Archive of Our Own ^beta

Everything reached Hitoshi a moment too late.

He didn’t notice it right away. Not the lag, not the distance—just the sense that he was slightly out of step with the room, like he’d missed the cue and never quite caught up. Sound came through first, muffled and soft around the edges, followed by movement. Even his own thoughts felt delayed, arriving only after the moment had already passed.

People blurred together around him. A laugh broke out somewhere to his left and faded before he could place it. Someone brushed past close enough that he felt fabric skim his knee, the sensation lingering longer than it should have. The music pressed in muted waves, all bass and vibration, sinking into his chest rather than reaching his ears.

It took a while for the obvious thought to surface. He might have been drunk.

The idea drifted up slowly and lingered without urgency, the way facts sometimes did when they didn’t feel immediately useful. He thought vaguely about the third cup of something he hadn’t bothered to identify, the way it had gone down too easily. It had tasted almost like juice—sweet enough that he’d barely questioned it, even though some part of him knew better.

If he concentrated, he could probably piece together what it had been, but the thought scattered just as quickly as it came. All he really knew was that at some point his cup had been full, and now it wasn’t.

Shifting slightly against the couch, Hitoshi tested the weight of his body. Everything felt heavier than he was used to, his limbs sinking into the cushions and trailing after his thoughts, like they were waiting for instructions that never quite arrived.

Somewhere, he registered that it wasn’t a good sign but he couldn’t find it in himself to care. It wasn’t like he had anything urgent waiting for him—no early classes to rush to in the morning. No essays or projects looming either, no deadlines breathing down his neck.

With finals week over and the holidays settling in, his schedule had abruptly emptied out. He could, theoretically, stay right here on this couch for the rest of the night. And honestly, that didn’t seem like the worst idea.

A sluggish, more responsible thought surfaced and hovered at the edge of his mind. He’d come here with his friend. And if he wanted to end the night in his own bed instead of the floor—or worse—he should probably do something about how drunk he was. Water, maybe. Somewhere quieter. Make one responsible decision, if he could manage it.

And he acknowledged that thought, but only in the way one might note the weather without bothering to check the forecast. It didn’t spark any real urgency in him. Instead, his gaze drifted again, tracing the flashing red and green lights along the walls and the tinsel caught on every doorframe and stair rail, before snagging on someone near the kitchen.

At first, it was just movement—the shift of a body against a doorway. The way the lines of the person’s frame felt more solid than the rest of the room, defined muscle etched sharply against the wobbly walls and flickering lights.

Nothing more, nothing less. He didn’t immediately notice anything else beyond that—just the sense that his attention had settled there.

The person stood half in the doorway, one shoulder braced against the frame. His arms were crossed, tucked tight against his body, his head cast downward. From where Hitoshi sat, he couldn’t quite see his face—only a head of spiky hair and something thin and black, maybe glasses, perched on the bridge of his nose.

For reasons he couldn’t explain, his gaze narrowed on its own, searching for more.

He watched as the man lifted his head, turning it slightly—just enough for Hitoshi to catch the sharp line of his jaw and confirm that, yes, those were glasses sitting atop his nose. He glanced toward a girl Hitoshi wasn’t very familiar with, though he vaguely remembered seeing her earlier. Her vibrant pink hair was hard to forget, especially paired with the image of her dumping an entire bottle of Patrón into the punch bowl.

Huh.

Hitoshi glanced down, watching the last few drops slosh lazily around the bottom of his plastic cup. Well, that probably explained the floaty feeling clouding his head.

When his gaze lifted again, it was just in time to catch the corner of the man’s mouth twitching. Just barely—like he was wrestling the impulse before a hint of a smile slipped through anyway. Whatever the girl had said, it must’ve landed.

Strangely, there was an odd twist in Hitoshi’s gut at the sight of it—small and fleeting as the smile was. It shouldn’t have mattered; anyone could’ve smiled like that. And yet the sensation lingered a touch too long. He almost paused on it, almost wondered—but then the man’s mouth relaxed, the hint of a smile gone as quickly as it had appeared.

The room felt off by a degree after that. Not wrong, exactly—just misaligned, like something had shifted without fully announcing itself. But Hitoshi didn’t linger on it. Alcohol had a habit of inventing reactions where none were warranted.

The moment snapped back into place with a quiet shake of his head, just as the girl stepped closer—pushing herself up onto her toes and reaching out to pat the top of the man’s head, flattening a mess of spiky hair beneath her palm. Blond, maybe? Platinum, possibly. It was hard to tell under the dim lights, the color shifting every time the room flashed red or green. For a second, it even looked light brown.

It had a bit of an unreal quality to it—enough that Hitoshi found himself wondering if it was dyed. Up close, it would probably be easier to tell; the roots usually gave it away, darker at the scalp. Unless it was natural. Some things were just unfair like that.

With perhaps blond hair on his mind, his attention began to slide. His eyes traced the line where hair met skin—the way it spiked and refused to lie flat even after being messed with. He wondered what it would feel like; coarse or soft, stiff with product or just naturally unruly.

He got so lost in his own head that he completely forgot he was still staring, not even noticing the moment the man’s eyes left the girl’s body and began scanning the room, as if he were looking for something. It only became apparent when he felt the weight of a gaze settle on him—red eyes meeting purple.

For a moment, everything lost momentum. Yet his brain didn’t move, slow to follow as it scrambled to catch up. Pieces clicked into place one by one, until there was no way around it.

He had been caught staring. The realization settled in with an uncomfortable clarity. His stomach tightened, a hot flush spreading up his chest and across his neck. He could picture himself from the outside too easily—slumped, unfocused, and glossy-eyed. 

His body urged him to retreat, but red eyes pinned him in place. The longer it lasted, the hotter embarrassment burned under his skin—but the man was different. His expression never shifted. No flicker of confusion, no hint of amusement. Nothing at all. Just quiet, open attention.

It made his skin prickle.

Hitoshi dropped his gaze first, fixing it on the floor like it might offer cover, his heart thudding hard against his ribs. The couch suddenly felt too public all at once, like it had placed him on display. And with it, every sensation came rushing back—the music pounding too close, the lights too bright, the press of bodies around him nearly suffocating.

The feeling crawled over him like something skittering beneath his skin. He shifted on the couch, then shifted again, unable to find a position that didn’t feel wrong. Too exposed. Too aware. His limbs felt misplaced, his hands unsure of where to go, and his posture stiff.

He couldn’t even pinpoint why his skin felt so wrong. So what—he’d been caught staring at some guy. Big deal. It happened. It should’ve rolled right off him. But his brain seemed to disagree, light up with alarms loud enough to drown out coherent thought.

The earlier idea of lying down resurfaced with new urgency. Suddenly he needed fresh air. Water. Distance. He didn’t care which excuse he used, only that it gave him a reason to get up and put space between himself and whatever that look had done to him.

He leaned forward, setting his feet on the floor. The movement came far too quickly; the room tilted slightly to the left, and his head began to swim. He stayed like that for a second, breathing carefully, waiting for his balance to correct before pushing himself to his feet. Wobbling, he braced his hand against the armrest of the chair and steadied himself.

Slowly, he moved through the room, letting the crowd part and close behind him as shoulders brushed past and voices bled together. The crowd thinned in uneven patches—bodies giving way to space, then closing in again. He murmured a few automatic apologies as he went, not entirely sure who they were meant for.

The farther he went, the quieter it became. Although the music didn’t disappear so much as it retreated, seeping through walls and floors until it dulled into a low, persistent hum. Without it pressing so close, his own breathing grew louder in his ears. 

A hallway opened up ahead of him. Doors lined either side, all closed, all identical, and each one offering the same vague promise of quiet. He paused at the threshold, swaying slightly, and pressed his thumb into his palm until the sting cut through the fog just enough to steady him.

Reaching for the nearest door, he pushed it open. Light spilled in from the hallway, just enough to outline the space. It was simply put together, the way a hotel room might be—only the bare necessities, without a hint of personality in sight. No posters on the walls, no marks or shadows where something might’ve once hung. Not a single piece of clothing lay abandoned on the floor or slung over a chair. Everything was clean and untouched.

It was a room he could only describe as barely lived in—more borrowed than owned. Like a guest room. He hoped it was.

Relief loosened something tight in his chest as he stepped inside and shut the door behind him. He barely made it two steps into the dark before he stumbled, catching on something unseen. His arms flew out uselessly as he fell forward, collapsing onto the mattress with a breathless huff. The bed groaned quietly as he sprawled onto it.

For a moment, he stayed like that, letting his body sink as his breathing slowly evened out, waiting for the room to stop spinning. When it finally did, he rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling.

He couldn’t help but replay it, the moment looping back on itself as he lay there, imagining what might’ve happened if he’d just looked away sooner. If he’d dropped his gaze before it became obvious. If he’d blinked at the right second and let his attention drift the way it had with everything else that night.

The thought unraveled quietly, branching into small, unhelpful possibilities. Maybe if he had smiled, he wouldn’t have felt so bad? Awkward? There really wasn’t a word he could think of that seemed to describe the unpleasant pressure nagging at him.

And it was so dumb. Dumb in the way a kid felt dumb after getting caught with their hand in the cookie jar. Except he wasn’t a kid. He was twenty years old, for god’s sake—far too old to be spiraling like this over a glance. The logic of that should’ve been enough to shut it down. And yet, knowing that didn’t help.

His mind kept dragging up alternate versions. Ones where he didn’t lock up. Where he just nodded or looked away or did literally anything except freeze. He could’ve been talking to him right now instead of—

Wait. No. That wasn’t right.

His mind faltered there, circling the thought and worrying at it. Why would he even think that? He didn’t want to talk to the guy. There was no reason to—no imaginary thread pulling him toward a stranger across a crowded room. And he’d chosen that spot specifically to give himself a break from conversations he was running out of energy to keep up with.

Hadn’t he?

Hitoshi frowned faintly at the ceiling. Maybe he could’ve talked to him—but that didn’t mean he wanted to. Not exactly. It was more that he hadn’t hated the idea, which felt like an important distinction. Still, that didn’t mean the feeling was mutual. For all he knew, the guy had already written him off as some weirdo.

He winced at that, the sensation almost physically painful as he squeezed his eyes shut. Whatever. It didn’t matter. It was over. Just a stranger. He’d forget the face soon enough. And if he didn’t, well—he could always take the long way around campus.

Putting an end to that spiral, he let out a slow breath and forced the noise in his head to thin out. One by one, the what-ifs loosened their grip until there was nothing left to chase. Just the steady rise and fall of his chest and the faint hum of a rock song bleeding through the walls. And for a few blessed seconds, his mind was blank. 

But then the door began to creak open again.

Hitoshi’s breath caught. He didn’t move right away. Part of him hoped that if he stayed still enough, whoever it was might rethink it—close the door and leave him in the dark.

The door creaked wider.

“Oi, chickenshit,” a voice he didn’t recognize rasped out. A shadow fell over him, cutting off what little light there was.

Despite himself, Hitoshi flinched, shoulders tensing before he could stop them. He cracked one eye open, only for his pulse to jump hard enough to hurt when he caught sight of spiky hair and red eyes. Well. Fuck me, I guess.

A huff of breath followed. It sounded almost amused—though that might’ve been wishful thinking. “Do I know you?”

“…No?” Hitoshi muttered after a beat. It came out uncertain, not because he recognized the guy, but because he very clearly didn’t. He would’ve remembered a face like that. Some people blended into crowds. This one didn’t.

“Could’ve fooled me,” he replied, tone edged with sarcasm even as one eyebrow lifted in a way that suggested something else entirely. “You bolted like you owed me money.”

Heat rushed up his neck and spilled across his ears. Was that seriously what it looked like? He wasn’t running. Well—technically, he was—but not like that. It was more of a retreat, a reflexive pullback before the moment could turn into something he didn’t know how to handle. 

He wasn’t being a coward—not at all. He was just being logical. Yeah. Definitely that.

“It was just… awkward,” he mumbled, lifting a hand to scratch at his warm cheek. He wasn’t sure it was the right thing to say, but nothing else seemed to come to mind, and the silence was stretching in a way that made him want to fill it.

The guy scoffed. “You made it awkward. Now I’ve got fuckin’ Deku staring at me like I kicked his puppy.”

The confusion must’ve shown, because he clicked his tongue and corrected himself. “Izuku.”

Hitoshi almost fixated on the oddness of calling someone Deku of all things—latched onto the thought more as a distraction than genuine curiosity—but the name Izuku snapped a memory into place instantly. Midoriya. Of course. The one who’d invited him.

That made sense. Midoriya had that look about him—big eyes, soft expression, earnest to a fault. He could easily imagine him pulling a face like that. It was probably close to the one he’d started to make when Hitoshi had originally tried to decline the invite. Frat parties just weren’t really his thing, but Midoriya was difficult to say no to.

“Oh.” 

“Yeah, oh—like I was gonna jump your bones or somethin’,” he went on, sounding faintly offended by the idea. “Ain’t like I chased you.”

He absolutely did, though—not chase, but follow. He was here. In this room. Standing way too close. Hitoshi’s brain supplied unhelpfully, but he knew better than to say it out loud and swallowed it down.

Still, it couldn’t have looked that bad, right? There was no way. He was drunk, there was no way he’d moved fast enough for it to look dramatic. He just stood up too quickly and wandered off. Normal behavior.

And sure, he’d bumped into a few people, but who hadn’t? The place was packed like a can of sardines. It was basically a fire hazard. Anyone would’ve bounced off a few bodies trying to get through. Unless he was panic-slamming into people?

He grimaced. Nope. Not thinking about that. His self-esteem wouldn’t survive it.

“I didn’t—”

“Don’t care,” he interrupted, cutting him off before the excuse could fully form. “That’s not why I’m here.”

“It isn’t?” Hitoshi blurted, immediately wishing he hadn’t. It was supposed to stay a thought, but once it was out there, he realized he genuinely didn’t know what else this could be about. The guy had already started complaining—what more could there be?

The look he got in response made it seem like he’d asked something painfully stupid. Maybe he had. Still, Hitoshi waited.

“Do I look like someone who’d go out of his way just to get an apology?”

Hitoshi opened his mouth, hesitated, then shut it again. He didn’t know this guy nearly well enough to answer that correctly, and he doubted a sarcastic response was the one he wanted to hear. 

“Never mind—don’t answer that. Just—” He cut himself off, making a frustrated sound in his throat that only puzzled Hitoshi more. “Why were you staring at me?”

Hitoshi’s brain paused, gears grinding uselessly. That was the million-dollar question, but even he didn’t have a real answer. 

He tried searching for something concrete—anything he could point to—but it all slipped through his fingers. He would’ve liked to say it was because he stood out, but that wasn’t quite right. Not that he didn’t warrant a second look—he absolutely did. Honestly, Hitoshi wouldn’t have thought it was a stretch to compare him to a model. 

But he wasn’t alone in that. A lot of people at the party were attractive. Unfairly so. It had reached the point where Hitoshi was half-convinced getting into this place had more to do with looks than anything else.

Then what was it? Preference? Was he just more attractive to…him?

No?

No.

“Well?” he pressed.

“I—” Hitoshi stopped, swallowed, and tried again. “I was… trying to tell if your hair’s natural.” 

The words withered on the way out, shriveling into something small and unimpressive. He knew how it sounded—knew it was a half-truth at best—but ‘I don’t know’ would’ve sounded just as bad, if not worse.

“…Seriously?” he questioned. “That’s it? You bolt over that?”

His voice was a mix of disbelief and—if Hitoshi was hearing it right—annoyance. But that didn’t make sense. Annoyed about what? Him? 

Actually, that wasn’t impossible. Hitoshi could be annoying; it was practically a talent. But not like this. He hadn’t said anything sarcastic, hadn’t pushed or poked or tried to get a rise out of him. If anything, he’d been on his best behavior—awkward, sure, but careful. Earnest, even.

But maybe the hesitation itself was irritating. Maybe the confusion grated. He could accept that. 

Still, the tone didn’t quite fit. It wasn’t irritation as Hitoshi understood it. This had weight to it. Frustration, maybe? Or something closer to disappointment? The psych major in him bristled at the inconsistency. If the answer itself had been the problem, the reaction would’ve been simpler. Whatever he’d said had missed something—had failed to meet an expectation.

“Yes?” 

The guy paused, eyeing Hitoshi like he truly couldn’t believe what he was hearing. His expression shifted—tightening, then loosening again—before landing somewhere frustrated. He mumbled something under his breath that Hitoshi couldn’t quite catch and then took a step back as if he were about to leave.

And that should’ve been fine. The whole exchange had been nothing but a dizzy swing between confused and mortified—exactly the kind of thing he’d normally be relieved to see end. He should’ve welcomed the guy’s disappearance, boxed the whole interaction up, and shoved it into the back of his mind where it belonged.

But the instant he realized the space between them was widening, something in his stomach clenched painfully. Panic bloomed without warning, like he’d reached for a railing that wasn’t there. Whatever this was—a fragile, unnameable thing—had threatened to vanish before he could make sense of it.

“Wait—don’t,” he said, the words spilled out before he could think better of them.

The room tipped as he scrambled upright, mattress dipping under his knees. One hand shot forward and his fingers closed tightly around the guy's wrist. “I— I wanted to touch your hair.”

Oh. God.

The realization hit him a second too late, fully formed and merciless, I said that out loud. Heat flooded his face. He wanted to fold in on himself, to rewind time, to pretend this was some elaborate hallucination brought on by cheap alcohol and bad lighting. 

He was going to be replaying this moment on a loop for the next several days—minimum.

Except the guy didn’t walk away. Instead, he just stared at Hitoshi like he’d just announced he licked batteries for fun. Which, in hindsight, wasn’t exactly better—but he was still there, and that was what Hitoshi chose to focus on.

He watched as red eyes flicked down to where their arms were still connected, then lifted back to his face.

“Fine.” 

The sigh that followed sounded heavy, like it had been dragged up from somewhere deep. One corner of his mouth twitched—not into a smile exactly, but something crooked and reluctant. 

“Screw it,” he added, dropping down until they were eye level and leaning closer to the bed. His head dipped forward, until all Hitoshi could see was hair.

It took a second for him to register that he’d been given permission, but once it did, he acted. Carefully he lifted his hands and threaded his fingers through blond hair. It was softer than he expected, warm beneath his touch, his nails grazing lightly against pale skin at the scalp.

Up close, there was no mistaking it—no darker roots, no uneven fade. Definitely natural. But even after confirming it, he didn’t quite stop, fingertips lingering, tracing absent patterns.

“Are you done already?”

“I—yeah.” Hitoshi pulled his hands back, fingers retreating a little too slowly. His nails brushed over a sensitive patch of skin as he did.

The reaction was immediate. The blond shuddered, just barely, a sound slipping past his throat before he had a chance to stop it. It filled the quiet space between them. A low, breathy moan that sent a jolt straight through Hitoshi’s core, heat pooling low in his gut as he froze.

A second later, his hands were knocked away, the warmth of blond hair leaving his fingertips cold. Red eyes snapped up to meet his—wide for a split second.

“Watch your fucking hands,” he snapped, a little rough and too quick to carry much weight. It sounded more like a reflex than a warning, something blurted out to cover the heat crawling up his neck.

Hitoshi swallowed.

He was suddenly aware of just how little space there was between them. Close enough that he could make out every detail. Too many details, actually. The freckles he hadn’t noticed before, scattered faintly across his nose. The way his eyes looked brighter up close, rimmed just slightly red. Even his scowl felt intimate this close, stripped of its edge by something warm and human underneath. It was unfair—ridiculous, even—that someone could look like that while still glaring at him.

Something reckless stirred inside of him—an impulse sharp enough to make his fingers twitch. He could blame the alcohol later, or the closeness, or the belated understanding of the disappointment he’d glimpsed earlier. But for now all he knew was that backing off felt harder than it should have.

He leaned in a fraction at a time, every movement measured, like he was dealing with a wild animal. Their noses brushed, barely there, warm breath ghosting across his cheek.

“Please don’t bite me,” Hitoshi murmured, half a joke, half a plea.

He snorted, lips curling into a broad, unrestrained grin that was all teeth and heat. “Don’t tempt me.”

The words barely had time to register before warm lips were on his. Teeth knocked together with a sharp sting that pulled a startled hiss from Hitoshi’s throat, his lips parting on instinct more than intent. The blond took the opening immediately, tongue pressing in, claiming space with an urgency that left no room for hesitation. His tongue rolled around Hitoshi’s and filled his mouth with such raw, unfiltered hunger that it felt like he wanted to devour him whole.

His breathing fell apart almost instantly. His lungs burned as he tried to drag in air, but his mind refused to cooperate, slipping out of sync with his body. Thought dissolved into sensation. The world narrowed to heat and pressure and the dizzy awareness of being moved. His body being guided backward before he consciously decided to let it happen.

He pressed forward until one knee sank into the mattress, crowding into Hitoshi’s space. The closeness turned deliberate, used to pin and overwhelm, drawing a helpless sound from Hitoshi’s throat. Their mouths stayed fused in a messy, breathless kiss, only breaking when the need for air finally forced them apart.

They separated with a wet sound, a thin, glistening strand of saliva stretching between them before breaking. Hitoshi stared up at him, dazed, lungs heaving as if he’d surfaced from deep water. The blond hovered over him, red eyes dimming with something restless. His cheeks faintly flushed, and spikes of hair falling messily over his forehead.

“Fuck,” he breathed, tugging his glasses off. In their place, an angry red mark bloomed across the bridge of his nose. “What’s your name?”

“What?” Hitoshi choked, still trying to get his breathing under control, forcing himself to focus on the slow rise and fall of his chest.

“Name,” he repeated, folding up his glasses and setting them somewhere out of Hitoshi’s sight. He might’ve checked where they landed, but the moment his head shifted, the blond cupped his cheeks and pulled his focus right back. “Don’t tell me I kissed you stupid already, weirdo.”

His face burned, but he managed a shaky exhale that might have been a laugh. “Shinsou,” he answered, voice hoarse. “You?”

“Bakugou,” he grunted, his voice deep and frayed, like it had been scraped raw. “Use it.”

The command hit before Hitoshi could think about it. The rough edge in Bakugou’s voice stripped the words of any playfulness, turning them into something heavy and demanding. It pulled a breath from Hitoshi’s chest he hadn’t meant to give.

“Can’t promise anything,” Hitoshi whispered anyway, biting the inside of his cheek, the faint curve of his mouth betraying him as his eyes sparked.

“You little shit,” he growled, his thumbs brushing over Hitoshi’s cheekbone. “I guess I’ll just have to make you.”

He dipped his head again—but this time the kiss was slower. Unhurried. Teeth grazed Hitoshi’s lower lip before the sting was soothed by the warm slide of his tongue. His mouth traced along Hitoshi’s jaw, leaving open-mouthed kisses that turned sharp at the edges, nips scraping over faint stubble.

Trailing down the column of Hitoshi’s throat, Bakugou left ruined mosaics in his wake. His mouth lingered just long enough to bruise—lips pressing, sucking marks into skin until they bloomed warm and tender beneath him. Each one drew something soft and breathy out of him—sounds Hitoshi didn’t recognize as his own until they were already loose in the air. 

It was humiliating in a way that made his stomach twist, made heat pool low and urgent, made him want more even as a part of him shrank from how obvious it all was.

“God,” Bakugou groaned, voice rough against Hitoshi’s collarbone. “You sound good like this.”

His mouth worked there as if to prove it, sucking hard enough to steal a sharp breath. The skin beneath his lips flushed pink, tender and heated in the aftermath.

The words hit harder than the touch. They settled deep, somewhere behind Hitoshi’s ribs, sending a shiver through him that he couldn’t disguise. He tried to speak and failed, the attempt dissolving into a thin, needy sound he would deny making even under oath.

It scared him how fast it was happening.

How quickly he stopped thinking in full sentences. How badly he wanted Bakugou closer—wanted his attention, his hands, his mouth—wanted it with an intensity that made his chest ache. Like if Bakugou pulled away now, it would physically hurt.

It was unfair. Unbelievably so. That someone he’d known for less than an hour could reduce him to this in minutes.

He couldn’t let it stay one-sided.

With clumsy urgency, Hitoshi tugged at Bakugou’s hoodie, the fabric bunching under his fingers as he yanked him closer. Their mouths collided again, less controlled this time—his tongue slipping past Bakugou’s teeth, coaxing a muffled sound from him that sparked satisfaction low in Hitoshi’s gut. The taste of him flooded his senses—cool mint tangled with the sharp bite of alcohol.

His hands slid lower, finding the hem of the hoodie. Fingers slipped beneath the worn fabric until his palms flattened against the warm curve of Bakugou’s waist. The skin there was smooth, taut with muscle that shifted subtly under his touch as he explored upward, tracing the hard lines of ribs beneath heat-slick skin.

He pushed the hoodie up inch by inch, exposing more of Bakugou’s torso. His fingertips brushed over raised scars stretched across his chest, rough beneath the pads of his fingers. He paused there, tracing them lightly—thoughtlessly—before his thumbs drifted higher, grazing over sensitive peaks and circling them with teasing pressure.

The blond broke the kiss with a sharp inhale. His shoulders trembled as his hands fisted into Hitoshi’s shirt, nails digging in just enough to sting. He dropped his head to Hitoshi’s collarbone, hair brushing against his skin in feather-light touches and sweat beginning to darken his temples.

“Shit,” Bakugou hissed through gritted teeth, his chest rising and falling in ragged bursts. 

Hitoshi answered with a low hum, pressing a brief kiss to his cheek before bowing his head and latching onto one hardened nipple. He sucked gently at first—then harder—tongue flicking over it until Bakugou’s back arched. A hand threaded roughly into Hitoshi’s hair, tugging with intent that blurred the line between encouragement and demand.

He was close—Hitoshi could feel it. The blond’s thighs trembled, his voice breaking down into desperate, unguarded whimpers. But then he felt Bakugou’s hands slipping out of his hair and dropping down to the waistband of his jeans. His fingers hooked into the elastic of Hitoshi’s boxers and yanked them down with the jeans until the cool air brushed against his exposed shaft. The full length of it rigid and flushed a deep pink.

“Wait—” Hitoshi gasped, his mouth pulling away from Bakugou’s chest with a wet pop, but the words dissolved into a whine as Bakugou’s thumb traced over the sensitive head, smearing slick across it. While the other hand wrapped firmly around the base of Hitoshi’s shaft, calloused fingers formed a tight ring that squeezed just enough to make Hitoshi’s hips jerk upward.

“No,” Bakugou murmured, a faint, knowing smirk tugging at his mouth as his hand pumped slowly, stroking from root to tip. His free hand slid lower to cup Hitoshi’s balls, rolling them gently in his palm and tugging lightly in rhythm with his strokes.

Shuddering, Hitoshi leaned against Bakugou, the roles fully reversed as the rims of his eyes reddened and his breath came in heavy, labored gasps. His hips rutted uselessly against the blond, seeking more friction.

His body reacted faster than his thoughts could keep up, every nerve lighting up and screaming for more. He was too aware of himself—of the way he must look, the way he must sound—and yet the need drowned it out, pressing heavier and heavier until there was no room left for dignity.

“Faster,” he urged, the word melting into a broken moan as his thighs quivered uncontrollably. But the blond ignored him, keeping the same pace—if anything, it dragged.

The slowness was cruel. Deliberate. Every second stretched thin, pulling at him until his thoughts splintered and his breath came apart in soft, broken moans. Frustration tightened in his chest, sharp enough to sting behind his eyes. 

“Try again.”

Hitoshi shook, breath hitching as the last of his restraint gave way. “Please,” Hitoshi whined, the sound cracking as it left him and his body a taut bowstring ready to snap. Tears spilled freely now, hot tracks rushing down his flushed cheeks and his vision blurring. “Please—I can’t— I need—”

He didn’t finish. He couldn’t.

A hand came up, slow and grounding, fingers threading gently through his hair. The touch alone nearly broke him.

“That’s it,” Bakugou murmured, voice low and steady. “I’ve got you.”

The praise hit harder than anything else. It sank deep, spreading warmth through his chest until it ached. He hadn’t realized how starved he was for it—how badly he wanted it.

“Please,” he babbled, the word tumbling over itself, stacking and repeating as he clung closer, as if proximity alone might save him. “Please—please—”

Eventually, mercy came. Bakugou’s hand sped up, pumping with firm, relentless strokes that built the pressure to a feverish peak, friction burning hot until Hitoshi’s vision trembled. His hips stalled mid-thrust as a choked cry tore from his throat, cum spilling over Bakugou’s knuckles in hot, pulsing ropes. Stroking him through it, he milked every last drop until Hitoshi’s full weight slumped against him.

He stayed like that, panting unevenly as his eyes fluttered half-shut. So blissed-out he didn’t even flinch when Bakugou dragged his cum-covered hand across his shirt. A little grumble of “fucking disgusting” reached his ears.

His frame quivered faintly as he zeroed in on Bakugou’s hands. Later, he’d gather the will to be irritated over his beloved shirt ending up covered in cum—there were only so many galaxy cat shirts in the world after all—but for now, he just watched Bakugou shove one hand into the front pocket of his hoodie and fish out a condom.

It was almost embarrassing how long it took him to process what he was looking at—his eyes merely blinking on autopilot until the image finally clicked into place. 

“When did you—” Hitoshi started, rubbing at his red eyes, just in case he was seeing it wrong.

Bakugou rolled his eyes. “I didn’t come in here for you to touch my hair, dumbass.”

“Oh—you—” Hitoshi stammered, the pieces finally sliding together in his fog-soft brain like a plot twist he should’ve clocked chapters ago.

“Wanted to fuck you? Yeah, Einstein.” Bakugou huffed, one brow arching like the answer was painfully obvious. “You’re lucky your flat ass is cute.”

There were half a dozen sharp retorts ready on Hitoshi’s tongue, all primed with sarcasm, and he half-wanted to dive into a pointless argument over whether his ass was truly flat or not. Because one, that was rude as hell. And two, Bakugou didn’t get to lob an insult and cushion it with a compliment like that made it okay.

But for whatever reason, his mind snagged on ‘wanted,’ the past tense gnawing at him even as the blond lounged there, utterly at ease and clearly ready to keep going.

“…Past tense?” Hitoshi asked, softly.

Red eyes sparkled with amusement as Bakugou clicked his tongue. “Don’t nitpick my grammar. My time’s valuable. If I didn’t want to fuck you, I wouldn’t be here.”

Something warm loosened in Hitoshi’s chest as he let out a quiet, breathy laugh. “Guess I should make it worth your while.”

“Now you’re catching on.” Bakugou grinned, teeth flashing feral as he pressed a hand to Hitoshi’s shoulder and pushed. “Lay back.”

He went willingly, letting himself fall. But the moment his head hit the mattress, it suddenly occurred to him that he was probably bottoming tonight. The realization landed heavy in his gut, like cold water poured straight down his spine.

He’d never done this before, not once. And it wasn’t that he’d never thought about it. In theory, it had always seemed possible. Something he could handle. Maybe even enjoy. But theory was safe and distant, and reality was looming over him with red eyes and an expectation he hadn’t prepared for.

A dozen questions crashed in all at once. Wasn’t there supposed to be more to it than this? Some kind of prep he was supposed to do? And what if it hurt like hell—

No. It was going to hurt.

“Hey, what did we just talk about? Focus,” Bakugou snapped, his voice dragging him back to the present.

Hitoshi blinked. “I’m—thinking.”

“Figures,” he muttered, tugging his hoodie over his head and tossed it aside. The hood landed somewhere on the floor with a soft thud. “You think too much. Makes you stiff.”

Heat bloomed across Hitoshi’s face as his eyes betrayed him, flickering over Bakugou’s chest and taking in far too much detail. He swallowed, then cleared his throat, deliberately dragging his gaze away and fixing it somewhere safely neutral.

“You say that like it’s a character flaw.”

“It is,” Bakugou shot back. Then, softer—but no less direct—“Relax. I’m not gonna break you.”

Hitoshi swallowed, fingers curling faintly into the sheets beneath him as he tried to quiet the jittering energy coiled tight in his ribs. His nerves had nothing to latch onto except themselves, spiraling in small, unhelpful loops.

“I know,” he said, voice low and careful, like he was testing the words before committing to them. “I just… get in my head sometimes.”

“Then don’t,” Bakugou said plainly, like it was the easiest thing in the world. 

And maybe that was how it worked for Bakugou. Decide something, commit, move forward like there was no space for doubt to wedge itself in. Like nerves were just static he could tune out if he didn’t give them oxygen.

But Hitoshi wasn’t built that way. Thoughts didn’t shut off on command. They piled up, looping and branching, every possibility demanding to be examined before he stepped into it.

“It doesn’t work like that,” Hitoshi muttered, almost to himself.

“Look,” Bakugou said, quieter now. “You’re allowed to think. Just don’t let it talk you outta shit you already want. Specifically shit that’s gonna leave me with blue balls.”

Hitoshi couldn’t have said what it was exactly—whether it was the patient way Bakugou looked at him, or how his voice softened just enough to take the edge off. Maybe it was simply the absurdity of that last comment, catching him off guard.

Either way, it worked.

A quiet laugh slipped out of him, warm and unguarded, followed by a small smile he didn’t bother to hide. “Okay.”

Bakugou watched him for a beat, like he was checking something off internally. “Cool. We good?”

“Yeah.”

“Nice,” he said, reaching out to catch the hem of Hitoshi’s shirt, giving it a loose—almost absent—tug. Not enough to pull him anywhere, just enough to draw attention to it. “Now take this off. It’s in the way.”

Hitoshi nodded and complied, peeling the shirt over his head. The cool air kissed his bare skin, goosebumps rising along his arms as the fabric slid free and landed somewhere near the bed.

“This too,” Bakugou added, giving the already loosened jeans a firm tug.

He lifted his hips to help shimmy them down, his boxers sliding with them until the clothes were kicked off the edge of the bed. Now completely naked, sprawled out beneath Bakugou, Hitoshi swallowed hard, his body flushed and nerves singing with every shallow breath. Bakugou, meanwhile, remained partially clothed in his low-slung sweatpants, the waistband of dark green boxers just peeking out at the top.

“I think it’s your turn to lose some layers,” he said, propping himself up on his elbows and reaching for Bakugou but before he could tug the sweatpants down warm hands closed over his—firm, calloused palms pressing against Hitoshi’s knuckles, stopping him mid-motion.

“Hang on,” he mumbled, brow creasing like he’d just remembered something important.

Hitoshi held still, breathing shallow as he waited—not pressing for an explanation, just letting Bakugou work through whatever storm was brewing behind that brief hesitation. His hands stayed where they were, loose on Bakugou’s hips, thumbs tracing idle circles over warm skin. 

His mind wanted to wander—to chase every possible reason for the pause. Old habits tugged at him; his nerves itched to fill the silence with worst-case scenarios. But he reined it in. Bakugou wanted to be here; that much had been made abundantly clear. So whatever this was—this pause—it wasn’t doubt. Hitoshi focused on that instead and on the solid warmth beneath his hands.

After what felt like an eternity—though it was probably only seconds—Bakugou sucked his teeth in a sharp, frustrated exhale and released Hitoshi’s hands, jaw clenched and tense. “Go ahead.”

Hitoshi didn’t hesitate. He pulled at Bakugou’s sweatpants and boxers—peeling the soft fabric away from thick thighs and calves until it pooled at Bakugou’s knees, giving him the chance to simply shift his weight and wriggle free of them with an impatient flick.

His gaze dropped, taking in the sight of him. It paused there, lingering, as his eyes widened slightly, pupils dilating in a subtle shift. 

For half a second, his brain stalled—not in panic, not in revulsion, but in the quiet, startled way a wrong assumption corrects itself all at once.

Oh!

He couldn’t be faulted for it—he’d thought, based on the hard lines of Bakugou’s body, that there’d be a dick waiting for him. Instead, his breath caught at the soft, flushed folds of Bakugou’s pussy, glistening with slick arousal.

Bakugou didn’t miss it. His eyes narrowed immediately as he caught the shift in Hitoshi’s expression. “What, got a problem?” he bit out, voice rough and defensive.

“No,” Hitoshi replied quickly, shaking his head. He met Bakugou’s gaze head-on, willing him to see the truth in it.

He really had no problem with it. It didn’t change the fact that Bakugou was hot as hell, the kind of attractive that hit like a punch to the chest. Didn’t stop Hitoshi’s erection from throbbing insistently against his thigh, if anything hardening further at the sight, the visual of those flushed folds glistening under the dim light sending a fresh wave of want crashing through him, his mind already racing ahead to how it’d feel, taste, wrap around him.

But he didn’t look convinced, his eyes narrowing further into a scrutinizing glare, lips pressing into a thin line as he searched Hitoshi’s face for any sign of bullshit. 

“Seriously,” Hitoshi added, swallowing hard as he tried to explain, his thumbs resuming their gentle circles on Bakugou’s hips. “I was just… uh, relieved, actually.”

“Th’fuck?” Bakugou frowned, his expression twisting into genuine confusion, brows knitting together in a way that screamed for clarification. Hitoshi had the distinct feeling he needed to explain, and fast, before the blond’s imagination ran wild.

“No, I mean—” he rushed on, heat flooding his cheeks as he fumbled for the right words. “I just thought I was bottoming tonight. Like, for sure.”

Bakugou blinked, processing that, then slowly raked his gaze up and down Hitoshi’s frame, taking him in a way that made Hitoshi’s defenses bristle. “You?”

“What’s that face for? I could totally be a bottom,” Hitoshi shot back, even as a distant part of his brain noted the irony. He’d literally been stressing about this moments ago—and now that it wasn’t an issue, he was apparently ready to argue for it. A walking contradiction.

He snorted, crossing his arms over his chest and giving Hitoshi a look that made it painfully clear he thought this conversation was unnecessary. 

“And what about you even remotely says bottom?”

“I’m sorry?” Hitoshi said, his voice tipping into something playful as he raised an eyebrow. “Are you stereotyping me right now?”

“No, I’m making an observation.”

“Based on what?” Hitoshi asked, pausing just long enough to glance down at himself. “It’s my height, isn’t it?”

Bakugou tilted his head, exasperation written all over his face—even as the corners of his mouth twitched upward. “Are you seriously doing this right now? Your dick is literally inches from me.”

“I can multitask.”

That did it. Bakugou barked out a laugh—a deep, rumbling sound that shook his sides and nearly made him double over as he clutched at his stomach. “Shut up,” he wheezed.

“Make me,” Hitoshi goaded, propping himself up on his elbows.

“Brat,” Bakugou tsked, his voice a low rumble laced with amusement. 

“Why don’t you use that mouth for something more productive?” He leaned forward, his hand snaking behind Hitoshi’s head, fingers threading roughly into the lilac strands before tugging him closer.

Hitoshi's eyes flickered downward, heat pooling in his gaze as it settled on the slick invitation waiting below. A fresh wave of want twisted low in his gut, his shaft twitching against his thigh at the sight alone.

Well, he was nothing if not eager to please.

Sliding lower, he held Bakugou’s thighs and settled between them. His breath ghosted against the blond’s heat just before he buried his head and licked over the slick folds—drawing a low hiss from Bakugou as his fingers tightened in Hitoshi’s hair.

He took it slow, relishing in the way Bakugou’s body tensed above him. His thighs quivering as Hitoshi’s tongue delved deeper, tracing slick paths through velvety folds before his lips sealed around the swollen clit with a gentle, sucking pressure that pulled a ragged gasp from the blond’s throat.

“Fuck—yeah, like that,” he snarled. His hips jerked, grinding down onto the intrusion with a curse that sounded more like praise.

Hitoshi hummed against him, the low vibration pulsing through the sensitive flesh and sending fresh sparks of pleasure racing up Bakugou’s spine. He drew back slightly, his hand coming up to press a single digit inside—the warm, slick entrance yielding with a subtle give before the walls clamped down around his finger, gripping him in a hot, fluttering embrace and coated his knuckle in warm waves.

The grip was mesmerizing—the way his warm walls squeezed around him, seeming to draw him deeper with each subtle clench. Pulling him in with an almost magnetic allure that made Hitoshi’s pulse race and his mind haze with raw, unfiltered desire. It was to the point his erection throbbed painfully against his thigh, hard and leaking, the mental image of sinking into that heat practically had him drooling.

Adding a second finger, Hitoshi began to stretch him out as he curled them inward. The added girth parting the tight, velvety walls with a subtle burn that made Bakugou’s breath hitch sharply, his inner muscles fluttering and clenching in protest.

A broken “Shit—” escaped him as his hand yanked harder on Hitoshi’s hair. The sharp tug sent a bolt of pleasure through Hitoshi, his vision whiting out at the edges for a dizzying second that left him groaning into Bakugou’s heat.

“Don’t you dare stop,” he growled, voice cracking on the last word. Hitoshi didn’t—pumping his fingers faster, tongue working until Bakugou shattered, his body curling in on himself as waves of release rushed through him, slick flooding Hitoshi’s mouth.

He lapped Bakugou through it, gentler now, drawing out the aftershocks with soft, lazy strokes of his tongue until Bakugou’s breathing began to even out—ragged pants smoothing into deeper, steadier inhales. His grip eased in Hitoshi’s hair, the punishing tug softening into a loose, almost affectionate carding through lilac strands, nails scraping gently along his scalp.

“You good?” Hitoshi asked, pulling back slowly, his lips swollen and glistening with slick as a dazed grin tugged at his mouth.

“Peachy,” Bakugou breathed, staring down at Hitoshi, his pupils blown wide and glossy. “You?”

“’M fine,” he slurred, watching as the blond fully settled into his lap, straddling his waist with his knees bracketing Hitoshi’s hips. The condom from earlier making a reappearance as Bakugou ripped open the foil.

“Great,” he muttered as he reached down, wrapping a hand around Hitoshi’s length and rolling the condom on. His hand lingered there for a moment as his fingers trailed the full length of it, the touch feather-light yet searing, like a spark igniting dry tinder. 

Hitoshi shook, his breath snagging roughly in his chest as a faint whine escaped without warning. His body was hypersensitive from the relentless caresses, every nerve alight and raw. He almost worried he’d finish way too fast.

His hands crept up Bakugou’s sides—fingers pressing into the firm, sweat-damp muscle—and settled around his waist, gripping tighter as the blond positioned himself. The slick heat of Bakugou’s lips brushed against the head of his shaft, the teasing contact igniting a sharp reaction—his erection twitching hard as a bead of pre-cum welled at the tip.

“Bakugou,” Hitoshi whined, drawing out the name like a plea.

A quiet huff answered him, warm and almost amused. “Yeah. I hear you.”

The blond hovering close, this time taking pity on him and sinking down. Hitoshi had known it would feel good; he’d been anticipating it since the moment Bakugou straddled him but the thoughts paled in comparison to the real thing.

Velvet walls clenched inch by inch, stretching and pulling him in with a burning heat that made it hard to breathe. Bakugou hadn’t even taken his full length yet, and Hitoshi was already seeing stars—blinding bursts of white blurring his vision.

Gasping, his hands clamped harder on Bakugou’s hips, fingers bruising the skin as he fought the urge to thrust up, letting the blond control the pace. But the slow descent was torture and bliss intertwined, each subtle clench sending waves of pleasure crashing through him, his erection throbbing inside that perfect heat.

When Bakugou finally bottomed out, thighs flexing around him, the weight pinning him down, Hitoshi nearly released. His head fell back against the mattress, toes curling against the sheets.

His hands clamped harder on Bakugou’s waist, fingers digging into the muscle with enough force to leave faint red imprints as the blond rolled his hips experimentally, grinding down in a slow circle that dragged Hitoshi’s length against his inner walls. One hand slid down to grip Bakugou’s ass, squeezing the flesh there and matching Bakugou’s rhythm.

But he could only hold back for so long. Hitoshi’s thrusts began to fracture, his hips bucking up to meet each descent. His movements turned erratic with every snap, a frantic urgency coiling tight in his core as his release barreled toward him like a freight train. “Close—fuck, Bakugou, I’m—” The words splintered into a groan as Bakugou clenched harder.

“Yeah, I feel it.”

The blond dropped his head, dragging Hitoshi into a messy kiss—their lips crashing together in a clash of teeth and tongues. Saliva mingled with the salty taste of sweat as Bakugou swallowed Hitoshi’s moans. 

The sensation tipped him over the edge, Hitoshi’s hips stuttering upward as he came undone, pulsing deep inside with hot, relentless ropes that filled the condom. Bakugou followed right after him, his body locking up with a raw whimper, walls clenching rhythmically as slick gushed around Hitoshi’s shaft.

They collapsed together in the aftermath—Hitoshi remained buried deep for a long moment, his hips twitching through the last faint pulses of his orgasm. His eyes squeezed shut as he just breathed through it, ragged inhales filling his lungs as the thunderous sound of his heart pounding loud in his ears.

Eventually Bakugou exhaled—a slow, shaky sound that wasn’t quite a sigh—and lifted his hips. The slow drag of Hitoshi’s softening shaft slipping free, drawing hisses from them both.

He shifted to the side and collapsed half on top of Hitoshi, one leg still hooked over his, keeping them tangled in a sweaty knot. Neither spoke for a while. The room filled with their breathing and the distant, muffled thump of music.

Hitoshi turned his head first, pressing a soft kiss to Bakugou’s damp temple. Bakugou made a low, rumbling sound—half protest, half contentment—and burrowed deeper into the crook of Hitoshi’s shoulder like he belonged there.

He looked seconds from sleep, lashes heavy against flushed skin, eyes barely open. Hitoshi almost felt bad for disturbing him—but leaving him sticky and overheated wasn’t really an option, no matter how tempting it was to just curl around him and stay.

“Hey,” he murmured, gentle as he cleared his throat. “Is it okay if I… clean you up?”

Bakugou blinked.

Once.

Twice.

The question clearly had a long way to travel before it landed. His unfocused gaze drifted somewhere near Hitoshi’s collarbone, then his jaw, then finally—slowly—found his eyes again. The pause stretched just long enough that Hitoshi wondered if he’d already lost him.

Then Bakugou huffed, the sound loose and exhausted. “Mm… yeah. Whatever,” he muttered, words thick at the edges. “Do what you want.”

That was permission enough.

Hitoshi shifted closer, careful hands sliding beneath him—one arm bracing behind Bakugou’s back, the other hooking under his knees—before lifting him smoothly from the bed.

Bakugou yelped, more startled than upset, a sharp sound tearing out of him as his arms flew up and looped clumsily around Hitoshi’s neck. “The—fuck?” he slurred, blinking hard like the world had suddenly betrayed him. “Put me down. I can walk.”

Hitoshi laughed, the sound warm and unbothered as he adjusted his hold and padded toward the bathroom, steps steady despite the sudden weight and Bakugou’s half-hearted thrashing. 

“Sure you can,” he said, grinning down at him. “But you’re all loose and sleepy now. Be a shame not to take advantage.”

Bakugou mumbled something unintelligible against Hitoshi’s shoulder, his grip tightening for a second before he went lax again, melting into the hold as he let himself be carried.

The bathroom light was too bright at first. Hitoshi adjusted, flicking it down a notch before setting Bakugou on the counter with care. The porcelain was cool beneath him, and he shivered faintly, arms still looped around Hitoshi’s neck like he hadn’t quite realized he’d been put down yet.

“Cold,” Bakugou grumbled, more observation than complaint.

“I know,” Hitoshi murmured, already reaching for a towel. He draped it over Bakugou’s shoulders without thinking, thumbs pressing briefly at the base of his neck where tension still lingered. Bakugou made a low sound at that—something close to a hum—and leaned into it, forehead tipping forward until it rested against Hitoshi’s collarbone.

The sink turned on with a quiet rush. Water filled the room with white noise. Hitoshi wet a washcloth, wrung it out carefully, then paused.

“Too warm?” he asked, holding it against Bakugou’s wrist as a test.

Bakugou squinted down at it, processing. “M’fine,” he muttered. “You’re thinkin’ again.”

“Occupational hazard,” Hitoshi said softly, lips twitching.

He cleaned him slowly, mindful not to press too hard anywhere that might ache or sting. Hitoshi hadn’t left hickeys or bite marks behind, but the angry red scratches scattered across Bakugou’s skin made guilt curl faintly in his chest.

Bakugou stayed loose through it all, eyes half-lidded, posture slack. Once or twice he shifted closer without fully waking, like a cat tracking warmth in its sleep—shoulder nudging in, forehead brushing Hitoshi’s collarbone before settling there with a quiet huff.

Hitoshi adjusted around him automatically, one arm steady at his back, the other moving with gentle precision. It felt oddly grounding, this small task. 

“Ya know,” Bakugou muttered at some point, voice rough and drowsy, barely more than a vibration against Hitoshi’s chest, “you’re real domestic.”

Hitoshi paused for half a second, then snorted softly. “Is that weird?”

He cracked one eye open, considering him. “Nah. It’s good.”

“Good enough to keep me around?” Hitoshi joked.

Bakugou huffed, the sound vibrating against Hitoshi’s collarbone. “You already are.”

“What?”

“Keepin’ you,” Bakugou muttered, eyes sliding shut again as if the statement didn’t deserve further elaboration. “Didn’t stutter.”

No he did not.

Written by a human in Ellipsus.