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Kirishima once read a poem about love. The words weren’t gentle, instead they warned about the destruction love might leave in its wake, telling the young man something about storms and why they’re named after people, how love will cling in the back of his throat like blood.
Or something like that.
He didn’t put too much thought into it, because it wasn’t a happy poem, and Kirishima was never someone who cared about gritty interpretations of the greatest thing on earth.
Well, the second greatest thing. Or maybe the third. The greatest thing are his moms, obviously. The second greatest thing is Bakugou, so that would put love on the third place. On the other hand, that cookie ice cream they had last week was also pretty good…
But would he have eaten the ice cream if it hadn’t been with Bakugou, who he loves more than anything (well, except for his parents, they’re all on the same level)? Does that make love and cookie ice cream the same thing? If Kirishima had to give love a flavor, it would be either that or the lingering taste of soot on Bakugou’s lips.
In any way, it’s definitely not blood.
Although, Kirishima felt a strange tingle in his tummy when he read the part about storms being named after people. He’s pretty sure there hasn’t been a storm named Bakugou Katsuki yet. If there had been, the real Bakugou would have tried to fight the storm, because obviously there can be only one Bakugou Katsuki. But they do have some things in common – the roar of Bakugou’s voice, prominent like thunder; eyes as sharp as lightning; when he smiles his lips tip like jagged clouds and Kirishima feels the static run through his veins, racing a shiver down his back.
The promise of a storm, of something wild and untamed, something fierce – something unstoppable.
Kirishima finds himself in awe of this storm.
But every storm rolls by eventually, and then the clouds part and the sun peeks through again, and a solemn serenity settles over the land. Not many people get to experience this side of Bakugou, and so all they see is the roaring hurricane tearing at their frames – sometimes literally.
But Kirishima knows better. He knows Bakugou.
Even back in school, he had a natural understanding of the boy. Bakugou was a wild thing. Kirishima wasn’t scared of his bared teeth.
He still wasn’t, years later and both of them having turned into young men by now. They faced different kind of monsters in that time, some tangible, some formless and only a shadow in the back of their minds. People they fought, friends they had to let go.
Kirishima knows some of these incidents still stick to Bakugou. They sunk through his skin and settled as a heavy weight in his bones. He can see it in the clenching of scarred fists and the times when he catches Bakugou staring ahead, seemingly into nothing, while around him the world refuses to stop.
Kirishima thinks back to the poem and realizes some parts of love do in fact spread on his tongue like blood, thick and refusing to be swallowed. They disintegrate the words that are supposed to part the clouds in Bakugou’s eyes. Sometimes, the silence is overwhelming, even for Kirishima.
But he doesn’t always need words for the other man. Bakugou has always been a very physical person, touch conveying more than empty phrases.
There are days when they don’t talk about the things that happened, instead they seek comfort in the crook of their necks, in palms stretched across hips and curved backs catching the afternoon sun.
Nobody knows that Bakugou has freckled shoulders, because nobody ever got close enough to see them, to trace invisibles lines between the dots and count every single one with a soft kiss.
Nobody but Kirishima.
He traces them now, drags his lips across skin the color of melted caramel and drinks in the heat radiating off the young man. In his lap, Bakugou wiggles. He wiggles! Bakugou doesn’t fidget, and he definitely doesn’t wiggle. He has a strange gracefulness, a certain balance in his moves; everything he does seems so natural, like he was born to run, to strike, to fight. The fighting doesn’t stop just because they’re not going against villains anymore, and relaxing on the couch inside their shared apartment – and it definitely doesn’t stop between the sheets.
So, Bakugou wiggling seemed so coy, so absolutely alienating, that Kirishima stops his ministrations to look at the blonde.
“Are you okay?” he asks, voice calm while Bakugou’s chest began to rise with labored breaths.
“What? Of course I am! You’re just taking too damn long.” The smaller man emphasizes this with a not too gentle thrust on top of Kirishima’s thighs. The redhead is sitting cross-legged on top of their bed, sheets already crumpled underneath him while balancing the fidgety Bakugou in his lap.
They just returned from a two months long mission overseas, having worked together with heroes whose language they don’t even speak, trying to communicate with hands and feet sometimes. Working with strangers isn’t easy for Bakugou, and it’s definitely not easy for strangers to work with Bakugou. As usual, Kirishima is there to balance the antisocial blonde out. They make a good team, having learned the best ways to combine their quirks over the years and by now they are known as a successful hero couple far beyond the borders of Japan.
Kirishima expected him to be tired, to flop down face first onto the mattress and sleep for three days straight – at least he hoped Bakugou would, because the redhead definitely feels that himself. The mission had been draining both of them and the result had been mediocre at best. Too many casualties, both on the hero and the villain side.
It gnaws on Bakugou, even though nobody else can sense the young man’s hurt aside from Kirishima.
He’s sensing it now, in the urgent hands roaming his body, tearing at the shirt covering his frame, all the while rubbing their still clothed crotches together.
“Easy, easy,” Kirishima tries to calm the other one, but to no success. The shirt goes off and then Bakugou grabs him around the shoulders, adjusting his balance and pulling Kirishima down into the mattress with him. Strong legs wrap around the redhead’s waist, keeping him close to Bakugou like the young man is afraid of letting him go. Like Kirishima might leave him.
It makes it difficult to take off their clothes, but eventually it’s bare skin against skin, Bakugou’s tanned skin against Kirishima’s naturally bronze complexion. There’s no room between them, pressed against each other head to toe with Kirishima snuggly fitting between the blonde’s spread legs.
“So eager,” he rasps, sucking lightly on Bakugou’s exposed neck. It earns him a growl.
“Shut up and get on with it, hair-for-brains,” Bakugou presses between breaths, rolling his hips up and into Kirishima’s.
The redhead gasps as their cocks rub together, the blonde leaking excitedly. Blindly, still occupied by Bakugou sucking on his bottom lip, Kirishima digs through the nightstand until his fingers close around the bottle of lube. It’s cherry flavored, because somewhere along the way they discovered Bakugou’s sweet tooth and how much he enjoys eating out his partner with it.
“Let me,” the blonde breathes between their lips, grabbing the bottle to pour a generous amount onto his fingers. Kirishima leans back, never losing contact to the other body as his fingers run over Bakugou’s waist, down to his hips and onto his thighs, as he watches him push two fingers at once into himself. His heart skips a beat at the sight, pointy teeth finding purchase in his own bottom lip. Kirishima purrs and lets his blunt nails rake over Bakugou’s skin.
The blonde seems concentrated, brows furrowed as he works himself open, not looking at his partner while he does so. Way too soon Kirishima finds Bakugou pulls his fingers out, hands flying out to pull the young man forward and back against him.
“Fuck me,” Bakugou rasps, nibbling at Kirishima’s jaw, lips dragging over the bit of stubble that was allowed to grow over the past few days.
“Are you sure you’re stretched enough?” the redhead asks, trying to offer Bakugou a concerned glance despite the young man evading his eyes. Instead, he turns over, a frustrated huff slipping from his lips.
“Fucking hell, Eijirou – yes, I am!”
The rest ends in a grumble, Bakugou pressing chest and face against the mattress. Strong hands run up and down a familiar back for a moment, Kirishima trying to decipher the strange behavior. But Bakugou knows what’s best for himself, and it’s something Kirishima always trusted and so he never tried to push Bakugou out of his – admittedly very wide – comfort zone. If something was up, his partner would let him know, this Kirishima put his faith in.
He grabs Bakugou’s hips, pulls him back against his own as he grinds into the trained body. Kirishima has always loved Bakugou’s body; wide shoulders melting into a surprisingly slim waist, with thick thighs and an ass Kirishima likes to lay his face on (and earn a light slap for it). He loves taking his time, exploring every inch of his partner’s body like he was doing it for the first time, kissing prominent clavicles, working his way down to the most perfect navel Kirishima has ever seen. One time, Bakugou allowed him to actually drink Tequila from his navel and Kirishima had been the happiest twenty-something in the world.
Before him, Bakugou huffs, face hidden between his forearms.
Kirishima decides to torture the blonde no longer.
He grabs his own cock, hot and thick in his hand, and carefully pushes in. His earlier question seems answered when he’s met with slight resistance, circling his hips as he glides deeper into Bakugou, trying to make it as painless as possible for the blonde who’s audibly breathing through the stretch.
“You alright?” Kirishima asks, his voice slightly shaking with the effort of holding himself back. He doesn’t want his partner to feel uncomfortable at any moment. Bakugou, on the other hand, seems to care less for his own comfort. With a grunt he pushes back against the redhead, drawing a gasp from both of them as Kirishima’s cock slides deeper inside until Bakugou’s hips are pressed flush against the other’s. Automatically, Kirishima’s hands dart forward, finding purchase in the blonde’s soft hips.
“Less talking, more fucking,” Bakugou hisses, arching his back in a way that has his partner melting at the mere sight.
When Kirishima lingers too long, Bakugou rolls his hips, expressing his impatience. Behind him, the redhead tries to calm his galloping heartbeat – Bakugou’s tight, his heat already seeping through Kirishima’s flesh and he wants this moment to last, to drink in the sensation of Bakugou moving around him. It’s only when the blonde whines, a sound usually submissive but from Bakugou’s lips seeming like a mild threat, that Kirishima leans forward, large hands pressing into the mattress next to the young man’s head and forcing his partner to spread his legs further.
Bakugou leans up, emerging from where he had his face hidden between his forearms, and cranes his neck to – rather ungently – bite at Kirishima’s jaw. The position would be hell on anybody else’s back, but the blonde is surprisingly flexible, a trait he acquired to support his agile fighting style.
“Fuck me, Eijirou,” he rasps.
The words to break Kirishima’s resistance.
The redhead growls, pushing down on the smaller body beneath him until Bakugou’s face is forced against the mattress. The young man almost sighs in relief before the sound is cut off by a hard thrust. The air is thick with heat, the sun beginning to set behind the curtains of their bedroom, tainting the walls in a summer day orange. Kirishima’s heart hammers against his ribcage as he fucks into Bakugou, all but rutting against the smaller man, listening to the wet sounds between their hips as he buries his cock as deep as possible inside the blonde’s heat.
Beneath him, Bakugou has his eyes closed, mouth slightly hanging open as he takes what he’s given.
Kirishima turns his head, gently nibbling at the heated skin of Bakugou’s neck.
“You feel so good, babe,” he whispers, working a spot which would later turn into a feather-soft hickey.
Bakugou grunts, brows furrowed. It takes Kirishima a moment before he spots the teeth buried in the blonde’s bottom lip, as if he was holding something back, something that tries to climb from a throat constricted by the desperate attempt to meet everybody’s expectations. How long it took for Bakugou to let the other one in, Kirishima remembers with a bittersweet tinge, to let him peek behind the walls of fortitude the blonde built around his brutal heart like an armor.
How long it took Kirishima to trace the porcelain cracks in Bakugou’s sun-kissed face, and not fear for the man to disappear from his fingertips like a ghost.
He’s seeing them now, these cracks, Bakugou bleeding defeat and gold underneath him.
The rough thrusts turn gentle, turn to smooth waves rolling into the blonde. Bakugou’s eyes fly open as a pair of warm lips wander over his neck, pecking him here and there, leaving phantom kisses.
“What –,” he breathes, lungs barely constricted by the weight on top of him, “what are you doing?”
“I love you,” Kirishima mumbles against caramel skin, feeling the slightest tremble against his lips.
Bakugou whines, trying to push back against the young man but his efforts are in vain. Kirishima’s like a bastion of calm, the blonde’s desperate surges finding nothing but softness.
His eyes begin to prickle treacherously.
“No, not gentle,” Bakugou grits, fingers curling into fists. “I don’t want gentle, hair-for-brains. I want you to fuck me! Just, fucking hell, Eijirou – not… Not gentle! It makes me fucking… oh, shitfuck, I hate you –“
The rest of the half-hearted tirade ends in a sob, Bakugou breaking apart underneath the young man, but that’s alright, because Kirishima is there to collect the pieces. He keeps them together, holding the shaky frame of Bakugou, watches over him until the storm has passed by.
He whispers endearments to him, words soft like a bird’s flutter, filled to the brim with love and affection and Bakugou feels himself overflow.
“I love you,” Kirishima whispers again, gently nibbling at the blonde’s ear, feeling him shiver, “you’re so beautiful, and I love you so much.”
Bakugou whimpers, allowing Kirishima to intertwine their fingers as he gently takes him, kissing the salty trails on his cheeks – like there was nothing shameful about it, like there was grace to Bakugou falling apart right before his eyes.
“Eijirou,” he whispers, a defeated sound falling from bruised lips.
“I’m here, darling,” Kirishima mumbles. The warmth oozes from his throat and right into Bakugou.
With a choked off cry, the blonde comes, spilling onto the sheets beneath him. Every single bone in his body decides to melt, muscles forgetting what they are supposed to do and so Bakugou simply lets Kirishima rearrange his position, turn him onto his side before the redhead pushes in again.
It doesn’t take long for him to finish, warmth flooding Bakugou and he sighs at the familiar sensation.
Kirishima never stops kissing him, never stops carressing him and filling his headspace with gentle words.
By the time he pulls out, Bakugou’s eyes are heavy. He blinks into the evening-blue of their room, taking in the life he was allowed to build with Kirishima together. He cherishes the redhead, does it in his own, complicated way, but the young man always knew how to decipher the enigma that is Bakugou Katsuki.
He’s not afraid of the storm, welcomes it with open arms as the violent winds embrace him, the smell of electricity filling his lungs. He finds home in the splatter of rain against his cheeks, the jagged forms of lightning.
“I’m with you,” Kirishima mumbles.
He can already see the sun.