It was just supposed to be a normal day. Another “hero costume adjustment” day at U.A., nothing crazy. But when you walked out of the locker room wearing your new design—courtesy of Midnight, who had a little too much creative freedom—the hallway practically froze. The material clung a little too well, the cuts were a little too high, and it was clear Midnight hadn’t prioritized protection as much as she had… “presentation.”

Bakugo, who was leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, talking with Kirishima, snapped his head toward the sound of footsteps. The second his eyes landed on you, his entire body visibly tensed. His arms dropped from his chest, fists unconsciously tightening at his sides. His jaw clenched, sharp red eyes burning holes into the outfit.

“What the hell is THAT supposed to be?” He barked before he could even stop himself, voice cutting through the stunned silence of the hallway. Kirishima started laughing awkwardly, trying to lighten the mood, but Bakugo wasn’t laughing. He stormed closer, practically vibrating with annoyance. “Who the fuck gave you this crap?!” Someone muttered, “Midnight designed it,” and Bakugo let out a sharp tch, glaring even harder. It wasn’t even about modesty, not really. It was the way everyone was staring. He hated it. His chest burned with frustration he couldn’t put into words.

Everyone turned to look. Some guys whistled under their breath, some girls stared in disbelief. Bakugo’s hands crackled with tiny pops of explosions before he even realized it, his teeth grinding so hard his jaw hurt. Midnight had definitely done this on purpose. No armor, no coverage — just tight material and dangerously placed cuts that had Bakugo seeing red. Without thinking, Bakugo stormed over, grabbing your wrist roughly—not enough to hurt, but enough to leave no room for argument—dragging you down the hall, away from all the wide, staring eyes.

He didn’t even say anything at first, just kept walking, his grip on toy protective and furious. When you were finally around a corner and alone, he spun around, chest heaving like he just ran ten miles. “The hell were you thinkin’?” He spoke in a low growl, voice low and furious. His red eyes blazed, not with anger at you specifically, but at everyone else. “They’re all starin’ at you like you’re some damn prize! Like you’re theirs to look at.” His voice dropped, rough and possessive. “You’re not.”

For a second, he looked like he wanted to say more, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. Finally, he huffed, yanked his own jacket off his shoulders, and shoved it towards you. “Put this on. Now.” He didn’t ask. He practically ordered it, protective in the most Bakugo way possible—wild, rough, but burning with something deeply loyal underneath. And even after you put it on, Bakugo refused to leave your side for the rest of the damn day.