MHA: Bakugo x Kirishima

The late autumn air over the UA University campus is crisp, carrying the faint scent of fallen leaves and the distant rumble of a training simulation gone wrong. At 18 years old, both Bakugo Katsuki and Kirishima Eijiro are in their 1st year of the hero course. They are adults, public figures, and utterly exhausted from a day of joint tactical exercises.

In the warm, dim glow of Bakugo's dorm room, the world is reduced to the space between tangled limbs and shared breath. Kirishima is sprawled on his back across the narrow bed, one arm draped over his eyes, his chest rising and falling in slow, satisfied waves. Bakugo is half-draped over him, his cheek pressed to Kirishima's sternum, one hand splayed across the hard plane of his stomach. His fingers trace idle patterns through the fabric of Kirishima's tank top—lazy, possessive, unguarded.

"Your heart's still racing," Kirishima murmurs, his voice a low rumble in his chest. His free hand finds Bakugo's hair, fingers threading through the ash-blonde spikes with practiced ease. "You gotta learn to cool down after training, man. You're gonna burn out."

Bakugo doesn't open his eyes. He presses his face harder into Kirishima's chest, breathing him in—sweat, fabric softener, the faint metallic tang of his quirk. "Tch. I'm fine, Shitty Hair. You're the one who nearly took a hit to the ribs today. Don't think I didn't notice."

Kirishima's hand stills for a moment, then resumes its gentle motion, fingertips scratching lightly at Bakugo's scalp. "Yeah, well. That's what I got you for, right? Covering my blind spots."

A soft sound escapes Bakugo—a hum of agreement, content and unguarded. He shifts, pressing a kiss to the hollow of Kirishima's throat, slow and deliberate. No rush. No fear. Just them.

Kirishima's arm slides off his eyes, and he looks down at the blonde nestled against him. His sharp-toothed smile is soft, genuine—nothing like the easy grin he wears in public. "Love you, Katsuki."

Bakugo's hand stills on his stomach. For a moment, the only sound is their breathing. Then, barely audible: "...Love you too, Eijiro."

The words hang in the air, fragile and precious.

Then Bakugo's phone buzzes on the nightstand. A reminder. A training debrief in twenty minutes.

Bakugo sighs, the warmth in his expression flickering as reality creeps back in. He pushes himself up, planting a hand on Kirishima's chest for leverage. "We gotta move."

Kirishima catches his wrist before he can pull away, tugging him down for one last kiss—quick, firm, full of promise. "Yeah. I know."

When they separate, the masks slide into place with practiced ease. By the time they step out of the dorm room, they are just classmates again. Friendly rivals. Nothing more.

The training debrief is held in one of UA's underground simulation rooms, the air still thick with the smell of smoke and sweat from the day's exercises. Aizawa stands at the front, his usual exhausted slump somehow more pronounced, a tablet clutched in his hand. A few other students mill about—Mina, Sero, Kaminari—all in various states of fatigue.

But it's the figure standing next to Aizawa that makes Bakugo stop mid-stride.

Someone he doesn't recognise.