Work Text:
Bakugou knows something’s wrong the second he steps inside.
Not bad wrong— just… off. The air feels charged, like static before a storm. His keys hit the bowl louder than he means them to and he’s halfway to calling out when the bathroom
door opens down the hall.
Steam spills out first.
Then Kirishima.
Bakugou stops.
He just stands there, staring like his brain is short circuiting in real time.
It takes his brain a second to catch up, to register why his chest tightens, why his mouth is suddenly dry.
Not because Kirishima’s shirtless— that’s normal. Not because his hair’s damp and pushed back— that’s nothing new either. It’s the jockstrap. Plain. Black. Sitting low on his hips like it belongs there, like it’s always been there.
He’s wearing a jockstrap.
Kirishima fucking eijirou is wearing a jockstrap.
Kirishima doesn’t even look at him.
He pads past, barefoot, towel slung over his shoulder, humming quietly to himself like this is just another evening. Like Bakugou isn’t standing there short-circuiting and foaming at the mouth.
Bakugou shakily exhales through his nose, his brain buffering.
“….what the fuck,” Bakugou says.
Kirishima pauses, turns. “What?”
Bakugou’s eyes drag over him again, slow and unashamed. His jaw clenches. “You serious right now?”
Kirishima looks down at himself, then shrugs. Casual. Too casual. “Laundry day.”
Bakugou lets out a short, incredulous laugh. “Don’t bullshit me.”
Kirishima’s mouth twitches. Like he knows exactly what he’s doing to him. He turns away again, and Bakugou feels it spark low and mean in his gut, a feral hunger baring its teeth
and stretching from its slumber.
Bakugou follows him into the kitchen without thinking, crowds him near the counter. He doesn’t touch him. Just stands close enough that Kirishima’s shoulders tense, spine straightening on instinct. They’re so close he can practically taste the expensive shampoo clinging to Kirishima’s hair.
“You just gonna stand there,” Bakugou says low, eyes dragging over him again, slow and unapologetic, “or you gonna tell me why you’re dressed like that?
Kirishima swallows, hands curling at his sides. “‘s nothing.”
Bakugou leans in. “You’re a bad liar.”
Kirishima finally looks him in the eye, chin tipped up, eyes bright and challenging. “You’re the one staring like you wanna eat me up.”
Bakugou exhales hard through his nose.
Yeah. That tracks.
He lifts a hand, hooking two fingers under the waistband, not pulling, just testing. Feeling Kirishima tense under it, hips tipping forward without thinking— and Bakugou notices.
Of course he does.
Mean satisfaction curls in his chest.
Bakugou’s hand slides to his hip, firm, possessive, not squeezing yet, just anchoring him there.
“Yeah,” Bakugou says quietly. “I really need to bend you over this counter, Red.”
Kirishima hesitates. That’s all it takes.
“You’ve got a lot of nerve,” Bakugou mutters. “Walking around my apartment like that.”
Kirishima’s cheeks flush. “You don’t own me.”
Bakugou grins. Sharpand feral. “Didn’t say I did.”
“You’re lucky I’ve got restraint,” he says quietly. “Because if I didn’t—”
Kirishima shivers.
Bakugou finally squeezes. Just once. Enough to make Kirishima gasp, enough to make his knees wobble.
He takes a step back, deliberately slow, eyes raking over him one last time, taking in the way the straps dip into his fleshy hips, the muscle, the way Kirishima’s breath won’t quite steady.
He turns and starts down the hall.
“Bedroom,” he throws over his shoulder.
Kirishima doesn’t move.
Bakugou stops, looks back with his eyebrow cocked, expression dark and amused. “That wasn’t a suggestion.”
A beat.
And then two.
Then Kirishima exhales and follows.
Bakugou lets him pass first. Watches him go. Lets the door close behind them.
The door locks with a soft click.
“You better start thinking about buying a new pair,” Bakugou says calmly.
Kirishima opens his mouth—
Bakugou steps forward.
His jockstrap wasn’t surviving this. That was kind of obvious.