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Chapter Text

[ Kirishima's POV ]

Kirishima stood at the base of the glass high-rise that gleamed in the crisp morning light. The building stretched so high into the sky that it almost disappeared into the clouds. The polished silver letters across the front read: DynaMight.

He swallowed hard, rubbing the back of his neck. Mina had somehow pulled strings to get him an interview with the number one fashion brand in the world. Which was ironic, considering all his friends roasted him for his “chaotic” sense of fashion on a regular basis.

“It’s now or never, Kirishima,” he muttered to himself, pushing down the nerves rising in his chest.

As he stepped through the revolving doors into the lobby, he was immediately struck by the design: cool minimalism with sharp lines, clean metal, and towering ceilings. And then, the mural.

Behind the reception desk was a massive floor-to-ceiling graffiti piece. Vivid reds, oranges, and yellows clashed together in a controlled explosion that felt more alive than paint had any right to be.

He stared for a moment, stunned. So this is what real art looks like…

“Excuse me, sir.” He blinked and looked down at the Beta woman behind the reception desk, short bob, glasses, neat and professional. “Sorry,” she added quickly, “but Mr. Bakugou isn’t looking to hire any new Alpha models right now.” Kirishima blinked, caught completely off guard. Did she just think...?

“Oh! No, no. I’m not here to model,” he said, flashing a nervous smile and scratching the back of his neck. “I’m here for the assistant job. Replacing Mrs. Midoriya.”

There was a beat of silence before her eyes widened. Her Beta-neutral scent remained calm, but her posture shifted just slightly. She’d clearly misread him. At 6'8", packed with muscle, and smelling like hot stone and fresh rain, Kirishima didn’t exactly scream Omega.
It should’ve been obvious, the red leather collar around his neck practically glinted in the sunlight, but people usually saw his towering frame and assumed Alpha anyway.

He was used to it by now. Used to the surprise. Used to not fitting into the neat little boxes society had built.

“I’ll let her know you’ve arrived,” the receptionist said with a polite nod, gesturing toward a seating area. He walked over, the couch creaking slightly as he sat, and started fidgeting, adjusting his collar, brushing lint off his pants, counting the seconds to stay calm.

“Kirishima!” He looked up sharply. A short woman, round-faced, glowing, and very pregnant, waved him over with a smile. Her soft green Omega collar contrasted with her pink blouse. Her scent hit him immediately: sweet, like warm honey and fresh mochi. “Uh-yes! That’s me!” he said quickly, scrambling to his feet and jogging over. That must be Mrs. Midoriya, he thought as he approached.

“Wow, you’re huge!” she said brightly, her tone filled with open admiration, not mockery. He reflexively tried to shrink in on himself, just a little. “Huge,” she’d said, like that was a compliment. He knew she meant well. But it always landed like a weight. “I’m Midoriya Ochako. But you can just call me Ochako,” she said, offering her hand.

“I’m Kirishima Eijirou, but everyone calls me Kiri,” he replied, gently shaking her much smaller hand.

“Great! Nice to finally meet you, Kiri.” She beamed. “Why don’t I give you a tour while Bakugou finishes up his meeting?” They moved through the building as she pointed out departments and names. It was fast-paced, a lot to take in, but Ochako’s friendly tone made it manageable. Finally, they stepped into the top floor, the creative floor.

“This is where the design magic happens,” she explained.

It was chaos. Stylists, models, fabrics, pins, voices, everything moving all at once. The scent cocktail was dizzying: Alphas with strong musks, Betas with clean neutral undertones, and a few soft Omega notes in the mix. She pointed toward the back. “Bakugou’s office is through those frosted glass doors. But he is sometimes out here, working at that private desk beside it.”

Before Kirishima could respond, a familiar voice cut through the noise.

“Kiri!” Mina’s vibrant citrus-and-pepper scent hit him just before she did, bursting out of the makeup studio in full colour. She rushed over in bright clothes and brighter energy, hugging him like a sister reunited after a war. “You made it! And on time! And you’re not wearing Crocs!”

“I am wearing what you picked out,” he chuckled, gesturing to his fitted pants and soft white button-up.

“I’m impressed. You clean up nice, Muscles.”

Their reunion was cut short by the slamming of glass doors. “I don’t give a damn if Round Face is retiring, I don’t need an assistant!” a rough, commanding voice barked.

Everyone turned. Kirishima didn’t need to guess, it was him. Bakugou Katsuki. He wasn’t tall, maybe 5'8", but he radiated wild, volatile energy that seemed to ripple through the room. His ash-blond hair was messily spiked, his eyes sharp and gleaming red. The caramel-sweet scent that rolled off him was jarring against his harsh voice, like warm sugar hiding a blade.

“Kacchan,” the tall green-haired Alpha beside him said calmly, “with the fashion show coming up, there’s no way you’ll be able to handle everything alone.”

“Shut it, you damn nerd!” Bakugou snapped.

Kirishima stood a little straighter, unsure if he should look away or stare. Mina had said Bakugou wanted help, clearly, she had left out a few details.

“Will you quit whining?” Ochako interrupted, marching up to Bakugou like she owned the floor. “You and I both know you can’t run the whole damn company and prep for a show solo. I found you someone reliable. So suck it up.” Kirishima had never seen an Omega talk to an Alpha like that, especially not one that pregnant.

Bakugou grumbled something under his breath, then turned. He spotted Kirishima immediately. “Oi! Shitty hair.”

Kirishima snapped to attention. “Yes, sir!”

“You better be here on time tomorrow, or don’t bother showing up at all.” With that, Bakugou stomped past. A wave of caramel and sharp spice swept over Kirishima as he passed, sinking under his skin like static.

“Congrats, Kiri!” Mina cheered, squeezing his arm. “C’mon, I’ll introduce you to the crew.” They headed toward the break room, where a few others were lounging. “Hey guys,” Mina called. “This is my friend Kirishima, yes, that one that I always talk about.”

“Holy shit, he’s huge! Is he really an Omega?” a bright blond Beta blurted out.

“Shut it, Kaminari,” a dark-haired Beta girl snapped, smacking him on the head. “I’m Jirou, I do photography and video. That idiot’s Kaminari, bar owner and walking embarrassment. And the guy dead on the couch is Sero, one of our designers.” Sero lifted a lazy hand in greeting.

They talked for a while, about how Mina and Sero met at the bar, how Jirou and Kaminari started dating on a dare and somehow lasted three years. It was easy. Natural. Like a pack forming around him.

-

When the day finally ended, Kirishima stood at the bus stop across the street, watching the glass tower reflect the fading morning sun. His nerves were quieter now.

Back home, he kicked off his shoes, stripped off his clothes, and unclipped his collar, letting his scent bloom freely into the small, warm air of his apartment. Dinner was a frozen bowl of noodles. His fridge was mostly empty, but manageable. He made a mental note to skip lunch a few times this week.

Eventually, he collapsed into his single bed, feet hanging off the edge, swallowed in his pile of blankets and pillows.

“Tomorrow’s gonna be wild,” he murmured to himself, pulling the comforter over his head.

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.

Chapter Text

[ Kirishima's POV ]

“Oh my God, Mina, what have I gotten myself into!?” Kirishima panicked, burying his face in his hands.

Across the table, Mina calmly sipped her fruity cocktail, eyes twinkling with amusement. “Kiri, relax. It’s not that big of an issue.”

Not that big of an issue? Easy for her to say. She wasn’t the one who had agreed, on impulse, to model for DynaMight, one of the top fashion houses in the world. Kirishima had stepped in for Tetsutetsu earlier that day and ever since, everything had been a blur. He’d moved on autopilot, following Bakugou’s sharp commands, trying to keep up without tripping over his own feet.

Now, here he was, at ChargeBolt, Kaminari’s trendy bar flashing with yellow and purple neon lights, hoping a night out with Mina, Sero, and Jirou might help him decompress.

It wasn’t working.

“You’re overthinking it,” Mina continued, a sly grin tugging at her lips. “You’re going to look amazing. You already do.”

Kirishima hunched his broad shoulders. “No Alpha wants an Omega bigger than them,” he muttered. “Not unless it’s a joke or a… a challenge.” His throat tightened. “They all want someone small. Submissive. Easy to, ravage or whatever.”

No Alpha wanted him. Not in any serious, lasting way. Hookups? Sure. A novelty. But when things got serious, they always looked disgusted. Or irritated. Or worse, called him not submissive enough.

“Yeah, Kirishima, I don’t see what the problem is,” Sero chimed in, leaning back with a casual smile.

“Dude,” Jirou scolded, smacking him lightly on the back of the head. “You’re not helping.”

Sero rubbed his neck, looking sheepish. “Sorry, man. Didn’t mean to downplay it.”

Kirishima gave a small shrug, grateful for the correction but still uneasy. He was making a bigger deal of this than he should. Still, the thought of the entire world seeing him model, and judging him, made his stomach twist into knots.

They let the subject drop after that. Pool games and friendly banter filled the night. Kirishima couldn’t help watching as Mina and Sero left together, shoulders brushing close. Kaminari came out from behind the bar to kiss Jirou goodbye before she left.

Everyone seemed to have someone.

Maybe someday, Kirishima thought as he headed home.

-

The next morning, DynaMight’s studio buzzed with focused chaos.

Designers zipped past with arms full of fabric. Stylists darted between models, pinning and tucking and adjusting. The sharp scent of fabric starch mixed with high-end colognes and perfumes.

‘Final fittings,’ Kirishima reminded himself.

“Hey, Kirishima! Over here!” Midoriya’s voice called from the back of the studio.

He navigated through racks of clothes and half-dressed models until he found Midoriya and Bakugou standing together. Midoriya was muttering about measurements while Bakugou stood with arms crossed, already looking annoyed.

“Kacchan and I made some final edits last night,” Midoriya explained, eyes bright. “We adjusted a few pieces so they’ll fit your proportions better. All that’s left now is trying them on.”

“You mean… now? Here? In front of everyone?” Kirishima felt his face burn.

Bakugou scoffed. “You see anyone else whining?”

He had a point. The studio was practically a parade of shirtless or half-naked models. Still, Kirishima couldn’t shake the anxiety. His body was always a point of judgment, too big, too wide, too wrong for an Omega.

He stripped quickly, folding his clothes on a nearby desk. At least he wasn’t wearing his lace underwear today. That would’ve been mortifying.

Midoriya handed him the first look: deep maroon-red pants, a white button-up shirt, a tailored jacket, dress shoes, and some accessories. Kirishima dressed carefully, feeling Bakugou’s gaze heavy on him the entire time.

Midoriya moved in with the measuring tape, checking sleeves, shoulders, collar, and waist.

“Okay. Last one, just need your inseam.”

He knelt down and slid the tape along Kirishima’s inner thigh.

Before he could stop himself, Kirishima’s instincts took over.

His knee shot up, sharp and fast, aimed squarely at Midoriya’s face. At the same time, he grabbed the Alpha’s wrist with crushing force, holding him in place.

A low growl rumbled deep in his chest. His eyes glowed faintly red under the bright studio lights. His lips peeled back, sharp canines bared, hair bristling with primal warning.

The room froze.

Midoriya’s eyes went wide. His nose started bleeding, though Kirishima hadn’t actually connected.

“Oh—shit—Midoriya, I’m so sorry—!” Kirishima released him instantly, stumbling back in horror. “I didn’t mean to—I just—reflex—!”

Then—

Bakugou burst out laughing.

A loud, raw, real laugh that filled the room and snapped every head in the studio toward him.

“You damn nerd! What did you think was gonna happen?” he barked, clutching the edge of a table as he doubled over.

“I—I thought I was being professional,” Midoriya mumbled, still sitting on the floor, blood trickling down his upper lip.

“You can’t just grope someone’s damn thigh without warning,” Bakugou snorted. “Especially not a new, unbonded Omega. Dumbass.”

Kirishima stood frozen, cheeks burning, fully expecting Bakugou to tear into him too.

Instead, the Alpha just grinned.

“You good?”

“I—yeah.” Kirishima swallowed. “I thought he was… like other Alphas. Testing me.”

“You reacted exactly how you should,” Bakugou said. “Don’t apologize for protecting yourself.”

Midoriya apologized profusely as he excused himself to clean up. Bakugou turned back to Kirishima with a smirk.

“So. You gonna let me finish this, or am I next on your hit list?”

Kirishima let out a breathless laugh. “I’ll try not to break your nose.”

Bakugou’s touch was light, efficient, professional. But Kirishima couldn’t help noticing the heat of his palms through the fabric.

“I’m gonna measure your crotch now.”

“What?!” Kirishima squeaked.

Bakugou sighed. “The pants, dumbass. Inner thigh. Fit check.”

“Oh. Right. Sorry. I just—I thought—”

“Kirishima.” Bakugou pinched the bridge of his nose. “Shut. Up.”

His ears were red.

Kirishima’s Omega hummed approvingly, but he forced himself to stay quiet.

-

Once the fittings were finally done, Bakugou waved him off. “Lunch. Go eat. We’ll run the mock shoot after.”

Kirishima wandered into the break area and was surprised to see Bakugou already there, flipping through design sheets. His bento box was mostly empty, the air scented with caramel and something fiery.

Bakugou didn’t look up as he shoved a wrapped rice ball across the table. “You didn’t bring food, did you?”

“…No,” Kirishima admitted.

“Tch. Figures.”

Kirishima took the rice ball. The scent hit him immediately, spicy. Very spicy.

“It’s spicy,” Bakugou said, as if reading his mind.

Kirishima hesitated for a second, then smiled. “I like spicy.”

That was… mostly true. Spicy food wasn’t his thing, but he could handle it. And Bakugou had offered, he wasn’t about to complain.

He took a bite.

It burned. Bad. His eyes watered instantly. But the flavor was good. Deep. Smoky. He kept chewing.

Bakugou didn’t comment. He just went back to his sketches.

They ate in companionable silence, the scratch of Bakugou’s pen the only sound between them.

Even with his mouth on fire, Kirishima felt a surprising sense of calm.

For the first time in a long while, he didn’t feel out of place.

Chapter Text

[ Bakugou’s POV ]

The elevator dinged open with a mechanical chirp, revealing the next floor of the DynaMight building, floor eleven, the photo studio, one floor below the main design floor. The air here always smelled faintly like lavender and chemicals. Clean, but clinical. Lights buzzed overhead, and the wide expanse of the space was divided into zones: fabric-draped shooting stages, mirrors bordered with bulbs, makeup counters, and racks upon racks of design pieces.

Bakugou stepped out first, jaw tight as the models followed behind him. He didn’t like being down here much. Too much noise. Too many people are fussing.

But today, he’d made an exception.

He kept his eyes sharp, arms crossed, as he surveyed the crew already bustling about. Jirou stood on a platform, headset snug over her ears and clipboard in hand, barking directions at an assistant adjusting the lighting rig. Her voice sliced through the low hum of activity like a whip.

“No, I said spotlight from the left, are we blind today? This isn’t a horror set. Fix it.”

Bakugou didn’t flinch. He respected her sharp tongue. She had a vision, and unlike half the people in this industry, she didn’t waste time sucking up to him.

“‘Bout time,” she called down to him, eyeing the group. “You better not make my life hell today.”

“No promises,” he grunted.

“Good. Let’s go.”

The lineup started with Iida and Asui. The sportswear collection, lean, structured lines and breathable mesh panels, was already prepped. Iida looked sharp as ever, perfectly timed movements, always hitting the mark. Asui’s quiet elegance gave the shots a graceful contrast.

Mina flitted around the set, a blur of pink curls and tart cherry scent, patting foundation onto foreheads and checking for shine under the lights. Midoriya stood off to the side, a sketchpad in hand, muttering observations and notes under his breath. Every so often, he’d dart forward and whisper something to himself, "Tighten that hem," or "Shift the seam up half an inch."

Todoroki and Yaoyorozu were next. The chemistry between them practically radiated through the lens. He stood like ice personified, sleek and statuesque in a graphite-grey tailored set. Yaoyorozu leaned in close, elegance in motion, curves accentuated by a halter-cut top that shimmered when she moved.

Bakugou watched in silence. Professional. Clean. Controlled. They looked like the perfect Alpha couple. He and Todoroki hadn’t always gotten along, but he’d seen the guy grow these last few years. It was like looking at a completely different person. Someone he could rely on. Maybe even call a friend.

Not that he’d say that shit out loud.

Then it was Kirishima’s turn.

The Omega stepped into the lights, back straight, shoulders tense. He looked like he was going to war, not posing for a damn photo.

Bakugou didn’t move at first. He just watched from the edge, hands stuffed in his hoodie pockets, mouth twitching downward.

Kirishima looked wrong. Not because he didn’t belong, hell, the guy looked like a god carved out of stone, but because none of it was him. The tight stance. The blank expression. It wasn’t his usual warm grin or that infectious laughter that bounced off the studio walls when he wasn’t trying so hard.

Bakugou didn’t realise he was glaring until Jirou appeared beside him, arms crossed, eyebrow raised. “Gonna stand there forever, or are you gonna help your assistant not look like a statue from a funeral catalogue?”
He snorted. “He’s not my assistant right now.”

Jirou’s look sharpened. “Don’t make me boss you twice.”

“Tch.”

Still, he stalked toward the set, shrugging off his hoodie to reveal the black dress shirt underneath.

Kirishima noticed him too late. The Omega blinked, eyes wide and stiff as Bakugou stepped in close and grabbed his arm.

“Relax, dumbass,” Bakugou muttered under his breath, voice low and rough. “You look like you’re about to piss yourself.”

“I—! I’m fine!”

“You’re not. Just breathe.”

Bakugou didn’t touch him beyond that initial grip, but their closeness made Kirishima go even redder, the tips of his ears matching his hair. They were dressed in pieces from the new Edge & Ease line, bold cuts, low necks, fabric that clung just right in some places and teased in others.

“Closer,” Jirou called. “Pretend you like each other.”

Kirishima’s scent flared, warm stone and steam curling faintly under Bakugou’s nose. It was subtle, grounding. Like a hearth.

They shifted. Posed. Shoulders brushed. Kirishima had to rest his hand on Bakugou’s chest for one of the shots, and Bakugou had to brace a palm on the curve of his waist for another.

Focus, he told himself.

He could hear the shutter clicks in rhythm with his pulse.

At one point, Jirou rolled her eyes and snapped, “Bakugou, stop looking like you’re analysing battle strategy. You're supposed to look into him, not through him.”

“Maybe he should stop looking like a deer in headlights,” he muttered back.

“Maybe he would if you weren’t looming like some sexy thundercloud.”

Kirishima made a small choking sound beside him.

They managed. Eventually. The stiffness started to melt. Bakugou fell back into the practised, perfect poses he’d done for years. There was a shot, one single frame, where Kirishima grinned, one of those real ones. Bright and sharp and stupidly pretty. Sharp teeth just visible, and his crimson protective collar shining under the studio light.

Bakugou almost missed the mark because it caught him off guard.

It pulled a rare, true grin of his own.

He didn’t miss it again.

By the time Jirou called for the final change, the Omega was breathing easier.

Then she handed them the next set of clothes. Or lack thereof.

Bakugou looked at the hanger in his hand. Black briefs. Snug fit. Maybe a little more than snug. Kirishima’s set had a crimson pair with mesh detail along the side.

“You’ve gotta be kidding.”

“Underwear line promo,” Jirou said, deadpan. “We need two bodies that scream sexy. Congrats. That’s you.” She tapped her clipboard. “It’s a whole campaign theme: showcasing that not everyone fits into one box. Alpha or Omega.”

It had been a long-planned collection. Originally supposed to feature Bakugou and Tetsu to show Alphas come in all sizes, but this worked out even better. Kirishima, an Omega built like a wall? Perfect contrast. He’d have to thank Tetsu for breaking his arm.

Kirishima squeaked.

Actually squeaked.

Bakugou closed his eyes and exhaled through his nose. “Fine. But if anyone adjusts my junk, I’m burning this floor down.”

“I’ll make sure the insurance’s updated,” Mina chimed sweetly, already lining Kirishima’s jaw with shimmer and bronzer.

They stepped behind the divider. Kirishima followed close enough that Bakugou could hear the stutter in his breathing.

The moment he peeled his shirt off, Bakugou felt it, that shift in the air. He was used to people looking at him. Judging. But Kirishima wasn’t staring. He was… seeing him. And somehow, that was worse.

He rolled his shoulders and unbuckled his pants. His skin gleamed under the overhead light, flawless, smooth like porcelain. His waist was narrow, the V-cut of his hips sharp and defined. His cock hung thick between his legs, heavy even when soft. He usually didn’t care. But now—

Now, he didn’t miss the sharp inhale behind him.

He looked over his shoulder.

Kirishima’s back was turned, pink dusting his ears and shoulders.

Then the Omega peeled his shirt off, and fuck.

Broad shoulders. Muscles flexed with every motion. His back tapered into a tight, sturdy waist, and below that, a gravity-defying ass. Full. Round. High. His thighs were thick, dusted with soft muscle and just enough plush to look biteable.

It should’ve been ridiculous.

But Kirishima made it work.

And he looked painfully aware of how exposed he was.

“You need a minute?” Bakugou asked roughly, voice low.

Kirishima startled. “N-No! I’m good! I’m fine.”

Bakugou turned away before he could stare any longer. He slid the briefs up and adjusted himself quickly. The fabric hugged him snugly and left little to the imagination. His abs caught the light, every ridge crisp under smooth skin.

He glanced in the mirror and clicked his tongue. “Looks expensive. Better be worth it.”

They stepped out.

The room stopped.

Even Jirou blinked before snapping back to business. “Good. Good. On the platform. Lights are set.”

They took their places, side by side. Shoulder to shoulder.

The first shots were simple. Standing still, arms crossed. But that wasn’t enough.

“Closer,” Jirou called. “You're not strangers. Touch. Let the poses breathe.”

Kirishima hesitated. His fingers brushed Bakugou’s forearm.

“You scared of me or something?” Bakugou muttered.

“No,” Kirishima replied quickly, voice lower now. “Just don’t wanna mess it up.”

“You won’t.”

The next pose, Kirishima turned halfway toward him, back to the camera, legs slightly apart, lightly straddling Bakugou’s thigh. One hand braced against his chest.

His palm was warm. Thumb brushing over the muscle just above Bakugou’s collarbone.

Bakugou’s breath caught.

His hand slid to Kirishima’s waist, fingers splaying across firm heat. Down to the curve of his hip. His thumb dipped under the waistband, just a little.

For the shot.

“Perfect,” Jirou said. “Hold that. Eijirou, look down at him.”

Kirishima did. Red eyes wide. Lips parted. Just enough vulnerability to punch something loose in Bakugou’s chest.

Click.

The sound broke the spell.

More shots followed. More poses. Bakugou’s scent was starting to slip free, burnt-sugar caramel, warm and heady. Kirishima’s scent rose to meet it, steam and stone, grounding and sweet.

Another pose, Kirishima kneeling, Bakugou standing behind him, fingers in his hair.

Then finally—

“Cut.”

Lights dimmed. The studio sighed in relief.

They retreated to separate changing spaces. Midoriya mumbled something about design notes, but Bakugou barely heard him.

Mina and Sero were already teasing Kirishima, something about being a natural. There was a loud mention of his ass being too “unfairly thick.”

Everyone started packing up.

Bakugou found him again before they left.

“You alright?” he asked softly.

Kirishima swallowed. “Y-Yeah. That was… intense.”

Bakugou snorted softly.

“You did good, shitty hair. Not bad for your first shoot.”

“…Thanks.”

Chapter Text

[ Kirishima's POV ]

The bar was already buzzing when Kirishima arrived, the pulse of bass-heavy music shaking the walls, the glow of purple and blue neon lighting up smiling faces and clinking glasses. Kaminari’s bar was always lively on Fridays, the end-of-week energy thick in the air like sweat after a good workout.

Mina waved him over, already halfway through her first drink. Sero sat beside her, looking smug as ever, and Jirou nursed a cocktail with one of Kaminari’s hands casually resting on her thigh. Kirishima slipped onto a barstool, his body grateful to be off his feet after a few weeks of work at DynaMight.

“I’m telling you,” Mina said, “Midoriya nearly had a breakdown when the stitching on that runway sample popped. I thought Bakugou was gonna combust.”

“Please,” Sero laughed. “Combustion is just his baseline setting.”

Kirishima chuckled softly. “He didn’t yell too much this time. I think he actually liked the chaos.”

Kaminari slammed down a shot glass in front of them, grinning. “Okay, no more work talk! Seriously. You all need to disconnect. Drink, laugh, make dumb choices.”

That earned a round of cheers, and soon the conversation shifted to games, gossip, and plans for the weekend. They migrated to the pool tables in the back, where Kirishima held his own, even sinking a tricky corner shot to Sero's mock dismay.

As the night wore on, he found his eyes wandering. Mina and Sero were shoulder-to-shoulder, Mina’s laugh turning soft when Sero whispered something in her ear. Kaminari kissed Jirou between her shots, her smirk growing more relaxed each time.

And Kirishima just watched.

A slow ache settled into his chest. The kind that made the music seem distant, like he was underwater. He smiled through it, cracked a few jokes, but it was hollow. Empty.

He set down his cue. “I think I’m gonna call it. Got gym early tomorrow.”

Mina pouted. “Boo. It’s not even midnight!”

“Discipline,” he said with a grin, tapping his temple. “Muscles don’t grow in bed.”

They waved him off with warmth, none the wiser.

---

His apartment felt colder than usual.

Kirishima dropped his bag by the door, stripping down to his boxers as he collapsed onto the bed. He stared at the ceiling. Listened to the silence.

Why do I always feel like this when I’m alone?

Eventually, sleep came. A restless, aching kind.

---

Morning brought pale light through the blinds. Kirishima blinked awake slowly, stretching until his joints popped. The ache in his chest had dulled but not vanished.

He dragged himself to the shower, letting the heat pull tension from his shoulders. After drying off, he slipped into his tiniest pair of red gym shorts and a snug black tank. His collar clicked around his neck, comforting, familiar.

He popped in his earbuds, scrolling through the shared playlist he had with Mina. Something stupidly upbeat came on. He smirked.

As he made his way to the kitchen, the music thumped in his ears. He hummed, then mouthed the lyrics. Then sang.

“Love me like you mean it, don’t you leave me hangin’—”

He danced around the counter, shaking his hips dramatically, grabbing the protein powder like it was a mic. He spun, grabbed the shaker bottle, and filled it while still singing, dancing. He flexed a bicep at the fridge like it had personally challenged him.

Shake made, he downed half in one go, breathing hard from more than just the dancing.

“Okay,” he told the quiet room. “Let’s do this.”

---

The bus ride to the gym was filled with the usual stares.

Kirishima was used to it. He looked as he looked, taking up a large amount of space in the tiny bus. Big. Loud. Different. The shorts didn’t help, not that he cared. Not today. He kept his music on and his eyes forward.

Fat Gum greeted him at the gym entrance with his usual booming cheer. “If it isn’t my favourite walking mountain! How’s the new job, kid?”

“Busy,” Kirishima said, grinning. “But good. Real good.”

“Told ya you’d make waves. Now go show those weights who's boss.”

He did.

The gym was quiet this early. The scent of rubber mats and faint sweat clung to the air. Kirishima zoned in: music pounding in his ears, weights in his hands, the satisfying strain of resistance. He moved through his routine like a machine, like he was built for this. Every rep, every set chipped away at the lingering gloom inside him.

By the time he was done, his tank was damp with sweat, his arms trembling, chest rising and falling fast. He flexed in the mirror, posing playfully.

“Not bad, Eiji,” he murmured.

---

Back home, freshly showered, towel hanging low on his hips, Kirishima stood in front of his drawer staring at the bottom drawer.

He hesitated.

Then opened it.

Inside lay a few carefully folded pieces of his secret collection. A red lace panty set, made for a male form, delicate and stretchy, his favourite set out of all of them. He lifted it gently, breath catching in his throat.

He slipped the set on slowly, savouring the feel of the material against his skin. The panties hugged his hips. The matching bra cupped his chest snugly. It didn’t matter that he didn’t have breasts, it made him feel… soft. Omega. Beautiful.

He loved lacey panties since he first started masturbating. And it evolved into something of a comfort for him to feel soft as an Omega.

He admired himself in the mirror, running hands down his torso, over his hips, fingertips tracing the waistband.

Desire stirred.

He reached for the drawer again, pulling out a matching red dildo, standard size, nothing extravagant. He moved to the bed, already aching, already needy.

He pulled the lube from his bedside table, lubed his fingers, and slowly teased his entrance, pressing a finger into his hole, moaning softly as he prepped himself. He slowly fucked himself with just one finger, cursing his Omega hypersensitivity. He slowly added more fingers, moaning as he loosened his too-tight entrance. Teasing whimpers quickly turned to needy cries and pants as he eased the dildo in, hips grinding down with practised ease. Catching his breath once it was fully seated to just above the knot.

“Alpha,” he gasped, as he started to thrust the dildo in and out, voice breaking. “Alpha, please…”

His mind conjured strong hands, rough voices, someone claiming him, biting his throat. Sweat formed on his naked body, silk bra, and panties like ice on his skin. His large cock straining in there red silk prison, forming a wet patch where he was leaking pre-cum.

He changes positions, sitting up to ride the dildo, letting gravity help drive the dildo in deeper. The false knot kissing at his entrance ready to pop in.

"Yes, Alpha. More!" he chanted to his imaginary Alpha. "I want it harder! I want your knot! Knot! Knot!" He was lost in his own world.

He screamed as he came, the false knot popping in, his back arched, the dildo buried deep. Messing with the front of his silk lace panties.

Panting, boneless, he collapsed forward, bracing himself with his hands on the mattress whilst still seated on the dildo. Sweat and a few strands of hair cling to his skin.

He slowly eased the dildo out of his hole. This was always the hard part, not because of the knot, as it is smaller than an average Alpha knot; otherwise, it would be really hard to get out without deflating like a normal Alpha’s knot. No, the hard part was how tight and sensitive he was after masturbating. He has on more then a few occasions cummed again as he pulled a dildo out of his entrance.

Luckily this was not one of those times.

He stood up on weak legs and stripped, setting the dirtied lace to one side to clean tomorrow. He slipped on one of his more casual everyday use panties and climbed into bed after putting everything away.

Chapter Text

[ Bakugou's POV ]

The dream hits like a fucking bomb explosion.

Slick heat and warm skin. A large, muscular body stretched wide across his lap, thick thighs with soft cheeks straddling him, delicate lace clinging to broad muscle, the thick earthy scent of want heavy in the air. Someone, some Omega, rides him with abandon, head thrown back, red hair wild, panting Bakugou’s name like a prayer or maybe a curse. He always liked it rough and a bit of a fight for dominance. Sweat rolls down carved abs, trembling with each bounce, each desperate grind. The bulge in the Omega's gut evident of how deep his cock is buried inside the slick tight heat of the Omega's asshole.

Bakugou’s hands grip too tightly, claws extending to dig into his hips like he owns them. The Omega shudders, whines, and pleads.

It only encourages him to go harder and deeper. "You like that Omega?" He grins evilly as he licks his lips. "Want Alpha to breed pups into this tight hole of yours!" He's close to popping his knot.

He pops his knot deep inside the Omega, rope after thick rope of cum. Deep into the Omega as they scream "Katsuki!" as they cum on his stomach.

He wakes up gasping.

Breath ragged. Sweat was slick on his brow. Cock straining against cum soaked sheets.

“Shit.”

He stares at the ceiling, heart pounding. The image was still branded behind his eyelids.

No face. Just hair the colour of fire. A voice that sounded too real. And never-ending muscle.

He doesn’t think. Doesn’t question. He throws the covers off and stalks to the bathroom like the heat in his gut is something he can outrun. The cold tile barely registers under his feet.

He steps into the shower and fumbles through the motions, hot water pounding over his back. He reach for his still to hard cock jerking himself off to the images of a mountain of an Omega coming undone by him. Lace. Moans. Red. Him.

His release hits fast, messy, and unsatisfying as he squeezes his half-inflated knot, finally feeling the pressure in his gut release. It leaves him trembling and hollow, one hand braced against the fogged glass.

It’s not about the sex. It’s not about the damn dream.

It’s about what’s underneath it.

He doesn’t want to think about it. He's fine by himself.

So he doesn’t.

By midday, the penthouse gleams.

He never cleans. That’s what the maids are for. But today, he needed to move. To scrub. To erase.

He tears through room after room like something inside him needs to be destroyed, not polished. Counters. Mirrors. Even his closet, which he reorganises by colour gradient like a psychopath.

He pauses, finally, breathing hard in the quiet.

His eyes flick to the couch.

It’s pristine. Untouched. Cold.

And then—

He imagines someone there.

Big and dumb and warm. Wearing one of his hoodies, sleeves too short on thick forearms. Sprawled out, laughing at something stupid on TV, tossing popcorn at the screen like they live there.

Like they belong there.

Bakugou flinches from the image like it slapped him.

“The fuck is wrong with me?” he mutters, dragging a hand through his hair.

The gym downstairs feels too close to be an escape. He sometimes goes to the gym a few blocks away when he needs to get out.

He pulls on a pair of black gym shorts and a casual black shirt and a matching black cap and sneakers

He takes the elevator down to the ground floor, exits the lobby doors, and jogs to the gym.

The gym is not as quiet as it would have been if he came earlier but it's quiet enough.

His muscles scream. His body burns. As he lifts weights and stretches.

He doesn’t stop.

Not until his phone buzzes.

Mom (the Hag)

“Tch.”

He snatches it off the bench and answers with a growl. “What?”

“Still got that shitty attitude, huh brat? Are you alive?”

“Unfortunately.”

“You haven’t visited in weeks.”

“I’ve been working.”

“And I’ve been ignored. Get your ass over here.”

“…Fine.”

---

His mother’s voice still rings in his ears as he pulls up to their house, familiar, loud, chaotic.

The front door flies open the moment he knocks.

“Still single?” Mitsuki smirks, arms crossed. “You look like hell.”

“Thanks, Hag. You look like a bad decision.”

“Aw, you missed me.”

She drags him inside like she always does, brash and loving in the only way she knows how. A plate is shoved into his hands within ten minutes. A protein-loaded meal he didn’t ask for but eats anyway.

His father waits for a quiet moment. Finds it once Mitsuki disappears into the kitchen to argue with a simmering soup.

Masaru settles beside him on the couch, quiet eyes taking him in.

“You look tired, Katsuki.”

“I’m fine,” he lies again.

Masaru hums. Not buying it. Not pushing either.

A moment passes.

“You don’t always have to be,” he says gently. “You know that, right?”

Bakugou swallows. "Ya, I know..." he says softly. "It's just a little, hard."

His father reaches out, rests a hand on his shoulder. Solid. Warm. Familiar.

And Bakugou sits there, still as stone, letting himself feel just enough to hurt.

---

He drives home late. Slower than usual.

The city stretches out like a thing half asleep, golden lights blinking across the skyline. His penthouse waits, cold, spotless and empty. But tonight, he doesn’t rush to get there.

He doesn’t know why.

When he finally steps into the entry hall, the silence feels louder than it should.

A cream-colored envelope sits waiting on the table.

Heavy. Expensive. Gilded edges.

THE YAGI FOUNDATION GALA
NEW YORK CITY

Top of the top. Global coverage. A seat only the elite get.

He stares at it for a second too long before pulling out his phone.

It rings twice.

“Hello?”

“Yo,” Bakugou mutters.

Deku sounds surprised. “Kacchan? You okay?”

“Don’t get sentimental, nerd. Got the Gala invite. That one.”

“…The Yagi Foundation?”

“Yeah. Forwarding the details. You in?”

A pause. Then a soft laugh. “Can’t go. Not this year.”

“Figures.”

“Ochako’s almost due. We’re nesting like crazy. She made a whole spreadsheet of what colours I’m allowed to wear in the house.”

Bakugou snorts. “Whipped.”

“Happy,” Deku corrects gently. “You’ll kill it though. Like always.”

Bakugou doesn’t respond right away. His eyes trail toward the couch again. That same ache swelling up from somewhere deep.

“Yeah,” he says, voice low. “Whatever.”

He hangs up, drops the phone, and leans back.

The couch is still empty.

The scent in the air is nothing.

No laughter. No fire-red hair. No heat.

Just silence. And the kind of loneliness you don’t admit out loud.

He closes his eyes.

And in the darkness, the only thing he can see is someone laughing.

Someone with red eyes, a dumb grin, and a warmth that shouldn’t feel like home.

Chapter Text

[ Kirishima's POV ]

A few days had passed since the photo shoot, and Kirishima had mostly stopped blushing every time someone mentioned the word “photo.”

Mostly.

Work had settled into its usual whirlwind. Models flitted in and out of fitting rooms, designers shouted over one another, and Mina was already on her third coffee by ten. Kirishima thrived in the chaos. He moved from rack to rack, clipboard in hand, making sure everyone had what they needed. Sero gave him a high five when he wrangled a missing pair of boots out of storage like some kind of miracle worker.

"You're a beast, man," Sero grinned, disappearing down the hall.

Kirishima smiled to himself, the compliment buzzing in his chest. He was really starting to feel like he belonged here.

That thought was still warm in his brain when the package arrived.

He almost didn’t notice it, just a plain, flat mailer dropped onto the corner of his desk. No big stamp or flashy logo, just “K. Bakugou” scrawled in neat print on the front. He turned it over once, twice. Then, curiosity piqued, I carried it up to Bakugou’s office.

The door was half-open, and Bakugou was hunched over a tablet, red eyes narrowed. He looked up when Kirishima knocked on the frame.

“Mail,” Kirishima said, stepping inside.

Bakugou raised a brow but took the envelope, slicing it open with the precision of a scalpel. He slid out a glossy booklet, the size and weight of a fashion magazine.

Kirishima didn’t realise what it was at first.

Not until Bakugou flipped to the front.

He froze. The world narrowed into glossy paper and oh my god, that’s me.

Him. And Bakugou. Front and centre. A shot of Kirishima in a deep crimson-red suit, unbuttoned to the waist to show off his chest, collar matching the shimmer of the fabric, muscles glowing under the studio lights. He was grinning down at a smirking Bakugou, who stood next to him in a dark floral waistcoat, no shirt either, his sculpted chest and arms on display, one strong arm wrapped tightly around Kirishima’s waist. His fingers rested low, brushing just above the waistband of Kirishima’s slacks.

The photo had deep contrast, sharp shadows and heat. It was bolder, hotter, and more intimate than anything Kirishima had imagined himself being part of. Their expressions were sharp. Confident. Almost hungry.

It wasn’t just a good photo.

It was art.

And it was about to be everywhere.

“This is just the sample,” Bakugou said, like he wasn’t holding Kirishima’s sudden existential crisis in his hands. “Official copies drop in two weeks.”

Kirishima’s jaw opened and closed. “That’s… the cover?”

“Tch. Yeah.” Bakugou tossed it onto the desk like it wasn’t a nuclear bomb. “Jirou led the layout. I just gave feedback.”

“You didn’t think to mention I’d be half-naked on the front?”

“I said they liked the shots,” Bakugou replied, deadpan. “Didn’t think you’d freak out about it. You look good.”

Kirishima blinked. “What?”

Bakugou glanced up again, more directly this time. “I said you look good. Own it.”

His scent, usually sweet caramel with a mellow burn beneath, spiked slightly. Richer. Honest.

Heat crawled up Kirishima’s neck, his own earthy, mineral-heavy scent blooming without his permission. He looked down at the cover again, both proud and mortified. He could still hear his own voice from weeks ago, wondering if he even belonged in this world.

And now… this.

“They picked us for the cover?” he asked, quieter.

Bakugou snorted, flipping the magazine open to an editorial page. “Obviously. The campaign’s strong. Jirou nailed the aesthetic. You brought something new to the set. Real muscle. Real presence.”

Kirishima swallowed hard. “Thanks,” he said, voice rough.

Bakugou shrugged. “Just facts.”

Before he could spiral further, there was a knock at the office door. Jirou stuck her head in. “Did it come?”

Bakugou held up the magazine without a word.

Jirou grinned. “Damn. That’s gonna sell. Kirishima, you should see the comments when it goes live. People are gonna lose it.”

Kirishima didn’t know whether to laugh or faint. Maybe both.

But as he glanced down again, really looked at the cover, he started to see it the way they did, not as something embarrassing, but as proof. Of growth. Of pride. Of finally being seen not just for what he was, but for who he could be.

And yeah, maybe he’d need to avoid social media for a few days.

But damn if he wasn’t kind of proud.

“Don’t tell anyone,” Bakugou added. “Magazine’s under wraps ’til launch.”

“Right,” Kirishima said, snapping out of it. “Secret. Got it.”

Jirou nodded, her scent calm but focused, coffee and vanilla with a sharper edge today. “Last time someone leaked early, it nearly tanked the whole drop. We’re not risking that again.”

Bakugou crossed his arms. “Book the meeting room after lunch. You, me, Jirou, Deku. We’ll go over the layouts.”

“Got it,” Kirishima said, voice a little steadier now.

---

Lunchtime – DynaMight Cafeteria

He barely touched his food.

Mina noticed immediately.

“You’re fidgety,” she said, squinting at him over her salad. “What’s up?”

Kirishima laughed too loudly. “What? Me? Nah, just... hungry?”

“You’ve eaten, like, three bites.” She leaned in, suspicious. “What are you hiding?”

His earthy scent flared warmer, steamier than usual, betraying the storm inside. His mouth opened, ready to blurt everything, when—

“He’s not hiding anything scandalous,” Jirou said, sliding into the seat beside him with a tray of miso soup. “We’re just going over the magazine draft this afternoon. Bakugou wants him in the meeting.”

“Ohhh,” Mina drawled, dragging out the word like it disappointed her. “So it’s boring secret stuff.”

Jirou gave her a dry smirk. “I mean, unless you’re super into font spacing.”

“Ugh. Pass.” Mina pouted, giving Kirishima a playful jab to the arm. “You’re lucky Jirou bailed you out. You’re terrible at lying.”

“I wasn’t lying!” Kirishima protested weakly.

“You were sweating.”

“I always sweat!”

---

Afternoon – Conference Room A

The screen displayed the digital layout of the magazine as Deku clicked through each page, speaking softly but with focus.

“Cover looks fantastic,” he said, pushing his glasses up. “Strong framing. I love the texture Jirou added to the background.”

Jirou tapped her tablet and brought up a new spread. “This one’s a full-page photo, with the article on the opposite page. We’re opening strong.”

The image filled the screen, and Kirishima sucked in a sharp breath.

It was the underwear shoot, but not just any pose. He and Bakugou shared the shot, both in matching briefs, Kirishima in red with black accents, Bakugou in orange. The lighting was warm, intimate.

Bakugou stood front and centre, one hand on his hip, the other flexing a bicep, a wild grin splitting his face. He looked like a statue carved from firelight and confidence. Kirishima towered behind him, one arm slung casually over Bakugou’s shoulders, his other arm bent, muscles flexed, bright smile full of sharp teeth.

Confident. Powerful. Together. Fun.

It was bold. Striking. Intimate.

“Damn,” Kirishima muttered before he could stop himself.

Bakugou’s scent bloomed again, sweet caramel with a pulse of heat, pride humming beneath it. “They picked that one for a reason. It’s got power.”

Jirou smirked. “And a hell of a lot of thirst potential.”

Kirishima laughed, cheeks burning, heart warm.

Jirou swiped again. “Now this is my favourite. It’s the only one where Bakugou actually laughed. And you both look... relaxed.”

The new photo was a shot from the suit campaign. Kirishima in that glittering crimson-red two-piece, Bakugou in black with fiery orange highlights. Their poses mirrored each other, slightly turned toward one another, laughing like they were caught in a private joke. The light hit their faces just right. They looked like kings.

Like they belonged.

Deku leaned in with a slow smile. “That balance, the softness and strength, it’s powerful. You look like you just stepped out of a luxury shoot into a late afternoon date.”

Kirishima stared at the screen, barely recognising the man in red.

But he liked that man.

And maybe, just maybe, he was starting to believe he really was him.

---

The meeting wrapped up. Feedback logged. Adjustments noted. Jirou stretched, yawning.

“I’m out,” she said, gathering her tablet. “File’s locked down. No more changes, and no leaks.”

“Promise,” Kirishima said.

Deku followed after, already texting Iida about colour grading.

Then it was just the two of them.

Silence settled like velvet. The golden-hour light poured through the long windows, catching the shine on the table and glinting in Bakugou’s eyes.

Kirishima glanced at the clock. “Dude… It’s almost nine.”

“Hm.” Bakugou didn’t look surprised. “Didn’t feel that long.”

Kirishima smiled faintly. “Time flies when you’re staring at half-naked versions of yourself.”

Bakugou gave a rare, amused huff, his scent curling with something warm, like a soft flame.

They sat there a while longer. Not working. Not talking. Just existing.

And for once, Kirishima didn’t feel like an assistant or a model.

He just felt like someone who belonged.

Chapter Text

[ Bakugou POV ]

Bakugou tapped his tablet harder than necessary, the sharp click of his nail hitting the screen echoing through the sleek silence of his office. Another profile. Another smug Alpha model trying to slide into the Gala on his arm, and into the press photos while they were at it. He sneered and swiped away again.

Too clingy. Too loud. Too annoying. Too... desperate.

The office door creaked open without a knock. Bakugou didn’t look up.

Only one person had the gall to barge in and bring coffee. Other than Ochako. And maybe Kirishima now, too.

“You’re making that face again,” Deku said, setting a steaming cup of black coffee beside him.

“Tch.” Bakugou took it anyway. “These candidates are garbage.”

“For the Gala?” Deku leaned against the desk, green eyes curious. “Didn’t think you were going.”

“No choice. All Might Foundation’s centennial. Everyone who’s anyone will be there. Media’s gonna have a damn field day.”

“And you don’t want to show up alone.” Deku grinned knowingly.

Bakugou scowled. “It’s not about that.”

“Then bring someone you trust. Someone you won’t be tempted to murder halfway through the night.”

Bakugou made a disgusted noise. “Like who? You and Ochako can’t go.”

“She’s got four weeks left,” Deku said with a chuckle. “And I’m on her beck and call until further notice. But...”

He paused just long enough to be smug. “Why not take Kirishima?”

Bakugou blinked. “What?”

“You know it makes sense. You trust him. He’s professional, capable, easy on the eyes—”

“I don’t like him.”

Deku didn’t flinch. “I didn’t say you did.”

Bakugou’s jaw clenched. The faint edge of his caramel scent sharpened with irritation. “He’s my assistant. That’s it.”

“Sure.” Deku sipped his coffee, clearly enjoying himself. “Then this is just a very practical decision, right?”

Bakugou grunted. “Damn right it is.”

---

“You want me to what?!”

Kirishima’s voice cracked at the end, cheeks bright red. He clutched a clipboard to his chest like it might protect him.

Bakugou leaned back in his chair. “It’s not rocket science. I need someone competent who won’t embarrass me.”

“I-I’ve never been to a Gala! Let alone a mega celebrity fashion event thing—!”

“You’ll live.”

Kirishima fiddled with his collar, a thick, matte black band with a steel accent ring. Standard issue for Omegas in professional spaces, but it looked more like a statement on him. Solid. Intentional. Bold.

His scent was flaring with nervous heat, steam and stone and a hint of salt, like a cliff just after a summer storm.

“Sir, I don’t know anything about international travel or... Gala etiquette—”

“That’s your job now.” Bakugou tossed him a USB. “Guest list, old footage, board contacts, everything you need.”

Just then, Deku popped his head in like a well-timed plot twist. “Kiri! I sent your name to the event planning committee. You’ll need to call Lady Valen soon, she’s their lead. Very high-end.”

Kirishima blinked. “Oh god.”

“Oh! And the theme this year is Legends & Legacy. Medieval-inspired. Think... knights and dragons, meets fantasy runway type of fashion.”

Bakugou groaned. “Velvet and chainmail.”

“You’ll both look hot in it.” Deku winked and ducked out.

---

Two hours later, Kirishima was on his third phone call and sixth page of scribbled notes. His workspace was in chaos. His mind was worse.

“Yes, hello, this is Eijirou Kirishima from DynaMight. I’m calling about the—uh—the All Might Gallah—”

“Gala, sir,” came a very proper voice on the line. “Like the apple.”

“Right. The Gala. Sorry.”

“Are you the assistant attending with Mr. Bakugou?”

“Yes. That’s me.”

There was a pause. “Ah, the red-haired Omega. Delightful. We’ve heard many things.”

Kirishima flushed scarlet. “Uh... good things, I hope?”

“Of course. You’ll be representing DynaMight alongside Mr. Bakugou, so we’ll need your sizing, dietary preferences, and any scent sensitivity notes for the transport vehicle.”

“Scent—oh! Right. Uh... nothing too floral. Makes me sneeze.”

As he rattled off details, Bakugou walked past. He slowed when he caught the tone in Kirishima’s voice—polite, laughing, a little shy. The kind of voice he rarely heard in the office.

His caramel scent stiffened.

“Who the hell are you flirting with?” he muttered.

Kirishima jumped. “N-not flirting! She just sounds fancy!”

Bakugou gave him a look. “Keep it professional, dumbass.”

“Yes, sir!”

---

By the time most of the building emptied out, Kirishima was still there—sleeves rolled, collar askew. His scent was warm now. Focused. A little sleepy around the edges.

He’d booked the flights. A five-star hotel suite—that Bakugou had helped him find. Private car service with in-vehicle temperature control and air filter, so Bakugou wouldn’t have to deal with overwhelming mixed scents. He’d finalised Bakugou’s meeting times, drafted three itinerary options, and was halfway through reviewing Gala-approved tailors.

He didn’t hear the footsteps until—

“You’re still here?”

Bakugou’s voice. Low. A little rough.

Kirishima startled. “I just... wanted to double-check everything.”

Bakugou didn’t leave.

Instead, he came back a moment later with a protein bar and a bottle of water, which he set on Kirishima’s desk without a word.

Kirishima blinked. “Uh… thank you?”

“You get weird when you’re hungry.” Bakugou pulled out the guest chair and sat across from him. “I’m not cleaning up your mess if you pass out.”

Kirishima chuckled softly. “You really don’t have to—”

“Show me your travel file.”

Kirishima turned the screen toward him, surprised. His scent flickered, warm, touched with something quieter underneath.

Bakugou pointed. “You booked us on that airline? Switch it. Too many civilians and crap ventilation.”

Kirishima nodded. “R-right. I wasn’t sure which specs you preferred.”

“Get premium seats with isolated pods. I’ll send you my vendor list.”

He hesitated, then added, “And good call on the filtered car. The last one reeked of fake vanilla.”

“I heard that you didn’t stop complaining for a month?”

Bakugou raised a brow. “I wasn’t complaining. I was making observations.”

“You were scowling like the scent had insulted your bloodline.”

He snorted. “Because it had.”

They laughed quietly.

Bakugou leaned forward. “You ever even been to something like this?”

Kirishima shook his head. “The fanciest thing I’ve done is a cousin’s wedding. I didn’t even know what fork to use.”

“It doesn’t matter. Just don’t act impressed. Keep your back straight, don’t reach first, and keep your scent in check if anyone gets in your space.”

Kirishima nodded seriously.

“And stay close to me.”

That made him pause. “Why?”

Bakugou’s eyes flicked away. “Because you’re representing my brand. You’re not some plus one or background staff. If anyone talks down to you, it reflects on me.”

Kirishima stared at him. His heartbeat was uncomfortably loud in his chest.

“I’ll make you proud,” he said quietly.

Bakugou blinked. Then scoffed. “Don’t get sappy.”

They stayed like that, working side by side, Bakugou pointing out red flags in the Gala contact list, explaining how to handle certain press outlets, even showing Kirishima which event photographers were worth cooperating with.

Eventually, Kirishima stifled a yawn.

Bakugou stood. “Alright. Save your work. Go home.”

“I can finish this—”

“No. That’s an order. Go.”

Kirishima blinked up at him. “Okay, sir.”

Bakugou paused at the door.

“...You’re doing a damn good job, Eijirou.”

Then he was gone.

And Kirishima just sat there, red to his ears, trying not to smile too wide.