Archive of Our Own

The apartment felt unusually quiet for a Friday.

Patrol had ended early, reports were submitted, and the city hummed outside the window without asking anything from either of them. The movie on the screen played at a low volume, and Kirishima felt warm in that lazy way that two beers always gave him.

Bakugo sat at the other end of the couch, legs open, one ankle hooked over the opposite knee. He wore old sweats and a thin black shirt that clung whenever he reached for the remote. The fabric rode up when he shifted, revealing a clean line at his waist that Kirishima had learned by accident and then memorized on purpose.

He told himself it was attraction, only, and that was natural, even if he had seen too much and nothing at all.

Like the mornings when Bakugo came out of the shower with steam clinging to his skin, tugging a hoodie over damp hair. Or the hours after training when sweat made every line of his body stand out. Or the way his shirt rode up when he stretched, showing the lean cut of his waist, or how his back flexed whenever he carried grocery bags like they weighed nothing.

Kirishima noticed stupid things too, like how Bakugo chewed on pen caps when he filled out reports, lips pulling in a way that was impossible not to look at, or the way he leaned against the counter while cooking, forearms tense, eyes narrowed in concentration.

He had gotten himself off more times than he could count thinking about abs that looked carved out of stubbornness, about the cut of that waist, about the way Bakugo’s mouth softened when he was too focused to scowl. If he was honest with himself, he had been doing that since he was fifteen, long before either of them put on pro-hero uniforms.

He took a sip and glanced sideways. “Do you ever think about relationships and stuff?”

Bakugo’s eyes flicked from the screen. The remote clicked as he paused the scene. “What?”

“Like dating,” Kirishima continued. “Kissing. The whole thing.”

Bakugo looked at the bottle in Kirishima’s hand and then at his face, and a small pink line rose along his cheekbones. “I do not have time to think about shit like that,” he said quickly. “Why are you asking me?”

The blush made Kirishima braver, so he continued, “I was just wondering. We do a lot of scary things without thinking twice,” he said, and he stared at the movie so he did not have to stare at Bakugo’s mouth, “but I never even kissed anyone.”

Silence stretched for a heartbeat and felt loud.

“That is not true.”

“We are so not counting the time Momo thought I was dead and gave me CPR,” Kirishima pointed out.

Bakugo pinched the bridge of his nose and slumped against the cushion like the memory had weight. “Okay, so we’re not counting that day.”

The other guy's ankle slipped off his knee. He let his foot stay near Kirishima’s. He always stayed, even when he pretended he might not. “So, are you bringing this up because you are doing a survey or because you want advice?”

“Maybe I want to learn,” Kirishima said, and heat slid under his skin and pooled low in his stomach. “I do not want to go out with a stranger just to figure it out. That feels wrong. I do not want my first time to be something I forget the next day. I am not built like that.”

Bakugo watched him wryly, “You are a romantic.”

“I like doing things right,” The truth followed on its own. “I like doing things with people I trust.”

“People.” Bakugo tapped his thumb against his knee. “Plural.”

Kirishima let his head tip back against the couch and stared at the ceiling, buying himself a second, “Person,” he corrected himself.

The word went soft between them. Bakugo shifted again, and the shirt moved with him, and Kirishima felt the thought he had been avoiding open like a window. He could reach for it. He could jump through it. He could fall and hope the floor was gentle.

“Do you think about it?” he asked. “Relationships and stuff? Not time for it. Just thinking about it.”

“I think about not having to think about it,” Bakugo said. He held Kirishima’s gaze for three long beats, and in those beats there was panic and humor and something he never tried to hide from him. “Then people ask me out and it gets annoying.”

“Annoying how?”

“Annoying because if I say yes they expect me to know what I am doing,” Bakugo said, and this time the blush climbed high enough to touch his ears. “And if I say no they think I am above it, which I am not. I just do not want to practice on some random idiot. I do not trust random idiots.”

Kirishima set his bottle on the table and leaned his forearms on his knees, fingers laced, “So we both have a problem.”

“Seems like it,” Bakugo didn’t look away. “You asking me to solve your problem for you, or are we workshopping here?”

“We could,” Kirishima, feeling reckless for the first time in his life, said, “We could try some things. Together.”

Bakugo’s mouth parted, then pressed closed. He looked down at the space between their knees and then back up. “You want me to be your kissing tutor,” he asked, dry as sandpaper and twice as teasing. “Should I bring a whistle?”

“You would look terrible with a whistle,” Kirishima said, grinning, but his heart hammered anyway. “I am serious, though. Only if you want to. Only if it does not make things weird.”

“Things are already weird,” Bakugo said, and his smile, when it came, carried that rare, unguarded warmth he only showed at home. “But not bad weird.”

Kirishima swallowed. “I do not want to mess us up.”

“You will not,” Bakugo said, sitting forward until his knee brushed Kirishima’s. “I trust you.”

The words hit harder than any punch. He felt them in his ribs and in the back of his neck. “And I trust you,” he said back, because it was the only answer that felt worthy.

Bakugo’s gaze dropped to his mouth and flicked back again. He cleared his throat and tried for a joke that barely qualified as one. “So, curriculum. Start with holding hands and progress to oral exams.”

“Terrible,” Kirishima said, but laughter broke out of him anyway. “Really terrible.”

“Shut up,” the other guy said, and his hand came up like it had a mind of its own. He tucked a strand of red behind Kirishima’s ear and left his fingers for a moment on the hinge of his jaw. “We can try. Slowly. You say stop, we stop.”

“Same goes for you. No pressure.”

“Never with you,” Bakugo's thumb skimmed once along his cheek, and then he pulled back a fraction, as if checking that he could.

Agreement formed without ceremony.

They scooted closer, the couch compressing under them, their knees fully touching now, their hands unsure for a second and then sure. Kirishima placed his palm on Bakugo’s thigh because it felt honest to match touch with touch. The muscle there jumped the tiniest bit under his hand.

“You are nervous,” Bakugo said, oddly delighted.

“I want to do it right.”

“You always do, Ei.”

Kirishima closed his eyes for a heartbeat and let himself feel it. The apartment smell of detergent and old wood. The faint spice of Bakugo’s shampoo. The tiny static of the blanket against his calf. He opened his eyes and saw Bakugo looking at him as if he were something glassy that needed both hands. 

He wanted. 

He always wanted.

“Ready?” Bakugo asked carefully, every syllable a hand on the small of his back.

“Yeah,” he said. “Ready.”

They met in the middle, not with fireworks, but with a testing press of mouths that felt strangely natural, as if they had been stepping around this for years and had finally decided to set a foot on solid ground. 

Kirishima felt the give of it, the heat of it, the way Bakugo exhaled through his nose like he had been holding that breath all week. It was soft for the first moment. Then it was something else, warmer and a little clumsy, because they laughed quietly into it when their teeth clicked, because Bakugo whispered an apology that did not sound like an apology at all, because Kirishima had never been kissed and yet somehow knew how to answer him.

They pulled back an inch, eyes still open, both of them smiling in a way that tried to hide itself and failed.

“Research,” Bakugo said.

“Practice,” Kirishima said.

Their foreheads touched, and they went in again, just another kiss in their living room, with the city outside, and two beers on the table.

They tasted like nothing special and everything he wanted.

When they parted, Bakugo’s hand stayed on his jaw, thumb resting near the corner of his mouth, affectionate in a way that would have terrified him anywhere else.

“So,” Bakugo said. “Same time next week?”

“Tomorrow.”

The word hung between them, softer than a joke but not quite a promise, and for a long moment neither of them moved. The movie screen glowed on pause, and their knees stayed pressed together like magnets that refused to separate.

Bakugo eventually leaned back first, scrubbing a hand through his hair, the picture of someone pretending to be casual. “Okay. Tomorrow, then.”

Kirishima laughed, though it cracked a little on the way out.

He pushed himself up from the couch, not because he was tired, but because he needed to be alone with the memory that was already looping in his head. If he stayed, he would give himself away. He mumbled something about calling it a night and slipped down the hall toward his bedroom, pulse still racing with every detail of what had just happened.

Left alone, Kirishima stared at the blank stretch of wall until his heart stopped trying to break out of his ribs. His mouth still tingled, and everything in him thrummed with restless energy.

He told himself to calm down, that it was practice, that tomorrow would be just more of the same, but the second he laid down in bed, he knew sleep was a lie.

He pressed his face into the pillow, trying to breathe through the noise in his chest, and all he could taste was Bakugo.

He had not stopped thinking about it since last night.

Two kisses, barely that, and his brain had looped them so many times he could taste the memory. The shape of Bakugo’s mouth against his, the way Bakugo’s breath had caught on the second try, and the tiny noises, nothing exaggerated, just the quietest slips of sound that had carved themselves into him.

It was insane how greedy it made him.

He wanted to know what Bakugo tasted like when the kiss stopped being research, when it stopped being restrained. He wanted to push his tongue in, clumsy or not, because only the idea of exploring Bakugo’s mouth made him dizzy.

All day he caught himself distracted. On patrol, during his report, even brushing his teeth in the locker room. He could not figure out how to ask without looking like a maniac, but he also could not picture himself waiting long.

By the time he opened the door to their apartment, his nerves were buzzing, and the smell of garlic and ginger hit him first. Bakugo stood in the kitchen in his usual Saturday position, one hip braced against the counter while he stirred something in a pan.

The sight alone made Kirishima’s hands twitch.

He wanted skin, wanted to press his palms flat against Bakugo’s stomach, wanted to touch until he burned, but he pretended he was fine, and walked in like he was not imagining how Bakugo would sound if he kissed him up against the fridge or the table or the couch.

The other man turned his head, just a quick glance over his shoulder, and a faint blush lit his cheekbones, subtle but impossible to miss. “Go shower. You smell like concrete.”

It was the gentlest insult Kirishima had ever heard. He laughed, and mumbled, “Yeah, yeah, be right back.”

The water did nothing to cool him down.

By the time he sat at the table, hair damp, Bakugo had set down two bowls. The food looked good, it always did, but Kirishima barely tasted anything. The smallest talk in the world happened between them. Patrol was fine. The neighbors were still loud. The market near the station raised prices again.

Every word felt like a cover for what neither of them wanted to say, and his chest ached with how badly he wanted to lean across the table and kiss him.

Bakugo ate quickly, eyes down, shoulders tense in a way that did not belong to exhaustion. He was waiting, too. Kirishima saw it in the way he tapped his chopsticks against the bowl, in the way his blush had not faded since the kitchen. 

When the bowls were empty, he stood automatically, stacking them together to carry to the sink. His pulse pounded in his ears, stupid with nerves. He did not know what he would do after. Pretend to wash dishes until Bakugo made a move? Sit back down and wait?

The plan crumbled as soon as Bakugo’s hand closed around his sleeve.

The tug was small, but enough to halt him. He turned his head, startled, and before he could blink, before he could take a breath, Bakugo leaned in and kissed him.

The bowl almost slipped from Kirishima’s hands, but he set it down blindly on the table, free hand shooting up to Bakugo’s shoulder, pulling him closer, desperate in a way he had promised himself he would not be.

Bakugo made another one of those small sounds, halfway between frustration and need, and he nearly lost it. That sound would live in his head, in his veins, everywhere. He wanted to hear it again and again until he figured out every note of it.

When they finally pulled apart, both breathing unevenly, Bakugo’s fingers were still gripping his sleeve. He looked up at him with flushed cheeks and a crooked frown, as if annoyed at himself for starting it, but his hand did not let go.

“Stop thinking so hard,” Bakugo whispered, still so close that Kirishima could feel the words ghost over his lips.

It should have ended there, but the look in Bakugo’s eyes said otherwise, and that stare always meant trouble.

Before Kirishima could even catch his breath, Bakugo was on his feet, tugging him by the wrist like he had already decided what came next. The bowls stayed forgotten on the table, and he stumbled after him, heart slamming against his ribs, brain useless.

The living room felt too small when Bakugo pushed him down onto the couch. He barely had time to sink into the cushions before the other man straddled his lap, knees braced on either side, hands hot against his face. The speed of it left him dazed. Then there was no space left to think because Bakugo’s mouth crashed onto his, tongue sliding in with no hesitation at all.

The moan tore out of him before he could stop it, and panic prickled for half a second, because what if that was too much, what if he ruined it? But then Bakugo’s whole body shifted against him, hips pressing down like he had been waiting for that sound.

Every fight Kirishima had staged inside himself for years collapsed.

His hands flew to Bakugo’s waist, dragging him closer even when there was no closer left. He let him in completely, let Bakugo’s tongue explore every corner, and he tried to follow, not sure if he was doing it right, not even sure if the man in his lap knew what he was doing, but none of it mattered when he could taste faint ginger straight from Bakugo’s tongue.

It was messy, and it was the best thing that had ever happened to him.

Bakugo ground down again, and Kirishima’s brain short-circuited. Heat flared low in his stomach, spreading everywhere, and his grip on Bakugo’s waist tightened instinctively. A helpless sound broke out of him, and Bakugo swallowed it like he had been starved for it.

“Fuck,” Bakugo hissed against his mouth, voice rough with something Kirishima had never heard from him before.

The word only made him hungrier.

He kissed back harder, tongue sliding over Bakugo’s, chasing the taste of him. His hands moved of their own accord, slipping under the hem of his shirt, fingertips brushing over warm skin, and the tremor that ran through Bakugo’s body nearly undid him.

“Greedy,” Bakugo said, lips curling even as he kissed him again.

He was loving it too much. Every nerve screamed for more mouth, more tongue, more saliva, more weight, more skin. His palms pressed flat against Bakugo’s back, dragging higher until he felt the curve of muscle and bone, greedy to map every inch.

The bite came suddenly, Bakugo's sharp canines closing on his swollen bottom lip. He gasped into it, and Bakugo used the chance to guide him where he wanted. Both sweaty hands were still locked around his face, thumbs angling him left, then right, and Kirishima let him, let himself be moved, pliant and desperate, because it felt so good to be handled that way.

His brain melted. He was too dumb on the kiss to think twice before his hands slipped lower from Bakugo’s back to his waist, from his waist to the curve of his ass. The heat of him seared through thin cotton, perfect under his palms. He squeezed once, and then pulled him down hard against his lap.

Bakugo’s whole body went rigid for a second and Kirishima froze, but the apology stayed stuck in his throat, never leaving his lips, because the sound Bakugo made next wasn’t anger.

It was a moan.

Low, breathy, unguarded, right against his bitten lip. Then Bakugo dropped his head onto Kirishima’s shoulder, hiding his face, but the flush was obvious anyway, and he could feel it burning against the side of his neck, hot as fire.

He swallowed and dared to do it again, pushing Bakugo down with his hands, grinding their bodies together.

This time the reaction nearly made him cum. Bakugo’s hips jerked helplessly, pressing harder, cock dragging against Kirishima’s stomach through nothing but thin fabric. The friction shot lightning through him, and the wet smear of pre-come dampened the cotton of his shirt.

Knowing Bakugo was hard, knowing he was leaking for him, knowing the strongest, most guarded person he had ever loved was shaking on his lap, fuck, it was too much. His own cock went solid under the weight of Bakugo’s body, straining hot against the seat of his sweats where Bakugo was pressing down.

He groaned into Bakugo’s ear, unable to stop. His fingers dug deeper into his ass, holding him there, dragging him forward, chasing more, and every grind blurred the edges of his control.

Bakugo shuddered against his shoulder, teeth scraping at his skin through fabric, muffling another sound he couldn’t hold back.

Kirishima thought, with the little brain he had left, that this was it. 

Bakugo was panting right against his ear, every broken little ah made Kirishima's hands grip tighter at his ass.

He wanted his mouth back, wanted to kiss him, wanted to swallow every tiny noise whole until nothing existed outside their lips, but he knew Bakugo too well to push him out of his comfort when he was already trembling on his lap.

But his mouth felt raw with need, desperate for something to taste, so he tilted his head, searching, finding the smallest strip of skin left bare where Bakugo’s collar had slipped. His lips pressed to the curve of the clavicle, tongue slipping out to taste, and that made the other man ground down harder, cock dragging wet over Kirishima's stomach in long strokes.

Kirishima gasped, hips bucking up helplessly, and he closed his mouth over the skin and sucked, teeth scraping before he even knew what he was doing.

The response was instant.

Bakugo’s whole body jolted in his hands, breath breaking into ragged pants against his ear, hips stuttering like he had lost control. Then the wet heat spread across Kirishima’s stomach, soaking into his shirt. The sound of Bakugo’s voice was enough to tip him over. His own orgasm ripped through him, hips jerking up, spilling into his shorts while the other man shook in his arms.

When it finally ebbed, when the waves stopped crashing so violently through him, he blinked himself back into the room. Bakugo was still straddling his lap, still flushed and panting, staring down at him with wide eyes.

Kirishima knew that look. He had known Bakugo too long to mistake it. It wasn’t disgust or rejection. Actually, it was the kind of startled “oh?” that meant Bakugo hadn’t expected this to happen but wasn’t running away from it either.

His brain wanted to spiral anyway, wanted to fill the silence with a hundred apologies, but he never got the chance. Bakugo leaned down and kissed him again sloppily, and between the messy press of lips and teeth, he whispered, “fuck, that was hot,” like it was the simplest truth in the world.

Kirishima kissed back until it hurt because they were both too sensitive, both trembling from the aftershocks.

Bakugo stayed on his lap, but he leaned back just enough to put a sliver of space between them. His face had already smoothed back into something calmer, even if his ears were still red. “Practice more of this, too?” he asked, deadpan.

The words made Kirishima laugh breathlessly. He shook his head and whispered, “yeah.”

Bakugo smiled then. Not a smirk, but an actual smile that softened his whole face. “Good,” he said, as if it was settled. Then he shifted off Kirishima’s lap, standing up on shaky legs. “I’m gonna clean myself. You should do the same.”

Then, the bathroom door shut behind him with a quiet click.

Kirishima sat there, shirt damp, shorts ruined, heart hammering so violently in his chest he was sure it would tear him apart. 

It felt like his whole body had exploded, and somehow, Bakugo had only set the fuse.

Sunday night found them squeezed into a corner booth that smelled like fryer oil and citrus cleaner. Soft Japanese rock drifted from a tired speaker near the ceiling. Mina talked with her hands, rings flashing, mouth moving as fast as the stories. She had been on three dates in eight days and each one sounded worse than the last.

“I keep picking people who want a free bodyguard,” she said, slumping theatrically. “Or they pout when I cannot skip patrol for a movie night. I told one girl I had to file an incident report and she asked if that was code for ghosting. I almost burst into flames on the spot.”

“You are cursed,” Kirishima said, smiling.

“You are dumb,” Bakugo said without looking up from his beer. “You feed gremlins after midnight and then cry when they bite.”

Mina flicked a nut at his forehead. “Romance advice from a man who thinks holding hands is a war crime.”

He rolled his eyes. “Stop mourning losers. If they cannot keep up, leave them behind.”

“Gremlin,” Mina sang, but the corners of her eyes softened. She leaned forward and tapped Kirishima’s knuckles. “I know, I know. I will try to be less tragic.”

When her glass turned empty, she waved it like a flag. Bakugo rose to get another round. Mina slid out of the booth with him, promising to supervise the pour so he did not get cheated. Kirishima stayed and pulled out his phone.

A minute stretched. Another. He locked his phone and glanced up.

Mina was not at the counter, probably she must have detoured to the bathroom. Bakugo, on the other hand, waited near the register for their drinks, and someone stood too close to him. Not a friend. Not a teammate. A stranger with a smile that said practice rather than conversation.

The man leaned in with that fake casual slant. Elbow on the bar, body turned, the angle of someone who wanted to be read as effortless and only ended up invasive, and his hand crept across the wood and brushed near Bakugo’s wrist, a near touch, a test, the kind of creep that pretended to be accidental.

Kirishima stood before he had a plan.

He stepped into the space in front of the stranger and eclipsed the sight line to Bakugo. Shoulders squared, chin tipped down, every inch of his body saying back off.

“Problem?” He asked, not loud, not friendly.

The man blinked at the sudden shadow. He tried for a smirk and propped himself on one elbow again. “Relax, man. We are just talking.”

“That was not talking, that was hovering. He is not interested.”

“I did not hear him say that.” The man sliced a glance past him, looking for help that would not come.

“You do not need to,” Kirishima said, stepping in until their shoes nearly touched. “I am saying it for him. Move along.”

“What are you, his babysitter?”

“Call me whatever you want,” Kirishima said, tone easy, eyes not. “If you keep bothering him, you are bothering me. That is a bad plan.”

Bakugo stayed quiet behind him, that kind of silence that said I am fine, and also said keep going. So Kirishima kept going.

The stranger cleared his throat and groaned, “Alright. Chill, dude.”

Mina arrived like backup, pink eyes flashing. “You heard him, "dude”. Piss off.”

The guy rolled his eyes, but retreated into the crowd. Mina snatched the drinks without breaking stride and spun toward the booth.

Kirishima glanced at Bakugo and the world seemed to clench around him, met with pupils blown wide, the red nearly drowned out, heat flickering behind them like a hidden fire.

“Behave,” he whispered, licking his own lips.

Bakugo held his gaze for a count that made Kirishima forget the noise of the bar, then glanced at Mina’s retreating figure and followed, brushing his knuckles against Kirishima’s wrist as they pushed through the crowd.

Back at the booth, Mina kept talking, animated and bright. She slid the whiskey across to Bakugo and set a beer in front of Kirishima. “He was a creep,” she said. “You were terrifying. Ten out of ten. I want you on retainer.”

“That idiot should have picked any other bar,” Bakugo said, swallowing whiskey. “Next time wear bug spray.”

Mina laughed and launched into a story about an accountant who tried to explain compound interest as a love language. Kirishima listened and nodded and asked questions because he cared, because Mina was dear to him, because this was their small ritual after heavy weeks.

At the same time his body ran another track entirely. Heat simmered at the point where Bakugo’s thigh pressed into his, and the image of those blown pupils kept sliding into view like a tide that refused to recede.

“You know,” Mina said, “I am starting to think I should date a librarian.”

“They have knives in their desks,” Bakugo said, dry as cotton. “Good choice.”

“They have what?”

“Staple removers,” he said. “Same thing.”

Mina snorted so hard she almost spilled her drink. “You two are insufferable,” she said, smiling like it was affection and not an insult.

Kirishima squeezed the thigh under his fingers and felt the smallest answering flex. He wanted to drag Bakugo back home and kiss him until the music in his head went silent. He wanted to walk him backward down the hall, wanted to taste whiskey on his tongue, wanted to hear that breathy little sound again right against his ear.

A lull came when Mina checked her phone. A friend from work had texted a picture of a cat jammed into a grocery bag. She laughed and sent back ten hearts. The music shifted to a familiar chorus from a summer three years ago. Kirishima took a slow drink and set his glass down with care.

“Thanks,” Bakugo said without turning his head.

“For what?”

“For making that idiot go away,” he said. “Babysitter.”

“That is not a very nice word,” Kirishima said, under his breath.

“Fine,” Bakugo said, and his mouth bent in a way only he ever saw. “Bodyguard.”

Warmth rolled through him so sweet he had to press his tongue to the roof of his mouth to control himself. He wanted to say something clever, like you do not need one, or I like being yours, but he settled for another squeeze of that thigh and let it speak for him.

Mina stood to order greasy fries and vanished once more into the crowded path to the bar. The second she was out of earshot, Bakugo’s hand slid from his own leg to Kirishima’s and settled just above the knee. 

“Your face looked stupid,” Bakugo said softly, eyes on him. “When you got up.”

“What face?”

“The I am about to flatten a man with a smile face,” he said. The acid sat in the words, but there was sugar under it. “Save it for real threats.”

“He was not a threat. He was annoying,” Kirishima said.

“You are an idiot,” Bakugo smiled. 

The redhead wanted to kiss him right then, over the sticky table and the half empty glasses. Instead he grinned and said, “You owe me a thank you.”

“I just gave you one.” His hand squeezed once above Kirishima's knee. “Do not be greedy.”

Too late for that. 

Greed had lived in him since he was a teenager with a crush he refused to name. He wanted more of everything. More touches that felt casual in public and anything but. More looks that swallowed the red in Bakugo’s eyes. More nights like yesterday with the couch groaning under them and a city humming past their window while they forgot the world had other people in it.

Mina returned with fries and a warning about the kitchen salt. She popped one into Bakugo’s mouth and snapped another in half and fed it to Kirishima. They ate and listened and argued about the best song on the current chart. Bakugo called one track a migraine with a chorus. Mina called him a hundred years old. Kirishima defended a ballad and got booed by both of them.

When the check arrived, Mina snagged it and declared that anyone who rescued her from losers did not pay tonight, and the protest died under her glare. Outside, the air felt cooler than inside, sticky with summer humidity that clung to their hair. She hugged them both tight and jogged toward her car, waving until the taillights disappeared.

Silence dropped over the walk home. Not the easy kind, not the silence that sometimes stretched between them after long patrols or lazy mornings. This one sat thick with all the words they weren’t saying. Kirishima kept his eyes on the pavement, fists in his pockets, terrified that if he looked over and caught even a glimpse of Bakugo’s mouth, he would snap and kiss him right there under the streetlight.

The apartment building came into view far too quickly, and when they reached their door, the click of the lock sounded louder than it should have.

Then Kirishima heard small crackles, faint pops, nothing dangerous, just tiny bursts in Bakugo’s palms. He had total control over his quirk, but when he was keyed up like this, anxious and restless, the habit always came back.

Bakugo was also holding back, and then the door swung shut behind them, and that was it.

Kirishima spun, grabbed, pushed. Bakugo’s back hit the wood with a dull thud, and before either of them could think, their mouths crashed together.

Teeth clashing, lips dragging, the kind of kiss that left them gasping into each other’s mouths but still reaching for more. Kirishima’s hands slid up under Bakugo’s shirt, palms searching, greedy for skin. Bakugo clutched his face in both hands like he had the night before, angling him exactly where he wanted, forcing him to take every kiss deeper, harder, wetter.

The explosions had stopped, but Kirishima could feel the tremor in Bakugo’s body under his grip, the shiver of control snapping thread by thread. Their breaths tangled, as if the whole night had been leading here, as if neither of them could wait another second.

Kirishima pressed him harder against the door, hips flush, mouth open, tongue desperate to taste, and Bakugo gave it right back, biting, panting, grinding against him.

“You were so fucking hot earlier,” Bakugo panted, lips dragging over his own. “Standing there, staring that loser down like you’d eat him alive. Almost got a hard-on just watching you.”

The bluntness of it hit harder than the kisses. Kirishima's mouth found the spot near Bakugo’s collarbone, the same place he’d bitten last night. He sank his teeth in again, sucked until the skin burned, until Bakugo’s moan ripped out too loud for the walls to contain.

Hands fumbled between them. He didn’t even remember deciding to go for it, but suddenly his fingers were at Bakugo’s jeans, tugging at the button, fumbling the zipper. He expected resistance, maybe even a shove, but it never came. The jeans loosened under his hands. The waistband of Bakugo’s underwear dipped beneath his thumbs.

Still nothing stopping him.

Instead, a low chuckle rumbled against his mouth. “What,” Bakugo whispered, amused. “Need to practice giving a handjob too, eh?”

The words were filthy and affectionate all at once, and Kirishima lost it. Heat shot straight down, his cock throbbing so hard it almost hurt, and his hands shook as they slipped lower, desperate to finally touch what he had been imagining for years.

And Bakugo let him.

He spat into his palm without even thinking, slicking his hand before wrapping his fingers around Bakugo's cock. Precum smeared across his knuckles as soon as he touched, and he gathered it greedily, rubbing it over the head before stroking down the length. The weight in his hand stunned him. It wasn’t his own, it was Bakugo’s, who was hard and leaking for him.

Bakugo’s back arched against the door, head tipping back, a noise ripping out of him that was more growl than groan. His cock twitched hard in Kirishima’s grip, spilling more slick over his fingers, and for a second the redhead thought he might come right away.

Heat gathered fast under Bakugo's palm, skin damp and burning in a way that only meant one thing. Kirishima recognized it instantly, the subtle shift before sparks broke loose. His forearm hardened on instinct, stone spreading in time for the blast to crackle against it. 

Kirishima grinned into his mouth, never breaking rhythm, and he asked, “How do you like it?” 

Bakugo was shaking, losing control he usually clutched with both fists. “Like this,” he rasped. “A bit faster.” His forehead pressed against Kirishima’s temple. “Liked when you played with the tip.”

Kirishima swallowed hard, cock throbbing against his own jeans, and did exactly that.

His thumb circled over the slick head before dragging down in faster strokes, and the sound Bakugo made nearly buckled his knees. He’d never imagined his best friend would react like this, biting his own lip to keep quiet, body twitching in his grip, cursing under his breath every time Kirishima twisted his wrist.

Every stroke made him jerk harder, every drag of thumb over the slit pulled a louder noise, and it was driving Kirishima out of his mind.

He couldn’t stop playing with it. The head was so wet, so slick, precum spilling into his palm until his hand slid easy over every inch. Each time he circled the slit with his thumb, Bakugo’s hips bucked up helplessly, an almost choked ah spilling from his throat. Kirishima swore he could feel every twitch, every tremor, like the cock in his hand was wired straight into his own veins.

His mouth was dry and his chest too tight, and suddenly the pressure in him needed out. He’d never been good at dirty talk, never tried, actually, but if he didn’t say something, if he didn’t let Bakugo know exactly what was happening in his head, he’d explode.

“You’re so fucking hard for me,” he breathed, words stumbling. “Can’t believe how wet you are, all over my hand. Been wanting this... Fuck, I’ve been wanting this forever.”

“Say it again.”

Kirishima swallowed hard, heat burning the back of his throat. “Wanted to touch you so bad. Thought about it every night. Wanted to know how you’d sound when I...” His thumb pressed down into the slit. “When I rubbed you right here.”

Bakugo’s hips snapped forward, grinding into Kirishima’s fist like he couldn’t help himself anymore. “Fuck...” His voice cracked into a pant. “Just like that, don’t stop...”

Every thrust smeared more slick over Kirishima’s palm. He matched the rhythm, stroking fast, then twisting at the top, milking every drop, chasing every noise. Bakugo’s head fell back against the door, the kind of sight that made Kirishima’s cock ache inside his jeans.

“You like it like this?”

“Yeah,” Bakugo gasped, voice shredded. “Faster...”

He obeyed without thought, hand working hard, spit and precum making it filthy, wet noises between them that made his ears burn. Bakugo lost himself, panting into his shoulder, and then Kirishima felt the way the other's body seized against him.

He broke apart in his hand, moaning into Kirishima's mouth as he came all over his fingers, hips still jerking through it like he couldn’t stop.

Bakugo was still pressed against the door, and his face was loose in a way Kirishima had never seen before.

So many years spent at his side, training, fighting, eating together, falling asleep in the same living room after patrols, and he thought he knew every expression Bakugo had. But this... this was brand new.

Kirishima’s whole body shook with the realization that there was an entire world of Bakugo’s sounds and faces that had been hidden from him until now, and he wanted to uncover every single one.

And taste them.

A slow pulse dragged his attention down. His hand was sticky, covered in the mess Bakugo had spilled across his palm. For a moment he just stared, mind whirring, but then curiosity bloomed, and before he could stop himself, he lifted his hand to his mouth.

The first brush of his tongue made him shiver. Salty. Bitter at the back of his throat. Thick enough to cling. Realistically, it wasn’t something he’d ever call delicious, but the fact that it was Bakugo’s, the fact that he had been the one to pull it out of him, made it taste like caramel sliding down his tongue. 

Sweet because it was his.

Sweet because Bakugo had given it.

He swallowed, lips sticky, eyes closing for half a heartbeat as the flavor lingered.

When he turned his head back, Bakugo was staring at him. For a second Kirishima thought shit, this is creepy, licking his best friend’s cum like it’s nothing, but then he felt a rough hand closing around his belt.

Step by step, he was dragged down the hall, the tug on his belt keeping him close, Bakugo walking backward without letting go. The door swung open with a nudge of a heel. The room smelled faintly of laundry soap and a hint of smoke that never quite left his clothes. Posters lined one wall, neat stacks of training gear sat in a corner, and the bed looked freshly made, sheets pulled tight in that disciplined way Bakugo did everything.

Not once in a thousand visits had he sat here with a hard cock and a hungry Bakugo looking at him like he had conjured a mirage. The stare pinned him in place, heat running down his spine. He let himself be guided to the edge of the mattress, and a gentle push sent him down to sit.

Before he could blink, Bakugo went to his knees.

Hands settled at Kirishima’s hips, thumbs hooking his belt loops, tugging him closer to the edge until his legs hung open. Fingers worked the button and zipper with impatient skill, knuckles brushing hair and skin in a way that made his stomach cave in.

Pants slid down, pooling at his ankles, and he could feel his face burning, ears hot enough to glow. Instinct sent his hand to cover himself through the underwear, but that hand never made it. Bakugo batted it aside like it offended him.

Warmth hit through wet cotton as a tongue pressed flat against the head, and the sound that burst out of him did not sound like him at all. He braced both palms on the mattress to keep from grabbing hair and forcing more. Heat soaked through thin fabric, slick spreading where the tip dragged, slow circles that felt obscene even through a barrier.

His hips jerked, and a low laugh vibrated against him.

“Thought you liked research,” Bakugo said, words muffled by cotton and hunger.

“Research,” Kirishima echoed uselessly. Thought left him. Everything narrowed to wet pressure and the sight of Bakugo on his knees between his thighs, eyes up, lashes damp, mouth already leaving dark patches on the fabric.

The underwear dampened fast. Pre-come bled through the front, turning the gray a shade darker that made Kirishima lightheaded. Another lick dragged from base to head, tongue pushing against the seam, tracing the shape of his cock. Saliva cooled in the air, then warmed again with the next hot pass.

He could not think of a single place he wanted to be more than here.

Fingers curled under the waistband and paused, checking without words. He nodded so hard it made Bakugo snort. The cotton peeled down, then caught on the head and snapped free. His flushed cock sprang forward, a smear of slick glistening at the tip, and every single nerve screamed to be touched.

Bakugo looked at him like a problem he wanted to solve with his mouth.

“Pretty,” he said. “Just like I imagined.”

“Please,” Kirishima managed, throat rough. “Please.”

“That easy,” Bakugo murmured, smirking. “Good.”

The first kiss to bare skin knocked the sound right out of Kirishima.

Bakugo’s lips closed over the tip of his cock, mouthing at the slit like he was testing the taste, searching for meaning in it. Kirishima heard himself, small helpless noises spilling out unchecked, shameless in their need. Bakugo’s tongue spread wet across the swollen head, then dragged all the way down the underside to the base, and the sensation made him shiver so hard his toes curled against the carpet.

“Hold still,” Bakugo said, voice low enough to buzz against him. Hands settled on his thighs and pressed, a cage that felt kinder than anything. “You move and I will tie you to the headboard with your own belt.”

A wrecked laugh stumbled out of Kirishima, “Romantic.”

“Shut up,” came back fondly, followed by a wet suck that made his eyes roll back.

Bakugo's mouth wrapped around the head, and the pull of his mouth drew a helpless noise from deep in his chest. He wanted to watch, so he did, head tipping forward, breath catching as he saw red lips stretch around him, cheeks hollow a bit, saliva glint in the light. 

A firm hand slid up and wrapped around the base, easing the stretch while the mouth worked the top, learning him with unhurried control.

“You taste like you sound,” Bakugo said between licks. “Sweet and loud.”

“Loud?” He echoed, barely conscious.

“You whine,” Bakugo said, satisfied. “It is cute.”

Mortification flashed and vanished under a wave of heat when Bakugo’s mouth sank lower around him. Kirishima felt the scrape of teeth without any real bite, a teasing drag that made him clutch the sheets just to keep from thrusting up. Bakugo’s hand slid higher, palm pressing flat against his lower stomach to pin him down, thumb moving in soothing strokes that clashed beautifully with the way his cock was being devoured.

“I am going to...” He warned, already there, nerves pressed past the point of reason.

“Not yet,” Bakugo said, lifting off to breathe, a string of spit connecting mouth and tip for a heartbeat before it snapped. “I want you to look at me.”

So he did.

He could not have looked away if the ceiling had collapsed. Bakugo’s eyes stayed locked on his while he sank down again, slow enough to make Kirishima tremble, deep enough to make his vision spark. A firm hand pressed flat against his stomach, keeping him pinned, while the other stroked the base in a slick rhythm that matched the pull of his mouth. 

Kirishima tried to hold the sounds back, but they tore out anyway.

“Good boy,” Bakugo murmured around him, and kissed the tip before saying, “Now.”

The rush slammed through him before he could even warn it was coming. He came with a raw cry, hips jerking despite the weight holding him down. His cum spilled across Bakugo’s tongue, some streaking over his hand and lips, but most of it swallowed.

Everything else dropped away. The room blurred. The ceiling swam. He reached for hair and found it, cradling the back of Bakugo’s head while he rode out the last hard pulses, mind blank but for the miracle of being watched while he fell apart.

Silence came back in pieces. Heartbeat first, then breath, then the small sound of Bakugo clearing his throat, followed by a lick of a tongue cleaning the mess from the corner of his mouth and the back of his hand. A satisfied hum slid into the space between them.

“I did not last,” Kirishima said, stupidly honest, still shaking.

“Obviously,” Bakugo said, scoffing, though his eyes had gone warm again. “You looked like you were going to pass out as soon as I got your underwear off.”

“Sorry,” he said, and meant thank you.

“Don’t be,” Bakugo said, wiping his mouth with the back of his wrist, then crowding forward to kiss him like the world owed them privacy. The kiss tasted faintly of salt and spit, and he opened his mouth for it, greedy again.

Their mouths pressed together, parted, found each other again, not to devour but to savor. Each pass was softer, almost exploratory, like Bakugo was testing how it felt to give instead of take. Fingers that had been rough minutes ago now touched his jaw with gentleness, almost like a cat leaning into a stroke.

He had never felt him like this. With their mouths moving, Bakugo seemed to soften in his arms, almost pliant, a quiet hum slipping through him that felt closer to a purr than anything Kirishima had ever imagined.

When they finally pulled back, they stood slowly, tugging at pants still tangled around ankles, moving in quiet sync toward the hall.

Light buzzed overhead in the bathroom, the mirror showing them both completely wrecked. Kirishima turned the faucet and let cold water rush into his cupped palms before splashing his face. His reflection looked back at him, guilty and dazzled at once.

The thought slipped out of his mouth before he could stop it. “Will you teach me how to do it? A blowjob, I mean.”

Bakugo raised an eyebrow at him through the mirror, water dripping from his hand as he wiped his mouth. “Teach you? I don’t know. I just did what I saw in porn videos.” The words barely registered before Bakugo’s eyes slid back to his through the reflection. “Practiced on my dildo a few times thinking it was you.”

The mirror showed him standing there like an idiot, and Bakugo’s faint smirk curling higher at his reaction.

“What?” Bakugo said, brow arching.

“That was your first blowjob?” Kirishima asked, voice rough with disbelief.

“Yeah?” He tilted his head, genuinely confused. “I told you I don’t trust people. And that I don’t have time for this.”

“What else is new to you?”

“Everything we did,” Bakugo said, looking at him like he’d lost his mind. “Why do you think I was asking if you wanted to practice?”

The memory of their awkward talk from a few nights ago replayed in his head, and it hit him all at once. Bakugo had never once mentioned anyone else. No history. No lovers. No one who’d ever been close enough to see him like this.

A wave of affection so strong it almost knocked him off his feet washed over him.

“You really trust me, don’t you?”

Bakugo turned his head, gave him another one of those are you stupid looks. “No,” he said, voice dry as sandpaper. “I just suck everyone’s dick.”

Kirishima snorted, the laugh bursting out of him before he could stop it. He reached out and grabbed Bakugo’s arm, tugging him closer. Fingers slipped into sweat-damp blond hair, combing through it gently before he pulled him down into a kiss.

A long minute passed before Bakugo finally pulled back, thumb brushing his cheek as if to soften the break. Then he pushed his face away with that rough little shove he always used when words weren’t enough.

“Go brush your teeth,” he groaned.

Kirishima laughed, dazed, heart beating too fast. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this wrecked by something as simple as a kiss.

And crazy didn’t even begin to cover it.

Esuha had always been good to him.

Working with Fat was always a blessing. The man never forgot about him, always had his back, always gave him the kind of encouragement that reminded him why he became a hero in the first place.

Still, every night when he walked back to the hotel, exhaustion heavy on his shoulders, something gnawed at him. He hated being away from home. Hated leaving when things with Bakugo were just beginning to unfold, when every day seemed to pull them deeper into something he hadn’t dared imagine before. He did his job, because that’s who he was. He showed up with a grin, fought hard, stayed focused, but in the silence of a hotel room, stripped of noise and patrol chatter, his phone burned in his hands.

Messages were constant, and every time the screen lit up, his heart jolted.

He caught himself thinking it was withdrawal, that he should check himself into some kind of program for people who couldn’t go three nights without kissing their best friend.

It got worse after showers. Steam still clinging to his hair, body loose, thumbs tapping clumsy replies while his mind conjured the taste of Bakugo’s mouth, the scrape of his teeth, the weight of him in his lap.

His chest felt hollow from missing it.

The night it happened, he had just thrown a towel on the chair and was about to drop into bed. The phone buzzed again with an incoming video call, which was weird since Bakugo hated calling. Always said it was a waste of time, always rolled his eyes at Mina and Kaminari when they spammed him with FaceTime requests.

If he was calling, something was wrong, so panic punched through his chest as he scrambled to pick it up.

The screen went black at first, no light, no image.

Then the camera shifted, and he saw it. Bakugo’s hand wrapped tight around his cock, stroking, the picture angled down so Kirishima got every detail.

“Katsuki,” he croaked, already sitting up straighter.

“Shut up and watch,” came the reply, but his voice was frayed at the edges.

The camera jostled as Bakugo shifted, fist moving slick over the flushed dick. Kirishima’s cock stirred instantly, pressing hard against the fabric of his shorts.

“You think I didn’t notice,” the other man moaned, “the way you looked when I swallowed you? Couldn’t even close your mouth. You wanted it again already.”

Kirishima swallowed hard, eyes glued to the screen. “I did,” he admitted. “I can’t stop thinking about it.”

“Good,” Bakugo hissed, his hand pumping faster, thumb dragging over the slit. “Because I can’t stop thinking about your fucking face when you came. Wanted to see it again. Wanted you here,” he groaned, hips lifting into his grip, “fucking my mouth.”

Heat flushed up Kirishima’s neck, and he shoved his shorts down, hand wrapping around himself without hesitation. The first stroke had him moaning, louder than he meant.

“Katsuki.”

“Say my name like that again,” Bakugo demanded. The camera jostled in his hand, catching a quick glimpse of his stomach shining with sweat before focusing back down on the length in his fist. His strokes were messy now, wet sounds filling the speaker. “Louder.”

“Katsuki,” Kirishima gasped, his own fist working faster.

“Fuck, I want you to just press me into the mattress and fuck me with that big cock of yours. Want it so bad I can’t stop thinking about it.”

The words shot straight to his cock, and he nearly lost it right then. Kirishima bit his lip, moaning through his teeth. “Katsuki, don’t...”

“Don’t what?” Bakugo hissed, hips snapping up into his hand. “Don’t tell you how much I want you to split me open? How I want you to shove me down and just take me?” His teeth clicked audibly as he clenched his jaw, voice frayed to pieces. “Fuck, I tried riding my dildo last night but it felt fucking dumb knowing I could have your cock instead.”

The image slammed into Kirishima so hard he almost dropped the phone. His dick throbbed painfully in his grip. He squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head as if that would keep the vision away. “Don’t say that, please, Katsuki, I’ll come if I even think about it.”

“Good,” Bakugo spat. “I want you to think about it. I want you to know what I want from you.” His voice dipped lower, a wild rasp that vibrated through the speaker. “I want you to fuck me, Eijirou. I’ve always wanted it to be you.”

Kirishima’s hand slowed, nearly stilled, because if he kept going he’d be done too soon. “I want that too, want to fuck you. Always wanted to. You don’t know how many times I thought about it.”

The sound Bakugo made in response was a helpless strangled moan, spilling through the speaker like he’d been pushed over an edge he couldn’t climb back from.

The camera shook violently, flashes of his stomach and thighs, then locked on the mess of his cock twitching in his fist as he came hard, spilling thick stripes over his own skin. His mouth dropped open, and in the middle of his panting, desperate cries, one word slipped clear as glass.

“Eijirou.”

Kirishima froze, hand still, eyes wide. His cock throbbed so painfully he thought he’d lose his mind. Watching Bakugo unravel, hearing his name moaned like that, was the final push. His fist moved again, chasing release with everything left in him.

He didn’t last.

A cry burst out of his chest, hips jerking up off the mattress, cum spilling hot across his stomach in messy spurts. His whole body shook, toes curling against the sheets as he rode it out with his eyes glued to the screen.

For a long stretch, neither of them spoke, only the sound of their breathing filling both ends of the call. Bakugo let out a short snort, shaking his head like he was trying to get a grip on himself. “Tch. Look at us,” he snorted. “Pathetic.”

Kirishima laughed under his breath, still catching air, wiping his stomach with the towel he had tossed aside earlier. “Yeah,” he said, eyes soft even through the screen. “But that was the best kind of pathetic.”

Bakugo smiled as he shifted the phone, angling it so his face filled the screen. He held his stare, softer than Kirishima had ever seen it. “Come back soon, Ei. I don’t want to wait too long.”

Warmth flooded Kirishima’s chest, heavier than any afterglow. He grinned, heart pounding like it might split open. “I’ll be home before you know it.”

“Good.” Bakugo said, quieter this time. “Night, Eiji.” 

The screen went black.

Kirishima let the phone fall beside him, still catching his breath, staring at the ceiling like he’d just woken from a fever dream.

His heart ached with it, with the weight of how much he loved him, with how badly he wanted to get back home. He had known for years that he was in deep, but this felt bottomless.

Crazy or not, he was gone. 

Completely gone on Katsuki Bakugo.

The weight of the trip still clung to his shoulders when he pushed the door open, dropped his bag on the floor, and slipped off his shoes. 

“I’m home,” he called.

He barely had time to straighten before the sound of a door slamming open split the air. Bakugo appeared in a blur of motion, crossed the space in an instant and launched himself forward, arms and legs wrapping around him with the kind of force that would have toppled anyone else.

Instinct kicked in. One hand locked around his waist, while the other caught under his thigh and lifted.

The kiss landed before he could breathe, mouths crashing together like they had been starving for it.

His hair was pulled hard, Bakugo’s fingers fisting at the nape of his neck, holding him in place while the other hand pressed bruisingly tight to his shoulder. In the middle of it, Bakugo murmured, “Welcome home,” before diving back in, swallowing the laugh that tried to slip out of Kirishima’s mouth.

Open, messy, tongues sliding deep, wet sounds filling the air until it was all he could hear. Every tug on his hair sparked through his spine, every press of his mouth left him hungrier, until he thought he’d never be satisfied again.

Bakugo’s lips dragged over his, spit-slick and swollen, and the growl came low between them. “Bed. Now.”

He didn’t need telling twice. 

His arms tightened around Bakugo, and he carried them both down the hall. The other man clung close, legs around his waist, lips refusing to leave his. The door swung open under his shoulder, then slammed shut behind them, and they were swallowed by the dark of the bedroom.

He lowered him onto the mattress, slow only because he couldn’t stop staring. Bakugo sprawled there, already reaching for him, already pulling at the hem of his shirt, eyes burning with impatience. 

For a heartbeat, Kirishima froze, then the bedside table caught his eyes. Rows of bottles stacked neatly, two kinds of lube, water bottles, protein bars, wet wipes, everything lined in a soldier’s order, ready for use.

“Seriously?” He let out a shaky laugh.

Bakugo’s head snapped up, brow arched. “What?”

“You stocked up like you were prepping for a mission.”

“You thought I wasn’t gonna prepare?”

The sight of him, sprawled on the sheets, flushed and smirking, hit harder than any punch ever had. 

He leaned down, lips brushing against his again, and thought that maybe this was what it meant to come home.

The first minutes back on the bed were nothing but mouths colliding again and again. Bakugo bit and dragged and pulled at his hair, impatient, relentless, groaning when Kirishima’s hands slid down his back and pressed him closer. Their bodies fit together like they’d been made for it, but Bakugo was clearly done with just kissing.

Fingers tugged hard at his shirt once again, fumbling between their tangled bodies, growling into his mouth when the fabric refused to budge. Kirishima tried to help, but with both of them lying down it turned into a mess of half-pulled sleeves and crushed fabric.

“Damn it.” Bakugo snapped, shoving at him, not out of anger but out of sheer frustration.

Kirishima laughed against his mouth, and pulled back just enough to stand. In a clumsy motion, he stripped his shirt off, shoved pants down his legs, kicked them aside. The rush of air on his bare skin made him shiver, but nothing compared to looking back down at the bed.

Bakugo had sat up in the meantime, tugging his own shirt over his head, working his jeans open. In seconds he was naked, sprawled half against the pillows, skin flushed, eyes burning hot as fire. Kirishima froze, staring, because there was nothing in the world he had ever wanted more than the man sitting there waiting for him.

Words stumbled out before he could swallow them. “I really don’t know how to do it,” he admitted, “but I really want to make you feel good.”

Bakugo rolled his eyes, huffing, “I think you nailed everything we tried so far.” He couldn’t help but smile. “And I kinda cheated for you. Prepped myself before you arrived, so there’s no secret. Just get hard and put it in.”

Kirishima's whole face burned, and before he could stop himself, he covered it with one hand, laughing helplessly. The giddy sound shook out of him, because of course Bakugo would say something like that. 

He peeked through his fingers at the man stretched out on the bed, smirking up at him, and his chest clenched so hard it hurt.

God, he loved him.

He loved him so much it left his chest raw, like something too big for him to hold. Loved him so much he wanted to laugh, cry, and sink into him all at once. Loved him so much that standing there, stripped bare with Bakugo sprawled on the sheets and looking at him like he belonged here, felt like more than he had ever thought he could deserve.

He climbed back onto the bed, mouth finding his again in another rush of messy kisses, and heat surged all over again. Each kiss was deeper than the last, lips dragging, tongues tasting, both of them greedy for more. When he pulled away, it was only to press his mouth lower, over his jaw, down his throat, to the lines of his collarbone. He trailed kisses across Bakugo’s chest, stopping when his lips brushed over a hardened nipple.

The small sound Bakugo made when he dragged his tongue across it made Kirishima’s cock twitch. He closed his mouth around it, sucking until his cheeks hollowed, and then bit down just enough to leave a mark.

Bakugo’s hand flew to his hair, yanking tight. “Yeah,” he hissed, chest rising hard under his mouth. “Want your teeth marks all over me.”

He obeyed, kissing and nipping across his chest, leaving marks in his wake. Each tug on his hair made him harder, more desperate, until the thought of what was coming nearly drove him insane.

He lifted his head, panting. “You said you prepped,” he murmured, “but can I do a little more? Just to be sure I don’t hurt you?”

He saw the flicker in Bakugo’s eyes, the smart reply balanced on the edge of his tongue, the words he could so easily throw about already knowing how to handle himself. But instead of saying them, Bakugo reached over the bed, grabbed the bottle of lube from the nightstand, and shoved it into his hand. Then, without hesitation, he turned over, planting his chest against the mattress and raising his ass in the air.

One of Kirishima's hands spread over the curve of his ass, thumb pressing into muscle, tilting him higher, and the sound Bakugo made for that alone nearly made him cum.

He coated his fingers, and pressed gently at the tight rim, circling first. Bakugo’s body shifted, hips rolling back into the touch, and his breath came ragged against the sheets. 

When the first finger slipped in, Kirishima couldn’t stop watching. Every twitch, every shiver, the way Bakugo’s ass clenched around his finger, pulling it in, then easing like it couldn’t decide if it wanted more or less. 

Bakugo was already rocking back in small movements, reflex pulling him deeper, pushing him in, and it was the hottest thing Kirishima had ever seen.

A second finger followed, stretching slowly, and Bakugo hissed, head dropping to the mattress, knuckles fisting the sheets. His body moved again impatiently, grinding back, riding his fingers without realizing. Kirishima stared, throat dry, thinking he’d never forget this sight, this feeling.

By the time he slid a third finger inside, Bakugo was panting openly, sounds tearing free no matter how hard he bit them down. His hips worked in little circles, pushing back and pulling forward like his body had a mind of its own. 

Kirishima's cock ached, and all he could think was that this was Bakugo letting him in, letting him see every unguarded noise, every reflex, every shake of his body.

He had never wanted anyone like this. He knew he never would again.

His fingers slipped free and the sound Bakugo made for that was so wrecked that Kirishima almost forgot what he was doing. He fumbled for the wipes, tearing one out and cleaning himself as quickly as he could, hand shaking with the rush of it. 

Then, he leaned down and pressed his mouth to the curve of one flushed cheek, soft at first, then opened his lips a little more, breathing him in. Another kiss followed, then another, trailing over the dip of his spine, across his back until the taste of sweat filled his tongue.

Bakugo melted under it. His whole body had gone loose, every line of tension unraveled by the stretch. It was so easy to shift him, so easy to coax him over onto his back, until his body lay open and waiting. Kirishima hovered there for a second, just staring at the flushed face beneath him, then he caught his mouth in another kiss.

When he pulled back, he whispered, “Where did you put the condoms?”

“Don’t need one,” Bakugo replied right away, fingers dragging across his shoulders, down his spine, petting him. “I’m clean. Guess you are too?”

Kirishima's mouth fell open. He nodded, of course he nodded, because yeah, he was clean, but the way it came out made him look stunned.

Bakugo’s brows drew together. “Unless you don’t want to? I can go buy a...”

“Don’t.” He kissed him again, swallowing the offer before it could twist into something else. He shook his head, words tumbling between kisses. “No. Sorry. I do want it. I want you without it. Or with it. Doesn’t matter to me. Just want you.”

That should have ended it, should have pushed them both back into what they were doing, but somehow it shifted into words again. Bakugo’s hand paused against his skin, fingers curling lightly. “If you... If you want other people, later. I mean, if you want other partners, I’m not gonna...”

Kirishima didn’t let him finish because he didn’t want to hear it. He sealed Bakugo’s mouth with his own, kissed him until his lips tingled and his chest hurt from holding back everything he wanted to say. When he pulled back, he whispered it like a vow, “Don’t want anyone else. Never did.”

Something gave way in Bakugo’s face; the harsh edge melted, leaving only the bare shine in his eyes. His mouth curved into a small smile, as if he was almost too embarrassed to let it show. It was unguarded, almost boyish, and it stole the breath from Kirishima more completely than any kiss ever could.

“Never wanted anyone else other than you, too,” he said quietly.

It wasn’t a confession dressed up in heavy words, not the kind of phrase people expected when they talked about love, but to Kirishima it was the same thing, maybe even better, and his whole body burned with it.

He kissed him again, slower now, because it felt like love. 

Because it was love. 

Their foreheads rested together, and for a long moment he stayed there, memorizing every inch of warmth beneath his hands, the rise and fall of Bakugo’s chest against his own. 

“Tell me how you want it. What feels better for you?”

“Like this,” Bakugo said, legs hooking tighter around his waist, pulling him close, the meaning in the gesture clear. “But I want to ride you later, too.”

Kirishima's chest ached with how badly he wanted it, wanted everything.

Bakugo shifted then, his voice almost shy despite the boldness of his body. “You know I have some toys?”

He blinked, caught off guard but nodded, “Yeah.”

Bakugo scoffed, but the red along his cheeks betrayed him, “Bought a new one after I saw your dick for the first time. Thought I should, well, get used to it. So it wouldn’t be too much when it was actually you.”

The world tilted, blurred at the edges with too much light. 

This man, this impossible, brilliant, maddening man, had wanted him enough to prepare for him. His lips trembled before he leaned down, kissing him like he would never let go, trying to pour every ounce of feeling he carried into the press of their mouths.

His hand fumbled for the lube bottle on the nightstand again, nearly dropping it in his rush. He spread it over himself, cock twitching under his hand, but his mouth never left Bakugo’s.

Then Bakugo reached between them, fingers curling around his wrist to guide him lower. His hand replaced Kirishima’s, lining him up, the blunt head pressing against his asshole. His body tensed, but his eyes stayed locked on Kirishima’s as he tilted his hips, coaxing him forward.

Kirishima’s whole body shook. He wanted to close his eyes, to lose himself in the rush, but Bakugo was right there beneath him, legs locked tight around his waist like he was daring him to move. 

“Fuck,” Bakugo gasped against his mouth, a half-broken groan spilling out before he caught it with his teeth. “It does feel better than a dildo.”

Kirishima nearly came right there from the thought alone.

His hand clenched in the sheets, every cell of his body screaming to let go, but he forced himself to breathe, to hold on. Nothing in his life had ever felt like this, nothing. His own hand was nothing, even the wet heat of Bakugo’s mouth had been nothing compared to this. To being surrounded, swallowed whole by him, to being this deep inside him.

Bakugo wasn’t loud, not the way he was when shouting orders on the street, not the way he barked at villains and friends alike. Here his voice came in small noises like soft gasps, muffled groans, the smallest hitches in his throat.

“Feels good,” Bakugo whispered, then bit down on his lip hard enough to leave a mark before letting out another noise, wetter this time, a hiss dragged through his teeth. His nails scratched down Kirishima’s back, blunt touches that left trails of fire in their wake. “So fucking good.”

Kirishima’s hips twitched forward on instinct, and the slide of it made them both groan into each other’s mouths. He buried his face in Bakugo’s shoulder, panting hard, struggling to hold back.

He wanted to move, to take, to give, to lose himself completely, but he forced himself still, letting them both breathe through it.

Bakugo shifted under him, tilting his hips higher, and he pleaded, “Move, Ei.”

“I don’t know if I can hold on,” Kirishima whispered, his own voice raw with desperation.

“That’s the point.” His breath hitched as he tightened his legs again, pulling him deeper. “Give me what you’ve got.”

So Kirishima forced his body to obey. 

The first thrust was barely more than a grind, a small roll of his hips that pushed him in deeper before sliding back again. Bakugo moaned, the sound so sexy that Kirishima nearly collapsed.

Another thrust followed, almost tentative. Each small push earned him another noise, another hiss of breath, another half-whispered curse that made his stomach twist and his cock pulse harder inside him.

He kept the pace small, letting both of them adjust, letting the reality of it sink into his skin. Every slow roll was a miracle, every drag through that heat a reminder that this was real, that Bakugo had let him in, had chosen him for this.

“Harder,” Bakugo muttered only a minute later, his hands sliding up Kirishima’s arms, and gripping his shoulders tight. “You can give me more.”

So he did.

He pressed their mouths together again, swallowing the moans that escaped between them, his hips starting to move a little quicker, a little deeper, still careful but no longer hesitant.

The bed creaked beneath them, the air thick with the sound of the slick slide of their bodies meeting again and again.

Bakugo didn’t make it easy. His voice wouldn’t stop, spilling into the space between their mouths, saying things like, “Fuck, you’re thick. Feels so much better than my hand. Better than anything. You’re splitting me open, Ei, fuck. Wanted you inside me for so long. Can’t believe it’s finally you. Feels so good.”

The litany slammed into Kirishima harder than any thrust. His cock throbbed, every muscle in his body screaming to let go, and it took everything in him not to spill right then. His pace faltered, his vision swam, and he knew he wouldn’t last if Bakugo kept talking like that.

So he changed tactics.

His hips snapped forward, harder, faster, driving deeper with each thrust. The sudden rhythm stole Bakugo’s breath, cut his stream of words down to gasps and moans. For the first time, his mouth fell quiet, lips parted, head tipping back into the pillow as his body arched into it.

Kirishima was transfixed with every expression across Bakugo’s face, every single one was burning into him. He watched the way his lips trembled with each thrust, the way his throat worked as small noises slipped free, the way his hands clawed at the sheets before sliding back up to his body. It was the hottest thing he had ever seen. He couldn’t look away, couldn’t stop moving, couldn’t stop chasing those noises and that face.

His body shook with the effort of holding back, every thrust pushing him closer to the edge. 

But then Bakugo’s hand was in his hair, forcing his head down until his mouth hovered over the curve of his shoulder. His voice was a rasp command. “Bite me,” he whispered. “Want you to mark me. Please.”

The plea was what did it to him. 

His teeth sank into the white skin where shoulder met neck, not cruel but firm enough to leave a mark. Bakugo cried out, and his asshole clenched hard around Kirishima's dick at once. 

The sudden tightness made him cum with his mouth still full of skin, his groan muffled into Bakugo’s shoulder, body convulsing as release ripped through him. Every thrust stuttered as he spilled inside, too far gone to warn. 

His cock pulsed hard, buried deep, while Bakugo trembled beneath him, moaning through clenched teeth, hands pulling him impossibly closer.

His body was still shuddering from the release when soft kisses started landing over his cheek, the corner of his mouth, his jaw. Bakugo’s lips lingered there, almost soothing, and his fingers traced over his temple, down the side of his face, gentle in a way that made his heart hurt.

The comfort lasted only a moment, though, because then his body shifted. Before he could even process what was happening, he was being rolled onto his back, sheets tangling under him. A rush of heat pressed over his hips, heavier and heavier until he realized Bakugo was straddling him, thighs gripping around his waist.

He parted his lips, ready to protest that he wasn’t even hard again, but the words never came. Bakugo was already sinking down onto him. The stretch was almost too much against the lingering edge of oversensitivity, and a groan tore out of his throat as his head fell back into the pillow.

He wasn’t fully hard yet, caught between softness and need, but Bakugo didn’t seem to care. He rolled his hips slowly, grinding lower, taking him in inch by inch until he was seated completely, every bit of him filled.

The moan that ripped out of Bakugo was nothing like the ones before. Kirishima’s eyes snapped open in time to see his back arch, sweat glistening down the lines of his chest. His mouth hung open, throat straining around the noise, eyes fluttering back as his head tipped like he couldn’t hold himself together.

Kirishima couldn’t stop staring. Droplets of sweat slid down the lines of muscle, catching in the dip of his stomach. Bakugo's cock was flushed and hard, bobbing with every roll of his hips, leaking across his stomach, twitching with each shift down Kirishima’s length. His eyebrows twitched, his lips refused to close, his face caught between pain and bliss, and Kirishima thought he’d never seen anything hotter in his life.

His hands found Bakugo’s waist, gripping firm, guiding the movement without thought. Every time he lifted and sank back down, a rush tore through Kirishima’s cock, dragging a groan out of him before he could stop it. His teeth caught his lower lip, fighting for control, but the words still slipped free.

“Fuck, Katsuki, look at you. Taking me so good. You’re perfect like this.” His grip firmed, dragging him down harder, hips jerking up into the pull of it. “Ride me, yeah? Show me how much you wanted this.”

Bakugo’s laugh was more of a moan, spilling out around clenched teeth. His head tipped back, throat exposed, hands braced against Kirishima’s chest as he pushed himself higher only to sink down harder.

It was too much. 

Watching him, feeling him, hearing him, it all blurred until thought barely existed, until there was only the man riding him beautifully. His cock throbbed with every roll, fully hard again, the burn of oversensitivity lost to the pure need that kept building higher and higher. His hips rose to meet each drop of Bakugo’s body, always greedy for more.

Words slipped out before he could think. “So fucking tight. You’re milking me, Katsuki. Look at you, taking every inch. You were made for this, made for me.” His voice broke on a groan as Bakugo clenched down harder, and he almost lost it. “Fuck, you’re close, I can feel it. Gonna cum for me, right? Gonna cum all over me?”

A noise tore out of Bakugo, and his rhythm grew messy, hips stuttering, hole clenching enough to make Kirishima curse out loud. Without thinking, his hand wrapped around the flushed cock bouncing against Bakugo’s stomach, and he stroked in time with his thrusts, matching every grind down with a firm pull, desperate to drag him over the edge.

Bakugo’s eyes snapped open, blown wide and wild, his gaze locking onto him like it could burn.

Kirishima looked straight up at him, hand working faster when he said, “Cum for me, Katsuki. Show me how perfect you are. Want to see you lose it on my cock.”

That made Bakugo’s cry rip through the room as his whole body spasmed, releasing cum across Kirishima’s chest and stomach. His ass clenched around Kirishima's own cock in waves, dragging him to the edge too, and it was all he could do to hold on while Bakugo shook apart in his arms.

Cum pooled messily over his skin, dripping down between their stomachs, soaking into the sheets. His cock twitched hard inside the grip of Bakugo’s body, and when Bakugo finally lifted off with effort, he let himself fall at his side, a grin already curling at the edge of his mouth.

His breathing was still broken when he smirked, tilting his head to look at him. “I researched,” he panted. “There are more than fifty positions we can try.” His smirk deepened. “Plus variations.”

A quick kiss brushed over his lips before he could even laugh. Then Bakugo whispered against his mouth, “Wanna try another one?”

Kirishima’s laugh came out shaky, dizzy, but full. He pressed his forehead to Bakugo’s and smiled against his lips. “Yes,” he said, because the answer would always be yes to him.

Always.

The five of them had managed the impossible: syncing their schedules long enough to crowd into the same corner booth at the bar they always swore they’d go back to “sometime soon.” Plates of fried food covered every inch of the table, glasses of beer and soda pressed against sweating coasters, and soft Japanese rock filtered faintly through the speakers above.

But the music didn’t matter. The food didn’t matter. Not when Mina, Sero, and Kaminari were sitting across from them in complete silence, eyes flicking between the two of them like they had stumbled into an alternate universe.

Kirishima shifted in his seat, scratching the back of his neck with his free hand. His other hand stayed firmly in Bakugo’s, their fingers tangled together in the middle of the table for everyone to see. Bakugo wasn’t looking at their friends at all, too busy chewing an edamame pod with the calm of a man who’d done absolutely nothing shocking.

Finally Mina broke, slamming her glass down with dramatic force. “Okay. Hold on.” She pointed between them, wide-eyed. “I saw you two two weeks ago, and now you’re sitting here holding hands like a couple on date night. Are you seriously telling me that in the span of fourteen days you went from ‘oh no, we’re just bros’ to this?”

“Yes,” Bakugo said, flat as a stone. He tossed the empty pod shell into the bowl and reached for another.

Silence fell again. Then Sero asked, “That’s it? No explanation? No story? Just ‘yes’?”

“That’s all you’re gonna get,” Bakugo shrugged.

Kaminari let out a strangled laugh that turned into a wheeze. “Bro, we were literally betting it would take ten years of longing gazes and tragic sighs before anything happened. Ten years! Minimum!”

“Longing gazes?” Bakugo snapped, his ears already going pink.

“Don’t you dare play dumb,” Mina shot back. “We’ve all seen them. You two have been mooning over each other since before we even graduated. I was half a second away from locking you in a room with scented candles and ‘Careless Whisper’ playing just to make it happen.”

Kirishima couldn’t help it. Laughter burst out of him so hard his shoulders shook. “Guess we figured it out on our own.”

“How?” Kaminari squealed, nearly tipping his drink straight into his lap as he leaned across the table.

“Let’s say I needed...” Kirishima began, dragging it out with the wide grin of someone who knew he had an audience hanging on every word.

“Please don’t say a helping hand. Please,” Sero groaned, already wincing.

“I needed someone to practice kissing and stuff,” Kirishima finished, rolling his eyes but smiling wide enough his cheeks hurt.

Mina’s jaw dropped. “No way.”

“So Katsuki just offered himself as an option?” Kaminari asked, his voice pitching so high it cracked.

“I offered myself as his only choice,” Bakugo said, not even blinking as he stole a fry straight off Mina’s plate.

The table exploded. 

Mina doubled over, laughing so hard she nearly fell into her lap. Sero slapped the table like he was trying to resuscitate it. Kaminari choked on his beer, coughing so violently a couple at the next table shot him dirty looks.

“This is the most ridiculous and romantic shit I’ve ever heard,” Sero managed between gasps.

“Training kissing and stuff?” Mina howled.

Kaminari wiped tears out of his eyes, still wheezing. “You guys are insane. But, like. It tracks.”

Their voices tangled, jokes and laughter ricocheting back and forth, but none of it seemed to land on Kirishima. His attention had gone elsewhere, pulled in by the weight of the hand still linked with his own. 

He glanced sideways, and the world stilled, because Bakugo was already looking at him.

The music blurred, the laughter softened, the whole bar faded out until it was just them.

Bakugo’s expression hadn’t changed much, his mouth was pressed in something that might have looked impatient to anyone else, but there, tucked into the corner of his lips, was the smallest curve. Not the usual crooked smirk he tossed around like a weapon, or the half-grin that came with bite. This smile was softer, meant only for him.

Love spread through Kirishima’s chest, and his own mouth curved in answer.

There had never been a choice, not really. 

No one else could have ever fit into the space Bakugo filled.

He was his only choice.

Always had been. Always would be. In this life, and in any other that could follow.