The Taste of Second Best

The first time Kirishima showed up at his door at midnight, Bakugou thought they were gonna fight. Like, actually fight—blood and bruises and that breathless satisfaction. But instead, there was a hand on his jaw and a mouth against his, desperate and rough, and Bakugou figured out pretty quick there were other ways to feel alive.

It turned into a routine. Two, three times a week, Kirishima would text a clenched fist emoji, and Bakugou would unlock his door and wait. Kirishima would walk in all tight shoulders and shadowed eyes, and for an hour or two he'd just take everything out on him. Push him against the wall, bite his neck hard enough to bruise, and whisper Kaminari's name like it was some kind of prayer. Like Bakugou couldn't hear.

And Bakugou let him. Arched into those rough hands, swallowed the moans, told himself it didn't matter. Just stress relief. Bodies colliding. Nothing more.

But after Kirishima left—always that mumbled "Thanks, man, I needed that," never a kiss goodbye—Bakugou would lie in the dark and trace the bruises on his ribs like they were love letters. Press his palm to his chest and feel that ache that had nothing to do with the sex.

He loved him. Stupid, pathetic Bakugou Katsuki loved him. And he'd rather swallow a live grenade than say it out loud.

So he didn't. Kept his mouth shut, his legs open, and told himself it was enough. Being someone's second choice was better than being no one's. Right?

---

The bruises were harder to hide that week. Kirishima had been extra rough—something about watching Kaminari laugh at Shinsou's dumb joke—and Bakugou's wrist was ringed with purple fingerprints. He'd pulled his sleeve down, but Deku's eyes were too damn sharp.

"Kacchan."

Bakugou stiffened at the counter, pouring coffee. Deku materialized like a ghost.

"What."

"Your wrist." Deku stepped closer, squinting at the fabric. "That's not a training injury. I know how you fight. You don't get marks like that from sparring."

Bakugou slammed his mug down. "Since when do you analyze my fucking wrists? Mind your own business, nerd."

"You've been distant." There it was—that earnest, infuriating concern that made Bakugou want to put a hole in the wall. "Skipping meals. Flinching when anyone touches you. I saw you limping yesterday—"

"I'm fine." Snarled. "Drop it."

But Deku never dropped anything. He just stood there, hands clenched, looking at Bakugou like he was a puzzle missing pieces.

"If someone's hurting you—"

"No one's hurting me." I'm letting them. "None of your goddamn business."

He grabbed his coffee and walked out, ignoring how his wrist throbbed when he tightened his grip. Behind him, Deku exhaled—shaky, frustrated—then footsteps heading the other way.

Good, Bakugou thought. Let him worry. He'll get tired of it eventually. They all did.

---

That night, Kirishima showed up earlier than usual. Hair a mess, eyes red-rimmed, he barely made it through the door before he started talking.

"He asked him out." Kirishima's voice cracked. "Kaminari asked Shinsou out. To dinner. A date. I thought I had time, you know? Thought if I just waited, he'd see me. But he doesn't. Never will."

Bakugou felt the familiar twist in his chest—jealousy, sharp and bitter—but swallowed it down. Reached out, pulled Kirishima closer, their mouths colliding in a kiss that tasted like salt and desperation.

"Don't think about him," Bakugou murmured against his lips. "Just feel this."

And Kirishima did. Pushed Bakugou onto the bed, buried his face in his neck, fucked him like he was trying to forget. Bakugou let him. Wrapped his legs around Kirishima's waist, dug his nails into his back, and pretended—just for a moment—that the hands holding him down wanted him.

Afterward, Kirishima lay beside him, breathing hard. "You're a good friend, Bakugou."

Friend. Right. Bakugou stared at the ceiling, said nothing.

"I mean it." Kirishima rolled onto his side, and for a second his eyes softened. "You always let me vent. Make me feel better. Don't know what I'd do without you."

Love me back, Bakugou thought. See me. Want me. Choose me.

Instead: "Yeah, well. Don't get used to it."

Kirishima laughed—hollow, tired—and got up to dress. Gone within five minutes.

Bakugou lay in the dark, the taste of him still on his tongue, wondering when he'd started hating himself so much that this felt like love.

---

Deku didn't stop investigating. Too smart for that, too stubborn. Bakugou would catch him staring at Kirishima across the cafeteria, brow furrowed, muttering barely audible. And then one afternoon, Deku cornered Kaminari in the common room.

"Hey, Denki? Can I ask you something about Kirishima?"

Bakugou was in the hallway, just out of sight. Froze.

"Sure, dude. What's up?"

"Has he been acting strange lately? More stressed than usual? I noticed he's been spending a lot of time with Kacchan."

Kaminari whistled low. "Oh, man. You noticed that too? Thought it was just me. They're always together now. Eijirou's been super cagey about it. Says they're just 'training extra hard.' But I saw Bakugou's neck last week. That wasn't training."

Deku's voice went quiet, dangerous. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, dude, they're hooking up. Obviously. Eijirou's been weird ever since I started seeing Hitoshi. I think he's using Bakugou to get over me. Kinda messed up, honestly."

Bakugou's stomach turned. Pressed his back against the wall, nails digging into his palms.

"Using him," Deku repeated. Flat, cold. "So Kirishima is using Kacchan as a rebound."

"I mean, I don't know for sure, but—yeah. Probably. Bakugou's like, super intense. I can see why Eijirou would go to him. But it's not fair to either of them, y'know?"

Deku didn't answer. Bakugou heard footsteps heading toward the door and bolted around the corner, heart hammering. Made it to his room, locked the door, slid down until he was sitting on the floor.

Deku knew. And he wasn't going to let it go.

---

The confrontation happened two days later. Bakugou was walking past the training ground's equipment shed when he heard voices—Deku's, sharp and furious, and Kirishima's, defensive and guilty.

"You need to stop." Deku's voice shook, but not with fear. With rage. "Whatever you're doing with Kacchan, it ends now."

"Midoriya, man, I don't know what you're talking about—"

"Don't lie to me. I talked to Kaminari. I saw the marks on Kacchan's wrist. You're using him as a punching bag because you're too afraid to confess your own feelings."

Silence. Then Kirishima's voice, smaller. "It's not like that. He agreed to it. We're both adults—"

"He agreed because he thinks it's all he deserves." Deku's voice cracked. "He's been in love with you since first year, Eijirou. And you've been using him to numb your own pain. Do you have any idea what that's doing to him?"

Bakugou's vision went white. Love with you? No. No, I don't—

"He loves me?" Kirishima sounded stunned.

"Yes. And you're breaking him." A long pause. "End it. Or I will."

Bakugou didn't wait to hear more. Turned and ran—back to the dorms, up the stairs, into his room. Locked the door, stood in the middle of the floor, breathing hard.

He loves me. Deku had said it out loud. The secret buried so deep even he barely acknowledged it, now hanging in the air, exposed and raw.

He sank onto his bed, hands shaking. Humiliation burned in his chest, hot and suffocating. Deku knew. Deku had seen the bruises, put the pieces together, and come to his defense like some goddamn knight in shining armor.

He didn't want defense. Didn't want pity. Wanted to be someone worth choosing, not someone who had to be rescued.

For three days, Bakugou avoided everyone. Skipped meals, skipped class, skipped training. Stayed in his room with the curtains drawn, replaying every moment with Kirishima, every time he'd said it doesn't matter, every time he'd let himself be used.

He'd thought he was being strong. Thought if he just endured it, eventually Kirishima would see him—really see him—and realize he was the one Bakugou had been waiting for all along.

But that was never going to happen. Deku had made sure he understood that.

And the worst part? The absolute, crushing worst part? Deku had been right to step in. Because Bakugou would have let Kirishima keep breaking him. Would have let himself shatter into pieces just for the chance to be held.

---

The rooftop was the only place they couldn't find him. The dorms had a small flat roof accessible through a maintenance hatch, and Bakugou had discovered it months ago during a late-night walk. It became his sanctuary—cold, windy, and alone.

That night, he sat with his back against the railing, staring at the stars. He'd stopped crying an hour ago, but his cheeks were still wet, and his throat ached from holding back sobs.

He heard the hatch creak open. Footsteps. Then Deku's voice, soft and broken.

"Kacchan."

"Go away."

"I'm not going away."

Deku sat down beside him, close enough that Bakugou could feel the heat radiating off his body. For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

"I'm sorry," Deku finally said. "For confronting Kirishima. I shouldn't have—I should have talked to you first."

"Damn right you should have."

"But I couldn't. Couldn't stand seeing him hurt you like that."

Bakugou laughed—bitter, ugly. "I let him hurt me, Deku. I wanted him to."

"No." Deku's hand found his, warm and trembling. "You wanted him to love you. That's not the same thing."

The words hit like a punch to the chest. Bakugou's breath stuttered, and before he could stop it, a sob tore out of his throat.

"I'm so stupid," he whispered. "I knew he didn't want me. Knew I was just—a placeholder. Someone to take his frustration out on. But I thought if I was good enough, if I let him take everything, he'd eventually see me."

"Kacchan—"

"I feel worthless." The confession came out raw, broken. "I feel like I don't deserve anyone to look at me and see something they want to keep. So I let him use me. Because at least when he was inside me, I wasn't invisible."

Deku made a sound—pained, strangled—and then his arms were around Bakugou, pulling him close. Bakugou stiffened, but Deku held on, hands shaking as he cradled Bakugou's head against his chest.

"You are not worthless." Deku's voice was thick with tears. "You are the strongest person I know. You've fought for everything you have. And you deserve someone who looks at you like you're the only person in the world."

"Stop." Bakugou's hands fisted in Deku's shirt. "Stop saying things you don't mean."

"I mean every word." Deku pulled back, green eyes locked onto Bakugou's. "I've loved you since we were kids, Kacchan. Through everything—the bullying, the rivalry, the years we didn't speak. I never stopped. And I couldn't stand by while someone treated you like you were disposable. Because you're not. You're not."

Bakugou stared at him. The words didn't make sense. They couldn't be real.

"You're lying."

"I'm not."

"You're just saying that because you feel sorry for me."

"I'm saying it because it's true." Deku took Bakugou's face in his hands, thumbs brushing away the tears. "I've been wanting to tell you for months, but I was scared. Scared you'd push me away. Scared I'd lose you again. But seeing you like this—I can't stay silent anymore. I love you, Katsuki. And I want to be with you. Not for what you can give me. Because of who you are."

Bakugou's chest ached. The thing he'd wanted for so long—to be seen, to be chosen—was right in front of him, and he was terrified.

"I don't know how to do this," he admitted, voice barely a whisper. "I don't know how to be loved without hurting."

"Then I'll teach you." Deku's smile was soft, tearful, radiant. "I'll show you every day. I'll be patient. I'll be gentle. And I'll never, ever make you feel like you're second to anyone."

Bakugou broke. Pressed forward and kissed Deku—clumsy, desperate, tasting salt and hope. Deku kissed him back, one hand sliding into his hair, the other wrapped around his waist. It was nothing like Kirishima's rough, demanding mouth. It was soft. Careful. Reverent.

When they finally pulled apart, Bakugou was shaking.

"This is terrifying," he said.

"I know." Deku rested his forehead against his. "But I'll be right here. Every step."

For the first time in months, Bakugou felt something other than hollow. Fragile, uncertain—a tiny flame in the dark—but there.

And maybe, just maybe, that was enough to start.

---

Kirishima came to him the next morning. Eyes red, hair a mess, looked like he hadn't slept.

"I'm sorry." The words came out in a rush. "Midoriya told me everything. And I—I didn't realize. I was so caught up in my own shit that I didn't see I was using you. Hurting you."

Bakugou crossed his arms, but his gaze was steady. "Yeah. You were."

"I'm not making excuses. What I did was wrong. Treated you like a rebound, and you deserved better. You deserve someone who actually sees you."

Bakugou thought of Deku's hands, gentle and warm. "I know."

Kirishima winced, but nodded. "I'm going to take some time. Figure out what I really want. And I won't—I won't come to you like that again. If you ever want to talk, or hang out as friends, I'd like that. But only if you want."

Bakugou considered it. Part of him wanted to blast Kirishima's face off. But another part—the part that had healed a little, started to believe he was worth more—just wanted to move on.

"Fine," he said. "But if you ever try that shit again, I'll blow you to pieces."

Kirishima laughed, weak and apologetic. "I know. And I'm sorry."

He walked away. Bakugou watched him go, and for a second, the old ache flickered in his chest. But then he turned, and there was Deku, leaning against the wall with a coffee in each hand and a nervous smile.

"Thought you might want one," Deku said, holding out a cup.

Bakugou took it. Their fingers brushed, and instead of pulling away, Bakugou let his hand linger.

"Don't think this means I'm going soft, nerd."

Deku's smile widened. "Wouldn't dream of it."

---

Three weeks later, Bakugou walked into the training ground with a new bracelet on his wrist—plain black cord, a single red bead. Deku had given it to him that morning, mumbling something about "a symbol of our bond" and "I know it's cheesy but I wanted you to have something to remind you that you're loved."

Bakugou had called him a sappy idiot. Then kissed him and put the bracelet on.

Now they stood side by side, facing the sparring mats. Deku was already bouncing on his heels, muttering strategies under his breath. Bakugou rolled his shoulders, letting the familiar fire build in his palms.

"Ready to get your ass kicked, Deku?"

Deku grinned—bright, fearless, full of love. "You wish, Kacchan."

They moved at the same time, explosions and green lightning colliding. Chaotic, loud, exhilarating. And when Bakugou landed a hit and Deku laughed, breathless and happy, Bakugou felt something settle in his chest.

He wasn't second to anyone anymore. Wasn't a placeholder. Wasn't invisible.

He was loved. And for the first time in his life, he believed he deserved it.