Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Bakugou’s always had something simmering underneath his skin. Something twisting and dark and all consuming. He was angry, he was proud—when he gained his quirk it was only more obvious. There were times when he’d snap and bite and lash all without original conscious.

The explosions used to be like sparklers; flashy, cool, and pretty. Like fireworks in his palms. Scarcely a plume of smoke would be left from those shows. I’m amazing; his mantra, slowly gaining its own awareness would chime in time and time again. The explosions started getting bigger, louder, and cloudier. Smoke readily was seen wafting up towards the rafters when he’d let his emotions get the better of him—anger, pride.

As he grew his quirk grew as well; bigger, showier, louder… dangerous. I’m amazing.

He’d become a hero.

Maybe then he’d actually start feeling like he was something cool—I’m amazing. He really wanted to feel like he deserved that. That toxic dark churning kept reminding him otherwise. There was something itching under his skin, something dark and bad and cold and… it wasn’t right. He wasn’t right—it just made him all the more upset.

There was something wrong with him; no one else felt this angry all the time. No one else would fly off the handles in a rage like he did. “There’s nothing wrong with you. It’s the age Katsuki, everyone your age goes through mood swings.” He was seven when brought it up with his mother. He nodded to himself after that; mood swings. It was normal. He was normal.

When he was eleven the guidance counsellor had added, “Maybe its genetics. Your Mother is of similar temperament, no? Children tend to gain traits of their parents personality. It happens.” Bakugou had only mentioned his temper; the crawling sensation under his skin made his palms fire, exploding in bursts to release unknown frustrations. People assumed he was still learning control—it wasn’t the case.

By the age of fourteen he figured he was just plague with shitty genetics in the personality compartment—at least where his temper was. Everything else… well, I’m amazing. He was more than ready to admit he was proud; he could do things no one else could think. That had to mean something.

By the time he started attending UA, the itch beneath his skin had… well, it’s always been there. And it would always remained. Bakugou ignored it for the most part, working himself to exhaustion. He’s gotten good at ignoring it—finding a way to relief that build-up of pressure. To the point that his skin could no longer itch. His palms would blister; he’s been pushing himself until it hurt. His well worked, rough palms breaking open and either blistering or bleeding—by the time they healed his hands were just all the tougher.

He went like that until he couldn’t. Until suddenly his entire character was questioned, misrepresented, distorted. He was no villain; he was a hero, he was one of the good guys. He was a winner. The itch beneath his skin exploded outwards. Bakugou was in a state of go go go. The panic fulling anger, the anger making his body grow numb and race. I am not one of you!!

That night, to many people, was overshadowed by All Might; his emancipated self, all skin and bones and sunken cheeks. They lost their Symbol of Peace—there was something in him that pointed inwards, blaming himself for it. If not for him then All Might… then All Might…

                                                                                                        ͢

The Doctor told him that he shouldn’t be worried about night terrors; it was normal after the type of situation he was exposed to. In the end all they did was wrap up his hands, applying the anti-burn cream, and told him to rest. They were making him see one of their psychologists—just to make sure, they said, in case you want to talk to someone about it without any involvement.

It just sounded a lot like pity and pity made his skin itch.

He didn’t bring it up; didn’t know how to. Not when everyone else would shrug it off and say that it’s normal. It doesn’t feel normal—nothing about Bakugou was normal. Always either above and beyond or… well, this.

When he thinks that night about how nothing about this is amazing it starts to really sound a lot like ‘nothing about me is amazing’. At least to him. And the cold that reminds him of winter welcomes his heart that one summer night. The cold that often accompanied the itch only matured into a cold artic winter. The warmth of sun all but a distant memory at this point.

͢

“Sounds fuckin’ stupid. I’m going to bed,” Bakugou grumbled releasing Kirishima’s arm and turning to stalk back off to his room. He’s been up for two days; two solid days without a wink of sleep and the exhaustion finally hit the point of no return. It was either sleep or… well, sleep in some place that wasn’t his.

Because he was going to pass out. There was no longer any type of fight he could provide against that bodily function.

Kirishima bemoaned but still waved him off, “have a good sleep man,” his mouth pulled wide into a sharp toothed grin. Bakugou only grunted, stalking off before exhausting could seize his limbs and force them to buckle—he didn’t want to spend a night out in the open on the hallway floor.

Slamming the door behind him, twisting the lock into place, Bakugou collapsed into bed. He didn’t wake until the afternoon of the next day long after everyone else seemed to be up and functional.

͢

No one is surprised when Kirishima finally wiggles between the cracks in Bakugou’s armor and works up the courage to ask him out. The new term not yet even started and already memories were being formed; new things to help chase away the mess that happened in the summer.

No one is surprised that Kirishima asks him out; bright red and stuttering in the middle of the communal kitchen—literally from a spur of the moment one afternoon. The call of classes beginning anew looming overhead.

No one is surprised, until Bakugou agrees. Their first date is scheduled for the weekend after classes start up again. The remaining time of their summer break was used to make up for the lack of training they did during the training camp, something that Bakugou used to ease himself back into that everyday life—he was fine, absolutely nothing wrong.

The pair ended up pushing the date further and further back when their classmates keep cooing from the living room, spread out upon the couches after a busy day of training (and then a stressful day of the new term).

͢

Kirishima’s knuckles tap against his wall before he goes to bed, then again when he wakes up in the morning. The redhead tends to space his sleep schedule from 11PM and wake up around 6-7AM depending on the day. When classes begin Kirishima would continue to knock against their shared wall until Bakugou returned with one of his own.

For the most part Bakugou would just silently count the hours between that Goodnight knock and the Good morning knock. Some nights with his eyes firmly shut while others he’d just blindly stare up at his ceiling, mapping the bumps in the plaster.

Today is no different; Bakugou wakes from his relaxation (he couldn’t call that a sleep) it’s to that one-two sound of knuckles against his wall above his head. Bakugou’s hand stretches out without so much of a thought, his knuckles tapping against the plainly painted walls before rolling over and unplugging his phone to check the time.

He let him sleep until 8 today—nice. But it was still far too early for their established date time—they had agreed for 10:30 outside the dorm building so they could go do whatever it was that Kirishima had planned. Bakugou could’ve been sleeping for another hour—it’s not like he needed to style his hair, or take a bath.

He did that shit last night.

So Bakugou did what any teenager would do during that situation—he turned on an alarm for some time around nine and went back to sleep.

͢

He didn’t fucking end up sleeping. What happened was that his stomach decided that it wanted to start turning tricks and goddamn wings were beating against his stomach lining. He spent the whole time staring up at the ceiling, just like he did the night before! If it’s not his skin itching, it’s his god damn stomach wanting to forcibly eject itself.

The mental image of his own stomach bursting through his skin and thumbing against the wall makes him chuckle; he doesn’t know why, maybe it’s the feelings. He won’t call it nerves, its Kirishima and he has nothing to worry about. Maybe its excitement though, a type of excitement that’s misplacing itself in how it shows.

That could be a logical explanation—ever since the villain issue his body had been a little out of whack in the ways it handled emotions. Everything seemed to have a bitter edge to it; the only thing that didn’t was the anger, and that only continued building. He hasn’t had a true fit of anger, or one of those shouting matches, since that… issue.

He tosses the train of thought aside, rolling off his bed in a flourish of unneeded flare—but it looked so damn fucking cool. He pulled out the clothes he set aside last night and began stripping. He had the time before bed, and figured if he wanted to sleep in no one could bitch and complain that he didn’t look decent on his… date.

It’s nothing fancy, just some decent fitting jeans (the few pants that he owns that he enjoys not having extremely baggy) and a black tank top. He throws a red and grey flannel over it to make him look a little more decent; figuring that he’ll roll up the sleeves too ‘cause Kirishima’s going on and on and manly things—and plus, he’s got some good arm muscles that might as well be shown off.

He leaves his room with wallet, campus card, and his phone in tow. Never knowing what Kirishima had planned, or if he had even enough money for said plan.

͢

He’s rolling on a skateboard, gliding along the sidewalk at Bakugou’s side. He’s torn between being pissed that he brought a skateboard, or being impressed that he actually knows how to use it—he, himself, didn’t really. He tried at times, but it never really stuck. He was always better with rollerblades; with a board you have to have a mind for if it’ll slip from under you, with rollerblades they’re strapped to your feet. The only thing that could let him down is himself.

“So I was thinking food then Skate Park. Figured I could teach you,” Kirishima shrugged, scratching the back of his head sheepishly.

“Who says I don’t already know how?”

Kirishima’s foot stills, dangling in the air from kicking off. His lips pulled into a growing pout. “Huh.” He rubbed the back of his head again. “Didn’t think of that.”

Bakugou snorted, rolling his eyes. “I’m better with rollerblades.” He shrugged, “teach me some new tricks if you think you’re so hot.”

Kirishima’s cheeks redden at the wording, grin spreading wide as he finally pushes off the pavement again and settle his foot behind the other on the board. “You just said I’m hot,” he grins puffing out his chest like a bird in spring.

Bakugou rolls his eyes; he won’t confirm or deny the boy the small pleasure of thinking he’s attractive. But, there is a reason why Bakugou finds his face nice to look at.

͢

They grab some take out; greasy, cardboard-like burgers and fries. Its shitty, it’s dumb, but oddly enough Bakugou smirks before catching a fry that the other tosses towards his face. The blond returns the favour as they sit outside of the Micky D’s on a round table, their shoes taking the positions where their asses would normally be.

Kirishima grins, all sharp teeth and dimples. The sun against his sun kissed skin, eyes sparking in the afternoon light. An inch of the French fry he had just recently caught poking out, slowly shortening with each pull into his mouth.

Bakugou rolls his eyes, opening his mouth. He arcs a brow up, waiting for the other to stop taking so damn long and feed him—it’s just as goofily romantic as it sounds. It’s nothing straight out of those romance novels that his father has a weakness for (the ones that Bakugou hadn’t totally stolen and read throughout elementary and middle school and blushed at the sex scenes). It’s nothing like the soft spoken words of endearment, or the tender touches to his neck or back.

Kirishima isn’t gentle, though he could be.

Just like how Bakugou isn’t gentle.

It could be that feeling, that excitement from before, that spurred him into doing what he did. At the next fry Kirishima caught, dangling the longer end between pointed teeth—taunting, playful. Bakugou crossed the distance and bit it off. Lips just a whisper of a touch, a brush of stubble, a ghost of a touch.

Bakugou returned to his spot with a deadly smirk, slowly chewing his spoils.

“No fair,” Kirishima exhaled, the remaining half of the fry falling from his mouth as he gaped. His nose tipped in red.

For once that itch beneath his skin isn’t there, for once Bakugou can enjoy the moment without fear that he’d fly into a temper at one little push. For once Bakugou is there, just there, able to take in highlights of lighter and darker strands of red in Kirishima’s hair. He’s able to take in the red of the other boy’s eyes; they’d chance in shades based off lighting, seeming to lighten and darken with emotions. For once Bakugou’s palms produced sweat and he didn’t feel the spark that ignited the pop rocks-like explosions.

Kirishima’s eyes lowered to the soft crack and pop of the tiny fireworks lighting up Bakugou’s open palm. Eyes going soft, looking up through his long dark lashes. Kirishima smiled.

Bakugou nearly poked a fry up his own nose when he went to rub the red from the tip of it. Forgetting that his other hand was holding the box of skinny potatoes. If he wasn’t blushing before, he was certainly blushing now as Kirishima cackled, nearly falling off the table.

͢

Bakugou parked his ass at the top of the half pipe, heels knocking against the smooth sturdy material that made it up. He wasn’t sure what exactly what it was, but it didn’t feel like a slab of cement so he ruled that out. Kirishima’s phone playing the teen’s tunes beside him on the ramp.

“Oi!” The redhead called, his body flying into motion, shirt fluttering in the wind as he neared. Faster and faster until he started climbing the side that Bakugou sat on. Catching the front wheels on the lip, halting his momentum in his tracks. He quickly jumped off his board, reaching down to grab his board before—no, it still rolled away.

Bakugou snorted, biting the corner of his lip as he watched the skateboard slowly roll down the ramp, then up the other side and returning to the middle where it rolled back and forth until finally stopping. Kirishima letting out a dejected sigh, body deflating as he sat beside the blond.

“Here I was going to be all smooth and steal a kiss before roll away and do a sick trick,” he whined, leaning against the blond, laying his head on the boy’s shoulder. His bottom lip stuck out in a big dramatic pout.

“You’re so lame, shitty hair.” His ears began feeling warm as he wrapped an arm around Kirishima’s shoulders, patting it lamely before dropping his arm back to his side. Kirishima jerked, eyes widening at the brief comforting contact. Large ruby eyes swirled with joy, lightening with that emotion to a near carmine red.

“That was a total hug,” the teen teased, wide grin quick to press against the other’s cheek. The slobber from his teeth left marks on his quickly pinkening cheeks. Kirishima’s lips closing for a closed mouth smile, lingering there against Bakugou’s cheek without actually kissing him. It was just there. Teasing him. Kirishima snickered against the blond’s cheek, wet teeth again pressing against his cheek. “You’re really red.”

Bakugou didn’t answer.

Kirishima pressed his lips back to Bakugou’s cheek, parting them once more. Bakugou tensed, eyes widening as he felt the boy’s tongue press against his cheek. Pressed flat against his skin, trailing upwards to his cheekbone.

Bakugou’s palm crackled to life, a small mushroom cloud appearing after one loud boom. His whole face beat red, hair standing on end when the boy pulled back. A large proud grin on his face. “Wow, you’re really really red now.”

Cheeky fuck, Bakugou growled, slamming his sweaty (but not exploding) palm against the other’s face, pushing him off the edge and down the ramp. Kirishima howled with laughter, sliding on his back. Hands covering his face as he cackled, chest heaving with hysterics.

“You’re such a shit!!” Bakugou screamed, launching himself from his perch to tackle the other male. Kirishima caught both of his wrists, hold weak as Bakugou alternated between punching the other’s chest and open-palm smacking him in the face.

It couldn’t’ve had hurt; Bakugou wasn’t hitting to win per say—nor was he hitting to damage—and Kirishima wasn’t using his quirk. So really, it couldn’t have been too bad. Right?

“Stop fucking laughing!!” Bakugou growled, cheeks still just a bit heated. The saliva had now dried, doing nothing to help cool the heat still pressed beneath his cheeks.

The itch still wasn’t there; this was all Bakugou. All Bakugou, all Kirishima. This was just the two of them wrestling in the middle of a semi-busy skate park filled with other teens. One of which skated by them while they… did whatever it was that they were doing.

Was it flirting? Was Bakugou flirting? He assumed that the act was always more centered around communication rather than fighting. But… those novels that he had totally not stole from his Dad had couples play fighting similar to this—tickling more often than not.

Kirishima’s head thumped back, laughter finally stilling as he smiled up at the other. He adjusted his grip around Bakugou’s wrist, letting their hands line up and weaving their fingers together. “This is so gay,” he grinned; the mood shattered with that. Brought back to the fact that they’re in a very public place.

Bakugou rolled his eyes. “Yes, half-wit, I would hope it is.” He sat up onto his knees, rolling off the other’s stomach and sprawling on the half pipe right beside him. He squinted up at the sunny sky, staring at a cloud that look like absolutely nothing.

Their fingers still intertwined between them.

͢

Days come, Days go.

Classes continue on, and on and on.

A week had nearly met its end and not much has changed in their lives.

“Can you help me study?” Kirishima asks Bakugou one lunch period, shoulder to shoulder with the blond. Tucked away from prying eyes, hidden away with homemade bentos (made by one Bakugou Katsuki) down some hallway no one would think to find them. They aren’t the most public couple, but rumors have spread quickly that they were an item.

“What subject?” the blond inquires around a mouthful of food. Cheek puffed out line an uneven chipmunk.

Kirishima whines, “Everything.”

And so Kirishima crowds into Bakugou’s room that night. Books and papers spread out on his bed, reading through the assigned reads. Bakugou explaining the points in laymen terms, dumbing it down until it clicks in the other’s brain. Kirishima’s eyes brightening when he’d finally get it, smiling shyly to himself when his boyfriend would praise him (in a Bakugou fashion, but still praise is praise).

He’d get uncomfortable as the clock neared closer to ten. Bakugou would tug at the blond strands of hair at the nape of his neck, running his fingers through it as he scowled at the desk across the room. He wasn’t used to the constant presence of someone always there—someone that he honestly wanted to be with.

Kirishima would leave shortly after noticing the behaviour. Bakugou still needed his space—they both did. Everything was just so new, so fresh and soft and easily mouldable. A press of lips against a cheek, a small dorky wave, and the door slamming shut behind him.

Bakugou would press his ear against their shared wall, smiling (small, private, hardly even there) when he heard Kirishima slam his door closed after him.

͢

He hated the silence; lying in bed staring up at the ceiling. Flash of a different room has him blinking, sitting up and gripping the back of his neck. Bending until he was nearly folded in half, face buried in his comforter. His skin itched; scratching at the back of his neck, at the fluffy blond hair mused by his tossing and turning.

He hated the creaking, the settling of the building. It was new, it shouldn’t make as much noise as it did. A creak, a groan. It all sounded so loud. It echoed in his brain, in his ears. Sometimes he thought he heard other things; sometimes wildlife, sometimes voices.

His skin itched, palms sweating but not sparking. Instead he rubbed the back of his neck, digging blunt nails into his scalp in an effort to ground himself. I’m amazing, amazing people don’t deal with this shit. He’ll snarl, grabbing fistfuls of his covers and pulling them overhead as he forced himself to lay back down. Go the fuck to sleep!

Clenching his eyes closed, Bakugou cursed to himself. Running through his whole repertoire of swears before doubling back and combining them to make a whole different set. Like counting sheep; neither worked. Thought the practice was sound, the idea was logical—the actual practicality fell through.

He slammed a fist against the wall, eyes widening and quickly cursing at his mistake. Snarling at his own actions and doing it again simply because he had already woke Kirishima up with that, might as well vent his frustration at the earlier action. He did it again, slamming his fist into the plaster and denting it.

His hands shook when he held them both in front of his face. His palms felt sweaty, they didn’t spark, didn’t explode. His quirk firmly locked away tonight to keep damage to his room and himself to a manageable limit. He tucked his face into his elbow, fingers clenching in sheets and pillows.

A knock sounded; ears perking at the sound of knuckles on wood. “Bakugou?” Kirishima called from the other side. “Can I come in?” Bakugou nodded, groaning high in his throat (it wasn’t a whine. It wasn’t). The silence stretched on. “Fuck it I’m coming in!”

He forgot to lock the door after Kirishima left that night, something that the other quickly discovered when he turned the handle and came storming in. The flick of the overhead light; Bakugou clenched his eyes shut behind his arm. Focus on breathing; in… out. His arm shook against his face, trembling as he waited. Listening to the other boy rustle around the room before falling into his bed beside his waist.

Tough calloused fingers touch the hand twisted in his sheets, warmth slowly spreading through his skin. Weaving between his fingers and removing the sheets from his death grip. “Why are your hands so cold?” Kirishima mumbled to himself, or to Bakugou, he didn’t know. He rubbed the blond’s hands between his own, mumbling to himself about the fact Bakugou’s hands looked a lot more… rough than they did before.

Bakugou’s arm was slowly, gently removed from his face. Eyes still pinched shut as Kirishima began working on that hand. Fingers digging into his palm, thumbs smoothing over the back of his hand, over his knuckles. Massaging circulation into his fingers—slow, calming.

Bakugou slowly exhaled, shoulders falling loose, pliant as Kirishima muttered to himself. He felt himself slipping; losing the will to keep his wit sharp, that alert edge. Bakugou fell. Plunging into an ocean that felt like a hot summer’s day, refreshing and needed. It wasn’t oppressive, nor overbearing.

And when he opened his eyes… he saw the sun.

͢

Kirishima had slept on the floor that night; something that became regular for them after the second night in a row that Kirishima had been disturbed by Bakugou’s… flailing limbs—it’s what Kirishima gave him and Bakugou would readily admit to that than the alternative. After three nights together Bakugou invited the other up into his bed, rolling to face the wall as Kirishima settled in behind him. Each wrapped in their own separate blankets.

͢

Ashido sighed, chin resting on the palm of her hand. Smile leering as she watched the boy opposite her, pointedly ignoring her growing grin. Kirishima’s cheeks full, face blissed out as he moaned about his breakfast. “So why do you make your boyfriend breakfast but refuse to make any for the rest of us?” A slim, well maintained eyebrow raised, waggling towards the blond in question.

“You can just fucking make your own.”

She shook her finger, holding her free hand up to display that no-no motion. “But Eijirou-kun can make his own breakfast too~” she chimed right back, not once batting an un-mascara’d eyelash—too early to doll herself up, plus it was a Saturday. The only thing she was planning on doing was doing back to sleep once she finished teasing 1-A’s resident couple.

Kirishima blinked the daze away, rubbing at the back of his flat hair. Brushing the shaggy red strands. They both still needed to shower. Still needed to get dressed and ready—it was date day. Well, kinda a bit of a date and a study… outing. Kirishima was having trouble with the history unit they were focused on and Bakugou took the initiative to invite him out to the museum for some informal studying.

He wasn’t going to turn it down—museums were fun in their own way. They were interesting.

“Don’t call him that,” Bakugou growled, tsking when the girl snickered cooing at the display. He shoveled the last of the egg into his mouth before excusing himself from the table with profanity spilling from his lips. Storm brewing in each heavy step—no sharp shout of explosion, no cloud of smoke trailing from his palms.

“He’s in a good mood,” Ashido giggled, winking towards her friend.

Kirishima shrugged. “He seems to have been sleeping better now,” he caught himself too late, blushing at the girl’s pursed lips. Her eyebrows waggling.

She wiggled in her seat, fists clenched and knocking against the table. “Is it true? Is it? Is it? Is my beautiful baby all grown up and off sharing a bed with Blasty McShort-Temper?” Kirishima only laughed, bowing his head sheepishly. Neither confirming nor denying this.

͢

Kirishima took his hand, weaving their fingers together comfortably. Standing in a not-crowded-but-still-busy train on their way to the Chiba Prefecture, the couple shared Bakugou’s headphones, listening to the blond’s upbeat tunes. A little angry, a little loud—a lot of rock, a fair bit of techno, and a surprising abundance of metal and punk. Surprise surprise, Kirishima was dating a punk.

He squeezed the other’s hand, adjusting his balance when the train rocked. Clutching the bar overhead with white knuckles; Bakugou didn’t even seem phased, still calmly leaning against the metal post like his boyfriend didn’t just nearly tip backwards ‘cause his balance was shit.

Bakugou only changed the band, switching it to some American group—he just remembered the fact that the other knew English and he frowned to himself. Nose scrunched as he attempted to understand the words in his ears.

He gave up not even a minute in, instead turning his attention to studying his partner—all soft faced, sun kissed skin, those red eyes staring down at his phone as he scrolled through Twitter. Kirishima hummed; his eyes looked a little bit more orange today.

Bakugou glanced up, uncrossing his legs only to cross them in the opposite direction, raising a slim sandy blond brow. Kirishima shook his head before leaning down and pressing a quick peck to the other’s lips. In their clasped hands Bakugou’s quirk started to sparkle like pop rocks, or that fizzy candy… or those sparklers that he’d light with his siblings in their backyard and draw crude drawings with. It tickled.

“You fuck,” Bakugou hissed snapping his face away, glaring out the window. His whole face a lovely shade of fuchsia.  

“You’re really cute,” Kirishima grinned, not giving a single care in the world to the PDA nor the fact that they were two dudes publicly showing their affections. Bakugou snorted, rolling his eyes, cursing at him again.

͢

He swung their hands as they walked, eyes wide and inviting as they stopped for every little thing. Bakugou read every plaque he could find, red-orange eyes roaming between the written work to the display before back again to continue. He seemed to be enjoying himself, brow smooth, not a wrinkle of frustration in sight.

“So what era is that homoerotic art at?” Kirishima clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, crimson eyes staring intently at one of the articles of clothing on display. Bakugou is silent, like the grave, beside him. Kirishima turned his attention from the piece in front of him and found his partner staring at him—not glaring, not anything but pure unhindered shock. “Whaaaaat?”

Bakugou blinked, tearing his gaze from his face. “Shunga is the term for erotic art in the Edo period,” he bit back, bottom lip worried between his teeth. There was no one around them, no one to overhear their conversation—trust him, Bakugou was just checking. He pulled out his phone, red dusting the tips of his ears as he googled it. Just as quickly as he pulled it out, he returned it to his pocket without another word.

Kirishima grinned, “So Edo period?” Bakugou nodded, pointedly ignoring the leering expression.

͢

If there was any Shunga there they didn’t find it—Kirishima seemed disheartened by it, though Bakugou didn’t seem bothered (like usual) only leading him on to the next and the next and the next. Kirishima knew that Bakugou was a quiet person when he wasn’t angry, but still, the calm atmosphere was a bit like a bucket of ice water—nice of a hot days, but still rather shocking to the system.

They left just as they arrived; hand in hand, headphones hung across the gap between their heads.

͢

Combat training wasn’t as enjoyable as before the summer break; it wasn’t the same with All Might looking like he did. Bakugou couldn’t look him in the eye—he’d fake it though, looking at the bridge of his nose or his eyebrow. He couldn’t look his hero, his role model, his once biggest obstacle, in the eye. Couldn’t, wouldn’t—it meant exactly the fucking same.

Guilt was a horrible taste on his tongue, it turned down his esophagus, bubbling unpleasantly in his stomach.

If I… Bakugou bit back that frame of mind, halting it in his tracks before it could gather momentum—building upon itself until it became something dark and twisted and cruel. Where was the Katsuki from the beginning of this year? Where was the Katsuki in middle school? Where was his pride? Where was that fuck it nature?

It was a 1v1 simulation where the villain (played by one of their fellow students chosen at random) would be running from the hero in one of the exam sectors that doubled as a mock city scape. The whole basis of the exercise was going back to the roots of what being a hero was—it wasn’t always large scale situations, sometimes it was just some thug stealing someone’s purse and you have to hunt them down.

“Rikidou Satou; you’re the villain to…” All Might reached into the second box, eyes squinting as he read the font, “Katsuki Bakugou’s hero.”

Bakugou’s shoulders dropped, slowly blinking as the words washed over him. Hero. Yeah he could play the hero. Finally. He clenched, balling his hands into fists at his side. The swell of pride, the challenge washing over him. His lips pulled back into a sneer; eyes seeming to glow with a fire, like a match was lit back underneath.

This’ll be the first combat simulation he’ll be a part of since All Might retired from being the Symbol of Peace.

“The heroes in this should keep damage to a minimum. You have fifteen minutes to hunt them down from that X,” he pointed to the large white X painted on the road. “The villain gets a two minute head start, also from the same starting point. Think of the X as the Grandmother of five they had just stolen from.”

The group nodded.

͢

Capture. He repeated it to himself, capture, capture capture. His eyes opened, staring straight ahead with an unwavering amount of confidence. He was feeling exactly like himself again—it felt like he was alive. Throwing away any nagging sensations of what if this doesn’t look all ‘hero-y’ out the window, a skyscraper. He didn’t need to look like anything, he was him and his ability would speak for itself.

The timer beeped, the two minutes up. “Oh hero~ He went thatta way!!” The overdramatic swooning that All Might provided was a momentary distraction before Bakugou launched himself forwards. Palms exploding, large and loud and cloudy, launching him up higher and higher as he fired them off.

Tucking himself into a roll he shoulder jarred against the roof, and he was off again as soon as his feet touched cement. In a typical street setting there would no doubt be pedestrians milling about, so the rest of the class was actually do that. Satou could’ve migrated into a crowd, or he could be avoiding the others. As long as he didn’t push them they more than likely would assist Bakugou in pinning him down.

And the possibility of taking a hostage was always in the open—villains were villains, it all depended on what Satou planned on doing. Bakugou cursed, launching himself to the next rooftop.

͢

He had caught him shortly after the clock had reached the point that there was only four minutes left. He had ran out of an alley and knocked over Aoyama who loudly began complaining about his hero costume being dirtied—the commotion alerted Bakugou who was about three buildings over and he had blasted over and tackled the faux-villain with enough momentum to knock the breath right out of him.

Capture had been easy after that—tape him up, take the purse into possession, and the simulation was called.

Bakugou felt… well, he felt good. It felt like things were starting to finally look like it was back to normal. He felt good, he was being a proper hero—no questionable actions that someone could focus on. Yeah, this was good. Bakugou was good.

He rolled his shoulders, cracking his neck as he switched out of active duty and continued the class as a spectator. Laughing when Kirishima got clotheslined during his turn as a villain by Hagakure.

It was good—it was real good.

͢

He had been hanging around with his phone out for the rest of that class, scrolling through social media and finally catching up on all the shit that his classmates had decided to tag him with—why did Ashido have a folder on her Facebook labeled Class 1-A’s wonderful love story. Starring the angry douche and my beautiful son. What the fuck did that mean?

Why the fuck did it have an overabundance of Kirishima and him? Where their lives so pathetic that they latched onto their relationship? Sure, okay, whatever. Maybe the fact that Bakugou was being… slightly more ‘chill’ could be why they were doing what they were, but honestly it wasn’t Kirishima’s doing. Bakugou was just… thinking.

And so fucking what if he enjoyed having Kirishima touch him—he was a teenaged guy, there wasn’t much of those who didn’t like having their significant other touch them. Even though they haven’t even reached the point of making out. They were getting there goddamn it! He wasn’t just gonna jump into having sex with the idiot!

But, he was digressing.

So, he had his phone out, he returns to that point. Quickly pulling open the camera to snap a picture of Kirishima in passing (he had told him before that he wanted Bakugou to take a picture of him being all ‘cool and in action’ and fuck it, Bakugou had nothing else to do and secretly wanted a decent picture of him so he didn’t have to go and use his data to get a picture whenever he had to show the redhead off. Bakugou had a grandmother who demanded a photo of this ‘significant other’ of his and he couldn’t say no to his Granny). Only it didn’t happen.

Instead Bakugou got the single greatest (set of) photo(s) that he’s taken in his life (because he knew how to take action shots), perfectly showcasing a boy’s emotions while one of the most embarrassing moments of his life flashed before his eyes. All in front of said boy’s boyfriend.

The range of shock, pain, frustration, regret, and acceptance all shown in that scrunched up face had Bakugou howling. Bellowing out in manic-like laughter when he went and checked on those said set of photos. All in surprising beautiful condition; in focus, crisp and centered.

Bakugou blew up the one picture where Kirishima’s face was squinted, one eye more than the other, lips puckered as he made his descent to the pavement. It was his new home screen. Zoomed in, a little fuzzy, but undeniably the best picture in Bakugou’s life he had ever taken.

No questions. He loved it. It was beautiful.

Kirishima was torn; he was now the boyfriend’s home screen, but at what cost?

͢

Kirishima slid in behind him, bare chest against equally bare back, from torso to knee the couple lay pressed back to chest. Spooning, Bakugou’s mind supplied that night. For the first time they shared Kirishima’s blankets, tucked away for the night. “Hey Katsuki,” he called him by his first name.

Bakugou’s heart slammed against his rib cage, “what?”

“Can I kiss you?”

He turned, rolling so he faced the other. It wasn’t as dark as Bakugou’s own room; he had blackout curtains combined with canvas blinds (or whatever technicality they were actually called).  He did sleep well into the sunlit hours while Kirishima tended to rise with the sun—what with those thin red curtains that looked to be more for fashion than purpose.

He could see the darker teen’s face, caressed by moonlight, staring unhindered. His hair spread across the pillows, hanging down into his left eye. “Yeah,” he swallowed around the lump in his throat, “okay.”

Kirishima grinned leaning in. Their noses smushed, bumping against the other before the redhead adjusted, tilting his head slightly and slotting their lips together. They kept their hands to themselves; Bakugou’s tangled in the sheets and Kirishima’s own pressed against his chest and stomach.

Their lips separated and returned, pressure increased. One kissed turned to two turned to three than four. They weren’t leaving, they weren’t going to end this. Bakugou’s heart pounded in his chest, fingers slowly untangling from the sheets, cautiously reaching out to Kirishima. Cupping his neck, his jaw. Pulling him in, pulling him closer. Kirishima latched onto him in return, tucking an arm under his waist the other curling over his ribs.

He’s never kissed someone before Kirishima, never thought to try. The thought before him had been non-existent. It was a thing that people did that he just… didn’t. He didn’t really think about dating either; just another thing that he recognised that people did that he just didn’t bother with. He had his mind towards UA, towards being the number one hero. There wasn’t room to kiss or hug or become infatuated with someone.

Before Kirishima.

Lips disconnected, again (why again?), the sound wet and loud in still night air. Drowning that loud badump-badump of his heart, race blood through his veins. He pulled him back, reeling him in with that firm hold, saliva moistened lips sliding easy together.

Kirishima parted his lips, the action mirrored by Bakugou. Sucking oxygen through his nostrils when the redhead’s tongue slipped past his teeth and he was quick to copy. Pressing against the muscle with his own; groaning at the sensation, just the thought behind it alone made him moan again. Low and deep in his throat.

It was messy, not even remotely pretty or like anything he’s seen in those Hollywood Blockbusters; he knew he was overly enthusiastic, easily throwing away technique and patience out the damn window. But fuck it was hot, perfect in that raw way. Like a mean right hook, or some well earned praise—it clenched his heart, curled his toes. He felt good, really fucking good. Fantastic even.

Kirishima giggled, fucking giggled, leaning away after one final peck. “Wow, I just found something you’re not amazing at!” Bakugou’s brain flicked back on; a quick 0-100 real fucking quick.

Bakugou pushed him, sweaty palm pressed against his face until he kicked him. Launching him right off the bed and onto the floor. “Shut the fuck up!” he barked, grabbing the pillow that Kirishima had been using and whipping that at the lump on the floor when he had started laughing.

“It’s cute!!” Kirishima wailed, catching the pillow. It coughed off a cloud of feathers. “It’s weird that you’ve never kissed someone before me though. I feel honored.” Bakugou only snarled throwing the pillow that he was using in an effort to shut him up.

It didn’t work.

͢

“So why do you pull your hair,” Kirishima yawned, curling up behind him anew. Leg thrown over the blond, pinning him in place as he aggressively cuddled. Nose buried in said hair, tickling his nostrils as his huffed.

Bakugou tensed, face pushed into the pillows. It was as clear as an avoidance as anything. And while Kirishima didn’t pride himself in avoiding questions, this was Bakugou and he was reclusive. As much as that tough guy persona tended to draw people in, as much as people wanted to get to know him, there was only so much someone could take of a prickly personality.

Kirishima, himself, had lost his cool with that prickly bastard from time to time. Being in a relationship with him made it easier, Bakugou had proved to be rather susceptible to physical forms of intimacy. He wouldn’t go that hundred percent but he’s meet Kirishima at, at most, a good ninety of it. Would reach out when no one was there to see it, fingers twitching like he’d reach out and grab hold of the hand he wanted to hold, but never went more than that.

“It’s stupid,” he ground out finally, the silence dragging on. Hanging overhead. “It’s… shit, fine fuck. It’s a habit—My old hag was never affectionate but she has this thing about playing with my hair,” he holds his hand up, waving off the notion. “It’s… habit.”

It’s comforting, Kirishima had gotten rather good at figuring the shit that Bakugou means to say. He’d rather sound stupid than have someone think he was showing weakness; rather word things as rudely as possible until he couldn’t and then he’d dumb it down until it didn’t sound as sincere as he meant.

“You shouldn’t pull it then, you’ll just end up hurting yourself.” Bakugou snorted, turning back into the pillow—conversation finished. Kirishima sighed, “I’ll tell you ‘I told you so’ if you end up losing your hair cause of that. I will. I’m not above teasing you for this.” The blond smacked him, the blow cushioned by his comforter.

“Just go the fuck to sleep!”

͢

Kirishima had been glued to either his phone or computer a lot more recently, eyes staring intently at whatever words he was attempting to process. Bakugou couldn’t be bothered; whatever it was that he was reading up on Bakugou just hoped that it had some use for class—because that boy’s grades were shit. There was only so much that Bakugou could help him with.

He scrolled through recipes, snorting at some, saving others. He was in the mood for something different—he felt like cooking something different. Felt like taking control of their kitchen and making himself something, anything really. He didn’t want to leave this dorm building, didn’t want to have to the cafeteria for his meals, not when he knew how to cook for himself.

But the bad thing was that he was finding a lot of western styled dishes. A lot of chicken and beef, or pork, with whatever side.

He had begun his own search shortly after Kirishima’s phone sucked him in, legs spread out along the cushions of the couch and Bakugou seated between his legs. His back comfortably pillowed by Kirishima’s chest. They had pillaged an entire couch after classes that day, lounging around like the teenagers they were before having to peel their asses off the cushions to eat—and that’s the exact thought that spurred Bakugou down the rabbit hole.

Starting with recipes of the more hot and spicy variety before clicking on one thing after the other. For some odd reason he found himself in the Australian and New Zealand part of cuisine, scrolling through what the website had to offer for that—he was in a mood, and that mood called for trying foreign meals. He found some, none of which looked to be a classic dish from those countries, but he did hesitate over a few before moving on.

On to the French.

Fuck it went straight to deserts—he exited out of that, backing out as fast as possible.

On to the Greek.

There, fuck it. He was making pork tenderloin with Tzatziki sauce. And if he gets some pita bread to wrap all of it up? Fuck it. Sure, dinner is planned. “Hey shitty hair,” he thrust his phone under Kirishima’s nose, startling him out of his readings. “I’m making this tonight, you want some?”

Crimson hues blinking, slowly taking in the images on screen. “Yeah, sure. Are you cooking for the rest too?”

There was a loud exclamation from the bathroom before Ashido and Uraraka descended upon them like the vultures they were. “Bakugou’s cooking tonight!!!” Ashido screeched, officially stealing any semblance of freewill from Bakugou.

“Well you’re paying for it then!” Bakugou snarled right back, tearing himself out of Kirishima’s embrace and up the stairs. “When I come back down I expect you assholes to be ready to leave!” His exit wasn’t as dramatic as he would’ve hoped; no matter how many times he jammed the elevator button it didn’t make it appear any quicker.

͢

It was a fucking great day. The sun out, bright and overtly joyful. It was hot too. Still only stuck in homeroom but the A.C was cranked, blocking out that stagnant heat. Not a hint of wind in sight. “We should go to the beach!” Uraraka called from the opposite side of the room.

Bakugou went back to tuning the class out, cracking open a textbook and skimming through the assigned read. Anything was better than that.

͢

He thought he had escaped the whole Class bonding bullshit, but nah. Seems that damn chick had had bonding planned when she suggested the beach trip.

Kirishima beamed, the corners of his eyes scrunched, fingers still weaved through his. It was how he roped him into coming; he had grabbed his hand, tucked his face against Bakugou’s throat and asked him to come swimming with him. Bakugou’s heart may or may not have played a major role in him agreeing.

Even after he had realised that he had been tricked into joining the group activity, he hadn’t had the heart to pry his hand from Kirishima’s. Maybe all those romance novels were making him soft—maybe he should blame his Father for fueling his subtle addiction. But it felt so right boarding the bus with the rest of 1-A, Kirishima pressed close and comforting, smelling of summer.

“Thank you for coming with me,” he finally admitted when they stepped onto the sand, bringing up the rear of the group. Sero, Asui and Hagakure throwing off their clothes till their suits remained, clothes scattered across the sand as they raced to the water. Kaminari and Ojiro were the next ones, not quiet stripping with the flair the other three possessed, but still speedy compared to the rest of the group slowly meandering towards the water.

Kouda trailed behind them, picking up their clothes while Iida, Yaoyorozu, Jirou and Uraraka started setting up towels (and for Yaoyorozu, she created a large beach umbrella which she stabbed into the sand), as well as unpacking the food and water they brought with them.

Kirishima had to release his hand when they neared the area of the beach that they claimed, dropping his backpack to the sand and pulling out both his and Bakugou’s towels. “I don’t know if you want to lay them out or…?”

Bakugou shook his head in the negative. “I don’t want fucking sand on it,” he shoved the multi-coloured monstrosity back into Kirishima’s bag. Kirishima snickered, though he flicked open his and flapped it a few times before laying it in the sand. There were about a foot from the rest of the group of towels, but Bakugou had a feeling that that would soon change.

Kirishima seemed to have a presence that made people migrate to him. What with being friends with Ashido, Kaminari, and Sero—two of the three were in the water already.

Bakugou stared out at the water, the waves lulling to shore, the dark sand underneath when the water receded. His shoulders loosened, head tilting, leaning towards the left as he stared out at the water. Something about it was pretty; the sun casting sparkles on the water further out, the birds over it flying in figure eights—far enough that they didn’t look like seagulls, but Bakugou assumed they were anyways.

“Hey,” Bakugou’s eyes left the water, dropping down to the boy pulling off his shirt still kneeled beside him. “Wanna take a dip?” Sun kissed skin; he’d never get used to seeing that much skin so casually on another boy. Not one like Kirishima, no way.

Bakugou nodded, glancing away with a turn of his head, reaching back to pull his shirt off from the back of his shirt. Just a second to will the heat away, will the colour from his cheeks and to suck another lungful of air in.

͢

Every week from then on Bakugou is subjected to some Class 1-A bonding bullshit; the week after the beach extrusion, the group had gotten permission for a one night camping trip for everyone but Bakugou. Which, as much as Bakugou was ecstatic for having a free ‘get out of jail’ card, it kinda pissed him off that if Bakugou wanted to leave campus for anything longer than a few hours he had to request it, and provide an itinerary or at least have something with him at all times.

So, at least for that weekend he lucked out and stayed away from any and all people (after forcing Kirishima out those doors after he learned that the faculty had denied Bakugou this bonding experience). He couldn’t sleep though, even though his day was spent blasting music and working out, eating a home cooked meal without any leaches trying to weasel their little grubby fingers in his cooking space to loot his food. He had grown so used to sharing his bed that without Kirishima’s steady breathing he couldn’t fall asleep.

That fuck, he had thought before throwing off his covers and turning all his lights back on. He had instead spent the rest of the night reading one of the many romance novels that he had taken with him that (used to) belonged to his Father—no one was going to learn of this hidden stash, even if that meant he could only read them when no one else was around.

It was that weekend though that Bakugou realized that he and Kirishima have almost reached the end of their first month of dating. Do I get him something? He had pondered, then shook himself out of it. The first month didn’t deserve any sort of praise—maybe by month three would you spoil his partner. But until then… it was still too new, they were still learning and growing. Getting used to the other in their personal space.

At least, Bakugou was still getting used to it.

͢

The thing with Kirishima was that… well, the guy was friendly. He was out there in a way that made people like him—Bakugou’s ‘out there’ was not the same. Bakugou’s had the charisma, sure, but people didn’t stick around because of his sunny disposition. They stuck by him to ride his coattails, because Bakugou was going places.

Kirishima… was well… dependable. He remembered your name, or didn’t purposely not call you by it like his significant other in question did. And, maybe it was the fact that they were now officially one month into this thing and the honeymoon phase wasn’t yet through running rampant, but Bakugou found it oddly endearing.

He hated it though. But he liked that Kirishima was solid—that if suddenly… if suddenly Bakugou just… just wasn’t there Kirishima would still be fine. He’d be upset for a while, sure maybe, but he’d bounce back and he had people to surround himself with.

They had started spending more time in Kirishima’s room, doing their thing away from the main common area. Away from prying eyes and sappy grins, away from the chatter that seemed to surround them. But with a month of their new relationship coming and going, growing and establishing a new beautiful thing to nurture between them, Kirishima’s friends felt that it had been long enough.

Enough time had passed where they only really got their fill of the redhead in passing, or during the school day when Bakugou was too focused on other things, or even though messages despite living in the same building. Yes, they understand that a new couple needed time to figure their shit out, and even both boys in question knew that this joint ‘alone time’ wouldn’t be as large and all-consuming the longer they stayed together.

But still. But still—Bakugou groaned, rolling onto his side and buried his head under Kirishima’s pillow and Kaminari and Ashido jointly caught Kirishima up on whatever gossip he had missed in the month of monopolizing his time for Bakugou.

“You should have seen his face,” Ashido snickered as Kaminari pulled out his phone and held it out towards the pair. “You actually got it!” the lone girl amongst their sausage fest exclaimed covering her mouth with glee. Her excited wiggling shook the whole bed.

Bakugou groaned, adding pressure to the feathered cushion in an effort to ease his torture—there was something about the pitch of her voice when she got excited that made him feel like he just snorted lemon juice. It was fine when she wasn’t so… loud, but still. Ugh.

“Go ahead, call me the best!” Kaminari preened, chest puffed out and head held high.

“You’re the best!” both Ashido and Kirishima chimed in like well-trained obedient puppies. Fucker. Bakugou huffed, peeling the pillow off his head and smacking it against Kirishima’s instead. Glaring at the redhead.

“Okay, well you’re my favourite,” Kirishima grinned, rubbing at the mess of hair that the pillow had fluffed up. Taking the pillow from his lover’s hand and tucking it into his lap. “There’s no contest—you win by a landslide!” Sero made kissy noises from the floor, ones that Ashido were quick to mimic.

“Shut the fuck up!” Bakugou snarled, not putting up a wink of a fuss when Kirishima went to mold and model him pressed up against the redhead’s side. His arms securely wrapped around him. And he stayed like that, content and rather silent, for the rest of the night (as long as he was pressed against Kirishima). Kirishima’s hands tangling in his mess of thick blond hair, combing it back without thought as he talked and talked and talked.

͢

This week’s group extrusion was a mess waiting to happen. Ashido had done some digging and learned that there was a miniature golf course that wasn’t just indoors but glow in the dark. “The dark,” she stage whispered, shaking Jirou until the girl caved and approached the vice representative of their class.

Those two were always joined at the hip; Kirishima’s working theory was that they were either in that awkward phase where they liked each other but didn’t know how to make it more, or they were in that awkward dating phase where they were learning each other.  

Maybe it was because Bakugou doesn’t do the subtlety that’s needed for those tip-toed unease, ‘cause the two of them never really did that. There was that awkward week where they weren’t really dating but the date was planned and it was obvious that they liked each other—they sat really close together and Kirishima stared just about all the time (Asui still claimed he did it, but this time in a gross in-love kind of way). But really, that week was just about forgotten when instead he could focus on their first date.

Ashido tossed her hands up, startling the redhead out of his mental revisit to that golden first date—it was magical. “Put-put golf tomorrow!!” she cheered, “wear something cool that’ll glow in the dark!” Tokoyami groaned, not looking forward to the event being planned.

“I wonder how much I can get glowing,” Kirishima mumbled, fingers digging into the back of Bakugou’s hand, keeping him there firmly. Grounding him when all he wanted to do was leave, tucking himself away for the rest of the night in one of their rooms.

“Why the fuck would you want that?”

“’Cause it’s cool,” Kirishima stress, tugging on Bakugou’s arm. “You gotta do it to!”

“Like fuck,” the blond snapped.

͢

Everyone but Mineta showed up that afternoon, gathered just beside the doors of the establishment. You could spot both Ashido and Aoyama a mile away with their mix of neon colours that surprising didn’t clash, the abilities those two had with clothing amazed Kirishima.

Yaoyorozu called her hands together once to gather the group’s attention as she was the one handling this group outing; she did pay the entrance fee after all. “So we’ll be going in groups of three to make it easier. Two groups of six and one of seven.”

Shouji raised an arm, “the couples should go together in the first group. Call it a triple date.” Kirishima’s head tilted in confusion; there were two other couples in their class? Like, really?

Ojiro scratched the back of his head, “well I guess that could work,” the blush like a beacon on his pale cheeks. Hagakure skipped from foot to foot at his side—oh. Ooooooh. Kirishima blinked owlishly; he’s really been out of touch with the rest of the class if he didn’t even notice that developing.

Ojiro had mentioned once that he thought their resident invisible girl cute—cute in the way her personality was all bubbly and fun and… yeah, why didn’t Kirishima spot that beforehand? Ojiro and Hagakure were both familiar in his group of friends, and in extension his lunch table. But, then again, for the last month or so he’s been engaged heavily in Bakugou.

“Don’t forget Jirou and Yaoyorozu!” The vice-president sputtered, covering her face with her hand when Ashido pointed and waved towards the pair. They didn’t bring up the last couple standing close to the wall, their fingers weaved together, one of them ruffled and puffed out like a bird and the other smiling like a goof.

͢

Kirishima learned that Bakugou… not so good at golfing, but at least it wasn’t as bad as Yaoyorozu who had launched the ball with far too much power and returned it to the starting position twice in the third hole. They were only on the third hole when trouble rose in the form of a loud apologetic, “LOOK OUT!”

And thinking back on the moment it was rather funny, truly, the domino effect that one brightly coloured neon green ball had. It had hit the lip of the course with enough force that it kept going, bouncing from one far wall to another before doubling back and taking out the one and only Bakugou Katsuki (and in extension Kirishima).

Kirishima yelped, hand covering his nose. Dabbling at his nostrils, checking if any blood was gushing—it wasn’t, but it felt like it. Bakugou spread eagled on top of him, eyes daze as he blinked slowly up at ceiling. His forehead ached, right between his eyebrows. He frowned, grunting at Kirishima. “Yeah, I’m fine. Your hard head just bruised my nose,” the redhead bemoaned, rubbing at the tender spot.

“I’m so so sorry Kacchan!” Midoriya exclaimed, the boy hidden by a wall made up of Iida, Uraraka, and Todoroki. Juuuuust in case Bakugou decided to initiate a quick revenge.

Kirishima waved the comment off. Attempting to defuse the situation as quickly as possible, before Bakugou gained his wits again and lost his temper. “No sweat; no blood, nothing’s broken. We’ll just sit out for a bit and catch up later,” Jirou nodded at the fallen couple, taking Yaoyorozu’s arm and guiding her to the next hole.

The slowly untangled from each other, lumbering off to the side where they sat and nursed their aches and bruises in silence. Watching the other two groups slowly move on further and further away. “Ow,” Kirishima finally admitted, leaning his head on Bakugou’s shoulder.

“Sorry,” Bakugou lowered his shoulder, making it easier for his partner to snuggle up to his side.

Kirishima watched as Shouji’s large body finally disappeared around the corner before extracting himself from the other boy. “So, wanna continue with just the two of us?” He held his hand out for Bakugou to take, fingers wiggling.

The blond boy shrugged, accepting the hand. “Sure. I’ll fucking kick your ass.” Kirishima snorted, tugging him up with more force than necessary, wrapping his arms around his waist and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

“Yeah right,” he rolled his eyes, nuzzling against Bakugou’s rounded cheek. Tongue peeking out between his razor sharp teeth to poke against his skin. “You’ve got as much skill at golf as you do with kissing—well, had at kissing. You’re better now,” a wink, a smack against his ass, and Kirishima was skipping back. Dodging a lazy kick to his shins.

Chapter Text

Tetsutetsu waved his hand in front of his face as if he was waving a really foul smell from his presence, his laughter loud and boisterous, infectious as it spread to Kirishima. The pair laughing over some video the other had shown him on his phone, queued up and rearing to go as soon as they could meet up. Bakugou rolled his eyes, tongue pressed to the inside of his cheek.

The sound of Yoshis’ paired up geckoes started up again, sending them into another round of gut wrenching howls of laughter. He was tempted to press his hand up to his own head and blow it up.

He was trying to not be such a dick; Kirishima liked hanging out with the shiny metal douche nugget, so as a good boyfriend Bakugou was attempting to hang out with said friend (and then of course the resident Class 1-A group that Kirishima called “the gang”. Like it was the next hit group for fucking Scooby-fucking-Doo). Well, it was more like, Bakugou was totally-not-cuddling against Kirishima’s side on the couch in the living room of 1-A’s dorm while those two did whatever it was that they did.

“That’s so sick!” Tetsutetsu weaved, snorted as another fit of laughter bubbled out.

Bakugou went back to his phone, quietly thumbing through the book he had downloaded and hidden deep within his phone. Just because he was dating a guy who seemed to be as much of a romantic as Bakugou secretly—TOTALLY ISN’T—was doesn’t mean he was anywhere near being comfortable in admitting he liked reading romance novels.

The romance was so cheesy, the porn was teeth pulling-ly bad. Really, what about it would be great for admitting? Nothing. Not-a-fucking-thing. Maybe the ones he read about queer couples, ‘cause y’know, they were too. But fuck that.

Time went on; the two continued to be loud, and Kirishima kept moving, shifting in his seat and would wait for Bakugou to settle back against him before returning his hand to the blond’s waist. Bakugou’s attention hardly wavering from the digital copy of The Baller that had captured his attention, captivating him as the rest of the world fell away.

Though the physical show of comfort and affection was not lost on Tetsutetsu, the B class student eyeing the couple curiously. Watching, ever watchful, as Bakugou ignored them in favour of whatever it was that he was reading. Already so comfortable around each other like they’ve been dating for years rather than a month (and however many days).

Kirishima casually glancing over to see what was on the screen before glancing away and shrugging at his friend. “He’s a closet nerd,” Kirishima mouthed, tongue peeking out between sharp teeth.

Tetsutetsu snickered, “he’ll kill you, bro.” He easily mouthed right back. Kirishima snorted, rolling his eyes.

͢

The first time someone orders pizza to the dorms it’s Kirishima and the majority of their classmates go crazy. “You’re sharing that right? Right!?” Ashido screams down the hall as the redhead made a hasty retreat up into the elevator with his two large pizzas and 2L 7up. “YOU’RE SHARING RIGHT?!” The doors closed at a snail’s pace and the pink girl was quickly approaching, “Kirishima!!!” She wailed just as the doors closed and her body met the metal doors.

Kirishima exhaled staring up at the lights overhead dejectedly. “Why are my friends so weird,” he groaned, gaze lowering to the overhead numbers, counting up the floors until the door to his floor opened and there it was. Another one of his weird friends.

“Kirishima,” Sero spoke coolly, fingers weaved together in front of him—like some creepy interpretation of scholarly villain in a videogame, only sans their typical robe. His eyes followed him when Kirishima moved either left or right, it was creepy. Really, really creepy. “Kirishima, buddy, pal.” Kirishima stalled, eyeing his door right behind the dark haired teen.

“Sero—”

“—Gimme a slice,” they cut the other off, eyes narrowing. Brows furrowed, drawn in deep arches downwards. Just as sudden as they stopped, Kirishima was darting around the other, pizza clutched to his chest they both screeched out their war cries. “GIMME THE PIZZA!!”

“NEVER!!” Kirishima slammed his body against his door, cradling both the boxes of pizza and the pop. Sero’s body pressed against his, arms wrapping around his body in an effort to grab at the food. “DON’T! DON’T YOU DARE! I’LL SICK BAKUGOU ON YOU! I’LL DO IT!” The door opened revealing one annoyed blond. Kirishima grinned cheekily, preening under the glare the blond boy was leveling at them.

Hair still dripping from the shower he had just had before Kirishima went to collect the pizza at the front gate, red-orange eyes narrowed, glaring at the two tangled on Kirishima’s doorstep. “What the fuck are you doing with my fucking pizza, you malnourished dickweed?” Sero threw his hands up, giving up in the arrival of an impenetrable force. “That’s what I fucking thought,” he held the door open further, allowing the owner of the room to enter before slamming the door shut and locking it.

͢

Kirishima cracked open his laptop, clicking open one of his browsers where a let’s play video lay waiting and loaded, waiting them to hit play. Kirishima hummed pointing to the screen and Bakugou nodded, shrugging one of his shoulders. Between them and the laptop screen lay those two pizza boxes, now freshly opened and slightly smooshed but overall still delectable and pizza-like.

The redhead settled back, the video now taking up the entire screen, and a meat riddled pizza slice filled his palm. Cheesy goodness oozing off the tip as he made a mad dash to gobble it down as quickly as possible. There was a deal one for two large pizzas and a drink, and he felt like he owed Bakugou for all those breakfasts and dinners he’d been making him, so like a good boyfriend he treated him for once.

The blond’s pizza was in direct opposition of his; not a meat additive to be seen. The only thing their pizzas shared was extra cheese and the type of crust—thick, ‘cause think crust was for the weak (or Kirishima’s mother who wanted to pretend to watch her figure yet she’d easily go through half a pizza without patting an eyelash). Bakugou had a mixture of spicy sauce, hot peppers, onions and regular green peppers—when he pipped in with his request Kirishima only thought ‘that’s so him’.

Kirishima plucked a pepperoni, waggling it beside Bakugou until the blond turned to face him, brow arching in question. “Want a pepperoni? It isn’t spicy,” he shook the thin cut meat again.

Bakugou’s mouth opened, bits of chewed up pizza sticking to his molars. Kirishima’s nose scrunched at that and he tossed the food towards his mouth. Bakugou caught it easily, chewing it back without a word as he turned his attention back to the show.

It went like that for the rest of the fifteen minute long video; they slowly eased their way through their own pizzas, Kirishima throwing the occasional pepperoni at Bakugou’s face and smiling when the blond would always catch it. Soon half of each pizza was gone and Kirishima switched it to a new video, the silence nice. A calm embrace after a weird day of classes and then their friends being pizza fiends.

And, of course, just as Kirishima thought it, another one appeared.

Kaminari knuckles knocked against the glass door of his balcony, hair a mess from the wind steadily picking up. It called for thunder showers later that night, and by the looks of it the wind for it was upon them.

Kirishima stared at his friend, the blond in question waggled his fingers timidly. Clearly regretting his choice now that he was trapped, the balcony door locked firmly in place. Bakugou scowled back at him, “what the fuck?” he hissed, to himself or Kirishima, he didn’t know. He didn’t reply.

Kirishima sighed, accepting the fact that he’d have to let him in so he could leave, and standing from his comfortable spot on the floor. He trudged across the short distance and unlatched the door, pulling the boy in as soon as possible before sliding the door closed and locking it anew. “Just… get out.”

Kaminari saluted, squirreling away over Bakugou’s legs and out the door without a word. His face beat red, eyes downcast at his failed attempt of pizza robbery.

Kirishima rechecked the doors and insuring that both locks were in place before joining his partner again, crossing his legs and leaning back against the bed. “Your friends are fucking idiots,” Bakugou snorted, taking a bite from the last slice of his pizza. Cheeks puffed out as he chewed.

Kirishima groaned, “I don’t know what their deal is with this pizza, man. They’re acting like animals—”

“—that’s because they are—”

“—they don’t normally… hey! Don’t be rude!” Bakugou snickered, chewing on the corner of his crust as Kirishima bumped his shoulder against his.

͢

They didn’t deserve his kindness, but neither Bakugou nor he were going to eat the remaining two slices of Kirishima’s pizza. So, like the good person he was, he brought it down. Left the box wide open on the table for whomever to steal the spoils of the earlier war.

He didn’t stick around to find out who took it. Only receiving a text from Shouji later thanking him for the two slices.

͢

It was bound to arrive sooner rather than later; the dreaded beautifully scandalous slash magnificent (each person had their own adjective for this damn game, it was hard to keep track of) game of Cards Against Humanity. Jirou set out the black cards in silence, nineteen people gathered around in a circle formation as she grabbed the white cards and began dividing up the white cards in some-what-even five piles. She then shuffled the rest of the cards in her hands out, ten cards each before adding the remaining white cards to the piles she scattered around.

“Whoever went to the bathroom last is the card czar,” she stated, eyeing the group until Todoroki sighed and raised his hand. When no one else raised theirs Jirou waved him towards the black cards, beginning the game finally.

Todoroki’s eyes narrowed, holding the card out in front of his face. “I mean you could have, blank, but in all honestly… I’d rather have, blank.” He repeated it once more before setting the card down in front of him.

“So you’ll be reading the bottom card first, right?” Asui mumbled around her tongue. Todoroki confirmed it with a nod.

͢

Mineta fired off his finger guns. “Am I the only one who tried,” he flipped over the first card, “striking out with everyone in the world?!” His earlier smirk disappeared, a sense of foreboding coming to fruition. “I’m already getting a bad feeling about this.”

“Good!” Hagakure clapped her hands together once. “Now read the rest of the insult—I mean answers.”

͢

They played where the card czar went around the circle in a clockwise formation, no matter who won the round, it didn’t matter until they had ten cards in their possession and then they’d win, they’d shuffle out new cards and play again. To the surprise of everyone, Kouda had been the first to ten black cards (in twelve rounds).

They had taken a short break, wrote up some more custom white and black cards before adding them to the piles and redistributing it. Kirishima bumped his knee against Bakugou’s, eyes pointedly glancing towards the black card pile to start the game finally. Finally, now that everyone else seemed to be back and ready.

Though Iida looked one card away from just throwing his cards up and calling the game incongruous, or just downright morally wrong. It had been a sub-game all along to see how long Iida could last before calling the game and ending their fun.

Bakugou plucked the black card from the center of the group and grimaced. Fuck, his brain screamed for him internally while he stared at the card he had between his fingers. He ground his teeth together, relinquishing any and all hope that these classmates of his wouldn’t use too stupid of cards for this. “Thanks to, blank, my sex life has improved drastically.”

Across the circle from him both Kaminari and Ashido let out twin gasps before breaking out into snickers—shit. He didn’t bother repeating it before placing the card on the floor in front of him. He pinched the bridge of his nose before straightening it out to rub over his temples and forehead.

͢

With all the white cards all gathered neatly in a pile, Bakugou began reading them out. “Thanks to, fistfucking, my sex life has improved drastically.” He could feel his ears heat up as the group watched him, waiting for any crack in his annoyed visage. “Thanks to, the rainbow colored dick of Ronald McDonald, my sex life has improved drastically.”

Okay, so he huffed out a puff of amusement at that one. Adding it to the pile with the fistfucking card before moving on. “Thanks to, blue balls, my sex life has improved drastically—that defeats the purpose of this dumbfuck.” He flipped it over into a pile he was now labeling The Loser Pile. “Thanks to, using extra spicy sauce for lube, my sex life has improved drastically.”

He squinted before tossing that one too into the good pile—he did like his spice, but holy shit would that fucking burn. “Thanks to, this card wi—no. Fuck you,” he added the card to The Loser Pile without finishing the card, moving on without hesitation. “Thanks to, a dildo the size of my calves (yes both of them), my sex life has improved drastically.”

He flipped through three more; Dicks all over the face, then a pulsating vibrator with wonky vibrate functions, before the gem of our lord and savior All Might. And at that point he glanced down and found what had to be one of the cards that Ashido and Kaminari were giggling about earlier. He eyed the pair staring at him, their eyes brightening when they saw him glancing their way—grinning ear to ear. “Thanks to—fucking hell—Kirishima’s rippling abs, my sex life has improved drastically.”

Kirishima visibly flustered beside him, leaning over to sneak a peek at the remaining cards in the blond’s hands. He couldn’t see anything safe for the fact that yes, yes indeed someone did in fact write that on a card. A card that both Ashido and Kaminari where both extremely proud about if their high-fives were anything to go from.

Bakugou quietly added it to the good pile only to choke when his eyes fell upon the next hand written card before him. “What the fuck?!” he exclaimed. Ashido howled, starting up a loud boisterous chant of ‘read it! Read it!’ Before Bakugou caved, face aflame, “Thanks to, Kirishima’s 25 inch cock, my sex life has improved drastically.”

The redhead gaped, “It’s not that big! Holy shit! I don’t know if I should be touched or a little put off…”

Bakugou stared—really, really stared at the teen at his side. His tanned hands held up in the universal sign of surrender, but from what? What the hell was he surrendering from? That’s fucking impossible, he thought just as quickly as he continued with, what the fuck does ‘it’s not that big’ means? Is it big or no? What the fuck?!

“Oh yeah? Then how big is it?” Hagakure chimed in, repeating the last question that Ashido poised like a well-trained parrot. Kirishima stilled, eyes narrowing in thought—those cheeks still firmly aflame in the firm grasp of dilemma.

He raised an arm, palm open and fingers straight. He made small gestures, fingers on his right hand twitching like he was ticking off tally marks. “IT’S THE SIZE OF YOUR ARM! DOES YOUR QUIRK MAKE YOUR DICK LIKE THAT?!” Mineta screeched.

“Show us, show us!”

Iida stood, hands waving madly. “No! No! There will be absolutely NO nudity! NO! DON’T ASHIDO!” The pink haired girl stood, hands on her hips, challenging their class representative. “That’s it! This game is finished! No more, we’re done!”

“Oh come on!” Uraraka pouted, “Iida don’t be a party pooper.” But the boy stood firm, hands high on his hips and chest puffed out.

͢

They had a test that Tuesday in English, one that Kirishima was totally going to rock. “We can spend tonight working out,” he said around a mouthful of rice, white grains flying from his lips. Bakugou bared his teeth in disgust, chastising him for his poor manners. “Yeah yeah, still. I’ll do just fine on this test so we should totally go and hit the gym! C’mon babe!”

Bakugou’s lip curled at the pet name, though he caved all the same for the suggestion—he’s been hitting the dorm gym just before bed, way out of his normal times that he’d do it. He liked working out in the morning before showering, but since he and Kirishima started their bed-sharing he hasn’t been able to wake up early enough to get a decent sweat on before he’ll have to cut out and go to class.

“We’re still going over a few questions before bed,” the blond mumbled, looking away from that fifty kilowatt grin.

͢

He’d long since reached the understanding that Bakugou’s music style wasn’t as clear cut as he had assumed—at least, well, he assumed. Based on what the blond had been setting their background study music to. His taste ranged from some slow as snail paced songs, to something that nearly sounded like it belonged in an opera house—though that cut to some heavy guitar rifts, so maybe it was a style of metal.

The one thing that a good 87% of all the songs all held in common though was the fact that they were in English. Why did he mostly listen to English? Is that why he had such great marks in the subject?!

They had ended their studying earlier than normal; Kirishima noticed that the blond was zoning in and out, orange-red eyes staring at the corner of the page. He’s been doing that a little than normal this week, leaving their friends without saying anything. Bakugou was just being… not Bakugou, y’know?

Kirishima had gathered all their notes and loose paper, and pens and pencils and shoved them off the bed in a clatter before planting a hand in the center of Bakugou’s chest and easing him back to lay on Kirishima’s bed. Kirishima followed him down, laying pressed to Bakugou’s side, head pillowed on his chest. Ear pressed against the thing fabric of his black tank top, his heart steady, pumping blood through his body—badump-badumpt.

Bakugou shifted, arm moving to wrap around his shoulders and tangle in crimson locks. The other twitched at his side, like he longed to touch Kirishima with that as well. He huffed, reaching out and crating their fingers together, stealing that moral dilemma from him.

The music changed, one of the slower paced songs he had hidden away playing. It sounded so much louder now that he wasn’t busying himself with cramming knowledge into his brain. Bakugou tensed, relaxing against after the first few strings. A hum building up deep in his chest, like he couldn’t help but add to the song. Express a little bit of himself with it.

“What’s it about?”

Bakugou paused his humming, fingers still combing through the messy strands of red hairs. His brow furrowed, listening to the song and trying to find the proper words for it. “It’s sappy,” is what he says, like it explained everything. “It’s… shit, fuck, okay,” he grimaced listening to the part the song was at right that moment. His cheeks coloured. “He just said ‘You didn't have to offer your hand. ’Cause since I've kissed it I am at your command. But you did.’ But the rest of it is along the same lines.”

Bakugou’s heart picked up. Kirishima didn’t comment on it, nor how those lyrics sounded so close to that night. That Night. Instead Kirishima hummed in confirmation and the pair returned to the song—the quiet hum that rumbled in Bakugou’s throat and chest, and Kirishima listening to the steady pounding of Bakugou’s heart.

The rumble of humming grew, the sound vibrating under his ear. Building and building until… suddenly, it stilled. “How I find myself without you. That I'll never know. I let myself go,” Kirishima’s brain didn’t process the words quick enough—shocked as he was.

Bakugou’s voice was raspy, like he hadn’t used it for a time—Kirishima’s breath caught in his lungs, burning. Holding it within in case an exhale was all it took to break this spell. His voice started low, mirroring the ending notes—drawn out. His chest rising and falling under Kirishima’s cheek. It made him feel warm.

He felt—wow, okay. This was that big deal people liked making out of love—this had to be it.

Kirishima didn’t tell him; not yet, not until he was sure. Really, truly, sure. Instead, “you have a nice voice,” he hummed pressing in closer. And to him that was close enough.

͢

There’s about three things Bakugou could name off the top of his head that he hated more than this; that blue haired pasty ass bitch fucknut of a villain, his grandmother’s surprise visits (the one on his Dad's side. Bakugou got along with his Granny, but not this mother of his father), and Deku. Those are the three things that are worse than this dumb fuckery of event scheduled for their weekly ‘bonding’ shite.

Mineta set three movies out in front of the group on the table, all a collection of horror movies. A part of his big plan to have the ladies of the class clinging to him for protection (or, more like, he’d cling to their bosoms in fear). “We should start with something scary!” his eyebrows waggled, finger pistoling at both Ojiro and Sero who sat on either side of Hagakure and Ashido—like they needed help in their romantic overtures.

Ojiro scratched at his shoulder, looking away from the smaller male. He could feel the heavy gaze of Hagakure on his as he pointedly stared a head—just because he didn’t need the help, doesn’t mean he doesn’t appreciate the excuse to cuddle with his lady love.

Bakugou rolled his eyes, kicking his legs over Kirishima’s lap and further settling in to the couch cushions. Before the movie night commenced the sofas were moved, all pointed towards the large television in a box shaped formation, mountains of pillows scattered around on the floor for those unlucky enough to not get a seat up on a couch.

And luckily, maybe through the seer fact that no one wanted to hear him bitch if he didn’t get one, he and Kirishima had the majority of one of the couches with only Satou brave enough to take up the foot of it with Kirishima safely stuffed between Bakugou and he.

Kirishima’s hand felt warm between his knees, squeezing one as he chatted with Ashido and Sero who sat by their feet in a throne of pillows shoulder to shoulder. Bakugou had checked himself out of the conversation when they started tossing around suggestions of what movies they wanted to watch.

In truth, Bakugou didn’t plan on staying long. That feeling of a hand gripping his lungs, waiting to squeeze at a moment’s notice, was back. He hadn’t even wanted to leave this morning, then again when he came back from class—he just didn’t feel good. But Kirishima liked these things, liked when Bakugou showed up for these dumb things.

He’s already dealt with a dismayed Kirishima once with that camping trip; Bakugou couldn’t see himself putting up with the wistful sighs and puppy dog eyes for another week when he denied him of his own involvement (because, of course, Kirishima would go anyways). So here he sat, gaze level with Kirishima’s hand—his fingers were longer than his, though Bakugou’s palm seemed wider—watching the tanned thumb caress the bruise on his knee.

He focused on the repetitive movement, the swipe of his thumb, the callouses, the feel. He gave it a minute, focus on Eijirou, he gave it two, focus on him you fuck. It was like middle school all over again; that suffocation, that oppressing presence assaulting his lungs. It made it hard, made it difficult to want to take one breath after the other—to keep it steady and inconspicuous.

Just two movies, just last two fucking movies and then you can drag shitty hair away to make out. The thought seemed to calm him more than that breathing exercise did.

The lights flicked off; Bakugou snapped from his thoughts, gaze snapping up to the television screen. The menu for the movie up and waiting. The Conjuring.

͢

He knows he shouldn’t be laughing at it, but it was just so fucking funny! Maybe his view of what was traditionally ‘scary’ was askew, maybe it just really wasn’t scary. But with everything that warranted someone to jump, Bakugou found himself snickering instead.

Kirishima, sometime during the first twenty minutes tucked his legs up onto the couch beside him, and laid his head on Bakugou’s chest. Deep crimson eyes focused ahead, wide-eyed and alert, towards the action on screen.

͢

The girls took control of the movie selection next; and in spite they sided with Hagakure who only wanted something romantic and emotional. It was a movie that Bakugou had watched on television years ago; a movie a bit about dance, and a bit about a relationship.

Fuck, he thought as soon as the menu screen appeared and he got a look at the title of the movie. Save The Last Dance. Yeah, he’ll have to force an indifferent look on his face during the whole thing.

But, on the other hand, at least the last movie he watches tonight will be a good one.

͢

Bakugou tangled his fingers through Kirishima’s hair, massaging the boy’s scalp as the group took a break to gather more food and drinks together. “Let’s go,” he tugged on the strands of red tangled between his fingers. Kirishima hummed, head tilting back with the hold, one brow raised in a silent question.

The others were scattered about; a mess of popcorn popping from the kitchen, the sound of the fridge pepping from being left open for too long, ice hitting a glass. Then there was the spotted conversations still left in the living room either on route to the bathroom, or lingering in wait for the movie to start.

No one was paying the couple any attention.

Yet still, Bakugou leaned in, voice dipping to whisper “let’s go to our room.” Like they didn’t in fact have two—not that it mattered.

Kirishima whined, “But we’re watching the All Might movie I wanted next!” Bakugou’s stomach churned at that; he really didn’t want to see it. “And the one after that is that racing movie I told you about. Y’know, the one with the guy with a snake head racing to make money so he can pay for his mother’s hospital bills?” His lower lip stuck outwards in a large dramatic pout, “we can’t go yet Katsuki—”

Bakugou’s mind stopped; that running commentary, the background strategy in how he could convince the other away. All of it stopped. Instead it was replaced with his name; his name echoed in his head, Kirishima’s voice accompanied it.

He could feel his cheeks, on fire and spreading like wildfire at the end of a drought. His heart pounded like thunder in his ears—he called me by my first name. It was the first time he did it, and he didn’t even notice it.

“We’ll leave after that, kay?” the bells and sirens in Bakugou’s head stopped at that. At Kirishima sitting up when the others returned with arms full of snacks and drinks.

Bakugou ground his teeth together; torn between leaving now like he planned, but alone, or after two more movies with Kirishima willingly following. With twin fists clenched, fisting his pant legs, Bakugou glared at the television.

What’s two more movies?

͢

The All Might wasn’t as built as the real one; his muscles too small, his smile too wrong. Bakugou’s jaw clenched, heart skipping a beat when the movie showed real—live and in person—footage of All Might during an interview. The way he spoke, the answers—Bakugou knew this interview, he’s watched it before. Had bribed and weaseled his way into watching it late one night when he was little.

Kirishima sat still as the dead, grin spreading on his goofy face. Bakugou glanced back at the screen, back to the actor playing his childhood hero. Leave, it was a mistake to think he should stay for another two movies when he knew (he knew) that he could only stay through two.

But, he was man enough to admit this, he didn’t want to spend the rest of the night alone. Didn’t want to give up his time with Kirishima—he didn’t want Kirishima to have to choose between coming up to the room with Bakugou, or spending time with his friends (because of course Kirishima considered their classmates’ friends).

Bakugou shifted, pulling his legs in close, off of Kirishima’s lap. The redhead deterred his gaze from the television, focus shifting to the blond. Head tilting in question; a clear sign of ‘what’s up?’

Bakugou shook his head, cupping the other’s face and pulled him into a kiss. Parting the other’s lips with his tongue; Bakugou was met with teeth. The other boy refusing to open his mouth. He pulled away with a frown. Kirishima leaned in, lips pressed to Bakugou’s ear. “Later, I promise.”

A whisper, a promise. Nothing but pretty words in secrete between the two. He should know by now that pretty words meant shit all.

Later isn’t good enough. Bakugou clenched his eyes shut as an explosion on screen resonated deep within him, bringing up an image of a time seemingly long ago. A month wasn’t all that long—not when his heart slammed against his ribcage, not when his breath caught.

“Later I’ll change my mind and not want to have sex with you,” he laid his last card on the table. Anything—anything to get Kirishima to leave with him.

Another explosion; Bakugou ground his teeth together.

Kirishima sucked in a breath, hesitating. Bakugou could see him swallow, could see his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Later,” he still said. After even that. His heart slammed against his ribs again, this one with enough force to put one of his explosions to shame.

Embarrassment burned in his chest as the redhead sat back up, back to his early position. Next was the anger; swirling and spreading. Growing and mounting onto his already heart gripping emotions—another bang of an explosion had those three steady emotions imploding into a fury of motions; had him stepping and leaping over the back of the couch. Had him storming off to the door to the stairwell, slamming it behind him before running up four flights of straights taking them three at a time.

A cold hands of fear, the grip of anger that burned, the poison of embarrassment—those three had him throwing open his bedroom door and locking it behind him. Had him locking the sliding door as well. It had him launching his books from his desk.

He felt shame, he felt guilt—he felt like he was to be sick.

͢

He was picking his books off the ground when he hears the knock on his door; gaze flicking to it, down to the lock still in place before glancing towards the clock. It’s after midnight now, Kirishima had stayed down for the last two movies like he said he was. “Bakugou,” his voice sounded muffled through the wood. Still so clearly Kirishima.

“Bakugou are you in there? Please let me in.” Bakugou set his book on his desk, plucking the headphones from the faux-wood and stuffing it into his ears before plugging it into his phone. Setting his phone to that ‘to the moon’ function, and drowning out anything else he could possibly say.

He ran his fingers through the back of his hair, tugging on them as he sat on his bed. Staring down at his phone, counting the minute—the two, the three—that passed. When the fourth minute was upon him he finally laid his head down to his pillow, eyes clenched firmly shut.

He kept them in his ears for the rest of the night; he didn’t hear if Kirishima knocked on their shared wall (he did), he didn’t hear his phone going off notifying that he had a text or the call that went straight to voicemail. He spent that night staring up at his ceiling, his overhead light keeping his room bright until the sun came up and added to the light. He didn’t hear the other knock against his wall, didn’t hear the one against his door asking him to come down for breakfast.

They didn’t have class that day; he’d finished his homework for Monday days ago. So, for lack of anything else to do, Bakugou pulled out his hidden collection of books. He ate his protein bars during the day, only slipping out to use the can and at times he’d venture down for something to drink. Avoiding any conversation with those earphones firmly wedged in his ears.

It wasn’t his most proudest of days but he did it. Lasted the whole day without Kirishima’s face popping up in his space, the only thing he’s seen of the other was the picture he still had saved as his home screen.

͢

Bakugou kept up the avoidance on Monday. Kirishima couldn’t bring himself to spike up his hair; everyone picked up on the fact that they were fighting by lunch when Kirishima dejectedly watched as Bakugou left his desk and disappeared for the rest of the period.

Kirishima’s hair seemed to dull, eyes downcast as he sat with his friends at a table with a tray of food before him. Untouched. “He’s so mad,” he moaned, inhaling a large lungful of air before expelling it with another dramatic sigh. Pushing his tray of food to the center of the table, his head quickly met the table with a loud thud.

“What happened?” Ashido inquired around a mouthful of chicken. Pink cheeks puffed like a stuffed chipmunk as spoke around it.

The redhead groaned, “He was like ‘let’s go and have sex’ during the movies on Saturday after I said no to leaving after Hagakure’s movie. But it was obviously him not actually wanting to have sex, but just, y’know.” He crossed his arms over his head, “he really didn’t want to watch movies with us but I figured it was just Bakugou being Bakugou, y’know?” He whined, arms tightening around himself. “What if he actually meant it and I hurt his feelings? And then there’s the fact that…” he cut himself off with another whine, mind racing on ahead.

Ashido chewed her food as she pondered over the proper words to say. Though Sero had no qualms with barreling ahead and latching onto the earlier part of the Kirishima mounting panic. “I’m surprised you turned down sex,” Sero tapped the table with a long pale finger. Taptap. Tap. Taptap. Kaminari nodded in agreement, mind still filled with information that he was categorizing between TMI and WTF.

“Ignore them,” Ashido smacked the dark haired boy beside her, “you were saying something at the end there.” She smacked Sero again when he went to negate her interruption, then smacked him again simply because she liked the sound that it made.

The redhead’s equally red eyes stared up at her through his cage of tanned arms, “you have to promise not to say anything. Like, not even to your grandmother or… or your pets—or, like, your dead parents grave!” None of them feel into that last category, but the point remained. The three of them quickly mimed the universal cross-my-heart sign. Kirishima huffed, shoulders tensing. “Bakugou doesn’t sleep—” like ripping off a Band-Aid, “well… he didn’t used to sleep until we started sharing a room.”

He slowly uncaged himself from his fleshy cage, straightening up again in his seat. He stared down at his hands, weaved and tangled together on the table before him. “I don’t know if it’s because of nightmares, or he just can’t. But whatever it is, he’s not sleeping again and I’m worried.” He worried his bottom lip between two sets of razor sharp teeth.

Kaminari set his chopsticks down, pushing the crumbs of food left over from his meal away, focusing entirely on the situation at hand. “Do you think it’s because of the—y’know,” he didn’t even need to hesitate, didn’t even need to poise the question. Kirishima knew, he knew that most (if not all) of these things that he’s been picking up on stemmed from that summer training camp and the events afterwards.

Kirishima nodded, “yeah. I’m pretty sure it is.” The other three didn’t say anything; gazes lowering to the table, silence hanging overhead as they tried to form something—a plan, a thought, a simple suggestion—to help their friend(s) and fellow classmates in this trying moment.

Sero swallowed, shrugging a shoulder. “I don’t really know how to help you, man. All I can say is maybe give him some time to cool down, or think things over. If what you said is the case, then maybe he’s just not feeling like himself and its throwing his whole game off.” Kaminari pointed towards him, wagging his finger in agreement.

“It’ll be okay though,” Ashido stated, leaning over the table to cover the redhead’s hands with one of her’s. “Bakugou’s style isn’t to stay silently angry, so until he starts getting vocal, just plan what it is that you want to say and pray that when the time comes that he blows up on you that you’re able to get a word or two in edgewise.” She threw a wink in there to lessen the blow.

͢

Shigaraki’s pale hand reached out, “you fuck!” Bakugou roared thrashing, face torn and bloody. Palms smoking, raw and brunt and blistering from overuse. The hands weren’t covering his face, revealing that crooked ugly grin. With the duel efforts of both Himiko and Dabi (a knife digging into his throat, a knee planted in the small of his back and so many hands) keeping him in place, snarling and frothing.

He could feel the blood pumping from the pressing knife, that cold sharp kiss. His palms popped, crackling into a furry of explosions. Useless and loud. Smoking and burning his injured hands. Shigaraki clicked his tongue, displeased with the constant refusal. With the seemingly one-sided battle between All Might and the unknown villain in the background. The heroes were losing; their hope gone.  

His beady red eyes zeroed in on his, lips pursed. “There’s more than one way to create a villain,” his fingers twitched. The distance between them and his target closing. The redhead didn’t move, blood sliding in rivets down his forehead, his cheek, his jaw from their failed heroics. He had come for him, had thrown his life away to give Bakugou just a moment of relief—a hope of escape. A hope now crushed beneath their heels, turned to fine dust in its wake.

“I’ll fucking—” he bit his tongue, eyes widening in horror as the pale blue haired man touched Kirishima’s face with three fingers. With four. His palms fired off anew, each explosion louder, burning hotter, kicking up smoke with each ignite.

Shigaraki’s thumb touched Kirishima’s cheek bone. His skin quickly splintering, cracking, and falling away. “NO!” Twin explosions rocked his world—

Bakugou jolted up, up and out of his unsanctioned nap. His book discarded up beside his head, easily forgotten as the smell of smoke and fire assaulting his nostrils. Tendrils of heavy black smoke smothering his overhead light. His blanket was burning, flames licking upwards close to his hands. The blond quickly rolled out of bed, tearing the comforter off along with him. Beating it out as he coughed, inhaling smoke and grit and ash.

The fire alarm blaring out in the hall only adding to his internal panic. Hands stinging as he smacked out the flames; dragging his blanket towards the balcony, he quickly unlocked and pulled it wide open. Releasing the cloud of dark grey-black smoke behind him. He coughed, dropping his blanket in the doorway to grip the banister and hack up a wad of soot colour spit and phlegm. Launching it off the fourth floor balcony to the cement bellow without a care of who might be beneath.

 He left the sliding door wide open, storming across his small room to his door to prop that open as well—maybe wave the smoke out to the open air rather than towards the hall where the alarm still screeched away like a banshee from hell. He threw it open, freezing in the open at the cluster of people about to break down his door.

Kirishima at the helm, shoulder angled down and ready to ram it. He quickly stood, straightening his posture upon Bakugou’s arrival. “Oh thank God!” he heaved, shouldering his way through the opening between the boy and the doorframe. Storming into his room like a disgruntled parent on a mission, legs carrying him towards the thrown comforter. Checking the extent of the damages while the rest of their class began dispersing, fanning away the smoke in the hall now that they knew nothing was wrong—anymore.

Bakugou glared at the back of the redhead’s hair, then towards the few lingering classmates, then back to Kirishima when he slammed the door in their face.

Kirishima gathered the blanket in his arms, carrying it onto the balcony and throwing half of it over the side of the railing for it to air out. He left the door open behind him, silently picking up the books and other assortment of scattered things fallen on his carpeted floor during his haste to extinguish his bedding.

At least the sheets were still A-O.K. Intact and tucked in at the corners, just like how Bakugou liked it. Other than the lack of comforter, the blond’s room looked the same as he had last seen it nearly three days ago. Only clothes and wrappers a little more piled up than he had last seen.

Kirishima held his hand out, palm up, for Bakugou to take. “Let’s go to bed—we’ll talk in the morning.” Bakugou’s fingers itched, they twitched at his side. Yearning to reach out to take his hand and curl up against him. To forget about the dream; Bakugou didn’t have nightmares, he just didn’t. Wanted to forget about the last few days.

He turned off the overhead light and reached out, taking the boy’s hand that he had so desperately wanted.

͢

Bakugou’s phone alarm woke them both up that following morning; the blond groaning, reaching out and slapping it until he was able to still the sound. Plunging the room back into the sound of nature—of the wind blowing through his open curtains, the balcony door still wide open as the sun rose over the campus, birds singing in the wake of a new day. The blond groaned shuffling down until his face was cupped by warm, firm pectorals.

Kirishima’s arm wrapping around his shoulders, holding him tight against himself. “Talk later. Sleep,” he yawned. His typical sunny disposition absent that morning in the wake of a stressful evening.

Bakugou grunted, easily falling right back to sleep.

͢

It was the two of them left in the dorms that afternoon; lunch just passing, afternoon classes well underway. No one had come looking for him. No teachers to butt their noses in their business—maybe one of them told, maybe they just didn’t give a fuck.

Bakugou glanced away, silence hanging over his head as Kirishima continued to stare. “What?” he finally snapped, finally sick of that feeling. Those looks, that quite whispering in the back of his head that had his hackles rising. Bristling as nothing happened.

“I missed you.” Bakugou squinted, biting his cheek at the broken look. Crestfallen, hair drooping. He had bags under his sullen, bloodshot eyes. He sighed, taking the seat beside him on his bed. “You scared the shit outta me, man.” It sounded a little too watery for his liking.

“Sorry,” Bakugou mumbled. He didn’t know what else to say—didn’t know what he should say. He couldn’t even remember what they were fighting about to begin with. He knew it wasn’t important—at least in the long run. He knew he was mostly angry at himself; that he did know. Knew it from the very beginning. It was just easier to avoid Kirishima—he knew how to handle the other boy at least. That was easy. “’m not angry at you. Pissed at m’self.”

He was tired. He felt like he had run a triathlon and a half.

He cushioned his head on Kirishima’s shoulder, body growing slack. Like his strings had been cut, like the weight of the world suddenly… won. “Then don’t push me away—let me help,” he spoke just as softly. Just a couple of secretes being shared. “I can’t stand it when you hurt yourself just ‘cause you’re too proud to ask for help.” His fingers found Bakugou’s hand, deftly turning it over. Showing them the angry blisters on his palms left from Bakugou’s eventful sleep.

His heart swelled; mind clicking to the memory years ago of him asking his Mother why he was always so angry—why it felt like things bothered him more than the other kids his age. ‘It’s mood swings’. Bakugou licked his lips; he swallowed down his pride. “I’m fine if you’re here.”

Chapter Text

They hold out on any class bonding activities until a later date—no one had bothered to admit it aloud, but that night that Bakugou woke them up with echoes of explosions rattling the whole building with fire alarms blaring until the smoke dissipated, it really hurt. It struck a cord within, unnerving a lot of the false bravado that they fell into after That Night.

Yeah, it wasn’t a stretch to say that it had shook quite a few of them that night.

Not even a day had passed before the verdict was out, calling off whatever possible plans were in the making until further notice. Any plans that had been formed were changed; Hagakure and Ojiro planned a double date for both them and Ashido and Sero, Kaminari was going to visit home that weekend, Jirou and Yaoyorozu were going to go to a concert, Kouda had quickly taken the opportunity to volunteer at an animal shelter—the rest hadn’t yet figured out what to do with the free weekend. 

But Bakugou would most likely be at the dorms, again, under some campus arrest unless he had some reliable protection. And Kirishima would most likely stay with out of a misplaced sense of loyalty, or guilt.

͢

“Tell me about it,” Kirishima whispered. Their noses nudged, bumping up against each other as they laid there. Tucked into Kirishima’s bed; blankets up to their chests, sheets tucked into the bottom corner of the bed. The lights overhead dark, cold and unused. There was no one else around; just the two and this bed. Bodies exhausted from a pre-dinner work out following a combat training exercise in class.

Bakugou had told him, had promised to open up about things—about the shit that’s been bothering him. Keeping him up at night, plaguing his thoughts. “Being around people—being around a lot of people—for too long makes me irritated. Feels like it’s stuffy, or like I can’t breathe or some shit.” His palms felt a little stiff, like they should hurt but don’t—not since he had Recovery Girl take a look at them, healing them up all good ‘n new. Like the night from hell didn’t happen—that it was all just some sick twisted dream.

He didn’t have ‘sick twisted dreams’, it shouldn’t’ve happened in the first place.

He doesn’t say everything all at once, and it’s not like it’s even all that detailed. Sometimes it’s phrased like this, sometimes he’d grunt in reply to a question—more often than naught Bakugou would still ignore the questions he wasn’t ready to answer by pressing his lips to Kirishima’s and forcibly shutting him up.

The kissing was nice; Kirishima missed kissing him in those three (or so) days that the blond was ignoring him. Missed being able to cup his face and tilt his head, deepening it. Missed feeling him melt against him, draping himself over Kirishima without a thought of how he’d look or if it meant showing weakness—he liked it, loved it, when Bakugou lost himself a bit in the moment. Setting aside any and all reserve.

“Is that why you don’t like the class bonding stuff?” Bakugou grunts, the grip he has of Kirishima’s hand tightening. “I’m thinking it’s a bit of that mixed with the fact that you just don’t like all of them.” This time the grunt is a little softer; he’s right. Kirishima’s gotten pretty damn good at figuring these grunts out. “Well, how about this then; I’ll make sure you show up to these things, but when you’ve reached your limit you tell me clearly that you can’t take it anymore and we’ll leave.”

The blond huffs; it’s neither an agreement nor a denial. Kirishima will take it though. Progress is progress. Their working on it—it’s always better than him either punching him in the face, or cursing him out. He doesn’t want to change him, that’s against the whole point of dating Bakugou in the first place, he just wants the other boy to have options.

͢

Shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh. The comfort in a little bit of contact with the other boy was enough to have his stomach easing enough to eat. Bakugou’s gaze downcast, focused on the meal in front of him as his world attempted to right itself—it was always going, it’ll always continue moving forward no matter how much he wished for it to stop. For it to just wait a second so he could catch his breath and steel his resolve. It could be worse—right? It could always be worse?

Maybe if he didn’t have Kirishima, maybe then it’ll be a whole lot worse.

He’s been too quiet, too focused on his own thought process—it wasn’t like himself, and everyone knew. He rubbed the back of his head, frowning as he chewed. “Hey Bakugou,” he blinked, snapping out of his musing at the sound of Kaminari’s voice. “You alright man?”

He frowned, glaring at the other blond. “Fuck off, I have a headache,” he lied. Pushing it through his teeth with enough authority that no one called him out. Maybe they knew, maybe they didn’t. But Kirishima knew and that was a feat he couldn’t chastise him for developing—that little shit. Kirishima pressed a kiss to his temple, smiling when those narrowed orange-red eyes snapped to him. “I’m fine,” he hissed, nose flaring as he felt his ears heat.

Kirishima’s grin spread, “I know. Just thought I’d help it along.” He winked, pushing his shoulder against the other. The meat of his muscles cushioned the blow, merely jostling him with his entire body. Bakugou huffed, rolling his eyes at the childishness of the action.

Ashido smiled at him when he glanced over thatta way. “So are you going home anytime soon, Kirishima?” She looked away first, eyes falling shut at she smiled. Far too large, bigger than necessary. The most Ashido thing he’s ever fucking seen (and he just used her name as a descriptor). Why did these people smile with their whole face? Didn’t they know that all you needed for a classification of a smile was to crook the corners of your lips upwards?

Kirishima shrugged, “I’m thinking of going, not this weekend, but next. Satori, my oldest brother, is coming down with his wife and the baby so I’m thinking I should. I haven’t seen my niece yet—she’s like, three months old now so I think it’s about time.” He chuckled to himself, “I wonder if Yuu would be making it back from the US.” He tapped his forefinger against his chin in thought.

Kirishima had brothers? He’s heard about the youngest sister before, but never the brothers. Huh.

͢

The thing that Bakugou learned real fucking quick about shit like this was that it wasn’t just one clump of bad. There were the good days, there were the bad days… and then there were the really fucking bad days.

Sometimes the good days were a few weeks at a time—enough time to lull you into a false sense of security before a really fucking bad day would come around and rip the carpet out from under you. Plunging you back into that ice cold water were it took all your energy to break the surface and find something to hold onto to keep your head above water.

It felt like a knife was twisting in his gut before pulling out, taking bits and pieces of him that he’d have to fight to regain (or rebuild, or attempt to). It felt like someone pouring salt in it before a dash of lemon—he’s bit his cheeks enough and cleaned it out with enough saltwater, lemon and Listerine to know the feeling anywhere—before saying ‘fuck it’ and throwing dirt in it just cause. Knowing that no matter how much you cleaned it there was a 75% chance that a least one little grain of dirt would stay there and fester.

Sometimes those really fucking bad days happened one right after the other, sometimes they’d happen multiple times a week. Just a one-sided beat down, kicking your ribs in when you’re already assuming the fetal position—arms wrapped around your head as you starve off the brain trauma for just a little longer. It was like a dude brought over all his buddies after he kicked the shit outta you and got them to do the same, just to rub a bit more insult to your wounds (on top of the dirt infected metaphor that he just lovingly established).

But Bakugou knew; he’s had really fucking bad days before. He toughed them out before after that slimy bitch back in middle school.

He knew, but still, as soon as he had that… thing that Tuesday morning (or was it really late Monday night) he was going to have a really bad week. It hung over his head, the feeling stuck with him as he went about trying to pretend that he was fine. That he was fine and perfect and amazing.

It followed him around, lingering, testing at the back of his mind. It itched at his skin, made his hackles rise.

He knew. He fucking knew the worst was to come. He knew it, just like how he knew that no matter how much he denied it or prepared, or tried to work off the fried nerves. He knew that no matter what, nothing would prepare him for the mess that’ll explode outwards like a natural fucking disaster.

He just hoped, in a spare thought, that Kirishima would be no where fucking close to ground zero.

͢

The day everything goes to shit was the same day Bakugou blew up his class halfway during third period. A Friday, ‘cause the world hated him (it should’ve happened on a Monday, at least then there’d be a reason for everything to go wrong).

BOOM!

Like a well-timed comedic interval.

The shockwave was enough to set off the alarm without taking into consideration the smoke, and in extension, fire that followed it. Though it could have also had something to do with how his desk had quite literally shattered to pieces, one of the legs launching through three layers of supposedly unbreakable glass like it was a rocket powered missile. Or a homing pigeon—whichever was the more stubborn.

͢

There was a foul taste on his tongue when he woke up that Friday morning; forehead creased in annoyance as he went through his morning routine. Ate breakfast consisting of a cereal bar and two juice boxes, a true breakfast of champions. He brushed his teeth, ran water through his fingers which were then used to comb through his hair (he hand his hands under the stream again with a grimace at the amount of hair clinging to them).

It felt like the world was askew—nothing was right, but nothing was wrong either. Like that night from hell was the first shoe, now the second one was overhead and hanging.

The taste stayed with him as he threw on his uniform, when Kirishima took his hand as they left for class. Taking their sweet ass time to reach their destination. “You okay?” the redhead had inquired. The concern present was palpable; those big stupid (—ly beautiful) eyes staring down at him, taking in every blemish and pore.  

Bakugou shrugged; okay was subjective. He’ll be okay enough to sit down and take notes in class, he’ll be okay enough to ignore his classmates, he’ll be okay enough attend lunch and maybe sleep through the majority of it. He’d be okay. Just another shitty day, nothing he wasn’t unfortunately used to.

They made it to class easy enough, right in the middle of another one of Iida’s long winded rants about the integrity of their learning equipment being misused and abused with Tokoyami’s constant sitting on the desktop. Iida was attempting to explain that it might in fact leave an imprint of the shadow-user’s buttocks, and he didn’t want to have to explain why that was to any faculty member.

The mere thought of an ass covered in trousers being enough to erode a butt shaped mold in the desk was simply astoundingly idiotic that no one with enough intelligence to combat the class president on the matter felt the urge to begin the semblance of an argument.

So really, it was Iida just being Iida and Tokoyami being Tokoyami.

He did end up figuring out that foul taste in his mouth. Partway through homeroom when the vice and class president went about explaining that their typical third period room was being used to a special third year lecture by a special ‘guest’. It wasn’t a pleasant taste—that much was easily deduced. Soot mixed with a bit of blood (he’s bitten his tongue and cheeks enough times to become well acquainted with the taste of iron), and surprisingly a dash of strawberries.

But the strawberries could’ve been from Kirishima.

He turned his attention towards the window to his left, hand reaching back to the base of his skull as Present Mic walked in—it seems that their English class had been taken over by another third year class as well. Running his fingers through the soft short strands of hair, curling his fingers and tugging. The dull spike of pain did nothing to draw his attention from the bitter gross taste still residing on his tongue.

͢

The worst part about having pro heroes as teachers were exactly that; they were pro heroes. They were supposed to be out there fighting the good fight, not teaching the typical high school course load. The excitement of learning mundane topics from their childhood heroes had long since lost its flare—especially after having Snipe as a world history teacher (though it was slightly better than having Midnight as their chemistry teacher).

Now it was just them being taught subjects mediocrely that might’ve been more suited with hiring real teachers who had studied years of their lives to teach—but that was just fuel for thought. It’s not like Bakugou’s Dad was an individual in the educational career path or anything. Totally.

He gripped the edge of his desk, tapping his thumb against the top with no particular thought or tune in mind. Staring down at the textbook in front of him, the words a blur of black on white. Smudged and distorted. Normally they’d have moved classes by now, would’ve gotten up and stretched their legs and explored a bit between the class blocks. But it really was a weird day—not wrong but not right.

Bakugou wasn’t thinking; just quiet. Just quiet, not quite there but not checked in all the same.

Just watching—just staring down at the words before him as Snipe droned on. He itched, palm rubbing over the back of his head, just above his neck. Falling away, back to his desk, knuckles pressed against the paper. He glanced back out towards the window; the clear skies, the wisplike clouds slowly crossing the sky—it did had a breeze earlier that morning.

Here he was zoning out and commenting about the weather. Fuck.

Maybe he’d leave campus that night, just put some distance between the campus and he. Give him a moment to figure out why today felt so fucking weird. Bring Kirishima with him—he’d like that, probably call it a date and hold his hand.

Maybe he’d bring those weird friends of his with him; they weren’t so bad when they weren’t talking (or stealing his food, or asking if he’s doing alright).

His fist opened, eyes lowering from the view outside to the book in front of him. To the flash of dirty blond.

Blond?

He blinked, blinked again.

That was blond hair in his hand. That was a clump of blond hair in his hand—more than the amount he had brushed out that morning, more than just a casual loss of hair. More than the amount that he’d brush out with his fingers, or the amount he’d find on his bed.

It’s still fucking there when he blinked again, and again and again. His heart slammed against his ribs, echoing in his ears—building up and up and up into a frenzied crescendo. A mantra of WHAT THE FUCK screaming like sirens in his head, punctuated by his heart—badumpbadumpBADUMPTBADUMP badumpbadumpBADUMPTBADUMP. Alternating between loud and regular.

His chest heaving, racing along with his heart. With each second everything seemed to grow, distort—his palms grew a little more red, his peripherals went a little grey. Through it all his heart raced, and with it his breathing.

The blond hair went up in a cloud of ash and smoke, palms smouldering, burning. Red hot and mounting. What the fuck?! His mind screamed, echoing over and over, bouncing around in his head. He could feel his chest heaving—everything was going too slow, too quick. Like everything outside of himself was moving too low—or was he just too fast? Was—

His desk whistled, the metal singing. Screaming. Burning up with the heat building from his palms. Hagakure turned in her seat, voice tentative as she called out to him between bouts of tiny but steadily growing explosions. Like sparklers in his palm, burning his skin, building and building. Exposing it to more heat.

Bakugou didn’t hear, couldn’t hear. His mind swirling and tumbling, spiralling out of control—down and down and down. Down that dark cavern that he had though he tossed everything down, never to see again. And just as quick his world, unseeing eyes, went up in a flash of bright light and then… nothing.

͢

There was nothing anyone could do. Not even a minute had passed where Bakugou let out the first spark of an explosion to the loud ear bursting explosion that shook their room. Bakugou’s desk had popped, the metal breaking apart, pieces shattering in all directions.

A leg flew out the window, the faux wooden top blew forwards into Hagakure, one of the other legs flew across the class and imbedded itself into the cement, the bottom half of the desk shattered, pieces of it lodging into the ground or skirted across the floor. One of those pieces lodged itself through Jirou’s leg while another hits Sero’s arm. The other pieces seemed to miss other classmates, instead lodging into desks or the ceiling or walls.

But at ground zero, the five people seated closest to him flew out of their seats, toppling over. Chair and desk and all—a sprain, a bruise, a concussion in Hagakure’s case, and two open wounds for both Sero and Jirou. Out of the five Shouji seemed to fair least injured; a bruise smarting on his chest from how he fell over his desk.

But above all else, above the shock and the pain and the ringing in their ears, above that was the underling confusion. The pitch black smoke tearing up their eyes, stealing their oxygen and hanging heavy in their lungs as they sucked in a staggered gasp.

͢

It’s a Friday thirty minutes before lunch starts.

Thirty minutes before a brief semblance of freedom when a dull rumble shakes the building and the emergency alarms go off. The students of Class 1-B ease out of their seats without prompting, years of surprise fire drills serving as muscle memory as they file out. No one thinks anything of it; the Department of Support has evacuated the building enough times this year that a little rumbling of the building and the alarm going off afterwards is like nothing.

“I wonder who blew up this time,” Monoma chuckled, chatting with Kuroiro and Tokage on the way out.

Tetsutetsu’s already pulling out his phone now that he’s technically free of class and the rules of it (i.e. that pesky cellphone free zone). Thumbs already firing out a message to his quote ‘n quote ‘hard bro’ about ‘meeting up for an early lunch if this drill takes a little too long’.

The class of 1-B files out without any troubles, only meeting a congestion when they make for the main hallway leading to the door to the back part of the school where classes B through D for both years one and two meet. If they notice the lack of familiar faces from their 1-A rivals, no one mentions it until they’re comfortably outside and their homeroom teacher is running back into the building with Aizawa in tow.

It’s another half a minute before Yanagi speaks, her calm emotionless voice cutting through the soft chatter her classmates had been gossiping with. “That’s smoke coming from the homeroom classes,” her finger pointing up at the window. Smoke slipping through the spider-like cracks in the glass, blowing up in a dark ominous cloud. It was the exact opposite direction of the Department of Support.

And of course, that’s the exact moment 1-A appears from the same very doors that they had just emerged from moments ago. There’s blood, there’s ash. Some are shaken, some are dazed, but the majority look confused and bruised, tussled like they lost a fight with smoldered campfire.

And then there’s a flash of red with Aizawa, the class 1-A homeroom teacher doing a good job at keeping himself between them and whoever was blond and red. The two (and one being carried, they’d later discover) quickly marched, away from prying curious eyes, away from quiet murmuring. Away and away and away.

“What happened?!”

Tetsutetsu joined his classmates, migrating towards the 1-A class sprawled across the grass. Gathered together in little clusters, huddling around certain individuals who looked a little worse for wear.

They couldn’t see Hagakure, just the assumption of her being unconscious from the way she lay slumped in Ojiro’s arms, cradled against his chest. Kouda and Satou staying close to the pair, inquiring quietly if there’s anything they could do. There was Jirou cradling her leg, fingers hesitating between pulling out the piece of metal in the meaty part of her calve or leaving it until she can seek medical assistance, Yaoyorozu quickly creating bandages and cleaning ointment for her partner to use if she so cares to remove it.

There was Shouji standing tall and firm, three of his arms clutching his side while one used Tokoyami’s shoulder to remain stationary; solid and tall. Mineta shaking at their feet, eyes firmly downcast towards his phone in efforts to keep himself sane and calm enough to move. Aoyama standing close to them, blue eyes watery as he took in the class. There was the grouping of Sero, Kaminari and Ashido—the girl tutting to herself as she winced, brushing Kaminari’s hair away to get a look at the blood and pus that trickled out of his left ear. Sero had quickly peeled the metal piece out of his arm, holding his tie over the wound to still the bleeding.

And away from the rest was Midoriya being poked and prodded by a concerned pair of Uraraka and Iida who looked far better than the rest of the class, tilting his head one way and the other, much like how Ashido did with Kaminari. With them was the ever stoic Todoroki and Asui. Gazes directed outwards, staring back at those curious expressions and silent looks.

Tetsutetsu merged in with the group of Sero, Ashido and Kaminari. “Where’s Kirishima?” eyes looking elsewhere, over the heads of those toeing close to the class that didn’t look like it was fine—they looked a lot like the kids they all pretended not to be. Shocked, startled, a little out of it, dizzy, and hurting.

Sero looked up, blinked and shook his head. Clear sign of unwillingness to share; what happened in that 1-A classroom was staying between them. It was that one simple action that made the posturing, the stares, all of it make sense. Whatever happened was because of one of them, one of the ones not here.

Tetsutetsu nodded, stepping back, returning to his class with mind whirling. He wasn’t honor student level of intelligence, he was honest enough not to kid himself, but he knew how to follow the obvious signs.

And all signs were pointing to those two; Kirishima and Bakugou.

But the smoke, the ash, the bleeding eardrums—those three things pointed to Bakugou. To explosions and fire. And the lack of the blond in question being present and accounted for meant that it must have been something that he didn’t plan—maybe he had gotten hurt, maybe he was raging.

Tetsutetsu stared down at his phone, thumbing Kirishima’s contact. Hesitating over the keys; should he? He did. Thumb quickly typing out the only thing he could think to send: Hope u & da bae are ok.

͢

Ears ringing, eyes blinking back the tears. Kirishima gritted his teeth, shaking his head clear as he pulled his jacket over his nose. Gaze blurred, obstructed by smoke. He followed the small bursts of light, flickering in and out like sparklers—stepping over a fallen Sero, already pulling himself up off the ground. Already moving towards the exit.

He dropped his jacket, hardening his hands before grabbing those palms that crackled against his own. BAM! BAM! BOOM! Muffled; it make him hiss. The heat off his hands worse than what he remembered. The blond sat still, unmoving except for the shutter, the full body shake of his body, the quick rise and fall of his chest. Orange-red eyes unseeing, staring down at their hands.

Kirishima’s lungs clenched, coughing from the prolonged exposure to the smoke—the smell of burning, melting metal foul. It wasn’t a pretty burn. “Bakugou,” he coughed, ignoring the sting of his palms as the boy continued to self-destruct. Literally.

He tugged on his hands, attempting to pull him up. Stand—just stand. The smoke was still dark, still smothering, but it was spreading. Spreading, fanning out through the window, through the open doors as their classmates poured out.

Snipe calling someone on the phone—maybe Aizawa, hopefully Aizawa.

He glanced down; the smoke dissipating enough to take stock of the other’s appearance. His desk was gone. A scattered mess of metal shards and pieces. Sticking out of walls and the floor—Kirishima kneeled, an attempt at further escaping any smoke inhalation. “Katsuki, please help me help you. C’mon,” he pleaded, helpless. Noticing the shreds that used to make up Bakugou’s too baggy pair of pants.

The desk didn’t spare him either.

Kirishima ground his teeth together, steeling himself. He’ll have to carry him out. Bakugou was somewhere in there—most likely panicking, falling deeper into his own head. He’s had a friend in grade school who had panic attacks, he couldn’t remember what he used to do but there was something. C’mon Kirishima, you’ve read up about this.

He transferred one of Bakugou’s hands to the other, holding them with one of his—he’ll take any hate he’d get from Bakugou when he’s himself for this—and carefully positioned himself until he was nearly hugging Bakugou.

One, two… three. He hooked an arm beneath his knees and lifted him from his seat. He sucked in a breath of smoke and ash and gross. Expelling it just as quickly, trampling out of the class—if he was in a better state of mind he’d compare it to an action hero carrying his love interest to safety, but in all honestly he didn’t feel much like a hero.

Didn’t even feel much like Kirishima even. Just kinda felt like a dude too exhausted to be lugging another out of a burning classroom.

͢

Aizawa was a blessing; activating his quirk, erasing Bakugou’s—it made it easier to get them out of the building. Away from the hovering presence of curious eyes and quick tongues. “Over here,” he led them towards a quieter part of the courtyard. Still in view, just a bit, but too far to tell. “Put him down,” he nodded to the grass before them. Kirishima did exactly that. Slowly lowering Bakugou to the grass, Kirishima collapsed in a heap beside him. “Don’t start pulling out the metal until I return with Recovery Girl.”

Kirishima nodded, watching the man rush off—he couldn’t in good name call it a run, it wasn’t, but he was certainly jogging. He pursed his lips, snapping his attention back to the situation at hand.

He didn’t have to say it aloud, didn’t have to ask, Kirishima figured that he’d have to be the one to try dragging Bakugou out of his own head—out of those thoughts, those emotions clouding his judgement.

How though? How could you do it? How’d his old buddy explain it (in that kid-ish way that came with the age)? What about those psychology journals? Shit.

He crawled between the blond’s legs, careful to avoid brushing against the limbs. Just in case, just in case. “Ba—Katsuki,” he swallowed, leaning in to cup his lover’s face with both hands. Thumbs brushed high along his cheekbone. Since Aizawa had erased his quirk for that short while no sparks of explosions resumed; his palms blistered, a few broken and leaking, his right hand bloody and torn. It must had been the one holding onto the desk when it shattered.

“Hey,” Kirishima licked his lips, thumb smoothing over the blond’s skin. He had read up on things—anxiety, depression, stress, dissociation—if he could google it, he did. If Bakugou thought he was handling the after effects of his kidnapping ‘well’, he was mistaken. Kirishima didn’t call him out on it, there was no point in it. Why cause him anymore stress by fighting about it?

Fighting for Bakugou to reach out and talk to someone. It wouldn’t work; you can’t force someone to get better. You can’t force them to seek help. All Kirishima wants is Bakugou feeling comfortable in his own skin. He wants him happy and safe—that’s all.

Bakugou’s eyes slid shut, sucking in a heavy breath. It stuttered, rattling on the inhale. “Did you know you have freckles?” Kirishima began, hold gentle as he brought the other closer, till their foreheads touched. “Yeah, you have a lot actually. They’re on your nose, and on your cheeks,” he was looking at them right now. Light brown and tanned freckles spotting his skin. You couldn’t tell from far away, could hardly tell a foot from him, but like this they were like stars.

He didn’t know what to do; everything he’s read about for dissociating was mostly for the person experiencing it. It was mostly comments about a term ‘checking in’, about figuring out a way to keep them in the present and not… loss in their head? The only thing he could think to do now, as unpracticed and unprepared as he was, was to just talk. Talk to Bakugou, be physically there for him, and make sure that his panic didn’t further cause harm to himself—or didn’t work himself into the makings of another panic attack.

His thumb swept down, framing either side of his nose. Raising Bakugou’s head up, “you have a really cute nose. It’s all squishy looking—unlike mine. I swear if we were to smoosh noses together mine’ll break while yours’ll continue being all cute and unmarred. How is that fair? The most manliest guy I know is also the cutest—and the hottest, and truth be told, the sexiest. Like wow,” Kirishima chuckled to himself, “like… wow.”

He continued; ignoring any whispers of doubt in the dark of his mind, he plowed on without a care of how sappy he sounded or how ridiculous it was. He complimented Bakugou’s eyes, his lips and how beautiful they looked when he smiled. The tension of Bakugou’s shoulders steadily lessened, breath slowly evening. “I know we haven’t been together all that long but, shit, I swear that I love you. I have to—this feels more than anything else. I—I”

Bakugou huffed, forehead knocking against his. “Don’t say shit like that,” he sounded exhausted. Stumbling, hesitant over his words. Like he couldn’t figure out what he wasn’t to say, or just unsure how it was supposed to all come out. Kirishima sucked in, chest puffed to near bursting capacity. His eyes widening, snapping up to stare back at the orange-red irises. “Don’t say that shit when shit hits the fan,” his fingers curl towards his palm and he jolts, hissing in pain.

“When am I supposed to say those things though?” he took in the attentive look in his eyes. Still tired, still a little glazed over with fatigue, but he was there and talking and… well, he was there.

Bakugou snorted, leaning into one of the hands that cradled his head. “How about when I’m not being a pussy,” his eyes slid shut, the time during blinks growing longer.

Kirishima clicked his tongue, “don’t call it that.”

He opened his eyes enough to throw him a stink eye. “Then what the fuck,” he stressed, punctuated the retort with just enough sass, “do you want me to call it?”

Kirishima shrugged, the movement making Bakugou’s head move—the blond glared at the jostle. “Call it a breakdown, maybe? Or how about a situation? That’s vague enough. Or if you want to be honest, you can call it a panic attack?”

Bakugou grunted.

Face tucking back into Kirishima’s open palm. He brought them closer, transferring Bakugou’s cheek to his shoulder and wrapping an arm around his shoulders. “I love you,” he repeated—because he can.

Bakugou huffed, further tucking himself into Kirishima’s shoulder.

͢

Kirishima stood within eyesight, obvious in his starring when he’d quickly turn his head away when one of the staff would glance towards him. Recovery Girl had shooed him away before she had begun the tedious task of removing each and every piece of metal lodged into his legs (and two had punctured through his shoes, the cuts on his arms were just that) before evening thinking of healing any tiny piece of him.

Aizawa remained by his bedside, somber as ever, watching at the woman went about aiding the blond. It had been busier early with the victims of Bakugou’s collateral damage—the only one still in the infirmary with him was Hagakure, unconscious and waiting for another dosage of that healing kiss (ugh) to help with any unseen injuries that she might still have.

The only thing that Recovery Girl had confidently diagnosed was a concussion, and Shouji’s early assumption of a bruised rib was proved wrong after she had treated him for a broken rib—Bakugou felt the beginnings of heartburn building up and something in the back of his mind told him it was guilt. Guilt, what an outlandish feeling. Guilt… Bakugou bit the inside of his cheek. He didn’t need that on top of everything else.

“Am I being sent home?” Bakugou ground out, avoid the nagging thought plaguing the back of his mind. It’s been there, hovering, for a while—since earlier that week. Since Kirishima nearly begged him to talk to him, to open up and share the… burden.

He was.

He was a fucking burden now.

Aizawa nodded, “until Monday night or Tuesday morning—which ever your parents decide.” He was holding something back; there was always a stipulation to these things, there had to be something else. Bakugou ground his teeth together.

“You want me to see someone—”

The man sighed, “It doesn’t matter what ‘I want’. But ignoring it isn’t working and you’ve been made well aware of that.” He liked Aizawa, liked that he didn’t pussyfoot around the issue. He didn’t lash out with brutal honestly, yes, but when he did feel it was necessary he didn’t hold back.

Bakugou rolled his eyes, wincing when Recovery Girl dabbed the alcohol swab over one of his puncture wounds. “Will the school insurance cover it? I don’t want to see the same dick that the hospital forced me to meet,” he snapped. And as an added thought he threw in a quick, “I don’t want my parents paying for this bullshit.”

This is what he wanted—this was what he wanted, damn it.

Aizawa pulled out his phone; the fact that the man had a cellphone was enough of a shocker that Bakugou nearly missed the fact that he was calling someone on said phone.

A quick greeting before a very confusing one sided conversation that rose too many questions that Bakugou wasn’t sure he wanted answers for. “I have a student I want you to see—yes, I’m aware she’s been cancelling her appointments recently, yes I’ll insure that once she’s back in the country she’ll make an appointment—yes, yes. Of course. Sunday? Thank you. I’ll pass the information along.” And just like that, the phone was gone again.

“Your parents won’t be paying, your insurance through the school covers it.” Long pale fingers plucked one of the pads of paper on the bedside table and the pen that went along with it. Scrawling out the appointment information; the date, the time, the location, and the name of the psychologist. He returning it to the table, tapping the words. “She specializes in rehabilitation psychology with a special emphasis on trauma—she works primarily with pro heroes.”

Bakugou’s fingers curled, creaking under the bandages. The last psychologist he went to was through the hospital; he didn’t have any of those fancy titles tacked onto his name. But, also, Bakugou had no idea that there were fancy titles to go with your brain picker job.

One of Aizawa’s palms pressed against the top of his head, nudging it to the side—much how his parents tended to do actually. Did he pick it up from them? He’d punch them. “You’re in good hands. My partner sees her, sings the highest of praise.”

Bakugou’s brow furrowed; the fuck?

͢

He catches him pulling a face, fingers twitching like he wanted to touch. “Yeah,” he gulped, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth. “You’re missing about,” he makes a circle between his thumb and middle finger, it’s about the size of an apricot, “that much amount of hair right here.” He finally touched the back of Bakugou’s head, circling the rim of that so-called circle from before.

Bakugou snarled, “Fuck.” He ground his teeth together. Now he’s gonna have to shave it. “Fuck!” he snapped again, slamming his bandage wrapped hand against his pillow.

He had an hour to pack for the weekend before his Dad was picking him up—an hour and all he could think about was how fucking stupid it was that he pulled out his own fucking hair in some fucked up case of stress. That’s what Recovery Girl was calling it—stress.

First anxiety, then panic, now stress.

“I can go get my razor and see about giving you an undercut? I mean, I’ve done it for my little sister when she was in her Mad Max phase so… yeah? If anyone asks you can just say you’re doing a punk look or something.”

Or something.

Bakugou reaches back, fingers the bald spot in thought—his going to have to shave it down to like… skin. “To ear level,” is what he decides, hand falling back to his lap. Head hung, trying to picture the worst possible scenario—he was so fucking tired. Just those few minutes of whatever it was that happened in that class, just a few minutes felt like he was fighting the League of Villains that night all over again.

The redhead pressed a quick kiss to his nape, “I’ll be right back.”

Bakugou shook his head, watching fondly as his idiot went tumbling from the bed and darting out the door. It wasn’t like he was gonna go anywhere. Didn’t really want to leave this bed.

͢

His father took his bag from Kirishima at the gate, tossing it into the backseat before opening the driver’s side. “Take your time, we’ll swing by for some Thai before heading home.”  He ruffled his son’s hair, “it was nice meeting you Kirishima.”

Bakugou waited until his father closed the door before reeling the other with a pull of his shirt collar. Their lips pressed in a quick bruising kiss before Bakugou pulled away with a frown. “You’re coming over this weekend, right?”

Kirishima nodded.

Bakugou relaxed, grip loosing around his shirt. “Be there before noon on Sunday. I have my appointment and I’m not fucking going with my parents—fuck that.” One of the stipulations of him leaving campus was that he wouldn’t be left alone (even in his own home). He was still a threat of re-capture, and UA couldn’t in good name give him an escort. It would only hinder his attempt at being inconspicuous on his absence from campus.

Kirishima smiled, “I can come over Saturday? Just tell me when it’s a—”

“Its fine,” Bakugou responded—no hesitation, no inquiry, “just show up.” Kirishima gaped, closing his mouth with a click of teeth before nodding. Just like that it was decided. “Noon; you’re staying over.” Like it wasn’t suggested in the first place.

͢

His mother takes one look at his hair, one long stare, before taking the take-out from her husband and depositing it on the coffee table. “The TV taped all your lame as fuck reality shows,” she teased, falling into her spot of the couch and kicking her feet up.

Jokes on her; Bakugou is well a-fucking-ware that his mother is just as bad for these shows. He did have to start watching those stupid things somewhere, right? It wasn’t just ‘oh what’s this English show? Oh look it has subtitles. It’s about backstabbing and winning a million bucks. Cool!’ No, it was more ‘oh what’s the old hag watching now? Oh some show about backstabbing and winning a million bucks. Fuck it! It has subtitles, we’re good to go!’ And that is the true reason why he started watching not just Survivor but Big Brother as well (he can just barf and the thought of it).

Bakugou took the seat on the other end of the couch, kicking his feet up onto the middle cushion and accepting the container of food his father held out towards him. They had ordered a lot; at least six containers (without counting the spring rolls) still remained on the table despite the three cupping their own containers. There was Siamese beef, mango chicken, pad thai, two different curries, pad zucchini, cashew shrimp, pineapple fried rice, and a papaya salad—just a shit ton of food.

Bakugou was hungry; hungry and exhausted and ready to crash for the next forty years.

͢

He woke up a little past six to a particularly placed sunray to the eye. He groaned, rolling over, burying himself into the back of the couch. Pulling the blanket up to his ears, eyes pinched shut.

He could hear his Mother snoring from his parents’ room at the end of the hall, the fall of the water dripping from the tap from the kitchen, those damn birds screaming (they weren’t tweeting, those were screams meant to wake everyone the fuck up. Seriously, fuck birds) outside on the balcony. Bakugou groaned, counting the drops against the metal—one, two… ten, eleven… twenty-two.

He was out again by the time he reached forty-seven.

͢

He’s jolted awake by a hand reaching over the back of the couch, gently touching his shoulder. He glared, bristling as he rolls onto his back with his teeth bared—red and red, and even more red. Kirishima grins, waving a wave that was all fingers. “Did you sleep well?” he tucked his hand under his elbow, resting his chin upon his arm.

His hair’s pulled back in a mixture of a ponytail and bandana monstrosity, spikes of red curling up from the elastic or poof-ing out from behind the bandana. Gravity never seemed to be a considering factor in the atrocity that made up his hair.

Bakugou yawned, tucking an arm behind his head, “it was fine.”

Kirishima nodded. “I’m glad,” he glanced back over his shoulder before leaning over the back of the couch, pressing a kiss to the blond’s forehead. Hands slipping from the back of the couch, unbalancing his body and leaving him in a precarious position where his legs just aren’t long enough to touch the floor and his nose is painfully jammed against Bakugou’s skull.

Bakugou snorted, wrapping his arms around the boy and pulling him the rest of the way over. Landing heavily on top of his blanket wrapped self. “You’re a fucking idiot.” Kirishima shimmied out of his embrace and, with some odd maneuverability (a mixture of a worm and some form of rodent), under the blanket with him where he proceeded to then pillow his head against Bakugou’s shoulder. “Are you fucking done?” He yawned once more, blinking back the last bits of sleep from his system.

Kirishima wiggled some more, squirming until his leg was over Bakugou’s hips but tucked behind and between his legs. He stilled, “yup,” the P popped, “seems good.” They laid there, silent, for all of fourteen seconds before Kirishima’s stomach growled.

Bakugou’s brown creased, eyeballing him confoundedly. “What the fuck?”

Kirishima sat up, smoothing a hand over his face bashfully. “Kinda hungry,” he admitted, peeking out from behind his fingers. “I think you’ve spoiled me for any breakfast foods, babe,” Bakugou swung, smacking him with knuckles against his shoulder. Pushing the other off the couch in the process.

“There should be take-out left,” Bakugou muttered, pointedly keeping his face from Kirishima’s bright eyed stare. Ignoring the heat radiating from the tips of his ears and the flesh of his cheeks. He stepped over the fallen boy, pointedly ignoring the whine as he continued to waltz. Making his way from living room to kitchen, throwing the fridge door open and pulling out one take-out container out after the other.

͢

Bakugou’s door clicked behind them, and like that his bandaged wrapped hands gripped either side of his face and pulled him down the three-point-seven inches to slot their lips together. Kirishima signed, wrapping his arms around his ribs, palm pressed against his spine. Holding him close.

He missed that—missed not having him sleeping beside him. It felt wrong after all this time.

Bakugou’s lips parted, tongue probing along the seam of Kirishima’s lips. He opened up, tongue meeting Bakugou’s. A press, a slide—slow and casual. Lacking heat, a drive for more. Deriving comfort the action rather than pleasure.

He had missed him just as much.

Kirishima hummed, sucking on the tongue in his mouth as he pulled back.

Back until he released it, Bakugou’s mouth still agape as he stared, brows furrowed. He grinned, diving back in to press a kiss to skin beside his nostril. Nuzzling against his face. “Missed you,” he murmured, clinging a little tighter. Fingers curling in the black fabric of Bakugou’s shirt.

Bakugou licked the back of his teeth, pressing his tongue against his teeth. “It hasn’t even been a day,” he replied equally as soft. Hands still cupping his head; his jaw, clenched and unclenching as Kirishima’s thoughts raced for something—to tell him, or not.

He swallowed, “still,” he breathed. The word more a gust of air than confession.

Bakugou didn’t reply. What was there to say to that? Sorry? He didn’t think so. He did more damage to himself than anything else; if he had to apologize to anyone it was his own damn self. Though, the longer they stood here the longer something started bothering him. “When the fuck did you fucking get taller than me?”

He was 5’8”—he wasn’t short. His parents were about 5’10” or maybe a little shorter. He wasn’t gifted with giant genes, but he suddenly found himself staring up at the redhead as he pulled away. Kirishima blinked, “huh?”

“You’re. Fucking. Taller. Than. Me. Fucker.”

Kirishima adjusted the bandana he had wrapped around his head, chuckling awkwardly. “Well, my family are all over six feet. So…” he trailed off with a shrug.

It sunk in slowly. Six feet—over six feet. That fuck!

͢

Much to Kirishima’s own astonishment, Bakugou’s parents did not proceed to drill him on any inquiries into their relationship—maybe they were saving it for another day when the reason behind his visit wasn’t concentrated on insuring that their son makes it to his appointment safely. Not that he’d blame the two for wanting to leave the mundane threats of harm if he so hurt their son (or maybe they were the types of parents that didn’t think they needed to do that? Or maybe, just maybe, Kirishima had already proven himself that he could care for the other boy? He hoped).

What they did do was tease their son about the fact that he had his door closed and didn’t even hear anything remotely indecent; Bakugou’s Mother laying the teasing on thick as she called him out on it, hinting that maybe he liked the cutesy things. Bakugou’s lip curled before snapping at her over their meal, feet kicking out towards her shins.

Bakugou’s Father took the opportunity to change the subject to his appointment tomorrow; abolishing the lot from any possible bruised legs or broken bones (Kirishima wouldn’t’ve believed it if not for the grave look the man had given him when he parroted back those very words).

͢

Another morning of Thai food, the young couple left with a quick wave and unyielding insistence that they’d be fine (—for fucks sake you old hag, it’s in the Chiba Prefecture, not fucking Russia!). “I can’t believe you call your Mother that,” Kirishima admitted, still reeling from the experience that these last twenty hours had been.

Most of it had been them sleeping, or making out in Bakugou’s room. But the short while that Bakugou had been with his parents left him with a mile long list of questions that he wanted to ask. Like, did he always call his Mom that? And why did he not have something like that for his Dad? Was he just on better terms with the man?

But, also, he some-what assumed the answer for that was because Bakugou and his Mother seemed to both have a similar temperament and it did not mesh well. He looked a lot like her too—the face, the hair, the slim waist. But you could see a lot of his Dad in him too; his shoulders, his hands, it was more in the body but also the smile—they had the same smile. The sheepish one though, the wicked grin was still too much like Bakugou’s Mother.

“She’s old, she’s a hag, and it’s fucking easier to use in public rather than the Old Bitch.”

They took the stairs down; the third floor nothing for two young men such as themselves. Their heavy boots clumping down the metal stairs, making a racket as they made haste. It wasn’t a long train ride to his psychologist appointment, and with the appointment only being an hour long Bakugou didn’t like the idea of only spending that money for the train just for that.

They linked their forefingers together, walking close as they stepped onto the street. Bakugou slipping his aviator sunglasses on, the lenses reflective and so (cool if we’re going by Kirishima) excessive. The look would’ve been complete—black shirt on gray pants on black boots, with the long open torn off sleeve holes the blond was sporting he looked like a punk. The type of guy you wouldn’t want to meet your parents—he was beautiful (again, if you’re going by Kirishima, who was bias and could not be taken seriously).

Bakugou’s palms still looked painful under the bandages while he was changing them, two blisters had popped and red tinted puss had stained the bandages. Recovery Girl had left them to heal on their own to keep the boy from using his quirk—so far it had worked, but his mobility was severely hindered compared to what they were both used to.

They took a bus to the station; crammed in close to the doors, Bakugou steadying himself with a firm grasp on Kirishima’s belt, eyes watching the scenery as they went. Hopping off at the station, buying the tickets and waiting for the train—Bakugou pulled out his earbuds, holding out the left ear towards Kirishima. The redhead shook his head in the negative, “you listen to it. I’ll make sure we don’t miss our stop.”

He shrugged, draping the headphone behind his neck, hanging down his chest in case Kirishima changed his mind.

The train arrived, doors parting. Kirishima led him in and to a pair of seats. Bakugou pulled his glasses off, tucking them up on top of his head. Blond mass of hair poofing out around it. He threw a leg between Kirishima’s, sitting sideways to stare out the window beside them. He caught him grinning, felt Kirishima’s hand rub his knee affectionately.

He zoned out, watching the buildings blur past, music blasting in one ear.

Kirishima patted his knee. He blinked, gaze snapping to the redhead. The boy grinned, tapping his own shoulder with a waggle of his brow. Bakugou frowned, and Kirishima quickly pouted back in reply.

They stared, remaining like that for a solid minute before Bakugou caved with a dramatic roll of his eyes. He shuffled closer, ignoring the megawatt grin Kirishima was exhibiting, hooking his chin on the boy’s wide shoulder so he could still resume his sightseeing. Draping an arm over the other shoulder; he felt like he was five again, being carried by his parents.

But it was comfortable and warm, and when he felt a press of lips against his head, he didn’t comment.

͢

Kirishima’s grin smothered, burning down to something more comfortable and private when he felt those lips press against his neck in return. He hugged the boy halfway into his lap, rubbing his hip under his shirt, ignoring any and all the stares they were being thrown from disgruntled passengers and the blatant public show of affection.

Chapter Text

It was a nice apartment complex; tall and bright and expensive. He stared down at his phone, taking in the address again, looking up to see the same number above the front entrance. There wasn’t a doorman, but there looked like there should. “Do you want me to go up with you?” Kirishima inquired, finger still hooked around his as they stood in front of the little box to buzz up.

Bakugou shook his head in the negative.

“Want me to meet you back here or wait outside?” There was a little park across the street from the building. Alive with parents and children as they spent their Sunday afternoon out in the sun.

Bakugou shrugged, eyes roaming over the list of residents for the number to buzz himself up. “Just meet me back here in an hour—just, go do whatever. I don’t care.” He wouldn’t admit it, but he was a little nervous.

His other psychologist kept asking too many things; it felt forced and it made him uncomfortable. He looked at his weird—like he was a child, like he needed the pity.

Kirishima pressed a quick peck to his cheek. “I’ll just go get a milkshake and wait at the park until you’re done, kay?” He squeezed Bakugou’s fingers, holding half of his hand and clinging. Bakugou quickly punched in the numbers.

There was a click. “Bakugou?” A woman.

The blond swallowed, “yeah. It’s me.” His fingers curled against Kirishima’s palm.

“Great! Glad to hear you seemed to make it all right. Come right up.” There was a loud buzz from the door and Kirishima quickly pulled it open; the box clicking as the woman hung up. The redhead held the door open for him, leaning in for one last peck to the other’s cheek before letting the door shut behind him.

He stood on the other side of the glass all the way until Bakugou stepping into the elevator, doors closing. The redhead waving at him with a dumb love-struck grin—his typical grin. He wished it still didn’t make his heartbeat so out of control. He wished he wasn’t so hopeless for him.

͢

Dr. Maruya Eri wasn’t what he was expecting when she opened her door and led him to a room two doors in and to the left. He wasn’t exactly sure what he was expecting, but a 4’7” woman with medium sized feathered wings and baby blue hair (her rich brown skin only making the colour pop) was not it.

He took the offered couch, toeing off his boots and tucking his legs up beside him. Dr. Maruya took the armchair, pulling a blanket over her legs. There was an end table with a large lamp sitting on it, a small notebook and a thin plain folder. “My name is Maruya Eri, I have a PhD in Clinical Psychology. It allows me to take on my own patients without having to go, formally, through a doctor—because I am one. I have a special emphasis on rehabilitation and trauma, it’s why I see pro heroes. But UA asked for me to see you, and I can’t in good heart turn that down.” She tosses him a wink before leaning over to pull the folder onto her lap, opening it and pulling out the few papers she has already filed within.

“Do you have any questions before we move on towards the boring but important paperwork?”

Bakugou looked around the room, “why is your office out of your house?”

The woman grinned, small hands weaving together on her lap. “I have an office here and one more formal at the clinic I’m based from. I find a warmer environment helps in sessions, but we can always plan your appointments for the days that I’m at the clinic if you’re uncomfortable here.”

Bakugou shook his head; no. Here was good. Better than white walls (or off-white) and cold rooms. This room felt lived in but business-like—it wasn’t a room that she used unless for work. “This is fine,” he voiced. Eyes taking in the painting of a landscape on the wall before him, the bookshelf filled with thick books on her practice, on things he’s never heard of.

His shoulders un-tensed the longer he sat there. Listening to her explain the paperwork—the plan the UA provides that they’ve already insured that he didn’t need to see one ounce of payment involved. She talked about the patient-doctor confidentiality and what that meant; if he was at risk of harming someone, either himself or another, than she is under oath to contact an outside party if she feels that it’s necessary.

She didn’t speak to him like he was a child—nor like he was stupid. She was frank, explaining bits in detail when needed, and answered any and all questions to the best of her ability.

For all due purpose, Bakugou liked her. For a shrink she didn’t feel… well, weird. Did that make sense?

͢

“Shitty hair,” Kirishima glanced away from the game he had been playing on his phone. Grinning up at his partner standing beside the bench.

He looked tired. More so than he did this morning; haggard and worn with more adjectives appropriate of a descriptor. Eyes dropping as he stared down at the device in Kirishima’s hands, unable to look him in the eyes. That’s fine, it’s fine. Bakugou just wasn’t ready for it after whatever it was that he talked about.

Kirishima stood, pocketing his phone and holding his now freed hand out to the other. Bakugou accepted it, taking his hand and returning the gentle squeeze with his bandaged limb. “I’m kinda hungry,” Kirishima started leading them away from the little park and towards the mall a few blocks down. “My treat?”

The other boy snorted, nodding in confirmation all the same.

͢

He felt tired still as Kirishima and he took up one of the booths in the food court of the local mall. They sat along the same bench, stealing each other’s food. Kirishima’s cheek pillowed on Bakugou’s shoulder as the blond licked the salt from his fingers. “She has three cats,” he stated, picking up another French fry and swirling it in the puddle of ketchup.

“You like cats?” Kirishima inquired, plucking up his own fry.

Bakugou nodded, “yeah. The apartment that we’re at doesn’t allow pets or then the ‘rents would let me have one. Always wanted a bird too.” Kirishima grins at that, picturing Bakugou with animals. It makes for a cute image. “We didn’t talk much,” he added returning back to the earlier train, “talked about the paperwork, made sure I understood it. Wanted to know basic shit; friends, family, if I was seeing someone, how I’m doing in school—that shit.”

“Yeah? How was that?” Kirishima inquired, stealing a piece of leftover lettuce from Bakugou’s burger box that was doubling as a ketchup container.

The blond hummed, “weird.” He smacked the redhead’s hand when it slowly creeped in to take another piece of green. “Eat the fries,” he snapped, directing the limb towards the small pile of fries still remaining. He sighed, “But it wasn’t bad. She wrote mostly about the names I was giving her—it was weird.”

The redhead chuckled, “did she write about me too?” He couldn’t help but ask, a little light hearted teasing. At the drawn out silence Kirishima sparred a glance up to his partner’s face; pink. “That’s cute,” he bit out, biting his lips in effort to smoother the grin as he cuddled right back up with him.

“Shut your bitchass mouth,” the blond mumbled, frowning as he stole the remaining fries. Kirishima snickered, dragging his drink in and taking a long cheek sunken swig.

Kirishima mused, allowing the momentary lull in their conversation to sweep up his thoughts. It kept going back to pets; Kirishima’s always had animals growing up. He has three older brothers and they had their own animals at time. They had always been a lively house, and really, if his mom had anything to say having four boys were like having four pets. Four pets who costed more.

But he couldn’t see his family without animals—that pitter patter of claws on hardwood when the dog would come running, or one of his brother’s hamsters thinking it could fly and leaping out of their hands (that hamster didn’t live very long), or waking up to a cat sitting on his face in the middle of the night. Sounded kinda lonely.

“If you could have a pet right this second, what would it be?”

“Caique parrot.” The answer was curt, no hesitation. The blond taking a sip of his drink right after, carrying on like nothing.

͢

They spent another hour walking around the mall, poking their noses into stores they didn’t know existed. The pair oddly subdued, walking with just their forefingers linked together.

“Hey Bakugou?” They’re waiting for the train when Kirishima finally breaks the comfortable silence they had fallen into. The blond hums, thumbing through his phone to send a message to his parents that he’s on his way back. “Can I start calling you Katsuki? Like, in front of everyone… instead of your last name?” He’s never formally asked, just kinda did it at the times he felt it needed that added weight.

Bakugou’s thumb paused, hovering momentarily over the send button. “Do I get to call you Eijirou?” he pressed send, pocketing him phone afterwards. He leaned against the other boy, bumping his shoulder against his arm.

Kirishima nodded, rubbing the tip of his nose. “I’d like that a lot,” grip tightening around his fingers. The train arrives shortly after, the pair piling in and finding a couple of seats close to one of the walls. Out of the way, away from prying eyes as Bakugou seems to melt into the seat with a sigh in a show of trust and weakness.

Kirishima’s willing to bet that only he’d be able to see this side of him—subdued, at ease. Open and cuddly and warm. Pulling earbuds from his pocket and silently slipping the right one into Kirishima’s ear without asking this time, before taking the leftover and inserting it as well.

The music today is slow; soft and warm and still incredibly foreign. There’s only five Japanese songs in that whole playlist Kirishima learns, resting his head onto of puffy blond hair for the entire ride back.

͢

He cupped his face, cradling it between both hands. Bakugou’s family name and apartment number pressed against the blond’s back as they whispered their parting. “Thank you,” Kirishima breaks to press another peck to the blond’s waiting lips, “for letting me come with.” Another kiss.

He grips Kirishima’s belt, looping his fingers through the loops of his long cargo shorts, holding him close. He kissed back, one peck answered by another followed by a next. “I have another,” he hummed pressing his lips against the other boy’s, “next Sunday.”

Kirishima pulls back at that, frowning. “I mean… I’m gonna be going home to visit. You’re…” he licked his lips, “you’re more than welcome to come with. They live close to where you need to go so we could just take the bus?”

Bakugou’s fingers curl, holding tighter around those loops. “You want me to meet your family?” He swallowed, gaze flickering down to the redhead’s collarbone. Brow furrowed. It’s been two months—he glanced up, catching the nod Kirishima replies with. His face matches his hair. “I guess. Sure,” he shrugs going for the attempt at remaining cool. Like this was totally no big deal.

No big deal. Yeah.

͢

His Father dropped him off at the campus gates Monday morning on his way into the University. “You’re going with Eijirou again on Sunday?” His wedding band shines in the morning light, the sun rising through the buildings across from them. Bakugou nodded, gripping the door tightly with a still bandaged hand. The other shouldering his backpack filled with new reading materials and clean clothes—his parents offered and he wasn’t about to shoot down a free load of clean laundry.

They stare at each other, waiting for the other to speak—bid a farewell, a snappy retort, or something. Anything.

They did nothing.

Bakugou licked his lips, gaze dropping again to the man’s wedding band. Gold and plain. He’s never seen his Dad without it—wears it to bed, in the shower, everything. “Katsuki,” Bakugou’s gaze flicked back up to meet his father’s, “be safe alright? Your mother and I worry; we’re getting old, it’s not good for our health to have a kid so hell-bent on sticking his nose into danger.” The man smiled; a little tired, a little worn, but it was a smile.

Bakugou huffed, smirking back at the man. “Yeah yeah, Pops. We’ll see.” He shut the door, fingers twitching in a hint of a wave—one the man returned with a larger movement before flicking on his signal lights.

He didn’t drive off until Bakugou was safely across the gate; he figured it was a Dad thing more than a Worry thing. His Dad’s been doing things like that since he could remember—Bakugou’s allowed him to do that since forever.

͢

Its early enough that he could join the rest of 1-A in class, but late enough by the time he’s finished unpacking his shit that if he were to join them he might as well wait for lunch to come and go. He glared down at the device cradled in between his hands, teeth grinding as he debated wither he should test it or not.

Dr. Maruya told him to not push himself unnecessarily when he left. Rediscover what makes him comfortable and happy and then, when he deems himself ready, to challenge himself. Or at least, that’s what she suggested for now. Fuck this is stupid, Bakugou opened his phone, scrolling through his contacts and opening Kirishima’s.

‘Back in dorms.’

Straight and to the point—no use in dancing around the problem anymore.

He stared at his phone in burgeoning dismay. Tossing the phone from his hands, the device bouncing off his comforter and clattering onto the floor. Bakugou flopped back, throwing his arms up over his face with a hiss. It’s just a dumb text don’t start acting like a, he couldn’t bring himself to finish his train of thought.

Acting like a what? They’ve been dating for two months, they’re past this dumb fuzzy feelings of stupidity and eggshells. His phone vibrated against the floor—he hated how his heart thumped particularly loud.

It vibrated five more times before Bakugou sat up, opening it up again to see the mess that’ll await him.

‘HLAIUDBFDHS!!!!’
‘AWWWWW YIS!’
‘KAMINARI ASHIDO & SERO R COMMIN W/ @ LUNCH!!!! LUV U CU SOON!’ He’s an idiot. A lovable, overly excited idiot (his idiot, but an idiot all the same). Bakugou hates that he’s blushing, hates that his excitement makes him happy.

He hates that he loves him too—no, not really, he hates that he feels like he should hate that he loves him.

͢

“Bakugou!” The blond in question groaned, prying his arms away from his face. Pink—pinks of different shades assaulted his vision as Ashido bounded across his room, launching herself onto the bed beside him. “Kirishima said he gave you a sick new do,” she exclaimed, already reaching out to roll him onto his stomach.

Bakugou groaned, rolling with the pushes, burying his face in his pillows as the girl poked and prodded at his choppy new hairdo. Fingers pushing longer strands of hair aside to assess the shaven part. “It’s a little uneven—I could touch up on it if you want? I’ve been cutting my own hair since I was ten so I’ve got loads of practice.”

Bakugou grunted, pushing her hand away finally.

The mattress dipped, jostling him around as one of his visitors climbed up onto his bed and stepped over his relaxed form. Falling into a heap beside him, Kirishima nuzzled his face into his shoulder. “Hello sleepy,” he cooed, ignoring the exaggerated gagging from their onlookers. Bakugou grunted, turning into the other boy’s body.

“You really are cuddly when you’re tired,” Kaminari snickered, dropping to sit on the floor in front of them. “That’s cute, man. Real cute—no one’ll believe us when we tell them.” Bakugou snarled further draping himself over Kirishima seemingly giving up the feeble attempt in maintaining this hard image of his. They all knew how hopelessly smitten they were for each other—it was both awe inspiring and sickening at the same time. “Not that I blame you,” he sighed mournfully, “if I had a girlfriend I’d cuddle her every chance I get.”

Sero patted his friend’s shoulder. “There, there man. You’ll get one eventually.”

“Easy for you to say! You and Ashido—” Bakugou’s head perked up, turning out of his pillow and Kirishima fortress to show his interest. Kirishima’s body tensing under his as the other boy waited for the grand reveal.

“We’re not…” Sero started, pausing, looking to the only girl of the group.

Ashido rubbed her arm, smoothing out the folds in her sleeve. “We’re trying it out,” she answered, “we’ve decided that yeah, we both like each other in not-just-a-friendship-kinda-way but we don’t want to accidently screw that up by getting into a relationship.”

Sero nodded, “yesterday we watched a movie and this weekend we’re thinking of having a date. It’s nothing… solid. We’re—”

“We’re figuring it out as we go,” Ashido finished, smiling up at the dark haired boy.

͢

Where ever he looks there’s someone lingering, gaze quickly darting away when he glances towards them. Poking their heads in as he busies himself cooking that night, already falling into a routine he had long since established since moving into the dorms—cooking was nice.

“Beef teriyaki?”

Bakugou tensed as arms wrapped around his ribs, a taller definitely male body crowding in against his back. Eijirou, Bakugou swallowed, leaning back into the boy’s embrace. His shockingly red hair obstructing his peripheral, demanding attention. “Wanted meat,” he stated, the bits of vegetables frying in the other pan. On the counter he had the rice cooking in its own cooker; someone had brought it in once more and more people started using the kitchen. Bakugou had no clue who, but until otherwise stated, he’d use it and clean it and damn well use it again.

“Meat’s my favourite,” Kirishima stated.

Bakugou knew. It’s why he was making it.

With straight vegetable dishes Kirishima’ll still eat it, pouting and sighing into his food if he didn’t particularly like it. He’d eat fish or other seafood, at least it was more readily enjoyed than just vegetables, but it wasn’t up there in his favourites. He was a guy who enjoyed red meats; pork, lamb, beef. His next choice was chicken—he had a secrete love of chicken fried rice that even Kirishima himself didn’t want to admit to.

͢

Bakugou shivered, a full body shutter, as Kirishima dragged his blunt nails over the nape of his neck and through the buzzed hair. The blond’s fingers gripping his sweatpants, knuckles a pale white. “Enough,” he pushed out between his teeth, fingers gripping sweatpants.

Kirishima leaned back, hands dropping to his own lap. Watching as the other boy pulled away, turning to face him again. “You good?” he inquired, tilting his head in wonder.

Bakugou nodded, rubbing his hands through his hair, musing it all too all hell. Strands sticking up, poofing out far more dramatic than normal. Fingers curling, touching the spot that felt more smooth—skin-like. It had to be the place he tugged his hair out.

Kirishima’s hand wrapped around his wrist, guiding it away from his hair. “Y’know,” he started, “this style really suits you.” He leaned in, pressing a quick kiss to the other’s cheek. “Really manly,” the redhead purred.

Bakugou snorted, face burning as he pushed him away. The boy’s grin pressed against the palm of his hand. “You’re such a loser.”

͢

That homeroom period Aizawa had told them to sit still and shut up—word for word. Dismissing both Iida and Yaoyorozu back to their seats when both made a move to assist with whatever it was that he wanted to share with them.

Aizawa stood, leaning back against the podium with his arms crossed over his chest. “Most of you may have realized that we aren’t taking the Hero License Exam. The board, and I, decided that after all the recent villain attacks we won’t have our first years participate.” Bakugou’s body tensed, teeth grinding together in annoyance.

A few sighed, relaxing in their seats. “Yeessss,” Mineta fist pumped. Throwing a peace sign across the classroom towards Kaminari—the blond returned it.

Aizawa glanced towards the door, crossing his ankles. “Instead we’ve expanded our new program to this year as well.” Yaoyorozu’s hand shot up; Aizawa nodded towards her.

“Is this the same program that the third and second years started last week?” The girl sat up straight, hands folded on top of her books. The embodiment of the perfect student; awake, ready to learn, inquisitive.

“Yeah,” the man replied, pushing up from the podium. He crossed the short distance to the door, pulling it open. A woman entered, pushing past with a wicked grin and deep red eyes. Her gaze piercing as she looked over the class—turning back to face Aizawa.

“Are you going to introduce me, or do I have to do it?” Her accent wasn’t native; tight from disuse. She was a white woman, taller than Aizawa—the difference in how they held themselves only made the difference in height seem far larger than it actually was.

Aizawa grimaced, sighing. Resigning to his fate. “This is Scarlet Fever,” the woman continued to grin, red eyed gaze back to taking in the class. Lingering on faces, passing over others—she kept returning to both Tokoyami and Bakugou, flickering between the two boys with mounting glee.

She knew about them already, but what about them was still unknown.

The woman’s gaze snapped away from the students to the man, “That’s it? Nothing else?” She scoffed. “And here I was always wondering how you became an educator thinking you had to be good at it. You’re horrible, Shota. Just so, so bad! Shattered all my hopes and dreams!” She bemoaned, pressing her knuckles against her forehead.

Aizawa continued to frown. “You have five minutes.”

“Shit,” she hissed, teasing façade falling as she straightened. “So—Scarlet Fever,” she pointed to herself, “I’m a member of a small hero organization based out of Somalia. We have at least one branch in every country, I’ll explain the reason for this later when I don’t have five minutes to cram as much basic bullshit information in as possible.” She glared at the teacher out of the corner of her eye. “But, as a program, we’ve been asked to come in to share a bit about the less-than-ideal situations that come from the line of work you, as heroes-in-training, wish to submerge yourselves in.”

“The world—and being in this business—isn’t as black and white as most believe it to be. I’m sure a few of you have come to discover this on your own, or you’ve already learned of this before attending UA.” Scarlet Fever combed a hand through her hair, pushing the dark strands of hair away from her face. “We—well, I’m not here to discourage you or your choices towards your future in this industry but provide a better understanding in the places that many would rather forget.”

Midoriya mouthed the last few words to himself, the gears of his brain already speeding up as he turned it over and over and over again. What did that mean? What did that mean?

He wasn’t the only one to think that; after she had left, Uraraka whispered it out loud, a few others shrugged their shoulders in reply.

Bakugou couldn’t get those red eyes out of his head—looking at him like she knew him. That she knew something he didn’t know; it pissed him off.

͢

He slammed his fist repeatedly into the punching bag. The weighted bag rocked with each hit, each slam of fist against mat. The music in his ears blared, spurring him on further and further—he stepped back, twisting his body around to tick a leg up. Slamming it against the bag with enough force to jostle it; it swung as he landed, leaning over to pull the bottle of water to his lips and a towel up to his forehead.

He wasn’t angry, per se, but frustrated.

That woman frustrated him; he hated how she seemed to know too much about him with just a look.

Just one look from her was like he was an open book—he wasn’t a fucking book to be read.

He wasn’t just some story to dissect.

“Fuck,” he snarled, rubbing the white towel against his face. Scrubbing the fabric against sweat slick skin. He tensed, muscles jolting under a foreign touch. Pulling his earphones quickly out of his ears, Bakugou turned with brows furrowed.

Kirishima.

“Eijirou,” the blond snorted, turning back to his towel. Running it up into his hair, soaking up the sweat gathering there.

His tanned fingers slipped under the back of his sweat stained shirt, “let’s go shower?” The view outside the windows was dark; the sun long since slipping from the sky, the moon high in its place. His cheeks blossomed into a deep red blush, his crimson eyes glancing away from the blond.

Bakugou flustered, swallowing thickly at the implication. He rubbed the towel over his face once before leaning down and plucking his water back up.

“Okay.”

͢

The showers were empty when they entered the first floor bathroom; if anyone’s up they’re hauled up in their rooms, doing whatever it is that teenagers due after midnight on school days. They entered the same stall, bags of clothes and shower caddy hung up and ready for use. Their gross, ugly flip flops keeping their feet from touching the tiled flooring.

Kirishima turned the water on, cranking it to hot and dancing back into the safety of the changing section of the stall. He grinned at his partner, “water’s started.”

Bakugou nodded, staring down at their feet before pulling his shirt off. Stuffing the clothing in his bag, pulling his new towel out and hooking it over the stall wall. Kirishima shifted, following his own routine as the water warmed beside them. Bakugou kicked off his shoes to pull his shorts and boxers down, stepping back into the sandals as he went to put them away.

He glanced back over his shoulder; red eyes staring back at him. Blushing—both were blushing as they took in the seemingly endless amounts of skin. Kirishima’s gaze lingered around his waist, blush growing from cheeks to neck as he stared. Bakugou felt a twitch, licking his lips when the boy before him worried the corner of his lip between sharp teeth. Kirishima’s gaze flicked back up, widening when it dawned that he was caught staring.

Bakugou jerked his head towards the spray.

Kirishima nodded, following the other boy into the shower portion of the stall, pulling the curtain closed behind them. Bakugou stepped under the spray first, shoulders sagging as he relaxed. Humming at the temperature. His flip flops slapped against the floor as he stepped, slipping in behind the other boy. Chest against back.

Bakugou inhaled sharply, tensing as Kirishima snuck into the spray alongside him. Water splattering, flattening his mess of red hair. It fell like a curtain around his face, blinding the boy as he settled in with his chin on the blond’s shoulder.

He wanted him; wanted his lips, wanted to taste his skin. To mark up his neck, his chest, with bites and bruising kisses. “Eijirou,” said boy hummed when the other snaked his arms around Bakugou’s chest. He turned, angling his face to press his lips against the other. The redhead hummed, pressing back.

Bakugou, taking the moment when Kirishima loosened his hold, turned in his embrace. Their lips dove back together, pressing and sliding. Parting for tongues that slid against teeth and wet lips alike. The blond’s fingers trailed over the other’s shoulders, digging into the dips and grooves of muscles before sliding right back up to familiar territory.

Kirishima pulled back, breath puffing against his lips, just a hair’s breath away. His eyes lashes moist, red hair dripping and plastered to his forehead. “You can go lower,” he whispered, hesitating himself. His fingers curling against Bakugou’s ribs. Out of the pair he was the one with more experience.

He was sixteen.

He was sixteen and madly in love with a boy far too cool for him.

He was sixteen and madly in love with a boy far too cool for him who also happens to love him just as much.

Bakugou groaned, pulling the boy’s face right back against his. Claiming lips with sharp nips, pulling at it with teeth, smoothing over flesh with tongue. “Keep kissing me,” he snapped.

Kirishima surged, knocking the other back against the tiles. Their sandals slapping against the water slicked floors. Bakugou gripped the boy’s mane of red, red hair like reins, keeping him close—close, so close. The boy’s calloused palms trailed down his chest, groping, feeling, touching.

Shit. Shit, Bakugou groaned, pressing down on the lip he had trapped between his teeth. Sucking it into his mouth. Thumbs swiped over nipples, the blond sucked in a moan, hissing as he pulled back for breath. “Yours are sensitive, huh?”

His weren’t. He didn’t feel too much on his chest—maybe it’s because of his quirk, maybe not, maybe it’s just his body in general. He knows it’s common. Bakugou bared his teeth, upper lip curling into a snarl. Kirishima grinned back; all toothy and goofy, leaning in to nudge the boy’s jaw up with his nose. Nipping with sharp teeth over the faint blond stubble growing in. “Don’t you dar—”

“I’m not, I’m not.”

Bakugou huffed, fingers trailing down the boy’s arms, following the rivers of water cascading down. He gripped the redhead’s wrist, guiding a hand down. Down and down, down over his abdomen, over his hip bone, down that sharp pronounced V. Kirishima groaned, cursing under his breath when he wrapped his hand around the other boy’s dick.

Bakugou biting back a hiss, tilting his head back against the wall. He grunted, biting at the corner of his lip when Kirishima tugged. Palm sliding, wrist twisting as he stroked—wide red eyes watching, alternating between glancing down at the cock in his hand and the blond’s face.

He held onto Kirishima’s arm, fingertips digging into the meat of it. Holding on like a lifeline. It’s embarrassing just how easy he fell apart—with just those watchful red-red eyes and a water slicked palm pumping his cock, just those two things left him without words. Mouth hung open, eyes fluttering closed.

“Katsuki,” Bakugou’s eyes fluttered open, hooded, staring up at him through light brown (nearly blond) lashes. The red head took hold of his free hand, guiding it towards his own aching length. It took no further prompting for Bakugou’s hand to wrap around him, matching the same tempo that Kirishima took to pleasuring him with. The redhead tensed, groaning out between clenched teeth. “Shit,” he hissed, the water easing their movements. “Shit, shit, shit—fuck, fuck Katsuki.”

Bakugou’s eyes clenched shut, teeth grinding together as he bit back moans—closer, almost there.

The shower made it sound so lewd—so loud. Kirishima’s mantra of moans bouncing from the tiles, rattling in his eardrums. The boy’s hands were rough, his pace practiced and unrelenting. He felt himself climbing—higher and higher. Bakugou’s jaw clenched, tongue pressed hard against his teeth. Down his arms electric jolts prickled, his hair sticking up on end, flesh pimple-ing out into gooseflesh.

He came with a whine; low and feral. He released Kirishima’s cock—his palms letting out their own brief discharge of explosions. The water doing nothing to quench his quirk. It’s been plaguing him since he learned what masturbation was and what it did to his body—what he had to do to seek that pleasure and avoid any explosive damage his privates may take. It’s a hazard of explosive hands (and explosive sweat) that many never think of.

“I’ll—” Kirishima bit out, wrapping his own hand around his cock. He wasted no time, arm pumping as he chased after his approaching orgasm. Almost there; red eyes staring down at the blond still panting, still dazed and open and fuck. “Fuck—fuck, fuck, fuckfuckfuck,” he bared his teeth, body tensed, arm slowing.

Bakugou glanced down; cum spurting, splattering onto his stomach, the milky liquid clinging to his skin. Kirishima leaned back against the wall opposite, lazy grin breaking over his lips. The spray of water falling between them, catching their legs and little more.

They stared; gazes open, expressions lazy.

“That was… good?” Bakugou licked his lips, finally breaking eye contact when the other started laughing. “Fuck off,” he snarled nudging the other boy’s ankle with his foot, “what the fuck else do you want me to say?”

Kirishima shrugged. “You’re just cute, Katsuki. Hella cute.”

--

They climbed into Kirishima’s bed that night; showered and dressed (does underwear count as dressed? Kirishima needed to know for science). “You’re meeting my parents tomorrow.”

The blond snorted.

“I’m meeting your whole family tomorrow.”

True. Even Yuu would be there—his plane arrived the day before. He hadn’t seen Yuu for a year. And then there was… oh. “Do you like dogs?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“Oh. Good, awesome. No reason.”

--

He took his hand, mindful of the ever healing palms. They were rough in some places, but tender in others—where Recovery Girl had to add a bit of help urging his healing on. It’ll toughen up soon, when the skin was able to settle.

His palms were sweaty in his grip, Kirishima kept his palm hardened without the other boy needed to mention it. He was nervous, Kirishima was nervous in his shoes too when he was meeting Bakugou’s family for the first time. And Kirishima had more; all his brothers would be there (even Yuu was back from the States for a bit. Has he yet expressed how rare that is?), even Satori and his wife and his daughter.

He was going to see his niece for the first time.

God she’ll be so tiny.

So breakable.

“I hope I’d be able to hold her,” Kirishima whispered, more for himself than the other boy. He had a bunch of pictures on his phone of her, his brother had forwarded them off to both him and their mother. Bakugou had seen it; she was red and wrinkly, and just unpleasant. Honestly, she wasn’t a pretty baby. But as the boy had flipped through the pictures, Bakugou noticed the blotchy red faded to a lovely tan and she was really starting to look like the babies they always showed on television.

Bakugou grimaced, noting how close they were getting to that little end destination on his phone (of course he had pulled it up on his map app, Kirishima was shit at directions). Three minutes left—fuck. “What’s the names of your family?”

“Satori, Yuu, Ryo, and Rin—those are my siblings,” he replies with a well-rehearsed ease. “Satori, he’s works for an accounting firm, and Akane, she works for the same firm but I can’t remember what she does, and they have a baby named Ai. Yuu is a basketball player, I think he just got traded so I don’t know who he plays for anymore. Ryo’s graduating high school this year, I think he wants do something artsy—he’s always changing his mind. Last month he was gonna be an engineer until he learned how much math he’d need to do. And Rin’s ten—she’s weird. Last time we talked she wouldn’t stop talking about some idol.”

Bakugou snorted, “She’s ten. It’s a weird couple of years. I bet you were fucking weirder then than you are now.”

“Hey!”

The blond snickered, eyeing the dot as it moved closer to the final destination. They were in a nice neighbourhood—lots of townhouses, the plots of land larger than what he typically saw in the city. The only time he really saw grass paired with houses it was at his grandparents (on his Dad’s side) estate. And that thing was just ridiculous (it was an estate, enough said). “You’re weird as fuck,” he repeated, tone dipping low in blink-and-you-miss-it fondness.

Kirishima rubbed his nose against his shoulder, tucking his face away from his partner. “I’m starting to think you have a weakness for this ‘weird fuck.’”

“You won’t be wrong.” He stated it so smoothly that is sent the other boy into a whirl. Bright red eyes wide, blinking owlishly down at him. Gaping—why did he have to make the dumbest of expressions? Bakugou snorted, “I’ll take it back if you don’t want it.”

“No!” Kirishima exclaimed, “No. No, I’ll take the compliment. It’s… wow.” His face bloomed, cheeks exploding into an expanse of pink blush. “I love you. I don’t think I’ve told you that yet today, but I do.” He squeezed the blond’s hand tighter; the dot on the GPs showing that the house they stood in front was their destination. “I really, really love you Katsuki. And I know my family will too—Mom’s been wanting to meet you since the first day of class when I told her about… well, you.”

And my big gay crush on you, Kirishima’s brain chimed in. He’d like to hide that little part for as long as possible—no one needed to know that he spotted the blond during the test to get into UA, and it developed from a ‘wow that guy’s cute’ thing  to a full blown crush on the guy when they became classmates. He already did enough things to embarrass himself that he didn’t need his huge hopeless crush (before Bakugou even knew his name) aired like some dirty laundry.

Bakugou silently pocketed his phone; cheeks alight just as rich as the other boy’s.

What a pair they made—two dumb idiots blushing at each other.

Fuck. Bakugou’s mind echoed, it’s lucky I love you.

It sounded a lot more like: it's lucky he loves you. 

--

Eijirou’s mother was tall; tall and curvy and red. Her hair was red; red like roses, like the red-red lipstick she wore on her lips. Her eyes were a darker shade; crimson like wet blood, rich and popping even against her tan brown skin. “Hana,” she told him to call her, lacking all suffixes. “It’ll get too confusing with all the ‘Kirishima-san’, plus that’s my mother-in-law and it’s just weird hearing people calling me that.”

Their house is a slipper-free one (though don’t confuse this with the American shoes-on households, the shoes were by the door where they belong); the woman padded around sans socks, her freshly painted toenails proudly on display.

Hana had embraced her youngest son as soon as the boy stepped through the archway leading from the front door area, squeezing so hard that his back popped in three different places. His feet rising off the floor as she lifted. She made to hug Bakugou next; arms wide as she approached.

He stepped back, closer to Eijirou. Lip curling. Eijirou chuckled, holding his mother’s arms and guiding her away from the boy. “Sorry Mum, Katsuki isn’t all that fond of hugs. He’s slow to warm up to people,” he glanced back to the blond, winking. I got your back.

The next person he met was Satori; red on red on tan skin. He had bags under his eyes, though that could be from the fact that he was a new father. He kept his hair cut short, a typical working man—a little longer on top, shaved shorter around the sides. His angular face made those bags look all the worse. His hand shake firm when Bakugou took his hand; his palms were rough, whatever it is that he did outside of the office had to be hard on his hands. But what the fuck did an office worker do to earn hands like those?

Akane, Satori’s wife, smiled a gentle upturn of her lips. Tired, like new mother’s tended on being. The baby in her arms flailed her arms; the rattle going wild. “Is this Ai?” Eijirou gasped, already making grabby hands. The woman snickered, handing the babe over, correcting his hold on the baby. The boy cooed, tucking the babe close to his chest. “Hello Ai~ I’m your uncle Eijirou. I’m the cool one,” Bakugou crept closer, curiosity getting the best of him now that there wasn’t anyone else to meet (not until the others returned home from wherever it was that they went off to).

He glanced down, leaning around the redhead’s shoulder. Little Ai glanced up at him, looking away from her uncle to the blond. She had large dark blue eyes (would they stay or are they turning?) the curls on the top of her head a darker red than the boy holding her—an auburn. She stared, large eyes boring into his face. “Whut?” Bakugou huffed, pursing his lips.

Ai giggled, babbling up at him. She held her arms out towards him, fingers waggling.

“Do you want to go see Katsuki?” Eijirou cooed, glancing between the two. He was smiling—for someone who wanted nothing more than to hold her all the way over here he looked all too happy to hand her off. Ai babbled, fingers wiggling with more energy. “OoooooKaaaay~”

“Wait.” The blond stepped back, waving his hands in front of himself. He wasn’t gonna hold the thing—nope, no way. Babies smelt weird. They were loud. They were—there was a baby in his arms.

Bakugou tensed, staring at the babe as his body seemed to naturally move to support her. Shit, this wasn’t a talent he wanted. Ai cooed, grinning like a little demon all babies secretely were—all gums and slobber. He tore his gaze up, up and away. “Can I sit down?” He eyed the couch—he’d take the floor too. If he was going to hold this wiggle monster in waiting he’s gonna insure that if she drops she only drops… maybe a foot.

Do babies bounce?

Eijirou nodded, “yeah—yeah, yeah of course.” His hand pressed against the small of Bakugou’s back, guiding him over. That wasn’t what was in mind when he said he wanted to sit down—he was hoping that he wouldn’t be still holding the cooing child trying to pap-pap his face.

Bakugou sat, crossing his legs and tucking his feet under his legs. Curling around the child as she continued to coo. Her saliva moist fingers finally reaching his jaw—she curled her fingers, her nails surprisingly sharp for something so short.

“Bababap. BAAAAaaaa~” Bakugou snorted, leaning down so she could walk her fingers up his cheek. Patting them with a giggle. “Aaababba,” she was a talker, all jumbled letter sounds, nothing making sense. She squealed, two of her finger pushing into the meat of his cheek.

“You’re silly,” the boy replied, adjusting his hold so he could grasp one her tiny hands. She was tanner than him, like all the Kirishima’s tended to be—she had the red hair of them too. Must be a dominate trait.

Ai continued to babble, tiny wee fingers petting the crease of his lips. The little pull at the corners—how could he not? What kind of hero was he that he can’t smile at a baby who looks at him like he’s some great beacon of light?

Some outstanding person.

Not he.

Not now—not when there was a part of him, that same part that makes his skin crawl and reminds him that he’s the reason why All Might retired, not when that part thinks that even touching her leaves her dirty. Muddled and tainted, leeching the light and innocence from the infant like a vampire.

Maybe that was why he didn’t want to let her go when Akane offered to take her, after the young mother returned smelling faintly of cigarette smoke. Maybe it was why Eijirou offered him to hold her in the first place—some therapeutic bullshit that ‘babies heal the heart’ or something equally as fucked up.

…is it working?

Eijirou finally took the seat next to him on the couch, camera screen open and front view on. “Katsuki, Ai~ Lookie here!” Bakugou glanced up and the phone clicked. Photo saving and his texting screen returning—Bakugou frowned at the group naming at the top then continued to glower at the message the boy quickly fired off in accompany the image.

Look at the bae and my niece <3333
So cute!!!!!!

The bastard.

Chapter Text

It was official.

There was something wrong with the Kirishimas’ and it manifested in the form of height. Why were they all so fucking tall?! Even Rin, who’s ten, was nearly as tall as Bakugou—TEN! And then the dog! That was no dog.

The huge lumbering beast pranced like a pup, large front paws planted on Eijirou’s shoulders, licking large wet strips up his face. They have a Great Dane—a Great Dane!!

What the hell is with this family?

Rin leaned in, long red hair tumbling over one shoulder, her head resting on her palm. “You’re the one that won the Sports Festival right? The one that got kidnapped?”

“Rin!” Eijirou hissed leaning around the blond in the middle to bat his sister away, with her insensitive inquiries and lack of tack.

“What?!” The youngest Kirishima snapped back, “this has to be him—you were all like, ‘Rin I gotta save the bae. Rin don’t tell anyone. Rin, he needs me~~~!’” She tucked her hands under her chin and batted her eyelashes. “I mean, great. Really, I get it that it was a sucky situation but really? ‘I saved the bae.’”

“I did not say that!” Eijirou hissed.

“You totally did~ I have it saved on my phone and everything! I even have the messages you’d send during class about how cute he looked and how hot it was when he’d beat people up!” She continued to tease, blowing through one topic to the other without a hint of remorse. Was it the age? Was it a family trait?

Bakugou covered his eyes with a hand as the two youngest Kirishima siblings ramped up into an all-out shouting match, tossing classified information about each other’s crushes (or in this case, Rin’s crush and the embarrassing past of Eijirou’s long-time crush on Bakugou). 

He was quietly thanking the fact he was an only child.

The two other Kirishima sons that Bakugou had yet to speak to alternated between laughing at the two youngest, and conversing with their eldest brother—brothers’ Yuu and Ryo, one the basketball player in-between contracts, having been traded from one team to another, and Ryo a third year high school student with graduation looming overhead. Yuu was the tallest of the bunch, leaning low under archways and grimacing when his head would bump against the ceiling in the living room (it was raised a half foot above the rest of the other rooms, something about it looking better).

Eijirou better be nowhere close to that height—fucking better not.

--

They slipped away a little after dinner, after the dishes were taken away and Eijirou’s parents ensured that they didn’t need to stick around to help with clearing the table. Eijirou took Bakugou’s hand in his, guiding him along behind him, the dog following the couple as they retreated to the redhead’s bedroom.

Riot, the Great Dane, panted happily, jumping onto the bed beside the blond to nuzzle against his jaw. Riot was a sweetheart, a sweetheart who happened to know just how much Bakugou liked animals—he had slept between his feet during dinner, clinging to him like a pup.

Kirishima grinned, “he likes you~” the redhead cooed, taking a seat on the blond’s other side. “So… what do you think?”

Bakugou shrugged, “haven’t talked to two of them. But they seem… alright?” What was the right word to describe the boy’s family? There was nothing bad about them—they smiled, they were loud. They looked loud, they talked loud, they gestured as they spoke. They were like Kirishima, but with different too.

Maybe he was starting to get the comparison people made between his mother and he—there weren’t much words to illiterate the experience of meeting and comparing between family.

“Yuu’s actually kinda shy, so I’m not surprised. He kinda always just played basketball—made friends who played basketball, even dated a girl who played basketball in high school. He’s nice though, I swear.” Kirishima curled up against his side, pillowing his head on the shorter boy’s shoulder. “Ryo’s a dick though—but that’s cause he’s my brother and he thinks he’s entitled to be a dick to me.” He snickered at something, “I’m not much better. I think it’s just our relationship. He used to tell Yuu to pick me up by my ankles and dangle me around upside down when I was five if I started annoying him—I thought it was awesome until I learned it was because he wanted me to stop bothering him. Asshole.”

Bakugou smirked at the picture his mind conjured up—three foot tall Kirishima red faced and giggling. He snorted, “Real fucking cute, idiot. Now I know why you’re so fucking dumb.” Kirishima pushed him, fingers digging painfully into the soft muscle of his relaxed side. He had been relaxing before that. “I’m fucking teasing, you dick.” Bakugou slammed his fist into the redhead’s side.

Kirishima snorted, dragging him down, back flat against his covers.

He wrapped his arm around Bakugou’s shoulders, holding him close. “I think they like you,” he spoke, repeating the words earlier.

“They haven’t known me for a day yet,” Bakugou replied, showing that brief moment of self-deprecation that Kirishima was starting to notice more and more. They were small, brief little lapses in his overly boastful persona—a little clench of his jaw at someone bringing to light his temper, the squaring of his shoulders and aversion of his eyes when he’d see something All Might related.

Just little things. Little things that slowly start amounting to something bigger.

“How are you?” Kirishima suddenly questioned, the question rolling off his tongue before he could so much as talk himself out of it.

“Tired.” His response was quick, easy. He didn’t hesitate. He didn’t lie. “I don’t understand why I’m so fucking tired all the time—I’ve done nothing to warrant it.” Kirishima combed his fingers up over the buzz of his undercut, up into the uncut strands of his typical blond poof.

“Mental health does that to you,” he had read it. Had scrolled through one psychology journal after the other; there were number of things that make you fatigue. It’s a constant mental struggle. You don’t need to do something physical to get tired.

Bakugou grunted as Riot settled in behind him on the bed, squishing him between dog and boy. He threw a leg over Kirishima’s, tucking himself further into the boy’s side. “I... I’m so fucking weak.” He curled his fingers in the red head’s shirt, holding him down when the boy went to sit up.

Kirishima whined, trying once more to sit them up so he could get a good look at the boy’s face.

He wasn’t having it.

“Katsuki,” the boy tensed, “Katsuki you aren’t weak—you’re the strongest person I know.” He started wiggling, inching his way down to look at Bakugou that way—he wasn’t going to have this conversation looking at the top of his head. Bakugou groaned, fighting him up until the point those ruby red eyes were staring at him—nose to nose. “There’s my sexy Blasty McSplodes,” he grinned, releasing the boy’s shoulders and cupping his face instead.

“Eijirou.”

Kirishima’s expression returned neutral. “I’m serious. You’re so fucking strong—you are. I’ll say it again and again. I don’t even think All Might could do the things that you could do at sixteen—there are days that I’m left in awe at the shit you can pull off. It’s true.” His thumb brushed under the faint bags under his eyes—he’s had them since his kidnapping. Some days they’d be lighter, some darker, but always there. “Its because of that, that these moments of weakness feel so… big.”

It sounded so lame.

“Then why is it because of me that All Might had to retire?”

Oh.

Kirishima stared up at him, mouth agape. Oh, his mind echoed. “That’s—” he watched in mounting horror as tears gathered along those dirty blond-brown lashes. As that face seemed to close off into pain. “Katsuki,” he rubbed at the first tear that escaped.

He didn’t cry pretty.

He cried like it hurt to. His face pinched, lip caught between his teeth. His eyes pinched closed after that first tear escaped with the help of gravity. “Katsuki,” Bakugou rolled away, off of Kirishima and into the small gap between the boy and the dog casually lazing with his head pillowed on the spare pillow.

Kirishima followed after him, pushing himself up onto his elbow as the blond threw his arm over his eyes. Hiding his tears and half his face in the process. “Katsuki, that’s not because of you.” He cupped his face, thumbing the crease where his teeth bit into his lip. He guided the skin out from beneath its’ captor, caressing over the faint mark it left behind. “It’s not your fault that All Might retired,” it was kind, feathered words.

Bakugou Katsuki didn’t trust words, and Kirishima knew that, yet he tired.

It’s the only thing he could do—there was no other way to prove it to him. No sign, no proof to ease his heart and change his mind.

“But it is,” the blond snarled, upper lip curling. Teeth baring as he started crying—honestly crying. It looked painful, looked angry and raw. It was so heartbreakingly wrong that it broke Kirishima’s heart.

“It’s not,” Kirishima whispered, leaning in to press a kiss to the boy’s arm. On that small cluster of freckles that dusted his skin. He had them everywhere—little clusters on his arms, on his shoulders, on his back between his shoulder blades.

Bakugou lip quivered—it is.

It isn’t—Kirishima kissed the small patch of cheek not covered.

--

Trouble comes in the form of Ryo; with orders from Hana, the third eldest threw open his younger brother’s door and tackled the pair on the bed. His entrance so quiet, so well practiced from years of out witting brothers and doing his mother’s bidding at waking the others that he never thought deny this duty.

He was used to angry groaning, to cursing and grumpy siblings curling further into their sheets. He was not used to the lurch, to the explosion against the side of his head (thank you hardening quirk, thank you for activating when he flinched) and threw him off the bed and against the desk, shattering under the impact.

Ryo’s body softened, face red but unharmed, eyes wide with shock as he stared at the couple. Eijirou was shushing the boy, hands cupping his face. “It’s okay—it’s okay Katsuki, it’s just my brother. It’s just Ryo; we’re at my parents’ house.”

The blond boy’s chest heaved, pushing the other away. Palm pressed flat against the other’s chest, holding him at arms length. “Don’t. Don’t touch me,” he stressed, teeth bared like a cornered animal. His pupils blown wide, gaze flickering between both Kirishimas’.

And Eijirou did.

He sat there, with more patience than Ryo had ever seen him with, until Bakugou’s shoulder’s loosened. Until looked at him—looked at him like Ryo had seen his parents do—and Eijirou place a hand on the boy’s knee. Eijirou turned to him then, looking over his shoulder, “tell Mom we’ll be down in a bit?”

The eldest of the three nodded, finally picking himself out of the mess of faux-wood and stumbled out the door. Confused, a little sore. Ryo relayed the message to his mother when he returned back to the kitchen. “What happened?” the woman had asked him, and he told her. Told her that Bakugou threw him across the room in a panic, that Eijirou was still calming him down upstairs.

His father, Issei, looked up from his phone with a frown.

--

That Saturday was their first morning here, together, with the Kirishima’s. Riot bumping into Bakugou’s waist as they followed Eijirou downstairs, joining the rest of the family. Ryo and Rin fell into a palpable silence, lips pulled tight as they eyed one another. “Don’t be rude!” Hana appeared, setting the remaining bowls in their proper places.

The two siblings quickly brought their attention to their laps; ‘if I don’t see you, you don’t see me’ mentality. Hana pinched the bridge of her nose, expelling a large lungful of oxygen as she lowered herself into her seat.

The seating was much the same as the night before, save Akane was still in bed and baby Ai was down for more sleep after a night of fussing. Riot slipped under the table, for such a big dog he liked to believe he was smaller than the truth. He put his head upon Bakugou’s socked feet, groaning as he relaxed. It made the blond smirk to himself; how easy this dog could express himself, no worries, no judgements. This family showered him with love; there were at least two huge fluffy dog beds that he’s seen, and even then the dog still slept in a bed or on the couch.

“Katsuki-kun,” Bakugou glanced up from his egg rolled omelet to the woman, “I can call you Katsuki-kun, right?” It didn’t stop her last night, but the expression she wore made him keep that to himself and nod. “I want to personally apologize for my children’s reactions. Eijirou told me you didn’t like people touching you, and I completely forgot that when I sent Ryo up. But that doesn’t excuse my negligence, nor his own reactions now. I want you to feel welcome here, and I don’t feel like we’ve done a proper job of that.”

Bakugou looked to his partner for some clarification—none, Eijirou was just as shocked as he was. The blond tightened his grip on his chopsticks, “it’s fine. I’m fucked up, not your fault.”

“You’re not,” Eijirou was quick to interject. Like Bakugou’s own personal angel on his shoulder, whispering the good shit that he should be telling himself, but could bring himself to hear. Now that he’s started admitting that shit was wrong; shit was wrong, that didn’t mean it could right itself again. It could; it could but it wouldn’t.

“I am,” in the silence hovering over the table made that whisper of a reply seem much louder than it was.

Eijirou huffed, “no you’re not. Something traumatic happened to you and its perfectly fine and responsible to be affected by it—it doesn’t make you any less or weak of a person!” For his endless patience, his heartfelt and constant resolve, Bakugou knew that one day he might just finally make him snap. That one day his issues will drive him away—he just never saw this argument happening in front of the boy’s family.

It was that foresight, that one little inkling of self-doubt (that lone one that didn’t sound so horrid swimming in a sea swelling with anger and self-hatred, doubt and fear) that made him bite his tongue, push back his seat and walk out of the dinning room. Made him march right out the back sliding door, holding it open for Riot to slip out along side him, and close it.

--

He never cared if someone hated him; if he bothered to acknowledge them to begin with, they still could never amount to the anger bubbling beneath his skin.

It took him awhile to place the crawling, that unbearable irritating itch—it’ll recede at times after a huge fit. After that explosive temper would silence a room, baring down at him with nervous eyes always glancing to and away like he’d blow again. Giving him a moments relief before guilt and a deeper hate would creep up from his throat, thick like vomit.

It was lack of control.

He didn’t know why; why him, why was he the one feeling like this?

Why was it always him?

“There’s nothing wrong. It’s just,” it was the same beginning different middle, but always the same end. It always ended with, “it’s normal.”

Nothing about it was normal—normal is subjective, normal was never something Bakugou did. He was always above the norm—gifted, talented, special. He hated the word normal.

--

“Give me the fucking stick,” he muttered, jerking the stick back and worth with the grip he had on either side of the dog’s jaw. The Great Dane growled playfully, tall wagging like a well oiled machine, mirroring the back and forth motions. “I can’t throw the stupid thing if you don’t let go.”

The dog barked around the stick, loud and deep, a perfect bark to match his size. About the only thing about him that matched his size—he was too much of a lap dog, but Bakugou could see why the family couldn’t help but allow him to snuggle up with them. Those rich brown eyes could melt the coldest of hearts.

Riot finally released the stick, turning quickly and bounding a good foot away before turning expectantly towards him. The look of throw the stick obvious with those little doggy eyebrows.

Bakugou chucked it, smirking when the beast’s long legs carried him to the spot where the stick would land, hopping up into the air and snatching it with ease. He had a leisurely gate upon his return; all loose limbs and proudly raised head.

The patio door behind him slid open, then closed.

“Hey,” he said.

Bakugou spared the other a quick glance over his shoulder before turning back to the dog. Riot handed him the stick easy enough, already bounding away in wait for the blond to chuck it. “Hey,” Bakugou answered, his reply punctuated with the throw.

“I didn’t mean for you to leave—you shouldn’t have to leave.”

The blond sighed, taking the stick back from the dog and throwing it again. Nice and repetitive; Riot didn’t put up a fight in releasing his prize, and he was quick to bring it back. It gave Bakugou something to do, something mindless, something simple. “What do you want me to say, Eijirou?” He whirled around to face him. Kirishima stood on the bottom stair, not moving any further towards or away from him. “Two weeks ago it was all ‘admit there’s something wrong with you’ and now its all ‘there’s nothing wrong with you!’”

His chest heaved, fists clenched at his side. Riot dropped the stick at his feet, whining when he didn’t immediately move to pick it up.

“What do you want me to do, Katsuki?” Eijirou sighed, shoulders slumping.

“I don’t know,” he hissed back, “I don’t fucking know.” He didn’t even do anything wrong to being with, just reminded him that it was fine to be affected by shit—just reminding him that he isn’t the only one that’s dealt with shit like this. He didn’t do anything wrong and Bakugou wasn’t angry at him—he fucking hated that he was in this situation, having to put Kirishima in the position that he’s in. He hated that they couldn’t have just another normal cliché high school romance, instead having to deal with his fucking issues. “I don’t fucking know.”

He finally stepped off the stair, crossing that five-foot distance between them. “I can’t do anything to help if you don’t tell me, babe,” his knuckles brushed down the length of Bakugou’s arm. Fingers reaching out to his, tangling and weaving together.

Bakugou stared down at it, at their intertwined fingers. “Don’t fucking leave me—I think I’ll fucking go crazy if you do.”

The redhead shook his head, “I love you too much. Someone’ll have to tie me up and throw away the key to keep me away—really, I don’t think we need to be paranoid about that.”

--

The couple slipped out shortly after mid-afternoon, Riot trotting alongside them.

He’s gone and fucked it all up; Bakugou frowned, staring out behind his sunglasses. Things were still awkward, extremely awkward, when the couple entered the house again. Forgoing breakfast and just slipping away upstairs to Eijirou’s room to just… chill. It wasn’t a good day, wasn’t a bad one in comparison to that one day, but it wasn’t good.

Things felt too raw, he felt too… naked. Like he was missing some protective layer of dirt or some shit—like the world dropped him off back to the state of him being five again, just developing those first few callouses and lacking all those scars that proved he could pick himself back up again without an ounce of hesitation.

“Your family must think I’m a piece of fucking work,” he gave the leash in his hand a soft tug, guiding the dog to the right to let a pedestrian by.

Kirishima shook his head, tightening his hold on their joined hands. “Nah. My parents like you, they’re just worried that we made your uncomfortable.” The blond snorted, “I’m serious. Things like this? Its not going to make my family not like you. Ryo asked me before I went outside if he should apologize for this morning personally and everything. And Rin wants to watch movies with us tonight, which I already agreed to, so you can’t say no.”

Bakugou sighed, “I don’t get how they can be fine with it.”

“I haven’t told you what my parents do, have I?” Kirishima clicked his tongue against his teeth, scolding himself for his lack of proper introductions. “My Dad’s a Firefighter, has been since he was like… in high school. Volunteered with the force before he was allowed in on part-time, then full-time. And Mum’s a Social Worker. Before Rin was born she used to host foster kids from time to time; I remember two of them. I think there were five of them that’s stayed with us since I was born.”

Oh.

“I’m not saying this—” he swallowed the rest of his sentence with a groan of frustration, “When I say there’s nothing wrong with you I mean there’s nothing abnormal about it. You’re allowed to have thoughts and feelings, and it’s allowed to be ugly and scary as fuck. But I just… I just want you to know that you’re allowed to be more than this, and I’ll love you through everything—really, I will.”

And Bakugou doesn’t doubt this.

“You’re such an idiot,” he shakes his head, ignoring the feeling of eyes. Of heat spreading from his cheeks to his ears.

“Idiot in love~~~!” Kirishima exclaimed swinging their arms, breaking that tense atmosphere hanging overhead.

--

Ryo took the armchair to himself, a leg tossed over an arm, popcorn bowl cradled in his lap. Riot whining at his feet, a large string of drool dripping from his yowls. “You’re not gettin’ any,” the boy scolded, sticking his tongue out at the dog. The dog whined back in reply.

“You’re teasing him,” Eijirou called back, arm thrown back over the back of the couch, toying with a couple of blond strands within reach. Bakugou, no matter where he was, never changed in that wide seating stance of his. Like the sofa was his alone, didn’t matter if a leg was spread over Eijirou’s own. Didn’t matter if he sat with legs so far spread that he took up a whole cushion and more with just legs alone.

“I ain’t doin’ nothing!” Ryo snapped back, movie title replaying over again as they waited for Rin—she had insisted on milkshakes, had whined to the sister-in-law pleading for the woman to take her before their movie night, and it worked.

It wasn’t a new movie; Bakugou remembers seeing this DVD sitting on the selves back when movie rentals were a thing—it was a classic sleepover chick movie. Cliché. And it was a movie Bakugou rather enjoyed… he hated it.

“Fuck you ain’t,” Eijirou muttered, nose scrunching when his brother chucked a popcorn at him. Riot jumping up onto his feet, tail wagging a mile a minute. “Look at that! ‘Ain’t doing’ nothing’ my ass!” Bakugou stared at his partner, blond brow arched up into his hair. Two curses in less than a minute—a record.

Was it a sibling thing? It had to be a sibling thing.

“Fuck you,” Ryo called back, tossing another popcorn. Riot jumped up, catching it in his jaws. “Riot!” The dog went running, long legs making quick work with tearing out of the room and up those stairs. The older boy pouted, grabbing a handful this time and firing it towards the couple seated on the sofa.

“Ryo!” Eijirou’s eyes clenched shut, three of the seven popcorn puffs bouncing off his face. Bakugou had leaned far away, far far away from that mess—let the brother’s fight it out. This new Eijirou, this Eijirou that swore was a rather pleasant alternative to the clean cut love-of-all-things-manly that he knew from UA. But as much as Bakugou wished to explore this development, he’d rather observe this oddity before diving headfirst into it.

Call him a creature of comfort when it came to Eijirou, but… well, yeah. He was a creature of comfort when it came to his partner. The boy was comfortable, he made him feel comfortable—safe. Fuck it. Fuck it, this boy made him weak (made him want to admit to a weakness, even for a moment).

The younger redhead leapt from the couch, diving to the arm chair and the popcorn the older boy held. Tanned hands reaching in, reaching up with handfuls of food and jamming it against Ryo’s face. The brothers started screaming at one another after all—wordless, or near that, Bakugou had pulled out his phone and started reading when the popcorn started flying again.

--

Akane and Rin return sometime in the middle of the brothers’ Epic Battle™, in the middle of flying popcorn and bodies diving behind furniture to escape food. Bakugou had lifted a hand in greeting, not bothering to look up from his phone (another new novel, it had just started getting good, he wasn’t about to put it down for something as mundane as a greeting).

--

On the Sunday the couple woke up earlier than normal, leaving the house before they needed. Picking up breakfast on the walk over to Bakugou’s appointment. Caffeine beverages in hand, the pair had fallen into the bench at the park across the road from the building.

“I’ll meet you here again?” Kirishima questioned, getting comfy. He was the embodiment of comfort with his black sweater on army green sweatpants ensemble (at least it looked pretty decent even the bandana tied across his forehead). Tucking a leg under the other, pulling out his phone in the same movement.

The blond nodded, checking the time again.

Ten minutes before he had to go in.

“Want a kiss good luck?” the redhead continued, not caring the slightest at the silence from his partner. He was figuring that this might be a thing; when feelings were present or needed to be discussed Bakugou may just… close off.

Or was he mulling things over?

Both?

No.

He looked like he was preparing himself, steeling himself for unpleasantness.

And maybe that’s what happened in his meetings—the boy allowed himself to open up about things he’d rather never say in a day-to-day life. This weekend really wasn’t going how Kirishima had wished it to; maybe he’d bring up the things that happened in his appointment today.

“Sure,” Bakugou shrugged, leaning in. Pressing a kiss to the other boy’s lips. Stealing a kiss and maybe a bit more of the boy’s heart in the process. He pulled away just as Kirishima started leaning in, his eyes slowly falling shut. The blond stood, checking his phone once more. “Be back later,” he pressed one final kiss to Kirishima’s forehead, burying his hands in his pant pockets.

Kirishima frowned, brow creased as he watched him go—his strong wide shoulders hunched, curling in on himself as he crossed the street and into the building. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t right for him to look so… defeated.

This whole weekend—all of it—he’s been like that. Quiet, down. Deep in thought. It wasn’t him, it wasn’t Katsuki. It hurt to see him like this; angry for all the wrong reasons, not even the type of anger he was used it. It was dark and vile. Left him sick to his stomach, and he could only picture how the other felt with it.

It felt like he was losing him all over again, but this time he couldn’t run after him and take his hand and drag him back and away from all that hurt. He couldn’t help him, not in the way he needed to—it couldn’t be quick, nor showy.

And it hurt—fuck it hurt.

How much did it need to hurt? How much did they need to hurt before it was over? Before they either got over it or grew numb to it? How much?

How much?!

Kirishima looked away, Bakugou had turned once, just quick, to send him one last fleeting glance before slipping into the building—he didn’t want to see it. Didn’t want give him a small grin or a wave of fingers, or some other falsity. His heart felt too heavy for that. Instead, his gaze fell to his phone in hand. To the open message to Kaminari; he typed to him without hesitation.

He needed to say it, needed to share it with someone.

‘I feel like I’m loosing him some days, man. IDK what to do & I know he doesn’t either. I feel like such shit 2 like… I wish it never happened and I wish it doesn’t bother him but it does and its shitty to think about m’self when hes hurtin and I hate it’

And when the other boy ultimately replied back with ‘DUDE :C’ he didn’t really know what else he expected. He just hoped it had been anything else but that—didn’t make him feel any better for complaining either.

--

He combed his fingers through her long strands of fur, white and orange and black and splotched. This wasn’t doing it—this slow shit wasn’t cutting it. It wasn’t and he didn’t know what else to do. On one hand he didn’t exactly trust her, on the other this was exactly why he was paying her—if no one else, she at least had to take him seriously. He didn’t need to fuck around and dance around anything like secrets and whatever pride he was stubbornly clutching to.

“You don’t share this shit with anyone else, right?” He needed to hear it. Needed to confirm it. Needed to know, for certain, that nothing he was about to say left this damn room. Nothing would pass the ears of these cats, Dr. Maruya and his own fucking self.

“If it doesn’t cause harm to you or others, no, it doesn’t leave this room.” Her small brown fingers set the pen on top of her notebook. She didn’t speak any further, but he could feel her watching him. Could feel her large, wide blue eyes observing him as he combed fingers through the cat’s fur in his lap. She wouldn’t push him, at least not with words. The gaze alone did the trick.

“Have you heard of a quirk that could pass off to another—like some protégé?”

She laid her hands overtop of the other. “No, but I wouldn’t put it past existing either once before or currently or even in the future. You can’t be certain how a quirk could manifest through genetics.” Everyone knew that children gained bits and pieces of their parents quirks, some were like spitting images of the former, others an even blend, rarer still was a quirk so woefully new that it could seldom resemble the parents it came from. “But you know it to exist currently; so what of this quirk?”

He glanced up from the cat, stilling his petting.

“Why would someone give their quirk to someone else?” He ground his teeth together, biting back the worst part. The part that sounded childish—he knew the answer to it. Knew why they would outright tell people they could bestow their powers to someone else. Wasn’t safe, it dampened the whole power behind the symbol, it could put more stain on the next person in line.

“Maybe the same reason why a parent would have a child?” Dr. Maruya answered, “I can’t answer for them. People do things for all sorts of reasons. But as a parent myself, maybe its for the sake of continuation? To feel that a piece of you is left in the world to better it in your stead.”

He looked to the painting above her seat. It sounded like something All Might would strive for. To continue to bring peace as a symbol even after he’s gone. All Might was a symbol, and now that it was gone—now that… now that Midoriya was next…

He clicked his tongue against his teeth, eyes pinched close.

He sucked in a lungful and opened his eyes. That painting was still there; a cloudless ocean scenery, a pretty red and white sail boat. “Then why the fuck am I the reason He’s forced to retire and not this fucking protégé?” He fucking hated the ocean. “Why am I the only one brok—” he barred his teeth, losing the point he was making.

All Might retired and it was his fault—fucking Deku was waltzing around with All Might’s quirk, yet those two were tighter than ever. All big eyes and hero worship—they were fine with it. But Bakugou wasn’t. All Might could’ve retired after the villain attack at UA, he could’ve retired before that night, or after or… or anytime. It could’ve been anytime if not for Bakugou.

“All Might had to retire ‘cause my weak fucking ass couldn’t handle a couple of pathetic assholes—its my fault!” The cat leapt from his lap, running from the room like a bat outta hell. Dr. Maruya, unmoving, only frowned. “It’s my fault, how the fuck am I supposed to call myself a hero if I can’t even insure we have a Symbol of Peace?”

How was he supposed to wake up and expect to look at the man when he was the reason his idol could no longer be… him. Bakugou ruined everything. He ruined himself, he ruined All Might, he was a fuck up of a son, a shitty fucking person—why the fuck did Eijirou even want to date his stupid ass?

How the fuck was he supposed to be a hero when no one ever thought he’d be a good one—they called him flashy, or cool, or tough. But never fucking good. Wasn’t that what a Hero was supposed to be at the end of the day? Good?!

“You’re sixteen—you’re a kid.” The woman set both pen and book aside. “What happened with All Might that night was a shame, yes, but it wasn’t your doing. All Might is a professional, he’s also an adult.” She spoke calmly, tone cool in contrast to his. “While All Might had to retire after the events pertaining to that night, it is not due to you being there—you know as well as I do that he’d gladly risk his life time and time again to save anyone, and has done so in the past, the fact that you’re a student of his only made it personal.” Dr. Maruya leaned in, reaching out across the gap between their knees before thinking better of it and returning to her upright position. “Your job, your only job that night, was to get out of that situation as safely as possible. Your only duty was to survive, and you should be proud of that.

You don’t have your hero license; you aren’t a hero yet. Until then you’re a student and a civilian. Maybe at times you’ll be on a probationary status with a branch—I believe that’s the status they give you? But, anyways, it isn’t your job to play hero yet. You were kidnapped, you were contained, and you fought to free yourself and you did. You did all you could and more.”

Bakugou’s mouth opened and promptly closed when she held her hand up, “you did everything and more Katsuki. All Might knew the risks, he weighed them and calculated that he would take action no matter the end result. You did everything you could—you did what was right.”

His eyes widened.

“It’s not your duty to be a martyr.”

--

He was right where he left him, still staring down at his phone. Bakugou stood, stopping roughly a foot away from the bench. “Eijirou,” the boy looked up at the call of his name, lips twitching up into a ghost of a smile. Weak—it didn’t reach his eyes; why didn’t it reach his eyes?

Bakugou stepped back, giving him more room to stand.

He pushed himself up with all the grace of a boy who hadn’t moved in more than an hour, stiff and slow. So slow to stretch to his full height that when Bakugou came in, wrapping his arms around his shoulders, the boy simply stopped. Tensing in confusion at the intimacy. He didn’t move when he pressed a kiss to the corner of his lips, nor when he pressed their lips together with a quick peck—not for the second or third time either, didn’t kiss him back until the fourth, didn’t reach out a hold him until the sixth.

Bakugou turned, tucking his face into the redhead’s jaw. He didn’t know what else to do; how could you properly empathize the near opposing fears and negate it? How could one express that everything will be fine, we’ll be okay while pleading that the other doesn’t crack under the pressure you brought them… for them not to leave you over it?

I can’t lose you, Bakugou thought as Kirishima’s arms wrapped around his ribs. I won’t blame you for leaving me, but I can’t lose you.

With the stressor of All Might’s retirement out in the open a newer fear made a larger appearance—it had always been there, appearing when the boy grew too damn close to him. Shifting from a fear that he was only friends with him because he wanted to ride his coattail, to fearing that he’d lose the friend he found in him ‘cause the other found out he had a thing for the boy, to where we were now.

Like this, holding him like this, the height difference wasn’t so noticeable. Just a slight hunch on Kirishima’s part to keep them cheek-to-cheek (but how long would he stay this height? He’s seen his family, Kirishima had a way’s to go yet in growing).

“I love you.”

The boy stiffened, holding his breath.

“I love you,” Bakugou repeated, whispering against Kirishima’s jaw. He clung a little tighter, holding him all the closer. “Just deal with me for awhile longer and I swear I won’t be this fucking high maintenance ever the fuck again.”

Kirishima clung right back, holding him so tight he could swear his ribs creaked. “You’re Katsuki, of course you’re going to be high maintenance—I knew that from day one.” It was as much of a promise as anything. “I’m sorry its been such a crappy weekend.”

The blond grunted; it has been, but he really just wanted to toss it aside and forget about it. Acknowledge it happened but move the fuck on. “Can’t we just make out when we get back home?” To dorms, though it didn’t matter if they started back at the Kirishima’s. He just really wanted to kiss him—kissing Eijirou was fun, it was comfortable. Made him feel good, made him feel important.

“We can.”

--

Hana drops them off at the dorm shortly after 7PM that night; after she fed them both and, despite knowing that she shouldn’t really embrace the boy, she hugged him tight right outside the gates of UA. “You’re more than welcome at our house,” and Bakugou hugged her right back. Maybe it was a Mom Thing™.

His Mom would hug him kinda like this during those rare moments when she knew he needed it. Bakugou’s mom wasn’t a hugger, mother and son in the Bakugou family didn’t often share hugs—even when Katsuki was small. It was Dad. Dad was the hugger; he was the cuddly one. And in extension, Katsuki got cuddly with his Dad (there were many photos tucked in photo albums of the Bakugou boys being cuddly).

“Kaminari wants to chat for a bit,” he held up his phone wiggling it back and forth for Bakugou to get a decent look on the screen, “just reminded me.” He sounded so… so wrong that it couldn’t be true—why the hell would he lie about talking and hanging out with his friends? The only plans they had that night was making out and really, that could be done before bed, it didn’t matter what happened between now and then.

Unless, of course, Kirishima… does he talk them about me? About…

Bakugou huffed, shaking his head, both to him and his own damn self. Of course he talked to them—of fucking course. He couldn’t blame him for needing to talk to someone. Bakugou was paying someone to fucking listen to him, the least he could do is give his partner distance to bitch about the fuckery that is Bakugou-fucking-Katsuki.

“I’ll keep my door unlocked,” he shrugged, walking away without another word.

Maybe they were just going to shoot the shit, maybe Kaminari would ask Kirishima about how the whole ‘meet the ‘rents’ went. Maybe they’d talk about how Bakugou ruined their weekend—maybe… maybe he’d tell the Sparking Idiot that he couldn’t take it anymore… maybe he’d tell him that he planned on breaking up.

He took the stairs up—give his body something to do.

He was being stupid. Paranoid. If Eijirou wanted to leave me he wouldn’t keep saying he loved me. Though he might if he felt guilty—no. Of course he’d feel guilty, but he wouldn’t do that. Bakugou knew that much for sure, even with the paranoia.

He wouldn’t do that to a person.

--

Ashido and Sero were there as well when Kaminari let him into the room. “How’s he doing?” Ashido piped up, rushing in to hug the redhead. She wrapped her arms around his torso and lifted, picked him right up off the floor.

She set him down again and when his toes touched carpet he returned her embrace. “He cried—he cried and I don’t…” he kept cutting off, catching himself with memories. The helplessness in those times stole the words from his tongue. “I don’t know how to help him,” he felt her tighten her hold around him, her hand rubbing his back.

They haven’t been there for Bakugou like Kirishima had, keeping away from the blond (and in turn the couple) after that group movie night that led to the couple’s fight. Bakugou needed the space, still needs it, and figuring out when giving them space was no longer helpful and when company was needed… well, it was difficult. Trying.

“You can only do so much, man,” Sero spoke, wrapping his arms around the two. “I’m sure Bakugou gets that,” he went on to state. Ashido chirping in with her agreement.

He had said something like that, it was true. But the fact that… the fact that Kirishima couldn’t just fix it, just up and magic all this pain away... shit. He just wanted him happy—he didn’t want him to feel at war within himself, nor feel he was inadequate. That wasn’t the Katsuki he knew, wasn’t the one that waltzed up on that platform during the Sports Festival and gave the lot of them a big Fuck you. Enjoy fighting for second.

In a round about way he had a way to inspire; it wasn’t traditional, but it made people want to better themselves. Prove to Katsuki that if he didn’t stay on his toes they may just be able to beat him.

“I just want him happy,” the redhead ground out, pushing out the words between clenched teeth. Ashido fluffy pink hair tickled his nose as Kaminari plowed into them, joining in on the group hug.

“Dude, we do too.” The blond voiced, “he’s our friend too.”

--

He kept the lamp on, crawling into bed and fluffing the pillows up behind him. If Kirishima was going to take awhile to talk with… who ever had pulled him away, then whatever. He’ll read—he had about five books left queued up before he’d go and buy some more.

No, that was a lie. Just before starting the last book he’ll go and find more so he wouldn’t have to go without any literature to kill a day with. Its happened twice before, and never more.

Never. More.

He was just finishing chapter ten when Kirishima entered; the chapter where the American boy named Michel finally kissed foreign exchange student from Sweden, Elias, whom he’s been crushing hard-core on for months. It was more YA novel than anything, but this genre would be easier explained than say… harlequin novels… if anyone where to learn of what he read.

Bakugou hummed back in greeting when the boy called out to him. He scrolled through one and a half pages before Kirishima pulled back the covers and slipped into bed alongside him. A warm hand already slipping up the front of Bakugou’s shirt. “What’cha reading?” he smelt like a mixture of Ashido’s perfume and the body spray that Kaminari still insisted on using.

He didn’t close out of the book, letting his partner attempt to read the English text over his shoulder. He didn’t scroll down, or flip to the next page. Kirishima was slower with reading English, and if he was actually reading (which he most likely was) then it’ll defeat the purpose to move to the next page without allowing the boy to finish.

“Are they gay?” he must have reached the part where they kissed again, greeting each other shyly before classes started in a stairwell that wasn’t often used. It was their first day after having their kiss—after confessing to each other and deciding that they should see about trying to date.

Bakugou hummed, “one of them is.” The whole five first chapters were Michel silently freaking out that Elias seemed to only like girls—until of course the whole thing that happened in chapter six where the reader, and Michel as well, learned that Elias was bisexual. It was just that no guy had made an interest towards him, and Elias was hesitant in being out in a country that wasn’t his own with a group of friends he wasn’t sure he could trust yet.

“Yeah?” Kirishima smiled, finally looking at him. Bakugou could feel the boy’s gaze traversing over his cheek, his nose. Tracing up the curve of his jaw—everything in profile, everything close. Bakugou nodded not knowing how else to reply. “Do you read a lot of foreign queer books?”

Bakugou shrugged; “on my phone.” He didn’t like some of the tropes that came with the books in their culture. They were getting better, at times, but the romantization of non-con could still be seen in the more… visual novels for certain. He closed out of the app, turning his phone screen off in the process and setting it aside.

Kirishima hummed and ha’ed, fingers toying with the end of Bakugou’s shirt. The boy huffed, grabbing the other by his cheeks and pulling him in, kissing him without further prompting.

When Bakugou said he wanted to make-out, he wanted to make-out. He wanted to put that shitty weekend of too raw emotions behind him and start his next week with something he enjoyed—he liked kissing Kirishima. Liked behind held by him, like sleeping beside him. He liked feeling the boy’s skin beneath his palms, beneath his fingers as he’d touch and feel and caress.

He liked Kirishima—loved him.

Loved him more than he thought he could, more than he thought he would.

Fuck, he thought, following the other boy back as he reclined against the pillows. Kirishima’s hand sliding up between his shoulder blades, pressing him flush against his chest. He slept shirtless, sometimes even without pants, though not often enough. Not now either.

The redhead hummed, “Katsuki,” murmured against their lips. Between kisses, between pecks. Between the parting and joining of lips, between their lips opening and tongues meeting.

Bakugou hummed back in returned, eyelashes fluttering, battling between wanting to open to peak down at the other or stay close and relish in this kiss. He kept them closed—he didn’t want to stop.

--

A new day, a new week. Classes had concluded, it was looking well. It was looking real well…

--

Hard Bro (ugh) was there when Bakugou joined the group in Kirishima’s room. For one reason of the other they had all insisted that they spend time together, as friends, doing whatever it is that they planned. It was neutral territory, comfortable enough that Bakugou felt like he could relax, while they weren’t encroaching on any personal space of his. He wasn’t about to willingly invite the group into his room, no way in hell. They never tended to listen to him when he told them to fuck off anymore—must have learned it from Kirishima.

Plus, if he wasn’t invited to this little hang out of theirs he wouldn’t’ve come with them. He was an asshole, yes, but not that kind of asshole.

“How was meeting the parents?” Sero questioned.

Both he and Ashido taking up the other half of Kirishima’s bed with their canoodling. The girl of their group mindlessly playing with the dark haired boy’s fingers, memorizing the size and shape and texture of each digit. And! And they all just ignored it—how could they just ignore all that blatant PDA?! (At least they weren’t sucking face, so it was a relatively tame form of PDA, but still!)

“Fine,” Bakugou replied, eyeing the hand that engulfed his knee.

He was sure Kirishima gave them all the run down either shortly after everything was going on, of yesterday when he met up with them—the good, the bad, and the ugly parts.

He grabbed a handful of chips when the bag got handed back towards them. They had gone grocery shopping earlier that day, shortly after meeting up at the dorms only to learn that they had very little shit to eat (as both meals and snacks). It had quickly turned into a ‘buy things for a meal they wanted Bakugou to cook’ than a food hunt. The fuckers.

But.

But he had surprised himself in how much he wanted to cook. It felt like a good day—after all that shit during the weekend. He felt like he could run a mile. Climb a fucking mountain.

And now wasn’t that a thought.

He wished he could go mountain climbing again—wished UA didn’t crack down on him (just him, it pissed him off that it was just him) for leaving campus. It seams now-a-days he could only leave with a group babysitting him or some itinerary to follow.

“My niece adores him~” Kirishima chimed, almost belting the words out in a soprano. He had taken that lack luster response of his and threw a show tune on top. Pulling out his phone and quickly leaning over to start showing off the pictures he took. Most of them were of Ai and Bakugou, but he could spot a few of Riot in there as well.

At least it wasn’t too embarrassing that way.

But truthfully, Bakugou wasn’t lying when he said the meeting went fine. When he wasn’t in his… slump… his interactions with the Kirishima’s were wonderful. Eijirou’s parents seemed to adore him, his Mother took to him despite everything. And Rin and Ryo had spent the most time with the couple while they were there, effectively sharing multiple embarrassing stories of them growing up with Eijirou as a brother.

If Bakugou had a sibling, he’d recon he relationship with them might be a mixture between the one Eijirou had with Ryo and Rin.

“You sure that’s really him, dude?” Tetsutetsu teased, handing the phone back once all the pictures were looked through. “He’s all soft and squishly looking—you’d think he’d look more, y’know… grr.”

What the fuck does that mean?!

“I’m right fucking here, dickface!”

Kaminari snickered at the new name—it wasn’t creative, why was he laughing?

Tetsutetsu held his hands up in front of him, attempting to pacify the temperamental blond. “No disrespect. Just saying you look really, uncharacteristically, mellow.” What the hell did that mean? “It’s a good thing!” He would’ve let it go if the boy didn’t start snickering at the end.

Bakugou snarled, grabbing the closest thing to him (a pillow, Kirishima stuffed him right beside the pillows) and chucking it at the boy. Kirishima grabbed him a little too slow, in-between the moment he released the first pillow (which exploded against Tetsutetsu’s face in a cloud of feathers) and when he was reaching for the second. He wrapped his arm around Bakugou’s shoulder, pulling him till he was half draped across his body.

“It was totally Ai, man.” How he could so casually continue on with the conversation, Bakugou didn’t know. “She’s so cute that even Katsuki bends to her will,” he gushed fondly, pressing a quick kiss to the crown of blond hair. Humming when said blond gave up his half-assed attempt to grab that second pillow and continue his assault on the Class B student, finally relaxing into the cuddle.

“Aww! Does he call you Eijirou too?” Bakugou bristled when Ashido used his given name—when the fuck did she earn the right to call him Eijirou?! She had cooed it out, saying it so damn easily.

Pissed him off.

“I do.” He stated rather blandly, ignoring the blush and hug tightening around his shoulders.

They had to have referred to each other by their first names in front of them before. Had to. They were just overreacting. Seriously, for a class that adopted Deku’s dumb fucking childhood for him (a true bastardization of his first name at its finest) the fact that he and his boyfriend were calling each other by their first names shouldn’t be that much of a shock.

They’ve been dating for months.

And its not like Bakugou was big on suffixes or formal speech.

Of, y’know, using people’s actual last name either.

“That’s adorable!!” Ashido launched herself over Sero, over Kirishima and tackled him, like a squirrel on speed. She smooshed her face into his chest, right between his pectorals, “I’m so HAPPY FOR YOU TWO!!”

Bakugou tensed, sucking in a breath through his teeth when her little horns jabbed into his jaw. Too close. Too fucking close—even for someone he didn’t mind. “Get off,” he exhaled through clenched teeth. He kept his palms pressed tight against his own stomach.

He wouldn’t risk it—Ashido was a hugger. It was her thing, he got that. It wasn’t her fault for being who she was. Maybe if Bakugou wasn’t so… weird he’d allow it.

He would.

Ashido quickly moved, pushing herself back over Kirishima. “Sorry. Forgot you weren’t so touchy with us yet.” She grinned sheepishly, rubbing her palm against her cheek. She eased herself back to Sero’s side, still facing the other couple. Worry evident in how she nibbled on her bottom lip.

For a minute no one spoke—it was awkward. Bakugou didn’t know if he could say something; what did you say in these situations?

“Y’know what I wish?” Kaminari drawled, cutting through that silence with as much subtly as a bull on a rampage.

“What?” Sero chirped, quickly jumping on board with whatever the other blond had planned.

“I wish we could check out the girls from the other schools. I mean, why does UA only have a televised Festival?! And I’m totally not saying it just cause I wanna ogle girls—don’t look at me like that Ashido!”

Tetsutetsu hummed, finger tapping against his chin. “I mean, there’s lots of pretty girls here. But, you do have a point.”

Bakugou tuned out, returning back to his earlier comfortable recline against Kirishima’s side. He tuned back in when Kaminari started waving his hands about. “It’s not like you wouldn’t enjoy it too!”

The girl nodded sagely, “that is true. There could be some fine hunnies hidden away. But I’m not gonna ogle them!! I have something that you lack, y’know. Class.”

Bakugou snorted.

“Don’t snort at me!” the girl exclaimed. “You and Kiri have enough PDA problems as it is! Don’t start this fight Blasty McSplodoKills!” Ashido shook her fist at him.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Tetsutetsu continued to tap his finger against his chin. “Have you ever liked someone before Kirishima?”

Bakugou grimaced, “no.”

Sero and Kaminari perk up like a couple of sharks with blood in the water. “No girls?” the blond chirped.

Bakugou pulled a face.

Sero plowed on, ignoring what his blond haired friend failed at. “Guy?”

Bakugou shrugged. He’s never had a crush (those ones didn't count. He was young and... and that. It just didn't count), but he’s found many guys hot in passing. Never knew their named, never talked to them. He’s always had more important shit to think about.

“Is that a shrug of ‘yeah I totally dig dudes but I’m trying to be cool about it’ or is it ‘naaah bra, Eijirou—” Bakugou glared at the dark haired teen, “—is my one and only!’”

“I don’t have crushes,” Bakugou’s nose scrunched up at the word. “I think guys are hot—I don’t know who the fuck they are; I don’t know their fucking personality. You don’t need to know who the fuck they are to get off.”

A round of gasps sounded—that sounded really shallow, right? Shit. He didn’t mean it like that. It’s not like he masturbated much to begin with.

“That sounded so mean,” Kirishima whispered, unheard by the group quickly descending into madness.  

“They were people I saw in the street in passing. Real life isn’t like some romance novel where I’ll stop and talk to someone I think is hot, like some creepy fucking asshole.” He bit back. Like, sure he’d like to have talked to a few of them. But he was a middle schooler—if he saw someone it was typically a high schooler or older, and he didn’t want to fucking go there.

“Bakugou masturbates,” Tetsutetus’s mouth hung open, “I don’t know how to process this.”

“I KNOW!” Kaminari exclaimed.

“Don’t be fucking stupid about it. It’s not like you don’t.”

“But you’re YOU!” Kaminari replied, like that explained everything.

It didn’t.

--

He face the wall, arm tucked under head and pillow, all curled up nice and comfy with Kirishima at his back. “So… um,” Bakugou’s eyes opened at that. “You, er, mas—you jerk off, huh?”

Bakugou bit back a snicker. He couldn’t even say it.

“I masturbate, yes. Why?”

Was he curious about it? Did it turn him on?

Its not like this was a new thing—they did have that one time in the shower together. So it couldn’t be new, just… uncommon.

“Do you—how do you?” Did he pick up on that fact that he didn’t say ‘jack off’ or was he remembering a conversation that he mentioned jacking off wasn’t easy due to… y’know, his explosive hands.

He rolled over, throwing a leg over Kirishima’s. It was too dark in the room to see—maybe that was why he brought it up in the first place. Maybe it was why Bakugou was actually thinking to answer him. “There’s more ways to masturbate than just ‘jacking off’.”

“I know.”

Bakugou worried the bottom corner of his lip. Does he tell him? Its not something guys his age often do—or if they do, they don’t say shit.

…fuck it.

“I finger myself,” he shrugged, “I can’t cum like that. But it gets me close enough that it limits the amount of time my fucking hand is touching my dick.” He was thankful this was being done at night. He could feel his face on fire. He couldn’t see an inch in front of him, not really, the outline of Kirishima’s poofy hair didn’t count.

The redhead groan, long and loud and resembling a dying animal. And then nothing—again. Nothing but the sound of them breathing. “What the fuck,” the blond hissed, “what the fuck was that?!”

Kirishima groaned, “can I do it?”

“What?”

“Can I… y’know.”

Bakugou raised a brow. “Can you…?”

“Y’know,” he trailed off. He could see the boy gesture something, nothing he could pick up, but he was gesturing. “Finger you—I mean… yeah. If you want?”

Bakugou snorted, “like right now?” Kirishima moved to push himself up and Bakugou quickly slid his leg up to pin him back down. “No. Not now. Its fucking one in the morning, and for the first fucking time you put anything in me I wanna fucking be clean.” When the fuck was the last time he showered?

Had to be sometime during the weekend—had to.

They didn’t have enough time to shower this morning. Didn’t really have the energy to do it when they returned back to dorm. He had quite literally just thrown off his pants and climbed into bed with his phone until Kirishima came crawling in beside him.

Like, sure, its mostly for his own peace of mind. But fuck. He’s not going to be the guy in any bad sex stories. No way in fucking hell!

“I mean—” Kirishima started.

“Don’t.” How to phrase it now… “Its for my own fucking piece of mind. So if you fucking wanna do this, let me do that.”

The redhead cleared his throat.

“Sure… yeah. Okay, yeah. Tomorrow?”

Fuck.

“Yeah. Tomorrow.”

Chapter Text

Their minds were still ‘broken’ the next morning as well—like they weren’t already to begin with. But even with that, even with that little tidbit of information to send their mind in a whirl, they knew something was up.

The others in their class were a lot more observant than Bakugou gave them credit for, even Aoyama (that sparkling flaming metrosexual who’d rather focus on his looks than someone else) in the first row caught the exchanged glances and beat red blush before eyes everted and they tried (and failed) to pay attention to class. Mostly Kirishima, but when Bakugou caught him doing it the boy had in turn brought on a sudden spike of nerves.

Since That Friday they (as a class) had grown a little more vigilant of the blond, observing him when he grew a little too quiet (and Bakugou was being quiet; why the fuck wouldn’t he be! He could be fucking quiet).

“They’re planning something,” Tokoyami stated, he had the best view of the two. Seated in the row between the two, just a pinch behind. “I don’t know what, but they are,” he added when Ashido went to question him at lunch. There was a larger group than normal remaining back in their class.

The self proclaimed Bakugou Crew (all in teasing, all only when said blond was within earshot) had joined both Shouji and Tokoyami around the shadow quirk user’s desk—perfect focal point.

“Maybe it has something to do with what we learned last night,” Kaminari, lacking all subtlety ‘whispered’ (if you can hear it halfway across the classroom its in fact not a whisper) behind his hand.

Sero snickered.

“What happened last night?” Shouji inquired, for the most part he had been just quietly eating his lunch. He didn’t like talking too much to people other than Tokoyami, more because it was awkward than not wanting to.

Sero continued to snicker.

Bakugou’s eyebrow twitch, giving his frustrations a physical appearance. “You know I have sex too, right?” He snapped, glaring over his shoulder at the group. Kirishima’s face erupted into a deep crimson with enough force that Mineta would swear later that a cloud poofed out from the top of his head.

Midoriya just about died at that little tidbit of information.

Or maybe it was because Bakugou was shameless—Kirishima was certainly covering his face because of it. He gave no shits—absolutely none. Not even when Ashido started congratulating the couple again on their sexual relationship. (They didn’t need to know that they’ve only share a handjob in the communal showers—let them assume whatever they wanted.)

“Bakugou has sex,” Kaminari looked to Sero, “the world is ending.”

Bakugou snarled grabbing the only other thing on his desk (that weren’t either his or Kirishima’s lunch), an eraser, and chucked it at the other blond. His palm went off with a loud boom and puff of dark grey cloud, the medium sized eraser shooting from his hand like a rubber bullet.

Kaminari screeched ducking under the desk.

The eraser slammed into the back wall and just about returned to the boy who threw it—it landed on Jirou’s desk before rolling off and falling to the floor. “Kirishima!! Your boyfriend’s trying to kill me!”

Kirishima, who had been focusing solely on lightening his red complexion, heard nothing.

--

It was planned for after dinner; after showering and whatever else that they’d need to tend to. Bakugou swore up and down that Kirishima didn’t need to bring anything, so with that out of the way all that was left was simply showing up.

Kirishima ran a hand through his artfully tousled locks; not spiked up in his typical fashion, but not pin-straight. Kinda like he mushed it all up while towel drying his hair—it looked real fluffy. Or just spent the whole time getting here with his hands buried in it. “Why are you nervous?” Bakugou stated, less of a question and more an observation, holding the door open for him.

He had knocked.

He had knocked and waited to be let in.

Bakugou thought he trained him out of that—they been sleeping in the same bed for how fucking long now? They had to be nearing month three of this relationship by now—another week to go, right? Maybe less?

He reached out when the other boy hesitated, blush high on his cheeks, and grabbed him by the collar of his loose tee and pulled him in. “Don’t be fucking nervous, assclown, it’s me.” He’s seen Bakugou at his worst—he couldn’t think of a time where he was worse off than these recent days.

“Yeah, it’s you.” Kirishima rubbed the back of his neck, the action ruffling the tips of his hair. “I don’t know if you realize this but, dude, you’re really important to me and I don’t want to mess it up.” Bakugou snorted, “no I’m serious! Katsuki, you’re like… you’re like wow—like all the time.”

“Wow?” Bakugou mimicked, a brow raised in question.

Kirishima nodded, “like wow as in ‘wow this guy is so hot and awesome and I love him so much and I can’t believe he loves me to.’ Like, that kinda wow. Y’know?” He rubbed at his cheek, cupping half of his beat red face with one large hand. He was nervous; excited but nervous.

Bakugou wouldn’t call it ‘wow’ but he got the feeling. For him it was an awe, almost unbelievable phenomena that a guy like Kirishima Eijirou existed in the first place and not only dealt with his jerkass of a personality but loved him, jerkass personality included.

Bakugou sighed, “are we gonna fuckin’ have sex or not?” Not one to linger in this awkward mood any longer, or just unwilling to have his night derailed from an impromptu feels fest, Bakugou reached back to pull his shirt up and over his head.

Kirishima swallowed, “yes.” He nodded, “yeah we’re having sex. Yup, totally.” Bakugou’s shirt fell between them, and Kirishima’s face bloomed. Blossoming into a cherry red tomato; eyes zeroing on the blatant lack of underwear Bakugou sported beneath those loose track pants.

Bakugou nose scrunched, “stop being nervous dumbass.” It was making his stomach flutter, and Bakugou didn’t do nervousness. He kicked nerves in the teeth—his will was fucking stone cold, unwavering pit of drive and ambition. Fuck nerves. Fuck it.

“I can’t—that’s like… dude, I can’t just will it away.” Kirishima chuckled, wincing when it sounded force to his own ears. “It’s a big thing—I get like this,” he gestured to everything about himself, “every time we do something new.”

“No you don’t,” Bakugou answered.

Kirishima raised a brow, “yeah I do?” The blond shook his head in the negative. “Well I feel like this every time. Maybe I haven’t shown it?” His gaze darted between the shirt on the floor between them and the boy it came from.

Bakugou sighed, itched at a tiny cluster of freckles on his chest. They were faint, light brown in colouring and most likely remnant of the sun he’s gotten—either because of his costume and that v-neck or some other time he had taken his shirt off (whenever that was, Bakugou has no idea). “We don’t have to do this if you don’t want to,” he retreated, moving away from the other boy and give him room to think, falling into bed with a whoosh he tucked an arm behind his head.

Kirishima stood there, gaze wavering between the boy and the shirt he had left behind. His shoulders drooped and he inhaled, quickly pushing it out then doing it again—then once more because he could. Following the other, Kirishima sat beside the other on the bed, his former ruby red cheeks now a more reasonable pink hue. “I want do, really, I do. I guess I’m just nervous—like, really nervous. Of course, like… obviously. But c’mon dude—”

“We’re coming full circle again, Eijirou.” The other sat at about knee height, not even touching him—he couldn’t have that. Bakugou bent his leg, slowly stretching it out again but angled far enough away that, yes, Kirishima was finally between his legs. “Start by taking your shirt off, then kiss me. Over thinking this isn’t getting us anywhere.”

The redhead nodded, “yeah. Yeah, I can do that.” He pulled his shirt over his head, dropping it to the floor beside his feet. He lifted the leg splayed out over his lap, just enough to give him room to move. Leaning up and in, Kirishima’s lips found Bakugou’s, his weight settling against the other boy.

He kept his hand in the crease of his knee, fingers pressing into the soft squishy back. Bakugou held him close, fingers digging into the boy’s scalp. Groan building deep in his chest when one, just one, of Kirishima’s fingers touched the exposed skin of Bakugou’s waist. And Kirishima’s grip tightened around his knee, pulling him closer as he answered back with a sound of his own—caught between a moan and a whine, pushed out of his nostrils as he exhaled.

Breath huffing, puffing against Bakugou’s cheek. He pressed, grinding their pelvises together—neither were hard, though there were signs of stirring. Not now, not yet. It was an action that screamed habitude, maybe even quandary, like it was an actuation that had never failed him in this situation before. It wasn’t a bad thing; nothing about this was bad, just the uncertainty and nervousness was growing old.

It was growing old a minute or two ago, now it was just… ancient.

“You good?” He had to be noting the fact that they weren’t as hard as they normally were from kissing. They weren’t, but they were getting there—better than a few seconds ago.

He was still nervous; Bakugou could feel the slight tremor as his fingers trailed upwards from the curve of his leg to the open wide plains of his stomach. “Talk dirty to me,” he murmured against the boy’s lips.

Kirishima pulled back, brow furrowed. “What?”

He shouldn’t’ve have said that, but it was already out there. And Bakugou was never one to double back on his words—he spoke what he meant when he meant it. And true, this may be a ploy to get the redhead to loosen and calm, but in a way he also wanted to hear what he’d say. He was curious. He didn’t know if he’d like it or not.

“Talk dirty to me,” Bakugou repeated.

His mouth opened, closing again as he puzzled over the words. “I—” he paused, brow creasing further, “you. You’re—” He huffed, swallowing and opened his mouth again. “You’re a dirty, filthy… potato?”

Bakugou blinked—what? He frowned; the tremors may have ceased, but so had any hint of romance before this. “What the fuck was that?”

“I don’t know!” Kirishima’s forehead touched Bakugou’s collar bone as he hung his head in shame. “You said it, and I didn’t know what you meant. You can’t just say that and expect me to just… just say it!” His arm seemed to give out on him, splaying him out over the blond in his embarrassment. “You make me nervous.”

Bakugou snorted. He still thought this was ridiculous.

--

The mood wasn’t fully back (though maybe it just wasn’t ever there to begin with), but still Bakugou had finally shed his pants. He had pulled the lube he had bought months ago (before they were all stuck here. He doesn’t masturbate much, remember?) and left it up by the pillows. He actually did want this—it made his heart pound just thinking of Kirishima touching him. Said redhead’s hands caressed his legs; his face beat red as he avoided looking at Bakugou’s semi-erected cock.

“You can look at me,” the blond drawled, tucking an arm behind his head. He, himself, was eyeing the bright blue boxers with final fantasy themed chocobos the other boy had stripped down to. It was hard to look away—they were that bright.

“I know,” Kirishima answered, licking his bottom lip. He sucked in a breath, and finally looked at him again. His gaze slowly trailing lower; down his neck, his chest. His blush crept down to his chest when he finally zeroed in on his cock. He glanced away just as quick, focusing instead on the skin beneath one of his hands.

Kirishima caressed down, then back up, biting the corner of his bottom lip as he memorized how the other felt. His hair, his skin. How hot he was (not just in appearance). He leaned in, pressing a kiss to Bakugou’s knee, “why are you so perfect?”

Bakugou huffed, “don’t start that sappy shit.” He clenched at the sheets beside his hips, “keep touching me.” Kirishima’s hands slid lower, his body bending to press a firm kiss in the middle of the blond’s chest. Another to the left, then another. He nipped at his pectoral and Bakugou hissed, eyes closing as his extra pointy teeth made the little action all the more pronounced. His legs clenched on either side of Kirishima’s hips.

“Do that again.”

He did it again; adding a bit more pressure. His teeth left red intents, just shy of bleeding. Licking over the marks in apology—if this was a kink of his he might one day cause him to bleed. “You like it?” he dragged his teeth over the pale expansion of his pectoral, towards the boy’s nipple before taking said brown hardened nub between the tip of two teeth and tonguing it.

He wanted to bite the other boy at that moment, sink his teeth into Bakugou’s flesh and just leave a mark that’ll stay with him. That no matter what other scars he’ll gain throughout life, he’ll forever have that. Kirishima felt both guilty and disgusted at himself for wanting it, for thinking about it. He pulled back, glancing up at the other through his lashes, pressing a kiss against the blond’s pectoral again. “I just want to sink my teeth into you, deep enough to bleed and mark. Just to have something of mine on your body for the rest of your life. Is that wrong?”

It had to be. Who the hell would want to leave a scar on their love?

Bakugou let out a long low groan, eyes falling shut as he tilted his head back. “This. This is what you should’ve said when I told you to talk dirty to me,” Kirishima blushed, ducking his face against the other’s skin. “I don’t fucking care,” he answered, “you can. Just… avoid the scaring. I don’t want to be covered by the end of the fucking week. And keep that shit away from my neck.” He combed his fingers through the red hair before him.

“It’ll bleed,” he needed to warn him. His heart quickened, pumping blood up to his face. Orange-red eyes opening. “I just, I just want you to know.” Those eyes narrowed.

One hand releasing his hold on the blankets, reaching up and plucking the container from beside his pillow and dropping it right in front of the redhead’s head on his chest. “How about we do what we had planned while you mull over if you can live with yourself for making me bleed—‘cause I don’t fucking care, Eijirou.”

So he bit him.

Hard.

And Bakugou moaned; moaned so fucking loud, arching off the bed so suddenly that the lube had rolled off and Kirishima nearly lost his balance. Fuck, fuck, Kirishima’s eyes fluttered open—he hadn’t realized he shut them. There was blood in his mouth. Coating his teeth; the mark wasn’t deep, he hadn’t really sunk his teeth in, maybe a few millimeters. Enough to give away that Kirishima had very literally sunk his teeth into him.

…and he liked it.

Fuck. Bakugou actually liked it.

He pressed a kiss to the mark, smudging the blood seeping out languidly, blood humming in his veins as he listened to the other pant (and pant and pant). Bakugou’s cock hardening between them as Kirishima dragged his teeth over his skin, reaching out to grab that lube before the moment left them—before Kirishima lost that sudden spur of courage.

He popped it open, pouring it over his fingers and capping the bottle again. Slathering it around for a nice even coat, Kirishima swallowed thickly. “How do you want me to do this?” He rubbed the moisture from his face on Bakugou’s abdomen.

Bakugou bent a knee, planting his foot on Kirishima’s leg. “Just, don’t shove it in.” Kirishima grinned back at him, nodding just the once. The blond biting at the corner of his lip, eyes falling shut when he felt the tip of a finger circle his hole. Bakugou inhaled sharply, chest rising, breath holding as Kirishima’s finger circled and pressed.

The first finger, with proper amount of lubrication, never hurt (not for him) but it was weird. Always so incredibly weird that he could understand why other guys would never wish to have anal.

Bakugou could feel Kirishima’s gaze, and the fact that it was him. That it was Eijirou—his touch, his gaze, his voice. “Its in,” he stated, like Bakugou didn’t know. Bakugou snorted, peaking up at him and rolling his eyes at Kirishima’s bright red cheeks. His finger slowly easing out, then back in. Bakugou sighed, tucking an arm behind his head again, fingers tugging at his own hair.

“Keep going,” Bakugou slid his foot further up Kirishima’s leg, until his toes touched his hip. “But do this,” he raised his hand, crooking his fingers, “it’ll be easier to hit my prostate.”

--

“What do you think they’re doing?” Ashido voiced still texting one of her old friends from Middle School. Two of them, both girls she’s known since she was eight, wanted to see if it was possible to visit her on campus seeing that UA students were still needing to be cleared to leave campus—it was possible, but they’d have to submit some paperwork to get a guest pass before entering.

It’ll be almost easier to just meet them somewhere, but Ashido kinda wanted all her friends to meet each other (that included their resident Class A couple, and getting permission for Bakugou to leave campus now was an effort that was allowed when the whole class was present for there class bonding activities only ‘cause Ashido assumed that a teacher was somewhere hiding and observing them at all time).

“I don’t want to think about it,” Sero answered, and Ashido looked at him over her shoulder to pout. The pair took control over one of the couches, cuddled together against the arm all back-to-chest, with Kaminari situated at the other end.

Ashido nudged the blond’s ankle. “My mind is far away from them,” Kaminari replied. Setting his phone down on his stomach, he nudged the girl back. “Why? What do you think they’re doing?”

She tapped a rhythm against the side of her phone, “well they’ve been acting weird all day. Sooo it has to be something big—and it doesn’t seem bad. ‘Cause Kirishima gets kinda, really, awkward when Bakugou has a bad night.” She doesn’t think she’s seen much of those; not when they’re sleeping together pretty much every night (do they sleep together every night or just sometimes? She’s curious, but doesn’t want to put her nose too far unto their business. It’s not her, or Sero’s or Kaminari’s, affair and nine-out-of-ten times it leads to Bakugou looking like he slept so it’s really no issue of hers to figure out how that happens).

“Maybe they’re having sex,” Jirou declared, her gum popping made the trio jerk. They had all forgotten that she was here, she had been seated in her same spot before they’d even arrived. Quietly watching some show or something on her computer with headphones plugged in—when had she clued in?

Kaminari wheezed.

--

“They’re allowing you to participate in that exercise,” it wasn’t a question and he knew better to phrase it as such. The woman shrugged, flipping to a new page in her book. The letters still incredibly foreign despite the years he’s placed into learning the language.

“It was last minute; they want you supervising. I know you turned it down before, but UA doesn’t trust me to hold back against children, even though they want me in the simulation itself.”

Aizawa rubbed a hand over his face, pushing the woman’s feet from his lap before standing. “I have a class,” he knows that he’s already going to cave. That he can’t not be there in case something happens. Its different when she was on a job, he didn’t see her then, didn’t need to know what she did (sometimes didn’t even know where she was).

She shrugged, “leave it an open period then. Give your kids the choice to come watch—I know that’s what that other hero teacher that got roped in as backup was doing. He teaches the first years as well.” She stuffed a scrap of paper into her book before setting it on the coffee table. “If this program continues, they want us to do the same every year. They may have an advantage the next year.”

Aizawa left the room, pulling his hair up with an elastic he found on a self—they were scattered everywhere. Scarlet had a habit of launching her elastics at him from across the room (though, if he were to admit to it, he was no better). Pulling open the fridge, the man stared unblinkingly into it. Need to get groceries; he pulled out the remains of the fried rice he had made two days before, not bothering to warm it before returning to the living room and his partner watching him from the couch.

“You already know I’m agreeing to supervise,” he stated, shoving a mouthful of rice in.

The woman rest her elbow on the back of the couch, fist supporting her chin as she continued to observe. “I could tell them that I shouldn’t participate, you won’t have to supervise then.” Aizawa shook his head, huffing into his rice. “Shouta,” he looked to her, “you’re not my mentor any longer. Haven’t been for more than ten years. If I fuck up its on me.”

He rolled his eyes at that one; like he didn’t know. Like the raid on that Russian testing facility wasn’t his first mission as a professional hero. “I’m not agreeing to it just to keep you in the school’s good graces,” though it’s a fine reason to do it.

They stared at the other, reading between lines upon lines. A tic of a brow, a twitch of his lips, a flare of nostrils. Finally she snorted, “You could’ve just said you’re doing it cause you love me and you miss watching me kick ass.”

Aizawa’s lips ticked upwards into a small but fond smile, “I love you and I miss watching your ass while you kick ass.” She gasped, mouth hanging open momentarily before she started laughing, kicking a foot out and pushing at his shoulder.

“Shouta!”

--

“C’mer,” Bakugou tugged, pulling the other boy’s face down to meet his. Kicking Kirishima’s discarded boxers to the floor, Bakugou hummed into the kiss. Limbs feeling oddly heavy.

Both of them hadn’t lasted all that long (not when Kirishima had finally wrapped his damn hand around Bakugou’s dick. He’s never experienced a dry orgasm before moments ago, and he’s still attempting to process that information over), the newness of their actions had made their blood run hotter.

“We should clean that up,” Kirishima sighed, pulling away to gesture down at Bakugou’s lower abdomen where the evidence of their past activities was cooling. The blond grunted, leaning over the edge of the bed and grabbing the closest shirt (the one Kirishima had worn that night) and wiping his stomach dry. “Katsuki!” Kirishima yawped, plucking the shirt from his hand with a finger and thumb.

“It’s just cum,” he snorted, “just put it in my laundry basket if you’re so disgusted by it.” Instead Kirishima just returned it to the floor, where it was the Bakugou who rolled out from the comfort of his bed and deposited the soiled shirt in with the rest of his dirty laundry (though a fair bit of it must now belong to Kirishima. The boy tends to leave his shirts around). “You’re a fucking slob.”

Kirishima pulled back the covers, climbing in by the wall this time, arm held open. “You know, thinking about it now, I don’t get why I was so nervous. I mean, kinda, yeah. But not like that.” He admitted when Bakugou finally settled into bed, his back pressed to Kirishima’s chest—it was less of a need for spooning and more… he needed to face the edge of the bed. Though the spooning was great; and naked spooning? Wow, totally better.

“I told you, dumbass.”

--

A quick kiss, a hand brushing the hair from his forehead before pressing a kiss to that area as well. “I’m gonna start getting ready for the day, keep sleeping till the alarm.” Bakugou snorted, turning away from the other boy and curling into the warmth of where he had once been laying. He was out again before he heard Kirishima rooting through his dresser for clothes, and certainly way before the click of the door closing behind him.

--

Waking up, and by that we mean waking up and staying up, was a jolt to the system. His alarm blaring a loud steady heavy metal guitar solo, like every morning, but unlike most mornings Bakugou didn’t bitch or moan about getting up before noon. He wasn’t like Eijirou; he was a fucking nut and liked mornings. What the hell was with that?

Turning off his alarm, and then flicking off the two that were to follow, Bakugou set his phone back onto his self. He needed a shower even though he took one the night before; he felt like he spent the night sweating, and it made his head feel gross and his skin feel wrong. He pulled on a pair of loose black sweats with a loud, jaw popping yawn, scratching at the line of light blond hair trailing down from his belly.

Wrapping his towel loosely around his shoulders, he grabbed his shower bag with a pair of briefs and a tank top stuffed in deep within, before finally slipped into a pair of sandals. He checked over his room once, just the once, before closing the door and leaving for the shower.

Every floor had two bathrooms that only had a toilet and sink each. It wasn’t much, and if they bothered to complain about it some then renovations might be conducted to provide a shower on every floor. But they hadn’t found the need for it—at least not yet. Bathing on the first floor seemed to work just fine.

The ride down had been fine, with only himself taking up room it had been peaceful. Even with the shitty elevator music. But as soon as the doors opened and out he stepped, Sato had nearly swallowed his tongue as he passed. A quick and quiet choking of “Jesus Christ” following him as he paid no further attention to his classmate.

Kaminari was just leaving the kitchen when he stopped, eyes bugging out, then quickly turning back around. Bakugou only yawned, crossing the remaining distance to the male showers and opening the door with his shoulder. “Kirishima! You kinky shit!” The door closed behind him just as three other voices raised to in reply.

Ojiro turned, shouldering his own bag, “Morning.” He stopped, eyes dropping to Bakugou’s chest then quickly flicking away when the other teen only yawned and grunted.

He should’ve picked up on something when Sero stepped out of the shower stall, eyes comedically wide, toweling off his hair. Lips pulling up into a grin, “fun night, man?” Bakugou flipped him off, entering the shower stall and sliding the curtain behind him with a violent flick of the wrist.

The only thing he thought of when he was setting his shit apart, pulling showering products out of his bag and separating clothes onto the little shelf and hanging his towel up, was if he’ll have enough time to make breakfast or if he’d have to forego a decent meal and settle for a meal supplement. ‘Cause the probability of Eijirou cooking breakfast was slim to fucking none.

As much as he loved him, yeah loves him (who’d’ve thought he loved this dumbass), Kirishima wasn’t dependable for his culinary expertise. Maybe he should teach him—he could get him to make breakfast for him every morning, then he’ll never have to worry about it. Eijirou was enough of a morning person that he wouldn’t mind.

It wasn’t until he stepped into the hot spray of the shower, hissing at the sting and staring down in confusion as pink water circled the drain, that it clicked. Hand flying up to one of the bites that had drawn blood on his chest, Bakugou stared at the tiled wall in front of him. “FUCKING SON OF A BITCH!!” he roared, his palmed firing off despite the water and the difficulties his quirk had with it.

--

Sero found them gathered around Kirishima’s fallen form. Face first laying beneath the kitchen table, with Ashido and Kaminari snickering at his beat red blush. Sero could only see red from the neck up, colour so similar he couldn’t tell where the boy’s hair started. “I think he just remembered,” he announced pointing towards the boys’ showers.

Kaminari nudged at Kirishima’s foot, “why are you hiding, dude? I’d have thought you’d be a little smug about getting laid.”

“I left so many hickies, I wasn’t thinking about having to go to school today. He’s gonna roast me,” Kirishima bemoaned, arms wrapping over his head in an effort to hide his face further. “I’m gonna die,” he drew it out, groaning into the floor.

“You’re not gonna die, Bakugou likes you too much.” Ashido crawled under the table beside him. She patted his shoulder, “though maybe keep biting to a minimum. Kaminari said they were kinda… angry looking.” The redhead only groaned again, wishing that the floor would suddenly swallow him whole before Bakugou left the bathroom and found him hiding like a coward beneath the table.

--

An hour before they’d have to get to class, and Kirishima just about walks right back out of his room—screw his uniform—‘cause there Bakugou is. Uniform pants loose and low on his hips, the band of his boxer briefs out in the open for all eyes to see, utterly naked from the waist up.

There’s three bite marks; one on his pectoral, one just above the waist band of his underwear (just looking at that one is making him blush all over again), and then the final one is more a scrap of his teeth over the blond’s collarbone. But the hickies… those are everywhere.

He knew as soon as he made the first one, high up on Katsuki’s neck, that he’d get his ass kicked for it. But in that moment his brain had just kept chanting “mine, mine, mine.” And Katsuki hadn’t said anything about it—though to be fair Kirishima hadn’t played fair. It was somewhere after Katsuki had his dry orgasm and just started cussing him out to let him cum, ‘properly fucking cum Eijirou’, that a little voice in Kirishima’s brain went “I want to mark him. I want everyone to know.”

And he did—he did a lot.

Kirishima swallowed, “h-hey.” His voice cracked. Shit.

The blond pushed himself up off the boy’s bed, grabbing the white undershirt he typically never wore under his uniform. He decided that if one of those bite marks opened up even a little, he didn’t want to have to clean the blood out of his uniform. But it wasn’t anything warranting bandages. He pulled the shirt on, covering up the worst of the marks, save the ones on his neck. Bakugou stopped before him, orange-red eyes unimpressed. “I told you I didn’t want marks on my neck,” he reached up, grabbing hold of Kirishima’s face in a way that it made his lips pucker.

“Suwry,” Kirishima replied. He couldn’t deny it; the evidence was glaring him right in the face. And he remembers Bakugou saying it but at the moment, when he had sucked those marks not just on Bakugou’s neck but elsewhere on his body as well, he just didn’t care. It made him feel awfully selfish.

Bakugou stared for a minute, face calm but eyes hard, before finding his apology satisfactory. He sighed, releasing his hold, eyes darting away. “I wouldn’t have minded one, most two, if it’s going to be a thing.” Kirishima’s eyes widened, a blush starting to darken his cheeks as the boy in front of him began to blush. “I’d rather not look like a took some projectile to the throat,” the bruises were dark and plentiful.

He had gone a little overboard with the hickies.

Just… a little.

--

Aizawa-sensei walked in two minutes after the bell, just when Iida was about to poke his head out into the hallway. Always the worrier. “Please sit down, there’s a reason for my tardiness.” He lacked his signature sleeping bag, though the class knew by now he always had a spare stored in the podium at the front of the class (it was blue, he’s used it twice in their time during homeroom).

Aizawa-sensei spared a glance around the room, doubling back to Bakugou, and stopping right on the head of red hair seated in the third row. “I would rather not have the discussion that the dorms aren’t a brothel, so I’m not going to.” Several students reacted to that; one of them being the person he was speaking to.

That was interesting, in the way of teachers who have stories dating back years of catching couples canoodling in places on campus that they shouldn’t (Yamada alone had enough to share one every week). It was both amusing and scandalous—though primarily awkward. They were teenagers after all. 

Aizawa knew of three couples in Class 1-A, none of them secretive.

But more than just those three couples had reacted, and—no. Never mind, he’s not fond of gossip. He’ll stay out of it. As long as none of the parents come hounding him about their child being in a relationship with a classmate and none of his students wind up pregnant while in dorms, then he can’t be bothered. Its not his job; even if a disgruntled parent were to demand some form of punishment or issued that the couple were to disband, even then that wasn’t his job.

“Your fourth period today is postponed. Take that time to do whatever you see fit.” Three hands shot up, “I’ve been asked to oversee a third-year exercise and the board decided that both 1-A and 1-B would have the opportunity to observe if they wish. It’s highly suggested that you do.” The hands that were up dwindled to one lonely one. “Midoriya.”

The boy leaned forward in his seat, “is it that new program that you mentioned?”

Their teacher sighed, “yeah. Yeah it is.”

--

Bakugou slid his tray down the table to the open spot beside Kirishima, “are we going to that third-year thing?” Ashido asked. Her chin comfortably resting in the palm of her hand, the other picking through the favourite bits of her lunch. She always liked starting with the favourites and working her way down—that way if she got full then it wasn’t like she was missing anything that she actually liked.

Sero rubbed at the back of his neck, “I like the idea of just doing whatever we want for an hour and a half. But I’m kinda curious too. What if we are supposed to do the same exercise later this year?”

He raised a valuable point.

“Plus,” Kaminari added with a wiry grin slowly stretching ear-to-ear, “third-years.” Eyebrows waggling suggestively.

Ashido snorted, “you can’t even get someone from our grade to date you. What makes you think you can get with a third-year?” The blond in question squawked in protest, quickly chirping up in a seemingly well practiced list of why he’d make a great boyfriend.

Kirishima nudged his partner, “do you plan on going?” Bakugou glanced away from the two squabbling idiots across from him, snorting at the genuinely confused expression on his boyfriend’s face. He gave a sharp nod, reaching up to cover the marks on his neck. Fingers rubbing over the peach fuzz of the buzz cut before dropping it back to the table. Every time he touches it, it feels weird. Not necessarily a bad weird. Just a weird.   

“I want to know what the fuck this stupid thing is all about. It better be worth canceling classes for.” He had a class to utterly dominate in, and he can’t do that through the scholarly path if classes kept getting called.

--

When Kirishima thinks third years, he thinks something along the lines of super cool and they’re all total hero material. He was expecting more than this; more than the forty students standing around at ease while three teachers stood close to the computer monitors along five unnamed adults, and the woman who Kirishima remembers is Scarlet Fever.

Classes 1-A and 1-B, clumped into groups and huddled around in the back, were accounted for. Kirishima could only spot two missing from class A, and maybe three from class B. But the majority of them were here and accounted for, curious as to what a third-year training simulation looked like.

Kirishima took Bakugou’s hand, leaning against the boy. “What do you think this exercise is about?”

Three of the third years closed to the group of first years turned, “you didn’t hear?” She was a tall girl with brightly coloured blue hair, skin a colour of brown and spotted pink. Her grin kind, “UA asked a bunch of Anti-Heroes to show a… greyer part of what being a hero may entail. Now that, well…”

Her friend continued, “the villains out there are a lot more vicious than what we were used to. All of us hold hero licenses and most of us are currently working with branches outside of school, some even since our first year. But since All Might’s retirement it’s been real messy out there, and the hazards of being a hero has been raised exponentially.”

Ashido let out a long whistle between her teeth, “so we were supposed to go for our hero licenses this year?”

The third-year girl who had yet to speak nodded, “yeah. It’s kinda UA's thing. All the other hero schools wait till your second year, but UA has it so first years get a chance. But with the fact that you first years have been a target to two villain attacks they must have figured that you’re a high priority target for some villain and want to limit your involvement in active duty until either things have calmed down a bit, or something. If things go well I’m sure they’ll have you guys try to get your licenses before the winter holidays. That’s the next big batch of the year for hero licenses—so learn all you can till then, and work like hell.”

Bakugou’s hand tightens its hold, his lips creasing.

Midoriya pokes his head in from between Ashido and Sero’s shoulders, “sorry,” he mumbles slipping from between them so he could get closer to the three third-year girls. “Sorry to bother you, but you said they’re Anti-Heroes? So they’re Vigilantes? We only got a couple minute introduction of what they did for our class.”

The news had been popping up with information of a couple of Vigilante justice since the fall of All Might—people who looked like heroes but didn’t follow hero rules and regulations. But the term Anti-Hero was new; Kirishima’s only heard about it in comic books. And even then, that was rare.

The blue haired third-year shook her head. “No, though I’m sure they’ll do a better job explaining it.” She rubbed at the back of her head, nose scrunching up as she pondered how to properly explain it. “AID explained that they were an organization strictly created because of their situation, and then rehabilitation into heroes. They take jobs outside of hero duties, much like a lot of these Vigilantes do, and the police have either signed off on this work or will assist them when they could.”

The second third-year from before, a small white haired girl with a startling pale complexion, sighed “the easiest way to explain it is that they’re mercenaries but on our side. They do the jobs that Big Name Pros can’t or the public would ruin them over.” She opens her mouth but stops, turning when a man none of the first years recognize clears his throat.

**[PLAGUE:] Quirk: Wraith. His body can break off and regenerate in milliseconds which he can disperse and reform at will.  It looks and acts like a gas when separated, which if consumed in vast quantities can lead to death.

“Forty-two of you are present today, the seventeen that are away for their placements will have the opportunity to partake at a later date. This exercise isn’t a secrete, so if they were to learn of it then nothing would change.” His skin looked pale enough to be graying—sickly when pared with the hearty, dark bags under his coal coloured eyes. “The exercise is a play on the childish game of hide and seek; I’m sure you’re already thinking of how this is going to go.”

He stepped forward, closer to the group stilled into silence to hear his monotoned speech. Even a few first-years held their breath to hear him clearer. “As heroes there may come a time when you can’t win. Maybe you’re injured, maybe there’s too many villains. Most likely it’ll be because you need to care for civilians and no one else can sustain covering fire for you to retreat.” Kirishima could see the big white bandage over his cheek from here; he wonders why he has it, what its covering. “Your sole goal is to get everyone out safely; call in for backup, wait for them to arrive.” Plague looked to Midnight, nodding for her to take it from there.

“The exercise will be in two teams; half of the group will pose as heroes, while the other will be civilians.” Midnight slammed a large box on the metal table at the front. “Some of you will be injured and you’ll have to act as such, some of you are playing as civilians may have a characteristic that makes you more prone to fight or unresponsive. You’ll be evaluated based from your two runs throughs, once as heroes and the other as civilians—just to make it sporting.” Rounding the table, Miss X-Rated pro hero leaned back against it, crossing her legs over at the ankles. “You’ll have twenty minutes to survive from the time you call in for backup; and the time will only start from there. You’ll have a minute-thirty head start to hide and fortify yourselves before the three random villains,” she gestured to the six behind her, “are released. We’ll be having Snipe and myself out in the simulated city. Eraserhead will be manning the camera feed.”

“Snipe is armed with a clip filled with the quirk erasing bullets that many of the villains a few of you have met in your placements have been using. He won’t be targeting you, and while its not a situation we’re hoping for, we have planned for the possibility of having to use them. There is a small probability that if he were to fire them you could be hit.” She pointed to Eraserhead, “erasing quirks is his job here. So, without further adieu, we’ll choose your villains.”

 The six turned to each other, hands held out in fist. “Ready?” The big guy covered in rich black fur counted down.

**[MANGE:] Quirk: Werewolf. He has all the abilities of your stereotype werewolf; the super strength, the super hearing, the acute sense of smell. He doesn’t have any super healing (though he does have a very great immune system), nor does he have a sensitivity to silver. He can’t turn the powers off; he’s stuck in his form and he hates it when he’s called a furry.

Four of the six pulled rock, the other two pulled paper. Mange and Scarlet Fever bumped their forearms together, grinning largely at each other. “Just like old times,” the furred man growled out around a mouthful of teeth. The grin he gave his friend pulled at his cheeks, his tongue lulling out—he looked very dog-ish at that moment.

 “Get a good sniff and we’ve won,” Scarlet Fever replied, digging their shoulder into the furred man’s chest and shoving them out of the way as Plague and the other man solved who was to be put in their third slot. The two men leaned in, sharing a quiet word before leaning away and nodding at the other.

**[AID:] Quirk: Acid. Any liquid his body produces has is highly corrosive. The more liquid he produces, the easier it can eat through the object. People and animals are easier to burn through than objects; something about living tissue and a body’s natural bacteria. All he wants to do is to kiss a cute guy for longer than a minute without worrying about burning the guy’s face off.

“Keep them from causing too much damage, boss.” AID patted the other man on the shoulder, sighing along side him. This was going to be a long twenty minutes.

--

“I’m going to need visual on Scarlet as soon as the signal is dropped. They’re going to make a move as soon as it starts.” Aizawa points to one of the monitors in front of him, nodding towards Vlad King. “I need to see her for, at least, the first five minutes. Can you do that?” There’s a one-in-ten chance that he could erase it through the monitors, a chance he wouldn’t’ve had taken normally if Snipe wasn’t out there with quirk eraser bullets.

But they had decided to have him here knowing that his quirk would most likely not reach, so he’d do what he could. 

“Yeah, shouldn’t be a problem if they keep within range. There’s at least three different cameras that cover that area.” The other first year homeroom teacher answers, clicking away at the monitor.

--

“Now remember; the twenty minutes don’t start until you radio it in. The longer it takes for you to call in, the longer you’re out there for.” Midnight’s voice cuts in through the comms. “You get a minute-thirty head start, you can’t call in during that time. And make it believable! You’re on the job here—people have died, you have injured civilians, and you’ve sustained injuries yourself. They’re not going to go easy on you just cause you’re students; you know by now the harsh realities of the line of duty.”

They stepped into the yellow eight-by-eight box painted on the tarmac, eyes focused away from the opening leading to the faux city. The horn sounding, and twenty odd so pairs of feet took off into the city. Mange’s ears twitching and tilting back as he listened to the group even with his ear plugs still firmly in place.

His quirk had always been difficult to expand upon, so their makers had just continued to sharpen his senses. His sense of smell was heightened, his hearing was crisper, the colours in his vision were sharper. He had been made stronger; his body growing faster and larger than the others, tearing muscles and forcing a surgery or two for a correction of his joints—it wasn’t a pretty thing.

Plague held up both hands, all ten fingers held up. Flashing the ten digits before one lowered, nine fingers up. He continued to count down. His bandages removed and already thrown into the garbage before he had left the main building, a steady stream of black smoke-like substance oozing up from his cheek, his neck, and from beneath his long-sleeved shirt.

Scarlet Fever rolled their shoulders, bouncing in place as Plague’s self-timer finally reached one. And when that lone finger lower, they started bouncing in place. The air horn sounded, or what sounded like one, and the trio turned.

Walking into the arena as a group, they stopped, eyeing the city scape as Mange stuck his nose up and into the breeze. “I can narrow it down to a handful of buildings if you give me enough time,” Plague stared, nodding towards the mass of faux city to their right.

Scarlet Fever hummed, fingers twitching at their side. “I can take out a good bit of the buildings to the left of us so they can’t slip in behind the ones we’ve cleared.” Both men hummed back in return.

“Think they’ll allow it?” Mange questioned, starting to part from them before turning back. His ears twitching as he picked up noises none the other two could hear.  

Scarlet Fever shrugged back, “someone would do something if I’d cross a line.” Mange snorted, head nodding in a too true fashion. They took position; inhaling sharply as they started pulling the shadows in around them and forming their weapon. Both Plague and Mange stepped further back as the large canon took shape, then the shrilled whirling as it warmed further pulling more of the shadows from the surrounding area—all ones that they had pointedly made emphasis to walk through. “And here we go,” and fired.

The build up had been longer than the release. In a matter of seconds a fifth of the faux city was nothing; in a section only a glaring empty space, and in another only rubble. It was haunting. It always was to see how quickly something could simply cease to be.

“When the timer reads three minutes remaining we’ll make our move,” Plague instructs nodding towards Mange, “think you can hunt down any loners? Figure out where they might be hiding—there’s a high probability that most of them are together. See if we can urge them to come to us.”

There’s always one civilian who wants to play hero, just like there’s always one hero that feels like they need sacrifice themselves for the betterment of a group (or one who’s just too stubborn to retreat). And seeing that this exercise does have some of the students play into these roles, it’s a high chance that they could get what they’re aiming for.

“Think you could keep their attention on you while Mange and I start caging them in?”

Scarlet Fever grinned, “I can always send out Drai. He’s flashy enough to keep their attention.”

And with that the three separated.

--

“You didn’t try to stop that,” Vlad King pointed towards the large empty space when one of the feeds caught the open space where buildings once were. Two camera feeds were down—destroyed.

“If they were there I would, and give away their position, but the probability that my quirk could work through this,” he taps a knuckle against the screen in front of him, “has always been low to the point of proving useless. Its why they decided to go with the bullets.”

That and they were dealing with people with technically more than one quirk; who knew what part of it Aizawa could erase. He could guess what Scarlet Fever would possibly do, having had worked with them for a few years in the early days. But there was a lot more that he couldn’t predict.

--

Mange bared his teeth in discomfort, stumbling when one of his prey jostled and another continued to kick him despite being hog-tied and carried off like a couple of sacks. “What the hell made the three of you decide to go without a hero?” he couldn’t help but ask, setting the lot of them down by the cluster of rubble still prevalent from Scarlet Fever’s opening attack.

He hopes for all their sakes that they’re not breaking those windows with that damn canon—they couldn’t afford to have them go down that little ace in the hole.

“We all got the roles of ‘civilians that hide’. I figured I might as well tear off somewhere away from everyone.” One of two guys he had captured admitted readily, shrugging in his confines. “Not the greatest roles but I think I pulled it off.”

Mange huffed, rolling his eyes as he stood. What shitty luck for them; a role like there’s versus a nose and set of ears like his. “Don’t you go anywhere,” he sneered, chuckling when the girl squawked and snapped at him.

The ground shook and rumbled, a building falling in the direction he could’ve sworn he left Scarlet Fever take care of. He groaned, “please don’t go against the plan now.” Only ten minutes had passed and Plague wasn’t ready yet, and Mange could sniff out two others hidden out of the main path that the other two were covering.

They were aiming for a no survivor run—but y’know, the whole thing was to make sure they all actually lived. Can’t teach the kids anything if they weren’t alive by the end of it.

--

They dragged that middle metal clawed finger down the bandages wrapped around their arm, cutting through. The words spreading onto their chest as they brought a new shadow of a building under contract—made it easier to pull up later.

Scarlet Fever frowned at the row of high rises to their right; tsking and turning around to glance back the way they had came. Three buildings looking unsteady on their remaining supports. “Plague’s in a completely different section,” they wouldn’t have to worry about him in any collateral damage. Mange would be an issue though.

They brought their canon into form; first gathering the picture of it in their mind, how it’ll draw the energy, how it’ll fire, before crouching and drawing shadows to their place. It took years to finalize the design, years to put it to use. The outfit they wore; the gauntlet, the hooded mask, the boots. All of it created with their quirk. A walking arsenal. 

“Firing in ten, diagonal towards upper left. Mange, get the fuck out of my line.” There was a loud roar-like howl far away from the direction they were aiming for. Good, he wasn’t there—and it wasn’t like he could tell them no either. Scarlet Fever grinned, the machine whirling to life.

Ten.

Nine; they braced, widening their stance.

Eight; there was a prick against the exposed meat of their right shoulder.

Seven; a second prick.

Six; black sand trickled from their hood, passing through their gaze. They blinked, looking down when the canon’s charge started to flicker. The weapon deteriorating in the same very black sand-like substance.

They dropped it; the canon exploding apart when it hit pavement, the sand material dissipating into shadows. Scarlet Fever reached to the meat of their shoulder, pulling out the two syringe bullets from their skin just as the gauntlet fell. The wrapping they had around their arm falling away; crisp dark words wrapped around their burnt arm. It was old scar tissue, an injury sustained years ago.

They could feel the shift; that missing spot where two parts of their quirk had been.

“DRAI!”

--

Plague watched as the team of four rushed out of the building, mouth and nose covered as they collapsed outside the doors. He ticked off another finger—the shrill of police sirens sounded once. The sign that they all agreed that would signal that there was three minutes left.

The ground rumbled as another building toppled in Scarlet Fever’s section.

He crouched in front of the group, “you got out of there with enough time for it not to kill you. Though I cannot guarantee that you won’t vo—” one of them had started vomiting as soon as he mentioned it. Plague sighed, “I would tie you up but I don’t want you to choke. Can we compromise with this lovely laminated sign for proof of capture?”

He pulled a sign with a large bolded message of:

I HAVE BEEN CAPTURED.
IF I AM TIED UP I MAY CHOKE ON VOMIT & DIE.
I’VE LOST.

He handed the four out, setting one upon the vomiting boy’s back. They were on strings, easily worn around their necks. “I made them myself,” he informs them, helping a girl to her feet and sighed when she grew white and heaved. “I’ll let the four of you find your way to the start. I’ll return for you after the simulation is completed.”

--

Drai was shadow; at its most basic that’s what it was.

Scarlet, somewhere in the years where she had fallen and absorbed the title they had been give, had somehow either projected a part of themselves into their shadow and had given it enough freedom to acted when summoned upon… or, the alternative had never been something Mange liked to think of.

Scarlet Fever calls upon the shadow only in dire times, when their own control (a control so firmly fought for) is slipping. The multiple quirks, despite how close they may be to their original, still affect and strain them like all others.

And Scarlet was no different. 

“I rounded up six; one posed a fight. Plague’s quarantined his section,” Mange’s ears flicked in the direction as the man in question wisped into being a foot from him. The fog condensing, knitting itself into an organic form. The man’s face was always formed first, the last was always his fingers.

That ability had been one he gained—Mange could remember the screams when Plague would forget how to knit himself together properly, or it would take too long and a fog would simply remain in the spot his missing limb was supposed to exist. Sometimes it would take hours, sometimes minutes—but those screams remained for years.

“Four are making their ways to the front now—three are ill, we may be required to collect them after.” Their unofficial leader finished, joining them in front of the building. Drai had rampaged in their section, taking anything out that it could except this one building. “Most likely wards; hard to tell against which type.”

It could be physical… or it could against a more abstract attack.

“Drai,” Scarlet nodded towards the building. The words around her arm were down to what wrapped around her bicep; she had given her own shadow all the fuel he needed to grow. It roared as it broke like a wave crashing against rocks, receding back and into a form less humanoid and more beast. “Summon: Reap.”

She held her hand down to the shadow; fingers curling around the pole of the scythe. It was flashy, and dramatic, and it served a purpose. In a world where most is viewed in stereotypes, the Grimm reaper stands as an easily recognized character—easy to understand.

She pushed off, adjusting her grip on her weapon and leaped. “Scarlet!” Mange snarled, reaching to pull her back—with a little more than a minute left and the mentality that she was in, he needed to pull her out of the fight. The tips of his claws grazing against the back of her shirt. “Shit,” and then there was a crash—a shatter of glass as she flew through one.

“One minute—let them come. Go out the back and keep running.” Any sounded that was muddled to even him grew crisp as soon as the glass broke and the wards were weakened. He could smell Scarlet’s blood in the air; the woman uncaring towards her own injuries.

Plague was already rounding the side of the building to round up any escapees when Mange heard the “I’d duck,” from his friend. And he decided, right then, fuck the time remaining. He was dragging her out of there now before she lost whatever balance she had and went diving into the deep end.

He was not going to allow herself to this—he was proud of her clean record in the last four years. No civilian casualty. A record; in their ten years of this line of work they were now starting to see results that they could be proud of. And Mange wasn’t going to let her throw away that pride just because of some tunnel vision.

--

“In the field if it was like that those three most likely wouldn’t have left as soon as backup arrived,” one of the third years that had been talking to the before voiced again. One screen Mange was dragging Scarlet Fever away, bloody and kicking, as the ten survivors left the building. “Those two were playing it cautious as soon it hit three minutes,” she continued.

Bakugou checked out after that; pulling out his phone and pulling open the novel he had been reading. He’ll check back in in time for the next fight.

--

[OLD HAG:] Granny’s staying the week
[re:] why
[OLD HAG:] doctor appointments. Easier if ur dad or I take her
[OLD HAG:] she’s staying in your room
[re:] alright
[OLD HAG:] are you bringing Kirishima with u this weekend?
[re:] idk maybe

Bakugou set his phone down on the table beside a pile of his notes, leaning against Kirishima to get a look at his work. He had gone over the formals that the work was for, explaining it as best he could—Kaminari was still lost, Sero and Ashido seemed to be progressing at a steady but slow pace, and Kirishima was hit or miss. Higher math just didn’t agree with him; as soon as letters were involved it was as if the gears in his head ground to a halt.

“You’re gonna go over this once I’m finished, right?” he looked up from his work, eyes wide and pleading. Bakugou had left them to their work so he could try to correct it after the fact, and see just what part of their formula they were getting wrong.

“I said I was, dumbass.” Bakugou glanced at the other three (two still work, and Kaminari with his head buried in his notebook) before leaning in a pressing a quick to the other’s cheek. “Now do your fucking work,” picking up his phone again to read his mother’s latest message.

[OLD HAG:] she wants to meet your boyfriend
[re:] I can just show pics
[OLD HAG:] bull
[OLD HAG:] just bring him

--

They went running an hour after dinner, returning to their regularly planned work out before turning in for the night. The night was nice; cool enough that they weren’t sweating out of their skin as soon as they left the dorm. The sun was starting to set and everything.

“So Ashido is trying to get her friends approved for a day visit on campus for next week. She wants us to meet them,” Kirishima looked to him with a small smile. He had pulled his hair back again, wrapping a bandana around his forehead to catch the rest from his face—he’s been doing it a lot more lately.

Bakugou snorted, a brow raised, “Us?”

“Us as in; you, me, Kaminari and Sero. The group—y’know, her friends.” They started their second lap, continuing to keep pace. An easy jog—they were going for a longer run where they’d do sprints for either the last two or just the last lap. “I wonder if it’s the same friends from middle school,” he mused.

“Why? Did you two go to the same middle school or something?” the blond scoffed. He would’ve heard about it from someone if that were the case—people were weird about people sharing each other’s forming schools.

The other laughed, “actually yeah. We were in different classes and we never really talked much, but we did.” Bakugou stared at him, mouth parted. Kirishima grinned, small and lazy, “we don’t mention it cause its not like we really knew each other then. The most we knew was what we heard, y’know? I mean, I used to dye my hair black! People change.”

Bakugou stopped; he got the whole not wanting to be known for the person you were in middle school (middle school Bakugou was an even bigger asshole than he was now, he was man enough to admit that), but the black hair. He squinted… and couldn’t see it. “Why black hair?”

Kirishima stopped, bouncing in place. “To fit in?” He stopped, and shrugged. “I have this flashy hair colour but a really plain quirk, y’know? It’s nothing cool like yours, and… yeah. I started dyeing it in middle school to look like just another regular guy.”

Bakugou huffed, “that’s fucking stupid.” He resumed jogging, smirking to himself when he heard the other complain and bolt to catch up. When Kirishima’s pace matched his, Bakugou sighed. “If you have a flashy quirk or not, it won’t mean shit if you can’t do fuck all with it. You told me you’d be ‘unshakeable’ during the cavalry battle, and after… after All Might,” he frowned, “if you refuse to go down, it means your stupidly strong. And that’s ultimately all that matters.”

“Katsuki…” again they stopped. Only this time it was due to Kirishima lifting him from the ground, and gathering him into a too tight embrace. “You’re gonna make me tear up, man.”

“You’re being stupid—stop. We’re running.” He kicked him, hitting a shin.

--

They were sweaty and gross and horny—they were lucky no one was in the communal area when they crashed through the front doors roughly three hours after they went for a run, hands all over each other. They continued their path with reckless abandon towards the showers; all but falling through the doors to the male’s side, and then into the closest shower stall.

They lacked everything from their toiletries, to a change of clothes, to towels—Kirishima had a moment to mentally curse out the lack of towels.

The shower head sputtered to life, Bakugou’s hands flying to Kirishima’s waist and pulling both boxers and shorts while the other slipped from his shirt, and within seconds both of them were naked and crowded into the stall. “Not that I’m against any of this,” Kirishima started, grabbing the other’s ass with both hands. Their cocks pressed, rubbing snuggly between them. “But, normally you seem to warm up a bit before we get off.”

Bakugou nipped at his jaw, palms burning paths down his chest. “I got the idea that I wanted to suck your dick halfway through our run,” he smirked against the other’s neck as the sharp intake of breath, “and I fucking like the idea of your cock in my mouth.”

Bakugou looked up at him, water dripping down his face, “so are you gonna let me?”

Kirishima nodded; he nodded twice just in case.

Bakugou slowly kissed down his chest; from shoulder, to collar bone, then pausing momentarily at the other’s nipples. Kirishima’s weren’t sensitive, and when he got more of a reaction biting his pectoral than lathering attention to the other’s nipples, Bakugou moved on.

Bakugou sunk down to his knees with a kiss to Kirishima’s hip bone, looking up at him with a wicked grin pulling at his lips. “Ready?” his voice dipped, hinting towards a tease.

Kirishima groaned, “please.” The tips of his fingers brushing against those wheat blond strands of hair that dripped and framed either side of his face, “Katsuki please.” He whimpered when Bakugou wrapped a hand around the base of Kirishima’s cock, licking up the shaft and swirled his tongue around the head.

His palm was dripping from the wave through the spray; he didn’t want to run the risk of his quirk going off—Bakugou had enough of a risk when he got himself off, he didn’t want to fuck this up if he slipped up. Water and the right about of lubricant had proved useful in the past with limiting the dangers of his quirk, and Bakugou was going to keep that in mind as he slowly inched down Kirishima’s cock until lips touched fingers.

He held there, counting down back from five, before humming and pulling back. Sliding back up to suck and lick around the head. Bakugou followed the tug of his hair until Kirishima’s dick slipped from his mouth and rested heavy on his lip. “You look so hot.” His hand petting down into the stubble of hair then right back to its hold in the longer strands, holding his head tilted just so.

Bakugou huffed; his eyes pinched shut as water drenched his face, the spray just perfectly positioned that it nailed from his cheeks up. “Do you want me to suck your dick or not?” he leaned just enough to spit the water from his mouth. His answer came in the form of Kirishima’s other hand holding his shoulder, guiding him slowly back down his cock.

It was slow going, Bakugou slowly bobbing as he stroked, Kirishima’s hands holding firm. I should wet my hand again, and he did. Holding his hand back up into the spray as he inched further down Kirishima’s cock, he brought his freshly soaked hand back to the base of the other boy’s cock.

Kirishima’s groan broke, pitching higher as he tightened his hold on Bakugou’s hair. “Feels so good,” Bakugou hummed in acknowledgement—he would’ve hoped that it felt good or this ache in his jaw would be real annoying to forgive later.

“Katsuki,” he sighed, the sound louder than it should be as Bakugou pulled back to catch his breath. Kissing up and down the length of his cock, licking between his fingers. He figured that he didn’t need to mirror that shit he saw in porn—he didn’t know enough about sucking cock to get away with it. He figured sometime after that, that he should just do what got him the best fucking noise out of Kirishima.

And fuck, those noises.

That hand buried in his hair kept him close; that hand tilted his head back giving him the perfect view to watch his cock slide between those lips. And if it wasn’t for that fucking shower Bakugou would return that stare, would be able to watch the other moan and lose himself bit by bit.

“Katsuki,” he repeated, not even noticing every time Bakugou would go to re-soak his hand. Just in case; just in case.  “I’m so fucking close,” there it was, punched out with every bit of breath he had.

When he said he was close, he meant he was cumming—within the next three seconds.

It was sudden, despite the warning. The taste wasn’t pleasant; salty, but not just that. There was a way to properly explain it as Bakugou pulled back and spat the boy’s load on the ground. Maybe he’d swallow another day, but today was not that fucking day.

He whipped a hand down his face, “sorry.” The redhead mumbled, chest heaving like he’s run a mile in a record high. “Here,” he took the blond’s elbow, easing him back on his own two feet. Bakugou leaned in; knees sore and threatening to buckle. His cock hard and heavy between their bodies. “Need a hand?” Kirishima pressed a kiss to cheek, hands roaming up and down the expansion of his back.

“Those teeth aren’t going anywhere near my dick.”

He chuckled, “I was suggesting a handjob.” Bakugou grunted, reaching round to take one of Kirishima’s hands from his ass and guiding it round to his cock. The boy puffed out a breath of a laugh, taking Bakugou’s cock in hand. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

Bakugou only moaned in answer, pressing his lips to Kirishima’s neck as the boy pumped his cock. It took five strokes before Bakugou was cumming, painting their bellies in his cum—he’ll blame it on Kirishima. It was all his fault.

“Hey,” Bakugou glanced up at him through his lashes, through dripping wet bangs. “Kiss?” Kirishima puckered his lips, eyes pinched shut.

He smirked, huffing at the image. But he kissed him—he kissed him with all tongue and teeth, and hands holding him close. His toes tingled, a shiver rolling up his spine.

Fuck he loved, loves, this guy.

--

“Hey,” they’re trekking out towards the elevator when Ashido calls to them from one of the couches. Water dripping from their hair and clothes plastered to their bodies; this is gonna be a slipping hazard, Kirishima muses, stopping to regard his friend.

“Hey.” Bakugou threw a wave over his shoulder and continued on his way, not stopping to hear her out. “Katsuki, we’re sleeping in my room right?” The boy grunted, disappearing down the hall towards the elevator.

Ashido slipped from the arm of the couch, tapping off the lamp beside it. “The school approved Yuuki and Kou to visit Friday night,” she started, stopping beside Kirishima. “Do you think… maybe, you could convince Bakugou to go home on Saturday?” Her hands clapped together before her face, one eye peaking open, “plleeeeeeaaaase?”

He rubbed the back of his neck, “I can give it a go?” Bakugou’s already gave a confirmation that he’d play nice with Ashido’s friends when she brought it up that morning almost flippantly, not sure when UA would approve it (or if they’d actually do it)—though, to be truthful, it was only because Kirishima could differentiate between the grunts of ‘yeah whatever sure’ and the grunts of ‘fuck off no go die’.

She slapped her hands to his chest, “thanks!” She patted

Bakugou was gone by the time the pair stood waiting for the elevator; Ashido firing off texts to who knows who, thumbs flying across the screen without glancing up. The doors dinged open and Kirishima lead her in with a hand between her shoulder blades. “Fifth or fourth?” he inquired, the button for the fourth floor already pressed.

Ashido pressed her phone to her chest, looking at him with a brow raised high.

“What?” he hissed, cheeks threatening to heat, the doors finally closing.

Her lips slowly started to stretch into a teasing grin, “Sero and I aren’t at the stage where we spend the night in each other’s rooms.” She paused, the hairs on Kirishima’s arms standing taunt and alert at that mirthful look, “let alone having sex in public places—Kirishima who knew the both of you were exhibitionists?”

Kirishima jabbed the button to the fourth floor; c’mon c’mon c’mon. He jabbed the button twice more as Ashido weaved her arm with his, “you can’t escape Kirishima~” The doors open right then, and it’s like a glass of water before a man slowly succumbing to dehydration.

“Yes I can!” he all but rushes from the elevator, praying that this conversation is never brought up again.

“IT’S NOT VERY MANLY TO RUN AWAY KIRISHIMA EIJIROU!!”

With his cheeks burnt scarlet, Kirishima scurries to his room. For once not caring how many he may or may not look—he didn’t want to talk about what just happened in that bathroom. And if he were to, it certainly wouldn’t while he was still dripping wet from it!

--

He didn’t know why he was awake—why was he staring up at Kirishima’s ceiling when the other boy was tucked up and curled around his side? Bakugou groaned; fucking end me. Bakugou shifted, easing himself out of Kirishima’s hold—stilling when the other boy moaned and adjusted in his sleep.

It wasn’t until he stood over the other, two feet firmly planted on the floor, that he released the breath he’d been holding. He eased himself back down from there, sitting on the floor with his temple pressed to the mattress. Something didn’t feel right; didn’t feel right in him. It hit him all at once; as soon as he had made contact with the floor.

It didn’t exactly make sense.

He felt… not bad—it’s not like his other… thing. Its just… an itch.

He rubbed his fingers through the short stubble of hair just growing in, the spot no longer bald from picking. He’s been getting better at that at least—the texture was vastly different enough that just rubbing it eased that itch. That need to pick and pick and pick, all subconscious. All just a twitch of his fingers.

He changed his mind; fuck it, he’s going for a run. Pulling one of Kirishima’s basketball shorts from his dresser, Bakugou slipped that on over his boxers and grabbed the sweater hanging up behind the door as he slipped out. The door quietly clicking behind him.

--

It wasn’t so much wrong, more antsy.

Running wasn’t exactly helping; the pace wasn’t fast enough, he wasn’t pushing himself enough. But the lights for the track were off and the campus was plunged in darkness. He couldn’t exactly run like the maniac he felt like he needed to be to burn off this uncomfortable energy.

He wasn’t sure how long he’s been out there, running lap after lap after lap. Not until the lights turned on and a voice called out from the shade of the bleachers, just as Bakugou was making his round. “You should be in your room.”

He slowed, approaching the man that looked like he’d be anywhere but there. But Aizawa-sensei always had that look about him. “Couldn’t sleep,” Bakugou answered, it was pointless to say anything else. Just the fact that he was out here in the dead of night was enough proof of his sudden bout of insomnia.

The man hummed, pulling himself up onto one of the benches and pointed for Bakugou to do the same. It was only when the blond took his seat, two up from the bottom but three down from Aizawa, that Aizawa slumped. “You’ve seemed to be sleeping more,” he began.

Bakugou huffed kicking a leg up onto the bench and using it as a cushion for his cheek. This felt like it was just gonna end up dragging out, might as well get comfortable for it. “Didn’t know teachers cared enough to ask about a student’s sleeping habits. Don’t tell me my mother put this up to you.”

The man sighed, “no. Your mother has nothing to do with this.” Bakugou glared up at him through his bangs. “There’s no ulterior motive behind this, Bakugou. Just me stating the obvious and wondering the reason a student would be out of bed when its 3 in the morning on a school night.” The look he returns is dry and just as unimpressed as Bakugou were hold Aizawa accountable for.

“Why are you here?” Bakugou snapped back, avoiding the question just a little longer. Just long enough for him to think of an answer that didn’t sound as pathetic as the truth.

“Couldn’t call in sick.” The man deadpanned, “the teachers are serving as security. The dorms were a rushed but necessary decision, the screening for added security isn’t a process any of the staff wish to rush.” His no-bullshit way of speaking was refreshing; Bakugou liked this guy as a teacher. He knew what he was doing. “Not that I’d be sleeping at home,” Aizawa-sensei sighed, the back of his head thumbing against the bench one up from where he was sitting.

Bakugou frowned; the fuck? He’s not interested, he’s just buying time.

“What does mean?”

The man crossed his ankles, looking every bit as relaxed as he would have cocooned in his sleeping bag in the middle of homeroom. He no doubt saw through his piss poor stalling, yet he didn’t call him out on it. For once patiently allowing conversation to circle round the issue. “A five-year-old who’s not used to seeing one of their parents, and a fiancée whose internal clock that’s set for them to sleep during the day.”

The man sat up again, dark eyes heavy. The implication of ‘it’s your turn’ hanging overhead. “Woke up for no fucking reason, and I just need to run off the energy.” That wasn’t exactly the tone he was wanting; something more flippant like yeah what the fuck ever it happens, not so defensive.

Aizawa started at him, eyes boring into his for what felt like hours. The air was chilly, maybe he should’ve put on a shirt under this damn sweater. “Don’t stay out too late. I’m turning the lights off again at four—you better be gone by then.” He stood up after that, slinking off towards wherever it was that he had come from.

This was a fucking weird as shit night.

--

Aizawa-sensei kept his promise; the lights did in fact turn off again at (what Bakugou assumes to be) 4AM. His bangs plastered against his forever, Bakugou pulled a face, eyes flicking between the kitchen area and the showers—shower first, its not fucking sanitary to drip sweat into his fucking food.

It’s a simple morning from there; he grabs his shower shit, bringing his clothes, then showers. The marks on his chest are still pronounced, still angry looking. But the marks that had drawn blood are closed. There’s not a tinge to the water as it swirled down the drain.

He’s still rubbing water from his hair as he steps into the elevator, punching the button to the fourth floor. He’s put on Kirishima’s sweater again, still didn’t bother with a shirt, and the sweatpants at least looked decent—only baggy from the knees up. The important parts.

He slipped back into Kirishima’s room (still unlocked) to grab his phone and double check that Kirishima had his set. He did; 5-fucking-45. He was going to spike that dumb fucking hair up again; Bakugou knew exactly what that fucking alarm was for. The dumb fucking thing woke him up too goddamn early five out of the seven days a week—he fucking hated that alarm.

4:47AM

No one was up, no one was in his fucking space.

Silent like the fucking grave.

Bakugou loved it.

It was 4:50AM when he started pulling out the food from the fridge—and if the food for bentos were a too much for just two people, no one needed to fucking know. Plus, if anyone fucking didn’t like teriyaki chicken then they could fucking starve. He stuffs his headphones into his ears and begins the mechanical task of chopping, dicing, and then sorting into the shit that needed to cook with what before mixing the teriyaki sauce with the chicken. He’d rather had it sit for awhile before cooking, but it was just a bento.

He’ll make a better one some other time.  

He’s onto MISSIO’s album, bentos’ packed and stacked out of the way with dumb sticky notes labeling each and already moved onto cooking breakfast, when one of his earphones is gently tugged from his ear and Kirishima’s voice replacing the tunes.

“You weren’t in bed when I got up,” he pressed a kiss to that hint of skin between his ear and hairline before nuzzling. Bakugou couldn’t feel that telltale tickle of the redhead’s hair when it was down; he slipped out his phone from his pocket, flipping the slice of bacon with the other.

6:13AM

“Didn’t even bother to look for me?” he paused his music, pulling out the other earbud and stuffing the cord into his pocket. Kirishima’s hands snuck up the front of his sweater as he hooked his chin over his shoulder.

“I did. You were cooking, figured I should let you do you while I styled my hair.” Another kiss, this time to his neck. He was feeling cuddly this morning. Kirishima watched as he separated the cooked bacon and the ones still needing to, setting them aside on a plated paper towel. “How long have you been up?”

“Aizawa-sensei told me he’d be shutting the lights off for 4; that was at 3,” he would shrug but Kirishima’s embrace was nice. Comforting; there’s a chill to the air now and despite cooking bacon at Satan’s asscrack-o’clock he never bothered to fully zip his borrowed sweater all the way. “Went on another run.”

He tightened his hold around his midriff, pressing a hum to his neck. “You gonna be alright the whole day?” Kirishima watched as he added the rest of the bacon from the pan to the plate. He released him, stepping out of his way as we went about grabbing the pan and pouring the leftover bacon grease into an empty jar that had been housed under the sink.

“Have too much energy,” Bakugou simply replies setting the pan back on the burner and adding the scrambled egg mix with a sizzle. He spared a glance over his shoulder, “you’re having vegetables,” and drops a handful of green and red peppers, onions, and mushrooms before tearing apart a bunch of the bacon slices and tossing that into the pan with the rest.

“I’m having vegetables,” Kirishima repeated, tucking himself right back up against his back.

--

Two of the omelettes don’t flip right and quickly become scrambled eggs; it annoys Bakugou more than it should. Even with the other three staring down at their breakfast in open awe. Even when Ashido grabbed the failed omelette with the claim that she loves scrambled eggs more than omelettes. “There’s cheese pre-shredded in the fridge if you want it,” he takes his plate and glass of water to the table pointedly ignoring the heavy feeling of multiple eyes on him.

The group eats quietly, for the most part. Oppose to the momentary break into thanks and praise—the snap of a picture was a little much, but whatever. Whatever, let Ashido do her weird ‘take pictures of food’ thing.

Look at him; he’s not calling her out on that shit this morning!

Bakugou shoveled the last of his scrambled eggs into his mouth before standing, gathering his plate and glass. “You have a bento on the counter,” he stated nodding towards the small stack of sticky noted pile.

Kaminari swallowed, “as in like… just for Kirishima?”

Bakugou stopped mind lowering of his plate into the dishwasher to glare at the group still seated around the table. Their classmates were starting to slip into the kitchen, poking their noses into the fridge and pillaging from the leftover bacon still sitting out on the counter. “Don’t be fucking stupid,” he settled with, putting his dishes away and kicking the door up.

He turned to leave; he had thirty minutes left to get ready comfortably, forty minutes until he’d have to kick Kirishima out the doors so they’d have time to make out a bit before homeroom. “Bakugou!” Ashido called, chair sliding against the floor as she stood. He turned, hand poised against the wall. She approached quick, “I know you’re not big on us touching you still, but please make an exception just for this.”

He didn’t get why she was tearing up, it gave him enough pause that he hadn’t registered her request until her arms were already wrapped around him and her nose was smooshed up against his neck. And from there Sero and Kaminari only piled on. It was too tight, and they were touching more of him then he ever thought he’d want—but it was nice, for a bit. Even though it was stupid.

It was nice even as Kirishima joined in, always one for physical affection, making the circle of arms wrapped around him all the tighter. “Fucking stop this sappy shit, let go.”

They didn’t.

--

Bakugou didn’t get his pre-class makeout like he had been planning for, instead Kirishima had lead him to their group gathered around Bakugou’s desk where Kaminari, Ashido and Sero proceeded to stare at him for a solid minute.

We could’ve been making out right now, Bakugou thought looking to Kirishima with nothing but dissatisfaction oozing from his very pores.

“So two things,” Ashido started holding up two fingers on her left hand and snipping at the air. “Tomorrow, after school, it was cleared for my two friends from middle school to come onto campus.” Kirishima’s hands smoothed over the labels of his uniform—Bakugou’s remembering Kirishima start to mention something about Friday before they… got distracted again… last night.

“I know you tend to leave sometime Friday night, or maybe Saturday morning to do… your thing,” so they knew. Kirishima’s grip on his shoulders tighten, just a hint, just an oblivious reaction—there was his tell.

Bakugou, maybe it was just because it was today and he just felt… weirdly calm beneath the frayed nerves that wouldn’t stop his fingers from twitching (they were currently picking at a cuticle), but he didn’t even scoff. “I’m guessing your gonna ask me to stay to meet them,” he finishes for her.

“We’ll walk you home on Saturday and everything!” Ashido begs, hands clapping together and tucking under her jaw to grin down at him. “Please~~~”

Bakugou scoffed at that though. That was a little much.

He looked up, the crown of his head nudging against Kirishima’s stomach. “My grandmother’s here this weekend. She wants to meet you,” might as well bring it up now with talk of the weekend happening.

“Umm. Yeah, sure? If you want.”

Bakugou nodded, before glancing back to the lone girl of their group. “What was the second thing?” It took a moment for Ashido to jump the gaps, but when she reached it the smile she gave him was blinding. Right up there were All Might’s.

“Did you poison the food?” it was Sero who initiated. Kirishima groaning out a weak ‘guys really?’ from behind.

“Cause as much as we want to eat it….” Kaminari trailed off sheepishly.

“I didn’t poison the fucking food.”

“Not even a little?” Kaminari inquired, fingers nearly touching as he held them before his eye. “Not even a pinch?”

“No.”

“Then why did you do it?” Ashido chimed, jumping on board the let’s look a gift horse in the mouth party. “We know you Bakugou, you tend to have some subtle reason for doing something—as round about as your act of kindness could be. This doesn’t just feel like it.”

He’s let them get too close.

“Can’t I do something nice for people that I’m…” he doesn’t want to call them friends ‘cause they’ll never let him live it down. But calling them friends is a better truth to subject them to than the other. “That I’m friends with?” All three of their lips pinch, wanting to call him out on it but they hold. Their looks remain. Shit, he’s gonna have to admit it.

He tsked, “for putting up with all my bullshit lately. There, you fuckin’ happy?” There’s a twitch in Ashdio’s arms and like that Bakugou’s out of his seat. “Don’t you fucking hug me—one hug was enough!”