I’m a lil sick so here have a thread. Krbk nasty sweaty dirty hot, pspspsps lore it’s got balls in it.

Bakugou comes back from his first day with Best Jeanist with slicked-back hair and tight jeans.

Kirishima laughs with all the others, but a part of him is suffering every

time Bakugou lunges at Kaminari with a fake-out punch, his thick thighs and hard ass straining the tight denim.

It’s temporary, Kirishima tells himself, he can handle the temptation for a weekend or two.

But then Bakugou stomps into the common room the second night in his tight

costume shirt and arm bands and painted-on black jeans, his hair slicked back but ruffled by the day, just a few strands falling over his eyes, and Kirishima almost drops dumbell.

Bakugou’s a little worse for wear, scratched and bruised and /sweaty/, a golden

sheen highlighting his collar bones and the apples of his cheeks, shining on his forehead and the tip of his nose, the curve of his snarling lip and—how unfair it is, how good it looks on him.

Kirishima carefully places his weight down, taking the opportunity to shift

his thighs. loose basketball shorts were a mistake, especially since there’s nothing under them to disguise the obvious interest he has in his dirty, sweaty, angry best friend.

(sorry it’s d&d night so this is gonna be a slow one)

“The fuck is wrong with people,” Bakugou growls, throwing himself down on the couch next to Kirishima.

“Uhhh. What do you mean, man?”

“Fuckin,” Bakugou says, spreading his thighs with some difficulty. He squirms, crossing his arms with a petulant huff. “Saying dumb shit.”

“You’re gonna have to be more specific, man,” Kirishima says, swallowing the spit that’s gathering around his tongue. Baugou’s jeans are so tight, Kirishima can /see/ the shape of him shift and settle as he angrily bounces his leg.

“Saying rude shit about peoples’ bodies is fucked,” Bakugou growls, kicking at the coffee table with his bare foot.

“Oh yeah, that’s fucking unmanly,” Kirishima mumbles, crossing his legs to hide his growing erection.

Saying things is rude, Kirishima can agree with that.

But looking is fine.

Right?

“Did something happen today?” Kirishima ventures, hoping a story will distract him from the way Bakugou’s chest stretches his tight uniform top as he breathes.

“Fuck Jeanist,” Bakugou grumbles. “Said I should let it roll off my back or some shit.”

“Somebody said something about /you?/” Kirishima says, voice darkening.

“Not somebody. Somebodies. All fuckin day. Fuckers.”

Kirishima takes a deep breath. Watches Bakugou cross an ankle over on knee, and he can /hear/ the stretch of black denim around Bakugou’s juicy thighs.

Looking isn’t fine, because the more he looks, the crazier he feels.

“W-what kinda stuff were they saying?” he says, plastering on a smile.

Bakugou tsks and curls his lip in a snarl.

“Fucking bullshit, I don’t know. About my ass and shit.”

Bakugou throws up his hands and Kirishima catches a hint of the salty-sweet smell of Bakugou’s sweat—and oh, what a terrible thing to imagine, how the rest of him must smell.

“Like why would anyone out and say shit like that?”

Cooped up in tight denim all day, out in the sun,

dusted in bomb smoke and grit and /sweat/—Kirishima can /feel/ his sanity leaving.

“I mean,” he says, dropping his voice low. “You do look, like. Really fucking hot.”

“Haaaah?”

Shit.

“Like, I mean, not that it justifies that kind of behavior or anything like that, man, just, what I’m trying to say is—“

Bakugou’s narrowed eyes and pinched, pouty lips are enough to freeze Kirishima mid-sentence.

“You think I look hot. In these shitty fucking jeans.”

Bakugou leans closer, gets up in Kirishima’s face, and the smell of him is stronger up close. Kirishima can’t help himself, his eyes drop down to the tight bulge at Bakugou’s groin. It’s a filthy thought, but he wants to press his face into it and breathe deep, wants to feel the

soft weight of it against his face and drop his tongue out just to see how it tastes. Fuck sanity.

“Shit, Bakugou. I guess so.”

Bakugou’s face goes dark, the soft-angry lip curl morphing into a genuine snarl.

“You /guess?/“

Bakugou leans even closer, knee knocking against Kirishima’s. He grips hard at Kirishima’s inner thigh, his knuckles just inches away from Kirishima’s now-throbbing hardon.

“How you gonna say ‘you guess’ when you’re so fuckin hard you can’t even think straight?”

Kirishima freezes, feeling shame and desire flit around in his belly.

“You’re the same as that trash on the street,” Bakugou hisses, digging his fingers in harder. “You’re a fucking animal.”

Kirishima’s jaw drops and he whines in the back of his throat, a wholly involuntary,

wholly unflattering sound—an animal sound. Bakugou’s right, he’s just an animal.

“Wanna hump my leg, you fucking dog?” Bakugou rumbles, dragging his fingers down Kirishima’s thigh.

“Yes,” Kirishima whispers, lids drooping, thighs falling open, the damp head of his cock clearly

visible through the thin material of his shorts.

“Pathetic,” Bakugou says, drawing his hand back. He stands, kicking the coffee table as he goes, and in the rush of his absence Kirishima’s heart thunders in his ears.

Sanity comes crashing down like a splash of cold water.

“B-bakugou, wait, I’m sorry, I—“

“I don’t wanna hear it,” Bakugou growls. He looks over his shoulder, something so dark and dangerous in his eyes that Kirishima feels a lick of genuine fear.

“Dogs don’t talk, do they?”

Bakugou steps toward the elevator and punches the button with a grunt. The gravity in the room ratchets up for twenty harrowing seconds, and even the ding of the elevator doesn’t cut it. Kirishima winces, noting that even the shame of the moment can’t make his

erection go down.

Bakugou steps into the elevator, and Kirishima can feel that heavy gaze on his downturned face.

“Kirishima,” Bakugou says.

Kirishima looks up to see him holding back the elevator door, something between fury and manic joy on his face.

He points to the ground at his feet.

“Come.”

Kirishima gets up so fast he knocks off one of his crocs and nearly trips. He recovers, barely, and stumbles into the elevator, nearly panting with excitement.

Bakugou steps back to give him room and punches the number for their floor.

The door closes on the common area,

and Kirishima barely has time to feel awkward about the tent in his shorts before Bakugou’s gripping a fistful of his hair and tugging him off balance.

“On your knees,” Bakugou says, his voice a little lighter, but still firm. “Like a good dog.”

“Oh god,” Kirishima sighs,

dropping happily to his knees. Happily? His thoughts start to spiral, but before they do, there’s a hand at the back of his neck, hot and a little bit sticky, clammy with nerves or the ever-present residue of nitroglycerine, and the latent danger of it makes Kirishima even

harder.

“Fuck yes,” he hisses.

“Quiet,” Bakugou growls. The hand on Kirishima’s neck tightens before letting go with a soft pat to the back of his head. “That’s your last god damn warning.”

The ride is a blur, and so is the crawl to their rooms—because Bakugou makes him /crawl/, grinning like a psycho when Kirishima loses his crocs again.

It isn’t until the click of Bakugou’s door behind them that Kirishima’s brain catches up with him, and by then he’s so

overwhelmed, so ashamed and so confused and so hard that he almost misses the soft, almost worried look Bakugou’s giving him as he looms over Kirishima’s stiff, kneeling body.

Bakugou tsks and strips off his shirt, leaving on the compression sleeves that run from wrist to bicep.

“You seem a little fucking confused,” he says, throwing the shirt across the room. “I’m gonna make it real easy for you to understand.”

Kirishima leans back on his heels,

wincing up at Bakugou’s blank face. At his naked torso, still a little shiny with sweat and marked with a v-line of grime where his collar sat.

“I’m gonna take these shitty fucking pants off,” Bakugou says, popping the button. “It takes a stupid amount of time, because

they’re annoyingly tight. If you’re still here when I’m done, I’m gonna fuck that nasty little mouth of yours, and maybe, /maybe/, if you’re good, I’ll let you come like the dog you are.”

Kirishima bites his lip, balling his fists in his lap. It’s so hard not to speak,

so, so hard—but Bakugou was clear. Dogs don’t talk.

“If that’s not what you want,” Bakugou says, gripping the tab of his zipper. “All you have to do is leave.”

Kirishima huffs a nervous laugh. He can’t help it, the situation is /so/ absurd. He was nursing an impossible crush

not more than an hour ago, and now he’s staring up at Bakugou’s glistening pecs, watching him slowly, tooth by tooth, lower the zipper of his skin-tight jeans.

Like fuck was Kirishima going to leave.

Bakugou hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his jeans and inches them down just far enough to expose the trail of dense stripe of blonde hair that disappears behind the last teeth of the zipper, right over a growing bulge in those too-tight jeans—and then freezes.

“Time out,” he says, dropping to his knees in front of Kirishima.

Which, wow. His thighs are spread, and when he lifts his arms to grip Kirishima’s shoulders, the musky, heady scent of him fills Kirishima’s brain again till he’s squeezing his eyes shut against the onslaught,

squeezing his eyes shut to block out the dangerous view of Bakugou’s pecs jumping as he strokes up Kirishima’s shoulders to gently cup his face, and oh, he’s saying speaking—

“—to freak you out or anything. Hey, we don’t have to do anything you don’t want—“

“I want to,” Kirishima blurts, eyes flying open. “I want to jesus Bakugou I want to so bad I literally don’t know what to with myself half the time, I swear I want it I just, am trying not to make a fool of myself now that I, now that you—“

Bakugou grins, his whole face

(cw degradation)

morphing fast from repentance to something altogether hotter, meaner.

“More than you already have?” he says, stepping back. He stands, tugging at the waistband of his jeans again, sliding them lower. “You’re on your knees for me, Kirishima. Like a whore.”

He grunts as he works the jeans down over his thighs, groaning as his cock finally springs free.

“I coulda guessed from that /fucking/ costume you wear, but that’s it, isn’t it? You’re a slut.”

He steps out of the jeans and kicks them to the other side of the room.

“Or maybe you’re just an animal, huh? Slave to this fucking dick,” he says, pressing his bare foot against the bulge in Kirishima’s shorts. “Well?”

“Y-yeah,” Kirishima groans, bucking up to chase the friction.

“Yeah you’re a whore for me?” Bakugou says, grinning.

“Or yeah you’re a filthy fucking animal who can’t control himself?”

Kirishima laughs, nervous, light. His eyes flutter as pleasure shoots up to the crown of his head and back down again, cresting each time Bakugou grinds his heel down.

“Both,” he pants. “It’s both.”

“Good answer,” Bakugou says, stepping back to fist his unfairly pretty cock. “Now be a good boy. Eyes on me, that’s right. Hands in your lap.”

Kirishima eases back on his heels, spreads his hands on his thighs. He’s desperate for some pressure on his aching cock, but more

than that, he wants to soak in the image of Bakugou looming over him, naked, streaked in grit and damp with sweat and god his dick is so close, he’s pumping it slowly right in front of Kirishima’s face, all he has to do is just lean forward and he’ll be—

“Pathetic.”

Bakugou grips Kirishima’s hair with his free hand and tugs his head to the side.

“You really can’t help it, can you? You want me that fucking bad.”

It was a statement, not a question, but Kirishima nods anyway, wincing at the sting in his scalp.

“This what you want?” Bakugou says, fisting his cock tight enough that when he slides his rough hand up to the tip, he lifts his balls up with it, dangling them right over Kirishima’s nose.

Kirishima tips his head up, trying to close the distance, but Bakugou’s grip in his hair

keeps him still.

“I asked you a question. Is this what you want?”

“Yes, god,” Kirishima pants, looking up through his lashes to meet Bakugou’s lust-blown eyes. “Anything. Anything you wanna give me. Please.”

“Love it when you’re honest,” Bakugou says, dragging his fingers along Kirishima’s scalp. He drops the hand that kept them apart and pumps his cock again, slow and tight. “Go on. Show me what you want.”

There’s so much that Kirishima wants, so much. But

the heat is radiating off Bakugou’s thighs, and this close, Kirishima can smell him, damp sweat and the musk of his pre and the earthy, tangy, concentrated smell of /man/ all concentrated at his groin. Kirishima’s a dog, he must be, because there isn’t a thing in the

world that can stop him leaning in, gripping Bakugou’s plush ass in his hands, and pressing his face up underneath Bakugou’s dick. Those tight, heavy balls pillow over the bridge of his nose and he takes long, greeds breaths, barely conscious of the fact that his quirk

is rippling across his back and shoulders in involuntary waves, shredding his shirt till it falls in shreds at his waist.

“Nasty,” Bakugou says, digging both hands into Kirishima’s hair to pull him closer. “You like that, you filthy animal?”

“Good,” Kirishima says, nuzzling

closer, dropping his tongue out to lave at the thicket of hair that wreathes the base of Bakugou’s twitching cock.

“So good. Wanna taste you.”

“Oh?” Bakugou says, palming the back of Kirishima’s neck. “My little puppy wants a treat?”

“Please,” Kirishima says, kneading Bakugou’s ass. He bucks his hips, so desperate for stimulation that the slide of thin fabric against his cock is enough to send electric sparks up his spine.

“You think you deserve it?” Bakugou says, brushing the hair from his eyes. “You think

you earned this cock, Kirishima?”

“No,” Kirishima pants, pressing his forehead against Bakugou’s tight abs. “I don’t deserve you. I want you, but I don’t—“

“Who gets to decide that, you stupid whore?” Bakugou growls, gripping Kirishima’s hair again. He yanks Kirishima’s head

back till it’s all Kirishima can do but wince and star up into Bakugou’s eyes.

(cw spit)

“I’ll give you a hint,” Bakugou says wrenching Kirishima’s jaw open. “It ain’t fucking you.”

Bakugou’s lip curls again and he makes a hocking sound, his gaze dark and intense and

unblinking, eyes locked on Kirishima’s. He spits, clear viscous liquid sliding off his tongue in a drippy glob to land in Kirishima’s forced-open mouth.

“You’ll take whatever I give you, won’t you, slut? Swallow.”

Kirishima swallows like he’s told, because there’s an itch inside him more insistent than the throb of his neglected cock, and that’s to be good for his master.

He’ll think about that later.

He licks his lips, then sticks his tongue out to show what a good job he’s done.

“Fuck,” Bakugou hisses, eyes clouding over as he pets at Kirishima’s hair. “You’re such a good little whore for me. Keep that tongue out.”

He palms his cock, rolling his fist over the flushed head, pushing it down till each long, languid pull makes his knuckles but up against

Kirishima’s tongue.

“Eyes on me, that’s it,” he says, voice faltering. “Fuck, don’t move, I’m almost there.”

Kirishima digs his hardened fingers into his thighs to keep himself still, and the pain is grounding. But it barely takes the edge off the intoxicating mix of

musk and sex and the /sight/ of Bakugou looming over him, the muscles in his forearm bulging and flexing as he works himself to orgasm, eyes on Kirishima’s all the while, never blinking, only pinching as he groans out his release and strips Kirishima’s lips and

chin and tongue with hot, sticky spurts of cum.

Kirishima pulls his tongue back, rolling the taste of Bakugou’s cum in his mouth, feeling the slick of it against the pointed tips of his teeth. He licks his lips, reaching up to swipe at the cum on his chin with his fingers and push it all into his mouth,

sucking the remnants off his fingertips with a satisfied groan.

When he finds the presence of mind to look up again, Bakugou is wide-eyed, hands twitching, chest heaving as he pants open-mouthed, look of total incredulousness on his flushed, pretty face.

“You really are a whore,” Bakugou says, breathless and a little shaky.

“For you,” Kirishima says, smiling sheepishly.

“Still hard for me too,” Bakugou says, looking pointedly at the embarrassingly large wet spot at the tent in his shorts.

“Go on, then,” Bakugou says, pointedly placing his leg between Kirishima’s thighs. “Like the dog you are.”

“Really?” Kirishima says, cupping his muscular calf. His heart is besting hummingbird-fast in his throat.

“I hate having to say the same thing twice,” Bakugou growls.

Kiririshima raises up on his knees, hastily pushing down his basketball shorts, pleased and a little bit smug when he hears Bakugou gasp as his cock springs free.

“Can I?” he says, nuzzling his nose against Bakugou’s belly. “Can I really?”

“Is it really that fuckin

hard to believe?” Bakugou says darkly.

Believe or not, dream or not, Kirishima’s aching for relief. He can still taste the remnants of Bakugou’s cum on his tongue and the warm heaven of Bakugou’s softening cock is right there in front of him, slick with his spit

and a fresh sheen of sweat. He presses his face there, feeling the warmth and the swell against his eyes, against his cheek. He gasps against Bakugou’s thigh as he ruts up, dragging the length of his cock up Bakugou’s calf and down again.

Bakugou’s hands in his hair are slow torture, rubbing his scalp, combing through his thick red hair, sending gentle tingles down his spine to tangle with the sharp, perfect-imperfect jolts of pleasure he gets each time he ruts up against Bakugou’s leg.

But it’s Bakugou’s mouth that pushes him, it’s the pleased hums and the whispered praises as he clumsily gets himself off, things like /you’re perfect like that on your knees/ and /moan for me, whore, I wanna hear you fall apart/ and, finally,

/that’s right, give it to me/ timed just right to a desperate thrust and a tug on the hair at the back of his head, tipping him over till he cums in a thick, hot trail all over Bakugou’s leg.

“Fuck, you cum like a geyser,” Bakugou growls, stroking Kirishima’s cheek with the pad of his thumb. “Next time that /thing/ is going inside me, you hear?”

“Next time?” Kirishima pants, cheek smushed against Bakugou’s hip. He’s buzzing in the afterglow, just floaty

enough to be loose with his words.

And if...if he meant, for next time...he wanted...fuck.

“Earth to dog boy,” Bakugou says. He tugs Kirishima up to standing and drags them over to flop on his bed side-by side.

“So,” Kirishima says, eyes downcast, drifting over Bakugou’s

fat pecs. “You want a next time?”

“What the fuck do you think?” Bakugou says crossly.

“I think I’m in love with you,” Kirishima says, because fuck it. He crawled on the ground for this man, he drank up every bit he could get, and didn’t Bakugou reward him for his honesty?

So even if it makes it awkward between them—

“Stop thinking. The feeling’s mutual, shithead. If you’re gonna confess, you have to kiss me.”

“Oh god,” Kirishima says, burying his face in his hands. “I can’t believe I let you spit in my mouth before we even kissed.”

“Legendary,” Bakugou says, inching close enough to drape his leg over Eijirou’s hip. “You’re nasty, by the way.”

“I /know,/“ Kirishima groans. He buries his red face in the crook of Bakugou’s neck. “I’m disgusting.”

“I fucking like that about you,” Bakugou says,

cradling the back of his head. “C’mon, don’t make me ask twice.”

Kirishima pulls back just far enough to brush his nose against Bakugou’s. Somehow this scares him even more than the crawling, more than grinding on Bakugou’s leg like an animal.

But Bakugou’s eyes are soft at the edges, and this time, it’s Kirishima who leads. He closes the space between them, angles his head just so, waits for the soft press of lips to morph into something more wet, more warm, lets it flow into lingering touches and

a desperate twitching of hips, both of them groaning as they start to grow hard again.

Kirishima pulls away so he can look Bakugou in the face, pleased and amazed at how foggy his eyes are. How kiss-bruised his lips are, softly parted as he breaths himself sober again.

“God bless those basketball shorts,” Bakugou says with a laugh. “You called yourself out with those.”

“God bless those skinny jeans,” Kirishima says, running a hand up Bakugou’s thigh to grip at his ass. “But if I’m ever around when somebody catcalls you, I’m going to jail.”

“Shit that’s hot,” Bakugou growls against Kirishima’s lips.

“I mean it. I’ll sic em. I’m your dog right?”

“Fuck next time,” Bakugou pants, reaching down to grip Kirishima’s cock. “Next time is now.”

~*~ ~*~

‘till next time