Chapter Text
Todoroki’s finger paused above the screen. A series of artistic makeup and styling pieces filled the page. Amid the endless stream of content, the bold colors were impossible to ignore. Even in the thumbnails, the designer’s raw ambition and overwhelming vitality bled through the work.
Something stirred in Todoroki’s chest. Though he rarely chose his own looks, he felt an irresistible pull toward the images. Without thinking, he tapped one for a closer look.
He had never seen such daring designs before. The model in the image wore tight, revealing clothing, yet it felt anything but vulgar. Instead, it accentuated the breathtaking curves of her figure. The makeup featured highly saturated colors clashing with vivid intensity, enhancing her features in a way that was striking yet perfectly balanced. Her earrings and necklace were simple in style but deliberately oversized. Their metallic sheen gleamed under the light, echoing the brilliance of her ice-colored eyes.
Wild. Captivating.
Todoroki stared, blinking in quiet disbelief. Clicking through to the artist’s personal page felt almost inevitable.
The artist’s homepage was titled Dynamight. The name was loud—almost explosive. It lingered in Todoroki’s mind longer than he expected. Todoroki noticed that the artist possessed an incredibly wide stylistic range. He handled everything from elaborate stage looks to casual styling. Moreover, every piece displayed distinct creativity and an unrestrained boldness. Each image revealed a flamboyant beauty that held nothing back.
Out of curiosity, he selected the Time Reverse button and began browsing the artist’s earliest works. The account had been active for five years, yet even the oldest pieces appeared mature and well-structured. It also seemed to function purely as a professional portfolio showcasing completed works.
Todoroki felt a faint sense of disappointment. He had hoped to learn more about the artist behind the creations.
Voices overlapped across the room.
“No, this designer’s color balance is completely unstable!”
“You’re missing the concept behind it—stage impact matters more than technical restraint!”
“We need reliability, not someone experimental!”
Arguments collided from every direction, rising in pitch as each member spoke over the other. Tablets were shoved forward, images flicked across screens, hands gesturing sharply in the air. The discussion had long since lost any sense of order.
Todoroki stood slightly apart from the group, his gaze lowered to his phone. The debate faded into background noise as he scrolled through the portfolio again, studying each piece with quiet focus.
Behind him, the discussion carried on.
“This isn’t a fashion show, it’s a professional event!”
“And playing safe won’t leave any impression!”
“We’re running out of preparation time!”
Todoroki let out a slow breath. Only after finishing reviewing the page did he look up.
“So,” he asked, holding his phone out slightly, “What about this person?”
The conversation paused.
A few team members turned toward him, caught off guard by his sudden input. Todoroki rarely involved himself in styling discussions, and it took them a moment to react.
It was the first time Shoto had suggested a designer himself.
“Alright! Last shot—look at the camera, Ashido… yeah! Got it!” Sero lowered the camera, scrolling through the photos with a satisfied grin.
“Ooh! Lemme see! I bet I look totally gorgeous!”
Ashido hopped off the platform and leaned right over Sero’s shoulder, reaching for the camera.
“Hey, hey—hold up! This thing cost me a fortune!”
“Then you should just hand it over to me—”
Bakugou shot them a sideways glance, scoffing as he packed up his makeup kit. He wouldn’t admit it out loud, but he was damn near proud of the new look he’d designed for Ashido.
There was no way the photos could turn out bad. Ashido already had incredible presence as a model, and after years of working together, he trusted Sero’s photography skills. Most importantly, Bakugo knew his own taste—and his makeup stills—were second to none.
“Alright, alright, break it up, Ashido!” Kirishima jumped in with an easy laugh, catching her by the shoulders before she could wrestle the camera away. “C’mon, Sero still needs that thing, right?”
“Yeah, yeah—thank you!” Sero hugged the camera protectively. “You’re like two seconds away from committing property damage.”
“Relax, I just wanna see!” Ashido whined, bouncing on her heels.
“Heyyy, speaking of seeing stuff,” Kaminari said casually, leaning his elbow on Bakugou’s shoulder like he owned the place. “bakugo, dude, your studio’s officially one year old now, right? That calls for a celebration. Big dinner. Your treat.”
Bakugou didn’t even turn his head. “Drop dead.”
Kaminari grinned wider. “C’mon, Ashido literally paid you today. That means she basically sponsored the party. It’s destiny.”
“EXCUSE me?!” Ashido whipped around. “I paid for a photoshoot, not for feeding you freeloaders! Bakugou and Sero actually worked, and what did you do?!”
“Oh, wow, unbelievable,” Kaminari shot back, clutching his chest dramatically. “Who drove your butt all the way here, huh? And who helped lug all that gear upstairs?” He jerked a thumb at Kirishima. “If it weren’t for us, you’d still be stuck in the loading zone.Back me up here, Kacchan.”
“Shut it. All of you,” Bakugou cut in, snapping his makeup case shut with a sharp click. “Pack your crap and get out of my studio. I’m done for the day.”
“Aww, cold……” Sero muttered, slinging his camera strap over his shoulder.
“Seriously?” Kaminari groaned. “Not even ramen? Street food? A convenience store feast? I’m flexible, man.”
“Bakugou!” Kirishima called, jogging after him as Bakugo stalked toward the door. “Hey, c’mon—when was the last time we all hung out like this? Everyone’s here already. You sure you don’t wanna come?”
“You can go without me,” Bakugou replied. he stopped at the doorway, turned slightly, and barked, “Get out already! Or I’ll lock you idiots in here.”
“Yeah, yeah, we’re leaving!” Ashido huffed, grabbing her bag. “You’re so grumpy today, Bakugou!”
“Today?” Kaminari snorted.
Bakugou ignored them, standing off to the side with his arms crossed while they continued to bicker, complain, and take way too long gathering their things. He only shut and locked the studio door after the last of them had piled into their cars and driven off.
He wasn’t skipping dinner out of spite. Designing Ashido’s look had drained him completely, and he wasn’t the type to drag himself out just to socialize afterward.
Still, he cared about those idiots. And they cared about him just as much. They all understood that, even if he’d never say it out loud.
Bakugou pushed his way onto the Underground, already cursing under his breath. He swore he’d buy a damn car the moment he had enough money saved. The daily commute was way too long, and the packed carriage was unbearable.
He knew how hard it was to build a career in the fashion industry from scratch. Even with the huge following he’d gained on social media, nothing came easy.
He shoved through the crowd, gripping the overhead rail, and endured several stops before finally spotting an empty seat. He dropped into it without hesitation.
The moment he sat down, exhaustion hit him like a tidal wave. He rested his makeup case on his lap and shut his eyes, trying to grab even a few minutes of peace.
Then his phone rang.
Work email notification.
He frowned, refusing to open his eyes. The noise of the train and the chatter around him blended together, almost drowning out the sound. For a moment, he pretended it hadn’t happened. Maybe he imagined it. Maybe it could wait.
He let a few more stops pass before finally pulling out his phone with a quiet, irritated click of his tongue.
"Dear Dynamight Studio,
We hope you are doing well. We are writing to you from Shoto's styling team.
Mr. Shoto recently came across your work and expressed interest in your design aesthetic. We believe your creative direction may align well with the concept of an upcoming editorial cover shoot currently in preparation.
If you would be open to considering a collaboration, we would sincerely appreciate the opportunity to discuss this project further and confirm your availability.
Thank you very much for your time and consideration.
Sincerely,
Endeavor Agency
Artist Management Division
Shoto Styling Team"
Bakugou’s eyes snapped open.
Who the hell? Shoto?? That superstar?
For a second, he was convinced it had to be a scam. He immediately pulled up Endeavor Agency’s official website to check the sender’s email address.
……Holy shit. It was real.
Any trace of drowsiness vanished instantly.
The ride home dragged on forever. Ironic, really—he was rushing home just to keep working instead of getting any actual rest. But that email had him too fired up to sit still.
He yanked his phone out again and started digging up whatever he could about Shoto. Yeah, the guy was insanely famous, but Bakugou had never really given a damn before.
A prodigy idol who debuted at fifteen, skilled in piano, violin, and several other instruments. With an exceptionally wide vocal range and the ability to command nearly any musical style, he quickly rose to fame, known for a sound that blended cold detachment with melancholic tenderness—along with a face that was unfairly, infuriatingly handsome.
In other words, a fucking perfect model.
Instant fame didn’t just feel possible anymore. Bakugou got home and fired off a reply email almost immediately. Fast, sharp, straight to the point. Professional enough not to screw it up. When he hit send, that should’ve calmed him down—but it didn’t.
He started pacing his room like a caged animal, energy buzzing under his skin. It was already late, but when he finally dropped onto his bed, sleep wouldn’t come close. He just lay there, staring into the dark, brain keeps running like it refused to shut up.
“Tch…”
He sat up, dragging a hand roughly through his hair. No point forcing it. His body felt like shit, his head felt worse, yet he shoved himself out of bed and booted up his computer in the dark.
At first, he was just killing time, casually looking through Shoto’s past styling work. Then the more he scrolled, the faster he got sucked in.
Shoto's proportions were flawless. Long limbs, balanced frame, lines that fell perfectly no matter what angle you shot him from. You could throw literal trash fabric on him and it’d still photograph like high fashion. And that face? Barely needed contour. Even the worst novice would struggle to make him look bad.
It was practically free money sitting in front of him.
Bakugou’s cursor hovered over Shoto’s face for way too long while he frowned at the screen, brain grinding at full speed. Without even realizing it, he started digging deeper: every music video Shoto had ever released, every his makeup evolution over seven years in the industry, every fashion magazine cover he’d appeared on, and even fan-taken street photos.
The deeper Bakugou dug, the more pissed off he got. The styling wasn’t bad—not at all. Polished, expensive, clean… and safe.
Too safe.
They kept dressing Shoto like he was made of glass—smooth silhouettes, soft fabrics, muted colors. Elegant. Pretty. Predictable. But Shoto’s build was made for impact: sharp shoulders, a tight waist, long, clean lines that demanded attention. Every time the lighting got harsher, every time the styling edged toward something bold, he looked better—hungrier, sharper, and more dangerous.
Every single time, they pulled back before it crossed the line, like they were scared of their masterpiece himself. They were holding a weapon and refusing to use it.
Bakugou leaned closer to the screen, eyes narrowing. Shoto wasn’t fragile. He wasn’t soft. He was restrained. And Bakugou hated wasted potential more than anything.
He kept at it until dawn. When he finally shut down his nearly dead laptop, rubbed his sore eyes and aching back, his heart still racing and his head throbbing from staying up all night. He glanced at the clock, let out a frustrated sigh, and decided to grab a few hours of sleep before heading to the studio to finish today’s client work. Even though Shoto’s team wouldn’t respond quickly—or might not even confirm he’d be designing it—he’d made thorough (maybe unnecessary) preparations. He’d grab this chance no matter what.
As for all that built-up frustration from staying up all night—the restless energy, the excitement, the irritation—he let it loose on Shoto.
That bastard was more stimulating than caffeine.