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It's easily be both fascinated and bored by the ocean and its splendor. On one hand, Bakugou fails to see the wonder which came by the rising and falling tides. The blankness which spread before him, daringly touching the horizon with indifferent hands, makes him feel tired. There was always a fragile nonchalance which drew the strength of the waters - fragile because the water did not like to be controlled or restricted and could grow wild at any moment, pouring devastating effects. Despite the similarities, however, water was nothing like his fire. No, it was much scarier. It was fluid, capable of bending in ways that fire could only dream to destroy and decimate, capable of being so much more than his fire. The only thing he could do was turn it to steam if he tried hard enough, but it was draining. He supposes that brings him to his next point - water is fascinating, a body of life and possibilities, creatures swimming within the darkness and murk. There is a strange relationship between the sea and the moon, living on each other's push and pull.

Bakugou says nothing when he sees Kirishima stumble across a stranger, eyes glistening when he looks at the male. He wonders why his friend is even up and moving after being so brutally attacked, surprised that the perpetrator had left him alive. If it had been Bakugou, he would have finished the job. He supposes, however, he should be glad that the red-furred male was alive. God only knew how the privateer might have reacted if a life had been taken that day. Not wishing to sit and ponder the well being of Eijirou or philosophically think of the ocean, he turns his critical gaze towards the border collie, a silent judgement befalling the stranger. No words escape him and one can only see the soft but visible wrinkles forming between his brows that must have been furrowing at the male, smoke puffing from his nostrils as though he were a fire-breathing dragon.

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Bakugou had always been an outsider in his own way, or at least disliked one way or another. It was just the vibe he gave off, the intoxicating aura which possessed his body and radiated an air of superior detachment. To make things worse, he was bound to swearing. He couldn't help that he felt oh-so passionate about his expression of words, an overwhelming will to stress his words. For that reason, he often felt a burdening loneliness which sat along his sternum, threatening to collapse his rib cage should he be suddenly aware that he was unhappy with this feeling. He simply couldn't it. He was fueled by a certain rage that made him both alive and disliked, a smoke which enshrouded him in anger. Then there was Bakugou's 'tough love'. He was never direct about his care for others. He expresses his 'love' through bitterness, swearing and growls. In an anime, he'd be called a 'tsundere' - cold, vicious and aloof, but so helplessly loving of the ones around him. He was fiercely loyal to The Typhoon and those who earned it. Nothing was as strong as his respect for others when they had gained it.

The ragdoll crunches his teeth together, pressing so hard that his molars begun to make his gums ache when he notices the stranger's special attention towards him. He felt that he was being judged or personally attacked, almost growling when the male's lips parted as if he was expecting an insult. No...he was only doing what Eijirou had asked of him. His ear flicks at the ridiculousness of the other's name: Baby. He better not be, Bakugou's mind wanders defensively, be attempting to make a joke of Bakugou and his friend. He was willing to fry this 'Baby' into ashes if that were the case. "Stay here," he echoes the dog with a scoff, rolling his flaming eyes before continuing, "Y'know this is The Typhoon right? We're pillagers, warbound, and full of drunk shitheads." A snarl rumbles from the hearth of his throat like as if it were filled with shifting coals. "Well that's not for me to say. You're in if you want in. Enjoy the fuckin' jungle juice while you're at it."