Work Text:
Shouto isn’t the type to care about this kind of thing—the stuff guys his age obsess over online. He has work, patrols, paperwork, training; his mind is usually too full to entertain whatever’s trending on social media. But lately… this one picture has been haunting him in the most irritatingly intriguing way.
He saw the post last Monday. It’s Friday now. Five entire workdays. Five days of trying to forget it. Five days of failing.
It’s a picture of a man—face cropped out—shot from just below the chest to just above the waistline of a pair of jeans. No shirt. Just toned skin, a clearly defined V-line, and a waist so small it makes Shouto’s brain quietly short-circuit every time the image resurfaces. And in the original post, a pair of hands—broad, unmistakably masculine—rested around that narrow waist, emphasizing just how easily they could wrap around it.
The photo wouldn’t have even crossed his timeline normally. The only reason it did was because Kaminari retweeted it. Of course it was Kaminari. And of course there was a caption.
The original post read exactly “men’s waists be so small like what do u need that small waist for? for other man to grab it? whore” and Kaminari, who possessed the restraint of a fruit fly, had quoted it with a single word of kacchan.
Shouto had stared at that for a full minute. As far as he knew, Kaminari only called one person Kacchan. And that person was Bakugou. Which meant the picture might very well be—Shouto’s brain had unhelpfully supplied an image of Bakugou’s actual body, from memory. And the worst part was… it matched.
Small waist. Toned stomach. Sharp lines. The kind of physique that looked almost… unreal.
And now Shouto couldn’t stop thinking about it. Worse—he couldn’t stop imagining his own hands on that waist. His palms fitting there. His thumbs brushing the sharp dip of Bakugou’s obliques.
That was the part that kept returning at the most inconvenient moments—during patrol, during lunch, during a perfectly peaceful elevator ride. And he hated it. Because it was accurate. And because it was Bakugou.
Shouto is still staring at the ceiling, trying to will his brain back into neutral territory, when his front door rattles violently.
Bang. Bang. BANG.
“Oi. Half-and-Half! Open the damn door!”
Shouto blinks. He sits up, sighs once, and stands. Bakugou only knocks like that when he’s annoyed, hungry, or both. He unlocks the door and Bakugou doesn’t wait. He shoves it open with one hand and stomps inside like he owns the place.
“What the hell took you so long?” Bakugou grumbles, kicking off his shoes. “I called you five times.”
“You only called me once,” Shouto corrects calmly.
“Exactly! That’s basically five!”
Bakugou marches straight to the kitchen like this is a routine. And it is—him and Shouto have been neighbors for months now, living in the same hero apartment complex because it’s close to both of their respective companies. They end up in each other’s spaces so often that Shouto has stopped considering it unusual.
Bakugou yanks open the fridge, complaining under his breath about “stupid meetings” and “morons who can’t read reports”, very common of him, nothing new and worth debating with.
Shouto watches him. Unfortunately, he watches his waist specifically. The fitted training shirt Bakugou’s wearing doesn’t help. It clings. Unfairly. Shouto realizes—too late—that he’s staring.
Bakugou pauses mid-rummage, stiffens, and turns his head slowly. “…What.”
Shouto clears his throat. “Nothing.”
“That wasn’t a nothing look.”
“I don’t think that’s a thing,” Shouto says, very obviously lying.
Bakugou squints at him suspiciously, then slams the fridge closed and strides up to him. “What’re you thinking about?”
Everything in Shouto’s brain screams the waist. the post. Kaminari. your waist. the grabbing. But he keeps his face perfectly neutral. “Just work,” he lies.
Bakugou crosses his arms, one eyebrow twitching upward—his default I-call-bullshit expression and clicks his tongue. “Whatever. I’m making lunch. You’re helping.”
Shouto exhales once, collecting himself. “Alright.” But as Bakugou turns away to put his hairband on his head, something he always does when he cooks, shirt riding just slightly—Shouto immediately looks away because this is going to be a problem.
A very, very real problem.
It is already a problem as his eyes draw back to him. Bakugou wears the hairband with that quick, practiced motion—elastic between his fingers, hands raking through the blond spikes, shirt lifting just enough to reveal a sliver of skin and that infuriatingly small…
Shouto immediately looks away again. He focuses on the counter now. On the sink. On the spice rack. On the plant that may or may not be dying. Anything.
Bakugou tosses him a knife. “Cut the peppers.”
Shouto catches the tossed vegetable easily, nods, and starts slicing.
It still surprises him sometimes—how normal this is now. How they got here. Bakugou used to bark at him every two seconds back in UA, every correction a snarl, every suggestion a fight waiting to happen. But these days? The yelling has faded into something almost… gentle. Or as gentle as Bakugou can ever get.
Half the time, he doesn’t even scream—just grumbles, mutters, clicks his tongue like Shouto is mildly inconvenient instead of the bane of his existence. And Shouto secretly likes it. He likes the shift. He likes this version of Bakugou reserved only for him.
It started months ago, when Shouto admitted (very calmly, very sincerely) that his cooking was a danger to himself and others, Bakugou didn’t even insult him. He just grabbed his grocery bag, shoved Shouto aside, and said, “Move. I’m fixing this before you poison anybody.”
Since then, he’s been coming over in the evenings. Teaching him. Correcting his grip. Showing him the difference between “a pinch” and “a fuckin’ handful, Icyhot.” And apparently… it worked. Shouto can cook passably now. Edible, even. But also, Bakugou never stopped helping, he even started to come during lunch time and cooking for them both. Not like Shouto's complaining. He likes it a lot, how calm it is between them just like how he prefers silence over loud arguments and all.
So Shouto enjoys their routine whenever they both have free time. How the silence settles between them just like right now. Not uncomfortable—just normal. Warm. Familiar. Until Bakugou hums under his breath, grabbing the pan. Not a tune. A thinking hum. A low one. Deep. Rumbly. Shouto’s fingers slip. The knife hits the cutting board with a dull whack.
Bakugou snaps his head around. “The hell was that?”
“Nothing,” Shouto says instantly.
Bakugou narrows his eyes. “You spacing out again?”
“No.”
“You’re so fucking bad at lying, Halfie.”
Shouto inhales slowly. Tries to be composed. Tries so hard. But then Bakugou reaches around him—literally around him—to grab the salt from the counter behind Shouto’s hip. His chest brushes Shouto’s arm. His breath warms Shouto’s ear.
And Shouto’s mouth—traitorous, evil, disobedient—just blurts out. “Your waist is very small and grabable.”
Silence. Shouto freezes. Bakugou freezes even harder. Very slowly, Bakugou straightens, salt still in hand, expression unreadable. “…What did you just say?”
Shouto blinks. Once. Twice. He considers lying. He considers jumping out the window. Instead, he says—monotone, doomed—“I meant to think that. Not say it.”
Bakugou’s eye twitches. “Why the hell are you thinking about that in the first place!?”
Shouto opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. His brain is just screaming Kaminari’s tweet at full volume.
Bakugou is staring at him like he’s trying to solve a murder case. “Explain. Now.”
Shouto internally panics. Outwardly, he’s completely calm. “There was a post online,” he begins carefully, “and Kaminari—”
“Oh for fuck’s sake, what did that idiot post now?”
Shouto swallows. “He… quoted a picture. Of a man. With a small waist. And he wrote ‘kacchan’ and I believe he meant you.”
Bakugou’s soul visibly leaves his body. “What—why the hell he'd say that?!”
Shouto blinks. “Do you not have a small waist?”
“That isn’t the point!”
Shouto, thinking he is helping, explains shortly. “It is very small.”
“Stop talking!”
Shouto nods. “Okay.”
Bakugou paces once. Twice. Hands in his hair. Muttering curses at Kaminari, at the universe, at the concept of waists in general. Then he stops. Looks back at Shouto. Eyes sharp. “…So you saw that post. And now you’re thinking about—” he gestures wildly at himself “—this?”
Shouto considers his answer. “Yes.”
Bakugou sputters. Actually sputters. “Why!? What part of that makes sense to you!?”
Shouto’s voice is level. “Because I agree with the post.” Bakugou opens his mouth. Nothing comes out. So Shouto adds, entirely sincerely, “It does seem like something designed for someone to grab.”
Bakugou turns bright red. Shouto realizes—too late— that he has absolutely said too much because Bakugou is still very red, still sputtering, like he's trying to reboot his entire operating system when Shouto—calmly, like he’s asking about the weather—tilts his head and says. “…Is it okay if I grab it?”
Bakugou looks like he just stops breathing. Not figuratively. Literally. He just stands there, one hand in his hair, jaw dropped, pupils dilating like someone just hit him with a flashbang. “WH—WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU JUST SAY!?” he chokes.
Shouto repeats himself. Very patiently. Very politely. “As in—your waist. Since it is… grabable. And since the thought has been persistent for five days, I am asking for permission.”
Bakugou makes a noise Shouto has never heard from a human being before. It sounds like a kettle boiling over so Shouto steps closer—like this is a reasonable conversation and not a straight-up attack on Bakugou’s blood pressure.
“If the answer is no, that is fine. I simply prefer to clarify.”
“CLARIFY!?” Bakugou barks, backing up until he hits the fridge. “CLARIFY WHAT!? THAT YOU WANT TO—TO—PUT YOUR HANDS ON ME!?”
“Yes,” Shouto says.
No hesitation. Not a shred. Bakugou scrubs both hands down his face, muttering, “I can’t—I can’t fucking deal with this—I came here for lunch—I didn’t sign up for—waist discourse—what the fuck—”
Shouto studies him with that infuriating composure he’s perfected over the years—patient, serene, and absolutely catastrophic to Bakugou’s sanity. When he finally speaks, his voice is quiet, almost thoughtful, as if he’s merely stating a fact he’s already measured and confirmed. “I think my hands would fit there perfectly.”
Bakugou’s soul evaporates. “STOP SAYING THINGS LIKE THAT!” he wheezes.
Shouto tilts his head. “I’m simply stating a fact. The circumference of your waist—”
“I SWEAR TO GOD IF YOU SAY ‘WAIST’ ONE MORE TIME—”
Shouto takes a small step forward. Bakugou flinches. He lifts his hands a little—not touching, but hovering. “If you are uncomfortable, tell me to stop.”
Bakugou is breathing like he just sprinted ten kilometers. “I—I don’t—it’s not—I’m not uncomfortable—” he lies in the most unconvincing tone in the history of the world. Probably taking it as an insult because it’s Bakugou.
Shouto’s brows lift just a fraction. “So it is acceptable?”
Bakugou slaps a hand over his eyes. “NO—YES—I DON’T KNOW—STOP PUTTING ME ON THE SPOT—”
Shouto waits patiently.
Bakugou lowers his hand just enough to glare, cheeks cherry red. “If you—” he gestures weakly, “do anything weird, I’m blowing your eyebrows off.”
Shouto nods. “Noted.”
“NOT—I DIDN’T SAY IT WAS A YES—”
“Then I should clarify again,” Shouto says gently, stepping closer until he’s in Bakugou’s space entirely. “May I?”
Bakugou’s breath hitches. A long moment passes. And then—barely audible, almost angry— “…Fine. Whatever. Just fucking get over with it, you weirdo.”
Shouto’s hands land on his waist instantly.
He has touched Bakugou before—shoulder pats, accidental brushes during missions, the occasional shove when Bakugou gets too loud. But this is different. This is intentional. Slow. Precise. And far, far too satisfying.
He slides one hand forward first, letting his palm settle on the curve of Bakugou’s waist. He expects it to feel firm—Bakugou is nothing but firm—but he doesn’t expect… How small it actually is. His hand covers more than half of it. More than half.
Shouto stares at the contrast, strangely mesmerized. His fingers span nearly from Bakugou’s spine to the front of his abdomen. His thumb presses over the edge of a sharply carved oblique. He didn’t realize his hands had grown this much—didn’t realize how much training, years of pro hero work, and his mixed physique had broadened him out. He is taller now. Bulkier. Shoulders wide, build solid, hands large and heavy from constant combat.
Bakugou, meanwhile, has stayed close to his high school silhouette—compact, explosive, lean muscle packed into a shorter frame. Still powerful. Still deadly. But smaller. Much smaller next to Shouto.
And Shouto can feel that difference. Under his palm. Under his fingers. He places his second hand on the other side of Bakugou’s waist, and for a moment he just holds him—gently, experimentally, like he’s measuring something important.
Both his hands meet easily around Bakugou’s torso.
Easily.
Shouto’s breath catches. “Mmm,” he murmurs under his breath, voice deep, almost thoughtful. “It is very small.”
Bakugou twitches violently. “Shut up.” But he doesn’t push Shouto away. He doesn’t even try.
Shouto’s thumbs press in slightly, feeling the warmth of the skin through the thin fabric of Bakugou’s shirt. Bakugou inhales sharply—too sharply—and Shouto feels the muscles under his hands jump.
Gasps. Twitches. A full-body flinch he tries—and fails—to hide. The reaction sends a hot, startling pulse down Shouto’s spine. He likes it. He likes it more than he expected. He wants more. He leans closer, his voice dropping without him meaning to. “You’re sensitive.”
Bakugou grits his teeth. “No I’m—ngh—I’m not—”
Shouto squeezes very slightly, just enough to test. Bakugou sucks in a breath, shoulders jerking, face flushing deep scarlet.
Shouto’s heartbeat spikes. He didn’t expect that. He didn’t expect the way Bakugou melts for a split second, the way his knees bend just a little like the touch stole strength from him. His fingers slide in another few millimeters, curving around the slim dip of Bakugou’s waist, thumbs brushing over muscle like he’s committing every angle to memory.
“So small,” Shouto murmurs again, overwhelmed, honest. “It fits perfectly.”
“Shut the fuck up—” Bakugou hisses, voice cracking.
Shouto lowers his head, breath brushing Bakugou’s ear. “It’s true.”
Bakugou shivers. Shouto feels it everywhere—through his palms, up his arms, straight down his chest. The sensation traps him, hooks into something instinctive and greedy inside him. His grip tightens—slow, deliberate, claiming—and Bakugou lets out a sound that is absolutely not PG-rated.
Shouto exhales shakily.
He wants more. He wants much, much more. He wants to pull him closer, wants to feel how easily he can move him, hold him, fit him against his body—but he forces himself to pause, just barely. “Bakugou,” he says, voice rougher than before. “Tell me to stop if this is too much.”
Bakugou doesn’t tell him to stop. He grabs a handful of Shouto’s shirt instead. And pulls him closer. His fist is still clutching Shouto’s shirt, knuckles white, breath uneven. His waist is twitching under Shouto’s grip, heat simmering through the thin fabric between them.
Shouto looks down—at his own hands, at the narrow shape he’s holding—and something inside him snaps cleanly. This isn’t enough. Not even close. His fingers slide down, brushing the hem of Bakugou’s shirt.
Bakugou stiffens. “Shou—Todoroki—what are you—”
Shouto doesn’t answer. He simply pushes his hands underneath the shirt. Skin meets skin. Both of them stop breathing.
Bakugou gasps—a sharp, unguarded sound that shoots straight through Shouto’s chest like fire. Shouto inhales at the same moment, stunned by the heat of Bakugou’s body under his palms. The contrast hits him instantly; soft skin stretched over hard muscle, warm, alive, trembling.
Bakugou’s waist is even smaller without the shirt in the way. Shouto’s hands nearly wrap fully around him—thumbs brushing the lines of his abs, fingers pressing into the narrow dip at his sides.
Shouto’s voice drops to something dark, breathy, “…Warmer than I expected.”
Bakugou chokes on air. “D-don’t—ah—say weird shit like—”
He doesn’t finish. Because Shouto tightens his hold. Just enough. Just a small, steady pull. His knees soften—just a fraction. His breath stutters.
And that’s it. That’s the moment Shouto loses the last thread of restraint he had left. Without warning, without hesitation, he bends his knees, grips Bakugou’s waist firmly and lifts him. Bakugou’s hands fly to Shouto’s shoulders, eyes wide, caught completely off guard. “What the—hey—!”
Shouto’s hands lock securely around his bare skin, guiding him up as if he weighs nothing—like he’s always meant to be held like this. Bakugou’s breath hits Shouto’s jaw as Shouto sets him on the kitchen counter.
The world goes silent again. They’re very close. Ridiculously close. Close enough that Shouto can see every flicker in Bakugou’s eyes. Close enough to feel Bakugou’s thighs press unconsciously against his hips. Close enough that their chests brush with every breath.
Shouto stands between his legs, hands still resting beneath his shirt, thumbs drawing tiny unconscious strokes along the sharp line of Bakugou’s waist. Bakugou is panting. Not in fear. In something much, much worse. Shouto leans in, forehead almost touching Bakugou’s, voice low enough to vibrate between them. “I like this position,” he murmurs. “You’re… very easy to lift.”
Bakugou grabs his shirt again, breath shaking. “For fuck’s sake stop—saying things like that—”
Shouto presses in closer, noses nearly brushing. “I won’t.”
Bakugou’s pupils blow wide—so suddenly Shouto watches it happen in real time, like the moment light flares against gasoline.
Shouto’s hands then move without his permission, sliding higher beneath Bakugou’s shirt. His palms map the heat there, fingers spreading instinctively, possessively, until he’s guiding Bakugou closer by the waist. Their bodies meet fully—no space left, no air between them but the breath they steal from each other.
Bakugou inhales, sharp and startled, the sound almost bitten off. His lashes tremble, eyes fighting to stay open. It looks like a reaction Shouto wasn’t meant to see—too raw, too honest.
Shouto leans in anyway. His breath skims over Bakugou’s lips—warm, searching, hungry in a way he only now realizes he’s been for the past five days. Maybe weeks or maybe even months. “…You want me to stop?” he whispers.
Bakugou’s fingers curl tighter into the fabric of Shouto’s shirt, knuckles whitening as though that handful of cotton is the only thing keeping him upright. “No,” he breathes soft and unsteady, nothing like a refusal and everything like surrender trembling at the edges.
Shouto feels the word melt against his chest. He smiles. Slow. Certain. A quiet disaster blooming on his lips.
Bakugou’s breathing turns uneven, each inhale too sharp, each exhale too quick, as if Shouto’s closeness is pushing the air out of him faster than he can pull it back in. Shouto can feel every breath skimming over his mouth—warm, frantic, impossibly close—one small shift away from becoming a kiss.
He doesn’t move.
He simply waits.
Patient, composed, and unmistakably dangerous in the way only Shouto can be when he wants something and refuses to hide it.
His hands stay beneath Bakugou’s shirt, palms spread over the narrow curve of his waist, thumbs drawing slow, deliberate circles against hot skin. Each pass earns a tiny hitch in Bakugou’s breath, a tremor he tries and fails to disguise. His thighs tighten around Shouto’s hips, muscles pulling taut, as if his body is betraying every attempt at self-control.
“Katsuki,” Shouto murmurs—low, reverent, almost a confession tucked into the shape of a name.
And that’s all it takes.
Bakugou breaks. He surges forward and crashes their mouths together, the kiss fierce and immediate, a spark igniting the entire room. Not a gentle lean-in. Not a test. A full-body collision of heat and want and months of tension snapping like wires.
Shouto makes a sound—quiet, startled, low in his throat—and Bakugou swallows it, one hand fisting in Shouto’s shirt and dragging him closer like he’s trying to fuse them together.
Shouto recovers fast. His hands grip Bakugou’s waist tighter, his thumbs pressing into bare skin as he kisses back—slow at first, then deeper, hungrier, like he’s been waiting for this exact moment without knowing it.
Bakugou gasps into Shouto’s mouth and then instinct kicks in.
His legs wrap around Shouto’s hips.
Fast.
Tight.
Shouto freezes for half a second as the weight shifts against him, as Bakugou pulls him forward with that desperate, explosive strength of his. Bakugou’s ankles lock behind Shouto. His heels press into the back of Shouto’s thighs. He drags him in flush.
The pressure slams Shouto against the counter, their chests pressed so close Shouto can feel every heartbeat Bakugou is trying—and failing—to hide. He breaks the kiss for only a breath, panting softly, eyes wide and blown out. “…You’re strong,” he murmurs.
Bakugou grabs his face and pulls him right back in. “Shut up and kiss me again.” And Shouto obeys immediately.
Their mouths crash together again—messy, heated, breathless. Shouto tilts Bakugou’s chin up, deepening the kiss, swallowing the tiny gasp Bakugou makes as Shouto’s hands slide higher under his shirt, mapping the heat of his torso. Bakugou’s fingers claw at Shouto’s shoulders, desperate, demanding.
Shouto steps even closer, letting Bakugou’s legs tighten around his waist, letting himself be pulled completely into the space between his thighs.
The kiss turns hotter. Deeper. Slower in the kind of way that feels like falling.
Bakugou breaks for air with a shaky exhale, forehead pressed to Shouto’s. “You—” he pants, voice rough, “drive me insane.”
Shouto smiles against his lips. “I know. You drive me insane too.”
Bakugou kisses him again. Hard enough Shouto almost loses balance. Hard enough something on the counter rattles. Hard enough that neither of them care what happens next. He is still kissing him like he’s trying to start a war with their mouths when Shouto shifts his stance—just slightly. One hand steadies Bakugou’s waist, the other curls under his thigh.
Bakugou notices too late. “Don’t you—”
Shouto lifts him.
Effortlessly.
Bakugou’s breath breaks into a shocked sound against Shouto’s lips. His arms fly around Shouto’s shoulders, instinctively tightening there as Shouto adjusts his grip, holding him securely. He growls against his mouth. “You can’t just pick me up whenever you—”
Shouto kisses him again mid-complaint and Bakugou melts instantly.
Shouto walks—slow, steady—still kissing him, still holding him like he weighs nothing. Bakugou’s legs tighten around him automatically, pulling him closer, keeping him there. Their kiss turns deeper, needier, their breaths mingling unevenly.
Shouto murmurs against Bakugou’s mouth, voice low, “I like carrying you.”
Bakugou makes a choked, furious, flustered noise. “I said don’t fucking say stuff like that—”
Shouto smiles against the kiss. Then he sets Bakugou onto a sofa big enough for them both to settle on top of—gentle, but firm—hands already sliding under his shirt again, like he can’t help himself. However when he watches Bakogou shiver, he pauses only long enough to look him in the eye, silently asking permission.
Bakugou exhales sharply, grabs the hem of his own shirt and pulls it off in one fast, irritated, embarrassed motion. “Fine,” he mutters. “It was in the way.”
Shouto actually forgets how to breathe.
Bakugou sitting on his sofa, under him, shirtless, flushed, chest rising unevenly, hands braced against Shouto’s shoulders—It hits Shouto harder than anything so far. He steps in close until their foreheads touch, his hands finding Bakugou’s waist again, bare and warm and trembling.
Bakugou whispers, “Don’t stare like that.” But he doesn’t push him away.
Shouto leans in slowly, letting his lips graze the edge of Bakugou’s jaw. Just barely. Bakugou freezes. Then Shouto presses a real kiss there—soft, slow, deliberate. Bakugou inhales sharply, fingers tightening on Shouto’s shoulders.
Shouto kisses lower, tracing the line of Bakugou’s jaw with his mouth. Every kiss makes Bakugou press closer, legs tightening around Shouto’s hips like he’s trying to anchor himself.
Shouto’s voice drops to something deep, warm, almost dangerous. “You’re very responsive.”
Bakugou’s reply is incoherent. Shouto smiles against his skin, then lowers his lips toward the side of Bakugou’s neck—slow enough to give him a chance to pull away. Bakugou doesn’t. He tilts his head, just a little, breath uneven.
Shouto kisses the curve of that neck as he watches how Bakugou shudders from the touch. Shouto's hands slide up his back, steadying him, holding him as if he’s precious, as if he’s fragile, while his mouth moves slowly along warm skin under his jaw.
Bakugou breathes a whisper. “…Shouto…”
And Shouto’s breath catches. He wants more. He wants muchmuchmuch more. But he forces himself to stop at Bakugou’s pulse, resting there for a moment, letting the heat simmer instead of spill over.
When he lifts his head, their foreheads brush again. Shouto’s breathless and he feels light, his heart warms and he feels good but then he can tell Bakugou’s currently shaking. He wonders if this is too much for him. “Tell me if I should stop.”
Bakugou looks at him like he wants to burn through him. “…Keep going.”
Shouto leans back just enough to see him—then cups Bakugou’s waist again, thumbs brushing over warm skin. Bakugou’s breath stutters as Shouto kisses him one more time.
Slow.
Deep.
Certain.
Bakugou kisses back with everything he has, fingers tightening in Shouto’s hair, pulling him closer like he’s starving for it. Their breaths tangle, their noses press together, and for a few long seconds the world shrinks down to the heat between their mouths.
When they finally pull apart, both panting softly. Shouto rests his forehead against Bakugou’s, voice quiet but unwavering. “…I think I like you, Bakugou.”
Bakugou stares at him. Then glares. Then scoffs—red, breathless, absolutely done for. “You think?”
Shouto smiles—very sure of one thing and from the look in those red eyes, he knows that Bakugou knows that too but he says it again anyway. “I like you, Bakugou.”
Bakugou pulls him back into another kiss. “Fucking took you long, Halfie.”
Epilogue
Denki has always considered himself two things; hilarious… and an absolutely stellar friend.
Really—he loves his friends. All of them. They’ve saved the world together, cried together, almost died together (several times), and their bond is basically unbreakable at this point. Sure, he jokes around nonstop, and yeah, sometimes he fries his own brain a little too often, but he means well. He always does.
Over the years he’s also learned something important; his friends come in types. Some laugh at his jokes. Some tolerate him with long-suffering sighs. Some scold him like he’s a walking fire hazard. But all of them? They care. Deeply. Loudly. Stupidly. It’s kind of beautiful.
Which is why it’s especially weird when Denki wakes up after his afternoon nap—hair sticking in eight directions, phone half-charging under his pillow—to a message from Todoroki of all people. Todoroki. Coolest dude alive. Denki admires him so much he could cry sometimes. And he’s super grateful they’ve gotten closer since graduating.
The message is simple.
Thank you, Kaminari. For helping me figure it out.
Denki just stares at the screen.
Figure what out? Did he help with something recently? Did he accidentally give deep life advice without realizing? Was it the thing with the rice cooker? No—Todoroki already learned that fire does not make rice cook faster. So what is this all about?
His notification lights up again. This time it's from Bakugou. Denki taps it, expecting an insult, maybe a threat, maybe both. Instead he reads this:
thanks or whtvr
And then, immediately after, a picture.
A selfie.
Of Bakugou and Todoroki.
On a bed.
Shirts nowhere in sight. Both of them looking slightly disheveled. Todoroki’s hair is a mess. Bakugou looks like someone kissed the aggression out of him. Denki’s jaw drops so hard it nearly hits the mattress.
Oh.
Oh!
Oh God.
His fingers start shaking with excitement. The group chat—no, the entire friend circle—needs to see this immediately. Denki grins slowly, wickedly, already planning the absolute chaos he’s about to unleash.
The rest of the class are going to lose it. And honestly? He’s never been prouder to be involved, though he’s still not sure how he got involved.
fin