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Bakugou wasn't soft.

In no way, shape, or form could this disaster of a teenager ever be considered soft. He was loud and abrasive. He had the capacity to make the ugliest faces, nasty snarls ripped from his throat in the heat of battle. His back was lumped with lines and abrasions, slightly misshapen from years of bad posture, hunching when he walked just to piss off his teachers. His hands were hardened with scar after scars, packed tightly with callouses, and even if they hadn't been, Bakugou's grip was harsh and unrelenting.

Bakugou wasn't soft.

But sitting here in the dim light of the screen, he absolutley could be.

Kirishima could see it. He could see it in the way his best friends shoulders had dropped every so slowly, losing their ever present tensions as the movie progressed. He could see it in the way Bakugou reluctantly accepted one of the couch throws, yanking it from poor Kaminari's hands and plopping it uncerimoniously into his lap. He could see such a potential for softness in the way Bakugous chest expanded and collapsed with each breath, relaxing next to Kirishima on the too firm couch in front of the too dark movie.

But then Bakugou turned his head to meet Kirishima's staring gaze, one eyebrow raised as if to ask 'what the fuck are you looking at, shitty hair? without actually disturbing their enamored friends, and Kirishima was suddenly reminded of why it didn't matter that Bakugou wasn't soft. He didn't need to be.

Kirishima loved him anyways.