Chapter Text
[ Bakugou’s POV ]
Bakugou’s alarm screamed through the dark, slicing the stillness of his penthouse like a blade.
He groaned, dragging a hand over his face before silencing the obnoxious ringtone. His muscles ached as he sat up, cracking his neck and rolling his shoulders. The bed beneath him was stupidly expensive, some memory-foam hybrid monstrosity that was supposed to "cradle his Alpha pressure points" or some shit, but he still woke up sore and half-wrapped around a pillow that smelled like nothing.
His mother’s voice echoed in his skull: “You never sleep well 'cause you don’t got anyone to tangle up with, dumbass. Even your scent’s lonely.”
He scoffed. As if sharing his bed with some clingy wannabe heat-chaser was gonna fix anything. He wasn't going to change who he was just to get a decent night’s sleep. He'd tried, more than once, but every partner ended the same way. Overwhelmed by his roughness, repulsed by his scent, or just after his money and name. None of them felt right. None of them smelled right.
He wanted someone who could take it. Someone who didn’t flinch when he bit too hard. Someone who could throw him around and kiss him bloody if it came to that. An Omega with fangs and claws and muscles that made his mouth water. Big. Bold. And soft where it counted.
His hand drifted down under the sheets, irritation giving way to heat in his gut.
Shit.
He let himself imagine it, broad thighs straddling him, sweat sliding down a scarred chest, red eyes wild and mouth parted, panting his name. A firm, heavy ass bouncing on his cock, his hands gripping too tight, claws digging into hips like he owned them. A real Omega. A powerful, stubborn, goddamn mountain of one.
And all he could see was red. Red hair, red eyes, red heat pooling in his belly.
He groaned, fisting his cock and squeezing his knot as he worked himself over the edge. The room filled with the scent of molten caramel and sweat as he came, hard, into the fabric of his briefs.
“Fuck.”
When his breath finally slowed, Bakugou rolled out of bed and peeled off his ruined underwear, rinsing them out in the sink before tossing them in the hamper. He scrubbed himself clean in the shower, letting the scalding water drag him back to reality. Back to work.
Because reality meant deadlines. It meant a photoshoot in two days, a fashion magazine interview breathing down his neck, and the biggest damn runway show of the season barely three weeks out. All of it riding on a team that was now minus one personal assistant, plus a cast of models who couldn’t keep their limbs intact apparently.
Wrapped in a towel, he scarfed down rice, eggs, and bacon with a mug of his trademark hell-spice tea, the only thing hot enough to match his nerves, before taking the private elevator to the garage and slipping behind the wheel of his matte black coupe.
The streets were empty this early. Good. He hated crowds. Hated waiting.
DynaMight HQ was as silent as he liked it when he arrived. His footsteps echoed on polished tile as he stalked to the elevator and rode to the top floor, already flipping through mental lists of shit to get done.
Models. Styling. Interview talking points. Makeup tests. Outfit reviews. And no damn assistant to keep his schedule on track.
Wait. Not true. He was here. The red-haired beast of a man that Pink Cheeks swore up and down could handle Bakugou’s moods.
Bakugou stepped into his office and booted up his laptop. A few rough sketches were scattered across his desk, prototypes for the size-difference campaign he was meant to shoot with Tetsutetsu. Of course, Tinhead had gone and busted his arm like a moron, leaving Bakugou with a handful of oversized designs and no one to model them.
He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Fuckin’ useless.”
A knock at the door broke his concentration. "Good morning, Mr. Bakugou."The voice was deep. Calm. And oddly cheerful for six-thirty in the goddamn morning.
Bakugou looked up to see the new guy, Kirishima, if he remembered right, towering in the doorway like a wall of warmth and red hair. He scowled. “What do you want, shitty hair?”
“I have your schedule here. Miss Ochako briefed me on my duties for the week,” Kirishima replied without missing a beat, his grin toothy and, fuck, almost charming.
Bakugou narrowed his eyes. “Fine. But screw up and you’re out of here.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll do my best,” Kirishima said, launching into a rundown of meetings, tasks, and events with surprising thoroughness. Still, Bakugou's mind drifted. Even with the idiot’s list, he still didn’t have a replacement model. No time to remake clothes. No options. "And you need to review the outfit lineups and prep for the makeup test before the shoot," Kirishima finished.
“There won’t be a damn shoot if we don’t find someone with Tinhead’s build,” Bakugou snapped. “I need you to make a list. Model candidates, similar build. No weaklings.”
“Yes, Bakugou.” Kirishima bowed slightly. “And… my name’s Kirishima. Not shitty hair, by the way.”
The kid had guts. Bakugou smirked. “Get to work, Shitty Hair.”
-
Later that morning, they walked side by side down to the prep floor. Kirishima had to nearly duck through the doorframe, the bastard. Bakugou hated how much he noticed that. “You got that list?” he asked, scanning him out the corner of his eye.
“Oh! Yeah, here, somewhere,” Kirishima said, fumbling through his mess of papers like a golden retriever. The table really did look tiny under him. “Here!”
Bakugou snatched it, scanning the names. Too short. Too lean. Worked with them before, never again. Useless. “Alright,” Bakugou said, stepping into the fitting room. “We need to find a replacement for—wait, where the fuck is Tinhead?”
“Right here,” Tetsutetsu announced, walking in late with a sling around his arm.
Kirishima’s face lit up. “Tetsu? What the hell happened, bro? I didn’t know you modelled!”
Bakugou immediately regretted his life choices.
Tetsutetsu grinned, slinging his good arm around Kirishima’s shoulder. “Dude! Started a few months ago. Side gig for cash while I train.”
Kirishima’s grin widened. “That’s badass! Wait—how the hell’d you break your arm?”
“Oh! Right,” Tetsutetsu laughed. “You missed leg day last week, so I went solo, and got cocky. Tried stacking too many plates on the incline bench, and boom, arm gave out and the bar pinned me. Small fracture, nothing major.”
Kirishima groaned. “Bro. Seriously? I told you not to max without a spotter.”
“I was the spotter,” Tetsutetsu said proudly.
The two burst into laughter like they’d just discovered the meaning of life. And then came the bro-off. Constant use of the word bro. Loud slaps to the back that echoed across the studio. Stories of gym fails. Protein shake disasters. One of them nearly knocked over a rack of clothes as they fist-bumped too hard. Bakugou could feel his blood pressure rising like a tide. The entire room had stopped to watch the two walking skyscrapers act like they were back in high school.
He rubbed his temple, deeply regretting everything.
“Enough!” Bakugou snapped. “We’re on a deadline, not at some protein powder convention!” He turned to Kirishima. “Call the magazine. We’re gonna have to move the—”
“Wait!” Tetsutetsu interrupted. “Why not have Kiri model in my place?”
“WHAT?!” Kirishima choked.
Mina perked up. “That’s actually a good idea.”
“Their builds are nearly identical,” Deku added, circling Kirishima like he was mapping out measurements in his head.
Bakugou’s hackles rose. A low rumble vibrated in his chest before he choked it down.
Everyone looked to Kirishima.
-
[ Kirishima’s POV ]
Kirishima froze. Model? Him?
He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to laugh it off, but it came out awkward and tight. His heartbeat spiked, and not just from the surprise.
His shoulders rounded automatically, decades of a badhabit. Years of softening himself to avoid looking like a threat, of shrinking back from Omegas who gave him weird looks, of hearing whispers about his scent being "too earthy" or "wrong."
But here? Deku was walking around him like he was a real model. Mina was nodding like she could already see him in a magazine. Nobody flinched. Nobody laughed.
Except, Bakugou was staring at him. Hot. Steady. Intense.
It made Kirishima’s stomach flip in ways he couldn’t explain. Couldn’t name. He didn’t hate it. He just didn’t know what the hell it meant.
“If… if that’s okay?” he heard himself say.
-
[ Back to Bakugou’s POV ]
“Fucking. Alright!” Bakugou snapped, throwing his hands up. “What do you say, Shitty Hair? Wanna be a model for a photoshoot?”
Kirishima blinked, then nodded. “O-okay. If that’s what’s needed.”
Bakugou smirked. “Hope you don’t mind a little pressure.” Because now? Things just got a whole lot more interesting.