Friends Don't Fuck

by artxliveshere

Summary:

"Friends don't fuck."
It was the golden rule keeping Kirishima and Bakugo together in Room 314. But after a wild college party and months of tension, Bakugou shatters the boundary only for Kirishima to allow it completely and take complete control of Katsuki's body.

When the dust settles and the reality of what they've done sinks in, the easygoing dynamic they built their lives around completely self-destructs.
Katsuki is conflicted in his role as a top, and Eiji is spiraling. But neither can shy away from their feelings about that night.

Can they find a way to move past the fallout and remain best friends, or did one unforgettable night permanently ruin everything?

The bass of the music vibrated straight through the soles of Bakugou’s sneakers and rattled his ribs. The air smelt like cheap vodka, spilled energy drinks, and the stifling, humid heat of too many bodies packed into a living room that wasn't meant to hold more than ten.

Bakugou hated it. He hated the flashing lights, he hated the sticky hardwood floor beneath his feet, and he especially hated the way the alcohol in his system was making his skin feel three sizes too tight.

"Hey! Man of the hour! You need another?"

Bakugou blinked, his vision slightly swimming as he looked up. Kirishima was leaning against the kitchen doorframe, looking entirely too comfortable in the chaos. He had a red cup caught between two fingers, his chest broad under a tight black vintage tee, and his red hair was down for once, framing his face in soft, messy waves that looked damp from the heat.

"Fucking hate cheap liquor," Bakugou muttered, his voice a low growl that barely carried over the synth-heavy beat dropping from the speakers.

"Yeah, but it’s free," Kirishima laughed, stepping closer. He was always doing that—magnetic, pulling into Bakugou’s orbit without even trying. "Come on, Katsuki. You’ve been brooding in the corner for an hour. Live a little."

"I am living, shitty hair. I'm choosing not to die of alcohol poisoning."

Before Kirishima could fire back with a grin, the crowd behind them surged. A group of drunk underclassmen tried to push their way toward the makeshift dance floor, and the sudden wave of shoulders slammed heavily into Bakugou’s back. He stumbled forward, his boots catching on a slick spot on the floor.

He didn't hit the ground. Instead, he crashed straight into Kirishima’s chest.

Kirishima’s reaction was instantaneous. His red cup was abandoned on a nearby ledge as his hands flew out, catching Bakugou securely by the hips. The impact was solid. Kirishima didn’t budge an inch, his broad frame absorbing Bakugou’s weight like a wall.

"Whoa, gotcha," Kirishima breathed, his chest expanding against Bakugou’s collarbone.

Bakugou should have pulled away. The angry, prideful voice in the back of his head told him to shove Kirishima back, bark an insult, and stomp out to the porch for air. But the vodka running through his veins was heavy, turning his temper into something slow, thick, and burning. Through the thin fabric of his shirt, Kirishima’s hands felt scorching against his hip bones.

Instead of straightening up, Bakugou let his weight sink back down. He planted his palms against Kirishima’s shoulders, feeling the hard line of his collarbone, and deliberately pressed his backside closer into Kirishima.

The crowd shifted again, packing them tighter into the dim alcove between the kitchen and the living room. Bakugou let his eyes half-close, the rhythm of the bass taking over his movements. He shifted his weight, dragging his hips in a slow, agonisingly circling right against the heavy centre of Kirishima’s jeans.

Above him, Kirishima’s breath hitched. It was a sharp, ragged sound that was instantly swallowed by the music, but Bakugou felt the exact moment Kirishima’s body went rigid.

"Katsuki," Kirishima warned, his voice dropping an octave. The friendly, easygoing tone was completely gone. "What are you doing?"

"I don’t know. Shut up," Bakugou muttered, his head tilting back just enough to look at him through a fringe of ash-blond hair. His eyes were dark, glazed with a mixture of alcohol and sudden, reckless daring. They had been skating around this for three months. Friends don't fuck. It was the unspoken rule they’d established when they moved into the dorms together. But right now, Bakugou wanted to tear the rule to pieces.

To prove it, he rolled his hips back again, harder this time, catching the exact length of Kirishima’s hardening dick through their clothes.

Kirishima’s fingers dug into Bakugou’s skin, leaving bruises through his jeans. The "good guy" facade cracked entirely. Kirishima’s jaw tightened, a dark heat flaring in his eyes as he looked down at Bakugou.

"You're drunk," Kirishima rasped, but he wasn't letting go. In fact, his grip tightened until Bakugou’s hips were locked flush against his own.

"I'm not that drunk, Eiji," Bakugou challenged, his voice a rough whisper. "Are you going to do something or just stand there like an idiot?"

Kirishima didn't answer with words. He moved with a sudden authority that caught Bakugou off guard. Twisting his grip on Bakugou’s waist, Kirishima drove him backward, clearing a path through the crowded hallway with physical presence. Nobody dared get in their way as Kirishima pushed Bakugou into the shadows of a narrow hallway leading to the back bedrooms.

Before Bakugou could even draw a breath, his back hit the drywall with a muffled thud.

Kirishima crowded into his space immediately, his massive frame completely cutting off the rest of the party. He pinned Bakugou’s wrists against the wall beside his head, leaning his full weight forward until Bakugou was entirely trapped under him.

"You asked for it," Kirishima says with a smirk.

Then, he crashed his mouth down onto Bakugou’s.

The kiss was bruising, desperate, and starved. There was no gentleness to it—it was the explosion of months of repressed tension. Kirishima’s tongue parted Bakugou’s lips with an aggressive swipe, taking everything Bakugou was offering and more. Bakugou groaned into the kiss, his knees going weak as Kirishima hoisted him up slightly, pressing his thigh high up between Bakugou’s legs to support his weight.

They tasted like cheap alcohol and desire. Bakugou bit at Kirishima’s lower lip, drawing a low, rough growl from the taller man. Kirishima’s hands released his wrists only to cup Bakugou’s jaw, his thick fingers tilting Bakugou’s head to deepen the kiss until they were both completely breathless.

"Not here," Kirishima panted against his lips, his forehead resting against Bakugou’s. "Someone’s gonna walk out of the bathroom. Upstairs. Now."

The trip up the stairs was messy, frantic, and entirely uncoordinated, neither of them willing to break contact for more than a second. Kirishima’s hand was a heavy, burning weight at the small of Bakugou’s back, practically shoving him up the steps, while Bakugou reached blindly behind himself to hook his fingers into Kirishima’s belt loops, pulling him along because any distance felt like too much. 

For Kirishima, the rest of the house completely faded out; all he could focus on was the flush spreading down Bakugou’s neck, the sharp scent of sweat and cheap liquor, and the overwhelming urge to completely possess him. Bakugou, meanwhile, was just a blur of impatience, his skin buzzing for the feel of Kirishima’s rough hands and his heart hammering against his ribs as they stumbled. Halfway up, they crashed hard against the bannister, and Kirishima didn't even hesitate—he leaned in and caught Bakugou’s mouth again, deep and desperate, catching a muffled, breathless noise from Bakugou, who immediately hitched a leg up and rolled his hips against him right there on the landing, completely past the point of caring if anyone saw them.

By the time they reached the top landing, the last shred of patience between them had completely disintegrated, turning the short hallway into a clumsy, breathless wrestling match. Kirishima’s hands were everywhere—gripping Bakugou’s waist, sliding under the hem of his shirt to feel the hot skin of his ribs, and desperately trying to anchor them both as they stumbled blindly toward the door. 

Bakugou was practically walking backwards, his shoes dragging on the carpet, his fingers knotted so tightly into the fabric of Kirishima’s tee that he could hear the seams straining. Kirishima’s focus was entirely consumed by the frantic, needy sound of Bakugou’s breathing and the tight, intoxicating heat of him pressed close, while Bakugou’s mind spun with overwhelming vulnerability, his chest heaved as he actively helped guide Kirishima’s weight directly over him. They slammed hard into the drywall just inches from the frame, the impact knocking the breath out of Bakugou’s lungs, but instead of pulling away, he just locked his teeth into Kirishima’s shoulder with a sharp, desperate bite, grounding himself against the sheer intensity of it. Kirishima let out a low, rough groan, his knee crowding hard between Bakugou’s thighs as he reached out blindly, his large hand fumbling frantically for the doorknob behind Bakugou’s back until his fingers finally clamped around the metal and twisted.

The guest bedroom at the top of the stairs was dark, illuminated only by the faint streetlights filtering through the blinds. Kirishima kicked the door shut behind them, the click of the lock sounding like a gunshot over the distant thudding of the party below. The shift in atmosphere was instantaneous. The chaotic noise vanished, replaced by the heavy, ragged sound of their own breathing. Bakugou didn't even have time to blink before Kirishima’s hands were on his hem, tugging his shirt up and over his head, tossing it blindly into the dark. When Bakugou reached out to do the same to Kirishima, he stopped, his breath catching in his throat.

In the dim light, the physical contrast between them was staggering. Bakugou was lean, cut, and fiercely toned—but Kirishima was massive. His chest was a solid expanse of muscle, his shoulders twice the width of Bakugou’s, and his arms thick enough to handle Bakugou with terrifying ease. Looking up at him, Bakugou felt a sudden, electric jolt of vulnerability. He was completely outmatched in size.

"Fucking hell," Kirishima murmured, his voice thick as his eyes raked down Bakugou’s bare chest. "You’ve been driving me crazy all semester, Katsuki. You have no idea."

Kirishima stepped out of his pants, and Bakugou’s gaze dropped. His mouth went completely dry.

Even in the shadows, Kirishima’s size was undeniable. His dick was thick, looked heavy, and already fully aroused, shadowing everything else in the room. The sheer scale of it made Bakugou’s heart hammer violently against his ribs. The prideful, aggressive Bakugou Katsuki, with the relatively big dick (well, his partners thought so at least), felt his knees give out – not from the alcohol, but from a sudden, overwhelming urge to fold.

Slowly, Bakugou sank down onto his knees on the carpet.

Kirishima let out a low, shaky breath, his hands instantly finding the back of Bakugou’s head, his fingers tangling into the ash-blond spikes. "Katsuki..."

Bakugou didn't look up. He leaned forward, his hands gripping the muscles of Kirishima’s thighs for balance. The skin was hot under his palms. He leaned in, taking Kirishima’s dick into his mouth with a slow, worship that completely contradicted his usual explosive personality.

He took as much as he could, his throat tightening against the size, his eyes watering in the dark. He kept heavy, unblinking eye contact with Kirishima, watching the way the taller man’s jaw clenched, his head tilting back against the bedroom wall as a fractured groan ripped from his throat.

"Fuck, Katsuki... fuck," Kirishima praised, his hips twitching forward instinctively. But he restrained himself, his hands gently guiding Bakugou’s head, letting him set the pace, completely captivated by the sight of his best friend brought low by his size.

When Bakugou finally pulled away, a thin silver strand connecting them in the dark, his lips were flushed and shiny. Kirishima didn't give him a second to breathe. He grabbed Bakugou under the armpits, lifting him off the floor with a terrifying show of strength, and tossed him onto the middle of the mattress.

The bed creaked heavily as Kirishima climbed over him, his massive body casting a total shadow over Bakugou’s frame.

"You like that, don't you?" Kirishima whispered, pinning Bakugou’s wrists above his head with just one of his large hands. The physical dominance was intoxicating. "You like realising how much bigger I am."

"Shut up and get on with it," Bakugou shakily snapped, though his voice lacked any real bite. He was shivering, his hips lifting off the mattress instinctively, trying to find friction against Kirishima’s thighs.

"No. We’re taking our time," Kirishima murmured. He leaned down, his heavy chest pressing Bakugou flat into the sheets. He began to grind his hips down, letting Bakugou feel the brutal weight of him, rubbing against Bakugou’s heat through the final barrier of their underwear until Bakugou was whining into the pillow.

It was pure torture. Bakugou’s mind was a hazy mess of alcohol and desperate, overwhelming friction. He reached his free hand down, trying to slip it between their bodies to touch his own aching dick, needing a release so badly it felt like a fever.

Kirishima caught his wrist immediately, pinning that hand alongside the other one above his head.

"Uh-uh," Kirishima whispered near his ear, his breath hot and teasing. "Who said you got to touch yourself?"

"Eijirou, don't fuck around, bro," Bakugou gasped, his head thrashing against the pillow. "Let me touch. I'm close, It’s right there—"

"No," Kirishima said, his voice unyielding. He shifted his weight, pulling back just enough to completely cut off the friction, leaving Bakugou suspended on the very edge of an orgasm with absolutely no way to reach it. "You don't get to touch yourself, Katsuki. You don't get to cum until I say so."

"You bastard," Bakugou choked out, a heavy blush creeping up his neck. The denial was driving him insane. His body was screaming for release, his skin humming with friction, but Kirishima was holding all the cards, completely dominating his physical autonomy.

Kirishima reached down, stripping Bakugou’s underwear off in one fluid motion, before separating Bakugou’s knees and settling heavily between his thighs. He prepared him with a thick finger, stretching him out slowly, deliberately, making Bakugou writhe against the mattress.

"Please," Bakugou whispered, the word slipping out before he could stop it. His pride was entirely gone, burnt away by the teasing and the denial.

"What was that?" Kirishima asked, pausing his fingers, looking down at him with a heavy, hooded gaze.

"Please, Eijirou," Bakugou begged, his voice cracking, thick and needy in the dark room. He looked up at Kirishima with wide, completely undone eyes. "I can't—I'm burning up. Please. Stretch me out. Take it. Just fuck me, please."

Kirishima didn’t waste another second. He sat back on the edge of the mattress, his broad legs spread wide, and hauled Bakugou onto his lap. Bakugou let out a sharp gasp as he was pulled backward, his spine flushing flush against Kirishima’s solid chest, his thighs draped over Kirishima’s thick, muscular lap. The sheer size difference was still disorienting; wrapped in Kirishima's arms, Bakugou felt entirely enveloped, his own frame looking small against the massive wall of Kirishima’s torso.

"Look at you," Kirishima rumbled, his breath hot against Bakugou’s damp neck as his heavy hands slid down to grip Bakugou’s thighs, parting them wide. "So beautiful like this."

Bakugou couldn't even form a coherent insult. He reached out blindly, his fingers knotting tightly into the dark sheets, his knuckles turning white as the vulnerability of the position hit him. He was completely exposed, held fast by hands that could crush him but were instead trembling with a heavy restraint.

Kirishima lifted his other hand to his mouth, generously coating his long fingers in spit. The wet, slick sound was loud in the quiet room, making Bakugou’s stomach do a violent flip of anticipation.

"Relax for me," Kirishima murmured, his voice dropping to a rough, gravelly whisper.

Then, he pressed the first slick fingertip against Bakugou’s hole. Bakugou stiffened, a low, ragged moan tearing from his throat as Kirishima slowly pushed inside. The contrast of Kirishima’s large, rough finger stretching him open was almost overwhelming. Kirishima didn’t rush; he began to sketch slow circles, his thick knuckle working to coax the tight muscle into giving way.

Bakugou’s head fell back against Kirishima’s shoulder; his eyes rolled back in a haze of pure friction and heat. Every small movement of Kirishima's finger sent an electric jolt straight up his spine. He ground his hips back into Kirishima's lap, a filthy, breathless whimper escaping his lips as he squeezed the sheets even harder, the fabric tearing slightly under the sheer force of his grip.

"Yeah, just like that," Kirishima panted, adding a second slick finger into the mix. The sudden, deeper stretch made Bakugou’s hips twitch violently, his breath catching in a high, needy sob as Kirishima began a steady, curling rhythm, thoroughly breaking him in.

The friction in the room became suffocating as Kirishima added a third finger, his broad palm pressing flat against Bakugou’s thigh to steady him as he worked. Bakugou was completely unravelled, his head thudding back against Kirishima’s shoulder over and over, his chest heaving as high, breathless moans spilled from his lips without any filter.  Kirishima shifted his weight, leaning over Bakugou’s shoulder until his face was just inches away, forcing Bakugou to look at him. His eyes were dark, blown out with intensity that made Bakugou’s breath hitch.

"Katsuki. Look at me," Kirishima rasped, his thumb sweeping over Bakugou’s flushed cheekbone, grounding him. He gave a deliberate, deep curl of his fingers inside, making Bakugou’s hips twitch violently. "Is it good? Tell me."

"Yeah," Bakugou whispered, his voice completely stripped of its usual grit, sounding lighter, softer, and entirely wrecked by the pleasure. He squeezed the sheets harder, his knuckles straining. "Yeah, Eiji—"

Kirishima didn't stop, his pace picking up slightly, hitting the exact spot that made Bakugou’s toes curl. "Is it good, Katsuki? Let me hear it."

"Yeah," Bakugou choked out, his eyes glassy and locked onto Kirishima’s, entirely helpless under the weight of the gaze. "Yeah, it's—"

"Tell me," Kirishima demanded gently, his voice a low, rumbling command against Bakugou’s ear as he pushed deeper, stretching him beautifully. "Tell me how it feels."

The sheer intensity of it finally snapped the last of Bakugou's control. A trembling sob mixed with a heavy moan broke from his throat, his head shaking as he buried his face into the crook of Kirishima’s neck, his voice cracking with raw honesty.

"It’s good—fuck, Eiji, it's so fucking good, please," Bakugou cried out, his body completely giving into the rhythm, his hips arching back into Kirishima’s heavy hand as he begged for more without words.

Kirishima’s fingers stalled inside him, resting heavy and deep, holding Bakugou open while the blond’s body continued to shudder against his chest. The confession had Kirishima’s own heart hammering like a trapped bird against his ribs, his jaw clenching so hard it ached as he tried to maintain what little restraint he had left.

Bakugou couldn’t take the stillness. The lack of friction felt like a physical punishment. He twisted in Kirishima’s lap, his hands abandoning the ruined sheets to claw frantically at Kirishima’s thick biceps, his fingernails digging deep into the muscle.

"Eiji, stop—it's enough," Bakugou choked out, his voice cracked and entirely stripped of his usual razor-sharp pride. He turned his head, his face flushed a deep, feverish crimson as he looked up at Kirishima with wide, glassy eyes that were completely vacant of their usual anger. "Please. Fucking put it in. I don’t want the fingers anymore. I want you to fuck me."

Kirishima’s breath caught, a low growl rattling in his chest at the sound of the word 'please' falling so easily from Bakugou’s lips. "Katsuki, you’re still tight; I don’t want to hurt—"

"I can take it," Bakugou interrupted.He was practically writhing against Kirishima’s lap, his hips arching back in an uncharacteristic, humiliating plea for action, completely unbothered by how desparate he sounded. "I can take it, Eiji, I swear. Just put it in. Please, I’m burning up; just fucking do it."

The absolute surrender in Bakugou’s posture—the way he was completely offering himself up to Kirishima’s dick to fill the ache—snapped the last thread of Kirishima’s control. More and more of Kirishima’s composure broke at the sound of Bakugou begging for him to put it in. 

"Well, get back down and make it happen."

Bakugou didn't even wait for Kirishima to adjust his grip. Shifting his weight, he scrambled off Kirishima’s lap, dropping heavily to his knees on the mattress right between Kirishima’s spread thighs. His movements were frantic, driven by a raw, chaotic energy that had completely taken over. He didn't say a word as he reached out and leant forward to take the heavy ridge of Kirishima’s dick straight into his mouth again.

A loud, ragged groan tore from deep in Kirishima’s chest, his hands instantly flying to Bakugou’s ash-blond hair, his fingers tangling in the messy strands to hold him in place. His eyes had rolled back to the back of his head. Bakugou was relentless, bobbing his head with a desperate, messy hunger, using his tongue and the wet heat of his throat to slick Kirishima down, completely focused on driving the man over the edge. Every wet, sliding stroke had Kirishima’s hips twitching upward, his knuckles turning white as he gripped Bakugou’s hair, his mind completely short-circuiting from the friction.

But Kirishima couldn't take more than a minute of it. The combination of Bakugou’s enthusiastic throat and the sight of him kneeling so submissively between his legs was too much, pushing his arousal into a dangerous, volatile territory.

"F-fuck, Katsuki, stop. I’ll cum too quick," Kirishima choked out, his voice a broken mess.

Kirishima gripped Bakugou by the shoulders and forcefully ripped him away. Bakugou let out a breathless, protesting gasp as he was hauled upward, but Kirishima didn't give him a chance to recover. He threw Bakugou flat on his back into the centre of the bed, the mattress groaning under the impact.

Before Bakugou could even blink, Kirishima grabbed Bakugou’s ankles, pushing his knees all the way back toward his chest to expose him completely. Thanks to the thorough preparation from before and the wet heat of Bakugou’s mouth, there was no hesitation.

Kirishima lined himself up and slid straight in with one thrust.

Bakugou’s eyes widened, his head snapping back into the pillows as a loud, wrecked cry tore from his throat. The fullness of Kirishima’s dick stretched him to his absolute limit; it was so intense that his entire body shuddered, his fingers instantly clawing at the mattress to anchor himself against the overwhelming force.

Kirishima didn't wait. He began to drive into him with long, powerful strokes, his hands gripping Bakugou’s hips to hold him still against the mattress. The pace was punishing, fuelled by months of waiting, the sound of skin slapping against skin echoing in the small room.

Bakugou could only cling to Kirishima’s broad shoulders, his nails digging into the solid muscle of his back, crying out with every heavy thrust. He was entirely consumed by Kirishima’s size, by his strength, and by the heat of the moment, until the room blurred entirely.

The heat in the room was suffocating by the time Kirishima gripped Bakugou by the hips, effortlessly flipping him over onto his hands and knees. The sudden shift in angle changed everything, driving Kirishima deep and hitting a spot that made Bakugou’s entire body go violently rigid.

The depth was too much. Bakugou’s thighs trembled uncontrollably under Kirishima’s massive weight, and his lower back kept collapsing, losing the sharp arc as he tried to sink down into the mattress to escape how deep it was in him.

"Up", Kirishima commands. He didn't hesitate—his large, heavy palms clamped onto Bakugou’s hip bones, his fingers digging into the skin with bruising force as he violently hauled Bakugou’s hips back up, locking his posture into place. Before Bakugou could even draw a breath, Kirishima thrust forward again, screwing into him with a rhythm that rattled Bakugou's chest.

"I can't—Eiji, fuck, I can't take it!" Bakugou screamed into the pillows, his fingers clawing blindly at the sheets as his lower back tried to give out under the force of the impact again. He was completely unravelled, his voice high and entirely crushed. "Stop, it’s too deep; I’m going to break—"

"You’re okay, baby. You can take it for me," Kirishima panted, his chest flushing flat against Bakugou’s sweaty back as he pinned him down, his mouth right against Bakugou’s burning ear. He loved hearing Bakugou break like this, loved the absolute surrender of it. "Look at you, such a good boy for me. You're taking every inch of it."

"No, fuck—"

"Yes, you are," Kirishima groaned, his teeth grazing the side of Bakugou’s neck as his pace became punishing, each heavy thrust crushing directly into Bakugou’s prostate with terrifying accuracy. "You feel too good, Kat. You're so tight; you're squeezing me so fucking perfectly. I know you can take it."

The praise melted the last shred of Bakugou’s resistance, short-circuiting his brain until his eyes rolled to the back of his head in a haze of blinding friction. He was entirely helpless, trapped beneath Kirishima as he was torn into, his mind turning to absolute static under the relentless, deep bruising of his sweet spot. Without even being touched, the intense internal pressure was too much; his dick leaked heavily, a thick stream of fluid spilling out onto the dark sheets beneath him with every slam of Kirishima's hips.

Kirishima’s grip on Bakugou’s hips tightened until his knuckles went white, his heavy thighs slamming relentlessly against Bakugou’s backside with a wet, bruising rhythm. He could feel the desperate, involuntary contractions wrapping tight around him, and a low, arrogant smirk broke across his face. Leaning all his massive weight forward, pinning Bakugou’s chest flat into the mattress, he leaned right into Bakugou’s burning ear.

"Yeah, that’s right," Kirishima snarkily rumbled, his voice dripping with a dark, teasing confidence that Bakugou had never heard from him before. "Take this dick, Katsuki. Take all of it."

"Fuck you—fuck—I hate you!" Bakugou screamed into the mattress, his fingers tearing at the pillowcases as another heavy thrust crushed directly into his prostate. He was completely out of his mind. "I fucking hate you, Eiji! Stop it, fuck, I hate you—"

Kirishima let out a low, mocking laugh, completely unbothered. He gave one more deep, brutal shove, then suddenly stalled. He didn't pull out, but he ground his hips to a complete halt, holding himself deep inside Bakugo.

"Oh yeah? You really hate it?" Kirishima teased, his voice dropping to a low, punishing purr. When Bakugou only answered with an impatient whine, twisting his hips to try and force the movement back, Kirishima began to move again—but really slow. He pulled back an inch at a time, then slid back in with a maddeningly lazy pace. "Do you really hate me, Katsuki? Tell me. Do you want me to stop?"

"No! Fuck—no, don't stop!" Bakugou contradicted himself instantly, his loud, wrecked voice echoing in the dark room as his pride completely disintegrated. He had absolutely no self-respect left, his body entirely ruled by the desperate need to be pounded. He pushed his hips backward into the slow movement, begging openly. "Please, Eiji, fuck, I don't hate it—I don't hate you! Move, just fucking move harder!"

"I don't know, man, you just said you hated me," Kirishima taunted, keeping the pace slow, grazing the sweet spot but refusing to give him the pace he was starving for. "Is it bad? Do you hate how this feels?"

"I love it—fuck, I love it, please!" Bakugou screamed, a high, needy sob breaking from his throat as his eyes rolled back, his dick leaking fluid onto the sheets with every slow friction point. He was completely frayed, writhing under Kirishima. "Please, Eiji, I need it fast. Ram it into me, fuck, please; I'll say whatever you want!"

Hearing Bakugou completely broken, reduced to a panting, begging mess, Kirishima finally let out a groan and gave in. He locked Bakugou’s hips back into a sharp arc and began to tear into him at the exact, punishingly fast rate he knew Bakugou loved. Bakugou’s voice gave out into a string of loud, breathless moans and shattered curses, his mind completely melting as Kirishima repeatedly drove him straight over the edge of sanity.

The bedroom was a sweltering, airless capsule of friction and undone pride, the distant thumping from the living room downstairs reduced to meaningless static against the heavy, wet sounds of their bodies colliding. Bakugou was completely unmoored, his forehead pressed hard against the mattress, his breath coming in high, rattling gasps that sounded entirely foreign to his own ears. The relentless, deep crushing of Kirishima’s length against his prostate had short-circuited his brain, but the sheer overload of internal stimulation was turning into a torturous ache in his untouched front. His dick was slick, leaking a constant stream of fluid onto the dark sheets, trembling with the desperate need for friction.

"Eiji—fuck, please," Bakugou choked out, his fingers clawing blindly behind himself until his hand found the thick, solid muscle of Kirishima’s thigh. He squeezed with bruising force, his voice cracking, entirely devoid of his usual armour. "Touch me. Please, fuck, I need you to touch me; I can't—I'm gonna snap."

Kirishima let out a low, rough growl against the nape of Bakugou’s neck, the sound vibrating straight through Bakugou’s spine. He loved this—loved the absolute, humiliating surrender of the fiercest guy he knew, reduced to a begging, writhing mess underneath him.

"Yeah? You need it that bad, sweetheart?" Kirishima rasped, his voice thick and possessive.

Without breaking the heavy, punishing rhythm of his hips, Kirishima reached around, his large, calloused hand sliding beneath Bakugou’s flat stomach. When his thick fingers finally wrapped around Bakugou’s dripping length, a loud, shattered scream tore from Bakugou’s throat. The rough texture of Kirishima’s palm frictioning against his oversensitive skin was an absolute explosion. Bakugou’s hips arched violently back into the thrusts, his head slamming into the pillows as his eyes rolled completely to the back of his head.

"F-fuck! Right there—don't stop!" Bakugou shrieked, his voice lighter, entirely wrecked. He was melting under the dual assault, his body caught in a vice grip between Kirishima’s massive chest pinning him down and the frantic, heavy strokes of Kirishima’s hand.

Kirishima didn't hold back. Knowing Bakugou was at his absolute limit only pushed him further over the edge. He locked his fingers into Bakugou’s hip bones, using his massive weight to anchor the blond as he began to tear into him with a wild, primal desperation. The pace became brutal, a relentless, blinding rhythm that had the bedframe groaning loudly against the drywall.

"I'm cumming—Eiji, fuck, I'm gonna cum!" Bakugou screamed, a high, needy sob breaking from his chest as his entire body went rigid, the tight muscles inside him clamping down around Kirishima like a fist.

"Hold it—take it all, Katsuki," Kirishima roared, the tight, pulsing heat of Bakugou’s climax completely snapping his own restraint.

Kirishima drove forward one last time, burying himself to the absolute root just as Bakugou convulsed, a thick, messy release spurting out over Kirishima’s hand and the ruined sheets. Right at the peak of Bakugou’s spasms, Kirishima’s jaw locked, a rough, guttural shout tearing from his lungs as he came violently, a heavy, hot torrent filling Bakugou completely. He held himself deep, his hips twitching in involuntary shudders as he spent every drop inside the pulsing warmth.

The intensity of the double climax completely drained the air from the room. The overwhelming friction, the heavy haze of cheap vodka, and the exhaustion of the past hour hit them all at once like a physical blow. Kirishima’s strength gave out entirely, collapsing flat against Bakugou’s sweaty back, his chest heaving. Bakugou’s eyes fluttered shut, his mind turning into a blank, dark void. Wrapped tightly around each other, still joined in the quiet dark, they both blacked out, dropping instantly into a deep, unconscious sleep before the echoes of their moans could even fade from the room.

 

∘₊ ☆──────☆₊∘

 

The morning did not arrive with a gentle dawn. Bakugou woke up to the screech of a stray car alarm down on the campus street and a migraine that felt like a rusty spike driven right between his eyebrows. His mouth tasted like pennies and cheap vodka. For a disorienting five seconds, he stared at a water-stained ceiling that wasn't his own, the cheap cotton sheets beneath him smelling distinctively of generic laundry detergent and Kirishima’s cedarwood body wash.

Then, the memories hit him.

The kitchen doorframe. The living room. Kirishima’s hands on him, the stairs, and the door. The weight of being shoved against the wall in the hallway. And then the bedroom—the absolute, humiliatingly perfect memory of his own voice, broken and breathless, begging his best friend to stretch him out and fuck because he couldn't handle the denial for another second. He remembered the feeling of Kirishima's massive, heavy thighs slamming against his and his massive dick tearing him apart; the snarky comments; and the way his own body had completely betrayed him, weeping and leaking onto the mattress while he scream-moaned that he loved it.

Bakugou bolted upright, his entire body aching in places that made his face instantly catch fire.

The bed beside him was empty. The sheets were cold. Kirishima’s clothes were gone from the floor, leaving only Bakugou’s crumpled black jeans and shirt discarded in the shadows and the sheets, leaving remnants of Kirishima’s scent.

"Fucking hell," Bakugou hissed, burying his face in his hands. His palms were trembling slightly. He wasn't a coward—he didn't do regret—but a cold, heavy lump of dread was already settling in his stomach. They had a rule. A stupid, unspoken, ironclad boundary that kept their lives from turning into a chaotic disaster. Friends don't fuck. They were roommates. They shared a twelve-by-twelve-foot university dorm room with a bathroom down the hall.

He had just spent the last four hours letting his roommate fuck him on the mattress. With a low curse, Bakugou dragged himself out of the bed, shoved his clothes on with rough, jerky movements, and practically fled the house before the rest of the party simulation could wake up. Every step down the stairs made his lower back twinge, a sharp, physical reminder of exactly how deep Kirishima had been burying himself. His knees felt loose, his thighs slightly chafed, and the indignation of it was battling fiercely with a dark, heavy coil of heat in his gut that refused to dissipate.

Two miles away, locked inside the stiflingly small bathroom of their shared dorm, Kirishima Eijirou was pacing the vinyl tile floor so hard he was practically wearing a trench into it. He was reduced to a pair of grey sweatpants, his wild unbrushed red hair standing out and his phone pressed against his ear.

 

"Mina, look, you have to shut up and just listen to me," Kirishima whispered furiously, keeping his voice down so low it was almost a whistle. He took three paces to the small shower stall, spun on his heel, and marched back to the sink. "I’m not joking. I messed up. I crossed the line. I took the line, threw it in a dumpster, and set it on fire."

On the other end of the line, Ashido Mina’s voice cracked through the speaker, muffled by what sounded like her face being buried entirely in a pillow. "Eijirou, it is eight in the morning on a Sunday. If you are calling me to tell me you broke a protein shaker, I am going to murder you. I have a hangover that feels like Bakugou kicked me in the jaw."

"I didn't break a shaker, Mina! I hooked up with Katsuki! "

The silence on the line was instantaneous. Then, a sharp, violent rustling of sheets, followed by a thud that sounded like Mina falling entirely out of her lofted bed.

"You WHAT?" she shrieked, her voice skyrocketing into a pitch that made Kirishima wince and pull the phone away from his ear, glancing nervously at the bathroom door as if Bakugou might materialize through the tile. "Hold on—let me get up real quick. Did you say Katsuki? As in Bakugou? Your roommate? The guy who threatens to blow up the microwave if I leave my popcorn in there too long?"

"Yes! Him!" Kirishima slammed his back against the bathroom door, sliding down until he was sitting on the floor, his knees pulled to his chest. He looked like a muscle-bound gargoyle of pure anxiety, his thick shoulders hunched forward. "We were at the house party. He was... dude, he was driving me crazy. He was grinding against me right there by the kitchen, and I just—I snapped. I lost my mind, Mina. I took him upstairs, and we..."

"Oh my god," Mina breathed, her voice now a hyperventilating whisper of pure, unadulterated glee. "Finally. The sexual tension in your room was literally giving me hives. Every time I came over to study, I felt like I was cockblocking. Wait, how was it? Who—how did it work? Did he blast you through a wall? Did he try to explode your face mid-kiss?"

Kirishima’s face turned a shade of crimson that rivalled his hair. He buried his face in his free hand, the memory of Bakugou’s flushed skin, tear-bright eyes, and the slick, soaking-wet heat of his mouth making his stomach do a violent, dizzying flip. "No. It wasn't like that. I...I...I pinned him down, Mina. He begged me. Katsuki begged me. He looked up at me with his eyes completely rolled back, crying out my name, telling me it was so fucking good."

A long, low gasp came from the phone. "Oh, he is going to kill you. You know that, right? He is going to bury your body under the campus stadium and then salt the earth so nothing ever grows there again."

"That's the problem!" Kirishima groaned, his fingers tangling tightly into his uncombed red hair, tugging hard enough to hurt. "I woke up before him and cleared out. I looked at the mattress, and I then panicked. The sheets were still messy, and he was sleeping naked right next to me. I didn't even leave a sticky note. Nothing. What if he hates me? What if he thinks I took advantage of the liquor? He was drunk, Mina. What if he regrets it? The 'friends don't fuck' rule was the only thing keeping him from blowing my head off most days!"

"Eijirou", Mina let out a loud, dramatic sigh that sounded like an old system shutting down. "You are a literal brick wall, but sometimes your brain is made of actual mush. Think about who we are talking about. Does Bakugou Katsuki let anyone do anything he doesn't want to do? If he didn't want you, he would have broken your jaw on that dance floor. He would have blasted you into the next department. He broke the rule because he wanted it dead. He wanted you. Now go back to your room, be a man, and talk to your boyfriend."

"Mina! He's not my boyfriend," Kirishima mumbled into his knees, his heart hammering a frantic, heavy rhythm against his ribs. "He's just... Katsuki. And right now, I don't even know if he'll look at me without trying shooting me."

"Just breathe, big guy," Mina said, her tone softening just a fraction, though the residual amusement was still clear. "He's probably panicked. You know how he gets when he isn't the one completely in control of a situation. He needs to process. Give him some space, but don't let him freeze you out. If you let him wall himself off, you'll never get back in."

"Yeah", Kirishima muttered, staring blankly at the small drain in the centre of the bathroom floor. "Space. Right. If I don't die of a heart attack first."

While Kirishima was having a mid-life crisis on the floor, Bakugou was currently sitting in the absolute back corner of the campus library, tucked behind a massive, dusty stack of macroeconomics textbooks. He had a large iced black coffee in front of him that he was staring at like it had personally insulted his mother. The condensation was pooling around the base of the plastic cup, but he hadn't taken a single sip. His brain was spinning too fast, a loop of Kirishima's voice whispering baby and good boy directly into his ear while tearing him apart.

Across the small wooden table, Todoroki Shoto was methodically spreading cream cheese onto a bagel, looking completely, infuriatingly unbothered by the fact that it was a Sunday morning and Bakugou had dragged him out of bed via an aggressive, all-caps text message at seven-thirty.

"If you don't stop blinking like a broken robot, I'm going to throw this coffee at your face," Bakugou hissed.

Todoroki took a slow bite of his bagel. He chewed, swallowed, and blinked again, his expression serene. "You texted me, 'Get to the library or die. 'I came. Why are we hiding behind macroeconomics? You don't take this class. I don't take this class. The light back here is terrible."

"Shut up," Bakugou snapped, his hands curling around his plastic cup tightly enough that the plastic crinkled loudly in the quiet space. He leaned forward over the table, his eyes darting around the empty aisles, checking the corners before locking onto Todoroki’s mismatched gaze. "I did something stupid. With Eiji."

Todoroki didn't halt his hand as he reached for his napkin. He wiped his mouth, his expression remaining as flat and unreadable as a concrete wall. "You mean you finally had sex?"

Bakugou choked on his own saliva, coughing violently into his sleeve as his face erupted into a furious, violent red that reached all the way to the tips of his ears. He slammed a fist onto the table, making the textbooks rattle. "How the fuck—who told you? Did that red-headed bastard call you? I'll kill him, I'll fucking flay him alive—"

"Nobody called me," Todoroki interrupted, his voice entirely conversational, completely unphased by Bakugou's explosive reaction. "It was just obvious. You two have been staring at each other's mouths since sophomore year during group projects. Midoriya and I had a bet on whether it would happen before finals or after the summer break. Fuck, I owe him twenty dollars and a ten-piece."

"I am going to murder both of you and bury you in a shallow grave," Bakugou growled, his palms sparking a tiny, static pop of heat against the wood before he caught himself and forced his hands flat, his chest heaving. "That's not the point, Half-and-Half. The point is... it wasn't just some dumb, drunk mistake where we fumbled around. It was... I let him..."

He cut himself off, the words sticking like sand in his throat. His fingers flexed against the table. How was he supposed to explain to Todoroki Shoto—a guy who had the emotional range of a boiled potato—the degrading vulnerability of what had actually happened? How was he supposed to admit that he, Bakugou Katsuki, had been turned into a weeping, leaking, desperate mess of a man on a mattress?

Todoroki set the rest of his bagel down, his head tilting slightly. "Did it go badly? Did he hurt you? Kirishima doesn't seem like the type to be careless."

"No, he wasn't fucking careless," Bakugou muttered, his voice dropping so low Todoroki had to lean across the table to catch it. Bakugou looked down at his coffee, his jaw clenching so hard the muscle bunched. "It didn't go badly. It was... fuck. It was the best I've ever had. It was too good. He's massive, Shoto. He completely pinned me down, and I couldn't move, and I... I didn't want to move. I begged him. I literally screamed that I loved it."

Todoroki stared at him for a long, quiet minute. "So... you bottomed."

"Say that word again and I'll tear your tongue out through your throat," Bakugou hissed, his face burning hotter, a fresh wave of humiliation crashing over him. But beneath the humiliation, a strange, sharp frustration was starting to claw its way to the surface. He shifted uncomfortably in his wooden chair, his lower back aching. "But yeah. I did. And that's what's messing with my head."

"Why?" Todoroki asked, genuinely curious now. "If it was good, what's the issue?"

Bakugou gripped his hair, leaning his elbows on the table. "Because I'm Bakugou Katsuki. I don't just sit there and take things. I don't give up control. And now... fuck, now I'm conflicted. I'm sitting there in that bed this morning, aching, and all I can think about is the fact that we didn't switch. I'm pissed off that I didn't get a turn to do him. I want to throw him down. I want to see him lose his mind the way he made me lose mine. I want to hear him make those kinds of noises."

A faint, incredibly rare smirk touched the corner of Todoroki's mouth. It was subtle, but to Bakugou, it looked like a giant neon sign mocking him.

"So," Todoroki said, his voice dropping into a low, clinical tone that somehow made the words feel much heavier, "you’re upset because you didn't get to bury your dick in him. You’re irritated because you’re the one who ended up sore and leaking on the sheets while he was the one sliding into you."

Bakugou’s face went from pale to a dangerous, burning crimson in a split second. "Shut the fuck up! Don't phrase it like that!"

Todoroki didn't flinch. He leaned back in his chair, taking a slow, unbothered bite of his bagel before continuing with a blunt, chilling directness. "It sounds like a competitive issue. You feel like you lost the first round of a fuck session because you were the one pinned down and taken. But if you enjoyed having your legs spread and being hollowed out by him, and now you’re sitting here fantasising about tying him down and pounding him until he’s just as broken and useless as you were, that just means you’re a power bottom who’s finally realised he’s a switch. You don't just want him, Bakugou. You want to see if you can make a guy that big and 'nice' scream your name while you wreck him from behind."

"I am not a fucking switch, I am a goddamn king," Bakugou snarled, standing up so fast his wooden chair scraped loudly against the library floor, drawing a sharp hiss from a student three aisles over. Bakugou glared the person down before looking back at Todoroki. "I just... I can't go back to that tiny-ass room and look him in the eye without thinking about how thick his hands felt on my me and, at the same time, wanting to punch him in the mouth and drag him down by his hair."

"Walk properly," Todoroki said flatly, falling into step right beside him as they cleared the library doors. "You're hitching your left hip. Everyone on the quad is going to notice."

Bakugou froze mid-stride, his entire face exploding into a lethal, violent crimson that reached all the way down the collar of his shirt. He rounded on Todoroki, his boots skidding slightly on the concrete walkway, his palms sparking a sharp, furious pop-pop of heat in the crisp morning air.

"I am walking perfectly fucking fine, Half-and-Half!" Bakugou hissed, his voice a strangled, furious whisper as he instinctively tried to straighten his posture, only for a sharp, deep twinge in his lower back to make his jaw clench. He looked around frantically, his chest heaving, absolutely paranoid that someone from the dorms had heard them.

Todoroki didn't even blink. He kept his hands shoved deep into his coat pockets, his mismatched eyes tracking the tense line of Bakugou's shoulders with an aggravatingly clinical focus. "You're not. You're favoring your right side because Kirishima is wider than you are. If you keep limping like that, Midoriya is going to ask if you pulled a hamstring during training, and then you'll have to explain that you actually just spent four hours getting split open like a log."

"Shut your fucking mouth! Shut up, shut up, shut up!" Bakugou growled, shoving Todoroki hard in the shoulder. The pure, unadulterated embarrassment was making his ears burn so hot he thought they might actually melt off his head. He had never felt so utterly exposed in his life, walking across campus in broad daylight while his classmate calmly analyzed how hard his roommate had wrecked him. "I'm walking back by myself. Get the fuck away from me."

"I'm walking you back to ensure you don't collapse on the grass," Todoroki replied calmly, matching Bakugou’s hurried, agitated pace without breaking a sweat. "It would be awkward to explain to the campus medics why you're too sore to sit down."

"I am going to murder you," Bakugou choked out, burying his face in the collar of his jacket, his shoes slamming into the pavement as he forced himself to walk with a rigid, unnatural symmetry just to prove a point. "I'm going to murder you, and then I'm going to murder that red-headed bastard."

 

∘₊ ☆──────☆₊∘

 

 

The tension in Room 314 didn't just rise when Bakugou returned; it solidified into a physical substance, thick enough to choke on. When Bakugou finally unlocked the door that afternoon, the heavy click of the deadbolt felt like the start of a duel. Kirishima was sitting at his desk, staring fixedly at an open, upside-down textbook. The moment the door swung open, Kirishima stood up so fast his thighs hit the desk drawer with a loud, resounding crack that made the pens in his holder rattle.

"Katsuki! Hey. You're back," Kirishima blurted out. His voice was an octave too high, his arms hovering awkwardly at his sides like he had suddenly forgotten how his own muscles worked.

"Yeah," Bakugou muttered, slamming the door shut behind him with a little too much force. He didn't look at him. He kept his eyes locked on the carpet, tracking a straight line to his own bed. He threw his jacket onto the mattress and immediately sat down, pulling his laptop onto his lap with aggressive, jerky movements, opening tabs at random to pretend he had a mountain of urgent homework.

"Look, about last night—" Kirishima started, taking a tentative half-step forward, his broad chest rising with a heavy breath.

"Don't," Bakugou cut him off, his voice sharp enough to draw blood. He finally snapped his eyes up, glaring at Kirishima through a messy fringe of ash blond hair. His crimson eyes were flashing, loaded with defensive anger. "Don't talk about it. I have a headache."

Kirishima’s shoulders sagged instantly, a deep shadow of hurt and rejection passing over his bright eyes before he forced his expression into something neutral, his jaw clenching. "Right."

But dropping it was an absolute joke. The room was simply too small. By 7:00 PM, the silence between them had turned into a full-blown cold war, the air thick with a heavy, suffocating layer of unspent lust that made every breath feel like inhaling static.

Kirishima walked back into the room from the bathroom, the door clicking shut behind him. He was wearing nothing but a pair of dark grey boxers that sat low on his hips, the soft cotton clinging to him in a way that left absolutely nothing to the imagination. He was moving with a casual ease he didn't feel, running a damp towel over his hair, but the skin of his stomach was tight, his pulse visibly jumping in his throat.

Bakugou didn't just look up; his eyes practically snapped to the wet skin of Kirishima’s hip bones, tracing the sharp, V-shaped line that disappeared directly beneath the elastic waistband. His throat clicked as he swallowed hard, a sudden wave of heat flooding his chest. His fingers twitched against his thighs. He remembered exactly how low those boxers had been dragged last night and remembered the heavy, suffocating friction of that bare skin rubbing against his own until he was out of his mind.

"You're tracking water on the rug," Bakugou muttered, his voice a gravelly, hostile rasp that sounded entirely too forced.

Kirishima paused, the towel draping over his bare shoulder as he looked down at the floor, then up at Bakugou. He caught the exact trail of Bakugou’s dark, heavy gaze before the blond ripped his eyes away, and a sudden surge of heat pooled low in his gut.

"My bad," Kirishima said, his voice dropping into a low, quiet register that made the small room feel even smaller. He tossed the towel onto the back of his desk chair, the fabric sliding slightly. "Didn't mean to mess up your space."

"Whatever," Bakugou snapped, shifting violently on his mattress. The nylon of his gym shorts rustled loudly in the quiet room, the sound cutting through the tension like a knife. He couldn't sit still. His skin felt hot, vibrating with a frantic, aggressive need that had been building since he walked out of the library.

Bakugou stood up abruptly, the sudden movement causing Kirishima to shift his weight, his eyes instantly tracking the blond. Bakugou didn't say a word as he reached down, grabbed the hem of his black tank top, and pulled it up and over his head in one jerky, impatient motion. He tossed it onto his pillow, exposing his bare chest and the faint, bruising shadows of Kirishima’s finger-grips still lingering on the sides of his waist.

Kirishima’s mouth went completely dry. He stood frozen by his desk, his eyes locked onto Bakugou’s bare torso, his chest heaving silently. He could feel his own heartbeat slamming against his ribs as he watched the tight muscles of Bakugou’s back flex. He wanted to step forward, pin him right against the edge of that mattress, and slide his hands back into those exact bruises until Bakugou was making those noises again. He swallowed hard, trying to keep his face completely blank, trying to pretend he wasn't thirsting after his roommate like a man dying of thirst.

"I'm taking a shower," Bakugou growled, grabbing his dop kit off the shelf without looking at Kirishima. He practically stormed past him, his shoulder brushing hard against Kirishima’s bare chest as he cleared the narrow gap between the beds. The brief contact felt like a literal electric shock.

"Yeah. Cool. Take your time," Kirishima muttered to the closed door. He sank down onto the edge of his bed, burying his face in his hands as he let out a long, ragged exhale. His dick was already thickening against the cotton of his boxers just from the scent of Bakugou’s skin passing by.

When Bakugou came back twenty minutes later, a cloud of hot steam followed him into the room. He had a grey towel draped around his neck, his hair damp and spiking in every direction, wearing nothing but a loose pair of flannel pajama pants that hung low on his waist.

Kirishima had put on a clean black tee, but he was still sitting on his bed, pretending to flip through a notebook. He looked up as the door opened, his eyes instantly scanning the damp skin of Bakugou’s collarbones.

"Did the hot water last?" Kirishima asked, trying to sound completely normal, his voice cracking just a fraction on the last word.

"Yeah. It was fine," Bakugou said, tossing his wet towel over the small drying rack by the window. He stood there for a second, his back to Kirishima, his hands resting on his hips. The silence stretched between them, loaded with everything they weren't saying.

"You want the light off?" Kirishima asked, his fingers tightening against the edge of his notebook. "It's getting late."

"Don't care. Do what you want," Bakugou muttered, walking over to his bed and pulling the covers back. He climbed in, laying flat on his back, staring directly up at the ceiling with his arms locked straight at his sides.

Kirishima stood up, walked to the wall, and clicked the main light switch. The room plunged into darkness, save for the faint moonlight filtering through the blinds, casting long, silver bars across the floor between their mattresses. Kirishima climbed into his own bed, the springs groaning softly under his weight.

For ten minutes, neither of them moved. The sound of their breathing filled the dark, perfectly synchronized, heavy, and restless. The unspoken sexual tension was practically vibrating in the four feet of empty space separating them.

"Katsuki," Kirishima whispered into the dark, his voice low.

Bakugou didn't turn his head, but his jaw clenched. "What?"

"We're being weird," Kirishima said bluntly, shifting onto his side so he was facing Bakugou’s bed, his eyes searching the blond’s silhouette in the dim light. "We haven't looked at each other all day. You're acting like you want to blast me through the wall, and I'm... I'm tired of guessing what's going on in your head."

Bakugou turned his head slowly, his crimson eyes catching the pale light as he locked his gaze onto Kirishima. "You want to know what's in my head, Eiji?"

"Yeah. I do," Kirishima rasped, his heart hammering against his ribs. "Because if you regret last night, if you think we broke something we can't fix, you just need to tell me. Don't just sit there and freeze me out."

"I don't regret a goddamn thing," Bakugou hissed, his voice dropping into a whisper that made the hair on Kirishima’s arms stand up. He sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, his bare feet touching the floor, putting him inches away from Kirishima's mattress. "I don't regret it. I'm pissed off because I'm stuck in this tiny-ass room looking at you, aching from how hard you fucked me last night, and all I can think about is throwing you down on your back and giving it right back to you. I don't give up control, Kirishima. You had your turn. I want mine."

Kirishima stared up at him through the silver bars of moonlight, his throat moving as he swallowed the sudden, thick lump of heat that rose from his chest.

"You want to throw me down," Kirishima repeated, his voice dropping into a whisper that wasn't a question. It was a statement of fact, his eyes darkening as they tracked the sharp, rigid line of Bakugou’s jaw in the dim light. "You want to see if you can handle me."

"I know I can handle you, Shitty Hair," Bakugou rumbled back, his fists tightening against the fabric of his pajama pants, his knuckles pale. He was leaning so far forward over the edge of his mattress that the heat radiating from his bare chest was practically reaching Kirishima’s face. "Don't get it twisted. Last night was a fluke. I let you do that. But I’m not sitting here for the rest of the semester being the only one who can’t walk straight on the quad because you think you're the top now."

Kirishima’s chest rose and fell in a slow, heavy breath. He didn't move away. He stayed right there on his side, his large hand resting flat against his own pillow, his eyes locked onto Bakugou’s with a fierce, unwavering focus. The temptation to reach out, to wrap his fingers around Bakugou’s ankle and pull him straight across the gap into his own bed was so loud it was practically roaring in his ears. His own body was screaming for the friction, his dick pulsing hard against his boxers at the mere thought of Bakugou trying to take him.

But beneath the heavy, suffocating layers of lust, there was still that lingering, jagged edge of uncertainty—the reality that they were still sharing twelve feet of concrete wall, and finals were in forty-eight hours, and they hadn't even figured out how to look at each other over a bowl of cereal yet.

"We're not doing this tonight, Katsuki," Kirishima rasped out, the words tasting like lead on his tongue as he forced himself to sit up slightly, looking at the blond through the shadows. "You're still sore. I can hear the way your breath hitches when you move too fast. And we... man, we established that rule for a reason. Friends don't fuck. We said it the day we moved our boxes into this room. If we just turn this into some competitive back-and-forth because your pride is hurt, we’re gonna wreck everything we have."

The mention of the clause hit the room like a bucket of ice water.

Bakugou froze, his entire body going violently rigid. For a fraction of a second, the desire in his face gave way to a flash of genuine hurt—a sharp spike of vulnerability that looked completely unnatural on his features. It was the realization that even after everything, after letting Kirishima see him entirely undone, the red-headed bastard was still hiding behind their stupid ironclad boundary.

Then, just as quickly as it appeared, the vulnerability vanished, instantly replaced by a terrifying, absolute wall of ice. His expression shut down completely, his eyes turning into two pieces of dead, cold stone.

"Right," Bakugou said. His voice wasn't a roar or a hiss anymore; it was completely flat, devoid of any heat, any anger, or any life. "The clause."

"Katsuki, wait, I didn't mean it like—"

Bakugou didn't let him finish. He swung his legs back into his own bed with a terrifyingly controlled, silent precision. He pulled the heavy comforter all the way up to his shoulders, turning his back completely to Kirishima’s side of the room and burying his face into his pillow.

"Okay," Bakugou hissed into the dark, his voice a tight, rigid snap. "Go to sleep then."

"Katsuki," Kirishima said softly, his voice lingering in the air.

"Shut up, Eiji. I'm sleeping."

"Come on, don't do that," Kirishima pleaded, leaning over the edge of his mattress, his hand hovering in the empty space between their beds, desperate to reach out but terrified of the reaction. "Katsuki, talk to me. I'm just trying to be responsible. We have finals in forty-eight hours—"

Silence.

Bakugou didn't move an inch. He just lay there like a corpse, completely icing Kirishima out, shutting down the conversation so thoroughly that the air in the room felt like it dropped ten degrees.

Kirishima let out a long, slow breath through his nose, turning back onto his back to stare at the water-stained ceiling. 

The silence that followed wasn't peaceful; it was loud, heavy, and incredibly awkward. Neither of them closed their eyes. 

The concrete corridors of the building felt less like a university and more like a high-security prison during finals week. When the invigilator finally called for their papers to be turned over, the collective sigh that rippled through the lecture hall was deafening. But for Kirishima, the real test hadn’t even begun.

He didn't care about the chem grade. He didn't care that his wrists ached from three hours of continuous essay writing. The moment his feet hit the linoleum outside the doors, his eyes were already scanning the crowd of exiting sophomores, searching for that specific, sharp shock of ash-blond hair.

He found him three rows ahead, moving through the sea of students like a blade cutting through silk.

"Katsuki! Hey—Katsuki, wait up!" Kirishima called out, his broad shoulders easily parting the crowd as he tried to bridge the distance. His heart was already doing that familiar, anxious dance against his ribs, a frantic rhythm that had become his baseline for the last forty-eight hours.

Bakugou didn't stop. He didn't even adjust his stride. He kept his eyes locked straight ahead, his black canvas backpack slung over one shoulder, his jaw set in a line so rigid it looked carved from granite.

"Katsuki, come on," Kirishima panted, finally catching up and falling into step beside him as they cleared the building’s heavy glass doors. The midday June sun hit them instantly, baking the concrete quad. "How’d the last section go? That essay question was total garbage, right? I think I wrote the word reactive like fourteen times just to fill space."

Silence.

Bakugou’s boots slammed into the pavement with aggressive force. He didn't look to the left. He didn't grunt. He didn't offer a single one of his trademark insults. He just kept walking, his chest rising and falling in shallow, tightly controlled breaths that radiated a cold, unyielding wall of absolute dismissal.

"Man... are we still doing this?" Kirishima’s voice dropped, the easygoing, friendly facade he’d been trying to maintain all morning cracking down the middle. He reached out, his thick fingers hovering just an inch away from the sleeve of Bakugou’s jacket, desperate to just hook his hand into the fabric and force the blond to anchor himself. "You haven't said two words to me since Sunday night. We just finished the whole semester. We’re supposed to be hitting the diner down the street to celebrate being done with this trash."

"Go by yourself," Bakugou muttered.

The words weren't loud. They weren't delivered with the usual explosive heat that defined his temper. They were flat, ice-cold, and entirely hollow—the exact tone he used when he was completely locking a person out of his life.

"Katsuki, please," Kirishima pleaded, his stomach twisting into a sickening, heavy knot. "If I messed up with what I said about the rule, just tell me. I was just trying to keep us from making a mess of the room before the exams. I didn't mean—"

"I told you to drop it, Kirishima," Bakugou interrupted, using that sharp, formal last name like a physical shield shoved straight into Kirishima’s chest. He didn't slow down as they reached the entrance of their residential hall, swinging his keycard against the scanner with a violent beep. "I have shit to do. Don't follow me."

The absolute breaking point didn't happen on the quad; it happened three hours later inside the suffocating confines of Room 314.

Kirishima had been sitting at his desk, pretending to organize his study binders while the silence between their beds grew so heavy it felt like it was actively squeezing the air from his lungs. Bakugou had been on his phone for an hour, his thumbs flying across the screen with a tense, aggressive speed, his face completely masked in a dark, unreadable expression.

The door suddenly clicked open without a knock.

A tall, lean guy from the engineering department—someone Kirishima recognized vaguely from the house party but didn't actually know—was leaning against the frame. He had a lazy, knowing smirk on his face, his keys dangling from two fingers.

"Hey," the guy said, his eyes scanning the room before settling directly on Bakugou. "You texted?"

Bakugou stood up instantly. He didn't look at Kirishima. He grabbed his wallet and his keys off his nightstand, his movements completely devoid of his usual erratic energy, replaced by a cold, deliberate precision that made Kirishima’s blood turn to actual ice.

"Yeah," Bakugou said flatly to the guy. Then, he finally turned his head, his crimson eyes locking onto Kirishima with a dead, merciless stare that made Kirishima’s lungs seize. "Get out."

Kirishima blinked, his hand freezing over his binder. "What?"

"You heard me," Bakugou rumbled, his voice dropping into a low, vicious vibration. "Get out of the room for a few hours. Go to the gym, go to the lounge; I don't give a shit. Just don't come back until tonight."

Kirishima looked from Bakugou to the guy in the doorway, who was currently watching the exchange with a minor, amused eyebrow raised. The realization of exactly what was happening hit Kirishima like a physical blow to the sternum, knocking every bit of air straight out of his lungs. Bakugou wasn't just icing him out anymore. He was actively replacing him. He was kicking his roommate—his best friend, the guy who had spent the last four hours of Sunday morning listening to him moan—out of their shared twelve-by-twelve-foot space so he could hook up with a total stranger.

"Katsuki..." Kirishima rumbled, his voice cracking down the middle, his large frame trembling slightly as he stood up from his desk. The sheer, unadulterated hurt was so sharp it felt like a physical tear in his chest. "Are you serious right now? You're doing this here?"

"I don't owe you an explanation," Bakugou spat, his jaw clenching so hard a small muscle bunched in his cheek. He stepped closer, his chest nearly brushing Kirishima’s as he forced the intimidation. "We have a clause, remember? You made the boundaries perfectly clear, Shitty Hair. So get the fuck out of my unit and let me handle my business."

Kirishima stared at him, his bright eyes wide and glassy with avulnerability that he couldn't even try to hide. For a single second, he thought about resisting—thought about using his size to slam the door shut, throw the engineering guy out into the hall, and demand that Bakugou look at him. But the absolute, dead ice in Bakugou’s expression told him that if he fought this, he would lose him permanently.

Without another word, Kirishima grabbed his hoodie off the back of his chair, his head hanging low as he walked past the guy in the doorway, his slides dragging heavily on the floor as he fled down the hall.

"He did WHAT?"

Mina’s voice exploded through the quiet corner of the student union lounge, causing three freshman at a nearby table to jump. She slammed her iced tea down onto the table so hard the plastic lid popped off, her yellow eyes wide with a mixture of absolute fury and disbelief.

Sero and Kaminari were sitting on either side of Kirishima on the low couch, both of them looking completely stunned. Kirishima was slumped forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his face buried entirely in his hands. He looked awful, his red hair sticking up in a wild, unbrushed mess where his fingers had been tearing at it for an hour.

"He kicked me out, Mina," Kirishima choked out into his palms. "He had some guy from engineering right there in the doorway. He looked me dead in the eye and told me to get the fuck out so he could handle his business. He used the exact words I said on Sunday. He told me since 'friends don't fuck,' he didn't owe me a single thing."

"Oh, my god," Kaminari muttered, his hands flying to his hair as he looked over at Sero. "That is... that is cold. Even for Bakugou. That's like, supervillain levels of psychological warfare."

"Shut up, Denki, you're not helping," Sero hissed, reaching out to slap Kirishima’s shoulder with a heavy, grounding palm. "Look at me, man. Did he actually go through with it? Did you see them close the door?"

"Yeah," Kirishima rasped, his shoulders shaking slightly as he finally lifted his head. His eyes were bloodshot, the dark circles under them proving he hadn't slept a full hour since the party. "I'm sitting out on the quad for two hours just staring at our window. I don't... I don't get it, guys. I thought I was doing the right thing. He was telling me he wanted to throw me down, and my brain just panicked because I didn't want us to ruin our friendship over a competitive fuck-session before finals. Why is he punishing me like this? Does he really hate me that much?"

Mina let out a long, heavy sigh, her anger instantly evaporating into pure, maternal pity as she looked at her best friend completely broken on the cushions. She leaned across the small wooden table, grabbing both of Kirishima’s wrists and forcing him to look at her.

"Eijirou. Listen to me very carefully," Mina said, her tone dropping into a seriousness and directness that she rarely used. "Bakugou doesn't hate you. He is currently trying to commit social and emotional suicide because you completely broke him on Sunday night, and your giant, beautiful brick brain didn't even realize it."

Kirishima blinked, his brow furrowing in deep confusion. "What do you mean I broke him? I didn't touch him! He was the one who came onto my bed—"

"Exactly!" Sero cut in, leaning forward over his knees. "Think about who Bakugou Katsuki is, man. He’s the guy who has to be number one at everything. He doesn't take help, he doesn't show weakness, and he sure as hell doesn't give up control to anyone. But at that party house, he let you pin him to a wall. He let you drag him upstairs, throw him on a bed, and completely split him open."

"He begged you, Eijirou," Mina added softly, her grip tightening on his wrists. "Do you have any idea how much armor Bakugou had to rip off his own body to look at you and say the word please? He gave you his everything. He let you dominate him because he trusted you enough to let his guard down. And then, the very next day, when he tries to reclaim a tiny piece of his dignity by telling you he wants a turn to do you... you hide behind a stupid roommate rule."

Kirishima’s mouth fell open slightly, the words sticking like sand in his throat as the puzzle pieces finally began to smash together in his head with the force of a landslide.

"You didn't just set a boundary, man," Kaminari said quietly, his usual goofy demeanor entirely gone as he looked at Kirishima with genuine sympathy. "To a guy as proud as Bakugou, you basically told him, 'I'll take your control when you're drunk and vulnerable, but the second you want to be equal, the rule is back on. 'You made him feel like he humiliated himself for nothing."

"He’s not trying to hook up with that engineering guy because he wants to, Eijirou," Mina whispered, her eyes full of soft understanding. "He’s doing it because his pride is so violently bruised he’s trying to prove to himself—and to you—that his body doesn't belong to you. He’s trying to scrub the memory of begging you out of his skin by doing something cheap and meaningless."

Kirishima sat frozen, the room spinning around him as the sheer weight of his mistake crashed down on his chest. He hadn't been protecting their friendship. He had been a coward. He had taken Bakugou’s absolute, terrifying gift of total surrender and thrown it straight into the dirt because he was scared of what it meant if they were equal.

"Oh my god," Kirishima choked out, his face turning completely pale as he stood up so fast his knees hit the table. "I'm an idiot. I'm a complete, unmitigated piece of shit."

"Go back to the room, Eijirou," Mina said firmly, standing up with him and shoving his hoodie into his chest. "Don't walk. Run. Break the door down if you have to, but you do not let him ruin himself because you were too blind to see how much he was hurting."

On the other side of campus, tucked away in the absolute furthest corner of the building’s basement computer lab, the air was freezing and smelled of old dust and electronics.

Bakugou was sitting flat on his back on a broken vinyl couch in the corner, his arm thrown completely over his eyes to block out light. He looked like a corpse discarded in the shadows. He had fled his dorm room exactly twenty minutes after kicking Kirishima out—the engineering guy hadn't even made it past the threshold before Bakugou had looked at him, felt a wave of pure, physical nausea hit his throat, and shoved a twenty-dollar bill into the guy's hand, telling him to get the fuck out before he blasted his teeth through his skull.

He hadn't touched anyone. He couldn't. The mere thought of anyone else’s hands on his skin made him want to rip his own flesh off with his bare nails.

"You look like you're actively dying," a flat, monotonous voice remarked from the doorway.

Bakugou didn't move his arm. "Get the fuck away from me, Todoroki, or I'll ensure you don't make it to the next year."

Todoroki walked into the small lab anyway, followed closely by Midoriya and Shinsou, who was currently nursing a giant travel mug of black coffee and looking like he’d rather be anywhere else on earth. The three of them stood in a loose semi-circle around the couch, looking down at the crumpled, miserable form of Bakugo.

"Kacchan..." Midoriya started, his voice small, tentative, and loaded with that annoying, frantic anxiety that usually made Bakugou want to punch a wall. "We... we saw Kirishima running across the quad a little while ago. He looked... really bad, Kacchan. Like, he looked like he was about to cry. Did something happen after the finals?"

"None of your fucking business, Deku," Bakugou rasped, his voice completely raw, dry from hours of not drinking water. He finally pulled his arm away from his face, glaring up at the three of them with red-rimmed, glassy eyes that were completely devoid of their usual fire. They just looked heavy, exhausted, and deeply, terribly defeated. "Go away."

"You told me on Sunday that it was the best you’ve ever had," Todoroki stated clinically, completely ignoring the hostility as he rested his hands in his pockets. "But today you look like you’re preparing for a funeral. If the sex was efficient, why are you hiding in a basement?"

"Because I want to die, okay?" Bakugou suddenly roared, sitting up on the vinyl cushion with a sudden, explosive burst of movement that had Midoriya flinching backward. His chest was heaving, his fingers knotting so tightly into his blond hair he was practically pulling the strands out by the roots. His face was a twisted mask of pure, unadulterated regret. "I want to jump off the administrative building. I want to clear my hard drive and disappear into the woods. Are you satisfied, you nosey bastards?"

Shinsou took a slow, deliberate sip of his coffee, his tired bags under his eyes blinking lazily. "Sounds like classic post-nut regret mixed with a severe lack of communication. Did you two actually talk, or did you just explode things?"

"There is nothing to talk about!" Bakugou choked out, a sharp, ragged sound escaping his throat that sounded terrifyingly close to a sob. He buried his face in his knees, his broad shoulders shaking against his will. The pride was entirely gone, melted down by forty-eight hours of continuous psychological torture. "I gave him everything, Shinsou. I admitted that I wanted him in the worst way. I let him see me completely stripped down. And he looked me dead in the face and used our stupid roommate rule to push me away."

Midoriya’s eyes widened, a wave of profound, instant realization softening his features as he stepped closer to the couch, reaching out a hesitant hand. "Kacchan... Kirishima didn't do that to hurt you. He loves you. He’s probably just terrified of losing you as a friend—"

"I don't care why he did it!" Bakugou screamed into his knees, his voice cracking with a pain that made even Todoroki’s expression shift into something resembling actual concern. "The point is that I spent the last two years being the strongest goddamn guy, and I let myself turn into a weeping, leaking mess for him because I trusted him. And he rejected me. I tried to prove to myself today that I didn't care—I called some random extra to the room to try and scrub Eiji’s touch off my skin—and I couldn't even let the guy step past the door frame without wanting to vomit."

He lifted his head, his face flushed a deep, feverish crimson, his eyes wide and wild with a desperate, terrifying vulnerability.

"I regret it," Bakugou whispered, the words sounding like a death sentence in the quiet computer lab. "I regret Sunday night. I regret opening my mouth. I wish I had just broken his jaw on that dance floor and kept my fucking mouth shut, because now I’m stuck in that room with a guy who knows exactly how to make me break, and he doesn't even want me enough to break the rules."

The silence in the basement lab was absolute, the heavy, clinical weight of Bakugou’s complete emotional collapse hanging in the freezing air like a fog.

"Then go tell him that," Shinsou said softly, setting his coffee mug down on a nearby desk. "Because if you stay down here in the dark, the only thing you’re conquering is your own grave."

 

"I'm going to the corner store," Bakugou muttered, his voice a flat, dead rasp that cut clean through the tense, freezing air of the computer lab. He didn't look at any of them as he shoved himself off the broken vinyl couch, his joints popping stiffly. He slung his black canvas backpack over one shoulder, his movements sluggish but heavy with a stubborn, reckless intent. He paused near the exit, his jaw clenching so hard a muscle bunched violently in his cheek. "Come if you want. I don't give a shit. Stay here and rot for all I care."

He didn't wait for a response, his heavy boots already slamming a slow, rhythmic cadence down the concrete basement corridor.

Midoriya, Todoroki, and Shinsou exchanged a series of sharp, uneasy glances before falling into step a few paces behind him. By the time they cleared the heavy glass exit doors of the engineering building, the campus was entirely swallowed by darkness. The harsh, artificial yellow glow of the high-top streetlamps cut through the shadows, casting long, distorted shapes across the empty quad.

The walk to the edge of the campus was silent, suffocatingly so. Bakugou marched ahead like a ghost seeking a haunting ground, his eyes fixed entirely on the neon buzzing sign of the corner market a block away.

Inside, the cheap linoleum reflected the biting fluorescent overheads, making the packed rows of liquor bottles behind the counter look like a jagged glass barrier. Bakugou didn't hesitate. He strode straight to the register, stepped right up to the plexiglass shield, and pointed a trembling, scarred finger toward the top shelf.

"The big bottle. The high-proof vodka," Bakugou ordered, his voice a low, gravelly vibration. He didn't wait for the clerk to move, slamming a crumpled fifty-dollar bill directly onto the counter with a loud, aggressive smack. "Give it to me. Now."

Midoriya hovered a few feet back near the turnstile, his fingers twisting so violently into the hem of his dark green hoodie that the fabric groaned. His emerald eyes were wide, glassy with a frantic, desperate anxiety that practically radiated off him in waves. He opened his mouth, a tiny, breathless sound escaping his throat as he tried to find the words to intervene—to be the voice of reason that Kacchan so clearly needed—but the sheer, unadulterated hostility bleeding from Bakugou’s shoulders kept him entirely paralyzed.

"Give me a sleeve of cups, too." Shinsou’s voice broke the silence, deadpan and entirely unbothered as he stepped up right beside Bakugou, tossing a handful of crumpled ones onto the counter. He looked down at the blond, his heavy eyelids blinking lazily in the light. "If you're going to burn your entire life to the ground tonight, you aren't doing it alone. I'll drink with you."

Todoroki moved into the light next, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, his mismatched eyes tracking the clear glass bottle as the clerk placed it on the counter. "Alcohol consumption under high emotional duress is scientifically proven to be counterproductive, but if this is the chosen trajectory for the evening, I will participate. The alternative is letting you crack your skull open on the sidewalk."

Bakugou snatched the bottle by the neck, his fingers locking around the glass like a vice. He finally snapped his head around, his crimson eyes bloodshot, wild, and completely unraveled as they locked directly onto Midoriya’s pale face.

"You got something to say, Deku?" Bakugou hissed, his voice dropping into a vicious purr that made the clerk behind the counter back up a step. He shoved the sleeve of plastic cups into Todoroki’s chest before stepping right into Midoriya’s space, the raw, volatile heat of his anger brushing against the smaller boy. "Either grab a cup and drink, or get the fuck out of my sight. I’m not sitting here listening to you whimper all night."

Midoriya swallowed hard, his throat clenching as he looked from Bakugou to the floor, completely shutting his mouth. He didn't leave, but he stayed entirely silent, falling into a shadow-like compliance as the four of them exited the store.

The small neighborhood park just off the university strip was completely abandoned, the rusted swing sets and wooden benches half-hidden under the deep shadows of the overhanging oak trees. A single, flickering streetlamp illuminated a solitary concrete picnic table near the back.

Bakugou slammed the heavy bottle down onto the concrete structure, the glass ringing loudly through the quiet night air. He didn't bother using the cap; he used his teeth to rip the plastic seal away, spitting it into the dark grass before twisting the top off and tossing it aside.

"Pour," Bakugou commanded, shoving a plastic cup toward Shinsou.

Shinsou didn't blink. He poured a massive, clear wave of the high-proof spirit into Bakugou’s cup, filling it nearly to the brim, before pouring a more modest amount into his own and sliding the bottle toward Todoroki. Todoroki picked it up, filled a cup for himself with clinical precision, and took a small, experimental sip, his brow furrowing slightly at the immediate, chemical burn.

Bakugou didn't take a sip. He didn't pace himself. He hoisted the plastic cup up, his hand trembling so violently that a few drops of the clear liquid splashed over his knuckles, and brought the brim straight to his mouth.

He drank it straight, his throat working in deep, frantic, desperate swallows. The raw, synthetic fire of the vodka hit his tongue and torn down his esophagus with a brutal, punishing heat that made his stomach instantly heave in protest. It was pure liquid agony on an empty stomach, a scorching tide that made his lungs seize, but he didn't stop. He forced himself to keep swallowing, tilting the cup higher and higher until the plastic cracked under the pressure of his grip. He needed the burn. He needed the agonizing friction in his throat to be louder than the suffocating, humiliating memory of Kirishima’s voice telling him about the roommate rule.

"Kacchan..." Midoriya whispered from the edge of the concrete pad, his hands trembling at his sides, his voice a tiny, useless plea that was entirely ignored.

Bakugou slammed the empty plastic cup back onto the table, his chest heaving violently as he tried to draw air back into his lungs. A thin line of clear liquor spilled down his chin, his skin instantly turning a feverish crimson as the massive volume of alcohol hit his bloodstream like a physical blow to the back of the head.

"Again," Bakugou choked out, his voice a broken, wet rasp. He grabbed the bottle himself this time, his vision already starting to blur at the edges as he poured another heavy, shaking wave into the cracked plastic.

"Pace yourself, dumbass," Shinsou muttered, though he took another long swallow from his own cup, his purple eyes tracking the dangerous speed at which the blond was deteriorating. "You're trying to erase forty-eight hours of pride in forty-eight seconds."

"Shut up," Bakugou slurred, the articulation already slipping from his tongue as he brought the second cup to his lips. He drank half of it in another massive, reckless gulp before his hand gave out entirely, the plastic cup slipping from his fingers and clattering against the concrete, spilling the remaining vodka into the dirt.

Bakugou staggered back two full steps, his shoes skidding on the loose gravel at the base of the table. His knees buckled dangerously, his body completely losing its rigid, untouchable alignment. He hit the side of the wooden bench heavily, sliding down until he was sitting flat on the cold ground, his back propped up against the timber structure, his head rolling back against his shoulder.

His eyes were wide, glassy, and entirely unfocused, the dark night sky above him spinning in a nauseating, chaotic swirl. The numbness was rushing into his brain like a flood, but beneath the heavy, suffocating haze of the liquor, the raw, pulsing ache of the rejection remained entirely untouched, burning hotter than the alcohol in his gut.

"He's fucked up," Todoroki noted, setting his own half-empty cup down on the table. He stepped around the bench, looking down at Bakugou, whose eyelids were fluttering heavily as he muttered incoherent, broken curses into his chest. "We can’t move him like this."

Shinsou let out a long, heavy sigh, tossing his empty cup into the nearby trash bin. He pulled his phone from his back pocket, the screen illuminating his tired, dark-circled face in a pale blue glow. He didn't look at Midoriya, who was currently on his knees in front of Bakugou, frantically trying to get the blond to respond to his name.

Shinsou scrolled straight to his recent calls, tapped the contact for Eijirou Kirishima, and held the phone to his ear.

The call didn't even complete a full ring before the line clicked open with an explosive, panicked burst of static.

"Shinsou?! Did you find him? Where is he?!" Kirishima’s voice roared through the speaker, so loud and raw it echoed off the concrete table. He sounded completely unraveled, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps as if he had been sprinting across the entire campus in the dark. "Midoriya told me what happened—I went to the dorm, and his keys are gone—is he okay?!"

"He’s at the small park on the north side of the humanities block, behind the corner store," Shinsou said, his voice dropping into a flat direct register that cut straight through Kirishima’s frantic energy. He looked down at Bakugou, who had just let out a low, pathetic whimper, his head dragging limply against the wooden bench. "And no, he’s not okay. He’s completely messed up. He just drank half a bottle of vodka straight in under five minutes because he thinks his life is over."

"Oh, my god—I'm coming; I'm running right now—"

"Listen to me, Kirishima," Shinsou interrupted, his tone turning sharp, icy patience as he stared at the broken form of Katsuki. "Quit being a fucking pussy and get down here to get your man. He’s about two seconds away from passing out in the dirt because you were too scared to handle him. Move your ass."

Shinsou ended the call with a sharp tap of his thumb, shoving the phone back into his pocket. He looked over at Todoroki and Midoriya, crossing his arms over his chest as the quiet of the night settled back over the park.

"He’ll be here in three minutes," Shinsou muttered, leaning back against the concrete table. "Let’s just make sure Bakugou doesn't choke on his own tongue before then."

 

∘₊ ☆──────☆₊∘

 

The heavy, frantic steps against the pavement cut through the quiet night air before Kirishima even cleared the treeline. He burst into the flickering light of the streetlamp wearing nothing but a pair of loose gym shorts and black slides, his chest heaving so violently his ribs practically strained against his skin. He was completely out of breath, his face pale with panic that instantly locked onto the shape of Bakugou slumped against the wooden bench.

Midoriya jumped up from the dirt immediately, his hands flying into the air as he began to pace in a frantic circle, the words spilling out of him in a desperate, rapid-fire stream to try and dull the bleeding edge of the situation. "Kirishima! He—we tried to stop him, I swear; he wouldn't listen to us, he was just so upset about the room and he kept saying he wanted to die and he forced Shinsou and Todoroki to pour it but he didn't actually touch the other guy, Eijirou; he threw him out after twenty seconds, he just wanted to make you think he didn't care but he cares so much; he’s just so proud and his feelings are so hurt—"

"Midoriya," Todoroki muttered, grabbing Midoriya by the hood to drag him back. "Chill. He's here. Let him do it."

Kirishima didn't even seem to hear the explanation. He dropped to his knees straight into the gravel in front of Bakugou, his large hands immediately reaching out to scoop the blond into his arms. He didn't check for a pulse, and he didn't ask questions; he just gathered Bakugou’s dead weight against his chest, hoisting him up with a smooth, practiced leverage until the blond’s head fell heavily against his shoulder.

"Thanks guys," Kirishima rasped out to the three of them, his voice thick, rough, and completely stripped of his usual warmth. "I've got him."

Without another word, Kirishima turned on his heel, his slides clicking sharply against the concrete pad as he began the long march back toward the residential towers, holding Bakugou firmly against his torso like he was the only thing keeping him anchored to the earth.

Behind them, Midoriya, Todoroki, and Shinsou stood entirely still under the flickering streetlamp, watching the two of them get swallowed by the dark.

The moment Bakugou felt the specific, heavy warmth of Kirishima’s chest beneath his cheek—the distinct, familiar scent of his skin cutting through the burning haze of the vodka—his entire body went violently rigid. The numbness in his brain fractured, a sudden, brutal wave of humiliation crashing through the alcohol until a sharp, strangled sob tore straight from his throat.

He started crying. It wasn't a loud, angry roar; it was a miserable, wet, drunken weeping that shook his entire lean frame, his tears hot and fast as they soaked directly into the shoulder of Kirishima’s collar. He weakly brought his scarred fists up, pressing his knuckles against Kirishima’s chest, trying to shove himself away with an uncoordinated, trembling futility.

"Put me down," Bakugou choked out, his voice cracking into a ragged, broken ruin as his head rolled weakly against Kirishima's neck. "Put me down, you bastard... I told you to stay out of this. I told you to let me handle my business."

Kirishima didn't stop walking. He just tightened his grip around Bakugou's thighs and back, his jaw set so hard the bone ached, his face completely pale in the shadows.

"I don't... I don't want to see your stupid face," Bakugou slurred, the words spilling out clumsy and thick as he buried his face deeper into the crook of Kirishima's neck anyway, his fingers helplessly clutching at the fabric of his shorts. "I don't want to be your friend anymore, Eijiro. I mean it. I'm fucking done. I don't want to be your best friend, I don't want to be your roommate... I don't want to be any of it if you're just gonna hide behind that pathetic clause."

He let out another sharp, broken gasp, his teeth digging lightly into his own bottom lip to try and stop the weeping, but the alcohol had stripped away every single bit of his control. He was completely bare, furious, and bleeding out emotionally in the middle of the campus.

"I don't want the title," Bakugou whimpered, his voice dropping into a dark, desperate rasp that vibrated straight through Kirishima’s chest. "Take your stupid rules and get out of my life. Just let me go. Drop me on the pavement and go back to the dorm by yourself." 

Kirishima let out a long, ragged sigh that shuddered through his entire chest, the hot breath ruffling Bakugou’s damp blond spikes. He didn't tighten his grip to dominate but to anchor, holding the shivering, weeping boy against his torso with a fierce, absolute gravity.

"I know, Katsuki," Kirishima whispered into the dark, his voice thick and scraped raw with his own rising tears. "I know. Just let me get you home. I’ve got you."

The journey back across the quad was a blur of shadows and the rhythmic, hollow slap of Kirishima’s slides against the pavement. Bakugou was entirely unraveled, the high-proof liquor sloshing violently in his empty stomach, completely short-circuiting his logic. He would go entirely stiff, his small, scarred fists bunching into the fabric of Kirishima’s shorts, his mouth twisting into a string of vicious, slurred curses.

"You're a selfish piece of shit, Eiji," Bakugou choked out, his voice dropping into a ragged, wet whisper. "A pathetic, cowardly bastard... hiding behind a stupid piece of paper... I hate you. I fucking hate you."

But then, just as quickly as the anger flared, the venom would drain out of him, leaving him heavy and drifting in the chemical fog. His head would drop limply against Kirishima’s bare collarbone, and he would go completely silent, his breathing shallow and hot. In those quiet intervals, driven by a desperate, instinctual craving he couldn't control under the weight of the vodka, Bakugou would lean his face forward. He pressed his wet, flushed lips directly against the pulse point in Kirishima’s neck, dragging a soft, messy kiss across the warm skin, before burying his nose back into the crook of his shoulder with a low, pathetic whimper.

Every touch felt like a brand on Kirishima’s skin. Every slurred insult and desperate, drunken press of Bakugou’s mouth made the knot of guilt in Kirishima's stomach twist tighter until he could barely draw air into his lungs. He didn't say a word to the resident assistant at the front desk, clearing the lobby and hitting the elevator with a single-minded focus.

When the heavy wooden door of Room 314 finally clicked shut behind them, the absolute silence of the room felt like a physical relief.

Kirishima carried him across the narrow four-foot chasm, bypassing his own bed entirely to lay Bakugou down on the blond's mattress. He lowered him with agonizing care, his large hands supporting Bakugou’s head so it didn't hit the frame. The room was dark, saved only by the digital green glow of the desk clock, which illuminated the scattered books and highlighters from earlier like remnants of a different life.

Bakugou hit the sheets and immediately rolled onto his side, his knees curling up toward his chest as he let out a weak, shivering groan. The alcohol was pulling him under fast now, his eyelids heavy, his skin still flushed a feverish, dark crimson against the pale pillowcase.

Kirishima stood by the edge of the mattress for a long moment, his chest rising and falling in heavy, silent gasps as he looked down at him. He reached down, carefully sliding Bakugou’s shoes off his feet and tossing them near the closet before going to the closet and grabbing a pair of pajama pants and changing him, then pulling the heavy comforter up to the blond’s shoulders to keep the chill of the room away.

"Sleep it off, Katsuki," Kirishima whispered softly, his hand lingering on the edge of the blanket. "We'll fix it tomorrow. I promise."

He turned on his heel, intending to step across the narrow gap to his own bed to let his own adrenaline fade, but he didn't even manage a single full stride.

A scarred, trembling hand shot out from beneath the comforter. Bakugou’s fingers clamped onto the waistband of Kirishima’s gym shorts with a sudden, frantic desperation, his knuckles turning white under the green light. Before Kirishima could even process the movement, Bakugou pulled hard, using the last remnants of his strength to drag Kirishima backward, forcing the larger boy's weight to shift until he tumbled directly onto the edge of the mattress.

"Katsuki?" Kirishima breathed, his hands instinctively coming up to brace himself against the mattress so he didn't crush him.

Bakugou didn't let go. He shuffled backward toward the concrete wall, creating a narrow, tight space on the small twin bed, his eyes half-closed and swimming in a glassy, entirely undone glaze. He reached out with his other arm, tangling his fingers into the collar of Kirishima's t-shirt, pulling him down until their faces were inches apart in the shadows.

"Don't go," Bakugou murmured, the words losing all their edge, turning into a low, broken hum that was entirely devoid of pride, defense, or anger. It was just a raw, unmitigated plea, his hot, alcohol-scented breath brushing against Kirishima’s jaw. "Stay... sleep here. Please, Eiji... don't leave the bed."

The use of his first name, delivered with such a fractured, defenseless vulnerability, completely shattered the last of Kirishima’s resolve. He didn't fight it. He didn't mention the clause, and he didn't look at his own empty mattress.

Slowly, Kirishima shifted his massive frame, climbing fully onto the narrow bed and sliding beneath the heavy comforter. The space was incredibly tight, forcing them flush against one another, but the moment Kirishima’s chest settled against Bakugou’s back, the blond stopped shivering. Bakugou let out a long, shuddering sigh, his hand dropping from Kirishima's shirt to rest loosely over his own chest, his head sinking deep into the pillow as the heavy, dark tide of sleep finally claimed him entirely.

Kirishima wrapped one heavy arm securely around Bakugou’s waist, pulling him back until there wasn't a single inch of empty space left between them, staring out into the dark dorm room as he waited for the dawn.

By morning, the digital clock on the desk read 8:14 AM when the sharp, blinding beams of sunlight pierced through the blinds of Room 314. The pale green numbers cast a faint, steady glow against the wall, but the room was mostly illuminated by the harsh reality of daylight.

Bakugou’s eyes snapped open.

He didn’t blink. He didn’t groan. He just lay perfectly, terrifyingly still as his consciousness rushed back into his brain like a sudden, violent wave of freezing water. He braced himself for the immediate, blinding agony of a high-proof alcohol hangover—the throbbing behind his temples, the sour bile in his throat, the shaking in his limbs. But as he took a slow, tentative breath, he realized with a shock of genuine surprise that his head was entirely clear. His tongue felt dry, and his throat still carried the faint, smoky phantom burn of the vodka, but there was no pain. His body had completely processed the poison while he slept, leaving his mind entirely, brutally sharp.

And then he felt the weight.

A heavy, solid mass was pressed flush against his entire backside. A thick, muscular arm was wrapped securely around his waist, the heavy palm resting flat against his stomach, holding him anchored against a broad, radiating chest. The distinct, unmistakable scent of bodywash, damp cotton, and familiar skin filled Bakugou’s nose.

Kirishima.

The memories of the previous night hit Bakugou’s brain like a succession of physical blows. The computer lab. The liquor store. The park. The vulnerability of weeping into the crook of Kirishima’s neck while he was carried across the quad in broad daylight. And worst of all—the broken, pathetic whimpers he had muttered right into this very pillow, begging the redhead not to leave the bed.

A sudden, violent surge of pure panic exploded in Bakugou’s chest, turning his skin hot and his blood to actual fire. The embarrassment of being caught so completely unraveled again, combined with the reality of waking up tangled in the arms of the guy who had rejected him with a roommate rule, made his survival instincts kick into overdrive.

He had to get out. He had to get out of this bed, out of this room, before the reality of the daylight forced him to look Kirishima in the eye.

Bakugou gritted his teeth, his muscles tensing as he forcefully tried to slide his hips forward to break the hold. He grabbed Kirishima’s thick wrist, his fingers digging into the skin as he tried to pry the heavy arm off his waist, his boots—which he realized had been taken off for him—scuffing frantically against the bottom sheets as he scrambled to escape.

The sudden, frantic movement instantly broke the deep, heavy rhythm of Kirishima’s breathing behind him.

"Katsuki...?" Kirishima mumbled, his voice a deep, gravelly morning rasp that vibrated directly through Bakugou’s spine.

"Let go of me, you bastard!" Bakugou hissed, his voice a strangled, furious whisper as he gave a violent, desperate heave, managing to twist his torso around so he was facing the center of the bed. He shoved his palms hard into Kirishima’s bare chest, trying to push himself away, his face exploding into a lethal, burning crimson that reached all the way to the tips of his ears. "Get off me! I said, "Let me up!"

Kirishima’s bright eyes blinked open, the heavy fog of sleep instantly clearing the moment he registered the wild, panicked terror in Bakugou’s expression. He didn't let go. Instead, as Bakugou made one final, aggressive lunge to fling himself over the edge of the mattress, Kirishima’s entire frame went completely solid. With a sudden display of heavy muscle, Kirishima surged upward, his broad shoulders blocking out the morning light as he pinned Bakugou flat against the pillows.

He threw his thick thigh over Bakugou’s legs, locking the blond’s lower body to the mattress, while his heavy hands came down to clamp firmly onto Bakugou’s wrists, pinning them flat against the sheets on either side of his head.

"Let me up, Kirishima! I am going to murder you!" Bakugou roared, his chest heaving violently as he tried to wrench his wrists free, his palms open, trying to move his wrists around. The use of the formal last name was a desperate attempt to shove the ice back between them, but the sheer weight of Kirishima’s body over his made the resistance completely useless. "Don't touch me! Get the fuck off my bed!"

"No," Kirishima rumbled. The word wasn't a shout; it was a low ‘no’ that carried a quiet authority Bakugou had never heard from him before. Kirishima looked down at him, his red hair messy and falling into his eyes, his expression dark, serious, and entirely stripped of his usual easygoing hesitation. "We are not doing this today, Katsuki. You are not running away from me into some basement again. We are talking about this right now."

"There is nothing to talk about, you piece of shit!" Bakugou spat, his crimson eyes flashing with a volatile mixture of defensive pride and frustration. He turned his head away, refusing to lock eyes, his jaw clenched so tight the bone visible bunched. "You made your little boundaries perfectly clear on Sunday. You want your roommate? You want your best friend? You got him. Now get off me so I can go to the fucking gym."

"Look at me," Kirishima commanded roughly, his grip tightening on Bakugou’s wrists just enough to ground him, not to hurt.

"Fuck you."

"Katsuki Bakugo, look at me," Kirishima repeated, his voice dropping into a softer, heavier register that made Bakugou’s chest tighten. "Mina told me. Deku told me what you said in the lab. You think I think you're degraded? You think I used that rule because I didn't want you?"

Bakugou’s breath caught in his throat, a sharp, jagged hitch escaping his lips. He slowly turned his head back, his eyes burning with a sudden, furious shine as he glared up at Kirishima through the shadows of his blond fringe. "You told me friends don't fuck, Eijiro! You watched me look at you like a pathetic, starving extra after I let you completely fuck me and make a mess out of me at the party, and you hid behind a fucking clause because you were scared! You made me feel like I humiliated myself for nothing!"

The honesty of the admission hit the room like a physical shock wave. Kirishima stared down at him, his own eyes softening into an expression of profound regret. He didn't argue. He didn't try to defend his actions. Instead, he let out a long, slow breath through his nose, his entire posture shifting into something entirely different—something submissive and completely open to Bakugou’s anger.

"I was a coward, Katsuki," Kirishima whispered, his fingers slowly uncurling from Bakugou’s wrists. He didn't move his weight off the bed, but he dropped his hands down to rest flat against the mattress on either side of Bakugou’s neck, completely surrendering the control. He tilted his head down, looking up at the blond through his eyelashes in a way that instantly made him look smaller, despite his massive size. "I panicked because you’re the most important person in my life, and I was terrified that if we turned this into a war of pride, I’d lose you. But I was wrong. I broke your trust, and I made you feel small when all you did was give me everything."

Bakugou froze, his breathing shallow and ragged as he watched the immediate, total shift in Kirishima’s demeanor. The heavy, intimidating force of the redhead was entirely gone, replaced by a quiet, worshipful compliance that was designed specifically to make Bakugou feel powerful again. It was the exact frequency Bakugou needed to hear—the absolute validation that his ego wasn't ruined, that he was still the one who dictated the terms in this room.

"You're damn right you're an idiot," Bakugou rumbled, his voice dropping from a roar into a low, menacing growl, though the flush on his cheeks remained bright. He didn't try to get up anymore. He lay there, his eyes tracking the wide expanse of Kirishima’s shoulders as the redhead slowly slid his body backward, dropping from his knees to slip down between Bakugou’s thighs.

"I don't want the clause, Katsuki," Kirishima murmured, his large hands reaching up to carefully drag the hem of Bakugou’s loose flannel pajama pants down his legs, exposing the lean, pale skin of his thighs to the morning light. Kirishima didn't look away from Bakugou’s face, his eyes full of heat as he settled himself on his knees between the blond's spread knees. "I told you last night. The friendship title is dead. I’ve been thinking about what you said, and the thought of you on top of me turns me on and makes me uncontrollably horny. I can’t tell you how many times I've touched myself to what you had said, and I really do want it to happen. If you want to own me, if you want to make me pay for being a coward... then let me show you how much I want it. I want to take it and stop shying away from it. I like you, and you know this already, and I know it’s not enough so let me do this for you.

The submission was the exact spark Bakugou’s bruised ego needed to completely combust. He sat up slightly, propping himself up on his elbows against the pillows, his chest heaving as his eyes darkened with a sudden, territorial craving. "You think you can just apologize and fix this, Shitty Hair?" Bakugou taunted, the mean, mocking edge returning to his voice, but his breath was already hitching as Kirishima’s large palms slid up the inside of his thighs, the heat of the touch frictioning against his skin. "You think you can just serve yourself up to me after making me look like a fool in front of Deku? Icy Hot and sleepy eyes—I don’t care—but fucking DEKU?"

"No," Kirishima rasped, his voice dropping into a thick, low register as he reached for the waistband of Bakugou’s pants, dragging them down and off his legs in one smooth, deliberate motion. When Bakugou’s dick popped free, already thickening and leaking a small bead of pre-cum in the cool air of the AC, Kirishima didn't blink. He looked at it with a starving focus that made Bakugou's stomach tie itself into a violent knot. "I don't think it fixes it. I just want to please you. I want you to look at me and know you own every single part of this."

Without another word, Kirishima leaned forward, his red hair brushing against Bakugou’s stomach as he brought his mouth directly to the tip of Bakugou’s dick.

He didn't hesitate. He opened his lips and took the head inside, his tongue instantly swirling around the tip with a wet, heavy friction that made Bakugou’s entire body go rigid against the pillows.

"Ah—f-fucking hell, Eiji," Bakugou choked out, his head snapping back as his fingers instantly flew into the sheets, twisting the fabric into white-knuckled fists. The sudden, intense heat of Kirishima’s mouth was incredible, a total contrast to the cold morning air, and the sheer skill of the movement made his mind instantly start to fracture.

Kirishima was not being gentle; he was being thorough, completely driven by a desperate need to erase the distance between them. He slid his mouth deeper, taking half of Bakugou’s thick length down his throat in one smooth, continuous glide, his eyes staying locked wide open, staring straight up into Bakugou’s face through his messy red fringe. He wanted Bakugou to see him like this—completely on his knees, his jaw working with a desperate, heavy rhythm, his cheeks sinking in as he used a fierce, vacuum-like suction that had Bakugou’s hips instantly twitching upward into the contact.

"You’re so unreal," Bakugou growled through his teeth, his voice a harsh, broken rasp as he forced his eyes open to watch the spectacle below him. The sight of his roommate—the biggest, heaviest guy in their year—completely brought to his knees between his legs, using his mouth with such desperate intensity, sent a massive jolt of pure euphoria straight to his brain. It was the ultimate restoration of his power. "Look at how filthy you are for me, Eijirou. You’re nothing but desperate right now. Is this really what you want?"

Kirishima let out a low, muffled groan against the shaft, the vibration of his voice sending a wave of scalding heat straight to Bakugou’s core. Kirishima’s pace picked up, his hand coming up to cup the base of Bakugou’s testicles, his thumb dragging rough over the skin to heighten the friction while his mouth bobbed up and down with an aggressive, continuous hunger. He swallowed hard, his throat stretching to accommodate Bakugou’s size, a wet, sloppy sound filling the quiet dorm room as he lubed the entire shaft up with saliva.

"Mmm—fuck, Eiji, stop—you're gonna make me—" Bakugou broke off into a high, breathless whimper, his hips bucking uncontrollably as Kirishima suddenly used his tongue to stroke hard against the sensitive line of his underside, directly hitting his sweet spot over and over again.

Bakugou was going entirely insane. The mixed signals of his own mind—the anger from the day before, the fog of the alcohol, and the overwhelming, suffocating pleasure of Kirishima’s mouth—merged into a single, chaotic state of pure ecstasy. He reached down, his hands flying into Kirishima’s messy red hair, his fingers locking tightly into the strands not to push him away but to drag him closer, forcing his mouth down even deeper until Kirishima’s nose was buried flat against his pubic bone.

"You're so fucking good at this," Bakugou panted, his jaw clenching so hard a small string of saliva escaped his lips, his head shaking wildly against the pillows. All his pride, all his icy distance was completely melting down into the mattress, incinerated by the sheer, unadulterated talent of Kirishima’s mouth. "Eiji... fuck, look at me. Look at what you're doing to me."

Kirishima lifted his eyes, his mouth still tightly wrapped around the shaft, his gaze dark, heavy, and entirely loaded with devotion. He could feel the twitching of Bakugou’s dick inside his mouth and could feel the hot, rapid pulse jumping against his tongue, signaling that the blond was right on the absolute precipice of his release. He didn't slow down; he added more suction, his hand dragging rough and fast up and down the base, pushing Bakugou directly over the edge.

Bakugou’s entire body gave a violent, final shudder as the intense, white-hot heat of his release flooded straight down Kirishima’s throat. His fingers, still tangled deep in the thick, messy red strands of Kirishima’s hair, tightened with a desperate, white-knuckled grip as his hips gave one last, uncoordinated twitch against the mattress.

He lay there for a few seconds, his chest heaving violently, his eyes wide and unfocused as they stared blankly at the ceiling tiles of Room 314. The force of the climax had left his limbs completely heavy, tingling with a sudden, deep exhaustion that made the residual anger in his gut feel suddenly very far away. Below him, Kirishima swallowed hard, taking everything down before he slowly slid his mouth off the wet, sensitive length.

Kirishima didn't move away. He stayed right there on his knees between Bakugou’s spread thighs, his face completely flushed, a thin sheen of sweat making his forehead glisten in the morning light. He lifted his head, his eyes wide, soft, and entirely open as he looked up at the blond, waiting for whatever judgment or command Bakugou was going to throw at him next.

But Bakugou didn't push him away. The heavy humiliation that had been clawing at his ribs since Sunday was entirely gone, completely replaced by a sudden, predatory focus that locked directly onto the total surrender in Kirishima’s posture. Kirishima had said he wanted it. He had confessed to touching himself to the very thought of Bakugou owning him, of Bakugou taking the dominant lead.

The spark of absolute, unyielding control flared hot in Bakugou’s chest.

"You think you're done?" Bakugou rumbled, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly vibration that sent an immediate shiver straight down Kirishima’s spine.

Before Kirishima could even form a response, Bakugou’s grip on his hair shifted. It wasn't a painful yank, but it was firm. Bakugou sat up fully, his muscles flexing as he used that hold to guide Kirishima backward, forcing the larger boy to shift off his knees and slide flat onto his back in the center of the narrow twin mattress.

Kirishima let out a low, breathless gasp as his shoulders hit the sheets, his red hair spreading out against the pillow. He looked up at Bakugou, his chest rising and falling in rapid, shallow gasps, his hands hovering uncertainly near his sides. He looked completely exposed.

Bakugou crawled over him, his movements slow and precise. He pinned Kirishima beneath him, his knees settling on either side of Kirishima’s hips. He reached down, his touch suddenly surprisingly gentle as his thumb brushed over the line of Kirishima’s jaw, wiping away a stray smear of wetness from his chin with a slow, domestic care that made Kirishima’s eyes instantly flutter shut.

"Look at me, Eiji," Bakugou commanded softly, his tone a mix of a quiet, steady lover and a drill sergeant who knew exactly how to dismantle a target.

Kirishima opened his eyes, his pupils completely blown out as he stared up into the fierce crimson gaze looming over him. "Katsuki..."

"You said you wanted this," Bakugou whispered, his hand sliding down from Kirishima's jaw to press flat against his racing heart, feeling the frantic, erratic thumping against his palm. "You said you've been thinking about me on top of you. I want to hear it again. Tell me exactly what you want me to do to you."

Kirishima swallowed hard, his voice cracking down the middle as the sheer weight of Bakugou's focus made his mind start to spin. "I... I want you to take it all. I want you to stop holding back because you're worried about breaking me. I want to feel you, Katsuki. Please."

A dark, dangerous smile tugged at the corner of Bakugou’s mouth. "Yeah? You want the specific treatment? You want me to treat you like you belong to me?"

"Yes," Kirishima choked out, his hips giving a small, subconscious twitch against the mattress. "Yes, please."

"Then turn the fuck over," Bakugou rumbled, the gentleness disappearing from his voice for a split second, replaced by a raw, demanding authority that had Kirishima instantly moving.

Kirishima didn't hesitate for a single second. He rolled over onto his stomach, shifting heavily on the mattress as he pushed himself up onto his hands and knees, presenting his lower body to the blond with an arc on his back. His breath was coming in short, ragged gasps, his back flexing as he dropped his elbows down to the sheets, tilting his hips up into the air in a posture of submission.

Bakugou reached into the gap between the bed and the wall, his fingers wrapping around the familiar plastic bottle of lube they had kept hidden in the back of the drawer. He poured a generous, cool puddle of the slick liquid directly into his palm, the synthetic scent filling the small space between them.

He didn't just shove himself inside. Bakugou leaned forward, his bare chest pressing flat against Kirishima’s muscular back, his mouth leaning in close to the shell of Kirishima’s ear. He brought his slick fingers down, pressing them against Kirishima’s hole.

Instead of forcing his way in, Bakugou began to move his fingertips in slow patterns, using the lube to literally sketch light, tracing lines across the sensitive skin of Kirishima’s entrance, circling the opening with a teasing, agonizingly slow pressure that made Kirishima’s entire frame begin to tremble.

"Katsuki... fuck, please," Kirishima whined, his forehead pressing hard into the pillow as his fingers dug into the mattress. The light, tracing pressure was driving him entirely out of his mind, a sweet torture that made his entrance twitch and throb in a desperate craving for something solid. "Don't... don't just play with it. Put it in."

"What am I doing, Eiji?" Bakugou whispered roughly against his neck, his thumb dragging hard across the rim, stretching the skin just a fraction before continuing the slow, sketching movements. "Answer me. What am I doing to you right now?"

"You're... you're teasing me," Kirishima gasped out, his voice shaking violently as a drop of sweat rolled down his nose. "You're making me beg for it."

"That's right," Bakugou rumbled, his voice dark and satisfied. "I'm drawing the lines so you remember exactly who’s taking you apart today. You like how my fingers feel, Shitty Hair?"

"I love it... fuck, it's so hot, just... give me more," Kirishima pleaded, his hips backing up into Bakugou’s hand instinctively, practically begging for the penetration.

Bakugou didn't make him wait any longer. He slid one thick, lubed finger straight inside Kirishima, and the muscles instantly clamped down around the intrusion with a fierce, desperate grip. Kirishima let out a loud, ragged cry into the pillow, his back arching deeper as Bakugou immediately added a second finger, hooking it slightly to hit the deep, pulsing ridge inside.

He worked his fingers in and out with a quick, brutal efficiency, stretching Kirishima open until the tight muscles began to give way, slick with lube and heat, creating a wet, squelching sound that filled the quiet room.

"You ready for the real thing?" Bakugou growled, his voice thick with his own rising arousal as he pulled his fingers free, the cool air hitting Kirishima’s stretched, pulsing entrance.

Kirishima could barely form a coherent word, his brain completely short-circuiting from the stimulation. "Yes... fuck, yes, Katsuki, now. Do it now."

Bakugou didn't waste another breath. He grabs Kirishima by the hips, his fingers digging deep to lock him into position, and then pulls them out. He lined the head of his dick straight against the wet hole and, with one thrust, drove himself all the way in to the hilt.

"AH!" Kirishima screamed into the mattress, his eyes flying wide open as Bakugou filled him completely, stretching his internal walls. It felt like a physical weight splitting him down the middle, a deep, full ache that was so intense it bordered on pain, but it was immediately followed by a wave of pleasure that made his entire body go completely weak.

Bakugou didn't give him time to adjust. He began to deliver hard, relentless back shots, his hips slamming violently against Kirishima’s backside with a rhythmic, punishing force that echoed loudly off the concrete walls of the dorm. Smack. Smack. Smack. The sound of their skin colliding was raw, loud, and entirely animalistic.

"Katsuki! Oh my god, Katsuki!" Kirishima sobbed out, his hands clawing at the sheets as each deep, heavy strike hit his sweet spot with pinpoint accuracy. He was losing his mind, his vision blurring with tears of pure ecstasy as Bakugou ruthlessly hollowed him out from behind. "It's... you're too big... fuck, it's too much..."

"Tell me how it feels," Bakugou demanded, his breathing a ragged roar as he kept up the brutal, relentless pace, his chest slamming against Kirishima’s back with every single thrust. He reached around, his hand wrapping around Kirishima’s throat from behind, not to choke, but to anchor him, forcing Kirishima’s head up so he could hear him. "I want to hear it, Eiji. Tell me what my dick is doing to you."

"It's... it's stretching me completely open," Kirishima screamed out, his voice cracking entirely as a massive wave of pleasure rolled through his gut. "You're hitting... you're hitting everything... fuck, it's the best thing I've ever felt... please don't stop!"

"I'm not stopping," Bakugou growled, his jaw gritted as he delivered three more massive, bottoming-out thrusts that had Kirishima’s legs completely buckling beneath him.

Suddenly, Bakugou reached down, his strong arms hooking beneath Kirishima’s armpits. Suddenly, he hauled Kirishima up and backward, forcing the larger boy to twist around until he was sitting upright, straddling Bakugou’s lap.

Before Kirishima could even register the change in position, Bakugou settled himself flat on his back, his hands slamming onto Kirishima’s hips to guide him down.

"Ride it," Bakugou ordered, his crimson eyes blazing up from the pillow with a dark, commanding intensity. "You said you wanted to own it? Then take it yourself. Push it all the way down."

Kirishima was shaking so violently he could barely balance, his broad chest covered in a thick layer of sweat, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He looked down at Bakugou, then down to where their bodies joined, his heart hammering against his ribs. Slowly, with a low, shaky groan, he lifted himself up slightly and then dropped his hips back down, sliding himself completely onto Bakugou’s dick.

"Oh, fuck," Kirishima whimpered, his head falling back as his spine arched in a perfect, desperate line. The depth of the penetration from this angle was entirely different—it felt even bigger, even thicker, filling his lower stomach with a heavy, pulsing heat that made his own length leak a continuous stream of pre-cum onto Bakugou’s lower belly.

He began to move, his hips rising and falling in a frantic, uncoordinated rhythm as he tried to chase that intense, shattering feeling again. He was completely losing his mind. The easygoing, guarded roommate from Sunday was entirely dead, replaced by a desperate, starving boy who was completely addicted to the way Bakugou felt inside him.

"Look at you," Bakugou praised roughly, his hands digging into Kirishima’s thighs to help him keep the pace, his own hips lifting off the mattress to meet every downward strike. "Look at how good you take it, Eiji. You’re bouncing on it like a fucking addict."

"Because... because it's you," Kirishima cried out, his hands coming down to press flat against Bakugou’s chest for balance, his hips moving faster and faster as the friction built toward an undeniable peak. "Katsuki... I can't... I'm gonna break... I'm gonna cum..."

"Do it," Bakugou ordered fiercely, his grip tightening on Kirishima's hips until his knuckles turned pale. "Cum for me, Eiji. Let me feel how tight you get."

The command was the final breaker. Kirishima let out a scream, his eyes rolling back into his head as his ass clamped down around Bakugou in a violent, spasming vice. His own cum exploded into the air, splashing across their stomachs in thick, white ropes, his entire body trembling as the intense, crippling pleasure of the climax tore through his nervous system.

The sudden, crushing tightness of Kirishima’s internal walls was too much for Bakugou to withstand. With a low, guttural roar that vibrated straight from his chest, Bakugou pulled Kirishima down hard against his torso, his hips giving three final, violent thrusts upward before his own release erupted inside Kirishima’s heat, a thick, scalding flood that filled the redhead completely.

 

∘₊ ☆──────☆₊∘

 

The afterglow settled over the room like a heavy, warm blanket. The twin-sized dorm bed was entirely too small for both of them—Kirishima’s shoulders took up more than half the mattress—but neither of them made any move to separate.

They were tangled together in a messy knot of limbs and damp sheets. Bakugou was lying flat on his stomach, his cheek rested heavily against the center of Kirishima’s broad chest, listening to the steady, rapid thudding of the taller man’s heart finally beginning to slow down. One of Kirishima’s arms was wrapped securely around Bakugou’s waist, his thumb tracing slow, absentminded circles against the skin of Bakugou’s hip.

"Hey," Bakugou rumbled, his voice a deep, gravelly post-orgasm rasp.

Kirishima let out a low, muffled grunt against his shoulder, his eyelashes fluttering as he slowly lifted his head. His dark eyes were still slightly glazed, his face completely soft and split by a sleepy, content smile that made his sharp teeth show just a fraction. "Yeah?"

"We're dating," Bakugou stated flatly.

He didn't blink. He didn't soften his posture. He delivered the line with the exact same finality he used when stating his test scores.

Kirishima blinked once. Then twice. The lazy, satisfied fog in his brain seemed to clear for a split second as the words fully registered. He shifted his weight, propping himself higher on the bed, his eyebrows furrowing in a look of comical disbelief.

"Wait... what?" Kirishima asked, a breathless, breathless laugh bubbling up from his throat.

"You heard me, Shitty Hair," Bakugou muttered, his jaw setting as he glared up at him through his blond fringe, though the slight tint of pink returning to his ears gave him away. "Don't make me repeat myself."

"Katsuki," Kirishima chuckled, his hand sliding up Bakugou’s stomach to gently press against his ribs. "You can't just... declare that. You didn't even ask me!"

"I don't care," Bakugou snapped. He leaned his head back against the Kirishima’s chest. "I'm not asking you shit. I'm telling you how it is. You threw out the roommate clause, you got on your knees, and you let me take you fuck, and now we’re switching forever. The friendship title is dead, remember? This is what's left."

Kirishima stared up at him, the initial shock quickly melting down into a deep, incredibly warm amusement that filled his entire expression. His heart gave a heavy, happy thump against Bakugou’s ribs. He let his head drop back down, burying his face directly into the pillow, his shoulders shaking with a quiet, suppressed laughter that vibrated straight through both of them.

"Man... you are unbelievable," Kirishima mumbled into his skin, his lips brushing against the pulse point that had been hammering just minutes prior. "Most guys take a person out to dinner, or at least use a question mark. You just launch a hostile takeover."

"You already know everything about me, you idiot," Bakugou grumbled.

"I'm not doing the stupid courtship routine with someone who already cleans my hair out of the drain and knows exactly how I take my tea. It's a waste of time."

He paused, his eyes tracking the slow, steady rise and fall of Kirishima’s back. When he spoke again, the arrogant edge was entirely gone, replaced by a low, quiet intensity that made Kirishima’s breath hitch.

"Besides," Bakugou whispered, his fingers flexing against Kirishima's skin. "You said you wanted to stop hiding from it. You said you wanted to take it. Well, this is it. You're mine now. Deal with it."

Kirishima didn't answer with words. He just let out a long, complete sigh, sliding his arm further around Bakugou’s waist to pull their bodies even closer together under the tangled sheets, completely surrendering to the regime.