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Just A Touch (Too Much)

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It was a rough fight. Strength enhancing quirks were fairly generic but such a damn pain to actually face. It was at times like this that Kirishima was fervently grateful Midoriya was on the heroes’ side: nursing a patch of raw skin, red and irritated where it had been broken away during the battle.

He hissed as he smeared ointment over it, nerves jumping beneath his own touch. His fingers trembled, eyes screwing shut as he heaved in a breath. Hold, count to five, and release. All he needed to do was slap a bandage over it and he’d be fine.

It was right as he was holding the gauze in place that his bedroom door slammed open. Kirishima jerked, fingers digging into his skin and making him gasp. Pain lanced through his arm like a burn. He groaned, his hand locked in a claw above his arm. Opening his eyes, he was unable to force his face into a proper smile as he turned to greet his roommate.

Bakugou’s face was pinched, brows knitted as he looks at Kirishima. “The fuck did you do?” He said, like an accusation.

“It’s fine,” Kirishima assured him, and, shit, Bakugou was closing the door behind him and inviting himself inside. He knew Bakugou well enough to see right through him: that closed off, aggressive set to his shoulders was just a way to hide the fact that he’s concerned. And it would be heartwarming, usually, because yeah he knew that Bakugou cared, but seeing it was always precious. Now, though, he could really use some alone time.

“Saw your fight,” Bakugou grunted at him, inviting himself onto Kirishima’s bed to sit beside him. Kirishima tried not to jump away. His skin erupted into tingling from proximity alone. “Villain looked pretty fucked up by the end of it.”

Even now, Kirishima couldn’t help the warm flutter of his heart. He smiled for real, the pain ebbing into a crawling buzz. “Thanks,” he said, turning his head to conceal the flush blooming across his cheeks. “He managed to get a good hit in, though. My fault, I should have gone unbreakable right at the start.”

Bakugou scoffed his agreement. His eyes were fixed on Kirishima’s hand, watching him clumsily pin the gauze to his arm while he began to wind the bandage around it. After a beat, he reached for it, going, “Alright, stop that, just let me —”


The shout took even Kirishima by surprise. Bakugou’s eyes were wide, his shock quickly flaring into indignation. “I mean —” Kirishima floundered, dropping the bandage in his frenzy. “ Shit. No. I’m sorry, it’s just, my quirk —” He winced. His voice was frantic, trembling and stumbling over his own words in his haste. He couldn’t think straight, not when Bakugou was leaning so damn close into his space, skin warming with a concentration in his belly.

“My quirk makes it sensitive,” he finally blurted, pointing to his wound. “So, if you touch it, it’s gonna hurt like hell, you know?”

And Bakugou, thank god, Bakugou got it. He’d always been smarter about quirk mechanics than Kirishima — he was smarter about most things, really. He nodded, and he eased back, and Kirishima no longer felt like he was going to spontaneously combust. A relieved sigh puffed out of him before he winced and whined all the way through securing the bandage around his arm.

It was a clumsy job, and he could see the critical glint in Bakugou’s eyes. “You should have just gone to Recovery Girl,” he said, a brow lifting. It was meant to be a question.

And Kirishima didn’t answer it, just grinned nervously and shrugged. Yeah, he was not answering that one. “Probably,” was all he said. “So. Um. I’m actually pretty tired, you know, so I’m gonna go to bed.” His eyes flickered, glancing away from Bakugou’s. Lie.

Bakugou frowned, leaned in, mouth open to speak. And Kirishima bolted upright, jerky and nervous, even that small movement making his breath catch in his throat. He was abruptly shaky all over, trembling where he stood. “So — so, goodnight, Bakugou!” The dismissal was clear. And he prayed that Bakugou would just accept it.

Instead, he rose, a trace of anger in his face. Kirishima tried to step back, only to clamp down on a breath when Bakugou seized his hand. Fuck. Heat bloomed over his face. He dropped his head, shuddering on his exhale.

“Hey.” And now there was a concerned edge to Bakugou’s tone. His voice was soft, a tone that normally made Kirishima blush for entirely different reasons. “Kirishima,” he said, reaching up to cup his face.

Kirishima’s eyelids fluttered shut, a moan dragging out of his chest. He pushed his cheek into Bakugou’s hand, his breaths short and hitching. Then he realized what he was doing.

Humiliation burned in his eyes as he opened them, ashamed, terrified to look at Bakugou. When he did, there was something new in Bakugou’s face. Startled, and enraptured. Kirishima wanted to yank away from him, but then a thumb was stroking over his skin. It seared, shuttered down his back and unfolded deep in his belly.

“You said you’re —” The pad of Bakugou’s thumb pushed over his lip. Kirishima’s mouth fell immediately open, panting through his nose. “... sensitive,” Bakugou finished.

An incoherent noise filled the room. It was his own voice, Kirishima realized, mangled because Bakugou was sliding his full palm over his jaw, down his neck. His head tipped back, unclear if he was trying to get away or just giving Bakugou more room to work with. A strangled groan escaped him, jaw working around the sound, “ B-Baku-go-ou —”

Then he was gasping. Bakugou’s hands were gone, and his skin felt so cold it was like a burn. Kirishima teetered, stepped back until his knees hit his mattress and he dropped onto the bed. Bakugou was staring at him, something like horror in his face.

Kirishima looked away, shame like bile in his throat. “Sorry,” he gulped out, “I’m sorry.”

A shudder ran over his body. He curled in on himself. Everything was hypersensitive, vulnerable and aching now that Bakugou had pulled away.

“No.” Bakugou’s voice was strained. His hands were held away from his body, stiff at his sides. “I — fucking hell, Kirishima, what is this?”

Kirishima only shook his head. He wanted to just wrap up in a ball and hide but even that would be too much to bear.

There was a gusty breath. Then, “What can I do?”

Kirishima looked up at him, a shine of — hope? Desperation? — in his face. What could he do?

Leave. Or touch him. He needed to be alone, but he wanted Bakugou over him, all around him, everywhere. Kirishima twitched. “I don’t know,” he whispered. Shook his head, slow. “I just. Wait until it’s over. I-It’s too much, I can’t touch myself —” and here he halted, wishing he could swallow his tongue, it sounded so lewd even it was meant exactly like that.

“But I can.”

He lifted his head, eyes glossy as he gazed at Bakugou. He’d gotten closer since Kirishima last looked at him, close enough that he could reach out and pull him close. “What d’you. Mean?” Words came out fragmented.

Another step closer. There was a lurching sensation, like Kirishima’s entire body was crying out. “You said your quirk makes you sensitive,” Bakugou surmised. “You can’t touch yourself, because it’s too much, right?”

Kirishima hesitated, and then nodded.

Bakugou’s jaw flexed before he said, “But I can. Will that make you stop… being like this?” He made a jerky gesture to Kirishima’s entirety, expression twisted.

“I don’t know,” Kirishima admitted, a crack in his voice.

Bakugou drew in a breath, held it for a moment before he spoke again. “Let me try.”

And while it was said like a command, his eyes searched Kirishima’s, waited for approval before he made a move. He maneuvered himself back onto the mattress, deeper on the bed than Kirishima sat. All the while, Kirishima felt paralyzed, frozen in place until Bakugou reached for him. “Come here,” he said, pulling Kirishima into his lap.

He sat with his back to Bakugou’s chest, the rub of skin on skin making him groan. Just that was too much. He wanted to pull away, trapped by Bakugou’s arm curling around his belly. It burned , his flesh crawling, heat pulsing in his groin. “Bakugou,” he gasped, clutching at his arm.

“Quiet,” Bakugou told him. His breath scorched the back of Kirishima’s neck.

His other hand slid up Kirishima’s stomach, his back arching the moment it reached his chest. Getting away or pushing into his grip, it was impossible to tell, but a cry ripped out of him as Bakugou’s hand squeezed over one pectoral.

Kirishima was held there, one arm pinning him, one hand roaming and groping over his skin. His pecs, his collar, his abs. Each touch left a trail of fire, muscles seizing beneath his touch. He squirmed against Bakugou, eyes squeezing shut and gasping.

“Oh, god,” he whimpered and tossed his head back against Bakugou’s shoulder. His body rose to stretch taught, bucking away before he went limp. Again and again, a constant cycle of too much and more. He was hard in his pants, already straining.

Bakugou’s hand crept back to his chest. His fingers found Kirishima’s nipple, pinching and tweaking it. The sound that came out of him was half of a sob, practically thrashing now. “Bakugou,” he babbled, “oh fuck, oh god, Bakugou , it’s — it’s —”

“I said quiet, Kirishima,” Bakugou murmured. His lips were against the side of his neck. There was the flick of a tongue, both of his hands now teasing Kirishima’s chest. Squeezing the muscle and then taking his nipples between his fingers, rolling the hardened buds until Kirishima was shaking, legs kicking out over the sheets. He slammed his head back against Bakugou’s shoulder, the pain barely registering as he cried out, pleasure smothering his entire body.

When he came back down, he was shuddering, weak, and his cock was somehow still aching. He hadn’t come. He’d orgasmed but he hadn’t come, and he only felt twice as desperate now.

“Bakugou,” he croaked, pawing at his hands that had gone still over his chest. “Don’t stop — I need — I need more.”

He felt Bakugou’s chest swell against his back. “ Shit,” he breathed. “Okay. Fucking hell, just — lay down.”

Kirishima could barely process the request, nodding distractedly and all but falling forward onto the mattress, knees planted beneath him. He buried his face in a pillow, breath heavy, waiting with equal parts anticipation and fear for Bakugou’s next touch.

“I meant on your back,” Bakugou mumbled. Even so, his fingers were brushing over Kirishima’s waistband, making his hips jolt. He fumbled with his buckle, pulling Kirishima’s belt loose before pulling his pants and underwear down together. Kirishima’s dick bobbed freely, an agonized moan muffled into the pillow. He could feel himself dripping .

Kirishima bent away from Bakugou’s first touches, pushing himself into the mattress and away from his palms. They dragged down his back, his eyes rolling and lids fluttering. A wet patch was spreading over the pillow as he panted, drooling into it.

Bakugou’s hand dipped beneath him. Fingers curled around his cock, and Kirishima immediately flinched away. “ No,” he cried, squirming away from Bakugou’s hands. “It hurts, no —”

“I’m not.” Bakugou’s voice was final. “Calm down, Kirishima. I won’t touch you there.” His hand buried in Kirishima’s hair, stroking, soothing, until his chest stopped heaving and his blood was no longer cold with panic.

Only then did he start again, working his hands back down Kirishima’s body. Caresses to make him twitch and quiver, first only the tips of his fingers until Kirishima arched up to press into his hands.

Fingers slid down, over his ass and between his cheeks. Kirishima whined, thighs trying to shift closed before Bakugou seized them, pushing them even wider than before. He was trembling, on display. He’d never felt more exposed in his life.

“Stop moving,” Bakugou grunted. His hands gripped and spread Kirishima’s ass. There was a shift in the dip of the mattress, a sudden heat puffing over his hole before he felt a slick muscle draw over it. Air rushed into his lungs.

It was Bakugou’s tongue, laving at him in long, wet strokes before it pushed at his rim. Kirishima clutched at his pillow, practically gurgling when Bakugou breached him. The nerves packed around his hole were alight, muscles clenching. Bakugou’s tongue flicked in and out, like he was fucking him with it, open-mouthed and messy to leave saliva rolling down his taint.

And Kirishima couldn’t stay still. He could barely take it. He clutched at his own hair, moans aching in his throat, teary-eyed. Bakugou pulled back and he sobbed, hips rocking to chase his mouth. The pleasure was almost unbearable but it was when Bakugou stopped that he felt like he was going to fall apart.

There was a sound in his ear. He was saying something, but Kirishima couldn’t hear, overwhelmed by how his skin was thrumming for even the barest touch.

A hand braced over his back, grounding, Kirishima pushing up against it with a whine. “ Kirishima,” Bakugou was saying. Dazed, Kisihima lifted himself up on trembling arms, looking over his shoulder. His eyes were hooded, foggy.

Bakugou stared back at him, lips parted. Then he blinked, exhaled, said, “You okay?”

Kirishima dropped back down. Too tired to stay upright, he just whined, canting his hips upwards and begging. There was the sound of a sharp breath. “Yeah,” Bakugou rumbled. The tone of his voice made his stomach twist, his cock pulse. “Do you have lube?”

He trembled at the thought, uncertain whether or not he could take that. It would be too much. It would be exactly what he needed. He would crumble, he’d break , he wouldn’t be able to take it.

But Bakugou was the one who decided, not Kirishima. So he dragged himself upwards, blearily reaching for his nightstand to pull the bottle out of its drawer. Just that was exhausting — the thought of turning around to hand it to Bakugou felt like an impossibility.  

In the end, he didn’t have to. Bakugou draped over his back, pushing a soft whine from Kirishima as he stole the bottle from his fingers. Hands gripped his hips, pulling him back towards Bakugou and letting Kirishima collapse gratefully down.

He couldn’t relax for long, the first brush of Bakugou’s slick fingers reigniting his nerves. His muscles wound tight, cheek against the sheets and jaw stretching open as two fingers pushed into him. He keened , shoulders hunching forward. Clenching down on the digits inside of him, he couldn’t escape the feeling of it. Bakugou spread him open, his muscles twitching around him as though to pull him deeper while desperate little sounds escaped Kirishima, unable to get the breath for anything more.

Another finger joined the others, Kirishima hunching forward and away but Bakugou holding him in place. He had to accept what was given to him, legs shaking, squirming on the fingers that pumped into him.

The moment they pushed over his prostate he was burning , Bakugou’s name strangled in his mouth. Kirishima thrashed, trying to get away, one hand reaching behind himself to seize Bakugou’s wrist. He didn’t stop, though, just kept stroking over it, fingers buried to the knuckle.  His free hand planted itself on Kirishima’s back to hold him down.

His cock was dribbling precum, twitching while Kirishima whimpered, eyes rolling upwards towards his fluttering lashes. Every rub of his fingers sent fresh sparks down his spine, electricity in every vein.

Bakugou kept him pinned, the coil of heat in his belly winding tighter and tighter until it felt it would just break. Kirishima’s voice rose into a single, desperate note as he clutched at his own hair, pulling at the roots, his orgasm rocking through his body. There was nothing but pleasure for only seconds, and then it left him limp, held up onto by Bakugou’s grip on his waist. His cock hung down, brushing the sheets, still flushed bright red and hard.

Bakugou’s fingers eased out of him, leaving him empty, sobbing. “ Bakugou,” he rattled out. Begging, needy for something he wouldn’t be able to endure. “Bakugou. Katsuki. Please.” But Bakugou wasn’t touching him.

He tried to push himself up, to look at Bakugou and plead for more, but he didn’t have the strength. He could only listen to the sound of material rustling, panting and shaking and murmuring his name, again and again.

Finally, blessedly, Bakugou’s hand was on his hip again. Kirishima went still, eyes flickering. Something nudged up against his hole, far larger than his fingers. His breath caught.

It registered just as Bakugou pushed into him. And Kirishima screamed, uncontained, stuffed full and barely able to comprehend it. He was seizing around Bakugou’s cock, only making it feel like that much more. Too much. Split open and half crazy, Kirishima couldn’t do anything but take it. He was clawing at the sheets. His forehead pushed down into them. Each thrust punched a cry from his lips, wet with saliva.

Bakugou folded over him, one arm curled around his belly as he fucked him. Their skin rubbed together, every nerve in Kirishima’s body on fire. He was going to lose his mind, unable to process how much he was feeling, the sheets beneath him and Bakugou over him, inside of him, filling him up to the brim.

There was a scream, and it was him, it was Kirishima howling for Bakugou. He dissolved into sobs, tears brimming over and pouring down his cheeks. “ Katsuki,” he wailed. “ Please, Katsuki, please, please, please!” His arms folded over his head, shaking as he cried.

He keened again when Bakugou took hold of his cock, incoherent, just thrashing beneath him as Bakugou stroked him without relent. It hurt , so much pressure building in him, he was going to burst, he was going to collapse in on himself. Kirishima screamed, and sobbed, and gasped. His hips jerked as it built, more and more and more.

His vision whited out. Heat pulsed over Bakugou’s fingers, his cum shooting in messy spurts. Kirishima shook through it all, jaw gaped in a cry but not a sound coming out. Gone, he was gone, there was nothing but Bakugou’s cock filling his insides and the pleasure that was ravaging his body. Then he collapsed, still quaking, brain full of static.

He was left half-conscious. Vaguely aware of sensation and movement but consumed by himself, his entire body ached. It was painful and yet he’d been satisfied at last, like his nerves had burned themselves out. Mostly, he was just tired.

Kirishima ebbed back slowly, awareness trickling into his brain. His eyelids fluttered, the first sound he made a groan. For a moment he thought he was still in bed, Bakugou’s chest a familiar presence against his back. Then he realized the water around them, warm and soothing. A bath.

He mumbled something that even he couldn’t make out, stretching. His skin jumped, still sensitive but not to an unbearable degree like before. Sleepy, Kirishima leaned back against Bakugou.

“You intelligent again?” Bakugou mumbled. His arms were wrapped around Kirishima’s belly, tightening.

“No,” Kirishima replied in a drowsy tone. “ Mmmmm. I feel sore. Sleepy.”

“Better?” A note, perhaps, of concern in there.

So much better.” Kirishima’s eyes fluttered. “I thought I was going to die a couple of times but. It was worth it. Thank you, Katsu — Bakugou.”

A weight settled atop his head. Bakugou had set his chin in Kirishima’s hair. “Just use my given name,” he muttered. “You were screaming it just minutes ago.”

Warmth bubbled up inside of Kirishima: happy, content. “Okay,” he agreed, letting his eyes drift shut. “Katsuki.” He settled in, aware and adoring of Bakugou, and of every point where they touched.