Work Text:
Mina threw the singles party together with the kind of stubborn pride that came from refusing to let a bad relationship take up any more space in her life, and while she told everyone she had dumped him because he couldn't string two interesting thoughts together and because looking at him in the morning had started feeling annoying, the truth sat somewhere under the jokes, buried under her need to keep moving.
She filled her apartment with folding tables and plastic cups and bottles that no one would pretend were good, and she texted half their contact list until people started showing up carrying drinks and gossip from their own failed romances. By the time the place filled out, clusters of heroes had formed near every wall and counter, trading patrol stories and laughing too loudly at things that were barely funny, because being alive and off duty together counted for more than the quality of the conversation.
Moving through it all, she played hostess like it was second nature, pushing snacks into hands, dragging quiet people into conversations, steering obvious disasters away from each other before they could spark, and every time someone thanked her she rolled her eyes and told them to grab another drink instead of getting sentimental. Throwing a party meant she didn’t have to sit alone and replay the last few months in her head, and everyone who knew her well enough understood that without saying it out loud.
Halfway through the night, Kirishima showed up looking like he had run straight from patrol and barely bothered fixing his hair, and the minute he stepped inside, the whole place tilted a little toward him without anyone meaning to. Hugs came first, then loud greetings, then hands clapping his shoulder hard enough to shove him forward, and he slid into conversations like he had been there from the start, telling some story about a patrol gone sideways and acting out half of it with his hands, his whole body involved in the retelling while people leaned in close to catch every word. Whatever situationship he had walked away from earlier that week stayed buried under the easy grin and the way he kept asking other people about their lives as if he had nothing heavy of his own to carry.
Bakugo came late because showing up on time would have felt like giving Mina too much satisfaction, and also because he had stood in his kitchen staring at his phone for ten minutes before deciding that if he didn’t go, she would show up at his apartment and drag him out by his collar. The scowl was already in place by the time he pushed through the door, and he grabbed a beer without greeting anyone, then claimed a stretch of wall, with his shoulders set and posture loose enough to say stay away unless you are prepared to deal with me.
It took less than a second to find Kirishima across the room, which annoyed him more than he would ever admit, because he hadn’t been looking, and still his attention locked there like it had been trained to.
The guy stood surrounded by people, talking with his whole face and hands and shoulders, laughing in that open way that made strangers feel like they had known him for years, and something ugly and hungry crawled through Bakugo’s stomach, the same feeling that had been living there for years, gnawing harder whenever Kirishima stood too close or smiled at someone else or existed within arm’s reach without noticing the damage he caused.
He hated that part of himself, hated how pathetic it felt, how it turned him into someone who stood in corners watching instead of leaving, and he swallowed beer like it might burn the feeling out of him even though he knew better.
Plenty of people at that party would have been easy distractions if he cared enough to try, and Mina had clearly invited half the city’s available population on purpose, but every time he forced himself to look somewhere else, his focus snapped back anyway, tracking the stretch of fabric across Kirishima’s shoulders, the way he leaned closer when someone talked, the small gestures he used when he listened, like he wanted people to feel heard.
A laugh slipped out of Bakugo under his breath when someone near him started flirting badly enough to be painful to watch, and he made a crude comment about standards dropping through the floor, which earned him an elbow from someone who knew him well enough not to be offended. The joke was mean and badly timed and exactly the kind of thing people expected from him, and he let them think that was all there was, because it was easier than letting anyone see how he memorized the way Kirishima held a glass or how he counted the seconds between his smiles.
Someone bumped his shoulder and sloshed a sticky drink across his shoe, and he snapped a lazy insult at them without even looking up, more out of habit than anger, already pulled back into watching the center of the room where Kirishima had shifted to a different group. He leaned down to hear someone shorter speaking, head tipped close, expression focused in a way that made Bakugo’s chest feel too full and too empty at the same time, and for a wild second, he pictured grabbing him by the front of his shirt and dragging him outside just to say it, just to get it out, just to stop feeling like this.
That fantasy died as fast as it came, replaced by the familiar knowledge that he would rather swallow glass than hand someone that kind of power over him, even if that someone was Kirishima, even if the feeling had already hollowed him out enough that everyone else could probably see straight through him if they looked hard enough.
Across the room, Mina caught his eye and lifted her drink with a grin that said I see you, and he answered with a middle finger and a smirk that felt convincing enough from a distance. She knew him well enough to know that meant he was fine, or at least fine enough to function, and that was all either of them would ever say about it.
Because for all the garbage that came out of his mouth, for every joke that landed too harsh or too dark or too honest, he still showed up when people needed him, still fixed gear without being asked, still took the worst hits in fights if it meant someone else walked away. None of that canceled out how much of an asshole he could be, and he never pretended otherwise, but the people who stayed in his orbit learned the difference between the noise and the truth.
With Kirishima, though, there was no clean separation, because every decent part of him wanted to stand closer while every defensive instinct told him to keep distance, and the result left him stuck against a wall at a party he didn’t want to attend, drinking cheap beer and watching the person he loved like it was a bad habit he couldn’t break.
He stayed there anyway, letting the room move around him, letting conversations pass without joining, letting the feeling sit under his ribs where it had settled years ago, and if that made him pathetic, then fine, because at least he was still here, still showing up, still orbiting the one person who made everything in him louder whether he liked it or not.
Kaminari was the first to get restless, which honestly felt inevitable, since he had already finished two drinks, stolen half of Jirou’s chips, and tried to launch at least three conversations that collapsed somewhere around his own punchlines. He leaned against the counter, scanning faces and clusters of conversation until his expression shifted into the exact kind of reckless excitement that always made Mina brace herself.
“Okay,” he said, clapping once to drag attention toward him even though the music still played and people were mid sentence, “hear me out, because this is either genius or legally questionable.”
Sero pressed his forehead to his cup. “If you say drinking game, I’m leaving.”
“Worse,” Kaminari said, unapologetically. “Seven minutes in heaven.”
For a second, the group stalled while everyone processed it, and then Mina snorted into her drink hard enough to choke.
“Honestly?” She said, pushing herself off the wall. “We are all single and already tipsy, so I support this.”
Jirou lifted an eyebrow. “You just want chaos.”
“I thrive in chaos.”
Sero pointed at Kaminari. “You just want permission to make out with someone.”
“Multiple someones,” the blond said, like he deserved applause.
Perched on the arm of the couch, Shinso looked like he was reconsidering every decision that had led him here. “I hate that I’m not even surprised.”
Across the room, Bakugo peeled himself off the wall, already preparing to shut the entire idea down, because the last thing he needed was some dumb party game turning into forced closeness with people he didn’t want touching him and situations he didn’t want to think about.
“Absolutely fucking not,” he started.
Before he could build any real momentum, Kirishima gave an easy shrug near the table, turning his cup between his hands like the whole thing barely registered as a decision.
“Yeah, okay.”
The casual acceptance landed harder than it should have, and irritation crawled up Bakugo’s spine because there was no hesitation there, no pause to consider who else might be in that closet, and he took another swallow of beer like it might wash the reaction out of him.
“Fuck, okay. Fine,” he said, and the word scraped on the way out.
Mina clapped once. “Amazing. Closet’s down the hall. Someone set a timer.”
The first round pulled Kaminari and Sero, and almost immediately loud complaining spilled from the hallway about how small Mina’s closet was and how Sero’s elbow kept jabbing Kaminari every time he tried to adjust his stance.
“You’re not allowed to move,” Kaminari said through the door.
“It’s a closet,” Sero shot back. “What do you want me to do, disappear?”
Laughter rolled through the living room, drinks kept moving, conversations splintered and reformed, and when the timer finally went off, they came back out looking more entertained than anything else, Sero shaking his head while Kaminari looked like he had discovered a new favorite hobby.
“Okay,” Kaminari said, pointing at everyone. “This is incredible. I’m having the time of my life.”
Mina barked out a laugh. “You were in there for seven minutes, not a vacation.”
“Still.”
Next spin sent the bottle wobbling across Mina’s coffee table before it settled between Kaminari and Mina herself.
She lifted both eyebrows. “Well. Guess I get to supervise.”
“You say that like you won’t be worse than me,” he said, already standing.
“Please,” she said, grabbing his sleeve. “I'm delightful.”
They disappeared down the hall to a chorus of cheering and exaggerated gagging noises from Sero, and when they came back, Kaminari looked even more energized, hair sticking up worse than before, grin completely unashamed.
“I stand by what I said,” he announced. “Best game ever.”
Shinso dragged a hand over his face. “I regret all of you.”
The third spin landed between Shinso and Sero, which earned a round of approving noises, mostly because both of them looked equally unimpressed by the entire situation.
“Fantastic,” Shinso said, sliding off the couch.
Sero tossed his empty cup into the trash and followed, already complaining about how Kaminari had probably used up all the oxygen in there.
They disappeared down the hall, and Kaminari hovered near the coffee table once they were gone, shifting on his feet like a kid waiting for fireworks.
Bakugo stayed where he was, already planning his exit, because if he left after this round, he could blame patrol, or early training, or literally anything that would get him out before this circled back to him.
Then the bottle spun again.
It rolled once, then again, wobbling in a slow, almost mocking circle before the neck lined up directly with him, and the base pointed straight at Kaminari.
A rough groan slipped out before he could stop it. “You have got to be fucking kidding me.”
Kaminari slapped his hands together. “Yes. Come on, man, don’t ruin this for me.”
“I will absolutely ruin this for you.”
“You won’t,” Kaminari said, grabbing his wrist and tugging.
He let Kaminari drag him forward anyway, because arguing would turn into a scene, and he had no interest in being tonight’s entertainment.
Passing the couch, movement at the edge of his vision snagged his attention.
Kirishima shifted near the armrest, weight sliding from one foot to the other while he turned his cup in slow circles. It was subtle enough that most people would miss it, but anyone who had fought beside him, lived beside him, memorized his tells without meaning to, would notice. His shoulders had pulled inward just enough to change the shape of his stance, smile still there but thinner, gaze tracking the hallway like he was trying to pretend he wasn’t watching.
Bakugo slowed half a step, eyes flicking over him quickly.
Jealous?
Maybe.
Uncomfortable?
Maybe that too.
The realization hit hard and fast, and hope and unbelief twisted together inside him, because if Kirishima cared even a little, even in this stupid party game way, then maybe this whole miserable, pathetic thing he carried around was not entirely one sided.
“Dude,” Kaminari said, tugging again. “You’re stalling.”
“Shut up,” Bakugo shot back, automatically, though the bite was thinner than usual.
As they headed down the hallway, he held onto the image of Kirishima shifting like that, replaying it whether he wanted to or not, because he had been living on scraps for months, and even the idea of meaning felt like too much and not enough all at once.
The closet door stood open at the end of the hall, cramped and overstuffed with coats and storage boxes, and Kaminari nudged him forward with way too much excitement.
Bakugo stepped closer, shoulders squared, expression already set into something unimpressed and mean enough to keep people from looking deeper, because that had always worked before, because being an asshole was easier, because caring this much about one person had already made him feel like a complete idiot.
Inside the closet, Kaminari lasted maybe three seconds before he started making exaggerated kissy noises into the darkness and waving his hands blindly like he was trying to grab a face that was not there.
“Touch me and I will kill you,” Bakugo said immediately, flat and serious enough that most people would have backed off.
Kaminari just laughed unbothered, the sound bouncing off the cramped walls.
“Relax,” he said, still snickering. “I know I’m not the one you want to kiss.”
For a second, Bakugo considered shoving him into the stacked storage boxes just on principle, except Kaminari kept laughing like it was the funniest thing he had ever said, and the moment passed without turning into anything bigger.
Instead, Kaminari dropped down to the floor with a soft thump, back hitting the wall as he stretched his legs out awkwardly between boxes and hanging coats.
“Okay,” he said, already launching into a ramble. “Listen, I think I finally figured something out about my quirk, because if I can push the output in shorter bursts instead of long streams, then I might actually be able to control the stun radius better, and like, imagine if I could use it for close combat instead of just crowd control, right, because right now I either overdo it or I fry myself, and that is not ideal, but if I adjust the timing, then maybe I can chain it with physical hits, like shock and then strike, and then shock again, and also Jirou said something about frequency and nervous system response and I think she’s onto something, because if I tune it right then maybe I can disrupt muscle signals without fully knocking someone out, which would be huge for arrests, because paperwork is way less annoying if the villain is conscious but not fighting back, you know?”
Bakugo leaned back against the wall, arms folded across his chest, letting the words wash over him without really engaging, because Kaminari could talk for an hour without needing input, and because right now, silence felt easier.
He tracked the rhythm of the ramble anyway, half listening, filing away the useful parts automatically, because for all his complaints, he paid attention to how his friends fought and how they improved, and if Kaminari actually figured out a way to control that output better, it would make patrol safer for everyone.
Time stretched in that cramped space, Kaminari talking himself through theories and half finished ideas, while Bakugo stayed planted against the wall, staring at nothing, replaying the image of Kirishima shifting near the couch like it was burned into the back of his skull.
Eventually, knuckles knocked against the door.
“Time’s over, loverboys,” Mina called from the hallway.
Kaminari pushed himself up with a grunt. “Best seven minutes of my week.”
“Your life is sad,” Bakugo said, already reaching for the door.
They stepped back into the hallway, then into the living room, and conversation dipped just slightly before picking back up, because everyone wanted to see reactions but no one wanted to be obvious about it.
Bakugo scanned the room once automatically, and then he saw it.
Kirishima sat forward on the couch, elbows on his knees, staring straight at him with an intensity that felt almost physical, like he was trying to burn a hole through his face just by looking hard enough. The expression wasn’t angry, not exactly, but focused in a way that made Bakugo’s shoulders lock for a fraction of a second before he forced himself to keep moving.
He dropped back into his previous spot near the wall, grabbed his abandoned drink, and forced himself to act like nothing had shifted, even though awareness prickled across his skin like static.
The bottle got pushed back to the center of the table.
“Your turn,” Mina said, pointing at him.
“Yeah, yeah,” he said, stepping forward.
Glass scraped softly against wood as he crouched, fingers wrapping around the neck, and for a second he almost spun it without thinking, just to get it over with.
Instead, he gave it a twist.
The bottle spun fast, green glass flashing under the overhead lights, wobbling once as it started to slow.
Then a hand came down on it.
Kirishima’s palm pressed flat against the glass, stopping it dead, the neck still pointing at Bakugo, the base angled toward himself.
Silence rippled outward in a small circle around the table.
Kirishima stood.
“Let’s go,” he said, simple like that.
“Hey,” Kaminari whined immediately. “That’s not how it works.”
“Dude, shut up,” Sero said from somewhere behind him.
Bakugo stared at the bottle, then at Kirishima, brain scrambling to catch up with what had just happened, because Kirishima didn’t usually force situations, didn’t usually claim space like that, didn’t usually look this set on something without explaining himself first.
Kirishima had already turned, already heading toward the hallway.
For half a second, Bakugo stayed frozen, then shoved himself upright, heart kicking harder than he wanted to acknowledge, and followed, because what the hell was that, because he needed to know, because if this was about to wreck whatever fragile balance they had, he would rather face it head on than stand there wondering.
The hallway felt shorter than it had any right to, each step pulling Bakugo forward even though part of him wanted to turn around and bail on the whole damn thing before it turned into something he couldn't control, but Kirishima had already disappeared into the dim space at the end, leaving the door cracked just enough to spill a sliver of light across the floor.
He pushed through anyway, because curiosity burned hotter than caution, and once inside, he kicked the door shut with his heel, the click echoing louder than it should have in the cramped closet stuffed with hanging coats that brushed against his shoulders.
"What the fuck was th..." He started, turning to face him, but Kirishima didn't wait for the rest.
Kirishima didn't even let him finish the sentence or build up steam, he just closed the distance in one fluid motion and crashed his mouth against Bakugo's with a force that knocked the air right out of him.
It hit like a quirk explosion, heat flooding through every point of contact until Bakugo's brain stuttered to a halt, thoughts scattering like debris after a blast. His hands came up automatically, palms pressing against Kirishima's chest, not to push away, but to pull him closer himself, and sweat broke out across his skin in an instant, sparking tiny pops of nitroglycerin that fizzled harmlessly against the fabric of Kirishima's shirt. The redhead didn't flinch or pull back, he just leaned in harder, one massive hand sliding up to cup the back of Bakugo's head, fingers threading through his hair with enough grip to tilt his face exactly where he wanted it.
Their lips moved insistently, no tentative exploration or careful buildup, just pure need driving the rhythm as Kirishima's tongue pushed past Bakugo's teeth without asking permission, tasting like beer and something sweeter underneath that made Bakugo's gut clench. He responded on instinct, kissing back with the same intensity, teeth grazing Kirishima's lower lip hard enough to draw a fucking low moan from him that vibrated through both of them.
The wall met Bakugo's back next, Kirishima guiding him there with his body weight, not slamming but pressing firmly, trapping him in place while that hand stayed locked in his hair, pulling just enough to expose his neck if he wanted but keeping the focus on their mouths instead. Bakugo's sparks popped again, brighter this time, but Kirishima only deepened the kiss, tongue exploring with a confidence that short-circuited every defensive wall Bakugo had built over years of pretending he didn't feel this way.
Coats rustled around them as they shifted, hangers clinking softly against the rod overhead, but the noise faded under the wet slide of lips and the harsh breaths they stole between clashes, Bakugo's hands fisting into Kirishima's shirt now, yanking him closer because pulling away wasn't an option anymore.
He bit down lightly on the redhead’s tongue when it delved too deep, not to hurt but to claim some ground back, and Kirishima groaned into his mouth, while his free hand slid down to grip Bakugo's hip, fingers digging in through denim with enough strength to bruise if he let it.
They broke for air only when lungs demanded it, foreheads pressing together for a split second before Kirishima dove back in, capturing Bakugo's lips again with a hunger that matched the pathetic ache Bakugo had been carrying around since he was fifteen, the one that made him watch from corners and snap insults to hide how badly he wanted exactly this.
Sweat trickled down Bakugo's spine under his shirt, mixing with the faint burn of his quirk activating in small bursts from his palms, but he ignored it, focused instead on the way Kirishima's body felt solid against him, every muscle tensed like he had been holding back just as long.
Their mouths met again and this time Bakugo pushed forward, taking the lead as he caught Kirishima’s lower lip between his teeth and sucked until a shiver ran through him and the hand tangled in his hair tightened on instinct. The kiss turned messy with teeth knocking, and then, as they chased control without needing to say a word, faint sparks flickering against Kirishima’s chest like distant fireworks, harmless yet stubborn reminders of how little control Bakugo felt over what was building inside him.
Kirishima’s thumb traced slowly along the line of his jaw while they kissed, small and almost lost under everything else, yet it sent heat rushing low through his stomach and made him push his hips forward before he could think, searching for friction even though the cramped closet barely left them space to breathe, much less move.
He tasted blood faintly when a tooth caught the inside of his lip, but it only spurred him on, hands releasing Kirishima's shirt to slide up his arms, feeling the hard lines of muscle earned from years of hero work, years of standing side by side in fights that should have killed them both.
The other man broke the kiss briefly again only to trail his mouth along Bakugo's jaw, nipping at the skin there before returning to his lips with renewed force, tongue sweeping in thoroughly, like he wanted to memorize every inch. Bakugo let out a sound he would deny later, his fingers digging into Kirishima's shoulders now, pulling him impossibly closer until their chests heaved together with each ragged breath.
The worms in his gut had transformed into something fiercer, no longer gnawing but roaring, demanding he give in to this obsession that had turned him into a fool who showed up at parties he hated just for glimpses of red hair and sharp teeth.
Kirishima's hand left his hip to brace against the wall beside Bakugo's head, caging him in further, but the kiss stayed central, lips bruised and swollen from the pressure as they moved in sync now, tongues stroking with less frenzy and more intent, exploring the heat between them.
Bakugo's palms sparked again, brighter pops that illuminated the dark space in flashes, casting shadows across Kirishima's face, but he didn't stop, not when every slide of tongue and press of lips fed the pathetic love that had rooted itself so deep he couldn't imagine uprooting it.
The redhead's fingers combed through his hair roughly, tugging at the roots in a way that sent shivers down Bakugo's back, and he retaliated by biting Kirishima's upper lip, pulling it between his teeth until he heard a hiss, then soothing it with his tongue. They were both sweating now, shirts clinging uncomfortably, but it didn't matter, not when Kirishima's body pinned him so perfectly against the wall, hip to hip, chest to chest, every movement grinding them together in ways that made Bakugo's thoughts blur at the edges.
He slid one hand down to Kirishima's waist, hooking his fingers into a belt loop and yanking hard, eliminating the last sliver of space between them, and Kirishima responded by deepening the kiss once more, tongue thrusting in with a rhythm that mirrored the pulse hammering through both of them.
Time lost meaning in the stuffy closet, minutes blending as they kissed without pause, Bakugo's sparks dying down only to flare up again when Kirishima's hand slipped from his hair to grip his neck, thumb pressing just under his jaw to angle him better. He tasted like everything Bakugo had denied himself, like late-night patrols and shared victories and the kind of loyalty that made heroes out of idiots, and Bakugo drank it in, tongue chasing every flavor while his free hand roamed up Kirishima's back, feeling the shift of muscles under fabric. Their lips parted with a wet sound only to reconnect immediately, harder this time, teeth involved again as Bakugo nipped at his tongue, drawing another groan that vibrated straight into him.
Kirishima pushed his thigh between Bakugo's legs then, creating friction that made sparks fly from his palms in earnest, popping against Kirishima's sides, and he arched into it, kissing back with everything he had, tongue battling for space while his hands clutched at whatever they could reach. The kiss turned desperate again, lips sliding slickly, breaths mingling hot, Kirishima's fingers digging into his neck with enough pressure to leave marks later, but Bakugo welcomed it, needed it, because this was proof that the obsession wasn't one-sided, that the worms eating him alive had a counterpart in the way Kirishima held on like he might never let go.
He broke the kiss to drag his mouth down Kirishima's jaw, biting at the skin there before returning to his lips, unable to stay away for long, and when their tongues met once more, it was with a familiarity that belied how new this all was. Bakugo's shirt rode up from the friction, Kirishima's hand finding bare skin at his waist, and his fingers splaying wide and pulling him flush. They kissed through it, Bakugo's sparks flickering like embers now, while the redhead's tongue explored every corner of his mouth, claiming territory with each thrust.
Sweat made their grips slippery, but neither eased up, Bakugo's hand finding its way back into Kirishima's hair, tugging to tilt his head, allowing him to deepen the angle, tongue pushing in aggressively. Kirishima moaned into the kiss, his thigh pressing harder between Bakugo's legs, creating a rhythm that matched their mouths, slow grinds that built tension without any kind of release. Bakugo bit down on his lower lip in response, pulling until the other man chased him back, lips crashing together again in a mess of need and need and need, tongues tangling wildly.
The closet felt smaller with every passing second, coats brushing against them as they moved, but it only heightened the intimacy, forcing them closer, Bakugo's back scraping against the wall while Kirishima's body covered him completely. He sucked on Kirishima's tongue when it invaded again, drawing it deeper, hands roaming down to grip his ass and pull him in tight, sparks popping faintly against denim. Kirishima's hand slid from his neck to his chest, palm flat over where his heart raced, but the kiss never faltered, exploring with a fervor that spoke of pent-up want finally unleashed.
Bakugo tilted his head the other way, changing the angle to allow their tongues to slide together differently, while his fingers dug into Kirishima's hips, guiding the subtle movements that kept them grinding. A low growl escaped him when the redhead nipped at his lip, retaliating by thrusting his tongue deep, claiming the space as his own, and Kirishima let him, only to push back moments later, the back-and-forth turning the kiss into a battle neither wanted to win. Sweat dripped down his temple, mixing with the heat between them, but Bakugo ignored it, focusing on the taste of Kirishima's mouth, the way his lips felt swollen under his, the occasional clash of teeth that added edge to the softness.
Kirishima's fingers traced patterns on his skin under the shirt, sending shivers through him, and he arched closer, kissing with renewed intensity, savoring each moment.
He felt pathetic in the best way, finally giving in to the love that had dogged him for so long, expressing it through every press of lips and slide of tongue, while Kirishima matched him move for move, as if he had been waiting just as desperately. His hand slipped under the other man’s shirt then, and sparks lit the dimness again, harmless bursts that illuminated Kirishima's flushed face for fractions of seconds.
Kirishima bit down on his lower lip gently, tugging it before soothing with his tongue, and Bakugo groaned into the kiss, hands clutching tighter, hips rolling forward to meet the pressure of strong thigh. Their lips reconnected seamlessly, tongues tangling once more in a heated exchange that built and built, no end in sight, Bakugo's brain blissfully empty of everything but this, the man pressing him against the wall and the obsession finally reciprocated in every wet slide and hungry press.
The kiss evolved again, slowing to allow deeper exploration, Bakugo's tongue tracing the roof of Kirishima's mouth while his hands roamed freely, memorizing the feel of him under fabric and skin. Kirishima's grip in his hair loosened only to tighten again, guiding the angle, keeping them locked together as breaths grew needier. He nipped at Kirishima's jaw briefly, then returned to his lips, sucking on his tongue until Kirishima pushed back, taking control with a thrust that made his knees weaken.
Kirishima never let the kiss break for long, kept driving his tongue in deep while his body pressed closer, then the hand that had been braced high on the wall slid down, fingers dragging along the ridges of Bakugo’s ribs under his shirt before dropping lower, palm spreading wide and flat over the front of his jeans like he had been waiting for permission all night.
The touch was too much, because Bakugo was already straining against the denim; the fabric was probably dark and damp at the tip from how long he had been leaking just from the kissing, from the weight of Kirishima’s mouth and the way he smelled like sweat and beer and everything Bakugo had been quietly losing his mind over for years.
Fingers curled, heel of the hand pressing right against the thick line of him, and Kirishima pulled back from the kiss with a rough, torn-out “Fuck” that scraped low in his throat before he sealed their mouths together again, harder this time, tongue shoving in like he wanted to chase the sound Bakugo made in answer.
He kept his hand right there, cupping through the rough material, not moving yet, just letting the heat bleed through while Bakugo’s hips snapped forward once, then again, grinding shamelessly because the pressure was close but nowhere near enough. Kirishima didn’t stop him, didn’t pull away, only let him rock into the hold while their lips stayed locked, spit stringing between them whenever they parted for a gasping second only to crash right back.
When Kirishima finally eased back enough to look, his pupils had swallowed almost all the red, mouth swollen and slick, lips shining in the thin stripe of light creeping under the door. He looked like he had been the one getting wrecked, and the words came out in a whisper. “Can I?”
Bakugo’s brain shorted for a second.
Can you what?
Rip him open and crawl inside.
Bend him over right here and fuck him until the party forgot they existed?
Love him the way he had been pathetic enough to want for so long, no conditions, no escape clause?
Have him, claim every ugly desperate piece he had kept locked down?
The questions stacked up uselessly because the answer stayed the same no matter which one he picked.
Yes. Whatever you want. Take it all.
He jerked his head in a single nod, throat too closed to push words out.
Kirishima made a small sound, almost like he hadn’t believed it would happen, and then his fingers were working the button of Bakugo’s jeans open, shaking just enough to fumble the first try before he got it, zipper dragged down next, and that only made him twitch harder. The moment Kirishima pushed his hand past the waistband of the boxers, Bakugo’s cock kicked against his palm, slick already, head glossy with precome that had been dripping non-stop for too long.
The redhead wrapped his fingers around him, calluses rough in all the right places from years of punching through concrete and holding shields, and he gave one long experimental pull from root to tip that dragged a low moan out of his own throat at how thick and wet Bakugo felt.
“Fuck,” he said again, the word cracking into something softer, before he leaned in and kissed him filthy-deep, tongue thrusting while his hand found a rhythm.
He started slow, learning every inch, thumb sweeping over the slit to smear the slickness down the shaft, then gripping tighter on the way back, twisting just under the head the same way Bakugo did alone in the dark when the thoughts of Kirishima got too loud to ignore.
Except this wasn’t his own hand, wasn’t the quick frustrated strokes he hated himself for afterward. This was bigger, hotter, rougher where it counted, moving like Kirishima had pictured it too, maybe jerked off thinking about exactly how Bakugo would feel in his grip.
Every pass lit him up, too much after nothing but his own palm for so long, and his hips bucked into the circle of fingers without asking, chasing the slide while Kirishima matched him stroke for stroke, faster now, thumb circling the head on every upstroke, tongue fucking into his mouth in the same beat.
One of Bakugo’s hands knotted in red hair again, tugging hard enough to hurt, the other clamped onto his shoulder, nails biting through fabric because he needed something solid while sparks cracked from his palms in bright erratic bursts, lighting flashes across Kirishima’s flushed face and the way his lashes fluttered all over again every time Bakugo groaned into the kiss. The kiss itself never let up, even when air ran thin, even when Kirishima’s strokes turned frenetic, with precome slicking the way until the sound carried in the cramped dark. His free hand wandered, shoving under Bakugo’s shirt to spread across his chest, thumb dragging over a nipple, then dropping to clamp onto his hip, anchoring him while he worked his cock with single-minded focus.
Nothing had ever felt like this.
Not the awkward, regrettable fumbling he had tried years ago and sworn off. Not the mechanical jerk-off sessions when the obsession clawed too deep and he hated how pathetic it made him. This was raw, every nerve screaming, Kirishima’s hand moving like it knew him already, pressing into the spot just under the head on every downstroke, twisting in a way that made Bakugo’s spine bow off the wall. His hips rolled forward again, grinding shamelessly into the fist, and Kirishima let out a rough sound against his lips, cock hard where it pressed against his thigh through their clothes.
He kept kissing him through it, tongue lazy but thorough, licking deep like he wanted to swallow every noise Bakugo couldn’t hold back. Each stroke dragged another one out, muffled into Kirishima’s mouth, and when he twisted his wrist just right, Bakugo arched hard, hips snapping forward so the hangers overhead clattered. Kirishima didn’t falter, only sped up, hand slick with precum while his mouth stayed fused to Bakugo’s, taking every curse and groan like they belonged to him.
It was too much, pleasure and desire twisting together until Bakugo couldn’t separate them.
He had never trusted anyone to touch him here, never let anyone close enough, and now Kirishima had him in hand, stroking like Bakugo was his to unravel, and Bakugo was giving it to him, grinding into the grip, kissing back with teeth and tongue and everything he usually kept locked behind insults and explosions.
Kirishima broke the kiss long enough to drag his open mouth along his jaw, teeth scraping, then came back to his lips, hand never stopping, thumb pushing into the slit again to spread fresh precome, making every slide wetter. Bakugo’s thighs shook, hips jerking uneven, chasing the cliff that loomed closer with every pass of rough fingers, every deep push of Kirishima’s tongue matching the rhythm below.
He was right there, embarrassingly fast, because it was Kirishima’s hand on him, Kirishima’s mouth swallowing his sounds, Kirishima who had turned him into this lovesick idiot who showed up to stupid parties and stood in corners just to watch red hair catch the light.
And the redhead seemed to feel it coming, because he squeezed harder, stroked faster, twisted at the head with purpose, and leaned in to kiss him deeper still, tongue shoving in while his hand drove him straight to the edge.
Kirishima’s hand kept moving through the last shuddering strokes, until his whole body locked up and he came so hard the sparks from his palms flared for a split second before dying out.
It ripped through him like nothing he had ever pulled from himself in the dark of his own apartment, thick ropes spilling over Kirishima’s fingers, coating his palm and dripping between them while Bakugo’s hips jerked forward one final time and then stilled, thighs trembling against the redhead’s.
He felt boiled alive, every inch of skin flushed and oversensitive, sweat soaking through his shirt where it clung to his back and chest.
Kirishima didn’t pull away. He lifted his hand slowly, eyes locked on Bakugo’s face the whole time, and brought it to his mouth. His tongue slid out, lapping up the mess in one long stripe from wrist to fingertips, then closing his lips around two of them to suck the rest clean. The wet sound of it cut through the closet’s muffled quiet, and he stared, brain short-circuiting all over again because that was his come on Kirishima’s tongue.
The sight alone punched another weak pulse out of him, even though he was spent, and he thought for a wild second he might actually be hallucinating, that the fever burning under his skin had finally broken his mind. Then Kirishima leaned in and kissed him again, tongue pushing past his lips so Bakugo tasted salty, bitter, and still warm cum mixed with saliva, and the reality of it slammed into him harder than the orgasm had.
Kirishima was everywhere at once.
His big hands shoved back under Bakugo’s shirt, palms sliding up the length of his spine, fingers spreading wide to map every ridge of muscle. His abs flexed and pressed forward, squishing against his oversensitive cock where it hung softening between them, the friction almost painful but still electric. His tongue kept thrusting into Bakugo’s mouth like he was trying to fuck it, curling and stroking until he could barely remember how to breathe around it.
It was too much.
All of it.
The heat, the hands, the taste, the solid wall of Kirishima’s body pinning him in place.
Bakugo had never been touched like this, never been wanted like this, never had someone swallow him down and then kiss him like the taste was a gift instead of something dirty. His lungs burned for air so he shoved weakly at Kirishima’s chest, enough to break the kiss for a second. He gasped, chest heaving, face so hot he knew he was red from his collarbones to his hairline, whole body shaking like he had run ten miles and then been electrocuted on top of it.
Kirishima froze, and for half a heartbeat, his eyes went wide, pupils shrinking back to normal size, and something scared flickered across his face, like he thought he had crossed a line, pushed too far, ruined whatever this was before it even started. His hands started to pull back hesitantly, ready to apologize or retreat or do whatever stupid heroic thing he always did when he thought he’d hurt someone.
But Bakugo didn’t give him the chance to finish the thought.
He lunged forward, grabbed fistfuls of Kirishima’s shirt, and shoved him backward with more strength than he should have had left. The redhead stumbled, caught off balance, and landed on the stack of storage boxes behind him; probably Mina’s endless collection of shoes judging by the muffled clatter of heels and soles shifting under his weight. Bakugo followed without pausing, climbing into his lap in one rough motion, knees bracketing Kirishima’s hips, chest pressed to chest so there was no space left between them.
He kissed him before either of them could speak.
This time it was Bakugo driving it, mouth crashing down hard, tongue shoving in without asking because he needed to prove something to himself, to Kirishima, to the pathetic lovesick part of him that had spent years pretending he could live without this.
He bit at Kirishima’s lower lip, sucked it between his teeth, then licked deep again, tasting the faint salt of himself still lingering there. His hands roamed, one knotting in red hair to yank Kirishima’s head back so he could angle the kiss deeper, the other sliding under his shirt to claw at the hard planes of his back, nails scraping skin because he wanted marks, wanted proof tomorrow that this wasn’t a dream he’d wake up cursing himself for.
Kirishima groaned into his mouth, hands coming up to grip Bakugo’s waist, fingers digging in like he was afraid he might vanish if he let go. He opened for the kiss, let Bakugo take whatever he wanted, tongue meeting every thrust with equal force until they were both panting into it. Bakugo rocked forward once, grinding down against Kirishima’s lap where he could feel him still rock-hard through their clothes, and the friction pulled a moan out of both of them at once.
He didn’t stop kissing him.
He kept licking into his mouth, teeth grazing, lips bruising, hands everywhere, tugging hair, clutching shoulders, sliding down to grip Kirishima’s ass and pull him up harder against him. It was messy, uncoordinated, almost angry in how much want poured into it, but he didn’t care because Kirishima was meeting him move for move, big hands sliding up his back again, holding him close while their mouths stayed fused.
He ground down again, feeling the hard length pressed against him through denim, and Kirishima’s hips jerked up in answer, chasing the pressure while his hands roamed lower, cupping his ass to guide the rhythm.
They kept going like that, mouths locked, bodies rocking together on top of Mina’s stupid shoe boxes, Bakugo kissing him like he was trying to crawl inside his skin and never come out.
But then, he slid off Kirishima’s lap without a word, knees hitting the floor between the redhead’s spread thighs, the impact jarring enough to rattle the shoe boxes underneath them again. He looked up once, eyes dark and glassy, face still flushed to the roots of his hair, and the single word came out rough, almost cracked. “Please.”
Kirishima blinked down at him, confusion cutting through the haze for a second, brows drawing together because the word didn’t match anything he expected from Bakugo, not the snarling explosions or the awful insults or even the desperate kisses they had just traded. His hands hovered uncertainly near Bakugo’s shoulders, not quite touching, like he was afraid to assume.
Bakugo dragged in one long breath through his nose, calming himself against the way his whole body still buzzed, then forced the rest out before he could second-guess it. “Let me suck you.”
The words were just thrown there, and Kirishima’s face went scarlet so fast it looked painful. Color flooded from his neck to his ears, eyes widening, mouth parting on a silent exhale. He tried to speak, failed, swallowed hard instead, and fumbled at his own jeans with shaking hands that refused to cooperate. The button slipped twice under his fingers, zipper catching on fabric before he finally yanked it down. When he shoved the denim and boxers low enough, his thick cock sprang free, already leaking uncontrollably, a bead of precome rolling down the cock and dripping onto Bakugo’s waiting palm.
Bakugo stared.
The sight punched the air out of him all over again because that was Kirishima, hard like this, dripping like this, and all because of him. Not some faceless fantasy, not a quick jerk in the shower when guilt hit too hard afterward. Him. The possessive thought twisted something deep in his chest, hotter than anything he had ever let himself imagine even in the middle of the night when no one could see how pathetic he got over this one person.
He wrapped his fingers around the base without thinking, feeling the heat and the pulse jumping against his palm. Kirishima moaned right away, head tipping back against the wall while his hips jerked forward half an inch before he caught himself.
Bakugo glanced up again, thumb brushing once over the underside just to feel Kirishima twitch in his hand. “I’ve never done that,” he said, the admission slipping out quieter than he meant, almost lost under the sound of their breathing.
Kirishima let out a breathless chuckle before saying, “That’s okay. I never received one.”
Bakugo’s hand stopped for half a second. He wanted to ask, because Kirishima had been with people, hadn’t he? Like that situationship everyone pretended not to notice, the dates he mentioned in passing like they were nothing, but the question died when Kirishima kept talking, voice rough and honest.
“And I’m pretty sure I will come just from feeling your mouth on me.”
Bakugo snorted, a reflex to cover how badly the words hit him. “That quick, huh?”
He didn’t give Kirishima time to fire back the obvious, that Bakugo himself had lasted maybe two fucking minutes under one hand and a kiss, because he leaned in and dragged his tongue flat along the underside from base to tip in one experimental lick. The salty taste slammed into him, and the skin was hot and velvety under his tongue, different from anything he had ever put in his mouth. It wasn’t bad, just strange, overwhelming in how real it felt, how every ridge and vein stood out against the wet slide.
Kirishima sucked in, hips twitching again, and a low whine built in his throat. Bakugo did it again, slower this time, tracing the thick vein that ran along the length, feeling it pulse under his tongue while precome smeared across his lips. Kirishima’s hands flew to his own mouth, then dropped to his thighs, fingers digging into denim, and when Bakugo flicked his tongue over the slit, gathering the bead there, the redhead bit down hard on his own forearm to muffle the moan that tried to rip out.
Bakugo pulled back just enough to look. Kirishima’s eyes were squeezed shut, brows pinched, jaw clenched around the bite on his arm, every muscle in his body strung tight while his hips rolled in tiny helpless jerks he couldn’t quite stop. The sight made something in his chest clench hard, because Kirishima was trying so fucking hard to hold still, to not thrust, to not overwhelm him on his first try, even though his whole frame shook with the effort.
He opened his mouth again, took just the head between his lips this time, tongue swirling experimentally around the crown, tasting more precome as it welled up. Kirishima’s moan vibrated through both of them, muffled against his own skin, and his thighs tensed under Bakugo’s hands where he had braced them for balance. Then, he sank lower, lips stretching around the thickness, careful not to let his teeth catch because he had no idea what felt good yet, only what he liked on himself in theory. The weight of it on his tongue was foreign, filling his mouth in a way that made his jaw ache almost immediately, but he pushed down anyway, taking more until the head nudged the back of his throat and he gagged a little, eyes watering.
Kirishima’s hand shot out, fingers threading gently into Bakugo’s hair. “Easy,” he rasped, the word barely audible around the bite on his arm. “You don’t have to...”
Bakugo ignored him, hollowed his cheeks and sucked once, tentatively, feeling the way the other man’s cock throbbed against his tongue in answer. Another low groan, this one slipping past Kirishima’s teeth despite the self-inflicted gag, and his hips rocked forward a fraction before he caught himself again, muscles quivering with restraint.
He pulled off slowly, lips dragging along the shaft, then went back down, setting a clumsy rhythm that was more enthusiasm than skill. He bobbed his head, taking as much as he could each time, tongue pressing flat along the underside, swirling around the head on the upstroke, letting spit slick the way until it dripped down to his fist where he still held the base. Every noise Kirishima made, every choked moan or bitten-off curse, fed straight into him, made him bolder, made him want to hear more,
and more,
and way fucking more.
Kirishima’s hand in his hair flexed, fingers carding through the strands instead of gripping, thumb brushing the shell of Bakugo’s ear in a helpless caress. “Fuck,” he breathed, the word shaking. “You’re... Shit, you’re so good already.”
Bakugo hummed around him without meaning to, the vibration pulling another ragged sound from Kirishima’s throat, and he felt the redhead’s thighs tense harder under his palms. He experimented again, sucking harder on the upstroke, tongue flicking the slit, then taking him deeper until his nose brushed trimmed hair and his throat worked around the intrusion. He gagged again, pulled back coughing softly, but went right back down, determined, spit stringing from his lips to the head when he lifted off for air.
Kirishima was unraveling above him. His breathing had turned ragged, and the arm he had bitten was marked with red indents from his own teeth. His hips kept twitching, small aborted thrusts he fought to control, and every time Bakugo swallowed around him or dragged his tongue in a slow circle, his whole body jerked like he had been shocked.
Bakugo pulled off long enough to drag his tongue along the underside again, watching the redhead’s face the whole time, and his cheeks were flushed darker than Bakugo had ever seen them. He licked a stripe from balls to tip, tasting sweat and precome and skin, then took him back into his mouth, sinking down until his lips met his own fist, cheeks hollowed tight.
Kirishima’s hand tightened in his hair real hard for the first time. “Katsuki, I’m...” He started, voice cracking, then bit his arm again, muffling the whine that followed when Bakugo sucked deeper, bobbing faster, letting spit drip messily down his chin.
The rhythm grew sloppier, and his jaw was aching like hell, but he didn’t stop because every sound Kirishima made felt like a reward, like proof that this was real and that he could do this to him. He hollowed his cheeks again, tongue pressing hard along the vein, and Kirishima’s hips snapped forward once, shallow, before he yanked himself back with a choked curse.
Bakugo moaned around him at the taste of more precome flooding his tongue, the sound vibrating straight through Kirishima, and the redhead’s control frayed visibly.
He kept going awkwardly, with his lips stretched wide and spit slicking everything, while his tongue worked the head every time he pulled back. Kirishima’s moans grew higher, more desperate, bitten-off and raw, and he felt drunk on it, on the weight in his mouth, on the way Kirishima looked down at him like he was a fucking mirage.
The redhead’s other hand came up, cupping Bakugo’s jaw gently, thumb brushing over his cheek where spit had smeared, and the tenderness of it contrasted so absurdly with the filthy slide of his cock in Bakugo’s mouth that greed twisted in his gut all over again. He sucked harder, took him deeper, let his throat relax as much as he could, and Kirishima’s whole body bowed forward, forehead dropping to rest against his hair while he panted his name again and again.
“Fuck, I’m close,” Kirishima managed, the words slurred and trembling. “If you don’t want... Pull off, I...”
Bakugo didn’t pull off.
He sank down as far as he could go, nose buried in the coarse hair at the base, throat working around him, and held there while Kirishima shuddered above him, moans muffled against his own arm again, hips rocking in tiny helpless jerks.
Bakugo opened his mouth even bigger for him immediately, and he felt the thick slide go down his throat in one uneven gulp.
It wasn’t good, not in the way people romanticized or joked about. It wasn’t sweet or creamy or any of the bullshit descriptions he had overheard in locker rooms years ago. The taste hit the back of his tongue and it was bitter, heavy with that particular salt that clung and refused to fade, coating everything it touched before it finally went down. The texture was worse in a way, since it was thicker than spit, almost viscous when it pooled, sticking briefly to the roof of his mouth before he forced another swallow to clear it.
He didn’t gag, he didn’t even flinch. He just swallowed again, feeling the last of it slip past the back of his tongue and down, leaving a faint afterburn that wasn’t unpleasant so much as unfamiliar, like swallowing something foreign that his body hadn’t quite decided how to catalog yet.
He swallowed once more, just to feel it again, to prove to himself he could, and the taste bloomed fresh on his tongue, still bitter, still thick, still not something he would call enjoyable in any objective sense, but he looked Kirishima in the eye anyway, voice rough from everything his throat had just taken.
“Doesn’t taste like candy,” he said flatly, because lying would have felt stupider than admitting it.
Kirishima was still breathing hard, but he managed to smile and say, “Yeah. I figured.”
Bakugo shrugged one shoulder, the motion small but enough to brush their chests together again. “Not bad either. Just weird.” He paused, licked his lower lip where a faint trace still lingered, then met Kirishima’s gaze head-on. “I’d do it every fucking day for the rest of my life if it was yours.”
“Jesus,” the redhead closed his eyes and moaned. “You can’t just say shit like that, Katsuki.”
“Why not?” Bakugo challenged, even though his face felt hot again, even though his pulse kicked up under his palm. “It’s true.”
Then, Kirishima’s hand slid into blonde hair and held there, firm enough to guide, to insist, to pull him upright from the floor inch by inch until his knees stopped digging into the carpet and his balance shifted forward into his space.
The second he was standing, Kirishima moved in again, mouth crashing into his like he had run out of time somewhere and needed to make up for it all at once, kissing him in a way that felt consuming embarrassingly hot. Their mouths opened without hesitation, tongues meeting messily, the taste of cum and salt blurring together until Bakugo stopped trying to separate what was his and what was Kirishima’s.
Hands moved everywhere at once, sliding under his shirt, pressing against his back, gripping his hips and dragging him closer until there was no air left between them, chest to thigh, every shift of weight dragging another wave of heat through Bakugo’s body. His head spun in a way that made standing feel optional, like gravity had become a suggestion instead of a rule.
His fingers dug into Kirishima’s shoulders just to stay upright, because his legs felt unreliable and his skin felt too sensitive and the whole thing felt like too much and not enough all at once.
That was when a knock hit the door.
Both of them stopped mid movement, mouths still touching, with their breaths still mixing in short bursts that refused to settle.
From the other side, Mina’s voice came through, lower than usual and very clearly amused. “It’s been almost twenty minutes, you animals.” A shameless laugh followed. “Take a couple more to fix yourselves. I’ll keep everyone busy.”
Kirishima pulled back first, face going red so fast it almost looked painful, then dropping to Bakugo like he had just realized where they were and what they had done and how long they had been in here.
Heat climbed up Bakugo’s neck right along with it, because yeah, okay, fuck, they had lost track of time completely, lost track of the party, lost track of everything except hands and mouths and the way their bodies fit together like they had been built with this exact moment in mind.
They both moved clumsily at once. Kirishima hauled his jeans back into place, missing the zipper once, then again, then finally getting it closed, dragging a hand through his hair like that might fix anything. Bakugo followed suit, shoving himself back into place with hands that still felt unreliable, wiping at his mouth with his wrist because the evidence was still there and he hated how obvious it probably looked.
Kirishima grabbed a sleeve from a coat hanging beside them and pressed it against his mouth, then offered it without saying anything. They cleaned what they could, faces and hands and whatever would be visible at a glance, both of them knowing it was mostly pointless.
Everyone would see it in their faces.
One long breath left Kirishima’s chest before he squared up and opened the door.
He stepped into the hallway like nothing had happened, even though his ears were still bright red and his shirt was wrinkled in ways that told the truth anyway. Bakugo followed a step behind, expression pulled into something unimpressed, arms crossing tight because looking pissed off was easier than looking wrecked.
The living room had shifted while they were gone. There were still a few other people around there, but Bakugo didn't know who they were and he truly didn't care.
Nobody stared outright, but attention bent their way anyway, glances cutting over and then sliding off, smirks hidden behind cups.
Kirishima disappeared toward the kitchen for a second, then came back with two beers, one already open. He held it out without looking at Bakugo at first, then forced himself to, cheeks still flushed but calmer now.
“Denki and Hanta are in the living room playing videogames,” he said, casually, like he was listing chores. “Mina, Kyoka, and Hitoshi are in the kitchen. Drinking and smoking. You want to go to the balcony?”
Bakugo took the bottle, fingers brushing his for just a second longer than necessary. “Yeah.”
They cut through the apartment fast, not making eye contact with anyone, shoulders nearly touching as they moved past the couch and down the short hall to the sliding door. Outside air hit his skin and helped clear his head enough that he could breathe without feeling like he might choke on it.
He leaned against the railing, cracked the beer, took a long drink, and finally let the only word in his brain out. “Fuck.”
Kirishima laughed under his breath, leaning beside him. “Yeah.” He took a drink too, then added, quieter, “Fuck.”
They stood there for a minute, both staring outward, both pretending they needed the view more than the conversation.
“What was that?” Bakugo asked finally.
Kirishima turned his head enough to look at him. “I’ve always wanted to kiss you, then the bottle landed on you and Kaminari and I got jealous. Stupid jealousy, because he got seven minutes and I didn’t. So when it was my turn, I stopped it.”
Bakugo let out a short laugh so loud that he surprised even himself. “I’d rather die than kiss Kaminari.”
Kirishima blinked at him, surprise breaking across his face before the blush came back stronger. “Really?”
“Yeah. You should know that I would have blown up the closet before letting him near me.”
Relief loosened something in the redhead’s shoulders, and he laughed again, quieter this time.
Bakugo shifted, turning a little more toward him. “What was that about never doing anything before? Weren’t you dating someone?”
Kirishima picked at the label on his bottle. “Yeah, but it wasn’t like that. I told him I wasn’t ready for anything sexual. We messed around a little, but whenever it went further, I stopped it. Eventually he got tired of waiting and we just stopped trying.”
“But you were fine with me,” Bakugo said, blunt because he didn’t know how to be anything else.
Color climbed up Kirishima’s neck again. He rubbed the back of it, embarrassed but honest. “I’ve been thinking about you like that since we were fifteen. Training, patrols, fights, everything. I kept telling myself it was admiration, or friendship, or just hero stuff, but I knew deep down that it wasn’t. It was wanting you. Wanting you to want me back. So yeah. When you dropped down and looked up at me like that, I was ready. I’ve been ready for years.”
The words landed like a grenade detonation in the middle of Bakugo’s chest, and they went straight through every layer he had spent years stacking up until there was nothing left to deflect them with.
“Fifteen,” he said, incredulously.
Kirishima nodded. “Yeah, especially after training camp. You were covered in dirt, yelling at everyone, looking like you wanted to fight the planet, and I thought I wanted to kiss you even while you were screaming at me. It freaked me out. I kept waiting for it to pass and well, it didn’t.”
A dry laugh slipped out of Bakugo. “You’re such an idiot, Ei. You got turned on because I was screaming at you?”
“Well, says the guy who lost it in my hand in under two minutes.”
“Shut the fuck up.”
There was no heat in it, just habit, just the way they had always talked, only now everything underneath it had shifted.
“So what now?” Bakugo asked, leaning back against the railing again.
“I don’t want to pretend that didn’t happen, and I don’t want to go back to watching you across rooms and pretending I’m fine. I want this. I want you. Whatever that means.”
For a second, Bakugo just stared at him, and the words refused to settle into anything that felt real, because he had built years of armor around the idea that this would never happen, and now it stood in front of him, breathing, flushed, looking nervous and determined all at once.
His grip tightened around the beer bottle without him noticing, glass pressing into his palm while his brain tried to catch up with the moment. Every memory he had shoved into locked corners of himself pushed forward at once. Training fields. Patrol rooftops. Late nights sitting shoulder to shoulder, pretending the contact meant nothing. The thousand times he had forced himself to look away first because wanting Kirishima felt like handing someone a loaded weapon and hoping they would not use it.
And now Kirishima stood here saying he wanted him.
Not past tense. Not hypothetical. Not confused or uncertain.
Wanted.
His body reacted before his thoughts finished lining up. Skin still felt too sensitive, every place Kirishima had touched him earlier buzzing faintly like the sensation had not decided to fade yet. His stomach felt tight in a way that had nothing to do with nerves and everything to do with the sheer disbelief punching through him. He shifted his weight, then shifted again, like he could physically shake himself into a version of reality where this made sense.
Because he had loved him for years.
He had loved him, and loved him, and loved him even more.
Not the easy kind either. Not the kind you joke about or shake off or grow out of. The kind that sat under your skin. The kind that made him memorize how Kirishima took his coffee, how he stretched before fights, how he laughed with his whole face when something caught him off guard. The kind that made him show up early to training just to be there when Kirishima walked in. The kind that made him meaner to everyone else because if he let himself be soft anywhere, it would all spill out.
And now Kirishima was standing close enough that their shoulders brushed every time either of them shifted.
His chest felt too tight for a full breath, and he hated that, hated how exposed it made him feel, hated how badly he wanted to close the gap completely and just stay there. His hands flexed once at his sides before he shoved one into his pocket, because if he did not, he would grab Kirishima and pull him in again and he wasn’t sure he trusted himself to stop once he started.
“You’re serious,” he said finally, like he had to drag the words out through everything clogging his throat.
Kirishima nodded with a shy smile, but he didn't back off.
His pulse still ran too fast, like his whole body had not figured out how to calm down yet. The place under his mended heart felt sore in a way that had nothing to do with anything physical, like something locked there for years had finally cracked open and now he had to figure out what to do with it.
“Eijirou, I’ve been in love with you,” he said, and the words came out blunt and ugly and completely unpolished, because he didn’t know how to dress them up, “for so long I stopped counting.”
Kirishima’s breath caught, and Bakugo almost laughed at how stupidly satisfying that felt.
“I figured you’d never want me like that,” he went on, staring straight ahead because looking directly at him felt like too much right now. “You’re... Fuck, you're you. Everyone likes you. You make it look easy. And I’m me. I piss people off for sport and my sense of humor is garbage and half the time I don’t even know how to talk to people unless I’m yelling at them.”
His jaw worked once before he forced the next part out anyway.
“But I’d do anything for you. I already do. And I hate that, but at the same time, I don’t, and it’s pathetic as hell, and I don’t even care anymore.”
The confession lingered in the air, and the moment the words slipped out, something in him felt peeled open. His shoulders drew back without thinking, like he had just stepped out of armor he didn’t even realize he had been wearing, and now he didn’t know where to rest his hands, or where to look, or how to quiet the aching pressure gathering behind his ribs.
Years of forcing this feeling smaller, softer, easier to carry, rushed forward all at once, and he hated how fiercely he wanted Kirishima to say something, and how much it terrified him that he would.
Looking directly at him felt dangerous, because if there was even a hint of hesitation, even a flicker of uncertainty, he knew it would wedge itself somewhere permanent and ugly inside him, so instead he focused on the simple facts: Kirishima was still standing beside him. Kirishima had not stepped away. Kirishima had not laughed or tried to soften it into a joke.
A small shift of weight brought the redhead closer, and that tiny contact lit him up.
“You’re not pathetic,” Kirishima said. “You’re you. You’re the one who always notices when I'm pushing myself too hard, even when I don't say it. You’re the one who cooks for me when I forget to eat and complains the whole time like it’s a chore, but you still put my favorite things on the plate. You’re the one who stands a little closer when places get loud, and you don’t even look at me when you do it, like you think I won't notice. You remember how I take my coffee. You fix my gear before I even realize something’s wrong. You look at me like I'm... Worth the effort. Like I'm yours to worry about.”
A short breath left Bakugo that might have been a laugh if it hadn’t felt so rough on the way out. “You make me sound better than I am.”
“I make you sound like you,” Kirishima said, like it was obvious, then he continued, “You move through my days like you’ve memorized them, checking if I’ll be cold, if I'll be tired, if I’ll be safe getting home, pretending you’re just being bossy or annoyed, but you keep choosing me in all these stubborn ways that feel so natural I almost forget not everyone is loved like this.”
He smiled before continuing, “You make space for me everywhere, in your routine, in your apartment, in the way you stand close without thinking, in the way you stay when I’m too much or too loud or too emotional, and you make even the most ordinary days feel like special just because you’re there with me.”
Bakugo’s fingers flexed only once before he gave up pretending he could just stand there and grabbed the front of Kirishima’s shirt in his fist, making sure he was solid and real and not about to disappear the second he blinked.
“You’re serious” the blond said, almost disbelieving, more like he was checking the statement for himself.
Kirishima’s hand came down to cover his immediately.
“I kept thinking if I wanted you this much,” Bakugo said, staring out at nothing in particular, “I’d ruin it. Push too far. Say something wrong. Make you look at me differently.”
“I already look at you differently,” Kirishima said. “I always have.”
That broke whatever was left holding him still.
He turned fully, shoulders and hips and everything, until he was facing him head on, close enough to see every tiny shift in expression, every trace of nerves layered under stubborn certainty.
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah.”
“No take backs.”
“None.”
The tension that had lived in his chest for years loosened just enough that he could move, and he stepped forward, grabbed Kirishima’s shirt properly this time, and pulled him down into a kiss; mouth pressed to his like he had been starving for this and finally got permission to stop pretending he wasn’t hungry.
A surprised sound slipped out of Kirishima before he melted into it completely, hands coming up to hold his sides, then sliding around to his back, fingers spreading wide like he needed as much contact as possible.
Bakugo kissed him again, slower, learning the shape of his mouth for real this time instead of through memory and imagination. Their lips moved together in small presses, then longer ones, then deeper ones that made his head feel too light and too full all at once.
He kissed him again.
And again.
And again, because stopping didn’t make sense.
Their foreheads knocked together once when they both leaned in at the same time, and Kirishima laughed under his breath, and Bakugo kissed the corner of his mouth, then his cheek, then back to his lips only because he could.
Because he was allowed.
Because Kirishima wanted him.
That realization kept hitting him in waves, and every time it did, he pulled him closer without thinking, chest pressing against chest, feeling the familiar solid weight of him, the person he had known for years standing here choosing him back.
Kirishima smiled into the next kiss, and Bakugo chased that too, pressing another kiss there, letting himself actually feel it instead of grabbing at it like it might vanish.
A hand slid up to the back of his neck, thumb brushing along his hairline in a way that made his stomach flip hard enough that he almost pulled him closer on instinct alone.
“Hey,” Kirishima said quietly when he pulled back just enough that their noses still brushed.
“Yeah,” Bakugo said, and he didn’t bother trying to hide how wrecked he sounded, because at this point there was no point.
“You’re shaking.”
“Shut up.”
Kirishima smiled, wide and bright and so stupidly perfect it almost hurt, and leaned in again, pressing another slow kiss to his mouth, then another, then another, like he had no interest in stopping either.
Bakugo’s hands slid down to his waist, gripping fabric just to hold him there, just to make sure this was still real, just to ground himself in something alive and right in front of him.
He kissed him again, longer, letting their mouths move together without urgency, just closeness, just shared space, just everything he had spent years pretending he didn’t want.
The railing pressed into the small of Bakugo’s back, solid enough to remind him where he was while everything under his skin still felt too hot, too alive, too aware of every place Kirishima touched him or almost touched him. Their legs kept brushing when either of them shifted, and every accidental slide of denim against denim sent another pulse up his spine that made it harder to remember how to stand still and pretend he wasn’t unraveling.
Below them, the city kept doing whatever cities did, and he actually didn't give a shit at the moment, because up here the space felt private, like the rest of the world had decided to mind its own business for a few minutes.
Kirishima took another drink, throat working as he swallowed, then set the bottle aside and stepped closer again, closing the space until heat from his body pressed through fabric and air alike. A hand settled at Bakugo’s hip, thumb hooking through his belt loop, tugging just enough to ask if this was still allowed.
It was.
Instead of pulling away, Bakugo leaned into it, sliding his own hand up Kirishima’s chest, fingers curling into fabric over his heart. The beat under his palm ran fast and strong and completely in sync with the one pounding under his own ribs, and the realization hit him with embarrassing force that he knew this rhythm already. He had stood close enough during training, during patrols, during too many late nights sitting side by side pretending proximity meant nothing, and now it meant everything.
When his thigh brushed higher, he felt the unmistakable press of Kirishima's cock against him, felt the small shift of pressure that followed, felt the other man’s grip flex in response, and something possessive and stupidly satisfied curled low in his stomach before he could stop it.
“Maybe we should go back to the closet,” he said, rougher than intended, like the words had scraped their way out.
A laugh vibrated between them, and it brushed along his mouth when Kirishima leaned closer, foreheads resting together.
“Tempting,” Kirishima said. “But I like seeing you out here. No dark. No coats in the way.”
A snort slipped out of Bakugo, because the redhead’s mouth was already hovering close enough to steal his attention completely.
“You’re so fucking cheesy.”
“Yeah,” Kirishima said, smiling right against his lips.
The kiss that followed came slowly, nothing like the frantic hunger from earlier. Lips slid together carefully at first, then firmer, tongues meeting in an unhurried sweep that still tasted like beer and salt and everything they had already done together tonight. A smile tugged at Bakugo’s mouth mid kiss, and he hated it and leaned into it anyway, because Kirishima chased it, because Kirishima kissed him like that smile belonged to him too.
They stayed like that, kissing and smiling and kissing again, breaths mixing, small huffs of laughter slipping out when one of them tried to deepen the kiss and the other chased instead.
His hands moved without permission, sliding up to hold Kirishima’s face, thumbs brushing along cheekbones, feeling the rough rasp of faint stubble. The reaction that pulled from Kirishima went straight through him, and when hips shifted forward once, pressing that hard line against his thigh again, Bakugo pushed back on instinct letting him feel exactly how badly he wanted this too.
Air left him rough when they pulled apart just enough to breathe. “You’re gonna kill me.”
“Good way to go,” Kirishima smiled.
Another kiss followed immediately, one hand sliding up under Bakugo’s shirt, palm flat against bare skin, and he arched into it before he could think, hips rolling again, chasing pressure, chasing contact, chasing him. A second hand came up to the back of his neck, holding him there, thumb moving through the short hair at his nape in an absent rhythm that made his stomach twist in the most humiliating way.
They kissed until breathing got complicated again, until Bakugo had to pull back just enough to drag in air. Kirishima followed anyway, brushing his mouth over his, biting lightly at his lower lip before soothing it with another kiss, smiling the entire time like he still couldn’t believe this was happening.
That stupid grin pulled one out of Bakugo too. “You keep smiling like that and people are gonna think you’re high.”
“Maybe I am,” Kirishima said, thumb tracing along his jaw. “High on you.”
An eye roll came automatically. “That was fucking awful.”
“Still here though.”
“Yeah,” Bakugo said, sliding his hand into red hair, tugging just enough to pull another quiet sound from him. “Still here.”
They kissed again, and hands wandered without hurry, up sides, across backs, down to grip fabric and skin and whatever they could reach just to keep contact constant.
Every touch chipped away at walls Bakugo had spent years building, and the terrifying part was how little it hurt to let them fall.
He had always pictured love as something violent and impossible to hold, something that would slice him open and leave him bleeding in front of someone who would not care.
Instead, it felt like this. Messy and overwhelming and terrifying in an entirely different way, because it felt good, and he had never trusted good things to stay.
He pressed his forehead into Kirishima’s shoulder for a moment, breathing harder than he liked, trying to get his body to settle down enough that he could think again. Arms came around him immediately, one hand rubbing slow circles across his back, the other resting low along his spine.
“You okay?”
A small nod brushed against Kirishima’s neck. “Yeah. Just a lot.”
Understanding hummed through the hold, and a kiss was pressed against his temple, then his cheek, then back to his mouth, softer this time, almost careful, like Kirishima knew exactly how close to overwhelmed he was and planned to stay anyway.
It wasn’t about rushing anymore.
It was about staying here.
Together.
At some point Kirishima pulled back enough to look at him properly, eyes bright, expression open in a way that made his chest ache.
“I meant every word,” he said, softer now. “Not just tonight. I meant you. The whole of you. The shouting, and the awful jokes that still make me laugh when I pretend they don’t. The way you move through the world like nothing touches you, and still you show up, every single time. I meant all of it. I mean all of you.”
His throat worked once. “You’re gonna make me puke if you keep talking like that.”
The grin that answered was unashamed. “You love it.”
“Shut up.”
Another kiss cut off anything else, harder this time, more claiming than before, and Kirishima answered just as eagerly, hands sliding across ribs, shoulders, neck, mapping him like he had been memorizing him for years and finally got to check the details.
They kissed until their mouths felt sensitive, until Bakugo’s thoughts blurred into sensation and contact and the simple fact that this was happening and it wasn’t being taken away from him.
Eventually they slowed again, foreheads pressed together once more, sharing air, sharing space, sharing something that felt dangerously close to happiness.
“I don’t want to go back inside yet,” he said, quieter than intended.
“Then we don’t.” Kirishima let out a soft breath, gaze drifting toward the dark windows of the house. “They all probably know better than to come out here anyway,” he said, almost amused, then added, “And we will probably have to pay to wash some of Mina’s coats.”
Bakugo rolled his eyes, but a snort escaped him, mouth pulling into a helpless smile.
They stayed, smiling against each other’s mouths when one of them tried to say something serious and failed halfway through. He felt ridiculous and obvious and completely pathetic in the way he leaned into every touch, every kiss, every look Kirishima gave him, but Kirishima kept looking back like Bakugo was the only thing in the world worth paying attention to.
And he let himself have it.
Love had always sounded like something he would choke on, but standing here, mouth bruised from kissing, hands tangled in red hair, body pressed close to the person he had wanted for years, it felt a lot less terrifying than he had expected.
Not easy, but not something he needed to run from either.
Not when it felt like this.
Not when it felt like him.