when he finally did, they always came too late.

Now, standing in front of Kirishima—his eyes wet, his voice raw, his chest heaving from the weight of it—Bakugou realized that maybe too late was all he had left to offer. Kirishima's jaw locked, his shoulders flexed, his eyes flickered with something sharp and unsteady. He knew Bakugou meant it—he had to know—but the wound was still too fresh, too deep to close with just two words. His mouth tightened until it was nothing but a grim line, his throat shifting as if he had to choke the next breath out.

“That’s not good enough,” he said, and the hurt was back in his voice, clawing through the edges. “You should’ve said something sooner—”

Bakugou’s jaw clenched so hard it ached. His chest felt heavy, his body tired down to the bone, and he didn’t want to do this anymore. Didn’t want to argue or fight or spit more words just to regret them later. His voice came low, stripped of heat, worn out from carrying everything he didn’t know how to say.

“You ignored me, Kirishima.” The words didn’t come sharply; they didn’t bite, they just sank into the air like a stone dropped in water, flat and exhausted. His throat tightened as the silence closed in around them again, the weight of it unbearable. All he wanted—more than to win, more than to be right—was to collapse into Kirishima’s arms, bury his face in his chest, and let himself stop fighting for once. He wanted to be held, to let go, to find something in him that wasn’t sharp edges and broken pieces. Instead, all he had was the distance, the tension hanging between them like a wire pulled too tight, threatening to snap.

Kirishima’s jaw worked, something shifting behind his eyes, and when he finally spoke, his voice came low and steady, each word deliberate.

“I know,” he said quietly. “And I shouldn’t have.” The words hit heavier than an accusation. They weren’t defensive—they were real, bare. His throat bobbed, his expression tight with that unflinching honesty Bakugou both hated and loved him for. “My actions didn’t line up with my wants.” He paused, eyes flicking up to meet Bakugou’s. “But then again—neither did yours.”

The line cut through the air, clean and merciless. There it was—the truth they’d both been circling for weeks. Kirishima wasn’t guessing anymore. He knew. He’d seen it in every glance, every almost-touch, every time Bakugou said the opposite of what he meant. “You said you didn’t want this,” Kirishima said, voice rough but sure, “but you did. You do. You always have.”

Bakugou’s breath hitched, chest tightening until it almost hurt. He wanted to deny it, to throw something back just to fill the silence—but he couldn’t. Because it was true. Every part of it. And the way Kirishima said it, not angry but heartbroken, made it worse. He’d told him he loved him. He’d meant it, and now, standing here, Kirishima was forcing him to admit it in the one way that mattered—without hiding, without pride, without control. Bakugou couldn’t do anything but feel it—the air, the distance, the way every nerve in his body was screaming to reach out and pull him closer.

His mind spun. There were a hundred things he could’ve said. He could’ve apologized again, could’ve denied it. He could’ve said something stupid, something to laugh it off, something to keep the space between them from closing any further. He could’ve told him he was wrong, that it wasn’t like that, that Kirishima didn’t get it. 

Every memory flashed at once: Kirishima’s grin in the hallway light, his hand on Bakugou’s shoulder after a fight, the way he’d looked that night—broken and still somehow so fucking good. The things Bakugou had said to push him away, the things he hadn’t said to pull him back. All of it pressed against the inside of his ribs, building pressure until it was too much. As much as he wanted him, wanted the softness, the laughter, the warmth he didn’t think he deserved—there was another truth sitting in his chest like a live wire. Something darker, simpler. Something that didn’t ask permission.

He’d tried to bury it under anger, under denial, under every excuse he could make, but it was still there. It had always been there.

His throat tightened. His pulse was a roar in his ears. Every breath came rough, shallow, like the air was too thick to swallow. He could feel himself reaching some kind of edge—somewhere between a confession and a collapse—and he didn’t even know which one would kill him faster. Kirishima stopped inches from him, and that was it. The last push. The last spark. The line he couldn’t uncross. Bakugou’s mouth opened, his voice breaking free before his brain could stop it, raw and certain and wrecked.

“Because you’re fucking mine, Eijirou.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Multiple things wrong, all at once. Kirishima wasn’t his, maybe he had been, but he wasn't anymore—Bakugou had made damn sure of that, shoving him away with words that cut too deep to take back, and even as a slip, it was a claim he had no right to make. Worse still, he’d used that word. Eijirou. The one that turned Kirishima into something undone, the one Bakugou only ever used when he wanted him trembling, begging, boneless beneath his hands. Kirishima’s eyes snapped sharper, like glass catching the light, but behind the anger, there was something worse. Hurt, fresh and raw, twisting through every line of his face.

“Don’t say that,” he ground out, his voice cracking just enough to make Bakugou’s stomach knot. “You don’t get to say that.”

The air between them throbbed, heavy with all the things they weren’t saying. Bakugou’s hands curled into fists at his sides, every muscle tight, his chest heaving, but beneath the fury, beneath the guilt, there was only one thing clawing at him, one thing that burned hotter than all of it. He needed to know if Kirishima wanted him just as badly as he wanted Kirishima—wanted him no matter what, even after months of petty fights and poisoned silence.

He needed to know.
If Kirishima still wanted him.
If he ever stopped.

He needed to know if this was the end—the moment they finally tore themselves apart for good—or if this was the beginning of something worse, something real. If this was the day to walk away and let it rot, or the day to finally give in—to drop every wall, every excuse, to stop pretending that love wasn’t what had been choking him all along. His pulse thundered, drowning out everything else. His throat felt too small, his heartbeat shaking the words loose before he could even think. One word away from losing everything. One breath away from taking it all back. His chest hurt with it, sharp and aching, like every beat was demanding an answer. When he finally spoke, it came out low and rough, a rasp dragged from somewhere deep, his voice breaking around every syllable.

“No, fucking tell me, Eijirou—do you want me, or not?”

The words tore out of him like shrapnel, cutting the silence clean in half. His chest heaved, throat raw, every nerve in his body braced for the answer. It was everything—too much, too fast—but he couldn’t hold it anymore. Kirishima froze. His mouth parted, eyes wide and burning, the kind of look that always came right before he said something honest enough to ruin them both. For a heartbeat, neither of them breathed right. The only sound was air scraping through their lungs, uneven and desperate, the weight of the question stretching thin between them. Bakugou felt the world tilt. His stomach dropped, his pulse crashing in his ears, every beat a countdown. Weeks—months—of tension coiled tighter, pressing against his ribs until he swore something had to give.

Then Kirishima whispered it.

"Shit,"

Barely a sound. Just a crack of breath, a curse, a surrender, but Bakugou saw it hit him — saw the decision flicker across his face before he even moved. It was written in the tremor of his hands, in the way his pupils blew wide, in the small, helpless shake of his head that said I can’t not. He said yes without saying it. Kirishima’s face twisted — conflict, longing, something wild and breaking — and before Bakugou could even think, he lunged.

The space vanished in an instant. Kirishima’s hands fisted in his shirt, dragging him forward so hard Bakugou nearly stumbled into him. The first impact of their mouths was chaos — all teeth, heat, and breath, clashing like the storm finally split open. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t careful. It was the kind of kiss that burned. The kind that demanded. The kind that said I hate you for this and I still want you anyway. Bakugou’s breath caught somewhere between a gasp and a growl. He grabbed back, fingers tangling in Kirishima’s hair, the tension snapping all at once. The hall spun around them, shadows and motion and the taste of salt and heat and weeks of everything unsaid crashing through the space between their teeth.

Kirishima’s mouth was rough, desperate, and it hit Bakugou like impact—like explosion, like gravity, like coming home. His back slammed into the wall, shoulders jolting, but he didn’t care—he couldn’t care. He grabbed for Kirishima’s arms, clutching hard, as if he let go, he’d fall apart completely. Every shred of anger poured out through the kiss, every jagged edge of guilt and want unraveling in the heat of it.

Kirishima kissed him like he hated him. Like he loved him. Like both had been tearing him apart, and the only way out was through Bakugou’s mouth. Bakugou—fuck—he understood it too well. There was always a thin line between love and hatred, always that knife-edge where one bled into the other until you couldn’t tell the difference. That’s where they lived, that’s what this was. Fire and ash, fury and hunger, nothing safe, nothing steady. Bakugou let himself fall straight into it. Kirishima’s lips crashed into his again, heat spilling over, and in between the rough press of mouths, his voice came ragged and certain.

“Of course I fucking want you,” he gasped, teeth grazing Bakugou’s lip. “I always want you.”

Bakugou’s chest squeezed tight, the words striking through him harder than any blow. His hands were already moving, tugging, pulling, needing to do something with the wildfire burning under his skin. “Then stop ignoring me,” he snapped back, his mouth hot against Kirishima’s. His hands slid up, yanking at the hem of his shirt, shoving it up and over broad shoulders before flinging it behind him.  Kirishima barely broke the kiss to strip his pants down his own legs, fumbling with urgency, breath catching as Bakugou shoved his shirt over his head with reckless force. The fabric tangled for a second, then was gone, tossed somewhere in the hall. Their mouths met again, hard, desperate, until Bakugou shifted, teeth scraping against Kirishima’s throat before sinking in.

Kirishima’s head fell back against the wall, a low sound breaking out of him, torn raw from his chest. “I’m still so angry with you,” he ground out, his voice shuddering. His hand curled tight in Bakugou’s hair as if he could anchor himself. “I’m not ready to talk—” His words dissolved into a sharp moan as Bakugou sucked hard at the skin just above his collarbone, leaving bruises like claims he had no right to make. Kirishima’s body jolted against his, heat pressed flush, every muscle trembling.

“If I talk, I’ll cry,” Kirishima rasped, the confession spilling out unguarded, broken by another moan when Bakugou’s teeth dragged across his throat. His voice cracked, raw with exhaustion and want all tangled together. “And I can’t keep crying over you.”

Bakugou’s hands gripped him tighter, his mouth refusing to let up, kissing, biting, sucking like he could eat every word and replace them with heat, with fire, with anything but the ache sitting between them. The guilt twisted deeper in his chest, but he couldn’t stop—didn’t want to stop. This was the only way he knew how to answer, the only way he knew how to make Kirishima feel what he couldn’t put into words. Kirishima’s words cracked something open, and Bakugou didn’t let him finish, couldn’t. His mouth was back on his, hard enough to bruise, hands gripping at his waist like he could fuse them by force alone. Every push was messy, frantic, desperate.

The hallway was too narrow, too bright, too exposed, but neither of them cared. Kirishima shoved him back against the wall, hips grinding roughly, his palms sliding down Bakugou’s sides with shaky urgency. Bakugou hissed, claws raking up Kirishima’s spine, his teeth snapping against his jaw, his throat, anywhere he could reach. “Fuck—” Kirishima gasped against his mouth, one hand fumbling between them to pop Bakugou’s button and drag his zipper down. His breath hitched, lips ghosting across Bakugou’s cheek as he groaned, “You drive me fucking insane.”

Bakugou’s laugh was sharp, wrecked, cut short when Kirishima shoved his hand inside his pants. His head hit the wall, a ragged sound ripping out of him as his hips jerked forward. “Good,” he spat, teeth gritted, his own hand shoving down the waistband of Kirishima’s briefs in return. They were tearing each other apart with hands and mouths, half-kissing, half-biting, as if they stopped for even a second, they’d fall to pieces. Bakugou tugged Kirishima’s head down, biting at his lip until it swelled, kissing him through the groans and curses muffled between them.

Kirishima’s forehead pressed against his, eyes shut tight, voice breaking as he panted, “I told you—I’m still angry.”

Bakugou’s lips curled into a snarl that wasn’t anger at all, his teeth grazing Kirishima’s ear before sinking into his neck again. “Then fuck me angry.”

Kirishima didn’t hesitate, didn’t even blink. The second the words left Bakugou’s mouth, his hands were already on him, gripping hard, hauling him up like he weighed nothing. Bakugou let out a startled sound, cut off by Kirishima’s mouth crashing into his, their teeth knocking together as he was carried the few staggering steps down the hall.The bedroom door slammed open against the wall before Kirishima shoved it wider with his shoulder, tossing Bakugou down onto the mattress with so much force the air punched out of his lungs. He gasped, his back arching as he scrambled for breath, but the burn in his chest only sharpened the fire under his skin.

Kirishima didn’t give him space to recover. His hands were already dragging at Bakugou’s pants, tearing them down his legs along with his boxers in one rough motion. Bakugou kicked them off with a snarl, the last barrier gone in an instant. Then Kirishima was on him, weight heavy, pinning him to the bed as his mouth devoured him all over again—harsh, hungry kisses broken up by teeth scraping, lips clamping down on his neck. The bite was brutal, deep, sharp enough to make Bakugou hiss. Another followed, harder, rough enough he half-expected to feel blood. The pain sparked bright, white-hot, and god help him, it made his whole body seize with want.

Something in him wanted it. Wanted the roughness, the punishment, like every bruise was payment for how fucking stupid he’d been, every mark carved into his skin proof that Kirishima still wanted him, still claimed him. The thought twisted tight in his stomach, hot and humiliating, his face flushing crimson as his cock twitched with desperate, eager need. The realization hit him like another slap, embarrassment clawing hot across his skin—fuck, he wanted Kirishima to punish him. Wanted to be taken apart, used, reminded of exactly what he’d pushed away. The shame burned, but it only made the heat coil tighter low in his gut, his body betraying him with every sharp pulse.

Kirishima’s mouth tore down his throat, teeth scraping, tongue following in a messy trail, and Bakugou couldn’t bite back the groan that ripped out of him. His hands clawed at Kirishima’s back, nails dragging down muscle, caught between trying to push him off and pull him closer. “F-Fuck—” His voice cracked, rough and wrecked, but it didn’t matter. Not when Kirishima’s teeth sank into his shoulder hard enough to leave a perfect, furious mark, not when his hand slid down Bakugou’s stomach with the kind of purpose that made his whole body jolt.

Kirishima’s mouth tore away just long enough for him to reach over, yanking open the nightstand drawer so hard the wood screeched like it might come off the track entirely. The box of condoms and bottle of lube clattered out in a messy heap, but he didn’t care, didn’t pause, his hands already grabbing what he needed. “Up,” he barked, voice wrecked and low, and before Bakugou could snap back, Kirishima was manhandling him over, flipping him onto his stomach and hauling his hips up. Bakugou caught himself on his hands and knees, elbows shaking, face hot as his cheek brushed the sheets.

“Fuck—” he gasped, the air barely back in his lungs before slick fingers pressed between his cheeks, cold lube smeared rough against his skin. Then—without hesitation—Kirishima shoved one finger inside. Bakugou’s arms buckled, a ragged sound tearing out of his throat as his forehead hit the mattress. It hurt. Sharp, sudden, too fast to breathe through, but the pain blurred with something sharper, a coil of heat that made his cock twitch against his stomach. His breath stuttered, hitching high as he bit back another sound, jaw locked tight.

Kirishima leaned over him, his weight heavy on Bakugou’s back, his breath hot at his ear. “What’s wrong, huh? Too much?” His voice came crueler than Bakugou had ever heard it—mocking, testing. “Thought you wanted me angry.”

Bakugou’s throat burned, his breath caught sharp between clenched teeth, his body trembling. Every humiliating word dragged him lower, pulled heat tighter in his gut, and he hated it, hated how much it got to him. He tried to hold back, tried to keep quiet, but a broken sound still slipped out when Kirishima curled his finger just right. “Shut the fuck up,” Bakugou spat, but his voice cracked in the middle, breathless and shaky.

Kirishima chuckled low against his ear, lips brushing his ear before pulling away. His finger slid deeper, rough and deliberate, and another pressed in beside it, stretching him with no patience, no warning. Bakugou’s moan split sharply in the air before he could bite it down. His face burned, shame crawling hot up his neck, but his hips pushed back against Kirishima’s hand anyway, his body bucking for more. “You’re loving this,” Kirishima muttered, grinding his fingers deep, voice full of bitter disbelief. “Look at you—taking it like this, choking on your own moans. Bet you’d beg for more if I made you.”

Bakugou’s nails clawed at the sheets, his jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached, but his body shook with want. His breath hitched, ragged, stuttering, every sound he tried to swallow breaking free anyway. Bakugou’s arms shook under him, muscles taut, every breath rattling in and out like his lungs couldn’t decide if they wanted to work. He bit down hard on the sheets, trying to smother the noise clawing its way out of his throat—only for his whole body to jolt when a third finger shoved inside him.

“F-fuck—” His voice cracked, broken and sharp, as the stretch burned and split him open. His hips bucked forward, instinct betraying him, cock dragging against the sheets in a messy, desperate grind. Kirishima didn’t slow. He drove his fingers in deep, twisting them, stretching him mercilessly, his palm pressing firm against Bakugou’s ass. His other hand flattened between Bakugou’s shoulder blades, pinning him down so he couldn’t move, couldn’t squirm away even if he wanted to.

“God, you’re so fucking tight,” Kirishima muttered, voice low and furious, teeth gritted as his breath hit Bakugou’s ear. Bakugou snarled, muffled against the sheets, his face burning hotter with every humiliating pulse of heat in his gut. His pride clawed at his throat, begging him not to give in, not to let the sounds spill out—but the sting, the stretch, the pressure curling just right had him trembling, gasping, his cock throbbing against his stomach. Kirishima curled his fingers and pressed harder, dragging a raw moan out of him that he couldn’t swallow down. Bakugou’s whole body shuddered, his arms nearly giving out, and that was all the proof Kirishima needed.

“You love this,” he rasped, his tone twisted with disbelief and want all at once. “You fucking love it. Look at you—falling apart on my fingers.” His lips brushed hot against Bakugou’s ear, cruel and intimate all at once. “You want more, don’t you? You want me to fuck you.”

Bakugou shook his head hard, choking back another sound, his jaw locked so tight it ached. He couldn’t—he wouldn’t—say it. Kirishima shoved his fingers deeper, grinding his palm against him until Bakugou cried out again, sharp and broken. “Say it.”

Bakugou’s pride burned, humiliation clawing up his throat—but the need, the unbearable ache of it, was worse. His breath hitched, stuttering out of him in ragged bursts as his body clenched desperately around Kirishima’s hand. “Say it, Katsuki.” His name, low and wrecked on Kirishima’s tongue, shattered the last of his defenses. His voice cracked as it ripped out of him, humiliated and desperate.

“Fuck—please. Just—fuck me already.”

For a moment, the only sound was their breathing—Kirishima’s harsh and jagged, Bakugou’s stuttering, wrecked. Then Kirishima stilled, his fingers buried deep, his weight heavy across Bakugou’s back. “That’s it?” he asked, voice low, sharp. “That’s how you’re gonna say it? Like you don’t even mean it?” Bakugou’s head snapped up, glare flashing over his shoulder, his pride sparking hot even as his body betrayed him with every needy twitch.

“The fuck else do you want from me?”

Kirishima’s hand flexed, fingers curling deep enough to make Bakugou’s hips jerk. His breath brushed hot over Bakugou’s ear. “Tell me nicely.”

The humiliation burned hotter than fire under his skin. Bakugou’s throat locked, his chest heaved, but the need was too much—too sharp, too unbearable. He squeezed his eyes shut, nails clawing at the sheets, and forced it out, every word torn straight from his pride.

“Please, Eijirou. I want you to fuck me.”

That broke something. The sound of his own voice—pleading, soft in a way he hated—shredded him from the inside. His whole body shook with it, shame curling hot through his veins. But Kirishima’s breath hitched, and when he spoke, it came like a verdict. "Good.” The word cut deep, heavy with satisfaction, like he’d been waiting to hear it all along. Bakugou’s chest squeezed tight, the humiliation twisting tighter with relief. Then Kirishima’s voice cracked, too real, too raw, slipping out before he could stop it.

“That’s all I’m good for, right?”

The words gutted the air between them. Bitter, self-loathing, full of the hurt Bakugou had carved into him weeks ago. His hand stayed buried in Bakugou’s body, his weight still pressing him down, but his voice shook with something that had nothing to do with lust. Bakugou’s chest squeezed, throat tight, the weight of Kirishima’s words slamming into him like a fist. His mouth opened, the start of a denial sparking on his tongue—Don’t you dare fucking say that.

He never got the chance.

Kirishima’s fingers curled hard inside him, dragging roughly against every nerve, and Bakugou’s whole body jolted with the shock of it. A sharp moan tore out of his throat before he could bite it back, humiliating and broken, his hips jerking down against Kirishima’s hand like his body had already chosen for him. Then—another finger shoved in. The third one. “Ah—fuck—!” Bakugou’s voice cracked, high and raw, his arms buckling until his chest nearly hit the sheets. The stretch burned deep, tearing him open in a way that made his cock twitch. His face burned, humiliation crashing through him, but his body clenched tight around Kirishima’s hand like it couldn’t get enough.

Kirishima’s breath was ragged, his voice wrecked but steady at his ear. “Yeah? That's what you wanted?” He pumped his hand hard, unrelenting, each thrust brutal. 

Bakugou’s nails scraped deep into the sheets, his teeth grinding so hard his jaw ached. He wanted to spit venom, to snap back, but every time he opened his mouth, another moan broke out instead, sharp and humiliating, wrecking him piece by piece. Kirishima barely paused, barely gave Bakugou a chance to breathe. His fingers slipped free all at once, leaving Bakugou clenching around nothing, trembling from the brutal stretch—and then there was the sound of foil tearing, sharp and fast. Bakugou turned his head just enough to catch a glimpse of him, teeth ripping the condom wrapper open with savage impatience, hands shaking as he rolled it down his length in one practiced motion. No hesitation. No space. Just need.

Then Kirishima was right there, pressing in. The blunt head of his cock pushed against Bakugou’s entrance, and before he could even catch his breath, Kirishima shoved forward, slipping inside in one rough, unrelenting thrust. “Fuck—!” Bakugou’s voice cracked, high and raw, his arms buckling as his chest hit the sheets. The burn tore through him, sharp and merciless, the stretch so deep that tears sprang to his eyes instantly. His hands clawed at the blankets, white-knuckled, his breath coming in jagged gasps as his whole body seized around the intrusion.

Kirishima stilled. Completely. His hands gripped Bakugou’s hips hard enough to bruise, holding him steady, his chest heaving against Bakugou’s back. He didn’t move, didn’t push further, didn’t pull out. Just stayed there, buried inside him, trembling with restraint. Bakugou’s throat worked, the heat in his face burning hotter with every second, because there was no recovering from this. No getting back what had just been taken. Kirishima had ruined him—completely, entirely—just by being here, inside him, splitting him open and holding him in place like he was his to claim. The pain blurred into heat, the humiliation twisted into want, his body clenched tight around him. He was never coming back from this. 

Kirishima’s breath dragged out low and rough, a groan rumbling deep in his chest as he leaned down over Bakugou’s back. His lips brushed hot against his ear, voice cracked and guttural. “Tell me—”

Bakugou’s jaw clenched, his whole body shaking with the unbearable stretch, tears still burning in his eyes. Pride scraped at his throat, but the need was worse—searing, relentless. His voice tore out hoarse, desperate, broken. “Fucking move. Fuck me, Eijirou—” The sound of his name on Bakugou’s lips shattered the last thread of restraint.

Kirishima didn’t hesitate. His hips slammed forward, driving in deep and fast, and Bakugou’s scream cracked through the room before he could bite it back. It hurt. The stretch ripped through him sharp and unrelenting, every thrust pounding against him until his hands shook where they clawed at the sheets. For one ragged heartbeat, he almost begged for it to stop. Almost. He didn’t, he wouldn’t. Maybe it was punishment—his own, just as much as Kirishima’s. Maybe he wanted the pain, wanted to be wrecked, split open, ruined, because it was what he deserved. He forced himself to take it, forced himself to choke down the burn until the edges blurred, until the pain bled into something sharper, hotter.

His breath hitched, stuttered, and moans broke out no matter how hard he tried to swallow them.  Kirishima’s rhythm never faltered—hard, fast, reckless, like he was using him up, like nothing mattered but the furious need driving him forward. His groans spilled out low and wild, breaking between clenched teeth as he fucked Bakugou like he couldn’t get close enough, couldn’t get deep enough. Every thrust drove Bakugou further under, his body trembling, his voice cracked and ruined as the burn melted into pleasure so fierce it shook him. He was gone, undone, breaking open under Kirishima’s hands and moans and fury—punished and wanted all at once.

Bakugou’s orgasm built quickly, too quickly, like his body had been wound tight for weeks and now every thrust snapped through him like lightning. His breath stuttered, broken moans spilling out against the sheets as his arms shook beneath him. Then Kirishima’s hand clamped down at the back of his neck, broad and unyielding, pressing him flat into the mattress. Bakugou gasped, the air knocked out of him, cheek dragged across the sheets as his spine arched under the weight. The humiliation of it, the helplessness, sent his cock twitching hard against the blankets.

“Fuck—” he choked, but there was no stopping it. His whole body shuddered, his voice cracking raw as his orgasm ripped through him, hot and humiliating, spilling over the sheets beneath him. His vision blurred, stars bursting white behind his eyelids as his knees gave out, trembling under the relentless rhythm pounding into him. Kirishima didn’t stop. Not for a second. His grip on Bakugou’s neck tightened, holding him down, using him, his hips snapping forward again and again with wild, loud moans spilling out of his chest. His thrusts were rough, unrelenting, driving Bakugou deeper into the mattress until he was wrecked, ruined, nothing but a body shaking beneath him.

Every sound that fell out of Bakugou’s mouth was desperate, broken, caught between sobs and moans as the aftershocks tore through him—but still, Kirishima didn’t let up. He used him like there was no going back, like the only language left between them was this—rage, want, and ruin crashing together until neither of them could breathe. Bakugou’s throat was raw from the sounds tearing out of him—ragged moans, sharp gasps, his breathing wild and uneven. He refused to give Kirishima words, refused to hand him the satisfaction of hearing just how destroyed he was. All he could offer, all he let slip, were the noises he couldn’t stop—the broken moans, the choked cries, the desperate drag of air that sounded like he was coming apart piece by piece.

Then it happened—his breath caught sharp, a wet sniff slipping out before he could swallow it down. Kirishima froze. His hips stilled, his chest heaving above Bakugou’s, and his hand on Bakugou’s hip softened instinctively. “Katsuki—” His voice was wrecked, but low, careful, gentle in a way that didn’t belong here. “Are you okay?”

That tone—that care—hit Bakugou like a blade to the gut. Even now, even furious, even hurt, Kirishima couldn’t help himself. He was still gentle with him. Still looking at him like he mattered, like the damage Bakugou had done wasn’t permanent, and it was too much. Bakugou’s head whipped to the side, his teeth bared, venom spilling before he could stop it. “I’m fucking fine. Don’t stop—I need this.”

The words cracked in the air, rough and desperate. Too sharp to sound like pleading, too raw not to be. He hated himself for saying it, hated that it sounded closer to begging than biting—but it was the truth. He needed this, needed him, more than he could stand. Silence hung for a beat, Kirishima trembling above him, his breath hot and uneven. Then Bakugou pushed it further, voice cracking as he forced it out: “Keep fucking going, Eijirou—please. I need you to keep going.”

Kirishima hesitated above him, chest heaving, his grip tight on Bakugou’s hips like he was weighing whether to keep going. The pause burned, unbearable, Bakugou’s skin crawling with the threat of being left empty. Then, with a groan, Kirishima snapped his hips forward again, hard. His rhythm returned rougher, faster, the hesitation burned away in the heat of it. Bakugou’s head dropped into the mattress, a ragged moan tearing out of him, wild and unrestrained. The pain and pleasure tangled sharply through his body, every nerve raw, every thrust dragging him closer to the edge he swore he couldn’t take again.

His whole body shook, the sheets damp under his chest with sweat and tears, but Kirishima’s moans filled the room, low and desperate, his pace breaking faster, harder. Bakugou could hear it, could feel it—the stutter in his rhythm, the rough edge of his voice as it broke, the heat of his body trembling against him. Kirishima was close. Bakugou’s chest heaved, air scraping in and out like fire, his words spilling ragged and broken as he clawed at the sheets. “I’m gonna cum again—fuck—Eijirou, please, don’t stop—”

That plea undid him. Kirishima’s moan cracked sharply through the air, his hips snapping fast and frantic as he buried himself deep, his whole body trembling with the force of it. He came with a loud moan, the sound filling the room, his weight heavy and unrelenting over Bakugou’s back. Bakugou broke right after, his orgasm tearing through him vicious and humiliating, his body clenching hard around Kirishima as his cock spilled onto the ruined sheets beneath him. His voice split apart, a moan jagged and desperate, every muscle locking before giving out completely under the wave.

The room echoed with their wrecked sounds, both of them trembling, collapsing into the chaos they’d made. Bakugou collapsed into the mattress, every muscle trembling, his body wrecked beyond recognition. His breath came in bursts, too fast, too shallow, his chest heaving like he couldn’t catch enough air. The aftershocks rattled through him, violent, his hands clawing uselessly at the sheets.

It wasn’t just the orgasm.

His vision swam, white-hot spots bursting behind his eyes, the tightness in his chest clamping down harder with every gasp. His body wouldn’t calm, couldn’t. His lungs stuttered, air scraping in and out like it was cutting him raw. His stomach dropped cold as realization hit—this wasn’t just the high. It was a panic attack, tearing through him mercilessly.

“Katsuki—” Kirishima’s voice cut through the haze, sharp with alarm. The weight on his back shifted, then lifted completely. Strong hands grabbed him, careful but urgent, rolling him onto his side, then onto his back. Bakugou’s eyes were wide, wild, unfocused, chest rising and falling too fast, tears streaking hot down his face, and he hadn’t even noticed. His throat worked around a sound that wasn’t a moan, wasn’t anything close—just a sharp, broken rasp of panic.

Kirishima hovered above him, his face carved with concern, his hair sticking damp to his forehead. His hands cupped Bakugou’s shoulders, steadying him without pinning him, thumbs pressing firm against his collarbones like he could ground him through touch alone.

“Hey. Katsuki. Look at me.” His voice was low but steady, urgent but careful, like he knew he had to walk a knife’s edge. “You’re okay. Just—look at me.”

His stomach twisted, sharp and nauseating, bile clawing at the back of his throat. The pain was everywhere—burning, aching, radiating through him, worse than he thought it would. His muscles screamed, his chest was too tight, his skin raw where Kirishima’s hands touched. The worst part wasn’t the pain. It was the way Kirishima was looking at him. Gentle. Careful. Concern was written all over his face when Bakugou had done nothing to deserve it. The guilt slammed into him, harder than any thrust had, heavier than the weight pressing on his chest. Every shitty word he’d thrown, every time he’d pushed Kirishima away, every way he’d hurt him—and still, still, Kirishima’s hands were steady, his voice soft, his eyes so fucking open.

Bakugou’s throat closed around it, raw and ragged, until it ripped out of him in a choked whisper, “I’m sorry.”

The words cracked, broken like glass, barely audible under his gasping breaths. His vision blurred with tears he couldn’t stop, his body shaking uncontrollably as he tried to force air into his lungs. His hands twitched uselessly at his sides, like he wanted to reach out but didn’t have the strength to. Kirishima froze for half a second, breath catching, his own expression shifting—hurt, confusion, something breaking open in his chest at the sound. His grip on Bakugou’s shoulders softened even further, but his voice stayed steady as he leaned closer. “Katsuki—hey. Don’t—don’t do that right now. Just breathe with me, okay? We’ll talk after.”

Kirishima’s chest rose and fell, steady and deliberate, each breath loud in the quiet ruin of the room. Again, and again, like he was anchoring himself—and Bakugou, without thinking, found himself matching it. His lungs still trembled, his ribs still ached, but the rhythm gave him something to cling to. The worst of the panic began to ebb, though the goddamn tears wouldn’t stop, hot and relentless down his cheeks. Kirishima’s hand moved clumsily but gently, thumb swiping at the wetness beneath Bakugou’s eyes, his other hand rubbing slow circles into his shoulder. His voice was low, wrecked, but steady. “You okay?”

Kirishima was still hovering over him, chest heaving, concern carved into every line of his face. Bakugou hated it. Hated that even now, after everything they’d just torn out of each other, after every word they’d spat and every bruise already blooming on his skin, Kirishima was looking at him like he was fragile, ike he needed to be handled carefully. “I said I’m fine,” Bakugou muttered, but his voice cracked traitorously around it, thin and raw. His body trembled against the sheets, muscles screaming, his stomach twisting like he’d swallowed glass. He couldn’t stop shaking, couldn’t stop crying. He pressed his arm over his face, hating himself for it, hating the wetness clinging to his skin.

“You’re not fine,” Kirishima said quietly. He sat back on his heels, dragging both hands through his sweat-matted hair before reaching for the discarded towel at the side of the bed. His movements were rough, sharp at the edges, but his touch wasn’t when he pressed it against Bakugou’s stomach, wiping gently. Too gently. Bakugou flinched, teeth gritted, every nerve raw. The ache between his legs was unbearable now that the haze was fading. Too deep, too sharp, a reminder that he’d gone further than he could handle. His chest burned with humiliation.

“I went too far,” he muttered, voice hoarse, too quiet for how much it cut him. He shifted, hissing through his teeth as pain lanced hot up his spine. “I pushed it too far.”

Kirishima’s hands froze, towel clutched tight in his fist. His jaw clenched, eyes flicking up, but Bakugou couldn’t look at him—he stared at the ceiling instead, vision blurred with tears he refused to let fall. “I’m not saying it’s your fault,” Bakugou bit out, too fast, too defensive. “Don’t fucking—don’t think I’m blaming you. I’m the one who—” His voice cracked, breaking apart on the truth of it. “I’m the one who kept pushing.”

Silence hung, heavy and tight. Kirishima’s shoulders slumped, but he didn’t argue. He just nodded once, jaw tight, before tossing the towel aside. Bakugou sat up too fast, gasping at the sharp ache in his hips. His face twisted, fury curling hot in his gut—not at Kirishima, not at the sex, but at himself. At his own fucking body, at the shame crawling under his skin, at the way he could still feel tears running hot down his face. “I’m such a fucking mess,” he spat, voice shaking. He shoved his legs into the sweats Kirishima handed him with fumbling hands, wincing when the fabric dragged roughly against his skin. The motion just pulled more tears out of him, his chest hitching, and he hated it, hated it so much he wanted to tear the whole night apart with his bare hands.

Kirishima was dressed by the time he looked up, sweatshirt hanging loose on his shoulders, hair sticking up wild. His mouth was pressed into a flat line, his eyes still dark with frustration, but there was something else beneath it—guilt, worry, that steady care Bakugou didn’t know how to take. Neither spoke as Kirishima reached over, grabbing one of his own sweatshirts and tossing it at Bakugou’s chest. The fabric landed heavily in his lap, smelling like detergent and faintly like him. Bakugou dragged it over his head without a word, face still hot, body aching in every direction. His throat was tight, raw with the weight of everything he couldn’t fucking say.

Bakugou dragged the sleeve of the sweatshirt across his face, rough and angry, but it didn’t help. The tears wouldn’t stop. They burned hot down his cheeks, sticky with snot, his chest still hitching uneven as he tried to breathe through the mess of it. Every second just made him feel weaker, smaller, pathetic.

Kirishima stood there, watching him crumble, his own throat tight. He’d never seen Bakugou this undone. Not like this. He wanted to close the space, wanted to hold him, but the weight of everything between them pressed heavily in the room. He swallowed, hands twitching at his sides, before he finally broke. His voice came low, careful, hoarse from everything they’d just been through, “Katsuki… can I—can I hug you?”

Bakugou’s head snapped up, eyes wide and wet, his mouth parting like he couldn’t believe he’d heard right. His face burned hotter instantly, not just from the tears, but from the humiliation of it—of being asked like some kid, of looking pathetic enough that Kirishima even thought to ask. His throat worked around a sound that never made it out. For a second, he almost snarled, almost spat something cruel just to cover the twist in his chest, but nothing came. He just sat there, staring, lips trembling before he dropped his gaze again.

“…Do whatever the fuck you want.” His voice cracked straight through, unconvincing even to his own ears. ​​Bakugou swiped his sleeve across his face again, furious at the tears that wouldn’t stop, at the wetness clinging to his cheeks. His chest heaved unevenly, his hands twitching uselessly at his sides. He felt out of his own skin—too raw, too exposed, like he didn’t even recognize himself anymore.

Kirishima’s hands flexed once, twice at his sides before he gave in. “Katsuki,” he rasped, voice low, cracked. “Can I—” He cut himself off, swallowed hard. “Just—come here.”

Before Bakugou could snarl back, before he could armor up with another sharp word, Kirishima reached out, grabbed his wrist tight, and yanked. Bakugou stumbled forward, off-balance, colliding hard against his chest. His breath caught, sharp, the solid wall of Kirishima’s body knocking the fight out of him all at once. He should’ve shoved back, should’ve spat fire, but instead—his chest caved. A harsh, broken sound ripped out of him before he could stop it, his face pressing into Kirishima’s shoulder as if his body chose for him.

The sob that tore out hurt—deep, sharp, embarrassing—but he couldn’t hold it back. His fists curled in the fabric of Kirishima’s shirt, clutching weakly, like he needed something to anchor him while everything inside cracked open. Kirishima’s arms came around him, strong and steady, but his voice was wrecked, heavy with guilt. “I’m sorry,” he whispered against Bakugou’s hair, again and again, like the words might stitch him back together. “I’m so, so sorry, Katsuki. I didn't know it was hurting you.”

Bakugou shook his head, more tears burning hot down his face, his chest twisting tighter with every apology. He wanted to scream that Kirishima had nothing to apologize for, that this mess was his fault, but the words stuck, strangled by the way it hurt just to breathe. Bakugou’s chest heaved against him, ragged and uneven, until he couldn’t stand the sound of it anymore. He forced a harsh breath in, then another, locking his jaw so tight it hurt. The next sob got strangled in his throat, swallowed back with sheer willpower.

His fists stayed twisted in Kirishima’s shirt, knuckles white, but his body went rigid, trembling with the effort of pulling himself together. He dragged the sleeve across his face again, rough and angry, smearing wetness away even as more threatened to spill. Bakugou’s chest hitched, another sob threatening to rip out, and he strangled it back with everything he had. He dragged in a sharp breath through his nose, held it until his lungs burned, then let it out slowly through his teeth. Again and again. Forcing rhythm into his body where there was none.

He clung tighter to Kirishima’s shirt, his forehead pressed hard into his shoulder, his whole body trembling as he repeated the cycle—inhale, hold, exhale. His throat clicked with every swallow, every shaky attempt to pin it all down. The tears didn’t stop, not completely, but the sobs did. He wouldn’t let them out again. He’d choke on them first. Bakugou’s breath came harsh and deliberate, the steady rhythm he’d forced on himself already starting to fray. His chest rose and fell under Kirishima’s arms, trembling no matter how tight he held it down. Finally, he forced the words out, low and rough.

“…It fucking hurts.”

The sound cracked in the middle, betrayed by the hitch in his throat, but he powered through, grinding his teeth like saying it calmly could make it less true. Kirishima froze, his body going rigid around him. Then, like something in him gave way, his grip tightened, his voice tumbling out, raw and heavy. “I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry, Katsuki. I should’ve stopped. I should’ve said no—”

Bakugou’s head snapped up, his blood spiking hot with fury. “The fuck are you talking about? I told you to keep going.” His voice came sharp, defensive, even though it cracked on the edges. “I wanted it like this.”

Kirishima shook his head immediately, jaw tight, eyes burning red. “Doesn’t matter. You weren’t okay. I could feel it—you weren’t. I should’ve—”

“Don’t you fucking dare.” Bakugou’s grip on his shirt twisted hard, his knuckles white. His chest heaved with anger now, not panic. “Don’t stand there and act like this is your fault. Like, I don’t know what the hell I asked for.”

Kirishima’s mouth pressed into a hard line, his eyes sharp, unflinching even as his voice cracked. “This isn’t pity, Katsuki. I’m not looking at you like you’re weak—I’m telling you I’m sorry because I am.”

The words dug deep, sharp as knives, and Bakugou’s whole body jolted like he’d been struck. His teeth clenched so hard his jaw ached, fury and humiliation and something uglier twisting in his gut. His voice rose, raw and jagged, his breath stuttering out of him as his eyes narrowed. “I don’t need your apologies. I don’t need your goddamn guilt. I chose it, Eijirou. I knew what I was asking for, and I fucking handled it.”

Even as the words tore out, Bakugou didn’t let go. His fists stayed curled tight in Kirishima’s shirt, his forehead still pressed to his shoulder like his body hadn’t gotten the memo. The air between them crackled with everything unsaid—Bakugou’s fury and shame, Kirishima’s guilt and hurt—neither of them budging, but neither of them pulling away. Kirishima pulled back, not all the way, but just enough to catch Bakugou’s face in his hands. His thumbs brushed clumsily at his cheeks, smearing the tear-tracks instead of wiping them clean, his expression stricken. Then, with a sharp exhale, he let go.

“Come here,” Kirishima said sternly. Bakugou blinked, thrown by the sudden shift, but before he could snarl out a response, Kirishima caught his wrist. Not rough—firm. The grip of someone who wasn’t asking. He tugged him across the room, steady and unrelenting, dragging him toward the bathroom.

“Oi—what the fuck are you—” Bakugou protested.

“Just shut up for a second.” Kirishima’s voice cracked loudly in the quiet, raw and guttural in a way Bakugou had never heard from him. The sound of it—sharp, desperate—cut him short.

The bathroom light flicked on, harsh, too bright, reflecting everything in merciless white. Kirishima didn’t let go until they stood in front of the mirror, side by side. He turned Bakugou by the shoulders, forcing him to face himself. “Look.”

The face staring back at him wasn’t one he recognized. His skin was blotchy and streaked raw with tears, eyes red and swollen, lips still trembling faintly as if the sobs hadn’t finished leaving his body. His hair clung damp to his temples, sweat shining at his hairline. His chest rose and fell ragged, his shoulders slumped—not with pride or defiance, but exhaustion. What was worse, so much worse—the thick, angry bruise smeared down the side of his neck. Kirishima’s teeth. Kirishima’s mouth. Dark, ugly, impossible to miss. It screamed what they had done in a way no words could soften. Kirishima’s voice came low, wrecked but steady, his eyes burning as he looked at Bakugou’s reflection instead of him directly. “You tell me—that looks like you’re handling it?”

The words hit like a fist to the gut, blunt and unrelenting. Bakugou’s throat tightened, his jaw working, his hands curling useless fists at his sides. He wanted to spit fire, wanted to bite back with every defense he had—but the mirror didn’t fucking lie. The reflection staring back at him wasn’t fine, wasn’t strong, wasn’t in control. It was wrecked. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, the bathroom too bright, the mirror too cruel. Bakugou’s jaw locked tight, his fists white-knuckled at his sides, but no words came. What could he say? The reflection already gutted him.

Kirishima’s shoulders dropped, the weight of it catching up with him, a sigh dragging heavy from his chest. He dragged a hand over his face, through his hair, like he was trying to scrub the whole night away. His reflection looked just as wrecked—eyes rimmed red, mouth set hard, shoulders tense like they might never relax again. “God, Katsuki…” His voice cracked, quiet but wrecked. “Why the hell did we even—” He cut himself off, teeth gritting, the words too jagged to finish. His gaze slipped to Bakugou’s throat, to the hickeys blooming there like accusations, and he flinched, dragging his eyes away.

Bakugou’s chest heaved, air catching rough in his throat. He hated the pity in that sigh, hated the way Kirishima couldn’t even look at him without wincing, hated that he was standing here with his face a mess and his body aching like he hadn’t asked for every second of it. Kirishima stood beside him, jaw tight, hands flexing uselessly at his sides. He opened his mouth once, shut it, then tried again. His voice came low, rough with regret. “Katsuki… you’re not okay. Look at you. I should’ve—”

Bakugou’s hand snapped up, cutting him off. “Don’t.” His voice cracked but stayed sharp, breath hitching against the words. “Don’t you dare say this is on you. I asked for it. I asked you to keep going.”

Kirishima’s brow furrowed, the guilt in his eyes only deepening. “Yeah, but I should’ve stopped. I should’ve said no—”

“No.” Bakugou’s reflection snarled back at him, even as his chest heaved. He dragged in a sharp breath, then another, his knuckles whitening against the counter. “You don’t get to take this from me. I’m the one who pushed it. I wanted it to hurt. I—”  The rest caught, his throat closing around the words. He swallowed hard, the sound harsh in the silence, eyes locked on the mirror. His reflection looked wrecked—hair mussed, eyes red, jaw tight with everything he didn’t want to feel. His voice cracked hard, and he swallowed it down, staring at his own ruined reflection. “I did this to myself.”

Kirishima’s breath stuttered behind him, caught somewhere between protest and disbelief, but no sound followed. His reflection hovered just behind Bakugou’s shoulder, blurred by the light—close enough to touch, but still out of reach. Bakugou blinked hard, the tears stinging sharp before he forced them back. He tried to steady his voice, but it came out thin, trembling anyway. The words hung between them, raw and ragged. Kirishima’s breath stuttered, like he wanted to argue but couldn’t. Bakugou blinked hard, forcing the tears back, trying to level his voice even as it trembled. “I’m not okay, fucking clearly. I’m in pain, but you didn’t hurt me, Eijirou. I hurt myself. You hear me?”

He scrubbed a hand over his face, eyes still on Bakugou’s reflection. “God, Katsuki…”

Bakugou huffed, jaw clenched, his breath catching on a bitter laugh. “Yeah. ‘God, Katsuki.’ We’re a fucking mess.”

“This isn’t happening again. Not like that. Never this far again,” Kirishima muttered, his eyes serious, voice low but firm. There was no anger left in it—just resolve, the kind that came from seeing too much. Bakugou’s mouth opened automatically, muscle memory kicking in, ready to spit something defensive, something sharp enough to fill the silence, but the words caught. He stopped.

His throat bobbed, his jaw tightening as he exhaled through his teeth. “Yeah,” he muttered finally. “I know.”

He knew exactly what Kirishima meant, exactly what they’d crossed. Kirishima felt bad—Bakugou could see it in the tight set of his shoulders, the way his eyes flicked away—but that was something he’d have to live with, same as Bakugou. This breakdown had been him. His fault. His spiral. He’d dragged Kirishima into the mess of what he was—into the ugly, tangled underside of his control and shame and anger. All that internalized shit he thought he’d buried long ago, bleeding out of him in front of the one person he couldn’t stand to see hurt.

Standing there now, Bakugou could finally name it. This hadn’t been catharsis. It hadn’t been love, or even rage. It had been self-harm. A different kind than the one he’d learned to control, but the same pattern underneath—the same instinct to break what he couldn’t understand. He’d been to enough therapy, heard enough hard truths, to recognize it when he saw it. What he said to Kirishima a month ago, self-sabotage, which is something he thought he got over. Clearly not. He closed his eyes, the admission burning behind them. He wasn’t proud. He wasn’t sorry in a way that could fix anything. He just knew—really knew—that he’d have to live with what he’d done.

He looked at himself in the mirror, and what caught him most was the mark—dark, angry, blooming across the side of his neck like Kirishima had branded him. Bakugou blinked at it, scoffing under his breath, his lips twitching into something jagged. “What the fuck—are you a vampire or something? This is fucking insane.”

Kirishima huffed, halfway to laughing, though it was worn thin around the edges. He tilted his head, guilty eyes catching Bakugou’s in the glass. “Guess I got carried away.”

Bakugou barked out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “Guess?” His fingers brushed the edge of the hickey, his fingers gentle as if it hurts. “You left me looking like I got jumped. The fuck am I supposed to tell people—tripped and fell into a fucking leech?”

Kirishima’s mouth twitched despite himself, torn between amusement and guilt. “Better than the truth.” The line landed sharply between them, both of their smiles faltering in the same beat. Kirishima shifted beside him, leaning closer to the mirror. His hand came up slow, hesitant, fingers brushing over the side of Bakugou’s neck where the bruise spread dark against his pale skin. Bakugou flinched—not from pain, but from the weight of it. Kirishima’s touch was barely there, softer than it had any right to be, like he was afraid of making it worse. His reflection showed the look on Kirishima’s face clear as day: guilt, sharp and heavy, carved into every line of his expression.

“It doesn’t hurt,” Bakugou muttered, trying to brush him off, his voice rougher than he meant. “It’s just a hickey.”

Kirishima didn’t move his hand. His thumb hovered, skimming the edge of the mark, his jaw tight. “Still, I shouldn’t have—”

“Don’t,” Bakugou cut him off, voice low, his eyes darting away from the mirror. He couldn’t stand looking at Kirishima’s face, couldn’t stomach how guilty he looked when the whole goddamn mess was supposed to be on him.

Bakugou was halfway to glaring him down in the mirror when it hit him—sudden, bone-deep exhaustion, dragging his whole body down like gravity had doubled. His jaw cracked with a yawn before he could stop it, loud and ungraceful, and his eyes narrowed immediately, like he could somehow glare the weakness back into hiding. Kirishima blinked at him, then huffed out a small laugh, low and warm despite the tension still coiling between them. “Yeah,” he said, mouth twitching at the corners. “Cumming twice’ll do that to you.”

Bakugou’s head snapped toward him, eyes wide, face heating hot under the bruises and tears. “Shut the fuck up,” he barked, his voice rough but too slow, too tired to carry real bite. For a while, they just stood there, their reflections hazy in the bathroom light—two shapes breathing, the air thick with leftover heat and the dull ache of what they’d done.

Then Kirishima’s voice came quiet, cautious. “Did it… I mean, did that actually feel good to you? The pain part?”

The question caught him off-guard. Bakugou’s fingers tightened on the counter; he could feel the pulse jumping in his wrists. The honest answer crawled up before he could stop it.

Yeah.

He’d felt it—every hit of adrenaline, every spark of contact, every shiver that came with losing control. It had felt good in that instant, dizzy and sharp, the same way pushing himself past his limits always did. The same way hurting felt better than feeling nothing. Saying it out loud? Admitting that he’d liked it—that the pain had twisted into something close to relief—felt wrong. Dangerous. Like feeding a habit he’d spent years unlearning. He’d been to enough therapy to recognize the shape of it now. Self-punishment wearing the mask of release.

He swallowed hard, eyes fixed on his reflection. “I don’t know,” he said finally, voice low. “It… yeah, it felt good, I guess. But not the kind that’s supposed to.”

Kirishima’s brow furrowed, the faintest flinch crossing his face before he nodded. “Just… don’t ever let it get that far again, okay? If it’s too much, you tell me.”

Bakugou’s mouth pressed into a thin line. He nodded once, slow. “Yeah, got it.”

The mirror fogged with their breath, blurring both reflections until it was just light and movement—nothing defined, nothing certain. Bakugou watched it fade and thought maybe that was better. Finally, he turned his head toward Kirishima, glare sharp but dulled by the heaviness in his body. His voice came out low, rough, clipped. “So what the fuck are we doing? We fought—we fucked—now what?”

The silence stretched, thick as concrete, while Kirishima’s reflection shifted beside his own. His jaw worked, eyes flicking like he was sorting through a dozen answers, none of them right. Finally, his voice came low, steady. “Sleep,” he said, like it was the only word that could land without breaking them further.

Bakugou snorted, the sound rough in his throat. He dipped his head once, sharp, conceding. “Yeah, It’s damn near one in the morning.”

His eyes caught the clock, glowing red in the corner. Almost one. It had been eleven seconds ago—two whole hours vanished into chaos, swallowed whole between slammed doors and wrecked breathing. Sleep was shot to hell anyway. His gaze flicked once toward the hall—toward Kirishima’s room. The thought lingered, tempting for a second, but it curdled too fast. Not tonight.

“I’m gonna shower,” Bakugou muttered finally, voice low but final. Kirishima nodded. Nothing else. No argument, no reassurance. Just a nod, heavy with guilt, his frame filling the doorway for a beat longer before he turned and left. Bakugou stayed rooted to the tile, the silence thick in the bathroom, his reflection looking every bit as broken as he felt. The door clicked shut behind him.

Bakugou didn’t bring it up. Neither did Kirishima.

Days bled into each other, slow and deliberate, like nothing had happened, like the air between them hadn’t been split wide open. The fight, the way it all unraveled into something they couldn’t take back, the way they ended up on opposite sides of the same apartment with nothing but wreckage between them—it lingered like smoke. Always there, hanging heavy, coating everything in a taste neither of them wanted to name.

A few days later, Bakugou took a call he’d been dodging. His therapist’s voice crackled through his earpiece—familiar, steady, the same clipped tone that always made him feel both seen and called out. He didn’t mean to talk about Kirishima, but he did. About the fight. About what he said. About how it got there. Not in detail—he didn’t need to. Just enough to make sense of the noise. The therapist didn’t interrupt, didn’t press; he just let him talk, the way he always did when he was circling something important. By the time he hung up, he realized his shoulders weren’t locked anymore. The weight was still there, sure—but quieter. Manageable.

Him and Kirishima didn’t discuss it further. Not one fucking word, and still, it was different.

Something had shifted. Bakugou felt it in his bones, in the quiet stretches of the day where he should’ve been grinding his teeth, waiting for the next snide comment, the next slammed door. Except… it didn’t come. The pettiness that had carried them for weeks, the childish bullshit of dirty dishes and boots in the hallway—it was gone. Not forgotten, not forgiven, just… gone. They’d burned themselves out, like they’d finally remembered that they weren’t sixteen anymore, stuck in some high school locker-room rivalry that never fucking ended.

Kirishima being inside him—it wasn’t something he could shove out of his mind, no matter how much he wanted to. Not because of the sex itself, though that was burned into his nerves raw and aching, but because of what it meant. No matter how ugly it got, no matter how much they tore each other up, they’d still crossed that line. They’d still chosen each other, even if it was in the most fucked-up, reckless way possible. Now… now it was different. They could function. That was the thought that stuck in Bakugou’s head, circling like a parasite. They could function like adults, like people who actually knew each other, like roommates who didn’t have to tear the whole apartment down just to prove a point.

It wasn’t forgiveness. He wasn’t stupid enough to call it that. He could see it plain as day in the set of Kirishima’s jaw, in the way his shoulders squared when their eyes met, in the careful pauses when he spoke. Kirishima wasn’t ready to forgive him, not even close, but he wasn’t walking away either.

That was the part Bakugou couldn’t stop chewing on. If Kirishima really wanted out—if he wanted to leave Bakugou in the ashes of what they’d made—he would’ve. He wasn’t subtle. Never had been. Kirishima was the type to rip the bandage off, say what he felt, lay it bare no matter how much it hurt. He’d said he wasn’t ready to forgive, and Bakugou believed him, but he hadn’t said he was done. He hadn’t said he was walking away.

Instead, he stayed. In the mornings, Bakugou would stumble into the kitchen, hair sticking up, eyes gritty, shoulders tense from nights spent tossing under the covers. Kirishima would already be there, mug in hand, scrolling through his phone with one thumb, looking like he belonged in the space. Without fail, his chin would lift, his voice steady, casual.

“Tea?”

Just that, nothing else. No concern about the circles under Bakugou’s eyes, no remarks about how quiet the apartment had gotten, no snide digs about who slammed the door last. Just tea, a nod toward the counter, an extra mug waiting, the smallest gesture of peace. Bakugou—he always said yes. Short. Clipped. A grunt, sometimes, but it was an answer. He’d take the mug, fingers brushing Kirishima’s by accident, and they’d both pretend not to notice.

At night, it was the same kind of quiet routine. The calendar alerts would chime, reminding them of the schedule that held their whole friend group together—Family Night, Mina’s sacred invention, the one thing that had survived every shift, every argument, every bad week. Kirishima would glance over from the couch, thumb tapping the reminder off his phone, voice low.

“You going this week?”

No weight, no edge. Just a question. Bakugou would answer. Always short, always blunt. Kirishima never pressed, never asked why. Just nodded, accepted it, went back to scrolling or flipping channels like it was nothing. It wasn’t forgiveness. It wasn’t healing, but it was something. Bakugou hated it almost as much as he needed it. Every time Kirishima asked if he wanted coffee, every time he asked if he was going to Family Night, it reminded Bakugou that he still gave a shit. That despite all of it—the slammed doors, the cruel words, the bruises that still hadn’t faded—he hadn’t given up.

Bakugou didn’t know what the hell to do with that. It made him feel like maybe, just maybe, they could claw their way out of this hole, but it also made him feel like a fucking coward for not forcing the issue, for not sitting him down and tearing it open, no matter how much it hurt. He’d lie awake at night, staring at the ceiling, thinking about it. Thinking about how Kirishima’s voice had cracked when he said he wasn’t ready to forgive him. Thinking about how much he wanted to reach across the silence anyway, to push, to demand, to make him talk. Every time, he stopped himself, because he knew if he pushed too hard, too soon, it would all collapse again.

So he didn’t. He let it linger, let the quiet stretch on, the tension sitting between them like a loaded weapon they both refused to touch. It was unbearable, and it was also the only thing holding them together. They weren’t fixed. They weren’t fine, but they were still together. That had to count for something. He kept talking to his therapist. About it, about other things—work, exhaustion, the noise in his head that never really shut up. Sometimes he didn’t even mention Kirishima’s name, but the words always found their way back to him anyway. It wasn’t some miracle fix. Just small, steady work. Letting the edges dull. Letting himself heal, just a little.

Family Night had survived everything—graduation, internships, jobs, pro-hero schedules—but it hadn’t been tested against this. Against the weeks of silence, the fights, the fallout that turned their apartment into a goddamn warzone. Bakugou was late. Of course, he was. Mina had been blowing up his phone the second she saw the clock tick past start time, her texts increasingly dramatic, calling him a traitor, a fake friend, a coward. He replied once, short and clipped.

Me: I’m coming. Shut up.

Truth was, he had stayed later than he meant to. Kaminari’s Voltage line had started filming that day—photoshoots, PR content, all the flashy shit Miyake wouldn’t shut up about—and the rollout had already hit snags. Wrong fabric, bad stitching, details slipping through the cracks. He’d stayed, barking at interns, redoing sketches, pacing until his vision blurred. It was his line, his name. He wasn’t going to let it tank before it even launched.

By the time he jogged into Mina’s building, sweat stuck to the back of his neck, he was vibrating with exhaustion and leftover adrenaline. He took the stairs two at a time, scowling at himself for being late to something as stupid as Family Night. Stupid, but necessary. The door cracked open before he even knocked, laughter spilling into the hall. He stepped inside—and was immediately met with cheers.

“About time!” Kaminari whooped from the floor, a controller in hand. Mina raised her arms like he was a goddamn returning champion, her grin wide and obnoxious, scooting up to hug him before he was even fully through the door. 

“Finally,” Jirou said flatly, her voice dry as she barely glanced up from her Switch. Sero didn’t even bother to look away, too busy teasing Brick with a feather toy. The cat swatted violently, tail twitching, his ears pinned back. Clearly pissed off, but still playing. Bakugou shut the door with his heel, dropping his bag by the entryway. His chest heaved once, sharp, before he forced himself forward.

“Hey.”

The word cut through the noise—not from him, but from Kirishima. Bakugou’s head turned instinctively. Kirishima was already watching him, leaning back on the couch. He hadn’t joined in the cheers, hadn’t said anything until now. But his mouth tugged upward, slow, hesitant, into the softest fucking smile Bakugou had seen in weeks. It wasn’t easy, but it was real. “Hey,” Kirishima said again, quieter this time, like it was just for him.

Bakugou’s throat tightened. He grunted in return, dropping onto the couch—not next to him, not close enough to touch, but on the same cushion. Same space. Same orbit. Improvement. The shift wasn’t lost on anyone else. Kaminari’s head snapped up, his mouth already opening to make some dumbass comment—before Mina slapped a hand firmly over it. “Mmmpfh—” Kaminari mumbled, muffled under her palm, his eyes wide and gleaming with unspoken shit-stirring.

Bakugou forced himself to meet his eyes. His throat was tight, too tight, but the word scraped out anyway. “Hey.”

Bakugou shifted, sinking into the couch, trying to look casual while his pulse thundered in his neck. That was when Mina’s gaze cut sharply. She’d pulled her hand off Kaminari’s mouth, her smile still fixed in place, but she wasn’t looking at Kaminari anymore. She wasn’t even looking at the TV. Her eyes had landed square on Bakugou. No—on his throat.

Bakugou felt it instantly, the weight of her stare like a spotlight. Too sharp, too knowing. He didn’t need a mirror to realize what she saw. The hickey, still dark, still massive, was sitting ugly against pale skin for the whole room to notice if they cared enough to look. Mina’s eyes widened just slightly, a flicker of shock before she schooled her face, her mouth tightening as though to hold back whatever words wanted to slip out. Bakugou’s jaw clenched. He didn’t flinch, didn’t reach for his collar, didn’t so much as move, but he saw her see it, and she knew he saw.

The air between them stretched taut for a heartbeat, silent, charged. Then Kaminari barked out another laugh at whatever was happening on screen, Sero shouted something at Brick, and the moment passed like it never happened. The way silence seemed to hang heavier whenever Bakugou and Kirishima moved in the same space. The way the smallest, dumbest things suddenly felt like they carried weight—like they’d been dropped into some alternate universe where breathing the same air was a loaded action.

The oven beeped in the kitchen. Just a sharp, ordinary sound, but both of them stood at the same time, like it had been some kind of cue. Their eyes met halfway across the room. Neither spoke. Just that awkward half-second of recognition before both of them looked away. “I got it,” Bakugou muttered, striding toward the kitchen without waiting. Kirishima stalled, halfway out of his seat, then sat back down with a little stutter of movement like he had to remind himself how.

It shouldn’t have meant anything to anyone, but Kaminari’s eyes flicked up immediately, darting from Kirishima to Bakugou and back again, his mouth twitching with the effort of not saying whatever dumbass thought was bouncing in his skull. Jirou gave him a sharp elbow to the ribs before he could test it. Then, later—because Kirishima was a fucking weirdo—he pulled out a jar of peanut butter to dunk Oreos in, no one blinked. That was normal Kirishima shit, but the problem wasn’t what he did. It was how. He held the jar out without thinking, shoving it right toward Bakugou’s hands like it was instinct, muscle memory. This was something they’d done a hundred times before.

Bakugou blinked at it, then grabbed the lid. Their fingers brushed, just barely. Kirishima froze like he’d been burned, his eyes flicking down before darting away fast, too fast. He reached to pull it back, stammering, “Wait, I—”

Bakugou had already twisted it open, mechanical and sharp, his jaw tight. He shoved it back without looking, muttering, “There.”

“Thanks,” Kirishima said, small, quiet. Bakugou didn’t answer. The air between them said enough, and every single person in the room noticed.

Kaminari’s glance went wide, darting to Mina like he needed confirmation that he wasn’t the only one seeing this shit. Jirou, ever the queen of avoiding drama, deliberately kept her eyes on her Switch, but Bakugou caught the subtle raise of her brow before she dropped her gaze. Sero sighed like he was too tired to deal, scratching Brick behind the ears harder. Mina—Mina was watching. Always watching like Roz. Whenever Bakugou happened to glance up, her eyes would already be on him, sharp and knowing, only for her to look away quickly as if she hadn’t been staring at all. It was suffocating, the constant awareness of being observed, of being weighed, measured, and silently judged.

Bakugou knew what it was. It wasn’t curiosity, it wasn’t even gossip. They wanted him and Kirishima to be okay, needed them to be okay, because if the two of them couldn’t function, the whole fucking group tilted sideways. It wasn’t just about him. It wasn’t just about Kirishima. It was about Family Night. About their years together, about stability, about the rhythm they’d all clung to since UA. Everyone else wanted them fixed almost as much as Bakugou did.

Brick was warm against Sero’s lap, eyes half-lidded and tail flicking in that lazy, judgmental way cats had when they knew they owned the room. Bakugou reached over to scratch behind his ear, but his grip on the coaster slipped. The wooden circle clattered off the table and skidded across the rug. Before Bakugou could stoop down, Kirishima moved first. He bent smoothly, his broad shoulders cutting into Bakugou’s line of sight, and held the coaster out like it weighed nothing. The air went tight.

Too quiet, too sharp. Everyone saw it. The handoff, the tiny brush of fingers, the fraction of hesitation in the air. Then—eyes darted. Kaminari looked at the ceiling, Mina blinked down at her phone without typing, and Jirou’s guitar pick tapped twice against her thigh. Pretending. All of them are pretending. Bakugou snatched the coaster, his jaw ticking. “Alright.” His voice broke the silence like a slap. “What the fuck is y’all’s problem?”

The room went still. Brick’s tail flicked, the only movement in the whole space. Bakugou’s glare swept across them, sharp and demanding. “Every time I move, every time I breathe, you’re all staring at me like I’m about to blow up. It’s fucking annoying. So spit it out.”

Kaminari froze mid-sip, his soda can hovering halfway to his mouth. His wide eyes screamed guilt, and that was enough. “You.” Bakugou jabbed a finger, quick and brutal. “Yeah, you—Pikachu. What the hell is your deal?”

Kaminari choked on his drink, coughing into his sleeve, his face turning pink. “What? I didn’t—what deal? There’s no deal!” He glanced desperately at Mina like she could save him, but she was busy glaring at him like, don’t you dare. The silence dragged, suffocating, every set of eyes darting anywhere but at Bakugou. Until finally, Kirishima shifted.

“…I feel weird.”

Everyone’s heads tilted. He didn’t look at any of them, eyes pinned to the floor. “Because you’re all staring at us. Like we’re—like this is some kind of show.” His laugh came short, humorless, cracking in the middle. “It’s not helping.”

The group shifted uneasily. Kaminari glanced away like he hadn’t been watching in the first place. Mina’s smile faltered, too tight. Jirou sighed, shoulders sinking as she muttered, “We’re just happy you two can be in the same room without—”

“Ow, Mina!” Jirou yelped, jerking sideways when Mina’s elbow jabbed sharply into her ribs. Mina shot her a death glare, her smile fixed and pointed. “Shut. Up.”

The silence dropped heavier than before, thick with the weight of everything they weren’t saying. Then, from the other end of the couch, Sero leaned back, arms folded, his tone maddeningly casual. “Yeah, well… we were worried we’d all have to pick sides in the divorce.” Kirishima’s head snapped up, and for the first time that night, a small laugh broke out of him—raw, unexpected, but real. He ducked his head into his hand. “Sero…”

Bakugou blinked, something loosening in his chest at the sound, though he’d rather bite his tongue off than admit it. For a beat, the room was dead quiet. Mina’s eyes flicked between them, Kaminari looked anywhere but in their direction, and Jirou pretended to scroll her phone even though she wasn’t touching the screen. Then Kirishima exhaled through his nose, short and rough, the ghost of a laugh catching in his throat. He shook his head, crimson eyes cutting across the group—and just briefly, sliding to Bakugou. “There will be no divorce,” he said, steady but low.

The words landed like a stone dropped in water, quiet ripples spreading out through the room. Mina stilled. Kaminari blinked. Even Jirou paused, one earbud halfway raised. Bakugou’s jaw flexed. His hand dragged hard down his face before he groaned, snapping sharply into the silence. “So can you guys act fucking normal now?” His voice grated, raw and biting, though the edge wasn’t sharp enough to cut. “You’re all driving me insane with the staring shit.”

Everyone flinched like they’d been caught red-handed. Kaminari coughed into his fist, staring at the ceiling. Mina scrambled for the tray of food on the table like it was suddenly fascinating. Jirou muttered something about her earbuds and shoved them in too fast. Kirishima leaned back into the couch slowly, rubbing a palm over his knee, and for the first time all night, Bakugou felt like maybe the room wasn’t going to collapse under the weight of them. The tension cracked, splintered, and then—finally—dissolved. Kaminari launched into a story about Voltage’s shoot earlier that day, throwing his arms wide as if his dramatics could make up for his exhaustion. Mina laughed too loudly, nudging him when his gestures nearly smacked the popcorn bowl onto the floor. Jirou rolled her eyes, muttering insults under her breath, though Bakugou caught the way her mouth twitched toward a smile. Sero chimed in with his usual dry one-liners, steering the story into even more ridiculous territory, and just like that, the room found its rhythm again.

Kirishima leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his voice carrying as he joined in Kaminari’s chaos—teasing, bantering, letting that big, easy grin spread across his face like he hadn’t smiled like that in weeks. The sound of his laugh cut through the room, bright and grounding, and everyone else seemed to relax with it. It felt normal. Bakugou didn’t move closer, didn’t say much—just sat back on the couch, letting the noise wash over him. But the longer he sat there, the more it pressed against his chest, that strange ache loosening bit by bit. They’d been a mess for weeks, months maybe, but here, with everyone talking over each other, the music humming low from Jirou’s speaker, and Brick weaving lazy circles around Sero’s legs—it almost felt like before. Before their month-long war, before everything had gotten so goddamn complicated.

The front door shut behind Kirishima, his voice carrying faintly down the hall as he laughed with Sero and Kaminari on their way out. The apartment quieted in their absence, leaving only the low hum of Jirou’s speaker and the rustle of Brick jumping onto the arm of the couch. Mina’s gaze snapped immediately to Bakugou, sharp and expectant, her lips pressed tight like she’d been waiting for this exact moment. “Nice hickey, by the way.” Her voice rang through the room, pitched just loud enough for Jirou to hear. “Who gave it to you?”

Bakugou’s scowl was instant, heat crawling up the back of his neck as his glare cut toward her. Mina didn’t flinch—she never did—just raised her brows like she dared him to try denying it.

Jirou’s eyes flicked up from her phone, confusion flashing before her gaze landed on Bakugou’s throat. Her jaw slackened, her eyes widening, and then, low under her breath, almost a whisper— “…Damn.”

Bakugou’s glare snapped to her too, sharp and furious, his jaw clenching tight. Jirou’s lips twitched like she wanted to smirk but didn’t dare, her fingers tightening around her phone instead. Mina leaned back, satisfied, her grin spreading like she’d just set off a firework and was waiting to see how far it would burn. The silence stretched, heavy, Bakugou’s scowl carved deep into his face as his hands flexed against his knees. His throat worked once, but no words came—not yet. Bakugou’s silence was sharp, his glare cutting across the room like it could pin Mina to the couch. She only grinned wider, eyes darting sideways toward Jirou, daring her to react.

Jirou’s lips parted, caught mid-smirk, and she lifted a hand like she couldn’t hold it in. “What? I can’t be here for this—I wanna know too—”

Mina gasped dramatically, smacking her shoulder. “Shh—”

Bakugou huffed out hard, rolling his eyes, his voice flat and rough. “Just spit it out, Mina. Say what you’ve got to say.”

That was all she needed. Mina clapped her hands once, a triumphant cheer bursting out of her before she leaned forward, eyes glittering. “I thought you two were going to figure it out!”

Bakugou’s expression twitched—his mouth tightening, his jaw clenching, one eye narrowing like he’d just bitten into glass. The memory surged back without mercy: Kirishima’s mouth hot against his, the choking sobs, the cracked words in the mirror. His chest squeezed, the whole mess flooding him in an instant. “We—” He cut himself off, forcing the words out rough, evasive. “It just fucking happened. I don’t know.”

The vagueness lit Jirou up instantly. She jolted upright, sitting on her knees now, eyes wide. “Wait—who are we talking about—?” The realization hit like a bolt, her face snapping into a grin. “Oh my god—are we talking about Kirishima?”

Mina nodded so exaggeratedly that her horns bobbed, biting down on her lip like she could barely contain herself. Jirou’s hands flew up, her voice breaking into a squeal. “I knew it! I fucking knew it—” Her laugh cracked through the room, loud and triumphant, like she’d just won a bet with herself. Bakugou dragged his hand down his face, groaning low into his palm, his ears hot, his scowl deep enough to kill.

Jirou couldn’t help herself—her grin was stretching too wide, her eyes practically glittering as she leaned forward, elbows braced on her knees. “Oh my god,” she blurted, her voice pitching higher with excitement, “so that’s why you guys were fighting—”

“Ji,” Mina cut in, her own smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. She tilted her head toward Bakugou knowingly. “Even I don’t know why they were fighting.”

It was a blatant lie. She knew. Of course she did.

She said it easy, casual, not looking at him when she did it—like it was just another joke between friends. She was covering for him, giving him that out, the space to breathe. Letting Jirou stay in the dark about his one breakdown of too many recently, the one he still couldn’t even think about without his chest tightening.  Jirou gasped, loud and scandalized, like Mina had just confessed some unspeakable crime. Her hand flew to her chest as she sat back, staring between the two of them in disbelief. “Our two best friends wouldn’t tell you?” She dragged the words out, scandal dripping from every syllable, before her grin split wider again. “That’s how you know it’s good shit—like, some real tea—”

Bakugou’s groan came loud, the sound ricocheting through the room. Both girls jumped, Mina’s grin never faltering, but Jirou froze mid-sentence. His scowl was sharp enough to cut, his voice low and vibrating with threat. “Are you two fucking done?” Bakugou growled, his eyes burning into both of them. 

Mina’s smirk curved cruel at the edges, her eyes gleaming like a cat that had cornered a mouse. “Bakubabe, I’ve been waiting patiently to talk about this, and I haven’t blabbed to anyone for months—”

“Months?!” Jirou’s jaw dropped with genuine surprise, though her tone dripped mockery. She leaned back like the couch had just shoved her, one brow arched high, her lips twitching.

Bakugou’s sneer cut sharp between them, his teeth flashing. “You two are fucking insufferable—”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Mina waved him off like his fury was background noise, her nails tapping impatiently against her thigh. “Can you just tell us what’s going on—”

“Fuck no.” The words landed flat, blunt, the kind of finality meant to slam the door shut.

“Bakugou!” Jirou dragged his name out with a theatrical whine, tilting her head and fixing him with that dry, sharp stare. She looked like a teacher calling out a kid for passing notes, all faux-seriousness masking the grin threatening at the corners of her mouth. He rolled his eyes hard enough it hurt. His arms crossed tight over his chest, shoulders bunched like armor. “I’m not telling you two about my fucking sex life—”

The second it slipped out, his brain lagged behind his mouth. His chest froze, heat blasting up his throat as the weight of the words hit him. Shit. Shit. Fuck.

“Sex life?!” Jirou’s voice spiked, her mug clattering back onto the table. She bolted upright, her head nearly clipping the light fixture as her grin split wide. “You two—wait—hold on—” She clapped her hands together, practically vibrating. “We’ve progressed to sex?!”

Mina’s brows shot up so high they nearly hit her hairline. “Oh my god,” she breathed, a grin blooming slowly across her face, sharp and merciless, slightly fake. “That explains so much—”

“God, fuck off—” Bakugou snapped, but his voice was too raw, too fast, and the crack in it only made them lean in closer. Their faces told him everything. Mina’s eyes were shining, wide with glee, her whole body buzzing like she was about to combust. Jirou’s smirk was calmer, crueler, one brow cocked with the kind of amusement that made his skin crawl. He wanted to scorch both of them into ash, but the worst part was the way his own thoughts were running—messy, unconfined, betraying him as much as his mouth.

He snapped to his feet, the couch creaking under the sudden shift. “Where are you going?” Mina gasped dramatically, springing up onto her knees. “Please, Bakubabe, tell us more about your sex life—”

Jirou barked a laugh, her hand flying up in mock desperation. “Yeah, don’t leave us hanging, Bakugou, you can’t just drop the word sex and storm out—”

“Fuck both of you,” he spat, flipping them off over his shoulder. Their laughter chased him to the door, Mina’s voice carrying loud and singsong as he yanked it open.

“Love you, Bakubabe! Use protection!”

Bakugou’s ears burned so hot it made his vision prickle. The hallway felt too narrow, too bright, his boots heavy on the floor as he crossed the distance in clipped strides. He could still hear their laughter rattling behind him, see Jirou’s smug smirk burned onto his retinas.  He bit back a snarl, stomping across the hall, shoving his key into the lock harder than necessary. The door slammed behind him, the sound rattling the frame. Kirishima sat on the couch, phone in hand, head lifting as the second Bakugou stepped inside. The screen’s glow cast faint shadows over his face, his hair messy, his sweatshirt loose like he’d been there a while. His eyes flicked up, catching Bakugou square in the doorway.

For a second, he couldn’t move. His chest still heaved from crossing the hall, Mina’s words still echoing through the walls. His brain stuttered with the whiplash: two nights ago, he’d fallen apart in this same chest, now he was standing here with sex life ringing in his ears like a curse. Kirishima leaned back, easy, like he’d been waiting. “So, guess Jirou knows now, huh?”

The casual tone was a knife. Bakugou’s scowl rose on instinct, but the heat crawling up his neck betrayed him. Kirishima’s grin deepened, smug and soft at once. He tipped his head, crimson eyes glinting in the low light. “Told you everyone was gonna find out anyway.”

The line hit harder than it should’ve, because Bakugou remembered—the kitchen, Mina’s gasp, Kirishima’s mouth swollen against his, that same line murmured after like it was nothing. Everyone’s gonna find out anyway. Hearing it now, in the quiet of their apartment, made his chest clench. His fists flexed at his sides, but not with anger. With the ache of being seen too clearly, too soon. The silence stretched. Kirishima didn’t push, didn’t gloat, just held his stare, that steady, smug half-smile tugging at his mouth, and Bakugou stood frozen in the doorway, humiliated by Mina, gutted from memory, and nowhere near ready for this collision.

The silence stretched too long. Kirishima’s half-smile didn’t falter, his eyes steady, and it made Bakugou’s skin crawl. Heat prickled hot under his collar, embarrassment clawing at his throat until it curdled into something sharper. “Wipe that fucking look off your face,” he snapped, voice rougher than he meant.

Kirishima didn’t move. Not really. His body stayed slouched against the cushions, one arm draped over the back of the couch, but his expression shifted — the easy smugness gone, replaced with something tighter. His eyes sharpened, like he was holding back words, holding back fire, and the weight of it pressed heavily across the room. Bakugou’s jaw clenched. The quiet pressed in, his own pulse hammering in his ears. He hated the way his chest squeezed under that stare — hated how the memory of his own tears on Kirishima’s shirt still clung too close, how the hicky on his throat stood out like evidence.

For a second, he thought Kirishima might let him off the hook, but he didn’t. He just kept looking at him like that — sharp, unreadable, too steady for Bakugou to stand. “Fuck,” Bakugou muttered under his breath, dragging a hand through his hair, pacing two sharp steps into the room before stopping dead again. The air between them was thick, caught somewhere between the fight they’d had and the night they’d fallen apart in each other’s arms, before the pain of it all came crashing down. They were lingering on the sweltering heat of embarrassment and anger. 

Kirishima still hadn’t moved. His silence wasn’t passive — it was deliberate. Heavy. Bakugou could feel it, every second, dragging him back into the mess they hadn’t cleaned up. The silence pressed in, thick enough to choke. Bakugou’s glare burned, his chest rising sharply, but Kirishima didn’t snap back. He didn’t smirk, didn’t taunt. He just sat there on the couch, steady, his eyes sharper now, watching every twitch of Bakugou’s face like he was cataloguing it.

“You always get so testy when you’re embarrassed,” he said finally. His tone wasn’t mocking. Just matter-of-fact, steady, landing with the weight of someone who knew him too well.

Bakugou’s teeth bared, the retort sparking on his tongue—shut the fuck up, you don’t— but before he could get the words out, Kirishima added, quieter, more deliberate: “Well… unless you’re asking to be embarrassed.”

No grin. No bite of cruelty. Just a line laid down in the space between them, even and sure. His gaze didn’t waver, steady as stone, like he wasn’t daring Bakugou to deny it — just naming what they both already knew. Bakugou froze. His stomach dropped, heat crawling up his neck, his body betraying him before his mouth could fire back. The words caught, sharp and choking in his throat, because Kirishima wasn’t wrong — and he hadn’t said it to cut him.

Bakugou’s mouth curled, sharp and mean. “Tch. Big words from the guy who can’t even get it up unless someone’s telling him how perfect he is.”

Underneath the barb, something in him eased. Teasing was good. Teasing meant balance. It meant they’d found even ground again—somewhere between comfort and danger, between truth and laughter. It wasn’t mean, not really. Just the only language they both knew how to speak when honesty got too close. Kirishima’s glare flicked toward him, but his mouth twitched before he could stop it, and Bakugou felt the corner of his own lip pull, almost—almost—into something like a smile.

“Every time I say you’re good, your dumbass tail starts wagging.” He tilted his head, eyes narrowing, voice dropping into a bite. “You’re just a mutt waiting for scraps.”

Kirishima’s breath caught, the heat crawling fast up his neck. His ears burned red, color spilling across his cheeks as the words hit, too direct, too close. He tried to laugh it off, but it came out tight, strained, his jaw clenching to keep from showing how much it landed. “You calling me a dog, Katsuki?” he managed, voice low, steady, but not quite convincing.

Bakugou barked out a cruel laugh, all sharp edges. “If the collar fits.”

The words landed so fast, so vicious, Kirishima actually froze. For a second, all he could do was stare — eyes wide, mouth parting like he had a comeback locked and loaded. Except nothing came out. The silence that followed was thick, charged, humming with the aftershock of Bakugou’s voice still echoing in it. Then Kirishima blinked, slow, like he was forcing himself to breathe again. A small, disbelieving huff broke out of him — halfway between a laugh and an exhale. He shook his head once, sharp, like he could physically shake the moment off, like the words hadn’t hit exactly where they were meant to.

“That was good,” he said finally, voice low, grudging but honest. His tone carried the smallest rasp of something else underneath — embarrassment, maybe, or admiration he couldn’t quite hide. His mouth twitched like he was fighting a smile, but his jaw was still tight, the muscle ticking there giving him away. Bakugou watched him the whole time, taking in every flicker — the flush creeping back up Kirishima’s neck, the subtle shift in his breathing, the way his eyes darted away for just a second too long. It was intoxicating, watching him wrestle for composure and almost win.

Bakugou’s smirk stretched wider, slow and deliberate, cruel only in precision. His voice came out rough, low, too sure of itself.

“Yeah,” he said, leaning in just enough for it to count. “I fucking know it was.”

Kirishima’s breath caught — barely, but Bakugou noticed. He always noticed. The air between them pulsed, heat crawling up the walls like static, neither of them moving, neither willing to give. For a moment, it felt like the world had narrowed down to just that — the space between a smirk and a half-swallowed smile, the place where words became something sharper, something they’d both pretend they didn’t mean. Kirishima clicked his tongue, scoffing as he leaned back into the couch, gaze skittering away like he couldn’t stand to give him the satisfaction of seeing him rattled. But his ears were pink, his silence saying more than any comeback could.

Bakugou watched him for a long beat, chest buzzing with the rush of it — the rare fucking win, the kind that left Kirishima speechless. It lit something cruel and smug in his gut, the corner of his mouth curling sharper.

Jeanist had sent him out solo tonight. A rare fucking blessing. No lectures hanging over his head, no over-polished perfectionist bullshit breathing down his neck — just him, the city, and the space to finally breathe. It reminded him why he was so dead set on Ground Zero in the first place. His own agency. His own rules. No walls that weren’t his. The old space had been gutted clean — drywall torn down, foundations exposed, rebuilt into something that actually belonged to him. Rooms expanded, corridors shortened, a whole new skeleton laid over the bones. Every hammer and nail felt like a countdown to freedom.

He’d been thinking about it all patrol — the offices being rearranged, the walls going up and down, piece by piece into what would finally be his. He didn’t even realize his shoulders had loosened a fraction until it hit him: the city wasn’t the only thing under reconstruction.

Then he saw him.

The tips of Kirishima’s hair caught the neon like a damn signal flare, bright against the dark. He was standing under a streetlight at the corner, broad frame unmistakable, chest heaving like he’d just wrapped up a fight. His hero gear was dirt-streaked, torn at the edges. There was blood across his shirt — maybe his, maybe someone else’s — but the effect was the same. He looked wrecked and good all at once, the kind of sight Bakugou couldn’t fucking ignore.

He hadn’t noticed him yet. Which meant Bakugou had the chance to look. To take him in without the heat of those eyes striking back. The tightness of his jaw. The roll of his shoulder as if it was sore, muscles tensed under the weight of another night. Kirishima always carried his stress in his lower back, always bitching about it when he thought no one was listening. Bakugou carried his in his shoulders — hard, knotted ropes of muscle that made his traps burn until he couldn’t move right.

He remembered once — before everything got messy, before they started whatever the hell this was — Kirishima had worked those knots out. Big, calloused hands digging deep until Bakugou was half-crippled with the pressure. He’d cursed him out the whole time, breathless, telling him he was pressing too hard, that it wasn’t that fucking good, but the groans ripping out of him said otherwise. Kirishima had laughed through it, low and amused, saying no one should sound like that over a shoulder rub. It had felt like crossing some invisible line, both of them pretending it wasn’t, until later, months later, when they didn’t have the excuse anymore.

The memory dug under his ribs as he stood frozen there, staring. Watching the familiar set of Kirishima’s shoulders, the tension in his stance, the exhaustion carved into the corners of his face. He looked the same. He looked different. He looked like a mistake Bakugou couldn’t stop making. Bakugou’s teeth clicked, jaw tight, and before he could stop himself, his boots were already hitting the pavement, crossing the street like the distance itself was a provocation. Kirishima turned at the sound of his steps, head angling just enough for the light to catch his face. Neon cut down over him, shadows from his lashes brushing against his cheeks, and Bakugou’s stomach did something ugly and sharp — pulled tight, fluttered like he’d been sucker-punched.

God, he looked too fucking good.

His hero costume had always been a joke — all teeth and skin and bravado. He might as well have been naked, though Bakugou knew he’d bark that it was for his Quirk, function over fashion, blah blah whatever, but none of that mattered when his damn pants sat so low on his hips it was obscene. It was almost erotic. Or maybe Bakugou was just a freak, too keyed-up and starved for something he swore he didn’t need. Or maybe Kirishima was just that attractive, and this was Bakugou’s first time letting himself see it — really fucking see it — without all the noise between them.

Either way, his body was flushing hot, want crawling under his skin before his brain caught up. The want twisted, ugly, into anger — out of place, out of nowhere, but real enough to dig in. Anger at himself for wanting him so bad. Anger at Kirishima for standing there like nothing, like everything, when Bakugou couldn’t breathe straight. Kirishima was still mad at him. Still holding it in his posture, in the set of his jaw. The reminder made Bakugou want to snarl. If Kirishima were mad, then fine — he’d be mad back. He’d match it blow for blow, even if the math didn’t check out in his own fucking head.

Maybe he was frustrated because Kirishima hadn’t forgiven him yet — because it felt like the bastard was dangling it in front of him, withholding it on purpose. Maybe it was the petty shit Kirishima had pulled, the cracks he’d never seen before. Maybe it was the shock of realizing that Eijirou Kirishima — unshakable, unbreakable, always solid under Bakugou’s hands — could be petty and cruel and human.  Bakugou’s chest twisted tighter the longer he looked. For years, Kirishima had been a constant, rock fucking steady. The guy who smiled through everything, who carried the weight without complaint, who never cracked. That was the version of him Bakugou had put on a pedestal — the one who never got petty, never lashed back, never let the ugly parts show.

This? This was something else.

Kirishima’s jaw was tight. His eyes were sharp, his body drawn like a bowstring that had already been pulled too far. There was dirt smeared on his skin, blood drying dark against his shirt. He wasn’t some perfect paragon of unbreakable strength — he was pissed. Bruised. Human. It made something ugly flare up in Bakugou’s chest, because wasn’t this what he wanted? Proof that he wasn’t the only one who cracked under pressure, who lashed out, who got mean and held grudges? He’d wanted to know he wasn’t the only flawed one in their world, and now that he had it — Kirishima standing there looking every bit as furious and worn as he felt — it just made him furious.

Furious at him, furious at himself.

He liked the pedestal. He liked pretending that Kirishima was unshakable, perfect, untouchable, someone he could lean against without worrying it would crumble. Now it was shattered — and Bakugou didn’t know how to look at him without seeing the cracks. It didn’t make him want Kirishima less, it made him want him more. Seeing him as human, real, and angry and mean, unlocked something dangerous. If Kirishima could be petty, if he could hurt him, if he could bleed and bruise and still stand there like that, then what the fuck did that make Bakugou? Weak for wanting him anyway? Or finally seeing him clearly for the first time?

The memory of that night scraped across his chest again — the way he’d been torn apart and rebuilt in the same breath, the way Kirishima had said things he wasn’t supposed to say, the way Bakugou had begged and hated himself for it. The hickey had faded, but the weight of it hadn’t. Looking at him now brought it all back in a rush, and it made Bakugou furious with himself for still wanting it, for still wanting him.

He swallowed hard, the taste of iron in the back of his throat, fists shoved deeper into his pockets like he could bury the whole mess under his skin. He kept walking anyway, steps hard, heart harder, as if he just kept moving, he wouldn’t have to admit to himself what he was really chasing. The street was dead quiet but for their breathing. Neon flickered in the puddles, shadows stretching long across the concrete. Bakugou didn’t know how he got so close, didn’t remember deciding to move, but suddenly Kirishima was there—close enough that the light caught every sharp edge of his face, close enough that Bakugou could see the raw, human anger twisting his expression. Beautiful, in a way that made his chest seize.

They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to.

Bakugou’s boots scraped against the pavement as Kirishima pressed forward, each step deliberate, unyielding, until his back hit brick. The wall was cold through his shirt, grounding him in a way he hated, because he could feel exactly where this was going. His breath caught sharp in his chest as Kirishima ripped off his headpiece, the red armor clattering to the ground like a gunshot. He was seething, nostrils flaring with each harsh breath, his hair damp, his jaw set so tight the muscle twitched.

It hit Bakugou all at once—Kirishima wasn’t angry at him. He was angry at himself. That realization curled heat low in Bakugou’s gut, twisted something ugly into something unbearable. It was proof—Kirishima wasn’t untouchable, wasn’t perfect, wasn’t above losing control. He was right here in the dirt with him, fists clenched, eyes sharp, body taut with the same want that wrecked Bakugou every night. God, it made him feel better, like, finally, they were both unraveling at the same time, same place, same damn streetlight.

Bakugou didn’t even give him the chance to make the first move. His hands shot up, fists clamping onto Kirishima’s face, dragging him in. The kiss crashed between them hard enough to hurt, teeth clacking, tongues colliding instantly in a desperate, messy clash. Kirishima groaned into it, low and guttural, surging forward with the same force, his palms seizing Bakugou’s jaw like he was afraid he’d disappear if he let go. The wall shuddered at his back as Bakugou let him push, their bodies colliding with enough force to knock air out of his lungs. The kiss turned savage, biting down on each other’s lips, muffling groans against teeth and tongue, the sound wet and heavy between the smacks of their mouths. Their breathing was loud, ragged, filling the alleyway with the kind of heat that left no room for thought, no room for words.

Bakugou didn’t need words. All he needed was this—the proof that Kirishima wanted him just as bad, wanted him ugly and flawed and furious. He’d take it, every second of it, until it burned them both alive. The kiss should’ve stayed brutal. It should’ve stayed angry, should’ve stayed sharp enough to draw blood, but somewhere in the mess of it—tongues clashing, teeth scraping—something gave. Kirishima’s grip eased, just a fraction. His thumbs dragged roughly along Bakugou’s jaw before smoothing, slow, steady, like he couldn’t stop himself. Bakugou felt it—felt the shift in his chest like a wire snapping loose.

The next kiss landed softer. Then softer still.

Bakugou’s fists loosened against his cheeks, pulling Kirishima closer instead of shoving him back. Their mouths moved more slowly now, mess giving way to something unbearably tender, lips dragging over split skin, smoothing over the places they’d just bitten raw. Each press was a question and an answer at the same time—

I need you. I need you too.

His head spun, dizzy with the sudden sweetness of it. His eyes fluttered shut against the warmth of Kirishima’s breath, the weight of his chest pressed steadily against his own. His heart clenched, painful in a way that had nothing to do with anger, everything to do with how badly he wanted this to last. Bakugou’s breath hitched as Kirishima’s mouth trailed over the edge of his lip, across the corner of his jaw, each kiss dragging slower, softer, like he was trying to memorize the taste of him. Bakugou let his head tip back against the wall, throat tight, every sharp edge inside him dulled to something raw and aching.

It was the same want as before, the same fever that always pulled them together—but twisted now into something worse. Something that felt sick in his chest, because this wasn’t anger, this wasn’t hate. This was the kind of wanting that undid him completely, the kind that terrified him, because it was too close to love. For a few breathless moments, under the humming streetlight, Bakugou let himself drown in it.

Bakugou’s chest was burning, his lungs tight with everything he hadn’t said. Words had always failed him—tripping sharp off his tongue, cutting when he didn’t mean to, never enough when he needed them most. But his body… his body knew what it wanted. So he kissed him. Not sharp, not furious, not desperate. He kissed him like it was the only way he could beg for forgiveness without spitting blood. His hands slid from Kirishima’s jaw to the slope of his cheekbones, the curve of his ears, the rough line of his hairline, cradling his face like it was something breakable. His thumbs brushed gently at the dirt streaking his skin, his lips following in slow, reverent presses—over his brow, the corner of his eye, the bridge of his nose.

Every inch. Every part of him.

Kirishima sighed, a sound caught somewhere between surrender and relief, his breath warm against Bakugou’s mouth as he let it happen. His body leaned in heavy, like he’d been carrying weight too long and finally, finally let someone take it. Bakugou’s lips trailed down, across his jaw, then back up again, slow, deliberate, worshipful in a way he’d never allow himself to name. Each kiss was a confession he couldn’t speak—I miss you. I’m sorry. I love you so fucking bad it hurts.

When his mouth finally found Kirishima’s again, it wasn’t sharp; it wasn’t messy. It was unbearably slow, dragging and deep, like he was pouring every shred of himself into it. His heart pounded, blinding in its need, his chest aching with the force of it. He pressed closer, kissed harder, kissed like if he just gave enough of himself away, Kirishima would forgive him, would come back, would stay. For a moment, with Kirishima’s sighs spilling against his lips, it felt like maybe he did. They stayed there, pressed together under the hum of the streetlight, trading the smallest kisses like they were trying to memorize each other. Lips brushing temples, jawlines, the corner of a mouth—gentle, lingering, just breathing into each other’s skin. For once, there was no rush, no clawing desperation. Just that slow, heavy yearning that made Bakugou’s chest ache and his throat burn raw.

Then the siren cut through the night.

Faint, distant, but sharp enough to shatter the bubble they’d built in the dark. It ripped him back to reality with sudden, merciless force—who they were, where they were, what the fuck they were doing in an alleyway when the world was still burning around them. Kirishima’s lips stilled against his skin. His eyes opened, searching Bakugou’s like he was looking for an answer, like maybe he’d stay if Bakugou just gave him one, but he didn’t know what to give—didn’t know how to shape the chaos in his chest into words.

Then he was gone. No words, no promise. Just gone—pulling back with one last look before stepping into the night, the sound of his boots fading fast against the wet pavement.

Bakugou’s knees buckled before he could stop them, his back sliding down the wall until he hit the ground hard, landing in a puddle of melted snow. The cold bit into him instantly, soaking through, but it didn’t matter. Not when his chest was so fucking hot he thought it might tear open. He wasn’t empty, he wasn’t hollow. He was full, so full it hurt. Every inch of him was burning with it—swirling want, frustration, relief, longing, anger, all crashing together until his head spun and his vision blurred. His breath came ragged, sharp in his throat, but the only truth left standing in the wreckage was this:

He was in love with Kirishima Eijirou, and it was going to kill him.

Of course, it kept happening. Their mouths bruised against each other, hard and unrelenting, like neither of them could decide if they were kissing or punishing. Bakugou felt it in every drag of Kirishima’s lips, every scrape of teeth, every desperate clash that hurt as much as it soothed. Each kiss melted softer, then flared sharp again, like they were caught in the crossfire of something neither of them could control. It killed him that nothing was said. He wanted words. He wanted apologies, promises, even curses—anything but this silence. But he couldn’t open his mouth, couldn’t risk saying the wrong thing and watching it all crumble further, so he kissed instead, kissed until his lips ached, until his chest felt like it was caving in, until the line between punishment and forgiveness blurred so completely he didn’t know which one he was begging for anymore.

It felt like dying every time Kirishima pulled away, and when he kissed him again, slow and aching, Bakugou felt so alive it was almost too much. Too much heat in his chest, too much want in his body, too much love tearing at the seams of his pride. He’d never wanted forgiveness this badly in his life.

It hit him, sharp and sudden, all the people who had forgiven him before. The people who’d waited him out, who let him rage and spit fire until he finally cooled enough to listen. He thought of the way they stayed anyway, of how long it took, of how much patience they’d had for him. Izuku. Always Izuku. His stomach twisted, shame biting deep. He hadn’t spoken to him in months. Not since he’d shot him down, not since Bakugou had turned his silence into punishment. Petty. Angry. Just like he accused Kirishima of being.

His hands shook when he pulled out his phone, the glow harsh against the dark street. His thumb hovered for a second, pride fighting him even now, but the weight in his chest pressed harder.

Me: I need to talk. 

The response came fast, almost immediate.

Nerd: On my way.

Bakugou dropped the phone onto the couch, the screen face down. The apartment was quiet, dim without Kirishima in it, too dim. He dragged a hand over his face, sank onto the cushions, and sat in the silence with his chest still pounding, waiting for the knock at the door. The knock came quicker than Bakugou expected. Too quick, like Izuku had been waiting for the message, like he’d been waiting for him. Bakugou’s stomach clenched as he pushed himself off the couch, jaw tight, heart pounding loud enough to echo in his ears.

He opened the door to find Izuku standing there, hair mussed from the wind, jacket thrown over his button up like he hadn’t even bothered to stop anywhere first. His eyes widened the second they landed on him—on his face, on whatever mess Bakugou hadn’t managed to scrub off before letting him in. Izuku stepped inside without hesitation, his gaze sweeping the apartment. It was dim, shadows crowding the corners, the air heavy like it hadn’t been opened up in days. The couch cushions were askew, blankets in a heap, Bakugou’s phone face down where he’d dropped it. It looked lived in, but not alive.

Then his eyes came back to Bakugou. He felt pinned under the weight of it, standing there in the half-light like a kicked fucking dog. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his sweats, scowled at the floor, but it didn’t cover the way his chest ached.

“You okay?” Izuku asked softly. His voice was careful, steady, but not pitying. Just there. Just him.

Bakugou’s throat worked, tight. For a second, he almost snapped back, almost spat something sharp just to keep from cracking, but all that came out was a rough exhale, his shoulders sagging as the fight bled out of him. “…No.” His voice was low, raw, torn straight out of his chest. “I’m not.” His hands fidgeted at his sides, his eyes catching on the couch, the clutter, then back to Bakugou again. Finally, he swallowed, his voice careful.

“I… I should start with the agency thing,” he said quietly. “With rejecting your offer. I know that hurt you, Kacchan. And I’m sorry. I should’ve said more, explained more, instead of just—”

“Don’t.” Bakugou’s voice came sharp, cutting him off before he could spiral. His jaw clenched, his hands shoved deeper in his pockets. “It’s fucking whatever.”

Izuku blinked, lips parting like he wanted to push, but the look on Bakugou’s face stopped him cold. It wasn’t whatever. Not even close. Bakugou looked at the floor, scowl set deep, his chest tight. He’d told himself a hundred times he didn’t care, that he was glad not to have Izuku breathing down his neck anymore, but every time it came back up, it hit like the first time—sharp, raw, no scar tissue built over it. Just an open wound he kept refusing to look at. He couldn’t say it, couldn’t say that he didn’t understand, that he hated the thought of Izuku wasting himself in a classroom when he could still be out there saving lives, being what he was always meant to be. That he deserved it, after everything. That Bakugou still saw him as a hero, not just some damn teacher.

So all he said was: “It’s fucking whatever.”

The silence that followed was heavy. Izuku shifted his weight, his eyes softening as if he could see straight through the scowl, straight into the rawness beneath it, but he didn’t push. 

The words died between them, the apartment heavy with it. Silence echoed in the dim room, bouncing off the walls, pressing hard in Bakugou’s chest. He shifted his weight, jaw working, eyes fixed on the floor. He didn’t know how to say what he was asking for, didn’t even know if he had the right to. The question clawed its way out anyway. “How did you forgive me,” he muttered, voice low, rough, “for… all the shit I did to you?”

Izuku froze. His eyes widened, lips parting, his whole face flickering open in shock. His hands twitched at his sides, fingers curling and uncurling like he was trying to catch the words before they slipped away again. His mouth opened, shut, opened again—silent, useless, like a fish out of water. Bakugou didn’t move. He just watched him, patient in a way he wouldn’t have been a year ago, waiting. He needed to know. He needed the answer, because if he could understand it—if he could figure out how Izuku had done it—then maybe he could find a way back to Kirishima. Maybe he could take back some of the hurt between them before it swallowed them whole.

The weeks of therapy had cracked something open in him, quiet and uncomfortable. Talking—really talking—had scraped him raw, but it had also left space where the noise used to live. Space for stillness. For honesty. For something close to grace. He was starting to see the shape of it now—that forgiveness didn’t mean excusing what he’d done. It meant believing there was still something worth saving underneath it. Maybe, for the first time, he believed that. Maybe he could finally forgive himself, give himself some goddamn grace. 

He didn’t know if Kirishima ever would. Didn’t know if he even should forgive him,  but waiting for Izuku’s answer, Bakugou realized that for once, he wasn’t afraid of hearing it.

“I—” Izuku started, voice catching. He dragged in a breath, his brow knitting as he stumbled. “I just… I guess I saw—I don’t know—” He faltered, shaking his head, his words tripping over themselves. “It wasn’t easy, Kacchan. It took me a long time to even think I needed to forgive you because I didn't see anything wrong with how you treated me."

Bakugou’s stomach twisted, but Izuku’s voice stayed gentle, but every word landed like a blade turned inward. “You did treat me wrong, and when I realized that, I was ready to work on forgiving—but… I guess I just always knew you weren’t… You weren’t the same person as back then. You kept trying, even when you failed, and I couldn’t ignore that.”

Bakugou’s jaw clenched, his throat tight, but he didn’t look away. He stayed quiet, patient, letting Izuku’s stammered truth hang heavy in the space between them. It hurt, hearing it — not the forgiveness, but the part before it. The part where Izuku said he hadn’t even realized it was cruelty. That he’d taken it, absorbed it, let it shape him without question. That was the worst of it — how normal it must’ve felt. How casually Bakugou had been in making him small.

The guilt hit slow, not sharp. A low, dull ache in his ribs, because Izuku wasn’t saying it to punish him — he was saying it like a fact. Like it was just something that was. That was worse. He thought about all the times he’d told himself it wasn’t that bad. That they were kids. That they both survived it, but hearing it like this — stripped of justification, laid bare in that quiet, matter-of-fact tone — made it impossible to hide behind the old excuses. Izuku had lived with it, the same way Bakugou had lived with his own anger. Neither of them realizing how deep it went until it was already a part of them. Bakugou swallowed hard. He didn’t look up. Didn’t say sorry, because that wasn’t what this moment was for. He just stayed still, letting the silence do what it needed to.

Izuku’s silence stretched long enough that Bakugou almost wanted to snap at him just to fill it, but then his voice came, soft, careful.

“...Why are you two fighting?”

The question knocked Bakugou flat. His throat clicked, jaw tightening hard, because—fuck. How the hell was he supposed to answer that? His first instinct was to lie, to throw out something simple about a mission, about stress, about anything else, but his brain wouldn’t stick to it. Every reason circled back to the truth, raw and humiliating: they’d blurred the lines, crossed them, stomped all over them, and then let the mess swallow them whole. Now Izuku was sitting here, wide-eyed and waiting, like Bakugou could just spit that out without choking on it. Tell him what—we’re fighting because I couldn’t keep my hands off him? Because my best fucking friend wrecked me in every way a person can be wrecked and I let it happen? Because I loved it, love him, and then I fucked it all to hell?

His hands curled into fists on his knees. “Tch. It’s—complicated.” The word scraped out between his teeth, bitter as hell. Izuku blinked, his mouth opening like he wanted to pry, to ask more. Bakugou shot him a sharp look before he could. “Don’t fuckin’—don’t push it.”

Silence again. Heavy, suffocating. Bakugou stared at the floor, the dark grain of the wood blurring as his stomach twisted itself in knots. He couldn’t say it. Not this. Not to Izuku. The words would choke him out before they ever made it past his teeth. Izuku’s voice, when it finally came, was quiet. “...Complicated how?”

Bakugou’s scowl deepened, his ears burning. His brain flashed back without mercy—to the kitchen, to the hickeys, to the way Mina knew, to the alley, to the fucking bedroom. To every place, he’d let Kirishima take him apart. He forced his eyes shut, jaw aching from how hard he clenched it. “We’re not…” He swallowed, jaw clenching, every muscle wired like he was bracing for a hit. “We’re not just friends anymore. Haven’t been for a while.”

The silence that followed was brutal. Izuku didn’t even breathe. Just sat there, wide-eyed, waiting for more like he couldn’t believe what he’d just heard. Bakugou’s chest heaved, the words scraping him raw as they left. “It got messy. That’s why we’re—why it’s all fucked now.”

Izuku blinked, once, then again, his face shifting in real time as the meaning sank in. His mouth opened, no sound coming out, then snapped shut. His eyes widened. His hands twitched in his lap like he didn’t know what to do with them. “Oh,” he whispered, faint, like the air had been knocked out of him, and then louder, stumbling over it: “Oh. Oh—oh. Okay. Okay, I—wow, I didn’t—”

Bakugou groaned, dragging both hands down his face until his palms covered his eyes. “Christ, you’re so fucking loud about it.”

“I’m not loud!” Izuku squeaked automatically, but his voice cracked straight through, his whole face red as he scrambled to get a grip. His eyes kept darting to Bakugou like he was still trying to process the puzzle pieces. “I just—I didn’t realize you two were—uh—dating!”

“We’re not,” Bakugou cut in, sharp and bitter, his hands dropping to his knees. His voice came low, dangerous, but cracked in the middle anyway. “That’s the fucking point.”

Izuku froze, staring at him, and for once, he didn’t try to fill the silence. The weight of it pressed down, heavy, the dim light stretching shadows across the room. Bakugou sat there in it, stomach twisted, heart pounding, the words still ringing between them. Not just friends anymore. He’d said it. Out loud. No taking it back now. Izuku’s mouth opened, closed, then opened again. His eyes flicked fast, his hands fidgeting like he was trying to physically grab the words before they left his mouth, but then he blurted it out anyway, loud enough to echo in the dim apartment:

“So… a friends with benefits situation?”

Bakugou’s whole body snapped like a live wire. “Shut the fuck up!” His hands flew up, waving frantically, like he could claw the words out of the air before they settled. His face burned so hot it hurt, his ears going red, his stomach twisting in on itself. “Don’t say that shit out loud!”

Izuku’s eyes went wide, his hands shooting up in surrender, face crimson. “O-Okay! Sorry! I just—I mean—that’s what it sounds like!”

“God, you’re so fucking loud,” Bakugou groaned, dropping his head into his hands like he could disappear into his palms. “Benefits, he says—what the fuck.”

Izuku blinked, his lips pressing together, but the corners twitched like he was two seconds from spiraling into awkward laughter. “I didn’t mean—uh—I wasn’t judging! It’s just—uh—kind of a big deal, isn’t it?”

Bakugou peeked through his fingers to glare at him, the look sharp enough to kill, but it only made Izuku’s blush deepen, his throat working around another swallowed sound. The silence that followed was thick, heavy with everything Bakugou wasn’t saying. His chest heaved once, twice, before he muttered low, hoarse, “Yeah. No shit.”

Izuku’s hands twisted together, his knee bouncing like he was trying to hold back a tidal wave of words. Finally, it cracked. “So… when you say you’re not just friends anymore, does that mean—” He stopped, swallowed hard, then blurted, “—was it a one-time thing? Or… multiple?”

Bakugou’s head whipped toward him, glare sharp enough to kill. “Are you interviewing me right now, nerd?”

Izuku flinched, his face going bright red, but he didn’t back down. “I’m just trying to understand!” His hands flew up defensively, then dropped, wringing together in his lap. “If you want my advice, I need to know what I’m working with.”

“Advice?” Bakugou barked a laugh, bitter and disbelieving. “You’re just nosy as shit, admit it.”

Izuku’s mouth opened, shut, then opened again. “Okay, maybe I am a little nosy,” he admitted, his voice rushing like it had to escape before Bakugou could explode at him. “But Kacchan, I can’t help if I don’t know what actually happened!”

Bakugou groaned, dragging a hand down his face. He wanted to tell him to fuck off, to keep his mouth shut forever, but Izuku was looking at him with that earnest, wide-eyed stare like he’d sit here all night until he got an answer. “...More than once,” Bakugou muttered finally, the words low and jagged, like it hurt to say them.

Izuku blinked. “Oh.” His eyes widened, his blush deepening. “...Oh. Multiple times. Okay. Okay, that’s—wow. Um.” He fumbled, his voice cracking as he rushed into the next question before he could stop himself. “So—did one of you want more than just… that?”

Bakugou’s face flamed. “Why the fuck are you talking like a guidance counselor?”

Izuku froze, his lips twitching like he wanted to laugh but didn’t dare. “I’m just asking the questions, Kacchan.”

Izuku sat there, blinking hard, like he was trying to rearrange the entire image he’d always had of Bakugou in his head. His throat bobbed once, twice, before his voice even came out—slow, like he didn’t trust it not to crack. “Kacchan, I-I’m sorry, I’m just… shocked you even… like Kirishima in this way—”

Bakugou barked out a humorless laugh, sharp and defensive. “Fuck, I mean, I didn’t expect to want to climb him like a tree either—”

Izuku’s mouth dropped open, words tumbling out before he could catch them. “Oh. Wow—”

“But here we are.” Bakugou cut in, voice rough, the words coming out faster now, harsher, like the only way to keep his chest from cracking open was to let them spill. His hands carved the air, sharp, restless. “It fucking came out of nowhere. One second he’s my best friend, the next we’re messing around and shit, and now—now it’s all fucked up. There. That’s what the fuck has been going on.”

The silence that followed was too much. Heavy. Izuku’s face was frozen somewhere between shock and awe, eyes wide, mouth still half-open like he’d just been shoved into another world. Of course, he’s staring. I’ve never said anything like this before. Not to him, not to anyone. Why the fuck would I? Nobody needed to know that I don’t work like everyone else, that I don’t want like everyone else. But then Kirishima had to go and—fuck, he had to go and look at me that way, make me feel like this, and now I can’t shut up.

The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable, Bakugou’s pulse pounding so hard he could hear it in his ears. Izuku hadn’t moved, still staring like he was processing the entire universe all at once. Bakugou shifted forward on the couch, elbows digging into his knees, glaring at the floor because if he looked at Izuku’s face one more second he was going to combust. Then Izuku’s voice broke the quiet—slow, cautious, like he was testing the weight of each word. “So… you two have had… like... sex?”

Bakugou’s head snapped up, glare sharp enough to cut glass. “Holy shit—yes, we’ve had fucking sex.”

Izuku blinked rapidly, his cheeks going pink, hands flapping once uselessly before he stammered, “Like… actual sex?”

Bakugou’s voice went up a full octave as his whole body lurched forward. “YES, he has—yes, we have had fucking sex.”

Izuku sat back, stunned, the words hanging between them like a live wire. His mouth opened, shut, opened again before he finally whispered, half to himself, “This is… oh wow, this is a little crazy, Kacchan—”

“Yes, I know it’s fucking crazy,” Bakugou muttered, waving one hand like he could swat the whole thing away. He was glaring at the floor, jaw tight, like if he just stared hard enough the ground would open up and swallow him whole. Izuku shifted, eyes narrowing with that same stubborn curiosity he’d had since they were kids. “Did you two at least talk about… like a plan? If anything went wrong, or if you two had feelings—”

Bakugou scoffed before he could stop himself, sharp and bitter. He jerked his head to the side, trying not to notice the way Izuku’s eyes widened immediately at the sound.

“Are you two arguing because one of you caught feelings?” Izuku asked, his voice cautious but quick, like the words were spilling out before he could think better of them. Bakugou clicked his tongue against his teeth, shifting back into the couch, picking at the inside of his cheek like it was the most important thing in the world. He kept his gaze locked on the far wall, anywhere but at Izuku’s face. “No…” Izuku said slowly, like he was piecing together a puzzle right in front of him. His eyes scanned Bakugou’s face, every twitch and every scowl, and Bakugou could feel the weight of it, heavy and suffocating. “No way. Did you—did you both catch feelings? Or maybe the feelings were already there, and then—”

Bakugou snapped his head around, his glare sharp enough to cut. “I didn’t ask you to come here to psychoanalyze me.” His voice was low, rough, the kind that didn’t leave room for argument.

Izuku didn’t even flinch. His brows furrowed, his mouth pressing flat, but he held his ground. “You kinda did,” he said, steady, like he wasn’t backing off.

“Shut the hell up,” Bakugou growled, dragging a hand down his face, rubbing hard at his eyes.

“Kacchan, did you two—”

“YES.” The word tore out of him, sharp and brutal, like it had been ripped straight from his chest. His hands clenched into fists on his knees, and he stared dead ahead at the blank stretch of wall because he couldn’t stand to look at Izuku. His voice cracked against the silence, raw with frustration. “Yes, alright? We both just—fuck, we both did, and now it’s weird.”

The confession hung in the air, jagged and ugly, the kind of thing that made the whole room feel smaller. Izuku sat back against the couch, blinking hard, his lips parted in shock, and Bakugou couldn’t believe the words had actually left his mouth. He’d never said anything like that to anyone, and now here he was blurting it out to Izuku like some idiot who didn’t know when to shut the fuck up. Izuku finally found his voice, sitting up a little straighter on the couch, his brows pinched tight in thought. “But why is it bad if you both caught feelings? Like… just be together.”

Bakugou’s head snapped toward him, eyes narrowing, a scowl pulling sharply across his face. “Because I said some dumbass shit,” he muttered, voice low, almost chewed through his teeth.

Izuku blinked, the realization dawning on him slowly as his mouth parted. “Ohhh,” he said, dragging the sound out, nodding like it all suddenly made sense. His eyes softened a little, but his tone stayed matter-of-fact. “And you hurt his feelings.”

Bakugou’s jaw dropped, his whole body jerking forward, one hand cutting through the air. “You wanna tell the fucking story for me since you seem to know everything?” His glare burned, but the tips of his ears were red, heat crawling up his neck, and he knew it only made him look more like he’d been caught. Izuku just blinked at him, calm as ever, like he wasn’t even fazed by the bite in Bakugou’s voice. His lips twitched, almost like he wanted to smile but thought better of it, and that only made Bakugou’s scowl deepen.

The room felt too quiet after that, the weight of Bakugou’s words sitting heavy between them. He leaned back hard into the couch, glaring at the ceiling now, because staring at Izuku’s stupid knowing face was worse than anything else. Izuku’s expression shifted, thoughtful in a way that made Bakugou want to knock him upside the head. He tilted his chin slightly, staring at him with that frustrating, quiet sort of clarity. “And that’s why you want to know why I forgave you…” he said slowly, letting the thought hang before trailing off again. His brows furrowed, lips pressed tight as he sank deeper into his own head.

Finally, his eyes widened a fraction, his voice dropping lower. “Wow... he’s that mad at you? What did you say to him?”

Bakugou clenched his jaw, looking anywhere but at him. “Just—it was fucked up, alright? I ran my mouth and then we stopped speaking and now—”

His voice snagged, catching on the words before he swallowed hard, choking down the truth that almost slipped free. Now we can’t keep our goddamn hands off each other, and it’s worse. It’s only confusing, only hurtful, all bite and no balm, like every kiss is teasing the wound open wider. He pressed his tongue hard against his molars, grinding down, scowl fixed sharp as ever. He wasn’t about to let Izuku drag that out of him, not when he already sounded pathetic enough admitting everything else.  Izuku’s gaze didn’t budge, steady and unrelenting, like he could still read it straight off his face anyway.

“You miss him.” Izuku’s voice came quiet, certain, like he was just putting words to the obvious.

Bakugou let out a long, rough sigh through his nose, his shoulders sinking as he leaned back into the couch. He didn’t bother denying it—because fuck, he did. He missed him so bad it was making him lose his mind. His eyes flicked, unbidden, toward the other side of the apartment. Kirishima’s door was cracked slightly open. The room beyond was too neat, too still, like it had been scrubbed clean of his presence. The cream-colored comforter lay smooth across the bed, tucked in tight at the edges, the faint glow of the lamp catching against the warm wood of his desk. There was a sweatshirt draped over the chair, one Bakugou recognized instantly, because it was his. The whole space carried that warm, grounded feeling Kirishima left everywhere he touched, and Bakugou’s chest pulled tight at the sight of it.

He looked away fast, jaw clenching, only to find Izuku staring at him, wide-eyed, like he’d just caught him in the middle of something private.

“What the fuck is your problem?” Bakugou snapped, heat crawling up his neck.

Izuku’s lips parted, his brows pinching tight. His voice came slow, careful, but there was no mistaking the shock in it. “You… you’re in love with him, Kacchan.”

Bakugou’s stomach flipped, his chest thudding hard, like the words themselves had landed a hit. Maybe Izuku got it from the look on his face, maybe from everything he’d just said, Bakugou didn’t fucking know, but hearing it out loud made his blood run hot, panic, and truth all tangled up until it was impossible to sort which was which. He wanted to deny it. He really did. He wanted to bare his teeth, tell Izuku he was full of shit, that he didn’t know what the hell he was talking about, but his mouth wouldn’t move that way. His throat locked around the words because denying it felt more wrong than admitting it ever could.

His chest rose and fell sharply, his voice low, ragged, when it finally came out. “I guess.”

The room went quiet, Izuku’s eyes wide, the weight of Bakugou’s words heavy between them. For the first time, saying it didn’t feel like defeat—it just felt true.

“Does he know that?” Izuku asked quietly. His voice had softened, careful in a way that made Bakugou’s teeth grind. Like he was afraid if he pressed too hard, Bakugou would snap, bolt, or worse.

Bakugou’s scowl deepened, his gaze fixed hard on the floor. “Yeah,” he muttered, the word barely more than a growl.

Izuku hesitated, then pushed, still gentle, still cautious. “Does he love you?”

Bakugou sucked in a breath through his nose, sharp, and let it out in a huff. The question dragged him straight back where he didn’t want to go—back to that night. The weight of Kirishima over him, inside him, his voice low and rough when he admitted it. The sting of his own body stretched thin, pain and pleasure tangled so tight it blurred. The way Kirishima’s hands had held him steady through it, the way he’d been taken care of, the way Bakugou had wanted to take care of him right back. It all pressed in hot and aching, a memory too sharp to touch without bleeding.

He hated that it hurt to think about. Hated that it burned in his chest, equal parts humiliation and yearning, like he couldn’t separate the two.

Bakugou blinked hard, dragging himself back to the present, his voice coming out rough, reluctant. “Yeah.”

The word sat heavy between them, late, like it had been wrestled out of him. He shifted in his seat, clenching his fists against his knees, like admitting it had cracked something deeper than he wanted to let Izuku see. Izuku sat back, his brows pulling together, like he was trying to line up all the pieces in his head. “Then… then why are you two fighting if you both love each other?”

Bakugou let out a short, bitter laugh, dragging a hand down his face. “If I fuckin’ knew that, don’t you think I’d have fixed it already?” His voice cracked on the edge of it, sharp but frayed, and he slumped back against the couch like the weight of it had drained him.

Izuku’s mouth opened, shut, then opened again. He looked down at his hands like maybe the answer was written there. “Kacchan, I don’t… I don’t know what to tell you. When I forgave you, it was because—” he hesitated, shaking his head—“because you were still you. Rough and angry and impossible, but you still cared. Even if you didn’t say it, and maybe Kirishima…” He trailed off, biting the inside of his cheek.

Bakugou stared at him, impatient, waiting for something useful. Izuku finally shrugged helplessly. “Maybe he’s just waiting for you to stop fighting him and show him that. That you care.”

Bakugou scoffed, his chest tightening, because it sounded so fucking simple when Izuku said it. Just show him you care, like he hadn’t been trying. Every time he touched Kirishima, it wasn’t him screaming it with his whole damn body, but the words wouldn’t line up, not in the way they should, and every time they clashed, it all came out wrong, tangled in pride and temper until they were bleeding again. He slumped forward, elbows on his knees, staring hard at the floor. “You don’t get it,” he muttered. “Every time we’re around each other, it’s like… It’s a fucking mess. We keep hurting each other or... fucking, and I don’t know how to fuckin’ stop.”

Izuku swallowed, his expression soft but tight with concern, because he didn’t have an answer for that. Not one that could actually fix it. He leaned forward, his elbows braced on his knees, voice low but steady. “Then maybe you two need to stop running away from each other.”

The words landed like a punch. Bakugou’s breath stuttered, sharp in his chest, his whole body coiling tight as if Izuku had flayed him open right there in his own damn living room. He didn’t say anything at first. His throat locked up around all the things he wanted to scream, the denials, the excuses—because fuck, Izuku was right. His jaw clenched until it ached, eyes locked hard on the floor, as if he glared at it long enough it would swallow him whole. Stop running away. Every time he reached out and every time Kirishima pulled back—or worse, reached right back and still left him—it didn’t feel like being gutted. Bakugou wasn’t innocent either; every time Kirishima really reached, he turned it into something ugly. 

Bakugou’s hands curled into fists on his knees, nails digging hard crescents into his palms. He hated how bare he felt, hated that Izuku of all people had said it out loud. He didn’t look at him, couldn’t stand to see his face, but his voice came out rough, guttural. “You think I don’t fuckin’ know that?”

The silence after was heavy, thick enough to choke on. Izuku didn’t flinch, didn’t back down—just let the words hang there, like he knew they both had to sit in them. Bakugou finally dragged in a breath, harsh and ragged, his chest tight enough it hurt. He pressed his palms hard over his face, muffling his voice when it finally tore out of him. “Shit’s not that simple. Every second we’re together it’s either the best or the worst fucking thing I’ve ever felt.”

Izuku’s eyes widened at the honesty, the rare moment of Bakugou just saying it straight, no fire, no walls. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, but his voice stayed careful when he finally spoke. “Then maybe… maybe it’s time you stop making it harder than it has to be.”

The silence after Izuku’s last words wasn’t sharp this time. It stretched out softer, dull around the edges, like it wanted to settle between them instead of being cut. Bakugou sat there with his shoulders tight, his jaw locked, the weight of everything he’d just fucking admitted pressing down hard—but not in the way it usually did. It didn’t feel like a noose. It felt… steady. Like maybe the room wasn’t going to collapse just because he cracked open a little.

Izuku didn’t push or prod. He just sat with him, green eyes wide but calm, steady in a way Bakugou wasn’t used to seeing. For the first time in his entire goddamn life, Bakugou realized—he wasn’t worried about Izuku running his mouth, not about this. Izuku would carry it, hold it exactly how it was handed to him, and never let it slip. It made his chest twist, the realization that he’d trusted Izuku of all people with the ugliest, rawest fucking parts of himself, and it made him feel exposed as hell, like his whole skin had been peeled back—but under it all was something else too. Something sharp but grounding.

Trust. I trust him with this.

Bakugou huffed, dragging a hand through his hair and staring at the floor like it might open up and swallow him. His throat was raw, his body restless, but the words stuck anyway. “Don’t make me regret telling you this shit.”

Izuku shook his head, quick, almost offended at the idea. His voice was quiet, certain. “You won’t.”

The conference room still smelled like paint and sawdust, chrome gleaming only on half the walls while the other half sat taped and unfinished. It wasn’t ready — none of it was — but the investors didn’t care about bare walls or exposed beams. They sat stiff in their pressed suits, papers stacked neatly in front of them, like they hadn’t even noticed. Bakugou sat across from them, arms crossed tight, one leg bouncing hard enough to make the chair squeak against the tile. At the end of the table, Miyake leaned lightly on her tablet, her professional smile stretched thin.

“Candy is still selling,” one of the investors said, voice flat. He tapped the projected chart like it proved something Bakugou didn’t already know. “It’s consistent, profitable, safe. Inferno gave us stability. But this—” his hand flicked to the next slide, bold neon mock-ups for Voltage, edges of lightning stitched across leather — “this is reckless. Voltage is bleeding money, and Chargebolt is not Pinky. He doesn’t sell. If this flops, it drags everything with it.”

Bakugou’s teeth ground, a muscle twitching in his jaw.

“They’re not wrong,” Miyake said evenly, scanning her tablet. Her tone was calm, but Bakugou could hear the edge beneath it — the one she saved for him. “Ground Zero isn’t stable yet. We can’t afford a stumble this early. If Voltage tanks, Ignition takes the hit, and with it, your agency. A soft release buys us time. You can’t keep going bigger and bigger without risking catching up.”

Bakugou’s jaw flexed, the muscle ticking hard. Stable. Soft. Manageable. All the words she used when she wanted to make something sound like strategy instead of fear. He could already feel his pulse climbing, every syllable from her mouth scraping across his nerves. None of it made sense to him — not the hesitation, not the false caution. They’d built Ignition from the ground up; they’d poured weeks into Voltage. The campaign was good — better than good — and the only people doubting it were the ones too scared to stand behind it.

He didn’t need a graph to tell him it would work. He didn't need to even see the footage, felt it in his gut. The electricity, the heat — it had weight. It had truth. All this talk about algorithms and trajectory was just noise to him. People didn’t connect to numbers; they connected to fire. He sat forward, hands gripping the edge of the table until his knuckles bleached white. “We already spent the money. We already shot the campaign, and now you want me to cut Kaminari loose because you’re scared it won’t trend? Fuck that.”

Miyake’s eyes lifted from her tablet, calm and calculating, but Bakugou didn’t flinch. Let them talk risk management all they wanted — he wasn’t building a brand to play it safe. He was building a legacy, and nothing about that was ever going to be soft.

“Inferno built you back up,” one of the older investors began, tapping a finger against the graph glowing on the wall. “Candy proved it wasn’t a fluke. And Lover Boy—” his voice lifted slightly, almost impressed, “—took Ignition global. The formula works. Safe, consistent growth. We know it sells.”

His leg stopped bouncing. His chest went tight, heavy, like a stone pressing down. He could see it — Kaminari pacing at fittings, nervous as hell, but grinning when the jacket finally sat right on his shoulders. He remembered how the idiot lit up when he saw his logo stitched in lightning thread, and these fuckers thought he was expendable. Something in his chest snapped tight. They were talking about “safe” like it meant right, about “consistent” like it meant human. Like Kaminari was just a piece of collateral in a quarterly report — a line they could cut to make the numbers look cleaner.

He didn’t even realize how angry he’d gotten until his hands were clenched so hard his nails bit into his palms. Until he realized his pulse was pounding in his ears. Until he caught himself thinking about the look on Kaminari’s face if he found out — the confusion, the disappointment, the quiet, forced smile he’d give while pretending he was fine. The thought made Bakugou’s vision go white at the edges. He didn’t even fucking like feelings like this. Didn’t know when caring about these idiots had become instinct, but the idea of Kaminari being blindsided by a cut — of him thinking he wasn’t worth the risk, his sad smile and saying "No, guys its fine!" — made Bakugou’s whole body buzz with something too violent to name.

He wasn’t going to let that happen. Not to Kaminari. Not to any of them.

“The whole damn point was to back my people,” Bakugou spat, voice spiking rough. “If I drop Voltage now, what the fuck was the point of Inferno? Candy? Lover Boy? What the hell is Ground Zero if I cut the legs out from under my own team?”

The oldest investor set his pen down with a quiet click, voice cool as glass. “Ground Zero is a hero agency. Not a charity for your friends.”

“It’s not a fucking charity for my friends,” he bit out. “They’ll all be big—hell, they already are—because of how well Lover Boy did. You think people aren’t still talking about that shit overseas? Voltage is more intriguing than if I slapped some random ass hero’s name on a line like fucking Kamui Woods and called it a day. Voltage is fucking happening.”

The table went silent, tension strung tight. One of the older men adjusted his tie like it was choking him. Another scribbled something down without looking up. Miyake didn’t even flinch. She just let the silence stretch, then leaned in smoothly, her voice steady, professional. “We’ll think on it,” she said, sliding in before anyone could open their mouth. “Give us time to discuss. We’ll get back to you by Wednesday.”

Bakugou’s scowl deepened. “Make it Monday.”

The suits gathered their folders with tight mouths, muttering under their breath as they filed out, the door clicking shut behind them. The silence that followed was jagged, humming. Miyake didn’t move for a beat, pinching the bridge of her nose before exhaling sharply.

“Morally?” she said, voice low but steady. “I agree with you. A hundred percent. Chargebolt deserves this shot, and Voltage deserves to exist.”

Bakugou’s head jerked slightly; he hadn’t expected that, not from her. Not from Miyake — the woman who lived in analytics and angles, who measured every word like it might end up on a press release. She didn’t do morals. She did optics, numbers, projections. For months, he’d been sure she was made of glass and steel — all control, all polish, the kind of person who’d tell him to smile softer because the cameras read aggression as arrogance. She was a real person, sure, but not one who ever showed it. Not like this.

Now, suddenly, she was agreeing with him. Seeing him.

It didn’t make sense. It didn’t feel real. He opened his mouth, ready to snap back something sharp — a reflex, something to fill the space — but stopped himself when he caught the look on her face. There wasn’t PR calculation in it. No agenda. Just exhaustion. A hint of sincerity. He sat back slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing just enough to breathe again. For once, she wasn’t his opponent — she was just someone else in the wreckage, trying to make it work.

“But my job isn’t to pick sides between you and the investors,” she continued. “My job is to put you first. To make your dreams come true. And right now?” She leaned forward, palms flat on the table, eyes locking with his. “Right now, if you push Voltage out as it is, I don’t know if those investors will continue to invest in you, and without them, Ground Zero doesn’t just slow down. It stops.”

Bakugou stared back at her, jaw tight, a muscle jumping at the edge of his cheek. She didn’t flinch. “You’re building more than a brand here, Dynamight,” she said softly. “You’re building a future. Don’t burn it down on principle before you even open the doors.”

The words landed like a hit. For a second, the edge in his chest dulled — not from guilt, but from the shock of hearing her admit she actually believes in what he’s trying to do. Miyake didn’t break eye contact, didn’t even blink when his scowl deepened. She just tapped her nails once against the table, thinking, before laying it out clean. “Here’s what we do,” she said. “We stall.”

Bakugou’s brows slammed together. “The fuck does that mean—”

“It means we don’t drop Voltage in full until Ground Zero’s foundation is solid enough to take the hit if it underperforms. We tease it. Roll out breadcrumbs — a prototype here, a collab post there. Keep the hype alive without bleeding the budget dry. By the time the investors look up again, Voltage is already in motion and too big to kill without them looking like idiots.”

Bakugou barked a bitter laugh, sharp and ugly. “That’s just a fancy way of backing down.”

“It’s a way of protecting what you’ve built,” Miyake shot back, her voice tightening for the first time. “You think I don’t want to shove Voltage in their faces right now? I do. But if you do that and they pull out, you don’t just lose Voltage. You lose everything.”

Bakugou leaned forward again, chair creaking under the shift, his eyes burning into her like he could set the argument on fire. “What if it’s so fucking good they can’t deny it?” His voice rose, sharp and dangerous. “What if it sells out day one? What if it blows Candy out of the water and makes Inferno look like child’s play? Then what? They’ll have to keep funding this place. They’ll have to admit they were wrong.” Miyake didn’t even flinch. She just tilted her head, lips pressing thin.

“That’s the gamble,” she said quietly. “But gambles are what bring agencies down, Dynamight. You win, you’re a genius. You lose, and Ground Zero’s another half-built husk with your name plastered on it. I refuse to watch you get buried under rubble you created yourself.”

His fists curled on the table, nails biting into his palms. Every word stoked the fire in his chest — because she was right, and because he hated it, and because the idea of shelving Voltage felt like admitting weakness. “It’s not a gamble,” he snapped finally, the words tearing out raw. “It’s already fucking good enough.”

Miyake’s stare softened for the briefest moment, like she understood just how deep that loyalty ran, before the steel slid back into place. “Then let’s make sure the world gets to see that. Not just the inside of a warehouse collecting dust because you scared your own investors off.”

Bakugou shoved his chair back with a scrape, standing to his full height like he could muscle his way through the tension pressing down on him. His voice came out low but unyielding, a growl wrapped in certainty. “We’re dropping it tomorrow, this Sunday, before the meeting. Tell everyone to get their shit together and get it ready. Send it to me by tonight. If I see it and it’s not good enough…” He jerked his chin, fire sparking in his eyes. “I’ll call it off.”

Across the table, Miyake’s expression didn’t flicker. Not at first. She folded her arms, tapping one finger against her elbow like a ticking clock. “So help me, Dynamight—if you push through anyway and you know it’s not good enough—”

“What?” he cut in, sharp, defiant. “You’ll quit?”

The words came out harsher than he meant. They hit the air like shrapnel, quick and cutting, and the second they were out, he wanted to drag them back in. It wasn’t even a question — it was a challenge. A dare he didn’t realize he was throwing until it was already hanging between them, vibrating with tension. For a heartbeat, he actually expected her to say yes. He saw it play out in his head — her slamming her tablet shut, muttering impossible, walking out with that same measured calm that had driven him crazy since the day they met. The kind of walk that said, I tried. You’re on your own now.

She didn’t.

Her expression shifted instead — subtle, slow, the steel melting at the edges. The room seemed to still around it, the fluorescent hum dimming under the quiet weight of her next breath. “No,” she said quietly, steady as bedrock. It wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t professional. It was human. “I wouldn’t. We’d have to find another way. There are more investors. There’s always another angle. I’m not quitting on you, Dynamight. Not ever.”

The words landed like a punch he hadn’t braced for. For a second, he couldn’t look at her, couldn’t even breathe right. It wasn’t the kind of loyalty he knew what to do with. Not the kind that came from teammates or friends who laughed off his temper — this was quieter. Earnest. Steady. He’d spent his whole career waiting for people to give up on him — expecting it, even. Managers, handlers, agencies — they always hit their limit eventually. He’d made peace with that. Built armor around it, because he would do this on his own if he had to. 

Miyake’s words slipped right past the armor and hit somewhere deeper. He looked down at his hands, flexed his fingers once, then set his jaw. The heat that burned in his chest wasn’t anger this time. It was something else — smaller, rawer. Gratitude he couldn’t name without choking on it. Something twisted sharp in his chest — a crack of surprise, of something he didn’t want to name. He tore his eyes away first, muttering under his breath, “Tch. Whatever.” But the words stuck in his head anyway, circling like a brand: Not ever.

Me: Family night. Mina’s. 11. Be there.
Me: Don’t be late.

Pinky: ??? FAMILY NIGHT ??? 👀 at ELEVEN??? TONIGHT?

Me: Yes.

Pikachu: BRO IS THIS A TYPO??????
Ears: … is he serious? Ive been working all day and i want to relax 💔

Me: fucking please

Tape: Did you hit your head, dude??

Shitty Hair: Everything okay man? 

Shitty Hair: is thus an emebrency?

Tape: an emebrency guys

Shitty Hair: the grammar police and an ambulance showed up

Ears: ngl that was like one of the funniest things you've ever said

Pinky: she looks like this rn 😐

Ears: im literally smiling 

Me: Shut the fuck up.

Me: Be there or I’ll drag your asses myself.

Pinky: 👀👀👀 okay but you’re acting WEIRD, bakubabe…

Pikachu: lowkey scared rn but I’ll try to be there ⚡

Me: You of all people need to be there 

Pikachu: wait is it about zvoltage im scared

Ears: I like how hes just using our fucking apartment too like his isn’t across the hall

Pinky: right? 😭

Tape: …fine I can be there i havent done shit today 

Shitty Hair: i will try to swing by on patrol break 🤙

Bakugou had shown up first. The digital clock on his phone read 11:02 when he pushed the door open and, to his irritation, it swung wide without resistance. Unlocked. Again. He stood there for a beat, jaw tight, before stepping into the quiet sprawl of Mina and Jirou’s place. The living room smelled faintly of buttered popcorn and nail polish remover, one of Mina’s sweatshirts was draped over the back of the couch, and the lavender candle flickered low on the coffee table. Everything screamed occupied—except nobody was home.

He hated that. Hated that he could just… walk right in without a fight, like anyone else could’ve. By the time Mina came back, the faint jingle of her keys announced her before she even stepped through the door. She was balancing a plastic bag of snacks, cheeks pink from the chill outside, and she stopped short when she spotted Bakugou standing dead center in her living room with his arms crossed. “Woah,” she said, grin already tugging at her mouth, “you beat everyone here.”

“You left your door open,” Bakugou shot back immediately, like he’d been holding it in the whole time.

Mina raised a brow, strolling past him to dump the snacks onto the coffee table. “Yeah, I just ran down the street. It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine,” he barked, the words sharper than he meant. “Someone could’ve come in and cleaned you out while you were buying your stupid chips.”

Mina rolled her eyes so hard it looked like it hurt. “Please, nobody’s breaking into an apartment to steal any of this stuff, actually maybe Jirou's because she's got all that music stuff.” She grinned, ripping open a bag with her teeth.

Bakugou glared, bristling. “You aren’t gonna be laughing when someone does steal your shit.”

“Then you can replace it,” she teased, flopping onto the couch with zero concern. “Problem solved.”

The door banged open again, the sound cracking through the apartment like a gunshot. Kaminari stumbled in on the echo, a flash of yellow and nerves, shoulders hunched and hands fidgeting hard against each other like he didn’t know what to do with them. His hair was still half-styled from whatever he’d come from, messy in a way that made him look both overworked and boyish, too human for the glossy world they’d been building. He paused just inside the doorway, chest rising fast, eyes darting around the room before landing squarely on Bakugou. The air seemed to pull tight, static prickling across the space between them. He looked terrified — not of Bakugou, not exactly, but of what he was walking into, like the tension in the room was something he could feel on his skin, crawling up his arms. He swallowed hard, opened his mouth.  “Bakugou—” he started, eyes wide. “Is this about Voltage?”

“Yes, but—”

“Ohhh fuck,” Kaminari cut in, already pacing between the couch and the window. “Is it bad? Is it—like—terminal bad?”

“Could be,” Bakugou said flatly, and the way Kaminari froze made his lips twitch, almost a smirk.

“FUCK.” Kaminari dragged a hand down his face. “I knew it, I knew it, I’m doomed, I’m—”

The door swung open again before Bakugou could even snap back, slamming against the wall hard enough to rattle the frames. Kirishima stormed in like he’d come straight from the battlefield — hair catching the overhead light in a blaze of black and red, cheeks flushed, hero gear half-undone and streaked with grime, the scent of wind and city still clinging to him. His chest was rising hard, armor plates shifting with each breath like he’d sprinted the whole damn way without stopping. There was no pause, no hesitation — just movement, purpose, heat. His presence filled the room instantly, every ounce of him radiating adrenaline and that same stubborn drive that never let him rest.

“I’ve got thirty minutes,” he announced, already yanking off his gloves and tossing them aside. “And that’s pushing it.”

It sliced right through Kaminari’s meltdown, Bakugou’s irritation sparking hotter at the way Kirishima didn’t even look at him before checking the time again, thumb tapping his phone like he had a goddamn bomb strapped to it. “Dude,” a voice drifted in from the hall, amused and exasperated all at once. Sero appeared in the doorway a second later, hair a mess, hoodie half-zipped, grinning like he’d just watched Kirishima outrun a villain. He leaned against the frame, one hand braced on it as he caught his breath, shaking his head with a low laugh.

“Kiri, I was calling your name in the lobby, and you did not hear me,” he said, voice still edged with disbelief. “I swear, you nearly took out a delivery guy.”

“Sorry,” Kirishima muttered, distracted, still flicking between screens on his phone. “I was running.”

Sero barked another laugh, dragging a hand down his face. “Yeah, no shit, bro. You looked like a whole action sequence.”

Bakugou didn’t even bother hiding his groan, pinching the bridge of his nose as Sero’s grin widened. Of course he’d think this was hilarious — of course he’d walk in like this was a sitcom and not a goddamn PR crisis. The room swelled with noise instantly—Mina crinkling chip bags, Kaminari muttering curses into his palm, Sero trying to keep it light, Kirishima’s boots thudding against the hardwood as he paced. At 11:09 on the dot, the door swung one last time, and Jirou stepped in, hair damp from a shower, “Sorry, I—”

“DON’T CARE,” Sero barked before she could finish, throwing his hand toward the couch. “Everyone, sit down before Kiri and Kami lose their minds.”

Kirishima glanced at his phone again. Kaminari dropped onto the cushions like he was waiting for a death sentence. Mina shoved another chip into her mouth and grinned, because of course she’d be enjoying this. Bakugou stood in the middle, heart hammering, knowing this was either the smartest or the dumbest move he’d ever pulled. “Alright, shut it,” Bakugou snapped, dropping the thick folder onto Mina’s coffee table with a slap that cracked through the room like a gunshot. The sound was sharp enough to make Kaminari jerk back, wide-eyed, before immediately lunging forward again like nothing could hold him back.

“Show me!” Kaminari begged instantly, already half-climbing over the couch arm as if the folder were the last piece of food in the apocalypse.

“You’re gonna fucking see them—” Bakugou snarled, his voice louder than Kaminari’s, his palm flat on the folder to pin it down before Kami’s fingers could snatch it away. “But listen first, damn it. We drop Voltage tomorrow if everyone signs off on it tonight.”

That sentence sucked all the air out of the room for a beat, then detonated. Mina squealed so loud the chip bag in her hands rattled, her face splitting in wild delight. Jirou smirked despite the heavy dark under her eyes, leaning back like she’d been handed front row tickets to a circus. Sero let out a low whistle as he sprawled deeper into the floor cushions, grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. Even Kirishima—flushed, still in half his hero gear, phone timer flashing in his hand—snapped his head up, red eyes sharp with surprise.

“Tomorrow?” Mina gasped, already bouncing where she sat. “Bakubabe, you’re insane.”

“Finally something fun at midnight,” Sero added, his grin widening like he was settling in for a movie.

“Fuck yeah!” Kaminari whooped, all of his earlier panic replaced in an instant with sparkling relief. He pumped his fist like he’d just been told Christmas was coming early.

The noise rose, voices tangling over each other, a storm of excitement and disbelief. But then Kirishima cut through it, his voice grounding, steady, too sharp to ignore. His arms folded across his chest, muscles flexing with the movement, his eyes locked on Bakugou. “Okay, then why do you look worried?”

The words landed like a hook in his chest. Bakugou stiffened. For a half-second, something flickered across his face—heat up his neck, an edge of something close to guilt—but then he killed it with a scowl. “I’m not fucking worried,” he bit out.

No one said anything. The silence stretched long enough for the air to tighten, for the weight of every skeptical glance to press against his ribs. He could feel them watching him — Kaminari fidgeting, Mina’s brow furrowed, Sero trying not to smirk, Kirishima glancing up from his phone just long enough to clock him before checking the time again. The tension crawled up the back of his neck like static. He hated it — the eyes, the waiting, the quiet judgment hiding behind concern. He knew exactly how this would go: they’d keep asking until they got something that sounded like the truth, and he didn’t have the patience — or the energy — to build a lie convincing enough to shut them up.

Kirishima didn’t have time for this either, his eyes flicking to his phone every few seconds, jaw set, like he was already halfway out the door.Bakugou exhaled hard through his nose, dragging a hand down his face. His brain was running too hot, too fast, circling through excuses that all sounded hollow before he could even get them out. He didn’t want to say it. Didn’t want to see the looks on their faces when he did. But the longer the silence went on, the heavier it got — like it was going to crush him if he didn’t break it himself. So he did.

“My investors want me to pull Voltage. Or delay it. At the very least.”

The whole room froze, Mina stopped chewing. Kaminari blinked once, twice, like the words didn’t compute.

“…Wait, what? Why?” His voice cracked at the end, too sharp with nerves.

“Because Chargebolt isn’t as popular as Pinky and Red Riot,” Bakugou spat, every syllable dragged out like it tasted foul. His hands curled into fists against his knees. “Because they think you can’t fucking sell clothes, because they don’t have any goddamn imagination.”

The light drained out of Kaminari’s face so fast it made Bakugou’s stomach twist. He sagged back onto the couch, his shoulders hunching in like he wanted to disappear. “Oh,” he muttered, soft and broken, “Right. Guess I should’ve—”

“Shut the fuck up.”

Bakugou’s voice cut across the room like a blade, fierce enough that everyone turned their eyes on him again. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, glare pinned to Kaminari with the kind of intensity that made it impossible to mistake. It wasn’t anger at him. Not really. It was fury at everything else—at the investors, at the doubt, at the fact that Kaminari would even think it was his fault. “I told them I wouldn’t fucking do that to you,” Bakugou said, words rough but steady, like he was hammering them into the floorboards so they couldn’t be taken back. “End of story.”

There was a beat of dead quiet. Then Mina let out another squeal, so loud it bounced off the walls. “AWWWWWWWWWWWW.”

“Holy shit,” Jirou laughed, pointing a finger right at him, eyes wide with wicked amusement. “That was—the kindest thing you’ve said to him!”

“Fuck off!” Bakugou barked, snapping back so fast his ears went pink anyway.

It was too late. Kaminari’s face was already splitting into a dopey grin, touched in a way that made him look half like he’d just been saved from drowning. Kirishima’s mouth softened at the edges, unreadable but warm, his gaze on Bakugou lingering longer than anyone else’s. Even Sero’s eyebrows rose before he chuckled, low and knowing. The apartment filled back up with noise, everyone talking at once, the whole thing spinning into chaos again. Bakugou sat back, arms crossed, scowl welded to his face. He told himself it wasn’t a big deal. It was just the truth.

Bakugou pinched the bridge of his nose, the weight of five pairs of eyes on him making his skin itch. “So these pictures and this campaign—” he slapped the folder once for emphasis, “—better be the best fucking thing I’ve ever seen, Kami, I fucking mean it.”

Kaminari nearly jumped out of his skin, his palms rubbing hard against his jeans. Sparks fizzled off his fingertips before he yanked them back, shaking his hands like it would calm him down. “I hope so—I mean, look, you don’t have to post it right away, you could delay—”

“Shut up. I’m not doing that shit,” Bakugou cut in, flat as steel. He didn’t even look at Kaminari, already scrolling through his email on his phone until the folder popped up. “We drop it tomorrow. End of story.” The room shifted as soon as he pulled his laptop onto the table, the glow of the screen washing over everyone’s faces. The noise dimmed down to the sound of Kaminari’s foot bouncing nervously against the floor, Jirou’s sigh as she leaned closer, Mina biting down on a grin, and Sero’s lazy crunch of chips. Kirishima stood behind the couch, arms crossed, his hero gear still catching flecks of light. His eyes hadn’t left Bakugou once.

Bakugou clicked, the file opening with a sharp burst of static. The screen went black, then flooded with neon, blinding yellows and crackling whites. Kaminari winced like it was a live wire running straight through him. Mina gasped immediately, leaning forward, her grin splitting wider. “OHHH—this already looks sick—”

“Shut up and watch,” Bakugou muttered, though his pulse ticked hard in his throat as the first real shot hit the screen.

The screen lit up, static humming through the little speaker system Komugi had left behind from Candy’s shoot. Bakugou sat stiff, arms crossed, one foot tapping against the leg of Mina’s coffee table like it was wired to his heartbeat. He told himself he didn’t give a shit. He told himself if it flopped, fine, he’d deal with the fallout. But every inch of his body was strung so tight it felt like the room would snap with him. Then the riff came in — slow, dirty, electric — and the chatter cut off instantly. Kaminari’s guitar. Bakugou’s throat clicked when the first shot landed: Kaminari sitting low on an amp in full Voltage gear, hair hanging in his face, sparks crawling up the strings like they’d been summoned there on purpose. The screen washed over in neon cuts, flashes of black and chrome, city light bouncing harshly over his grin.

“Oooooooh,” Mina dragged it out loud, practically bouncing on the couch.

“Damn,” Jirou muttered under her breath, which meant it was good.

Bakugou tried not to move, tried not to let his face twitch when the video punched forward with that first hit. Harsh flashes, sharper cuts — Kaminari standing now, sparks cracking along the guitar strap as he laughed.  “Holy shit, that's what I look like?” Kaminari whispered next to him, halfway into a panic attack, but everyone else was eating it up, leaning forward in their seats like they’d been pulled by the storm on-screen. Bakugou’s chest ached. Fuck. This was working. He could feel it in the way they reacted, in the way none of them looked away. Maybe his investors were full of shit. Maybe they didn’t know what it would look like if it fried them in the face.

“Okay, wait—nah, this is sick,” Sero said as the last cut flashed black and the logo burned across the screen.

“KAMI!” Mina smacked Kaminari’s shoulder hard enough to spark him. “You look insanely good! This is IT.”

Bakugou hated to admit it, even to himself, but the actual electricity on screen — the guitar, the sparks crawling lazily over Kaminari’s skin, his small, knowing smile — it worked. It more than worked. It was good, better than good. It was better than Inferno, no question. Unlike Lover Boy, it didn’t feel like a loaded grenade waiting to go off in his face. It was Voltage in every sense, and the music—fuck, the music was the best part. That riff wound tight around the whole thing, pulled it together, made it feel alive.

“Kami—” Kirishima’s voice cut through his thoughts, low and stunned. Bakugou’s head snapped toward him just in time to catch the way his jaw had gone slack, eyes wide like he couldn’t believe it either. “Did you record that?”

“Yeah—” Kaminari shifted on the couch, suddenly bashful, sparks popping faintly against his fingertips as he rubbed his palms over his thighs. “I mean—I just—”

“IT’S SO GOOD?” Kirishima blurted, grinning so wide his teeth practically shone. Bakugou rolled his eyes, but the sound of it—raw, surprised, genuine—gnawed at something tight in his chest.

“I didn’t know you were that good at guitar,” Jirou said lightly from her corner, her voice carrying the kind of offhand honesty that landed like a punch.

Kaminari stuttered instantly, hands flailing uselessly. “Oh—uh—I’m not, I mean—I just mess around, like, sometimes—uh, no, not like that, stop LOOKING at me Sero, I just—”

The bashful idiot couldn’t take a compliment from Jirou to save his life. He sparked again, cheeks pink, words tripping over each other until Mina threw herself against him with a squeal and cut the rambling short. Bakugou sat back, arms crossed tighter, masking the twist in his gut. Goddammit. It really was that good. Everyone in the room turned at once, the shift of their eyes so sudden that Bakugou blinked in surprise. He hadn’t caught the question, too stuck in his own head, chewing over the campaign. He scowled back at them, defensive by instinct. “What?”

Kaminari swallowed, sparks flickering faintly off his fingers where they twisted in his lap. He stared down at them, jaw tight, shoulders hunched like he was trying to make himself smaller. When he finally spoke, it came out quiet — hesitant, careful, like he wasn’t sure if he even wanted the answer.

“Is it… I mean, is it good enough?”

The question hung there, fragile and raw. Bakugou’s jaw tightened, his teeth grinding so hard he could hear it in his skull. The earnestness in Kaminari’s voice made something in him twist, sharp and hot. That uncertainty — that little edge of doubt — it always pissed him off. Not because of Kaminari, but because he’d earned better than that, because he’d worked his ass off for this, carried the goddamn thing on his back, and still couldn’t see it. It wasn’t supposed to sound like insecurity, not from him. Not from the idiot who’d laughed through every twelve-hour shoot, who’d dragged energy out of thin air just to keep the crew awake, who made everyone else believe in this thing even when Bakugou didn’t have the words for why it mattered.

He hated it.
He hated that Kaminari still didn’t get it.

Bakugou’s chest went tight. For a second, he almost wanted to say something more — something that would tear through the doubt completely — but the words caught, too raw, too honest. So instead, he did what he always did. He told the truth, plain and final. “Yeah,” Bakugou said flatly, finally, with no hesitation. His voice came low, solid, leaving no room for argument. “We launch tomorrow.”

The room erupted instantly, cheers and shouts bouncing off the walls. Mina practically bounced out of her seat, Sero grinned widely, and even Jirou let a smile slip before she hid it with her sleeve. Kaminari just sat there stunned, half-smiling, half-panicking, until Kirishima clapped him hard on the back and dragged him into the noise. Bakugou sat through it, arms crossed, trying not to let the corner of his mouth twitch. The Ignition Instagram page would take care of it from here—set up a month ago, so he didn’t have to keep posting his own shit like some influencer. It was already stacked with behind-the-scenes photos, videos of the staff, and campaign clips that kept traction hot. Voltage would slot right in, easy.

This one—this was the most wearable launch yet. Blacks and whites, bold cuts with flashes of color that didn’t overwhelm. Streetwear anyone could pull off, but charged enough to make it feel dangerous. It would sell. It had to. Kaminari was going to be big after this. Ground Zero… 

Ground Zero was going to be fine.

The launch hit at 9:00 a.m. sharp. Voltage went live across Ignition’s Instagram, the site, and the usual PR blast Miyake had lined up. Bakugou didn’t even check at first. He’d already signed off, already told them it was good enough. There was nothing left to do but wait. By 10:57, it was gone. Every last piece sold out. His phone buzzed once with a notification from Miyake.

Buzzkill#1: Good job. 

No exclamation point, no flourish. Just those two words. He smirked anyway, thumb hovering over the screen like he might actually reply for once. He didn’t, still. The squad group chat, though, was another story.

Pikachu: BROOOOOOO
Pikachu: HOLY FUCKING SHIT BRO
Pikachu: VOLTAGE SOLD OUT IN LESS THAN 2 HOURS
Pikachu: I’M FAMOUS
Pikachu: IM A CELEBRITY ⚡⚡⚡

Pinky: wait WAIT you’re serious???

Ears: …he’s serious. I just checked.

Tape: holy shit lmao 👀

Shitty Hair: aww i love u Kami LMFAO conrats

Tape: bro said conrats

Pinky: AHHHHHHH KAMI IM SO PROUD OF YOU 😭😭😭

Pikachu: I WENT FROM 14K TO 56K FOLLOWERS
Pikachu: FIFTY. SIX. THOUSAND.
Pikachu: I’M GONNA PASS BAKUGOU

Me: shut the fuck up

Pikachu: HE SPEAKS 👀👀👀

Me: don’t get cocky dumbass

Me: you’ll fry your brain before you hit 60k

Pikachu: ur just mad my fanclub is bigger than yours rn 😌

Me: i’ll fucking kill you

Tape: nah but for real this is wild

Tape: gz is set for life.

Tape: ACTUALLY NGL i know bakugou rich asf rn

Ears: no fr wheres our share?

Shitty Hair: we get money from it 

Pikachu: L bozos he picked his favs first

Tape: man wtf :(

Pinky: Aww Kami take it back i feel bad and thats not true he loves us all equally

Pikachu: no, he loves kiri the most and then its the rest of us having to fight it out

Shitty Hair: thats not even rteu 

Shitty Hair: stfu Sero

Tape: bro i didnt even say nothing 

Me: If I were going by favorites u would be last pikachu

Tape: haha (pick me next pls)

The success of Voltage granted him an evening off, no PR meetings, no anything, just him and Kirishima awkwardly sharing a space.  Bakugou busied himself with the plates like it mattered. Clattering forks, stacking bowls, pretending the heat in his chest wasn’t there just from the sound of Kirishima’s sigh behind him. He told himself it was just food. He’d made enough for both of them because it was easier than making half. That was it. Nothing more.

Kirishima was hunched on the couch in the living room, phone in his hand, thumb scrolling aimlessly. His other hand tugged absently at his hair, red strands already sticking up more than usual, his jaw tight, one shoulder rolling forward like he was trying to shake off some invisible weight. Bakugou came out of the kitchen with two plates balanced in his hands, muttering under his breath about how he wasn’t a damn waiter.  “Hey,” Bakugou set the plate down on the coffee table in front of him with a sharp clack. “I made food.”

“Thanks,” Kirishima said absently, eyes never leaving his screen. He didn’t even reach for the plate, thumb still scrolling, shoulders hiked high like his whole body was clenched.

Bakugou didn’t sit. Just stood there, arms crossed, watching the way Kirishima’s mouth pressed flat, the way his teeth caught on the inside of his cheek. The way his shoulder rolled was bugging him, but he wouldn’t do anything about it. Bakugou leaned against the edge of the counter, arms crossed, pretending not to be watching him. Kirishima’s sigh was heavy enough to carry across the whole room, the sound sharp in the dim quiet. He finally shut his phone off, dropping it onto the cushion beside him like it weighed a hundred pounds. His hand dragged down his face, and when he glanced over, his expression shifted—softening just a fraction, enough to cut the tension sitting between them.

“What?” Kirishima asked, voice low, and softer than Bakugou expected.

That softness cracked something open in him. It gave him just enough cover to follow that damned echo in his head—Izuku’s stupid voice nagging him: show you care. He swallowed hard, mouth dry, and managed, “What’s wrong with your shoulder?”

Kirishima blinked, caught off guard, before his hand came up to rub at the spot like he hadn’t even noticed he’d been doing it. “I don’t know, it’s tight, I guess. And—” He paused, words catching on his tongue, hesitation flickering across his face like he was weighing whether he should even say it, but he pushed on anyway, stumbling through. “And they keep switching my schedule around. It’s annoying, you know? I just… I want something more solid.”

Bakugou didn’t answer. He didn’t trust his mouth not to fuck it up. He just set down his own plate onto the cluttered coffee table, not caring when it clattered against a stack of unopened mail. His eyes stayed on Kirishima—his tense jaw, the frustrated pinch of his brows, the way his broad shoulders carried the weight of everything like it was welded onto him. Kirishima kept going, half-ranting now, voice pitching a little as he waved a hand to emphasize each complaint. Bakugou moved. Slowly, deliberately, circling the couch like he was approaching Brick after the damn cat had spooked himself. Careful, like if he came in too fast, Kirishima would bolt.

He stopped just behind the couch, hovering a beat too long, breath lodged tight in his chest. Then he did it anyway—set his hands on Kirishima’s shoulders, thumbs pressing into the knots hard enough to earn a startled sound. Kirishima cut himself off mid-sentence, the words breaking into a low, unguarded noise—half a groan, half relief. His head dropped forward, and his hand came up, almost like he was going to pull Bakugou’s away. Instead, he hesitated. Fingers flexing once against Bakugou’s wrist before retreating.

“You don’t have to do that,” he muttered, voice rough, but he was already leaning back into the pressure, already sighing like it was undoing something that had been wound tight for days. Bakugou pressed harder, thumbs kneading deep, scowl etched across his face even as his chest twisted with something hot and dangerous. Yeah. I don’t have to. But I want to.

“Whatever. You were saying?” Bakugou muttered, not willing to let the moment linger. Kirishima chuckled softly, more breath than sound, and kept talking. His voice filled the space again—about schedules, about how the agency was jerking him around, about how he wanted consistency. It was steady, but it kept catching, breaking off into sharp exhales when Bakugou hit a knot dead-on. Those little sounds dug under Bakugou’s skin like splinters, and he clenched his jaw, forcing himself not to notice. Not to linger.

He pressed harder into one shoulder, the muscle giving just enough beneath his thumb to earn another breathless hitch. His other hand slipped as he leaned into the pressure, fingers dragging down across the curve of Kirishima’s chest before bracing there. It wasn’t meant to be anything—it was just leverage. Just better balance. That’s all. Kirishima’s words trailed off, his body going still beneath him. Then—slow, deliberate—Kirishima’s hand came up. Big and warm, it slid over Bakugou’s where it rested against his chest, covering it, holding it there.

The air punched out of Bakugou’s lungs. His heart lurched into his throat, pounding so loud he was sure Kirishima could feel it through his back. He should’ve pulled away—should’ve said something sharp, something to cut the weight of it—but his hands didn’t move. His thumbs kept moving over Kirishima’s shoulder, slower now, deliberate, while his palm stayed flat against the rise of his chest, caught under Kirishima’s hand. The silence between them thickened. Kirishima’s phone was abandoned on the couch cushion, forgotten. His sigh was low, heavy, breaking the quiet as he leaned back just slightly into Bakugou’s touch.

Bakugou leaned in without meaning to, his shoulders hunching as he pressed harder into the knot, his body curving over the back of the couch. His head dipped close, close enough that the heat rolling off Kirishima brushed against his cheek, close enough that his breath tangled with Kirishima’s hair. He let out another long breath, his hand still holding Bakugou’s against his chest, and then, like he’d made a decision, he reached up and caught Bakugou’s hand, messaging him too—pulling it down, pressing it flat against his chest, right over the steady pound of his heart.

Bakugou froze, the world narrowing to the press of Kirishima’s heartbeat under both his palms. He hadn’t realized how close he’d gotten until Kirishima turned his head, red-tipped black hair falling into his face, eyes catching the dim light. Their noses almost brushed. Kirishima’s gaze searched his like he was looking for something buried there, something Bakugou wasn’t sure he knew how to give. His lashes cast shadows across his cheeks, his lips parted just slightly, and it made Bakugou’s stomach twist sharply and hot.

Bakugou’s thoughts were a mess, crowding in on each other, sharp and frantic: am I supposed to stop this? His palms were flat against Kirishima’s chest, feeling every solid beat of his heart, and all he could see were his lips—red, soft, parted like they were waiting. He didn’t even realize he was leaning until the distance closed, until his mouth brushed Kirishima’s.

Kirishima kissed back instantly, like there was never any question, no hesitation at all. And of course they’d find themselves here again—pulled together like a storm, but this wasn’t the same as the alleyway, wasn’t the same furious crash that had left them both raw and aching. This kiss carried weight, dangerous and sweet, heavier than he was ready for. Bakugou felt it in the way Kirishima’s breath caught, in the way his hand tightened over Bakugou’s. He let out a sound against his mouth—soft, needy—and something in Bakugou snapped. He bit down, sharp, on Kirishima’s lower lip until he opened for him, until he could shove his tongue past, greedy and immediate.

Kirishima moaned into it, low and rough, and Bakugou swallowed it whole. His heart hammered against his ribs like it was trying to break free, every inch of him burning with want, with need, with the sharp-edged truth that resisting him had never been an option. How the hell was he ever supposed to resist this? The kiss had barely settled before Bakugou’s body decided for him. One second, he was bent over the back of the couch; the next, he was vaulting it, landing in a graceless sprawl across Kirishima’s lap.

Kirishima startled, a sharp huff of laughter breaking from his chest as he grabbed at Bakugou’s sides to steady him. “What the hell—”

The sound of it—bright, unguarded—hit Bakugou harder than it should’ve. He relished it, clung to it for the half-second it lasted, and then he crushed his mouth back against Kirishima’s. This kiss was rougher, heavier, full of teeth. Bakugou pushed in hard, straddling him fully on the couch, knees sinking into the cushions, the plate of food on the table completely forgotten. Kirishima’s laugh dissolved into a moan against his mouth, one hand flying up to tangle in his hair, the other gripping his waist tight like he wasn’t planning to let go.

Bakugou kissed him until his lungs burned, until he was dizzy from lack of air, then dragged his mouth down, down, down the sharp cut of Kirishima’s jaw. His teeth caught the edge of his skin, tugging hard enough to make Kirishima’s chest stutter up into him. “Mmm, Katsuki—” Kirishima’s head tipped back against the couch, throat exposed, voice breaking when Bakugou bit down hard just below his ear.

“Hold still,” Bakugou growled against his skin, one hand fisting tight in the back of Kirishima’s hair, the other pressed flat to his chest to keep him pinned. Kirishima writhed anyway, shoulders hunching, hips shifting beneath Bakugou’s weight, but he couldn’t escape. Every move only made Bakugou latch on harder, sucking another mark into his throat. Kirishima groaned, deep and desperate, his hands twitching uselessly against Bakugou’s thighs like he didn’t know whether to push him off or pull him closer.

“That one’s for what you did to my neck,” Bakugou muttered darkly, dragging his tongue over the mark before biting down again, harder. Kirishima choked out a moan, thighs trembling under him.

Bakugou’s teeth sank into the soft junction between his neck and his collarbone, sucking until the blood rose hot and purple beneath his mouth. Kirishima’s voice cracked, raw, his hands gripping tight at Bakugou’s hips now, trying to ground himself. Bakugou pulled back just long enough to admire the constellation of bruises blooming across his throat. The sight made his chest swell, made his cock twitch in his sweats. Bakugou didn’t stop at his neck. His hands shoved rough at Kirishima’s shirt until the fabric bunched under his arms, then stripped it clean off, tossing it somewhere behind the couch without a second thought. Kirishima made a startled sound, but it turned into a groan when Bakugou yanked his own shirt over his head in one angry motion, chest heaving, eyes burning down at him.

“Lay the fuck down,” Bakugou muttered, pressing him back into the couch cushions until Kirishima had no choice but to obey.

Kirishima’s broad chest was flushed already, rising and falling quickly under Bakugou’s mouth as he dragged his tongue across his pecs, biting sharply at the swell of muscle just to hear him gasp. His hand pinned Kirishima’s wrists above his head, keeping him trapped as he licked hot stripes across his chest, his stomach, then bit down hard enough to make Kirishima hiss.

“F-fuck, Katsuki—”

Bakugou pulled back just long enough to sneer down at him, lips wet, his teeth bared. “You realize everyone’s gonna see this, right? Every damn mark,” he bit at his chest again, tugging skin between his teeth until Kirishima groaned, head lolling back. “Your hero costume barely covers shit. They’ll all know exactly what you are.”

Kirishima’s body arched under him, breath shuddering, pupils blown wide as he tried to stammer out something, anything, but another moan broke it off. Bakugou smirked cruelly, leaning in to nip at the center of his chest before soothing it with his tongue. His voice came low, taunting, right against Kirishima’s skin. "Let ‘em think Red Riot’s a fucking slut.” Kirishima choked out a groan, his free hand clutching at Bakugou’s side like it was the only thing holding him together. Bakugou kissed, bit, licked his way across every inch of him, deliberate and unrelenting, painting him in bruises only he could claim.

Kirishima’s breath stuttered, a broken laugh leaving him even as his chest heaved. His hand clutched harder at Bakugou’s side, nails digging in just a little when Bakugou bit down again. “Y-yeah,” he rasped, voice wrecked already, “for you.”

Bakugou froze for half a second, lips still pressed hot to his chest, then pulled back just enough to see his face. Kirishima’s grin was dazed, crooked, but his eyes—fuck, those eyes—burned up at him, steady and sure. He was egging him on, clear as day. “If you want me to be your slut, Katsuki,” he panted, “I’ll be that for you.”

Something in Bakugou’s stomach twisted hot and dangerous. His heart slammed so hard it hurt, but instead of flinching back, instead of choking on it like he normally would—he leaned in closer, his voice low, sharp, shaking with the weight of it.

“You’re saying that like you haven’t always been mine” Bakugou muttered, dragging his teeth down Kirishima’s chest until the other man hissed.

Kirishima’s laugh broke halfway through, his breath catching as Bakugou bit at his collarbone. “Y-yeah, yes—fuck, Katsuki.”

Bakugou’s lips curved against his skin, his words spilling out rough, dangerous. “Good, at least you’re honest about it.” Kirishima groaned, clutching harder at his side, his nails digging in as he arched up into him. The sound made Bakugou’s pulse spike, heat curling low and sharp in his gut. Bakugou’s fingers stilled where they gripped his side, his mouth pulling away just long enough to take in the mess of red marks already spreading down Kirishima’s chest. Bite-shaped bruises, swollen lines of teeth, the glint of spit left behind. He’d done that—he’d put that there, and something ugly-sweet twisted in his gut, satisfaction burning hotter than pride.

He shifted, dragging his palm down over Kirishima’s stomach until it met the edge of his belt. The faint jingle of the buckle cut through the silence, and Bakugou’s smirk ghosted across his face before he even realized it. He didn’t take it off yet, only playing with it.  Kirishima didn’t move, didn’t push, didn’t beg. He just… waited. Arms stretched lazily above his head, wrists bent against the couch cushions like he was bound there, his chest still rising and falling hard. His mouth hung open, breath catching, but his eyes—his goddamn eyes—never left Bakugou’s, steady and locked, peering at him from under dark lashes.

Bakugou’s throat tightened, heat kicking low. He hooked a finger into the belt loop, tugging once, sharp. “You just gonna lie there?”

Kirishima’s grin curved slowly, lips wrecked and red, voice low but sure. “You tell me.”

Bakugou’s eyes locked on that grin, the one that made his blood boil and his chest ache all at once. His jaw ticked, that smug little curve on Kirishima’s mouth made his pulse hammer. You tell me. Fucking brat.

Bakugou tugged at the front of Kirishima’s belt until the bastard was sitting upright, then stepped back himself, pushing to his feet. He stood there for a beat, towering over him, letting the silence stretch until he knew Kirishima could feel it, could feel him looking down at him like that. For a second, the big idiot looked confused, brows knit like he thought Bakugou was about to shove him toward the kitchen, toward the food waiting forgotten. Then Bakugou tilted his head down, eyes narrowing, voice low, calm, dangerous in the way it carried no bite, no bark—just weight.

“Get on your knees.”

Kirishima froze for a half-second, his grin faltering into something rawer. His chest rose with a sharp inhale, shoulders tense before he let them drop again, steadying himself. Then, without breaking eye contact, he sank back down, kneeling on the floor, those red-tipped strands falling into his face as he looked up through them. Bakugou’s breath hitched despite himself. His fists curled tight at his sides to keep steady, because the sight of Kirishima—kneeling for him, waiting, trusting—did something brutal and beautiful to his chest.

“You’re not smiling now,” Bakugou muttered, crouching just enough to curl his fingers into Kirishima’s hair, testing the weight of the moment. Kirishima’s lips parted, breath warm against his skin as his grin returned, softer this time, unsteady at the edges.  Bakugou’s thumb dragged slowly across his temple. He didn’t even mean to make it gentle, but it was, and the silence stretched so long he felt it claw down his throat. He should’ve pulled back, should’ve broken the tension before it drowned them both. Instead, he leaned into it.

“Take my pants off,” he said, just laid out flat between them, heavy and unshakable. Kirishima froze, breath catching, his grin faltering at the edges. For a second, he just looked up at him — lashes low, eyes dark, searching Bakugou’s face like he was waiting for the punchline. There wasn’t one. Bakugou’s stomach pulled tight, his pulse drumming loud in his ears. He didn’t back down.

Kirishima’s hands moved, slow but certain, brushing warm against his hips as he reached for the buckle. Careful, deliberate, like he was handling something breakable. Bakugou hissed a breath through his teeth, every nerve alive when the jeans slipped loose, taking his underwear with it. His lips curved sharply against his will — because yeah, that was proof enough. Kirishima sat back once the denim hit the floor, his hands falling away, hovering uselessly in his lap. He didn’t move, didn’t reach — just looked up at him through those lashes, his mouth twitching at the corner like he was fighting a grin. One brow arched, head tilted, like he was daring him to follow through.

Bakugou’s stomach pulled tighter, heat dragging sharply through his veins. Always had to test him, always had to push and see if he’d fold. The worst part was he wasn’t even saying anything — just sitting there, patient as hell, as if Bakugou was the one who had to prove something. His jaw clenched, teeth grinding like he could bite back the heat crawling under his skin. He dragged his fingers deeper into Kirishima’s hair, yanking his head back just enough to see that smirk falter, and fuck—finally. At least he could wipe that cocky shit off his face.

Kirishima’s breath hitched, chest rising sharply before he let it out in a shaky exhale. Then, without a word, he parted his mouth—open, willing, fucking waiting for him.

Bakugou sucked in a breath through his teeth, pulse slamming hard in his ears. Jesus fucking Christ. Kirishima might actually be a slut. The thought shot through him, twisting his gut hot, and it almost—almost—pulled a laugh out of him. Instead, a smirk tugged unsteadily at the edge of his mouth, because nobody would have expected this, not from him. Not from the idiot who smiled through everything, the one who always looked so fucking unshakable, but here he was—on his knees, eyes heavy, mouth open for his best friend.

Bakugou’s thumb slid between his lips before he could stop himself, and Kirishima sucked down immediately, no hesitation, tongue curling wet around it. The sight hit Bakugou like a fist, his breath catching rough in his throat. Yeah, he wasn’t much better—Kirishima had him flushed and wrecked before, splitting him open, making him fall apart in ways he hated admitting. This—this was different. When Kirishima let go of control, when he handed it over—he turned into something else entirely. Something filthy.

Bakugou didn’t even give himself time to think about it—he pressed forward, dragging his thumb free just as Kirishima leaned in, lips wrapping hot and wet around him without a flicker of hesitation. His whole body jerked, a harsh, broken groan tearing out of his chest before he could hold it back. “F—fuck,” he rasped, voice sharp and raw, one hand braced on the back of the couch, the other still tangled in Kirishima’s hair. His knees wobbled, breath stuttering out of him when that heat sank in deeper, tighter, the wet pull of his mouth dragging sparks all the way down Bakugou’s spine.

Kirishima’s tongue slid under him, teasing, and Bakugou’s head tipped back hard, his throat straining as another sound tore out of him—loud and shameless. He couldn’t help it; he was always loud, no matter how much he tried to grit his teeth around it, and Kirishima fucking knew it. Knew exactly how to push him there, how to wring it out of him. Bakugou hissed, eyes snapping back down, watching Kirishima sink further, cheeks hollowing, eyes heavy-lidded but locked up on him through his lashes. The sight nearly undid him on the spot. A desperate noise clawed out of his chest, his hips bucking shallow before he forced them still, gripping Kirishima’s hair like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

Bakugou’s breath dragged rough through his teeth, every nerve sparking hot as Kirishima’s mouth sank down around him. His grip stayed firm in his hair, guiding, steady, not letting him get ahead of himself. A broken groan tore out anyway, loud and guttural, echoing off the walls. “Shit—yeah, that’s it,” he muttered, voice low but cutting, like he couldn’t stop himself. His chest heaved, his head tipping back before he forced his gaze down again, sharp and unrelenting. “Look at you, taking it so fucking good.”

Kirishima made a sound around him—half-moan, half-choke—that vibrated straight through Bakugou’s body, setting every nerve alight. His control slipped; his hips snapped forward, sharp and hungry, forcing Kirishima to take more, and he did. Throat goddamn perfect, swallowing him down like it was nothing. Bakugou’s head dropped back with a guttural groan, hand tightening in Kirishima’s hair as his grin twisted into something dangerous. “Fuck—that’s it. You’re so fucking good, Eijirou,” he rasped, voice breaking low as his hips pushed in again, harder this time. “Taking my cock so well.”

Kirishima’s throat worked, another wet sound muffled around him, and Bakugou swore under his breath, his chest heaving. He dragged his eyes back down, unwilling to miss a second of it, watching Kirishima look up at him through his lashes, cheeks flushed, lips stretched obscenely around him. Bakugou’s restraint cracked. His hips snapped forward again, harder this time, the sound of it wet and obscene as he drove deeper into Kirishima’s throat. The vibration of another muffled groan shot straight through him, and Bakugou swore viciously, his hand fisting tighter in his hair, dragging him closer, holding him there.

“Fuck, Eijirou—” his voice ripped out, rough, broken at the edges. His chest heaved, sweat beading at his temples as he thrust again, sharp and relentless. “Goddamn throat on you—taking it like it’s nothing.”

Kirishima did, no gag, no pushback—just his wide eyes staring up, steady and unwavering, his throat working to swallow him down. Bakugou nearly lost his balance, knees buckling with the sight, with the way Kirishima’s nails dug hard into his thighs for an anchor, his body straining but never pulling away. “You’re fucking insane,” he groaned, hips grinding deep, his jaw clenched tight like he could hold himself together. “Look at you—god, you’re perfect. Made to choke on my cock, huh?”

Another wrecked sound vibrated around him, and Bakugou’s control shredded further. He was loud now, groans ripping out of his chest, every word filth and praise tangled together. “Shit, Ei—don’t fucking stop.”

Bakugou’s rhythm stuttered, broke into something ragged and unhinged, each thrust sharper than the last. His breath tore out of him in raw groans, the sound echoing harshly off the apartment walls, breathy and shameless. Kirishima took it, every bit of it, eyes glassy and lips stretched around him, throat working greedily. Bakugou’s vision blurred at the edges, white heat building so fast it was almost unbearable. His head dropped back, a snarl tearing free. “Fuck—Eijirou, shit—” His grip in his hair tightened cruelly, dragging him flush, burying himself down until he swore he could feel every muscle of Kirishima’s throat straining around him. Kirishima didn’t falter, he swallowed around him instead.

That was it. Bakugou shattered. His whole body jerked, mouth falling open on a broken groan as release ripped through him. His hips stuttered helplessly, pressing deep one last time before he spilled hot down his throat. His voice carried through it all, curses and praise tangled together, rough and desperate. “God—Eijirou—you’re so fucking good, you’re perfect—fuck—”

Kirishima only held on tighter, nails biting crescents into his thighs, swallowing everything he gave him, like it was nothing, like he was made for it. Bakugou’s knees nearly gave out, a shaking laugh escaping him, sharp and breathless. His chest heaved as he finally dragged Kirishima off him by the hair, cock slipping free with a wet, obscene sound. Kirishima’s lips were red and swollen, spit shining down his chin, and he had the audacity to grin up at him—wrecked and triumphant.

Bakugou was still breathing hard, every muscle strung tight as his eyes locked on Kirishima’s. His chest rose and fell, the silence between them thick except for the faint, wet sound of Kirishima dragging the back of his hand across his swollen mouth. Bakugou shook his head slowly, like he couldn’t fucking believe what he’d just seen. “You’re an actual… like—slut,” he muttered, emphasis cutting sharp through his ragged voice.

Kirishima only grinned wider, eyes bright even through the wreck of his face. “Was it good?” he asked, and his voice was so open, so damn earnest that it made Bakugou’s pulse kick hard all over again.

Bakugou scoffed, heat rising in his chest, but the disbelief was still written all over him. “Good? You’re a fucking freak.”

Kirishima laughed, the sound rough, cracked, but warm as hell. He tilted his head, smile softening just a little. “I like to pleasure people,” he said simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. His gaze held steady, locked on Bakugou’s face. “I like to make you feel good.”

Bakugou reached out, his palm steady when he clasped Kirishima’s hand and hauled him up from the floor. Kirishima wobbled a little, still catching his breath, but the grin never left his face. Bakugou didn’t let go until he pressed a quick kiss against his lips, rough but grounding, and then guided him back down onto the couch. “I’ll be right back,” he muttered, already turning on his heel before Kirishima could ask.

By the time he came back out of the bedroom, a small bottle in hand, Kirishima’s brows lifted, his mouth parting in surprise. “Katsuki—” he started, voice still wrecked, but Bakugou was already shaking his head, sharp and sure.

“Relax, Eijirou,” he cut in, his tone steady in a way that made Kirishima’s breath catch. He set the bottle on the coffee table with a thunk and leaned over him, eyes burning with intent. “I want to make you feel good too.”

Bakugou settled onto the floor, knees pressing into the rug as he leaned forward, braced between Kirishima’s thighs. From down here, the view was obscene—Kirishima sprawled back against the couch, chest still flushed, his cock straining heavily against his stomach. Bakugou narrowed his eyes, heat curling sharply in his gut. “Tch.” His hand slid up Kirishima’s thigh, squeezing hard enough to make him jolt. “You’re fucking hard as a rock already.”

Kirishima laughed breathlessly, head tipping back against the couch cushion. “Can’t help it,” he rasped, dragging a hand through his messy black-and-red hair. “You do this to me.”

Bakugou clicked his tongue, leaning closer, close enough that his breath brushed the inside of Kirishima’s thigh. He wrapped a slicked hand around him in one smooth motion, grip tight, deliberate. Kirishima’s whole body lurched, a broken sound spilling out of him before he could stop it. “Shit,” Bakugou muttered, watching the way his cock jerked under the touch, precum slicking his palm instantly. He smirked, lips curling sharply. “You weren’t kidding—you’re already close, aren’t you?”

Kirishima’s laugh stuttered, cut in half by a groan. He looked down at Bakugou through his lashes, eyes dark, mouth parted like he was caught between admitting it and trying to hold it back. “...Yeah,” he finally breathed, voice rough.

Bakugou slicked his hand again, running his palm down the length of Kirishima’s cock in one long stroke before pulling away just as his hips bucked up to meet it. Kirishima let out a raw, frustrated moan, his head falling back against the couch, breath stuttering like he could reel himself back in. Bakugou leaned back on his heels, hand hovering just out of reach, watching Kirishima’s thighs tense, his cock twitch helplessly. The sound of him chasing it — that choked little groan, the way his body moved without him thinking — lit something hot in Bakugou’s chest.

“Fuck,” he muttered, voice low and incredulous, a sharp grin pulling at his mouth. His eyes dragged over Kirishima, flushed and needy, wrecked just from a little teasing. “Look at you.”

“Please,” Kirishima rasped, his voice cracking on it, head tilted back against the couch like he couldn’t bear another second of Bakugou’s hand hovering uselessly above him. His chest heaved, sweat beading at his hairline. “Please don’t tease me.”

Bakugou’s grin sharpened, cruel and slow, his thumb brushing just barely over the tip before pulling away again, watching the way Kirishima jolted, chasing the contact. “Why the hell shouldn’t I?” he muttered, his voice low and cutting, but his pulse hammered so hard it felt like it would bruise his ribs.

Kirishima dragged his eyes open, fixing him with a wrecked, glassy stare that still burned hot through his lashes. “Because I was so good for you earlier,” he panted, the words falling out in a shameless groan.  Bakugou’s throat went dry, his grip faltering for half a second before tightening, his smirk slipping into something darker, hungrier. Fuck.

“You’re right,” he ground out, his voice rough, eyes locked on the desperate rise and fall of Kirishima’s chest. His hand wrapped around him fully now, no more teasing, slick and merciless as he started to stroke him in earnest. “You should get to cum then. You deserve it.”

Kirishima’s whole body jolted at the words, a ragged sound tearing out of him as he bucked up into Bakugou’s fist, the couch creaking under the force of it. His fingers clawed at the cushions, searching for something to anchor himself to, but Bakugou wasn’t giving him any ground. His strokes were relentless—tight, fast, designed to tear through whatever self-control Kirishima thought he had left. “F-fuck, Katsuki—” His voice cracked high, trembling on the edge. His legs spread wider without him even realizing, giving Bakugou more room to work him over, his hips chasing every brutal drag of his hand. Sweat glistened at his temples, his hair falling into his face as he gasped, moaned, begged in broken bursts of sound.

Bakugou leaned in closer, lips brushing his ear, his voice low and lethal. “Look at you. You’re shaking already. Gonna fall apart in my hand, huh?” He squeezed tighter on the upstroke, dragging his thumb hard across the head, slick and obscene. His thighs shook, toes curling against the floor, and still—still he tried to drag it out, sucking in shaky breaths, biting down hard on his lip as if he could force his body to obey. Bakugou caught it instantly, the way his abs tensed, the way he shook his head like he was fighting himself. “Don’t you fucking dare,” Bakugou said, leaning in, his strokes sharper, faster, tearing through every scrap of restraint. “Don’t hold back on me, you deserve it, Eijirou. You’ve been so good—fucking perfect—so cum for me.”

Kirishima broke with a sound that wasn’t quite a moan, wasn’t quite a curse—something caught between the two, strangled and raw. His head fell back against the couch, throat bared, every muscle standing out as his hips snapped helplessly into Bakugou’s fist. His hands scrabbled at the cushions, one slipping down like he wanted to grab Bakugou’s wrist but couldn’t quite find the strength.

“Fuck—fuck, Katsuki—” His voice cracked, high and desperate, every syllable trembling. His chest heaved, muscles drawn taut as the shudder ripped through him, hot and blinding, spilling across his stomach in thick, messy ropes. Bakugou stroked him through it, relentless, watching the way Kirishima’s mouth fell open, his head thrown back against the couch, throat bare and shining with sweat. His chest heaved, breath breaking in jagged stutters that only got wilder when Bakugou didn’t stop.

Kirishima’s hands shot down, clumsy, trying to catch his wrist, but Bakugou slapped them away with a sharp smack, never once breaking rhythm. He wanted to watch him writhe, and god, he did—hips jerking up against Bakugou’s fist, every muscle drawn tight, sweat rolling down his temples. That’s when it hit—the sound. The first real whimper. Low, broken, catching on his tongue like he hated giving it up but couldn’t bite it back.

“Fuck—fuck, holy shit—I can’t—” Kirishima gasped, his voice cracking, eyes squeezed shut as his body shuddered under the pace.

Bakugou tilted his head, a smirk pulling at his mouth, feigning innocence even as his strokes turned sharper. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he drawled, leaning closer so his breath ghosted Kirishima’s ear. “I thought you wanted to last a bit longer?”

The sound Kirishima made in response was somewhere between a moan and a sob, desperate and ruined, his hips grinding up against Bakugou’s hand like his body had already given up on restraint. Kirishima’s eyes cracked open, glassy and wild, and for half a second they locked with Bakugou’s. The look he gave him—ragged, strung-out, desperate—said everything he didn’t manage to choke out: you’re fucking evil. But the eye contact shattered quickly, Kirishima’s lashes fluttering, his head tossing back as another wrecked sound tore out of him. His hips twisted helplessly, fighting and chasing at the same time, his body betraying him.

Bakugou snorted, sharp and amused, and shifted, climbing up onto the couch so he could get a better angle, a stronger grip. Kirishima let himself fall back against the cushions, chest heaving, every muscle drawn taut. His thighs shook under Bakugou’s weight, and still—still—he gave in, laying himself out like an offering, mouth open, breath caught on broken gasps.

“Keep your hands up,” Bakugou ordered, voice low, lethal, as his strokes picked up pace again. He tilted his head toward the armrest, his grin razor-sharp. “Above your head and don’t fucking move them.”

Kirishima’s hands twitched at his sides, caught in the tremor of overstimulation, but he obeyed—lifting them slowly, shakily, lacing them together behind his head like he was holding himself down. The motion only made his chest stretch tighter, ribs flaring, his body on full display beneath Bakugou’s hand. “Good,” Bakugou muttered, settling against him, his grip steady and merciless. He dragged his thumb hard across the head, slick and obscene, watching the way Kirishima jolted, his mouth falling open on another helpless whimper. “Now stay like that.”

Bakugou’s strokes turned merciless, slick, and unrelenting, dragging Kirishima right back into the fire. His body jolted with every pull, thighs trembling so hard the couch creaked beneath them. His head tipped back, mouth slack, and the noises pouring out of him weren’t words anymore—just broken whimpers and breathless moans that spilled free no matter how hard he tried to bite them back.

Fuck, he didn’t even try to stop it. He didn’t beg, didn’t plead for a reprieve. He just took it—every brutal stroke, every twist of Bakugou’s wrist, every drag of his thumb over the flushed head. His hands stayed locked above his head like he’d been told, fingers white-knuckled, chest rising and falling in frantic stutters. Bakugou’s lips curved, sharp and satisfied, watching him unravel. “Look at you,” he muttered, voice low, taunting, cutting right into the haze. “Whimpering like a bitch and still fucking hard. You want it this bad, huh?”

Kirishima moaned, a ragged, broken sound, his hips jerking up into Bakugou’s fist like his body had already answered for him. His abs tightened, his breath hitching, another whimper escaping when Bakugou squeezed harder on the upstroke. Bakugou leaned in closer, his grin dangerous. “Can’t even stop yourself. You’d let me ruin you all night like this, wouldn’t you?”

The sound Kirishima gave back was choked, desperate, half-moan, half-laugh, like the question itself cut right through him. His eyes cracked open again, glassy and wrecked, and he nodded—actually fucking nodded—before his head fell back against the cushions again, another whimper tearing free. Bakugou’s chest clenched tight at the sight, heat spiking in his gut, but his hand never faltered. If anything, his strokes grew sharper, dragging out every last sound Kirishima had to give, determined to watch him fall apart until there was nothing left but the raw, wrecked need he’d bared just for him.

Kirishima’s breath hitched, his whole body twitching under Bakugou’s hand. His head rolled against the couch, jaw slack, and his voice cracked through the wrecked noises spilling out of him. “K-Katsuki—fuck, I’m close—”

Bakugou’s grin sharpened immediately, his chest tightening at the way he said it like a confession, like he couldn’t stop himself from giving it up. He leaned in, his lips brushing Kirishima’s ear, voice low and cutting, but threaded through with something hot and reverent. “Yeah? You’re gonna cum for me again?” His strokes never faltered, slick and brutal, tearing through every ounce of Kirishima’s restraint. “Fuck—you’re so good for me, Eijirou. Taking it like this, whimpering like a slut and still holding your hands up like I told you.”

Kirishima groaned, his hips bucking hard, his voice breaking on a desperate sound that made Bakugou’s pulse hammer. His eyes fluttered open, glassy and dazed, searching Bakugou’s face like he needed to see him when it hit. “Fuck,” Bakugou rasped, his grip merciless, thumb pressing hard over the flushed head as his strokes tore through every shred of control Kirishima had left. 

Kirishima broke—his whole body arched up off the couch, muscles straining, eyes rolling back in his head. For a moment, he was silent, the force of it stealing his breath, his mouth open on nothing but air. Then it ripped out of him all at once, a moan so drawn out, so raw and obscene it vibrated in the pit of Bakugou’s chest. Cum spilled hot across his stomach again, his abs twitching with every spasm, his thighs shaking against the cushions. Bakugou didn’t stop. He stroked him through it, sharp and unrelenting, his smirk wicked as Kirishima writhed beneath him, wracked with aftershocks.

Kirishima’s body jolted, his voice cracking into a half-scream of frustration when the overstimulation hit like a truck. His hands clenched into the cushions above his head just like he’d been told, knuckles bone white, his chest heaving as he choked out another wrecked sound. “Fuck—fuck, Katsuki—” he gasped, eyes glassy, sweat dripping down his temple. He looked ruined, beautiful, torn apart, and put back together in Bakugou’s hands.

Kirishima’s legs kicked helplessly against the couch cushions, heels thudding a frantic rhythm into the floor as his body writhed. His head tipped back hard, throat working around choked moans that cracked sharply at the edges. He was gone, lost, trembling under Bakugou’s grip—sweat-slick, desperate, perfect. Finally—finally—Bakugou let go, his hand slipping away, slick and ruthless heat abandoned in an instant. “Okay,” he muttered, more to himself than anything, pulling back just enough to watch Kirishima’s chest heave. “Okay.”

Kirishima’s whole body sagged into the couch, boneless, his arms falling slack from where they’d been pressed above his head. His breaths tore out ragged, chest rising and falling hard, and then—through all that wreckage—he cracked a smile. “Holy shit,” he breathed, voice hoarse, his grin breaking wide even as his face glowed pink, sweat beading at his hairline. His laugh hitched on the exhale, wild and shaky, but real.

Bakugou leaned in, bracing one arm against the back of the couch as he caught his breath. Kirishima was still sprawled out, hair a mess, chest heaving, skin shining with sweat. He looked wrecked—completely undone—and for some reason, that soft grin was still clinging stubbornly to his lips. “Tch,” Bakugou snorted, low, brushing his mouth against his temple, then his cheek, then the sharp line of his jaw. “You’re fucking drenched. We’re gonna need a new couch after this shit.”

Kirishima only laughed, the sound broken but warm, his hand catching weakly at Bakugou’s wrist like he didn’t want him to move away. His eyes were half-lidded, shining through the mess of his lashes, looking at Bakugou like he hung the goddamn moon. Bakugou’s chest pulled tight, too tight, so he smothered it the only way he knew how—pressing more kisses against Kirishima’s damp skin, softer this time. His neck, his jaw, the corner of his mouth. All slow, lingering, almost tender. Bakugou pressed one last kiss to the corner of Kirishima’s mouth, catching the faint curve of his smile, and for a second—just a second—he let himself believe this meant something was repaired, that the weight between them had cracked apart along with Kirishima’s moans.

It hit him like a goddamn brick to the back of the skull. Kirishima hadn’t forgiven him. Not really. All of this—the kisses, the sounds, the way his body arched and gave—wasn’t the same as letting go of the shit they’d done to each other. It wasn’t words spoken, it wasn’t wounds healed. It was a temporary truce carved out in sweat and touch, and Bakugou knew it, knew it even as Kirishima leaned on him, sticky and trembling, that soft grin still lighting up his face like nothing had happened.

His chest twisted. He’d never wanted to hold onto something so bad, but the truth clawed at him, cold and merciless: he was still on thin ice. Still unforgiven, and if that didn’t make every soft kiss he pressed to Kirishima’s skin feel like a plea he wasn’t brave enough to say out loud. Bakugou sat back finally, dragging in a breath like he’d been underwater. He wanted to keep kissing him, wanted to keep burying himself in the heat of Kirishima’s skin until he forgot everything else—but that was the problem. If he stayed too close, he’d never say it. So he shifted, leaning away just enough to see him properly.

Kirishima lay there, chest heaving, hair plastered damp to his forehead, sweat slicking down his neck. His grin was soft and lazy, his whole body loose for once. Bakugou’s hand stayed heavy on his thigh, grounding him, while the other braced against the back of the couch. He couldn’t look away. Couldn’t swallow down the ache burning a hole through his chest.

“Eijirou?” he muttered, quieter than he meant. Kirishima’s head tilted, eyes cutting to him, still shining even in the dim light. “Hmm?” The sound was gentle, curious, like he expected something small. Bakugou’s mouth felt dry, his heart rattling too loud, but the words forced their way out anyway, sharp and raw. The sound was gentle, easy, curious — like he expected something small, something ordinary. Bakugou’s throat worked around the words that wouldn’t come. His pulse thundered, too loud, rattling his ribs. The room felt smaller suddenly, like the air itself had gone still, waiting. His hands twitched uselessly at his sides — wanting to move, to do something, to ground himself — but he couldn’t. Not with Kirishima looking at him like that. Not with all that quiet warmth still aimed his way, even after everything.

He wanted to say something else first. Anything else. A joke, a deflection, a curse to fill the space, but nothing came. He could feel the words pressing at the back of his teeth, heavy and electric, like they’d been sitting there for months just waiting for the right second to break through. He thought of every moment he didn’t say it — every time it hovered on his tongue and he swallowed it down, too angry, too proud, too scared. He thought of the alley, of the fights, of Kirishima showing up anyway. Of the way he always did. His chest ached with it. His heart felt like it was trying to claw its way out. He took a breath that didn’t feel like enough. His voice came out rough, unsteady, scraping up from somewhere deep.

“I still love you.”

Silence dropped heavy between them. Kirishima’s smile faltered, tightened, something unreadable flickering across his face. Bakugou’s pulse spiked—he almost cursed himself for saying it, for letting it slip out now of all times. Kirishima breathed out slowly, his expression softening, loosening into something that wasn’t quite a smile but still damn near broke Bakugou in half.

“I still love you, too, Katsuki.”

It didn’t fix anything. It wasn’t forgiveness, but it was real. For now, that was enough to knock the breath out of him.

The days after were unbearable. Not because they weren’t speaking — they were, in their own clipped, half-normal way. Not because they weren’t touching — hell, they had more than touched, the memory of Kirishima’s mouth still hitting Bakugou in flashes sharp enough to make his gut twist. It was the other thing. The silence that hung under it all. The wall he couldn’t punch through. They could kiss, they could fuck, they could even sit side by side on the couch eating noodles like nothing had happened — but Bakugou still felt it. That tightness in Kirishima’s smile, the pause before his laugh, the way his eyes softened but never fully. It was like walking through glass shards barefoot, pretending he didn’t feel the cuts.

Bakugou was fucking done with it.

He sat in his room, staring at the glow of his phone screen, thumb hovering over the squad group chat like he might throw a distraction at them just to get out of his own head. But no amount of Kaminari’s whining or Mina’s stupid memes was going to fix this. What good was it if Kirishima could let him split him open, mark his skin, kiss him until he was shaking — but still not forgive him?

Bakugou leaned against the railing outside their building, arms crossed tight, the night air brushing warm against his skin. The city was alive around him — traffic low and steady, a dog barking down the block, neon signs bleeding red and gold across the pavement. He’d been standing there long enough that his legs should’ve ached, but adrenaline kept him rooted, sharp and restless. He heard him before he saw him — Kirishima’s easy laugh tossed to whoever he’d been walking with, a coworker peeling off in the opposite direction. Then it was just him, hair still damp from the shower, uniform swapped out for a loose shirt and joggers, casual and perfect in the kind of way that always made Bakugou’s throat tight.

Kirishima spotted him instantly, slowing when he realized he was waiting. “Katsuki?” he asked, voice careful, curious, not guarded but not unguarded either.

“Walk with me,” Bakugou said. No bite, no bark. Just clipped, low.

Kirishima’s brows pulled slightly, but he nodded, falling into step beside him as they moved down the block. The night pressed close, warm, their shoulders brushing once, twice, before Bakugou finally exhaled sharply through his nose. He chose the street on purpose. Out here, under the yellow glow of the streetlights, there was no room for slammed doors or shouting matches, no chance of him losing his temper in a way he couldn’t take back. The air was warm with spring, sticky at the collar of his shirt, but his jaw was tight enough to ache, his gaze fixed anywhere but on Kirishima.

Kirishima didn’t push. He didn’t have to. The quiet patience in the way he walked beside him, the steady weight of his presence, was enough to make Bakugou feel flayed open. He knew what this was. Of course he did. He always fucking knew.

They stopped outside the corner store, the one they’d all raided a thousand times for chips and drinks after patrol. The owner, an older man with silver hair and a permanent smile, gave them a small wave before turning the lock, pulling the grate down with a rattle. Bakugou blinked, realizing too late how late it had gotten, how long he’d been chewing on this in his head. The sound of the grate sliding home was swallowed by the hum of the street. Kirishima waited, hands shoved in his pockets, patient as ever. Bakugou could feel it pressing in on him — that patience, that quiet understanding. He didn’t deserve it.

His breath left him sharp, more like a growl than a sigh. “I can’t do this anymore,” he muttered, eyes locked on the dark windows of the shop instead of Kirishima’s face. “This—whatever the fuck we have going on.”

Bakugou’s mouth was dry, but the words tore out anyway, flat and lethal. “Have sex. I don’t want to have sex with you anymore. This… friends with benefits shit.”

The air seemed to snap cold around them. The easy hum of spring crickets, the faint rumble of traffic, it all pressed in too sharply, too loudly, as Bakugou watched Kirishima cycle through seventeen different emotions in the span of a breath — confusion, hurt, anger, panic, all flashing across his face before he finally forced his gaze down to the pavement. “Okay,” Kirishima muttered, rough, like it scraped his throat. “Shit, okay. Yeah. Um.” He shifted on his feet, one hand twitching like he didn’t know what to do with it. He wouldn’t look up, wouldn’t give Bakugou anything but the sight of his stupid red hair falling into his face.

Bakugou let it hang for a beat, let the discomfort twist sharp between them, watched him squirm like maybe that would finally even the score. But it didn’t. It never fucking did. So he shoved the knife in deeper.

“I don’t want to keep having sex with you if you can’t forgive me, Eijirou.”

That was what finally snapped Kirishima’s head up, his eyes wide, bright under the streetlights, like Bakugou had just ripped the ground out from under him. “We’re being fucking stupid,” Bakugou ground out, the words harsher than he meant but truer than anything else. “It’s hurting me, it’s hurting you to keep messing around with… all this unresolved shit in the air.”

Kirishima’s chest heaved, his brows pinched tight, concern bleeding through every line of his face. “I never wanted to hurt you.”

“I fucking know that, Ei,” Bakugou snapped, voice cracking sharply at the edges. His hands curled into fists at his sides, the spring wind tugging at his hair. “Which is why we need to stop.”

The silence that followed pressed heavy, thick as the night around them. Kirishima dug his feet into the pavement, jaw working, his face twisted into some impossible expression Bakugou couldn’t read. He shook his head, breath shuddering before the words tumbled out low, stubborn. “I can’t stop. I don’t—” his voice broke, and then steadied. “I don’t want to stop.”

Bakugou’s throat worked, his chest aching with something he couldn’t spit out. His glare faltered, his voice dropping rough and final. “Then you’re just being greedy.”

Kirishima’s eyes hardened. “Greedy?”

“Yes. Greedy.” Bakugou didn’t back down, glaring sharply under the streetlight.

The words hit the air like gunfire — sharp, controlled, deliberate. He meant them. It was greedy, wasn’t it? Wanting more when everything was already cracked to hell. Acting like things were fine when they weren’t. Pretending they could still touch without reopening every wound between them. He could see it in Kirishima’s face — that same desperate pull, that hunger for something normal, something warm. But Bakugou couldn’t do normal. Not with him. Not anymore. Not when every brush of skin, every look, every goddamn breath between them felt like walking into a fire they’d never come back from.

He was sick of pretending, sick of holding the line when Kirishima kept inching past it like he didn’t see the edge. Sick of trying to hold himself together while the person he wanted most refused to stop asking for more. Yeah — it was greedy, and Bakugou was done pretending it wasn’t. For a second, Kirishima just stared at him, like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Then his mouth twisted. “That’s bullshit.”

Bakugou’s jaw clenched. “It’s the truth.”

“No, the truth is you don’t get to call me greedy when you’re the one who keeps pulling me back in. You kiss me, we fuck, you—” his voice cracked, anger spilling through it, “—you tell me I’m yours, Katsuki, and then you stand here acting like I’m the problem?”

The words hit sharper than Bakugou expected, making his stomach knot. “I never said you were the problem,” he growled.

“You just called me greedy,” Kirishima shot back.

“Fuck, Eijirou- why do you always have to argue like a fucking child-” Bakugou snapped.

Kirishima stepped in close, eyes hard, voice low but cutting. “Because you don’t actually listen unless I push back. You’d rather get pissed off at me than hear me out.”

“I’ve been fucking listening!” he roared, his voice breaking on the edge of desperation. “All I’ve fucking done is listen while you’ve paraded around angry for months! You think I didn’t hear every slammed door, every dish left in the sink, the fucking boots— everything?” 

His voice cracked hard, his throat raw. It wasn’t just yelling anymore — it was release. Every word came out too loud, too fast, like his body couldn’t keep up with the storm behind it. He’d tried. God, he’d tried. Tried to be patient. Tried to give Kirishima space, to let him be angry, to let him hate him if that’s what it took. Tried to prove he could sit in the wreckage without lashing out like before. It never stopped. The silence, the tension, the way Kirishima’s disappointment clung to him like smoke. He’d taken it all — every quiet punishment, every look that said you deserve this. He’d carried it like penance, waiting for it to mean something, waiting for it to be enough. Now the words were spilling out, unstoppable.

His hands balled into fists at his sides, jaw tight, teeth gritted so hard it ached. “I’ve shut the fuck up about it, because I knew I fucked up. I deserved it, but don’t stand here and tell me I don’t fucking listen, Eijirou—”

His voice cracked again, too sharp, too human. The air felt too thin to breathe. This — this was it. The point of no return. All the months of restraint, all the guilt and anger and love tangled up together — it was all right there, burning on his tongue. If Kirishima wanted the truth, then Bakugou was going to drag it into the light, even if it gutted them both. Kirishima’s jaw clenched, eyes burning. “I told you I needed space—”

“I gave you space—” Bakugou snapped, stabbing a finger at him.

“And now you’re fucking hounding me—” Kirishima started, his voice echoing. 

“Because we keep fucking—” Bakugou’s voice cracked, raw, desperate, angry. He cut himself off, fists curling at his sides. The rest didn’t need to be said.

Kirishima’s breath caught; his silence was answer enough. Bakugou scoffed, a harsh, ugly sound that scraped out of his throat. “I’m not here to fucking argue with you. I’m here to tell you it’s over, Eijirou—”

“It’s not going to be over,” Kirishima shot back immediately, his voice cracking but firm, stepping closer like he was afraid that if he didn’t, Bakugou would disappear. “No matter how many times you try to convince yourself it is. We… we should just be together—”

Bakugou froze. The words hit too close, too deep, echoing in the part of him that had never really stopped believing them. Kirishima was right. It wasn’t over. It could never really be over. He’d tried to end it — in words, in distance, in silence — but none of it ever fucking stuck. The world kept pulling them back into each other’s orbit, over and over, no matter how hard he fought it. Maybe that was the truth he’d been avoiding all along. That somewhere between every fight, every laugh, every quiet look that lasted too long, something in him had just… chosen.

Kirishima.

There’d never been anyone else. There never would be. He didn’t like other people that way — not like that, not like him. He never had. He didn’t even know how to want anyone else. It wasn’t in him. It never had been. The idea of anyone else felt wrong, empty, impossible. So when Kirishima said it — we should be together — Bakugou didn’t just hear a hope. He heard a fact. Something written into his bones. He dragged in a shaky breath, every word scraping its way up from the center of him, half snarl, half confession.

“Then fucking forgive me,” Bakugou snarled, the words almost a plea. “Forgive me and we can be together—”

“Katsuki, being together— that’s not even something I knew you wanted because you don’t talk to me.” Kirishima’s hands curled into fists at his sides, his breath coming fast.

“Because it’s hard for me!” Bakugou snapped, the word hard punching out of him like an explosion. “It’s fucking hard for me, and you know that. Fuck, you know that and you still—”

He broke off, chest heaving, his eyes flicking sideways at a couple passing them on the sidewalk. The strangers’ stares were wide, curious. Bakugou’s teeth clenched as he forced his voice lower, rougher, almost a growl. “—and you still hold what I said over me when you know I didn’t mean it.”

“I can’t just magically fix my feelings,” Kirishima burst out, voice cracking. His chest rose and fell hard, eyes shining even under the dim streetlight. “It cut deep because it was something I was already struggling with, and it—my anger, I know I was out of line with the petty shit, and I’m sorry, Katsuki, I’m so fucking sorry—”

Bakugou scoffed, sharp and dismissive, and it made Kirishima let out a frustrated sound, yanking his hands through his hair before turning away for half a second, like he needed to reset before he exploded. He spun back around, arms flung wide, voice booming down the street. “Why are you scoffing—”

“Because it’s all so ridiculous!” Bakugou shot back, his voice already breaking with heat. “I’m not mad at you for being petty—it was childish, sure, but I was petty right back! I forgive you! See how easy that was?”

“Katsuki—”

“No!” Bakugou snapped, cutting him off, stabbing a finger at his chest. “I’m so fucking fed up with this shit, Eijirou—”

He went to turn away, pivoting hard on his heel like he was going to storm off, but he whipped back around so fast Kirishima actually flinched, his jaw tight, his eyes blazing.

“You know I don’t ever fucking tell people I love them, Eijirou,” Bakugou spat, but his voice cracked halfway through, betraying him. “You know I’m not just saying it to say it. I want to be with you so bad—but it’s not right if you’re mad at me—”

The words tangled in his throat, too big, too raw, scraping their way out. He hated it. Hated the way his chest felt too tight for air, hated how his anger bled out of him too fast, leaving nothing but something ugly and fragile. The worst part—the part that made his stomach twist—was the way Kirishima’s face shifted. All that steel, all that heat, gone in a heartbeat. Softer now. Patient. Like he was holding Bakugou’s heart in his hands and didn’t even realize it. “God, you drive me insane,” Bakugou went on, voice breaking again, too loud, then too soft. He dragged a hand over his face like he could wipe it all away, but his skin came back damp. “And these—these stupid fucking tears. I don’t cry. I don’t cry over shit. Let alone people.” His chest heaved; he couldn’t stop it. His eyes burned, his throat raw. “And I’ve cried over you more times than I can fucking count—”

The shame was blinding. It cut through him worse than any villain’s blade, worse than any headline dragging his name. His pride screamed at him to shut up, to swallow it down, but he couldn’t. Not when Kirishima was standing there, wide-eyed and steady, watching him fall apart in the middle of a goddamn sidewalk.

“I don’t want you to cry, Katsuki,” Kirishima whispered, his voice steady in a way that gutted him even more.

Bakugou’s head snapped up, jaw tight, voice harsh and wrecked. “Then forgive me.”

“I do.”

The words hit like a grenade in his chest. He blinked once. Twice. His mouth opened, but nothing came out. His face twisted, ugly with it, another onslaught of tears burning free before he could stop them. “Don’t fucking lie to me,” he rasped, low and trembling, every syllable torn out of him like a secret he wasn’t supposed to give away. His fists clenched at his sides, nails digging into his palms until it hurt. He couldn’t look away.

The silence pressed in heavy, broken only by the hum of the streetlight above and the sound of his ragged breathing. People passed by at the corner, throwing glances, but Bakugou didn’t care. All he could see was Kirishima standing there, steady, his mouth parted like he wanted to say something but didn’t, his eyes caught between sorrow and something deeper. Bakugou’s chest heaved. Shame made him want to turn and run, to bury this moment so deep no one could ever find it, but he stayed rooted to the pavement, tears burning tracks down his face, waiting—because this was it. The moment that would either break them for good or bind them together.

“I wouldn’t lie to you about that, Katsuki—I wouldn’t lie to you at all—” Kirishima’s voice cracked as he stepped closer, hand half-raised like he was reaching for him.

Bakugou flinched back, throwing a hand up between them. His eyes burned, his jaw locked tight. “Don’t fucking lie to me,” he repeated, quieter this time, soft enough the words barely carried down the empty street. The tears slid down his face anyway, unrelenting, quiet and traitorous. At least he wasn’t sobbing now. At least he could walk away with some shred of dignity, even if it was cracked and pitiful. He swallowed hard, shoulders stiff, voice wrecked. “I’ll move out, but I’m taking the cat.”

“Katsuki—”

“And you can have the couch, it’s gross now anyway—”

“Katsuki—”

“Fuck, Eijirou, I can’t—” His voice pitched high, breaking sharp, before he crushed it down with a sob he hated himself for. He turned on his heel, barreling blindly down the street, chest burning, throat raw.

Each step was heavier than the last. His pulse was a roar in his ears, drowning out the world, drowning out the sound of Kirishima’s voice calling his name. He couldn’t think straight—couldn’t breathe—every thought bleeding together into one messy, relentless stream. He’s not forgiving you. He’s done. You ruined it. You ruin everything. He’s better off. You should’ve shut your fucking mouth. You should’ve kept it simple, just sex, just friends, just—His vision blurred, streetlights smearing into streaks, the cool spring wind cutting sharply at his wet face. He wanted to disappear into it, wanted to outrun the shame clawing up his throat, the ache splitting him in half. You love him. You fucking love him. And it’s not enough. It’ll never be enough.

“Katsuki—”

“No.” The word ripped out of him, hoarse and raw as he yanked his hand away, not even turning to look, when Kirishima caught him again, but this time, Kirishima didn’t let go. Before Bakugou could spit another word, before he could tear himself further apart, Kirishima hauled him back—strong hands pulling him in, spinning him around.

Bakugou stumbled into him, chest colliding hard against Kirishima’s, a sharp breath knocked out of him. Then there were lips—warm, certain, crashing into his own. Kirishima kissed him like there was nothing else in the world worth holding onto, like letting go wasn’t an option. Bakugou’s knees nearly buckled, a choked sound tearing out of him as his hands flew up—grabbing fistfuls of Kirishima’s jacket, anchoring himself against the impossible pull of it. He kissed back helplessly, like the fight had been ripped out of him, like all he had left was this.

Kirishima’s palms framed his face, steady, grounding, thumbs brushing clumsily over wet cheeks. His mouth moved against Bakugou’s with a desperate kind of care, soft and deep and unrelenting, every press of lips saying what words had failed between them. The faint taste of salt bled into it, but Kirishima didn’t flinch, didn’t pause—he only kissed him harder, like he wanted to swallow every broken piece whole. Bakugou made a sound he hated, something raw and shuddering, but Kirishima swallowed it down, gentling the kiss until Bakugou leaned into it, into him, trembling but unable to pull away. The warmth of him, the strength of his hold, the way he breathed his name between kisses like a prayer—it burned through Bakugou’s chest until he thought he’d split open from it. The spring air curled cool around them, the streetlights buzzing faintly above, but all Bakugou could feel was him. Kirishima’s hands, his lips, his breath mingling with his own. It was consuming. It was salvation. Bakugou kissed him back, desperate and certain all at once, like he’d finally given in to something he couldn’t fight.

They pulled apart only enough to breathe, Bakugou’s mouth still parted on shocked, uneven gasps. Their noses hovered close, but their foreheads didn’t touch; it was all bare space and trembling air between them. Their bodies, though, were flush—chests pressed, heartbeats colliding. Bakugou’s knuckles were white where he gripped Kirishima’s jacket like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

Kirishima’s eyes were wide, impossibly big, shining under the streetlight, a few tears catching on his lashes. His hands were steady on Bakugou’s face, thumbs brushing clumsy over damp skin, angling him up—making sure he was looking only at him. Not that Bakugou could look anywhere else. His heart pounded so hard he thought it might break bone, tears slipping free despite himself, tracking down his face until Kirishima caught them on his knuckles.

“Believe me, Katsuki,” Kirishima said, his voice low and thick, shaking with the weight of it. “I forgive you. Please—I do. I forgive you.”

Bakugou blinked, stunned by the sound of it — the way it cracked like something fragile giving way. Kirishima dragged a shaky hand through his hair, exhaling hard, his chest rising unevenly. “I just… I didn’t know how to say it,” he went on, words tumbling out like he’d been holding them back for months. “Didn’t know how to even start. I was so fucking mad—so hurt—and I didn’t know what to do with it.”

His voice caught, rough with guilt. “You said what you said, and I knew— I knew you didn’t mean it. Not really. But it still…” He stopped, swallowed hard, eyes shining wet. “It still wrecked me. I wanted to ignore you, but I couldn’t. I wanted to hate you, but I couldn’t. So I just— I did all this stupid, stupid shit trying to make it not hurt so bad, and it didn’t work. It never fucking worked.” He laughed under his breath, the sound sharp and small, like it hurt coming out. “I’ve never been that angry before. Not at anyone. I think you’re the only person who’s ever made me feel everything all at once — pissed, scared, jealous, happy, proud, fucking in love — like my head and my heart can’t keep up.”

He looked at him then, really looked — eyes raw, red-rimmed, but steady. “I’m not normal around you, Katsuki. I never was. You bring out every damn part of me — the good and the ugly — all at once. And yeah, maybe that’s messy, maybe it’s hard, but I don’t want to pretend it isn’t real anymore.”

The words hung heavy, shaking in the air between them. Bakugou just stared, eyes wide, lips parted, his breath catching sharply through his nose. His throat worked, tight, until the word scraped out of him at last—rough, small, but real.

“…Okay.”

Kirishima’s breath left him in a soft, broken laugh of relief, but his expression didn’t lose its awe. If anything, it deepened, his hands trembling just a little against Bakugou’s cheeks. “I want to be with you, Katsuki,” he whispered, leaning in closer, voice shaking but certain. “I do. I want to be your partner, your boyfriend, whatever you will have me as. I want you.”

Bakugou’s chest clenched, hard enough that he thought it might crack open. He could still feel Kirishima’s words echoing in his head — my head and my heart can’t keep up — and it was like someone had ripped the air out of the room. He didn’t know how to stand under it. Didn’t know how to breathe while hearing that much truth laid bare. Every part of him wanted to look away, to deflect, to bark something stupid just to make it hurt less. But the sound of Kirishima’s voice — the way it had trembled on I forgive you — kept him rooted in place. He’d spent so long convincing himself he wasn’t allowed to want this. That what he’d done, what he’d said, had disqualified him. That maybe the best way to love Kirishima was to stay the hell away from him.

Standing here, listening to him shake and breathe and still choose him, Bakugou finally felt something shift. That tight, punishing weight he’d been carrying since the night everything fell apart started to loosen, slow and painful, like a fist unclenching in his chest. He thought about every time he’d tried to feel something for someone else and couldn’t. About the way no one ever sounded right, looked right, was right. It always came back to this — to him.

“I’ve only ever wanted you.”

That was it. That was all it took for Kirishima’s mouth to curve—slow, unstoppable—into the kind of smile that broke the whole world open. The kind of smile that finally let Bakugou’s heart rest easy, beating not against his ribs but against him, steady, peaceful, certain. Bakugou sniffed hard, the bridge of his nose aching with it, and Kirishima made some stupid noise with his mouth as he reached up to wipe at the tears streaking down his cheeks. Bakugou sighed roughly, the sound tearing out of him, and shoved at his chest a little harder than necessary. “Always making me cry—fuck you.”

Kirishima snorted, knuckling at his own damp face as if that’d help, his mouth tugging into a lopsided grin. “Crybaby,” he teased, voice still wrecked from everything.

Bakugou’s glare was instant, sharp through the redness around his eyes. “All that arguing just to tell me you forgive me and you wanna be with me.”

Kirishima’s laugh cracked out of him then — helpless, full-bodied, the kind that came from somewhere deep in his chest. It was raw and unpolished, almost a sob in disguise, but it was real. His shoulders shook as he leaned in again, warmth radiating between them. “Yeah, guess so,” he muttered, pressing a kiss to Bakugou’s cheek where the tear tracks were still drying. He pulled back just enough to smirk. “Mm. Salty.”

Bakugou groaned, shoving at him again — but the sound didn’t have any bite to it. His hands pushed weakly at Kirishima’s chest, more touch than rejection, like he didn’t actually want distance anymore. His lips twitched, fighting a losing battle against a smile that wouldn’t stay buried. The tension that had been coiled so tight between them — for months, for years maybe — finally bled out, slow and quiet. It wasn’t dramatic; it was just gone, dissolving under the sound of Kirishima’s laugh, under the warmth of the hand still braced against his jaw.

It felt strange. Unsteady. Like standing after too long underwater. His chest was still hammering, every breath coming uneven and shaky, but for once, it wasn’t panic. It was relief. Real, gut-deep relief. The kind that left him dizzy, almost weightless, like he didn’t have to hold the world up anymore. Kirishima’s thumb brushed under his eye, catching a tear Bakugou hadn’t realized was still there, and he snorted again, softer this time. “You’re still crying, Katsuki.”

Bakugou huffed, the sound somewhere between a laugh and a curse. “Shut up.”

His voice came out too gentle to land. Kirishima blew out a shaky breath, scrubbing at his eyes with the heel of his palm until they were red and shiny again. “I want you to be my boyfriend now,” he said, the words tumbling out fast and honest, “but I wanna ask you out officially in a special way. So when we get married someday, we’ve got a good story. Not just, like… we argued our way out of a weird friends-with-benefits situation into getting together.”

Bakugou snorted, wiping at his own face with his sleeve. Of course, Kirishima would already be jumping to marriage. “Then be my boyfriend now and fucking ask me out however you want some other time,” he muttered, his voice rough but steadier now. “We can tell whatever story you want.”

“Okay,” Kirishima said, bright even through the watery shine in his eyes. His smile crept up slowly, stubbornly, as he rubbed at his face again. Bakugou scoffed, dragging the back of his hand across his face as they started walking, their shoulders brushing. Kirishima laughed under his breath, quickening his step just enough to catch up before snatching Bakugou’s hand in his own. Their fingers locked tight, the warmth of it steady between them.

“We’re dating now,” Kirishima muttered, like he needed to hear it again, his eyes fixed forward.

"Yeah,” Bakugou said, stone-faced.

“Dating as in—we’re together.”

“Yes.”

“Officially?”

“Yes, Eijirou,” Bakugou answered, amusement bubbling in his voice.

Bakugou’s smirk twisted sharply. “You’re so fucking weird. You’re lucky I put up with you.” Kirishima’s smile softened, lips parting, but Bakugou cut him off immediately, narrowing his eyes. “Stop it—you’re about to say some corny-ass shit.”

“KATSUKI, I WAS TRYING TO BE ROMANTIC!” Kirishima barked, laughing even as his face flushed.

“Yeah, well, don’t.”

Bakugou shoved their shoulders together harder, just enough to knock Kirishima half a step sideways. Kirishima shoved him back, gentler, their hands still locked tight between them. They kept bickering the whole way up the apartment stairs—light, ridiculous, familiar. Even as Bakugou rolled his eyes at every word, there was the smallest curve to his mouth that he couldn’t fight down, no matter how hard he tried.