It's finally here.
The music hums distantly from the common room. Laughter echoes down the halls. The building itself feels like it's vibrating with anticipation. And yet—
Jirō stands at Denki's door, clutching the suit they picked out together.
She knocks once.
No answer.
So she opens the door—
Denki is doing push-ups.
Not badly, either.
Back straight. Arms sharp.
Rhythm steady, like he's chasing clarity one rep at a time.
The room is dimly lit. A towel draped over the desk chair. Faint synth music pulses from his speaker—upbeat but mellow, like a party about to happen but not yet arrived.
Jirō stepped into the room, plum dress shimmering faintly beneath the hallway lights, holding the tailored suit they'd picked out together. It was time. The party buzzed in the distance, but Denki was nowhere near ready.
He was in the middle of his final set—shirtless, electric yellow hair damp with sweat, muscles flexing with rhythmical ease. The synth beat playing from his speaker pulsed like anticipation.
Jirō froze.
Not because he was shirtless.
Not because he was ripped.
But because she saw it.
The scar.
Across the center of his chest—diagonal, thick, jagged. A healed wound, but still raw in memory. It carved through him like a reminder. And she'd never seen it before.
Her breath caught.
Not dramatically. Not loudly. But enough.
Denki sat up, catching her expression instantly. His towel was already in hand, wiping down his arms, his chest.
Trying to hide.
Trying to shift angles before she could speak.
But she stepped forward.
And set the suit down.
Her fingers reached out—slow, steady.
They brushed gently over the edge of the scar.
Curled against his chest.
Soft but aching.
He looked away.
"I didn't want you to see that."
Jirō didn't pull her hand back.
She pressed her palm against him.
Warm. Solid.
"You got this saving me."
His lips pressed together, jaw tight.
"Yeah. And you were the one hurting. You went through worse."
She shook her head.
"Denki—"
He cut her off, voice low.
"I didn't want to remind you. Of that night. Or what almost happened. I didn't want you to suffer through it again just because it's etched on me."
The words hit like a silent chord.
Off-key. But honest.
Her eyes brimmed.
One blink away from spilling emotion.
But Denki reached out.
Wrapped his fingers around her wrist.
Smiled.
Softly.
Gently.
"No crying. You'll mess up your eyeliner and your whole unstoppable queen vibe."
Jirō half-laughed.
The kind of sound that cracked through tension like a guitar riff in the silence.
They stayed like that for a moment—
her hand on his heart,
his holding hers.
Then his eyes drifted to the suit.
He grinned.
"Is that the 'I look like a midnight song and steal hearts' outfit?"
She nodded, still blinking back warmth.
"Complete with pocket square folded like a guitar pick."
Then, slowly—
He slipped his arms into it.
Pulled it tight across his frame.
Rolled his shoulders once.
Adjusted the lapels with a quick flick of the wrist.
Tapped the plum pocket square folded like a guitar pick.
Straightened the lightning bolt ear cuff.
Paused.
And finally—
He turned around
- Tailored charcoal suitwith just a hint of plum undertones that match Jirō's dress exactly. Subtle. Coordinated. Romantic without trying too hard.
- Midnight black satin lapels, adding edge and elegance—a fashion wink to his usual chaotic spark.
- Deep plum dress shirt beneath, no tie (obviously)—because Denki is 100% a 'leave the top buttons undone and let the vibe speak kind of guy.' And the vibe? Is flirty, fun, and unexpectedly mature.
- On the inside lining of the blazer, a custom print: lightning bolts twisted with musical notes, chaotic harmony, designed just for her.
"It's for Jirō," he always tells people with a casual shrug, like it's not the softest thing he's ever done.
- Sleek black Oxfords with a faint electric blue shine when the light catches right—his trademark flare.
- Cufflinks shaped like miniature amps, because his style is sound-powered.
- Silver lightning bolt ear cuff, wrapping elegantly around one ear like a whisper of his quirk.
- Plum pocket square, folded like a guitar pick—a nod to her music, hidden in plain sight.
Denki finished his final rep, arms flexed, chest rising and falling with steady breath, his cheeks flushed from effort. A sheen of determination clung to him like static.
The light hit him just right.
The plum undertones in the charcoal fabric shimmered.
The satin lapels caught a glint.
His shirt collar open, top buttons loose.
And that smile?
Sharp. Sweet. Slightly too bright.
A little worn. A little forced. But undeniably Denki.
Jirō felt her breath catch.
He looked like the boy who always tried to be okay—for everyone—but tonight?
He was trying for her.
"You're glowing," she said.
He shrugged gently, but his eyes said everything.
"Only because you helped me charge."
After their heart-spilling exchange, Jirō gently pushed Denki toward the hallway with a smirk and a finger tap to his chest.
"Out. You're not allowed to see the full look until it's ready."
Denki obeyed with mock reluctance.
"Fine, but if you emerge as a goddess, I reserve the right to faint dramatically."
She rolled her eyes as she shut the door, laughing.
Inside, the room was quiet. Jirō peeled away her hoodie and sweats, slipping into her dress slowly, purposefully.
She looked at herself in the mirror—hair tousled, brows sharp, eyeliner winged like she was ready for battle... or confession.
The dress fit perfectly.
- Deep plum chiffon, cool and rich, echoing the exact shade of Denki's undershirt.
- The sweetheart neckline, softened by a sheer mesh overlay, creeped elegantly into a high collar studded with silver —punk meets poetry.
- Around her waist, a black velvet ribbon, tied just slightly off-center, like her rhythm always swung left of conventional.
- The skirt flared—asymmetrical, layered, ruffled. When she spun, it flicked like soundwaves at max volume.
- If you caught it just right under the light? The hem shimmered—lightning in motion, a silent little tribute to the boy outside the door.
He'd never know.
But she'd never forget.
She pulled on her chunky black boots—no heels, no compromises.
Hooked in her purple wire earrings, shaped like musical notes.
Glanced at her nails—matte black.
Checked the wing on her eyeliner.
Perfect. Weaponized.
She breathed in once.
Out slowly.
And stepped toward the door.
Denki turned as it opened.
He froze.
Literally.
Breathless.
Because there she was.
His girl.
Sound and lightning wrapped in chiffon.
Eyes locked, dress swirling, boots thudding softly.
She didn't try too hard.
She didn't need to.
She was just... Jirō.
But more. Somehow.
Denki blinked.
And smiled.
Soft. Quiet.
"You look like a song I'd play on repeat forever."
Jiro blushed. Rare. Real.
Before she could answer—
He stepped in.
Hands on her waist.
Leaned forward.
Pressed a soft, lingering kiss to her lips.
No words.
Just static and melody.
And when they pulled back—
She smiled.
"You'd truly be an idiot if you hadn't."
The hallway buzzed with muffled music and bursts of laughter—but right outside Mina's room, Kirishima stood perfectly still.
His burgundy suit blazed, a vibrant contrast to his natural warmth. The jacket hugged his shoulders, the jagged embroidery whispering power, resilience, and heroism. The silk shirt beneath? Rose gold—soft, glowing, unexpected. The top buttons undone, because Mina said "show collarbone or go home."
His necklace? Braided black chain, heart pendant, hand-forged with love and molten sentiment. And inside his lapel—"Alien Queen Approved",stitched in metallic thread like a vow.
Kirishima's hair was tousled just enough, a perfect storm of effort and easy charm. His shoes? Matte black with rose gold soles, because every twirl deserved a trail.
Beside him, arms crossed and very much not here to flirt, stood Bakugō Katsuki.
Jet-black tux. Ember-red stitching.
The seams simmered like restrained combustion.
No lapel flare—his had jagged points, that cut like intent.
Crimson shirt, buttoned to the top.
Metal choker. Skull cufflinks. Grenade buckle.
Bakugō's shoes glinted, flame-detailed and quiet about it.
"Remind me why I'm here," he muttered.
Kirishima chuckled. "Because you'd look amazing brooding in the corner?"
Bakugō scoffed.
But then—the door creaked.
And Mina Ashido stepped out.
She twirled.
Just once.
And the hallway glowed.
Off-the-shoulder rose gold sequins, hugging her like a constellation.
Sweetheart neckline, fluttering mesh sleeves like champagne fizz.
Her skirt swept in a cascade—high-low blush-gold ombré, ruffled and radiant, with tiny rhinestone hearts twinkling in the hem like secrets.
Her ankle boots bounced, her earrings gleamed, her clutch sparkled with pins of her squad.
Her hair curled into a romantic bun, pink streaks escaping like joyful rebellion.
Peach glow. Bold lashes.
Heart eyes aimed at Kirishima.
He forgot what breathing was.
Bakugō side-eyed him.
"Dude. You short-circuiting?"
Kirishima stepped forward slowly.
Eyes locked.
"You look..."
He blinked.
"Like a supernova made of charm."
Mina grinned and struck a pose.
"Only because you're my gravity, babe."
Kirishima laughed, spinning her once—the soles of his shoes leaving a shimmer trail. She landed neatly in his arms, face lit with starry rebellion.
Bakugō coughed.
"Can we go now?"
Mina grabbed Kirishima's hand.
Her other hand slipped behind to fist bump Bakugō—because even the explosions were part of her heart tonight.
The hallway to the girls' dorm was quieter than usual—lit with soft golden sconces, echoing faint music from the ballroom level below. But walking down it like they owned every inch of silence were two boys who didn't belong in typical light.
Shigaraki, transformed beyond recognition, walked with deliberate calm.
- His crimson velvet blazer drank in the warmth of the corridor, its sharp tailoring etched with the defiance of someone who had learned presence.
- Beneath it, the black silk shirt—top buttons undone, collar relaxed—radiated the quiet intensity of someone who used to cower in hoodies, but not tonight.
- Silver-thread embroidery stitched across the lapels in vein-like chaos echoed his quirk, intentional and sharp.
- His matte black trousers clung to him like shadows, stitched with subtle red seams—secrets no one could read but everyone could feel.
- Charcoal boots, no laces, no compromises. Every step thudded like tension.
- And then the gloves—sleek and functional, embedded with quirk-resistant tech, stitched by support course legends, gleaming like high-fashion weaponry.
Dabi, beside him, was the perfect foil—grunge glamour born from fire and impulse.
- His jet-black suit, tailored but imperfect, seams exposed and singed, looked like it had been sewn in a hurry mid-meltdown.
- Underneath: a deep wine-red mesh shirt, fitted like smoke, chosen to match Toga's dress—and yes, he'd let her pick it, even if he didn't say it out loud.
- His open suit jacket swayed with silver chains looping from collarbone to waist, one holding a rose-in-glass charm gifted by Toga, subtle and fierce.
- His slim pants, kissed by rips and decorated in mismatched pins and patches, were pure aesthetic rebellion.
- Steel-capped combat boots, polished but worn, stomped with gritty elegance.
- His white hair, tousled with a streak of ash grey, paired with smoky eyeliner and that trademark smolder—only softer this time. Toga's touch was everywhere.
Dabi side-eyed Shigaraki.
"Whoa. You look like a villain who charges admission just to get a glimpse."
Shigaraki smirked.
"Not like you look like anything normal."
Dabi scoffed.
"You planning to dance with Creasa or just brood like a sculpture?"
Shigaraki tilted his head.
"Not like you know how to dance."
Dabi snorted.
"Excuse you. My aesthetic has rhythm."
But Shigaraki said nothing else.
Just tugged his cuff.
Rolled his shoulders.
Walked.
Dabi blinked.
'Okay wait… was that posture? Elegance? Grace?'
What he didn't know?
Shigaraki had spent all week getting dragged through:
- Posture drills with hardcover villain biographies balanced on his head
- Dance lessons where Mina yelled "No zombie arms!" and Kirishima judged every step
- Facial expression coachin* where smirking too hard got him labeled "serial killer energy"
It was torture.
But tonight?
It was worth it.
Dabi rapped his knuckles on the door.
Once.
Twice.
Then banged like the house owed him rent.
"TOGA! HURRY UP! We're melting out here!"
Inside: chaos.
Outside: impatience.
Behind him: Shigaraki, standing still in his crimson velvet silence, gloves tucked perfectly, shoulders squared like he'd rehearsed this walk one too many times.
A muffled yell followed from inside.
"DABI, SHUT YOUR EMO MOUTH OR I'LL GIVE YOUR SUIT MORE RIPS!"
Dabi smirked.
He loved her. Obviously.
While they waited, Dabi turned to Shigaraki, raising one brow.
"You look nervous."
Shigaraki didn't answer.
His eyes were on the hallway, the dim light bouncing off his silver-stitched lapels.
His gloves flexed slightly.
His jaw? Just the tiniest bit clenched.
"You sure you're ready for this?"
Shigaraki grunted.
"Better question—are you ready to explain why your pants are held together with safety pins?"
Dabi scoffed.
"It's called design trauma."
They kept bantering.
Dabi poking.
Shigaraki deflecting.
Until—
Shigaraki stopped.
Froze.
Completely still.
"Yo. What?" Dabi turned.
Then blinked.
Twice.
Because the door was open.
And they were standing there.
Toga was chaos in velvet.
- A crimson slip dress, hugging her curves like drama written in silk.
- Thin black straps crisscrossed her back in crooked geometry.
- The neckline plunged low, edged in fluttering black lace that twitched like bat wings every time she breathed.
- Her skirt ended just below her knees, but with a hemline jagged like whispers of violence.
- A black sheer overlay floated behind her like a playful ghost.
- Draped over her shoulders—her signature cream cardigan, worn and soft. She dressed up, yes, but never let go of herself.
- Combat boots. Of course.
- Her hair styled in twin messy buns, golden strands framing her flushed cheeks and mischief-heavy eyes.
- Around her neck: a black ribbon choker, with a tiny vial charm glowing faintly—What's inside?
She'd grin. She'd never say.
Darkcreasa walked out behind Toga like silence in motion.
- Dressed not for attention—dressed for survival.
- Inky velvet and matte leather fused into a sleek bodice, zipped with jagged teeth up her spine.
- A layered train of black asymmetrical panels, sheer and opaque, whispered behind her like smoke that had seen too much.
- Slits ran high, revealing combat leggings and glinting thigh-high boots.
- Her left arm wrapped in leather and iron studs, each one whispering something unspoken.
- No jewelry—just one chain with a worn arcade token at her wrist.
Shigaraki remembered dropping it. Once.
She hadn't forgotten.
Her hair fell like curtains—long, dark, only half letting her be seen.
Brown eyes met crimson velvet—and held.
Something pulsed.
Electric.
Unspoken.
Real.
Shigaraki forgot everything.
His posture.
His rehearsals.
Even the words in his head.
Because she looked at him like he was new.
Not terrifying.
Not broken.
Just... inexplicably dressed well.
Darkcreasa blinked.
'Why does he look like... that?'
She couldn't even describe it.
'Elegant? Mysterious?
Nice?'
Her heartbeat answered for her.
---
Dabi exhaled.
"Yup. Now we're ready."
Shigaraki didn't speak.
He didn't need to.
He just offered his hand.
Darkcreasa hesitated.
Then took it.
And as the four of them walked toward the ballroom—
The hallway was quiet.
Not because it needed to be.
But because this entrance didn't need music.
It was music.
They walked together.
Four silhouettes cutting through the moonlit path toward the glowing sounds of the party.
But between the sequins and laughter, two walked in complete silence.
Shigaraki and Darkcreasa.
And while she didn't notice, didn't quite feel it yet—
Shigaraki was hyper-aware.
Hyper-aware of the smooth press of her arm against his.
Of the tiny flutter of her dress brushing his sleeve.
Of her hand in his—gloved, protected, calculated.
But still.
It was contact.
And beneath all the circuitry and reinforced stitching, his quirk still lived inside him, itching and whispering.
'Don't move wrong. Don't grip too hard. Don't ruin this.'
He adjusted minutely every step, eyes flicking down whenever the path curved, mapping every inch between her and danger. The gloves worked. They were designed for this.
But fear didn't respect engineering.
Meanwhile—
Darkcreasa?
She was trying to process the suit.
Not the idea of a suit.
His suit.
The shimmered velvet.
The whispery silver embroidery crawling like couture chaos.
The way his boots thudded like thunder softened by rhythm.
She was internally SCREAMING.
'Why does he look so NICE?'
Like… elegantly villainous.
Cute.
Hot.
Handsome.
She cursed her heart.
Her soul.
Her girl brain.
Then repeated:
No. No. NO. This is a formerly feral cryptid with a destruction kink. We do NOT swoon.
But then he glanced at her—
Just one slow turn of his head, eyes unreadable but aware.
Her brain short-circuited.
A few paces ahead—
Toga practically dragged Dabi down the path like she was late for a red carpet moment.
"You're brooding too loud, babe. People are gonna think you hate this."
Dabi muttered.
"I do hate this."
"Not with me on your arm you don't!"
She spun once—her velvet dress flaring, her tulle trailing like scandal.
Dabi nearly tripped over his own chain.
But he didn't stop walking.
He never did.
And behind them—
Shigaraki and Darkcreasa stepped into the light—
Quiet.
Careful.
Shimmering like sin wrapped in formality.
Because sometimes?
The loudest entrance is silent.