Chapter Text
Bakugou didn’t even see the damn kid.
He was halfway to the common room, boots stomping a little heavier than usual, math worksheet crumpled in one hand. It was getting late and he was already pissed about having to tutor Kirishima—it wasn’t that he minded helping him, it was just... distracting. Lately, everything about that guy was distracting. The way he sat too close, smiled too wide, called him "dude" with that annoyingly warm voice. It made concentrating on quadratic equations feel like defusing a bomb.
Then—bam.
He shoulder-checked someone coming out of a side hallway. Smaller frame. General studies uniform. The kid stumbled, blinking up at him with wide eyes.
“Shit, sorry—!”
Bakugou didn’t even get a word out before something sharp and unfamiliar twisted in his chest. It wasn’t pain, exactly, but more like heat spreading under his ribs—pressure building fast.
The kid’s face paled. “Oh no. Um. Shit, uh—okay. That might’ve been me.”
Bakugou glared. “What the fuck did you do?”
The student winced, flinching like he expected to get blasted. “My quirk. It’s reflexive—it activates on contact. It’s... kind of a truth curse. You can’t lie for about 72 hours. If you do, or even avoid answering something that’s weighing on your mind, it builds pressure in your chest. Kind of like... honesty heartburn.”
Bakugou blinked. “You’ve gotta be shitting me.”
“I’m not! I swear, I didn’t mean to—look, maybe Recovery Girl can help or suppress it or something—sorry again!” The kid took off down the hallway like his shoes were on fire.
He hissed under his breath, yanking out his phone.
Bakugou: Can’t make it. Some fuckin brat hit me with their quirk in the hallway. Going to recovery girl now.
The response came faster than Bakugou expected.
Kirishima: wtf man are you okay?? should I come??
Bakugou cursed softly, thumbs hovering over the screen. Every instinct told him no—absolutely not. Kirishima was the last person he needed around right now. What if he said something stupid? What if the damn quirk forced him to admit he actually liked the guy’s shitty hair? Or worse—that it wasn’t shitty at all, that it was kind of cool, and that Bakugou had been thinking about how it would feel between his fingers for months now.
No. Hell no.
Bakugou: No. I'm fine.
The second he hit send, the burning behind his ribs flared. Like a punch from the inside out.
He saw Kirishima typing before shoving his phone in his pocket.
“Fucking dammit!” he growled. This was bad. This was really bad.
Because if this thing was real—and it sure as hell felt real—Bakugou was in serious danger.
Not of dying. No. Worse.
Of talking.
He'd genuinely rather be hit by any other quirk. Hell, if you asked him to choose between a truth quirk or medieval torture for 72 hours, he'd pick the torture every single time.
Because if there was one thing Bakugou Katsuki was afraid of—it was not being in control. His inner thoughts and feelings were not meant to be shared with any of these useless extras. He'd gone to great lengths keeping up his unfeeling persona—like hell was he going to let some bullshit general ed student with a bullshit quirk shatter that image.
Bakugou’s pace toward Recovery Girl’s office was aggressive at best, unhinged at worst.
His feet stomped through the halls with enough force to make some second-years scatter, his fingers clenched so tight around the math sheet that it was now mutilated in his hands. And his head—his head was starting to throb like a pulsar behind his eyes.
By the time he reached the nurse’s wing, the lights were too fucking bright and every sound was too goddamn loud. He shoved the door open with a snarl.
Recovery Girl looked up from her desk with a tired sigh. “Now what have you done to yourself this time?”
Bakugou didn’t even answer at first. The pressure behind his ribs flared again—not a question, not a lie, but he was avoiding it. Of course the goddamn quirk would know that.
He gritted his teeth. “Ran into some brat in the hallway. Got hit with his truth quirk or some shit. Now my chest feels like it’s trying to explode and I’ve got a damn migraine.”
She shot Bakugou an unimpressed glare. “Firstly, language young man.”
He met her gaze, equally unamused.
She shifted through some files on her desk. “A truth compulsion quirk you said?”
“Yeah. For seventy-two hours,” he growled, rubbing at his temple. “If I lie, or try not to say somethin’ I’m thinking, it burns. He said it’s not fatal—but I’m about two minutes away from making it fatal for him.”
Recovery Girl tutted, completely unfazed by his antics. “Sit still, let me look you over. I can treat the physical symptoms, but something that complex and mental? That’s outside my ability to suppress entirely.”
Bakugou dropped into the exam chair with a frustrated grunt, feeling the tension behind his eyes pulse with every heartbeat. Recovery Girl pressed a cold instrument to his temple and made him open his mouth for the light. Her gaze softened after a few moments.
“You’re running a low-grade fever. That quirk is ramping up your stress response—heart rate’s elevated, pupils are blown. No real physical damage yet, but it’s straining you.”
“Can you fix it?” he snapped, though the exhaustion in his voice was starting to leak through the cracks.
“I can help ease the symptoms—headache, heart rate, fever—but the quirk itself? No. That has to wear off on its own. 72 hours. No shortcuts.”
“Fucking great,” he muttered, biting back the urge to slam his fist into the nearest wall.
“And...” she added cautiously, “You should know that when it comes to these kinds of compulsions, the longer you repress the urge to tell the truth, the worse the symptoms can get. It’s better to be honest, even if it’s hard.”
Bakugou scoffed. “You try being honest around these idiots. I’ll be dead before the first day’s up.”
There was a pause before she continued, almost too gently. “You have a visitor, by the way. Said he was worried about you.”
Bakugou’s blood ran cold. “...No.”
She gave him a look over her glasses. “Tall, red hair, pointy teeth, big smile. Ring a bell?”
“Fuck.” The word came out like a dying breath.
Of course he came.
Of course he came.
Because Kirishima was a good person, and good people didn’t leave you to suffer alone, even when you told them to. Especially when you told them to.
Bakugou sat back, heart pounding harder than ever. He didn’t know what terrified him more—the thought of seeing Kirishima, or the truth he might accidentally spill the second he did.
He shut his eyes, willing himself to breathe evenly.
Seventy-two hours.
He just had to survive seventy-two hours without falling apart in front of the one person who mattered.
Bakugou barely had time to consider escape before the door creaked open and the redhead stepped in.
“Hey...” Kirishima’s voice was soft, unsure. “Recovery Girl said I could come in.”
Bakugou sat stiffly on the bed, eyes narrowed, jaw clenched. “Told you not to.”
Kirishima laughed a little, nervous. “Yeah. But I figured you didn’t mean it.”
“I did mean it.”
There was a pause. The pressure flared in his chest.
“I just didn’t want to say something stupid, alright?” Bakugou grit his teeth.
Kirishima blinked. “Wha— why would you say something stupid?”
Bakugou didn’t answer right away. The burning flared again, hotter this time—his face twisted in pain as he swore under his breath.
Kirishima took a cautious step closer, concern overtaking his usual smile. “Wait, seriously, man—what’s going on? Are you hurt?”
Bakugou exhaled hard through his nose, like he was trying to keep a grenade from going off. “No… I’m not hurt.”
Kirishima’s brows drew together. “Then what—?”
“Some brat in gen ed shoulder-checked me in the hall,” Bakugou growled, eyes fixed on the floor. “His quirk activated on contact.”
Kirishima froze. “What kind of quirk?”
Bakugou’s voice dropped, like saying it any louder might set the damn thing off. “Truth compulsion. I can’t lie. For seventy-two hours.”
Kirishima’s mouth parted, clearly processing that.
“And it’s not just that,” Bakugou went on, barely stopping for breath now that the words were coming. “If I try to lie, or avoid something that’s been bothering me, it fucking hurts. Like... someone lit a match in my lungs.”
Kirishima’s face shifted between sympathy and alarm. “That’s—wait, so you’re just stuck being... honest? For three days?”
Bakugou scoffed. “Yeah. Fuckin’ nightmare.”
“Oh, dude,” Kirishima said, visibly wincing. “That’s brutal. I kinda get why you didn't want me to come now.”
Bakugou’s jaw clenched. “Yeah. Because if anyone’s gonna ask dumb questions that make me spill embarrassing shit—” He cut himself off, clenching his fists in his lap.
“You thought it’d be me?” Kirishima asked, gently teasing.
“No,” Bakugou muttered. “I’m worried I’ll say shit you don’t need to hear.”
Kirishima blinked, caught off-guard.
The silence that followed was heavy—but not uncomfortable.
Just charged.
Then Kirishima sat down beside him and said quietly, “Then... I’ll try not to make you say anything you don’t want to.”
Bakugou didn’t thank him.
But the burn behind his ribs eased up anyway.
Bakugou hated how thoughtful Kirishima was. Or moreso, he hated how much he liked it. Being the recipient of so much love and care was uncomfortable and unfamiliar. It made his stomach turn.
“Come on,” he grumbled, shoving himself off the bed with a bit more force than necessary. “Let’s just go. I need to get back before someone else finds out and starts grilling me.”
Kirishima stood too, still watching him like he was worried Bakugou might drop dead if he blinked. “You sure you’re okay to walk?”
“It's a truth quirk,” Bakugou flashed him a scowl. "I'm not goddamn disabled, shitty hair."
Kirishima smiled faintly. “Alright, alright. Just checking.”
They stepped into the hallway together. The air was cool and quiet—late on a Monday, most of the dorms were already tucked away. A few lights flickered from classroom windows, but the rest of U.A. was blessedly still.
Bakugou kept his head down, hands in his pockets, eyes scanning every intersection like he expected Kaminari to leap out from behind a trash can yelling, “TRUTH QUIRK?!”
Thankfully, the halls stayed empty.
Kirishima didn’t say much as they walked. He didn’t need to. His warm and steady presence was loud enough in Bakugou’s awareness.
Every time their arms brushed, Bakugou tensed.
Every time Kirishima didn’t move away, something in him softened.
At the entrance to the dorms, they finally slowed.
“Guess I’ll see you tomorrow?” Kirishima asked, rubbing the back of his neck. “Or, y’know... whenever you’re up for it.”
Bakugou hesitated. Then, surprising even himself, he nodded. “Yeah.”
They stood there a second longer than necessary. Neither moved.
Then Bakugou muttered, “Night.”
“Night, man.” Kirishima stepped back, hands shoved in his pockets now too, like he wasn’t sure what to do with himself.
Bakugou turned toward the stairwell, heart thudding harder than it should.
For the first time, he didn't feel safe with Kirishima.
The fear of exposing himself weighed heavy on his mind as he trudged back to his dorm.
Fuck. He desperately needed to sleep.
---
The next morning—much to his dismay—Bakugou skipped class. And despite his opposition to rules, refusal to wear a neck tie, or to even tuck in his shirt, he was possibly the biggest nerd in Class 1-A. Skipping was not something he took lightly.
It's just—he didn’t want to deal with anyone. Mostly his extremely annoying "friends" who loved to overstep and tease him any chance they could. Though truthfully? If Bakugou really hated the fuckers, he'd have given them a real reason to fear him by now. He actually tolerated (liked) their company more than he let on.
But right now? Under these circumstances? Get them as far the fuck away as possible, please.
A few of them texted:
Mina:
“HEARD U GOT HIT W/ A QUIRK 👀👀👀 SPILL THE TEA”
Kaminari:
“is it true you can’t lie rn?? asking for science”
Sero:
“pls say u don’t hate my face. be honest. do I look like a llama.”
Jirou:
“when you’re done flaming everyone else, I’d actually love to hear your unfiltered opinion of my playlist.”
He threw his phone across the room.
But Kirishima still came later that night, carrying a pile of notes and a sheepish grin.
“I brought math,” he said. “Also snacks. And—I mean, I know we probably won’t study much, but... figured I’d try.”
“You’re not here for math,” Bakugou muttered with a crooked smirk.
Of course, Kirishima is never actually there for studious reasons.
“Nope,” Kirishima admitted, grinning wider. "Guess you caught me."
He pulled out Bakugou's desk chair to find his hoodie crumpled where he had last left it.
"My hoodie!" He chirped, tossing it off the chair so he could sit. "Been looking for that."
Bakugou snorted a laugh. "No wonder you lose everything. All your shit's in my room."
"Not everything," He retorted, a playful smirk tugging his lips. "I didn't lose this stats paper that you're gonna help me on."
Pft.
Yeah, obviously he was going to help him. He always did.
"Just my luck."
Kirishima settled in, sprawling out his snacks and books on Bakugou's desk.
"Anyway," he started, tone softer now. "I'm sorry about our friends being so annoying, I mean, I knew they would be, but... I told them to chill."
Bakugou grumbled and shifted on the bed, trying to hide the way his ears felt warm. “You’re the only one I can be around right now.”
He didn’t mean to say it. It just slipped off his tongue like it's been waiting to make its escape.
The silence that followed made him want to implode.
Kirishima blinked, surprised—but not thrown.
His expression softened into a smile. “I'm glad you trust me enough to feel that way, man.”
Bakugou's face flushed at the sappy response, but that's just who Kirishima was. Just a sincere, nice guy. Honest to a fault even without a truth quirk.
He turned his head, scowling at the far wall like it had personally offended him.
Fuck. This is about to be a long two more days.
Kirishima sat at the desk and pulled out a bag of spicy chips and a bottle of soda like it was any other night. Bakugou stayed perched on the bed.
They didn’t open a textbook once.
Instead, they played video games, talked shit about their classmates, and passed the chip bag back and forth in easy silence.
At one point, Kirishima leaned back in the desk chair and groaned. “God, I’m gonna bomb that stats quiz.”
Bakugou didn’t even look up. “Hah. Wouldn’t be the first time.”
Kirishima’s face twisted in mocking offense. “Asshole.”
“You set yourself up for that one.” Bakugou snorted.
Kirishima smirked and grabbed another handful of chips. “Whatever. I’d rather fail stats than sit through another minute of Present Mic screaming about linear regression.”
Bakugou let out a dry laugh. “You say that now. Wait ‘til you’re the only one stuck in summer class.”
Kirishima shrugged. “Guess you’ll just have to tutor me.”
“Tch. I already do.”
The bastard shot him a smarmy look.
“Yeah, well—maybe I fake being dumb so you’ll keep hanging out with me.”
That made Bakugou glance over, a sharp grin tugging at his mouth.
“Yeah, no. I’ve seen your ‘acting.’ You might actually be worse at that than you are at math.”
Kirishima smiled, but didn’t say anything else.
Bakugou kicked his legs up and flopped onto his back with a groan.
He felt the compulsion. He didn’t even know what he was about to say, but words crept up his throat anyway.
“…I don’t actually think you’re that annoying though,” he muttered, eyes fixed on the ceiling. “I kinda like tutoring you... you're just easy to be around.”
He was done trying to fight this quirk at this point. The best option was to just own all the stupid truths that slipped out, and he’d kill anyone who judged him for it.
Kirishima glanced up from his phone. “Huh?”
Bakugou didn’t repeat himself. He didn’t have to.
The way Kirishima’s mouth twitched—like he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to smile or say thank you—told him he’d heard it just fine.
”Don’t look at me like that. With your dumbass—“ he shoved his face into the pillow, attempting to smother the next words, “beautiful smile.”
His face flared so hot he swore he was burning a hole through the linen. I mean, anyone would agree the guy had an incredible smile. But why did Bakugou have to be such a raging homosexual about it?
Kirishima raised a playful eyebrow. “Beautiful, you say?” He flashed the smile in question.
The fucker was just showing off now.
”Shut the fuck up.” Bakugou bit out, words still muffled in the pillow.
He really wished he had a humiliation kink right now... That way he could at least derive some joy from this abysmal situation.
And Kirishima—careful not to push the hot-head to a point of mass casualties—tried his best to suppress his cheeky grin.
But it lingered faintly on his lips anyway.
——
A while passed in quiet. Bakugou had stopped pretending to study long ago, sprawled on his back across the bed with one arm flung over his eyes, the other fisted in his hoodie.
Kirishima scrolled aimlessly through his phone, talking just to fill the space.
“You know,” he said, laughing to himself, “Mina told me the other day that my hair looks like I stuck a fork in an outlet.”
Bakugou snorted before he could stop himself. “She’s not wrong.”
Kirishima chuckled. “It’s not like you’ve ever disagreed. You’ve called it shitty since we met.”
There was a beat of silence.
Here we go. He just had to bring up his hair, huh?
Bakugou groaned, dragging his arm off his face just enough to glare at the ceiling. “It’s not.”
Kirishima blinked up at him. “Huh?”
“I don’t actually hate your hair,” Bakugou muttered, then immediately felt his whole body tense like it was bracing for impact. “I call it shitty ‘cause I like getting a rise out of you.”
Kirishima’s brows rose slowly. “Wait. Seriously?”
Agh. That's what he fuckin' said, right?
“Yes, seriously." Bakugou grunted and threw his forearm back over his eyes like it might somehow undo the words. "Just forget it.”
Kirishima laughed quietly—soft and surprised—but didn’t say anything right away.
Bakugou could feel the heat climbing up his neck. His whole body felt too aware—like the air in the room had thickened just to humiliate him more efficiently.
“I mean... thanks?” Kirishima said after a moment, scratching the back of his head. “I kinda always thought you hated it. Like, legit hated it.”
“It’s fine,” Bakugou grumbled, then, with more bite: “You make it work. Doesn’t even look that dumb anymore.”
“Wow, careful,” Kirishima teased gently. “That almost sounded like a compliment.”
“It’s not.”
“Uh-huh.”
Kirishima smirked a little, leaning back on the arm rest. “Well, I think your hair’s cool too, for what it’s worth. You always look like you just walked out of an explosion. It suits you pretty well.”
Bakugou huffed, trying not to show how flustered he was. “Tch. It’s just hair.”
“Yeah, but it feels like you. Y’know? Wild... untamed...”
Bakugou narrowed his eyes. “You tryna start something?”
Kirishima grinned wider. “Nah. Just saying I think you look cool.”
There was another beat.
This time, something was different. The familiar pain searing in his chest was absent. The words weren't weren't ripped from him in a way that felt so violating... Instead, he willingly offered them up. Might as well dig the grave a few feet deeper while we're at it, right?
“I’ve always thought your teeth were badass,” Bakugou said suddenly. “Like... shark badass. Movie monster shit.”
Kirishima blinked. “My—what?”
“Your teeth,” Bakugou snapped, not looking at him. “They’re... sick. Looks like you could bite someone in half. Always been jealous of that.”
Kirishima stared.
Then he laughed—short and breathy, like the compliment knocked the wind out of him.
“Thanks, man,” he said, ears going visibly pink. “I actually used to be really self conscious about them—thought they made me look too scary... seems kinda stupid now I guess.”
Bakugou’s stomach twisted.
Of course he was self conscious about them. Of course Kirishima had gone around thinking those teeth were too much or something to be ashamed of, when they were one of the coolest damn things about him.
What Bakugou wouldn't give to look half as dangerous as Kirishima. Every inch of him was sharp, chiseled, strong—besides those stupid puppy dog eyes... they were the only soft part about him, really. And damnit they looked good right now—
Bakugou shoved his face into his pillow.
He cursed the quirk. He cursed the damn gen ed kid. He cursed Kirishima’s dumb perfect face and his fucking teeth and his stupid hair.
“Fuck this fucking quirk,” he mumbled.
Kirishima couldn't help but be slightly amused at the sight of Bakugou pouting and cursing into his pillow case.
“Are a couple compliments really gonna kill you?” He said, clearly grinning by his dumb tone.
"No," Bakugou groaned, already trying to suffocate himself. "I'm gonna kill me."
The dramatics truly seemed to never end.
"C'mon man," Kirishima laughed along with Bakugou's theatrics. "It's really not that bad."
All Bakugou offered in response was a dissatisfied grunt, as he continued to huff face down in his pillow.
---
Conversation had ceased for a while again.
Bakugou was still spread out on his bed, while the redhead sat backwards in his desk chair, arms folded across the top. There was something charged in the air, like a wire pulled too tight.
Kirishima had been quiet for a while—too quiet. Long enough that Bakugou almost thought he might’ve fallen asleep in the desk chair. But then came the voice, soft and cautious in the dim light between them.
“Can I ask you something?”
Bakugou didn’t lift his head from the pillow. “You’re gonna anyway.”
There was a short chuckle, a nervous one.
“Have you ever had a crush on any of the girls here?”
Bakugou’s entire body tensed.
Was Kirishima out of his goddamn motherfucking mind?
Things were going fine. Sure, there'd been a few mishaps, a few close calls—but all things considered? It could have been going a lot worse.
So... naturally, this would be the moment where it did start going a lot worse.
The air in his lungs froze solid as the burn started low in his chest, coiling tighter with each second he kept his mouth shut.
He tried to sidestep it. “What kinda dumbass question is that?”
Kirishima shifted in the chair, adjusting how he sat, but didn’t back off. “I dunno. I was just curious, I guess. I mean, people talk, and you’ve never really... said anything about anyone.”
Bakugou’s jaw locked, teeth grinding. The heat inside him flared again—sharp, insistent.
He muttered, “I don’t… like any girls right now.”
Another sear across his ribs.
He winced. Shit. The quirk knew. It wasn't going to let Bakugou vaguely brush this off just because he was asked strictly about girls. Because he did like someone, and neither this quirk nor Kirishima were going to let him off that easy.
“Well, it doesn't have to be right now,” Kirishima amended quickly, hands raised a little. “I meant, like... in general. Ever. Anyone in class, maybe? Anyone at U.A.?” He looked at Bakugou, eyes innocently curious and waiting for an answer.
No way he was this oblivous.
Bakugou could feel his face heating as the truth bubbled in his throat—forcing it back with every ounce of strength he had. His fists curled in the sheets, knuckles whitening.
The pressure swelled.
His throat tightened.
“...No,” he said eventually, voice barely audible.
Unfortunately, Kirishima’s never been one to take a fucking hint—
“C'mon, there's really nobody? No way a guy like you isn't drowning in it." Kirishima teased with a dubious smirk, flashing those goddamn razor teeth.
Bakugou sucked in a sharp breath. A guy like him? The hell was that supposed to mean?
The quirk was pulsing now, relentless behind his sternum, because he was still holding back. Still trying to keep it vague. Still trying not to say the thing that made his skin crawl... but holding it in was getting him nowhere.
He felt it. The words smoldering—rising uncontrollably like magma up his throat.
“You idiot,” he sputtered roughly, wincing through the pain spiking in his chest. His hands shot to cover his face, hiding from what he was going to say next—
"I'm gay. I ain't drownin' in pussy." He grumbled quietly.
His voice was guttural. Raw.
He didn't feel the usual relief from the quirk. This felt almost worse.
Like a bullet wound he couldn't close up... like he was bleeding out the most intimate, deeply humilating parts of himself. The parts that were supposed to stay hidden were now pooling around him—thick, viscous, and inescapable.
Once you bleed, there's no putting it back. You either die, or scrape by just enough to heal, eventually... Honestly, Bakugou wasn't really sure which option he preferred.
So he just layed on the bed, soaking in it.
He began to feel his throat close, his chest tighten, as a dread-fueled panic threatened his nervous system.
Was he having a fucking heart attack?
Kirishima went very, very still. His eyes settled wide on Bakugou, clearly spiraling in front of him.
“Oh, shit,” he said softly, taking a moment to register the admission.
Bakugou, seething, refused to meet his gaze. "I told you not to ask me dumb fuckin' questions," he tried to bite through the lump in his throat.
“I—I know. I’m so sorry, Kats," Kirishima stumbled over his words. "You trusted me to not pry and—”
“Don’t—“ Bakugou cut him off before he dug himself into a hole. “I don't wanna hear you cry for forgiveness, alright?" His voice was defeated, hollow. Not sad, not even angry. Just flat—eerily calm, considering the guy's usual nuclear temper.
"You know now, so... fuckin' whatever... but tell anyone and I'm personally digging your grave.”
He knew it was an accident, but holy fucking shit, could Kirishima be an idiot sometimes.
An idiot that he could, unfortunately, never stay mad at.
Even when he fucked up, like, royally.
“I know, I—” Kirishima’s voice faltered, and Bakugou glanced over to see him holding his hands up, like he’d just knocked something over and didn’t know how to fix it. “I won't tell anyone. B-but I shouldn’t have asked that. It was just... burning on my mind, and I asked you, selfishly..."
Bakugou's eyes burned red with anger. Though not necessarily towards Kirishima, even if maybe he deserved it, just at the situation in general. The circumstances that he got himself in... He never shoulda let Kirishima come over to begin with.
"And I never thought you'd possibly be, uh... into guys." Kirishima added, sheepishly.
Bakugou rolled his eyes, a low, bitter chuckle slipped out at his last statement.
Even though he was painfully closeted, he still expected Kirishima to pick-up on it somehow... In the way he never flirted with the girls like the other guys did, never spoke about them romantically, or hardly paid em' any damn mind at all. In the way that he chose to spend the majority of time with Kirishima, chose to tutor him, spar with him, and cook for him so he didn't starve.
He did damn near everything besides say it.
“There's no way," Bakugou started, his tone pointed but lacking its usual bite. "That you haven’t caught on by now… I mean, when have I ever seemed even remotely into a girl, Kiri?”
At this point, it had to be the quirk talking. Because the normal Bakugou would have long since lit up the whole building and everyone in it. But right now? He felt helpless. He couldn't resort to his typical bravado and seering insults—he was stripped bare of the parts of himself he hinged on most.
He was naked. Too exposed in front of the one person that mattered. The one person he respected, maybe even loved... if he was willing to dig that deep. Because before Kirishima, he'd never viewed anyone as an equal—he'd had followers, even enemies, but not a friend.
Kirishima was the only one ever brave—or insane—enough to force a friendship out of him.
Bakugou feared, deeply, that he really might have fucked this up.
Kirishima shifted again, chuckling softly through his nose. “You have a point,” he stared ahead, taking time with his response. “I... I guess I just assumed you didn’t like to talk about that kinda thing.”
“I don’t,” Bakugou grumbled. “Makes me feel like a freak.”
Kirishima looked back up at him with a furrowed brow. “You're not...” he paused, brow softening. “But I know what it's like... to feel like that.”
His last words hung in the air.
He knows what it's like?
Bakugou took a moment. “Huh..?”
The room fell silent again.
Kirishima shifted slightly in the desk chair, diverting his gaze to his fidgeting hands. His voice, when it came, was soft. Careful. Like he wasn’t just afraid of being loud, he was afraid of what might happen if he said the next words wrong.
"It's only fair since, y'know, I made you spill..." Kirishima started shakily, before letting out a deep breath.
”I… I think I like guys too,” he said, barely above a whisper.
Bakugou turned his head to see Kirishima's face now flushed red... He wasn't smiling for once, red eyes glossed over with fear.
He blinked, trying to register what he just said.
Bakugou thought Kirishima was normal... Straight. I mean, he was the kinda guy who fist-bumped people in the hallway and flirted with waitresses without realizing it. Everyone loved the guy—too much. Every single girl at U.A. threw themselves at him. Not that Kirishima engaged much, but the occasional conversation lingered a little too long...
Hell, at one point, Bakugou was even 99% sure he had a thing for Mina. To be fair, they were partners on some bullshit public speaking assignment and were spending a lot of time together... To the point Kirishima had to skip a few of their "tutoring" sessions. And Bakugou wasn't jealous, per se... He was just in agony every second Kirishima spent with Pinkie and not him. So maybe you could call that jealousy, yeah.
But now you're telling him that same guy—the guy obsessed with manliness and all things masculine... was into other guys this whole time? In hindsight, when you put it like that... it's pretty obvious why he'd be obsessed with those things... But it seemed impossible. It still did.
“You—what?” Bakugou croaked. He sat up a little, half on instinct, half because lying down suddenly felt like weakness. “You’re saying you’re—what, like bi or something?”
Kirishima glanced up at him, startled by the sharp tone. “I—I guess—I mean, I’ve never really thought about what I call myself. Just... I’ve liked a few girls before. But mostly… guys.”
He rubbed the back of his neck, looking genuinely unsure. “I’ve never said that out loud before. You’re… kind of the first person I’ve ever told.”
Bakugou never expected this.
Not from him.
He just stared at Kirishima, who looked like he had more to say.
“I’ve liked you for a while,” Kirishima finally admitted, quieter now. “Like… not just as a friend. But I didn’t think I had a chance.”
Bakugou’s breath hitched.
His mouth went dry. Every instinct screamed at him to say something, but he couldn’t find the words.
How the hell was he supposed to respond to that?
This was his best friend.
Who always showed up, always stayed, always made him feel like being too much wasn’t a problem.
When even Bakugou himself knew he was a lot—he was intense, crass, passionate to a fault... sometimes borderline homicidal. Hell, he's been muzzled—not once—but three separate times.
Then there’s Kirishima.
Charming, magnetic, compassionate Kirishima. With the contagious smile, radiant disposition, who never made a big deal out of Bakugou’s moods or silences or sharp edges.
Why on Earth would a guy like Kirishima want anything to do with him?
Regardless of how confusing this was for Bakugou, it explained so much... The way Kirishima looked at him sometimes, the way he showed up when Bakugou didn’t ask, the way he stayed. Maybe Bakugou hadn’t been imagining things. Maybe the tension hadn’t just been in his head.
He swallowed, throat tight. “You… do.”
Kirishima looked at him like he wasn’t sure he’d heard that right.
“I—what?”
“You do,” Bakugou said again, voice a little rough. “Have a chance.”
They stared at each other for a beat. Two idiots. Two stubborn, clueless idiots who had been tiptoeing around this for way too long.
Kirishima glanced over from the desk chair, watching him quietly. The tension in Bakugou’s shoulders hadn’t eased, even after everything they’d said. If anything, he looked more tightly wound than before—like the truth had cracked something open instead of letting something go.
Kirishima stood slowly, careful not to startle him. “You alright?”
Bakugou didn’t answer right away. Just shrugged. “Fine.”
Kirishima didn’t believe it for a second.
“Can I sit?”
Bakugou gave the tiniest nod, so Kirishima crossed the short distance and sat down beside him on the bed, the mattress dipping slightly beneath his weight.
The newfound closeness sent a chill down Bakugou’s spine.
He felt another admission come up. Though this time it didn’t feel like it was clawing its way out—he had some control now.
He allowed himself to let it slip.
“I’ve always kinda loved your dumb lack of personal space," he said, interjecting the silence. "How you always sit so close that our legs brush together... I think about that more than I should.”
Kirishima froze.
Not completely—but enough that Bakugou could feel it.
His head turned slowly, eyes wide with something Bakugou couldn’t quite read. Surprise. Maybe more.
For a second, he didn’t say anything.
Then—
“…Shit,” Kirishima breathed out, almost like he wasn’t aware he’d said it. He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly shy in a way Bakugou rarely saw.
“I didn’t know you noticed that.”
Bakugou didn’t respond. Couldn’t. His throat was tight.
Kirishima gave a soft laugh—barely there. “I mean… I do that on purpose. Sitting close.”
Bakugou’s breath hitched. “Hah?”
“I always figured you’d blow up at me if I got on your nerves,” Kirishima said, voice low. “But you never did. So I kept doing it.”
He paused, then glanced down where their legs were touching now—barely, at the knee.
Bakugou didn’t respond. Not with words at least.
He just stared into those ruby eyes that pierced through him earnestly.
Kirishima watched him for a moment longer—how tight his jaw was, how tense his posture had gotten again. On instinct, wanting to offer something grounding, he reached out and rested a hand on Bakugou’s thigh.
Goosebumps prickled down his leg. The warmth of his palm radiated, pulsing, as it slowly spread like a current throughout his entire body.
He knew Kirishima meant it as comfort, but the guy had to know what he was doing to him, right?
But Bakugou didn’t move.
Didn’t flinch.
Didn’t curse at him to back off.
Kirishima’s breath caught a little. His fingers twitched like he meant to pull away—but Bakugou’s hand shifted, barely brushing his wrist.
A silent answer.
Their eyes met—Bakugou’s were wide with something like terror tinged with want. Kirishima's too.
Neither moved for a heartbeat. Then, slowly—subtly—Kirishima leaned in.
Bakugou’s breath hitched before meeting him halfway.
Their lips met.
The kiss was soft at first. Testing. Barely-there pressure. But it only took a second for it to deepen—like they’d been holding back for years and finally let go.
Kirishima’s hand tightened gently on Bakugou’s thigh as the other reached up to cradle the back of his neck.
Bakugou melted into the touch, gripping Kirishima’s hoodie to pull himself as close as possible.
Kirishima nibbled on his lower lip, playfully, with those daggers he had for teeth. He bit down a little harder, just enough to leave a mark, earning a low, breathy moan from Bakugou.
No way he actually just fucking made that noise.
The faint taste of iron hit his tongue—a friendly reminder of how dangerous every inch of Kirishima was. His piranha teeth. Hardened skin that could demolish brick walls. And his stupid, unwavering, insistence on demolishing Bakugou’s walls too.
Would it be sick to admit that being bit turned him on? Just ever so slightly? Typically he’d prefer to be the one making people bleed, but... he weirdly, masochistically, liked being at Kirishima's mercy.
It scared him a little—how much he wanted this.
When they did finally part, both of them were breathless.
Kirishima searched his face, “Shit, you're bleeding—are you okay?” He said, way too concerned, while brushing his thumb gently over the split in Bakugou's lip.
He scoffed at Kirishima’s audacity to check in on him. “Of course I am.”
Then, quieter: “You?”
“Never been better,” Kirishima whispered back, smiling. “But, uh—do you wanna… lie down?”
Bakugou blinked, unsure for half a second. Then he nodded again, heart hammering in his chest.
They shifted, awkward at first—arms bumping, legs tangling—until Bakugou was lying back and Kirishima moved over him, careful and slow. He braced himself with one arm beside Bakugou’s head and leaned down again.
Their second kiss was deeper. Warmer. The kind that made time go a little fuzzy. Bakugou’s hands slid up the back of Kirishima’s hoodie, fingers curling into the fabric. He let out a soft sound when Kirishima pulled his hair lightly, and that alone might’ve killed him on the spot.
Kirishima pulled away, just barely enough to whisper in his ear, "You like me pulling your hair, baby?"
The hot breath on Bakugou's ear sent a shiver down his spine.
Baby? There wasn't even time to unpack what that just did to him. But he knew Kirishima had to be getting some joy out of pushing his buttons like this—and he didn't even care. Not right now. Because it was hot as fuck.
"Fuckin' yeah I like it. Shut up and c'mere." He pulled him back into the kiss.
Everything about this was uncharted territory—new and paralyzing—but Bakugou didn’t want to stop.
Everything Bakguou had been so damn terrified of ended up leading to this moment.
And it felt goddamn good.
Eventually, Kirishima pulled back again and rested their foreheads together, both of them breathing hard, grinning like idiots.
“You’re like, really hot.” Kirishima spilled, voice hushed, like it was just for him.
Bakugou’s face flushed but he didn’t protest the compliment, not like he had a choice with this damn truth quirk. He just stared back up into those eyes... they looked... hungry, with a wild glint Bakugou only saw when they sparred together.
Kirishima could be so intense when he allowed himself to be, and it was that intensity that drew Bakugou in in the first place... When he saw Kirishima in action for the first time? Holy shit. The first thing he noticed was how he fought—with that same theatric ferocity, almost rivaling Bakugou’s levels of feral.
God, Kirishima was doing numbers on him right now. Always had. Probably always would.
"You're drippin' sweat all over me." Was all Bakugou could muster.
Kirishima just huffed a short, airy laugh. "Isn't your whole quirk like... your sweat? Shouldn't you be used to it?"
Bakugou narrowed his eyes back at him. "Shut up."
They shifted again, curling in closer—both of them lying sideways now, Kirishima tucked behind Bakugou, arms wrapped around his middle. The warmth of his chest pressed against Bakugou’s back, steady and grounding.
Bakugou let his eyes fall shut, exhaling through his nose.
And then he stilled.
There was… pressure. A subtle but unmistakable hardness pressing gently into the curve of his lower back.
Oh.
Bakugou didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just blinked, heat crawling up his neck and across his ears.
Kirishima must’ve noticed, because he sucked in a breath behind him. “Shit—sorry, I didn’t mean—” he started, clearly flustered and trying to shift away.
Bakugou reached back and caught his wrist before he could move.
“Don’t,” he mumbled, voice rough. “You’re fine.”
He wasn't going to tell Kirishima how much he actually liked it. Or how flattered he was to have this affect on him—
How it made him feel powerful in a twisted kind of way.
And he was hard too. But Kirishima, being too polite, had not been handsy enough to make that discovery.
So it was his little secret. One the quirk couldn't expose through words.
Kirishima froze, breath hitching behind him.
Then, quietly, he murmured, “You sure?”
“I'm under a truth quirk, remember? Either way, wouldn’t change the fact that you’re hard right now.” Bakugou didn’t turn around, but Kirishima could definitely hear the eyeroll in his voice.
There was a weighty pause.
Bakugou could feel Kirishima’s heart like a jackhammer on his back.
Kirishima let out a breathless, nervous chuckle. “What? I’m supposed to not be hard when you look this good?"
Bakugou's whole body reacted—warmth shooting straight down and settling way too low.
Damnit. Kirishima's praise really did something to him...
He pressed his hips into Kirishima’s groin—subtly, as if it was unintentional—increasing contact ever so slightly.
“Never said that." He grunted as his eyes fluttered in a losing battle to sleep, the long day of forced honesty really took it out of him.
"You can go to bed.” Kirishima murmured, lips brushing his ear. “I’ve got you.”
He tightened his grip around the smaller blond's midsection.
Bakugou’s voice was slurred and soft, already half-gone. “If you tell anyone I fell asleep like this… I’ll kill you.”
If he knew how cute Kirishima thought he looked right now, he'd never wake up.
Kirishima chuckled and held him tighter. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
But neither of them quite moved toward sleep.
Kirishima’s hand stayed firm around Bakugou’s middle, and the quiet settled again—deeper now. But the air between them felt heavier. Charged.
Bakugou could feel every point of contact. The heat of Kirishima’s chest at his back. The press of his legs. The slight tremor in his breath.
It wasn’t just nerves. Not anymore.
He shifted just enough to catch Kirishima’s hand, threading their fingers together beneath the blanket.
“You awake?” he muttered.
A pause. Then, softly, “Yeah.”
Kirishima’s breath warmed the back of Bakugou’s neck.
His chest tightened, but it wasn’t the quirk this time.
“I know you've been thinking about this," he said as he turned to face the redhead. "Because so have I."
Kirishima didn’t answer immediately, but his thumb began to trace slow, grounding circles across the back of Bakugou’s hand.
“Yeah,” he finally whispered. “I have.”
Neither of them rushed.
They just stayed there for a while. Closer than before. Warmer than before. Letting the quiet speak for them.
And in that shared silence, with their hands intertwined and hearts pounding in sync, something unspoken finally settled between them—undeniable, and no longer afraid to be felt.