Archive of Our Own

Bakugo never cared about topping.

Sure, he did it most of the times, and he could burn some steam and cum from topping, so he didn’t mind that much. It was easier, if he was being honest. Easy to clean since he just had to take off the condom and throw it away, and also easy to bolt. Say nice fuck to whoever was under him and then put on his clothes and leave the place without caring too much. So yeah, topping was cool, helped him shut his mind for a few minutes or an hour if he was lucky enough, and again, he didn’t have to worry about things like prep or cleaning after.

So he was fine with that.

Until he was not.

Bakugo had only bottomed once, and it was kinda a mistake. 

He was on a mission with Kirishima and some other pro heroes, and he was sharing a room with him. It was fine. They had shared bedrooms a thousand times before when they were kids, but now they were not kids anymore, and they were drunk since everything had gone well on the mission.

Kirishima was always touchy and so fucking handsome, and now he had those big muscles, that big smile, and even longer hair, and yeah, Bakugo knew he was attracted to his best friend, which sucked hard, because he didn’t have many friends, and Kirishima was the only one who had stuck with his shitty ass.

But now they were drunk, and it was a hot summer night, and suddenly he was on Kirishima’s lap, kissing and kissing and kissing a little more, and Kirishima’s hands were all over him, holding and pulling instead of pushing away.

Then Kirishima’s fingers were inside him, and he heard himself moaning and asking for more, and it almost felt like a lucid fever dream, because while Kirishima fucked him into the mattress, all Bakugo could think was yes, yes, I want that, I like that.

But it had been years since that fuck happened, and Bakugo jerked off most nights to the ghost of Kirishima’s dick inside him, and he knew he would never let anyone else do what his best friend had done to him, so topping became the solution, and again, he was fine with that, especially since Kirishima was dating some random girl, because Kirishima loved people and didn’t care about gender, he only cared if the person was good and sweet and funny enough, and the girl was fine, she had a great personality too, and Bakugo hated her.

He fucking hated her so much.

But Kirishima seemed happy, and he was always smiling like a big, silly puppy, and Bakugo sometimes wanted to punch him because that smile was too blinding, and sometimes it made Bakugo want to kiss him silly, but Kirishima was happy, so Bakugo pretended to be happy for him, too.

So he wasn't expecting Kirishima to tell him that he and the chick broke up on a random Thursday night, when they were out for ramen and beer. They were just chatting about something Kaminari did and that it was all over the news, and then suddenly Kirishima brought up the breakup like it was nothing.

“I guess we were just not that compatible,” he said with a smile, and Bakugo wanted to scream at him, because how could he just mention something that had the chance to change Bakugo’s entire life so casually like that?

But he just shrugged and said, that sucks.

No “I'm sorry” or “you should think better if you want to break up for real” because Bakugo was not sorry and Bakugo did not want him to go back to being under her skirt.

Kirishima just smiled at that and said, “yeah, but it's fine man, I kinda knew it would end at some point.”

And Bakugo wanted to ask why, wanted to hear him say the reason why he thought that, but he just ordered another beer for Kirishima and bumped his shoulder lightly with his. Kirishima smiled at him and said thanks, and Bakugo wanted to lick the words from his best friend’s lips, but he just hummed and kept eating.

Later that night, when Kirishima was already at his own apartment and Bakugo was back at his, his mind went everywhere, on an eternal loop of he’s single, he’s single, he’s single, he’s single, he’s single, and his mouth still tasted a bit of beer when he grabbed his phone and texted.

Like he had any idea. He had never dated, but he threw the bait.

Bakugo replied, like it was the most intelligent thing he had ever said, and just because every cake needed a cherry on top, he added,

The message sat there on the screen for what felt like forever, even though the clock on the wall showed only seconds ticking by, while Bakugo stared at the sent bubble and wondered if he had just blown up the one good thing left in his life, because they had built this friendship through years of patrols and late night strategy sessions and hospital visits after villain takedowns, where one of them always ended up stitched back together.

Kirishima’s reply came through with a ping that cut through the quiet of the apartment, and when Bakugo opened it, the plain words stared back because that was how Kirishima operated, even after all this time.

Bakugo typed back without thinking much, since he had already committed and the beer still warmed his veins enough to keep the doubt from creeping in too deep.

His place was closer anyway, and the agency had given them both the weekend off after the last joint operation, so no alarms would drag them out before dawn.

Kirishima showed up twenty minutes later, with his hair still damp from a quick shower and a six pack under one arm, because he never arrived empty handed, even when the invitation had been this blunt.

They cracked open the beers at the kitchen counter, while the city lights filtered through the high windows of the apartment that the agency had assigned him years ago, when he hit the top ten rankings, and neither of them mentioned the breakup again.

Bakugo leaned against the fridge while he took a long pull from the bottle and watched the way Kirishima’s shoulders moved under the thin shirt he wore, because the fabric stretched across the muscle that had only grown denser since their UA days, and the memory of that one night flickered back, stronger than it had in months.

They finished the first round of beers and moved to the couch, where the cushions dipped under their combined weight, while Kirishima stretched his long legs out so his knee brushed against Bakugo’s thigh. 

The second beer went down smoother because the alcohol had already loosened the edges of the night, and the talk turned quieter as the city outside hummed with distant sirens that reminded them both of the life they had chosen, where every shift could end in explosions or rubble, yet here they sat trading stories like the world had not tried to kill them a hundred times over. 

Kirishima set his empty bottle on the coffee table and turned his head so their eyes met, and the question hung there between them without needing words, since the text had already laid everything bare. Bakugo didn’t wait for permission, because waiting had never been his style, so he closed the distance and pressed their mouths together, while his hand found the back of Kirishima’s neck and held on tight, because this was the part he had replayed alone in the dark too many nights to count, and the hunger that had built for years finally broke free.

The other man kissed back fast, and the taste of beer mixed with the familiar salt of his skin while his fingers dug into Bakugo’s waist and pulled him closer, until they were half sprawled across the couch, limbs tangling in a way that felt both brand new and exactly like the memory that had haunted him for so long.

They broke apart only long enough for shirts to come off, and then they were moving toward the bedroom because the couch was too narrow for what Bakugo had in mind, and he wanted space to feel every single inch of what he had been craving.

The door clicked shut behind them, and the bed welcomed their weight when they tumbled onto it, because Kirishima guided him down with the same strength he used when he hardened his skin during fights to protect the team.

Bakugo reached for the lube in the nightstand drawer while he kicked his jeans the rest of the way off, since he had kept a supply there for years even though he had never used it with anyone else, and the bottle felt cool in his palm when he handed it over, because his hands were already shaking with how badly he needed this.

Kirishima took the bottle and looked at him for a long moment, because the last time this had happened they had both been drunk and fumbling through the haze, but now the lights were on and the years had intensified everything between them, and Bakugo felt exposed in a way that made his chest hurt, because he had dreamed about being dicked down by Kirishima again for so long that it was almost pathetic to admit even to himself.

He had jerked off to the ghost of that night more times than he could count, and every fantasy had only grown more desperate with time, so when Kirishima slicked his fingers and pressed the first one inside, Bakugo spread his legs wider without thinking and pulled him down into another kiss, because the stretch reminded him exactly why he had never let anyone else touch him like this.

Another finger joined the first, and then a third, because Kirishima worked him open with the patience of a man who had learned to read battlefields and partners alike, and the sounds Bakugo made filled the room without shame.

When Kirishima finally rolled on a condom and lined up, Bakugo grabbed his shoulders and breathed out the single word that had lived in his chest since that summer night, because yes still meant everything and more. 

The first push stole his breath, but Kirishima held still while he adjusted, and the fullness settled deep, because time had not changed how perfectly they fit once the initial burn eased into a heat that spread through his limbs and made his toes curl. 

Kirishima’s dick was even better in reality than in any of the late night fantasies that had kept him awake, and he was pretty sure it had grown right along with Kirishima’s height and the thick slabs of muscle that covered his frame now, so every slow rock of his hips dragged against that spot inside Bakugo and made him want to beg for more and more and please, give me more.

Bakugo wished he could go back in time to when the Greeks were still writing and carving marble that would change the future world, because he would have written a sonnet or carved a statue or done anything to capture this, because no poem or painting could ever do justice to how Kirishima looked above him right now, with sweat already starting to gleam on his skin and his red hair falling loose around his face.

He could have written a book as big as the Odyssey just about Kirishima’s hands alone, because those rough palms gripped his hips with exactly the right pressure and guided every movement, while the calluses from years of hero work scraped lightly against his skin in a way that made him shiver. 

He could have filled entire chapters with descriptions of Kirishima’s abs, because the hard ridges flexed and shifted with every thrust, and Bakugo wanted to run his tongue over every single line until he had memorized the taste of salt and effort and the man who had somehow become the center of every filthy thought he had carried for years. 

Kirishima’s everything deserved its own epic, because the way his shoulders bunched when he braced himself above Bakugo, and the way his chest expanded with each heavy breath, and the way his thick thighs pressed Bakugo’s legs wider all combined into something so overwhelming that he felt almost dizzy with it, and he knew that if people in the future ever thought about gods or beauty standards, they would think about Kirishima, because Kirishima would be the main model for everything perfect and strong and devastatingly hot.

They kept going because neither wanted it to end too soon, and the pace shifted from careful to desperate when Kirishima wrapped a hand around him and stroked in time with his thrusts. The dual sensation coiled tight in his gut until it snapped, and he came hard across his own stomach with a shout that tore out of him, his vision whitening at the edges. 

The other man followed right after, a groan vibrating against his neck, the feeling of him pulsing deep inside Bakugo while he was still riding the high.

They stayed locked together for a while after, because the room spun a little and the aftershocks still rippled through them, their breathing slowly evening out in the quiet that followed, while Bakugo’s mind kept spinning with how much he wanted more. He wanted everything. He just wanted it.

Kirishima pulled out carefully and dealt with the condom before returning to the bed and tugging Bakugo against his chest without asking, because they had shared sleeping bags in tents during stakeouts, and this felt like the natural extension of every time they had leaned on each other after a rough day. 

Bakugo let himself be held because the fight had drained out of him along with everything else, and the warmth of Kirishima’s body chased away the usual restlessness that kept him awake most nights, while his mind replayed every second of what had just happened and already craved the next round. 

The red read lay there, naked and glistening with sweat that traced every cut of muscle across his chest, abs, and thighs, and he looked like some kind of sweaty Adonis carved from years of hero work, so Bakugo had to clench his jaw and force his hands to stay still instead of putting his mouth on every inch of that body all over again, even though the urge burned hot under his skin.

Kirishima shifted after a minute and stood up for a brief second to grab a pack from his jeans on the floor, and Bakugo hated that he smoked sometimes, but he also understood it because nicotine helped blunt the edge of all the stress they carried from missions that left bodies broken and minds frayed, and unfortunately the habit had spread through their circle of friends more than anyone liked to admit. Still, Kirishima looked so fucking sexy with a cigarette already between his lips as he walked to the window in all his naked glory, with broad shoulders and thick legs and that cock hanging heavy between them, and Bakugo wanted him close, wanted him inside him, under his skin, in his blood vessels, so he pushed the words out before the distance could settle.

“Come here.”

One of Kirishima’s small eyebrows rose, but he turned back anyway with the cigarette lit, and he lay down again on the bed so the smoke curled upward, while Bakugo wondered if it was normal to feel this insatiable, because it didn't feel normal at all. 

He had heard people talk about sex becoming an addiction, and he knew pro-heroes especially relied on it more than most just to feel something other than the rage or despair that came with the job, but for him it had never been like this before, never this deep urge to have someone close, touching his skin, kissing his lips, pushing in and out and in and out until nothing else existed.

“Just because I’m self-destructive in ways I refuse to examine too closely,” he said, “I never thought we would fuck again.”

Kirishima looked at him and hummed, almost like an interrogation question, while he blew the smoke in the opposite direction so it drifted away from Bakugo’s face. Bakugo kept going because the words had started and they wouldn’t stop now.

“Dunno. Thought it was a one-time thing. Didn’t want to bring it up and mess up our friendship.”

Still, the other man smiled, and it was always that gentle curve of his mouth, even when he was being a little shit.

“You were the one who offered.”

“Sex really helps with breakups,” he smirked shamelessly, because the lie felt good on his tongue, and the way Kirishima’s eyes crinkled at the corners made heat pool low in his belly all over again.

“You’ve never been in a serious relationship to know that,” Kirishima pointed out, exactly what he had thought earlier, and that made the blond laugh because of course Kirishima knew him best after all the years.

“I’ve read somewhere,” Bakugo kept the lie going just because, and that made the redhead smile even harder, so the cigarette tilted between his lips while his free hand rested casually on his own thigh.

The smoke hung between them for a moment, and Bakugo couldn’t look away from the way Kirishima’s lips wrapped around the filter, so he leaned in and took the cigarette from his fingers, then brought it to his own mouth for a drag, even though he never smoked and had no plans to start. He held the smoke in his lungs for a second and then leaned closer so their mouths met, and he blew it gently into Kirishima’s mouth in a slow shotgun while their tongues slid together, hot and wet and tasting of tobacco and beer and the faint salt of sweat from earlier. 

Kirishima took the smoke and kissed him deeper, one big hand cupping the back of his neck to hold him there while their tongues tangled and explored until the kiss turned filthy and open-mouthed, and Bakugo felt dizzy from more than just the nicotine.

When they broke apart, Kirishima whispered against his mouth, “Let me eat you out.”

Before Bakugo could snap that he wasn't a chick, Kirishima moved fast and pulled him up and over, so he ended up straddling his face exactly like the sketch he had seen once in a bad quality and extremely cheesy porn video, with his knees planted on either side of Kirishima’s head and his hands braced on the headboard while that tongue licked a broad stripe right over him. 

His vision went black because the first wet press of Kirishima’s tongue felt like nothing he had ever experienced, and all he could think, while that tongue pushed inside him, was that this was probably how it felt when a supernova exploded, with pleasure bursting outward in every direction until his whole body lit up from the inside. 

He had never smoked weed, but he figured being high must feel something like this, because every nerve sang and his thoughts scattered while Kirishima licked and sucked and worked him open with his mouth.

Bakugo rode Kirishima’s face without shame because the urge to chase more of that feeling overrode everything else, and he rocked his hips down while Kirishima made these little hm's and ah's in his throat that vibrated straight through him and made his cock twitch hard against his stomach. 

Kirishima’s big hands gripped his white thighs tight enough that red bloomed under the fingers, and he wondered how it would feel if Kirishima just let his quirk slip for a brief second, because the thought of carrying small scars from those hardened fingers forever sounded good, like a permanent tattoo of this exact moment branded into his skin. 

He could see Kirishima’s dick getting hard again from eating him out, thick and curving up toward his abs, and it was the hottest experience he had ever had, almost like an out-of-body moment where part of him watched from the outside while the rest of him got worked so nicely by that relentless tongue.

Kirishima’s hands squeezed harder and pulled him down firmer, so the angle shifted and the tongue pushed deeper, and Bakugo’s head fell back while a broken moan tore from his throat because the pleasure coiled tighter and tighter with every lick and every hum until he felt like he might shake apart. He kept riding because he couldn’t stop, and the sight of Kirishima’s cock leaking against his own stomach while the redhead devoured him made everything feel even more insane, so Bakugo reached down with one hand and stroked himself in time with the rhythm of that mouth working him open. The combination sent him higher until his thighs trembled and his balls drew up tight, and he came hard across Kirishima’s chest and neck, his body clenching while the tongue never stopped working him through it.

The other man kept going even after because he seemed just as greedy for it, and Bakugo had to push at his shoulders eventually to make him stop because the overstimulation edged toward too much, even if he still wanted more. 

When he finally slid off and collapsed beside him, the bed felt ruined, and both of them breathed heavily while sweat cooled on their skin. Kirishima wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and grinned up at the ceiling before he turned his head and caught Bakugo’s eyes again.

“That was fucking incredible,” he said, and Bakugo snorted so loud that he had to put one mouth in his mouth to silence himself.

He rolled onto his side and traced one finger through the mess he had left on Kirishima’s chest, because he liked seeing it there, marking the place where his body had given in completely only minutes earlier. 

Kirishima stayed hard, his cock still thick against his stomach, twitching occasionally as if the night hadn’t taken enough from either of them yet, but Bakugo wasn’t sure his own body could handle being fucked again so soon since the ache between his legs was satisfied and still humming with leftover sparks. 

He let his gaze drift over the length of it, the head shiny with what remained of lube and his own release, and the sight made his mouth water even though his body protested the idea of taking it again right now.

Instead, he asked, “Have you ever been fucked before?”

Kirishima shrugged, one shoulder lifting casually against the sheets while his fingers idly brushed through the drying mess on his own chest.

“Nah, man. Played with my fingers and a few toys, though. Was curious about it, but dunno, never felt like letting someone fuck me before.”

Bakugo hummed to that and kept his voice even when he answered, “Kinda same?”

“But I just fucked you,” Kirishima pointed out, confusion clear in the tilt of his head while his eyebrows drew together in that honest way he had when something didn’t add up right away.

Bakugo shrugged, feeling the back of his neck go hot and then hotter, because this was the worst confession he would ever make, but the haze still fogged his brain enough that he made it sound like it was not a big deal when he said,

“Yeah. Only one.”

And that admission somehow made Kirishima’s pupils blow wide and dark, swallowing the red irises until his eyes looked almost black with want, and Bakugo saw the kiss coming, so he was ready when the redhead surged forward and their tongues found each other again.

He could feel Kirishima’s hard dick poking insistent against his thigh, leaking where it pressed into the muscle, and the contact sent another lazy pulse of heat through him even though his body still felt used and tender.

“Let me blow you,” he said against Kirishima’s mouth, because the words slipped out before he could overthink them, and Kirishima answered by sliding one big hand over the back of his head, fingers threading through blond spikes to guide him down without pressure.

He moved lower, settling between spread thighs while the redhead propped himself up on one elbow to watch, and Bakugo took his time, because he had fantasized about this exact moment for forty-eight thousand nine hundred sixty-five hours and some seconds. 

He had sucked a few dildos before, ones chosen because their size and shape came close to what he remembered of Kirishima from that long-ago night, just to test how much he could take, how deep he could push until his throat protested and his eyes watered. But nothing compared to the real thing, because Kirishima’s cock was thick, heavier than the toys, with a slight upward curve and prominent veins that pulsed under the skin. The head was flushed dark and already slick at the slit, and the scent of him hit first, masculine and layered with the smell of their earlier sweat. 

Bakugo leaned in and dragged his tongue from base to tip in one slow pass, and fuck, he could’ve stayed there for hours if allowed, just licking and tasting while his tongue explored every ridge and vein until it went numb. He wrapped his lips around the head and sucked gently at first, tongue swirling over the sensitive underside while he took more of the length into his mouth, but he couldn’t manage all of it, his jaw already stretching and his throat tightening when he tried to push deeper. 

But the limitation didn’t stop him. 

He worked what he could with messy enthusiasm, spit dripping down the cock and pooling at the base while his hand stroked the part he could not swallow, and the wet sounds filled the room as he bobbed his head and hollowed his cheeks.

Kirishima’s hand stayed in his hair, fingers loose but present, while the low groans rumbling out of the redhead urged Bakugo on.

As he sucked sloppily, Bakugo gathered some of the saliva that had pooled on Kirishima’s navel with two fingers. He kept his eyes locked upward, watching those dark red irises the whole time, and pressed one finger against the tight ring of muscle between Kirishima’s cheeks. He pushed inside slowly, feeling the way the muscle fluttered around the intrusion, and when Kirishima didn’t tense or pull away, he added a second finger, scissoring gently while his mouth continued working the thick cock in front of him.

After a moment he dipped lower, sucking one of Kirishima’s balls into his mouth, rolling it carefully with his tongue as his fingers kept moving.

The combination hit hard. Kirishima’s hips jerked and his hand tightened in blonde hair while his thighs trembled on either side of his head, and the sounds he made grew rougher and more broken until his whole body went taut. 

He came with a deep groan, warm cum painting Bakugo’s face in stripes across his cheek and nose and even catching a bit in the blond strands of his hair. He kept his fingers moving through it, drawing out every pulse until Kirishima slumped back against the pillows with his chest heaving.

He wondered how it must taste to have Kirishima’s cum down his throat instead of across his skin, bittersweet and marking him from the inside, but he knew Kirishima would never allow it without a full round of exams and confirmation that everything was clean, because that was the kind of person he was.

But Bakugo knew he would have let him destroy him in every sense of the word if Kirishima wanted to, would have swallowed without hesitation and begged for more. Fuck, he would've begged like his life depended on it if he knew that it would work.

After the last shudder ran through him, Kirishima sat up and pulled him closer, then leaned in and licked his own release from Bakugo’s face, cleaning the streaks from his cheek and the corner of his mouth and even chasing the bit that had landed near his hairline. The act felt filthy and possessive, and his spent body gave another weak throb of interest despite everything. 

He felt sticky and gross with drying spit and sweat clinging to his skin, but at the same time he had never felt so pretty or so desired before.

When the last trace was gone, Kirishima pulled back just far enough to look at him properly with a lazy smile spreading across his face while his thumb brushed over Bakugo’s lower lip to wipe away one final spot.

“Yeah, you were right. Sex really helps.”

Bakugo snorted again and shoved at Kirishima’s shoulder without any real force, then let himself be pulled back down so they lay tangled together, limbs overlapping and breaths slowly evening out.

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 🪐　 ˚　.　　　　 　　.　　　　　　 ✦　　　.　　˚　🌒　　　　. ✦ 　🌍  
 　　.  　 　　　˚　　　　　*　　 　　✦　　　.　　.　　　✦　　˚ 　　　 　　˚　.　*　　. 　˚　　.

It happened again, and then it happened again, and Bakugo felt so fucking happy about it that the feeling bordered on something unstable, because every encounter left him strung out and satisfied in ways he had never allowed himself to chase before.

Kirishima showed up at his agency some mornings before the sun rose properly and sucked him dry right there in the lockers, while the rest of the building still slept, his mouth hot until Bakugo had to bite his own arm to keep quiet. Other times, Bakugo rode him in the front seat of his brand-new Porsche only minutes after driving it off the lot, because the leather smelled fresh and the windows were tinted dark enough that no one on the street could see how desperately he moved his hips. Kirishima also invited himself over with the excuse of bringing takeout and then bent Bakugo over the kitchen counter without even unpacking the bags, fucking him so thoroughly that Bakugo drooled across the cool marble while his legs shook and his hands scrabbled for purchase.

Bakugo actually wanted it to keep going, preferably forever if that was possible, because fucking Kirishima was not just crazy sexy. It came wrapped in laughter afterward, and Kirishima staying over whenever their schedules allowed, and Kirishima forcing him to drink those awful isotonic drinks after every rough session, and Kirishima asking real questions about his day, and Kirishima telling him what his mom had said on the phone earlier or what kind of stupid low-tier villain he had dealt with that afternoon, or even what color of shorts he had bought on a whim. 

The whole thing felt like a bought win in a situation that should have stayed complicated, because Kirishima had been his best friend long before the sex started, and he remained his best friend during it and after it, which made Bakugo want to eat him whole, consume every part until their lives tangled so tightly that Kirishima could never walk away, not even if death tried to pull them apart. 

He knew the obsession lived inside him like a dying star, bending everything toward its gravity, and he made no attempt to quiet it because it felt far too good to let go.

Then the group decided to go out one Thursday night because Mina had declared that everyone needed a break from hero work, and the bar she chose sat in a part of the city where pro-heroes could drink without too many fans interrupting. 

Mina, Uraraka, and Sero arrived first and claimed a corner booth with high backs that gave some privacy, while the music played low enough that conversation stayed possible. Bakugo and Kirishima showed up together because they had finished a joint patrol earlier, and neither saw the point in separate taxis, so they slid into the booth on the same side, with Kirishima’s thigh pressed firmly against his from the moment they sat down. 

The table filled quickly with glasses of beer and plates of fried snacks, while Mina launched into a story about a villain whose acid quirk had backfired and turned his own costume into goo, and Uraraka laughed so hard she had to hold her stomach.

Kirishima kept eye-fucking him across the small space between them, even though they sat right next to each other, because his gaze kept dropping to Bakugo’s mouth and then lower whenever no one else looked, and the heat in those red eyes made Bakugo’s skin prickle with awareness. 

He turned into a little shit about it because he couldn’t help himself, and the thrill of getting away with something in public twisted in his gut. 

Every time Kirishima shifted to reach for his drink or laugh at something Mina said, Bakugo let his hand drift under the table and palm the growing bulge in Kirishima’s jeans, squeezing just enough to feel the thick length twitch under the fabric, while he kept his face neutral and nodded along to whatever Uraraka was saying about her latest rescue statistics.

Uraraka laughed again at something Mina said, bright and unrestrained, and Mina lit up right along with her, grinning as she gestured animatedly through the story. Then her attention shifted, settling on Kirishima as she asked if he was doing okay, and the question seemed to catch him off guard, leaving him blinking at her for a moment before he answered, simply, “Why?”

“Because of the breakup thing,” Mina supplied, because she had always been the one who checked in on everyone even when the rest of them pretended nothing bothered them.

Kirishima blinked slowly, like she had asked the most alien question in the world, and then a smile spread across his face while he shrugged one broad shoulder.

“I’m okay.”

No one pushed it further because they all knew when to leave things alone. Still, it sank deep into Bakugo and he kept his face neutral, but his thoughts ran somewhere else entirely, pulling him toward images he shouldn’t be entertaining in the middle of a crowded bar. 

He wanted to drag Kirishima to the nearest bathroom right then, shove him against the dirty wall, and let him fuck him hard enough that the sound echoed off the tiles while their friends sat oblivious only meters away. The image burned behind his eyes: dropping to his knees on the sticky floor, opening Kirishima’s zipper with shaking hands, pulling that thick cock out, and drooling all over it until spit ran down his chin because he needed everyone to know that Kirishima was fucking him, fucking him for hours, making him come like they were teenagers discovering their own bodies for the first time. 

The desire hit so hard it scared him sometimes, a cannonball of want that threatened to smash through every careful wall he had built, but he couldn’t stop it and didn’t truly want to because the obsession had rooted too deep to pull out now.

He swallowed every thought down.

Another drink helped, cool bitterness cutting through the heat building under his skin, and he leaned into the conversation when Sero launched into some ridiculous story. Laughter circled the table, and he matched it just enough to blend in, even if his attention stayed fixed on the solid weight of Kirishima’s leg pressed to his own.

When the talk slowed, he pushed back from the booth and stretched before saying, “I’m heading out. Early patrol tomorrow.”

A clean lie.

A glance came his way, and then Kirishima followed with a “Yeah. Same.”

Their friends complained immediately because Mina whined about the night ending too soon and Uraraka pouted while Sero tried to negotiate one more round, but the protests stayed light and no one pressed hard enough to change their minds. 

The group said quick goodbyes with hugs and promises to meet again soon, and then Bakugo and Kirishima stepped out into the cool night air together because the taxi ride to Kirishima’s apartment would only take a few minutes since he lived just blocks away.

Inside the cab Bakugo kept his hands to himself only because the driver sat right there, but at the apartment building, as soon as the elevator doors closed behind them, Kirishima pushed him against the wall and kissed him deep, holding his face between both hands like he needed to feel him there. 

Bakugo melted into the grip because those palms felt like the only reliable thing in a world that spun too fast, and he opened his mouth to let Kirishima’s tongue slide against his while the elevator climbed floors and the desire that had simmered all night finally boiled over. 

When the doors dinged open, they barely made it down the hallway before Kirishima fumbled with his keys and shoved the apartment door open, and the moment it clicked shut behind them, he lifted Bakugo clean off the ground, hands under his thighs, pressing him against the wood with enough force that the impact rattled through both their bodies.

Bakugo wrapped his legs around Kirishima’s waist without thinking, because the need to get closer overrode everything else, and he clawed at Kirishima’s shoulders while their mouths crashed together again. Clothes came off in frantic tugs and shoves, since neither of them wanted to waste a single second on patience, so shirts were yanked over heads and jeans shoved down just far enough to free what mattered.

When Kirishima finally kicked his pants the rest of the way off, he pulled back from the kiss just far enough to look at Bakugo with blown pupils, spat directly into his own palm, and used that spit to slick two thick fingers before he pushed them between Bakugo’s cheeks without warning. He rubbed the slickness over the tight ring of muscle, then pressed one finger inside.

Kirishima moved his finger in and out at first, taking his time, spreading what little slickness he had as best he could before adding a second. His focus stayed on Bakugo’s face, watching closely, ready to stop if needed. The stretch burned without lube, but he didn’t ask him to stop.

Because it was Kirishima, and there was nothing between them this time.

They had talked about it earlier that week, about being clean, about trust, about what it would mean to drop the last barrier, and now that moment was unavoidable and overwhelming in a way Bakugo hadn’t been prepared for. Every sensation landed clearer, and even with the discomfort, it felt impossible to pull away.

When his fingers slipped free, Kirishima spat again, this time onto his own cock, and stroked it a couple of times, spreading the spit until the length glistened. He lined up, pressed the blunt head against Bakugo’s spit-slick hole, and pushed inside slowly, savoring the feeling.

The stretch burned at first because there had been no real prep. It pulled a hiss from Bakugo’s teeth while his body fought to adjust, but beneath the sting, a deep fullness took root. Kirishima filled him completely, thicker than any memory had prepared him for, and every drag of bare skin against sensitive walls hit without anything to dull it. 

The friction felt overwhelming, almost too much, but the intensity only made his pulse hammer harder because this was Kirishima with nothing between them.

Bakugo felt all of it, the slow give as his body adjusted, the way the head pressed past the tight resistance and moved deeper until the other man was fully inside, their hips meeting flush.

He moaned into the kiss and tightened his legs around Kirishima’s waist when the redhead drove into him hard after that, while the door creaked under the repeated impact, their bodies slapping together as sweat began to slick their skin. 

He gasped against Kirishima’s mouth and rocked down to meet every thrust, because even the pain felt addictive, a reminder that this was real and bare and theirs alone. Kirishima fucked him like he needed to bury himself as far as possible, his hips rolling in a rhythm that ground the head of his cock against that spot inside Bakugo over and over, until the burn started to melt into liquid heat.

Bakugo’s untouched cock leaked between their pressed bodies, while every slide dragged new waves of sensation through him, the wet sound of spit and skin mixing with the way Kirishima filled him so completely that there was no room left for anything else. He felt stretched open, claimed, and owned in a way that went straight to his head and made the obsession roar louder, because this was Kirishima with nothing between them, skin on skin and heat on heat, and Bakugo wanted to feel it forever.

He wanted this to last, wanted Kirishima so completely that no one else could ever come close, wanted their lives to tangle together until walking away stopped being an option. 

The fear flickered sometimes when the intensity peaked like this, because the weight of it could undo him if it ever shifted, but he kept chasing it anyway because stopping felt worse than any risk. 

Kirishima pressed his mouth to his shoulder and groaned against his skin. “Fuck, you’re so tight. Never felt anything like this before.” He moved harder, hips snapping forward as another sound broke from him. “Feels too good… Wanna stay inside you all the time, every damn day.” 

When the first orgasm hit, it came hard and fast because the buildup from the bar had left him wound too tight, and he came between their pressed bodies while his grip tightened and his nails dug into broad shoulders. Kirishima followed soon after with a rough groan against his neck, hips stuttering as he spilled deep inside him, but they didn’t stop there because the night had only started and Bakugo still wanted more.

They finally stumbled toward the bedroom, still joined and half-dressed, shedding the rest of their clothes along the way, and when they hit the mattress, Kirishima flipped him onto his stomach and pulled his hips up so he could take him again from behind.

Bakugo pushed back to meet every movement because he needed to feel wanted and held in equal measure, and the sounds he made filled the room while Kirishima’s hands gripped his waist hard enough to leave marks that would linger for days. 

The pull threaded through every sensation because he could picture their future like this, nights turning into mornings and patrols shared and spaces that eventually became one, because separation no longer made sense. 

He came again with his face pressed into the sheets and his fists clenched in the fabric, and Kirishima worked him through it before pulling back and turning him over so they could kiss while their bodies cooled for a moment. Words barely mattered because their hands and mouths said enough, but Bakugo still spoke against Kirishima’s ear, rough promises about what he wanted next and how long he wanted it to last.

By the time they finally stopped, the sheets lay twisted and damp beneath them, and when the haze cleared enough for thought, Kirishima shifted and offered to clean him up with a casual tone that suggested it was the obvious next step, but the idea of Kirishima wiping away or washing out what he had left inside felt wrong on a level that made his stomach twist, because he wanted it to stay right there, deep inside him, like something hoarded and protected, something no one else was allowed to touch or move. 

The possessiveness startled him, so intense that he wondered if something was off, if he should actually make an appointment with a psychiatrist, because normal people did not cling to something like this with every part of themselves. The thought crossed his mind that maybe he needed to start going to church on Sundays, because he had never felt this kind of attachment before, not to anything, not the way he felt about Kirishima and what he had left inside him.

He turned his face into the pillow and pouted without meaning to, the expression almost childish when he mumbled that he didn’t want to be cleaned up. Kirishima blinked at him with wide eyes, clearly not understanding what was going on, and the confusion only made Bakugo feel more ridiculous.

“Just want to keep it inside.”

Kirishima licked his lip while his body reacted visibly, but he still smiled in that easy way and answered, “You know that’s not good for your body.”

“I don’t know that,” he shot back before adding, “people keep it for hours.”

“Who’s people?” Kirishima asked, one hand moving up and down his back in a sweet motion.

“I don’t know,” Bakugo said into the pillow, unwilling to meet his eyes. “Porn actors. People.”

Kirishima let out a quiet laugh and pressed a kiss to his shoulder before suggesting they take a shower together, adding that he would take care of it there.

The offer pulled him in two directions at once. The idea itself sparked something that made his tired body stir again, but it also clashed with the part of him that wanted to keep everything exactly as it was, untouched and held onto for as long as possible. He wanted to give in, to agree easily, but the possessive edge in him pushed back just as hard.

In the end, he nodded.

They made their way to the shower, the water running over them both while Kirishima knelt and took his time, and Bakugo let it happen, even if the feeling of letting go still lingered under his skin.

Later, with fresh sheets and the room quieter, Kirishima drifted close to sleep beside him, his breathing evening out, but Bakugo stayed awake with his phone in hand because his mind still moved too fast to settle. He poked Kirishima’s side until the redhead stirred with a sleepy grunt, then said, without looking away from the screen, how long it could actually stay inside the body, since he had been reading about it and the results surprised him.

Kirishima rubbed one eye and shifted closer while he mumbled, “What do you mean?”

Bakugo scrolled down and read aloud because the words felt important to say out loud. “It says here that rectal swabs can still detect sperm up to sixty-five hours after, and anal swabs up to forty-six hours. Some studies found traces even longer, like one or two weeks in the rectum or further up in the sigmoid colon, depending on how much there was and how the body handled it. The body doesn’t just flush everything out right away, especially if it goes deeper.”

Kirishima blinked slowly while he processed the information, then asked, “So you’re looking this up right now because you want to keep it inside longer?”

“Yeah,” Bakugo answered against the pillow because he didn’t want to meet Kirishima’s eyes yet. “Porn actors do it all the time, and people online talk about keeping it in for hours or even overnight. If science says it can last days before it’s all gone or absorbed, then it can’t be that bad, right?”

Kirishima let out a small laugh that shook the bed a little and rubbed a hand over Bakugo’s back in slow circles while he said, “I thought most people just let it come out naturally.”

“Most people aren’t me.”

Kirishima’s hand kept moving while he thought about it, then asked, “Have you been reading medical papers or just forum stuff? Because some of that sounds pretty specific.”

“Both,” Bakugo admitted while he tapped the screen again and read another line. “One study mentioned sperm detectable in the rectum for up to two weeks in some cases, though the tests probably miss smaller amounts after that. The body absorbs some of it or moves it along, but it doesn’t all disappear immediately. So if porn actors can hold it in for scenes and people do it in real life without issues, why should I rush to wash it out?”

“Because your body isn’t a porn set,” Kirishima pointed out, though his tone stayed patient and fond while he pulled Bakugo a little closer. “I get that you like the feeling of it staying, but leaving it too long can cause irritation or infection risks later. The shower and cleaning you up was supposed to help with that.”

Bakugo huffed and poked the redhead’s belly again because he was drifting back toward sleep and he wasn’t ready to let the conversation end. “But sixty-five hours is almost three days. If the swabs can still find it after that long, then a couple of hours while we sleep is nothing. I want to feel it there when I wake up. It’s like proof that you were inside me, that it’s still part of me.”

The redhead turned his head so their faces were closer on the pillow and asked, “You really feel that strongly about it? Like it has to stay exactly where I left it?”

“I know it sounds crazy, but I don’t want anyone or anything to touch it or wash it away right now. It’s mine to keep for a while. Science backs me up a little, at least on the time frame.”

For a long moment, Kirishima just watched him, then he leaned in and kissed him, the kind of touch that made guilt creep in under Bakugo’s skin because he knew he was being greedy, obsessive, a little maniac, and still Kirishima met him with nothing but patience.

“You’re such a nerd,” he said when he pulled back. “If anyone’s spying on your search history, they’re in for a surprise.”

A quiet snort slipped out against his chest as Bakugo let himself sink closer, eyes falling shut while he settled into the hold.

“Shut up,” he whispered into golden skin, the words soft and half-spent.

There was no comeback this time. The arms around him only tightened a little, and it didn’t take long before the rhythm of Kirishima’s breathing deepened into sleep.

He stayed awake for a while after that, listening, feeling it out, letting the tension in his body finally ease. At some point, he let his own eyes fall shut, body heavy and sated, and allowed sleep to pull him under too because the night had given him everything he needed and more.

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 🪐　 ˚　.　　　　 　　.　　　　　　 ✦　　　.　　˚　🌒　　　　. ✦ 　🌍  
 　　.  　 　　　˚　　　　　*　　 　　✦　　　.　　.　　　✦　　˚ 　　　 　　˚　.　*　　. 　˚　　.

The patrol stretched long and empty under the cold night sky, the streets quiet except for the occasional distant siren and the crunch of their boots on pavement. Kaminari kept glancing sideways every few minutes because Bakugo had gone even quieter than usual, and after another block of pure silence, Kaminari finally broke it with a careful nudge of his elbow.

“You good, man? You’ve been weirdly quiet tonight. Like, more than your normal murder-face quiet. Something eating at you?”

Bakugo kept walking for a few steps before the words forced their way out because the pressure in his chest had built too high to hold back any longer. 

He started talking without any filter, “It’s this thing that won’t leave me alone. I can’t stop thinking about Eijirou. Every fucking second. His laugh when we share takeout, the way he feeds me dumplings straight from his chopsticks without asking, the songs he puts on in the car because he remembers exactly which ones I like. Even the scarf he bought last week because mine was falling apart. He just wrapped it around my neck and fixed it until it sat right. It’s constant. Fucking compulsive. My brain loops on him even when I’m supposed to be focused on work, and it’s going to get someone hurt one day because I can’t shut it off. I don’t know what to do with it and I'm fucking damn tired of not knowing what to do.”

Kaminari walked beside him without interrupting at first, then he exhaled and shook his head, choosing his next sentence carefully.

“Dude, you know you’re feeling all that because you’re in love with him, right?”

“No. I’m obsessed,” Bakugo answered immediately, like it was obvious.

Kaminari sighed and looked at him like he was ready to give some bad news to a child, “You’re in love with him. Been that way since we were teens. Just swap the word. Not obsessed with his laugh, you’re in love with his laugh. Not obsessed with his touch, you’re in love with his touch. Not obsessed with the way he treats you or shows up for you. You’re in love with all of it. The rest of us saw it ages ago.”

Bakugo wanted to snap at him to shut up, because the idea felt too simple for what churned inside him, but then he thought about it for a second and,

Oh.

The loop in his head didn’t stop, but something in it shifted, and everything aligned in a way that made his chest feel too full. If it was love instead of obsession, then it had roots that reached back years, through fights and late nights and shared recoveries that had built something solid without him ever naming it. 

He had never learned how to love like that because he had never needed to, but whatever he felt for Kirishima had always been there, woven into everything he was.

The realization hit hard because it explained too much. Every thought that wouldn’t leave him alone. Every urge to hold on tighter. Every moment that replayed itself until it lost all sense of proportion. 

It had never been random. 

It had never been temporary.

The rest of the patrol passed in silence while he turned it over again and again, unable to shake it, while Kaminari kept glancing over like he expected something to blow.

When the shift ended, he didn’t go home.

His feet carried him straight to Kirishima’s apartment because there was no way he could sit alone with that word echoing in his head. The door opened, surprise flickering across Kirishima’s sleepy face, and Bakugo stepped inside without waiting, like it was already his space too. 

They ended up on the couch with some pointless show playing in the background, Kirishima’s arm draped around him like it always had been, and he leaned in without thinking because resisting had stopped working a long time ago.

The fear stayed because love meant risk and exposure and the possibility of losing something he had never admitted he needed, but he didn’t move, didn’t pull away, didn’t even try to put distance where instinct told him to stay.

Morning came, and the thoughts followed him into the kitchen like they had nowhere else to go. Water ran, dishes stacked, hands worked through the motions, but none of it held his attention for long because his mind kept circling back, turning Kaminari’s words over until they stopped sounding like a suggestion and started sounding like reality. 

He tested it again and again, replacing one word with the other, and what

the 

fuck.

Kaminari was right.

And work did not break it. Reports, briefings, patrol notes, every task that usually demanded precision blurred because his focus split in two. His fingers moved fast across the keyboard while something else pulled him under, dragging him back through years he had never looked at this way before. Rivalry that never pushed them apart. Trust that was built without either of them naming it. The way Kirishima stayed, no matter what. 

The pattern held even outside the agency. A trip to the market should have been simple, but he moved through aisles on autopilot, picking up what he needed while the same images ran in his head. The late nights. The touches. All the hugs. The calls. The birthday gifts. The holidays spent together. The jealousy. The want. The way that his mind was always full of himhimhimhimhim and nothing else.

The days after followed the same track; work, training, errands, all of it fed back into the same place.

But the distance didn’t go unnoticed. Kirishima picked up on it, but didn’t press, didn’t corner him, just filled the gaps with easy conversation and familiar contact, the same presence he had always offered. Bakugo leaned into it without thinking, because whatever line he should have drawn had already been crossed long ago.

One night, the pattern cracked wide open. 

A low-tier villain with a projectile quirk fired too close during a routine takedown, the blast grazing past Bakugo’s head with enough force to singe his hair and leave his ears ringing. The team on scene urged him toward the hospital for checks because the shot had come dangerously near, but he waved them off and caught the first taxi instead, carrying him straight to Kirishima’s apartment.

Kirishima opened the door with worry already carved into his face. “Hanta called. Said you almost got hit hard.”

Bakugo didn’t say a thing, he pushed forward instead, body colliding with Kirishima’s as he grabbed the front of his shirt and kissed him hard, then kissed him again, and kept kissing because his life felt like it depended on the contact. 

“I’m okay,” he managed between one kiss, but the reassurance came out muffled because he silenced any reply with another press of lips, deeper this time. 

He walked them backward toward the bedroom without breaking the connection, hands already shoving under Kirishima’s shirt to feel the beat of his heart against his palms to remind him he had made it back in one piece.

In the bedroom, he kept moving, pushing Kirishima down onto the mattress and climbing over him because the urge to be consumed by this feeling burned hotter than any quirk he had ever wielded. He had spent his entire life checking boxes and chasing the next level of strength, always trying to be the best and then better than that, but here in Kirishima’s arms he wasn’t just enough. 

He was wanted. He was cared for. He was his. 

Kirishima let him lead at first, hands resting on his hips while Bakugo stripped them both. When they were bare, he slowed, rolling them so Bakugo lay beneath him. He kissed down Bakugo’s neck with patience that bordered on reverence, lips tracing paths he had learned by heart over the weeks. He slicked his fingers carefully and opened Bakugo just like he liked, checking his face after each addition because the earlier near-miss still lingered between them.

When Kirishima finally pushed inside, it was gentle. Bakugo breathed his name against Kirishima’s shoulder because the words came out without thinking. “Go slow. I wanna feel you. I wanna feel you everywhere.”

Kirishima answered by kissing him again while one hand cradled the back of his head and the other traced circles along his side. The pace stayed measured, each movement building heat gradually until Bakugo felt wrapped in it completely.

When he came, it moved through him in long waves, his body tightening around Kirishima while he pressed his face into his shoulder. The other man followed shortly after, hips stuttering once before he buried himself deep and stayed there, arms wrapped tight around Bakugo like he could shield him from everything else. 

Kirishima held him close in the aftermath, one arm across his back and the other cradling his head against his chest. “Please be more careful out there,” he whispered. “I don’t know how to live a life without you.”

Bakugo stayed still for a long moment, letting the words sink into his bones like shrapnel that refused to be removed. Then he shifted, rolling until his full weight rested on Kirishima’s chest, legs tangled together and ear pressed directly over the thump of his heart. 

He breathed in once,  and the confession tore out of him before he could cage it.

“I love you.”

The redhead blinked slowly, lashes casting faint shadows while the words hung between them, and Bakugo kept going because stopping now felt impossible, the fuse already lit and burning fast.

“It was never only about sex to help you forget your ex. Not for me.”

Kirishima’s doe eyes softened, then he caught one of Bakugo’s hands, the same palm that had leveled buildings and scorched earth, and brought it to his lips. He kissed the rough skin there, then the other palm, like he could erase every scar with his mouth. “Good,” he said. “It was never about that for me either.”

Bakugo waited in silence, because in every scenario he had imagined he had been the only one burning this brightly. He had prepared himself to carry the weight alone, to take whatever Kirishima could give and call it enough, even if it never matched the wildfire inside him. 

But then Kirishima kissed him once, smiling against his lips, and whispered the words that shattered the last of his defenses.

“I love you more.”

The statement was stupid, impossible, because no one could love harder than Bakugo loved right now, with every cell screaming and every inch of him tuned to the man beneath him. He had spent years convinced he was built for destruction and victory and nothing softer, yet here he was, a ticking bomb that had finally found its perfect detonation point and still wanted to burn forever. 

The love felt manic and overwhelming, a pressure that could level cities if released wrong, but Kirishima absorbed it without flinching, smiling like the explosion was exactly what he had been waiting for.

Bakugo didn’t argue this time, instead he whispered against the skin of his shoulder, voice stripped bare, “Hold me.”

And Kirishima did.

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 🪐　 ˚　.　　　　 　　.　　　　　　 ✦　　　.　　˚　🌒　　　　. ✦ 　🌍  
 　　.  　 　　　˚　　　　　*　　 　　✦　　　.　　.　　　✦　　˚ 　　　 　　˚　.　*　　. 　˚　　.

Months later, they lay naked on Bakugo’s bed, bodies still shaking from the aftershocks of sex that had started slow and ended fierce, the sheets twisted around their legs like evidence of a battlefield they both enjoyed losing on. 

Bakugo held their hands up between them, fingers interlaced, studying the contrast that hit him every single time. His own skin carried the marks, pale stretched over scars that cut across his hands from years of explosions and impact, rough where it had healed wrong and hardened through use, while Kirishima’s stood warmer in tone, smoother in places, solid in a different way that spoke of endurance rather than damage. Both hands were big, masculine, calloused from years of gripping gym equipment and quirks and each other, but they fit together with ridiculous ease, palms settling flush like they belonged that way.

The universe was so fucking vast, full of collisions and endless dark, but somehow the two of them had ended up in the same bed, the same life, the same tangled fingers. The odds had been microscopic, and still everything had aligned like it owed them this one perfect meeting. 

Bakugo stared at their joined hands until his vision blurred, because the sight felt too big to hold, too permanent, and he was so, so thankful for that.

Kirishima finished the last drag of his cigarette, the glow fading as he tapped it out in the small ashtray Bakugo kept on the nightstand just for him. He had been smoking less lately, cutting back without making a big deal of it, and Bakugo felt the difference even if he never said it. Some nights still ran long and rough, the kind that left marks no one could see, and he would not blame him for holding onto something that made it easier to breathe. The habit had quieted, and that felt like a small win they shared without needing to talk about it.

“You’re thinking a lot,” Kirishima said.

“I’m always thinking a lot,” Bakugo answered. It came out automatically, because it was true. His mind never stopped. It ran constantly, sparking through everything even when he tried to rest.

A smile spread across Kirishima’s face, and he lifted their joined hands to his mouth. One by one, he pressed his lips to Bakugo’s knuckles, and the contact sent a line of sensation up his arm. Those same hands had torn through buildings, had left destruction in their wake, and now they were being treated like he was made of delicate porcelain.

“What are you thinking about?”

He wanted to say everything. 

He wanted to spill the entire universe onto the sheets between them, to use every fancy word he had ever heard and every raw one he had swallowed for years. He wanted to say that the universe must have been in a generous mood the day it let them meet because the chances had been so small, smaller than the spark that started his explosions, yet here they were, fingers locked and bodies marked by each other. 

He wanted to confess that he loved him stupidly, with every cell and every scar and every explosive breath he took. 

He wanted to say he would live many other lives if that meant he could find Kirishima and love him again, burn for him again, until the stars themselves gave up trying to outshine it.

Instead, he gave him a small smile and said, “I could go for Chinese food right now.”

Kirishima laughed and leaned in to kiss him, lips still faintly tasting of smoke when he said, “I’ll order some.” 

And, with a smile, he added, “With extra dumplings for you.”