Actions

Work Header

Pavlov's Dog

Work Text:

Parties are dumb. They are also the only way he can pretend to be normal and socialize with his old classmates outside of work—Bakugou loves being a Pro Hero, but even he needs a break from his obsession with the rankings. Said break happens two or three times a year, when Kirishima’s pleas manage to drag him out of their shared apartment and into some extra’s house.

Today’s party is hosted by Ponytail; he had to wait for Kirishima, who didn’t want the girls to trash talk his bleach-fried hair and used industrial quantities of conditioner, which apparently required time to set in.

Yaoyorozu banned the usual cheap sake in her mansion; maids keep replenishing flutes with champagne and expensive Western liquor. There’s even a live band playing some sappy movie soundtrack. Bakugou is bored out of his mind.

Kirishima left his side to talk with Kaminari a while ago. Bakugou sinks into the armchair and takes a sip of champagne. Some of the fools are dancing as well—how the fuck did they manage to rope Todoroki into that? The man’s getting soft.

Bakugou takes another sip of his drink and glares at Kirishima. Why the fuck is he still talking to that Pikachu knockoff? They’re giggling like schoolgirls. How much did he have to drink?

Not my problem. Hope he pukes on Dunce Face’s stupid shirt. Does he have to keep it open and look like a host?

Kirishima finishes his drink in one gulp. About fucking time. Are they going home?

Kaminari drapes his arm around Kirishima’s shoulders—or he tries, at least—and the two sneak out of the ballroom.

Ex-fucking-cuse me, Shitty Hair?

Bakugou stands up as well, and that seems to bring the extras’ attention on him.

“Don’t think I am done with you, I am not done—” Iida gestures for him to stop. Bakugou’s has gotten so good at zoning him out that he has no idea about the conversation the extras were having.

So he growls a “Leave me alone” that always does the trick.

Asui taps her lips with her finger. “Bakugou-kun, are you leaving so soon?”

“Just need to cool off.”

He stomps out of the ballroom and into a softly lit hallway, covered in fancy drapes. Where did the two go? He avoids the butler and finds a side door.

Outside, the crisp air makes his skin tingle. He can see the private parking grounds from here, and if he squints, two figures swaying between the cars in the dark.

It smells sweet—no wonder, there’s manicured bushes full of flowers everywhere.

Kirishima and Kaminari disappear into a car. What the fuck? Is Shitty Hair just going to leave him there?

His brows furrow and he takes the grass path to the parking area. He’s mad, but not mad enough to ruin Yaoyorozu’s garden.

The car does not start. What the fuck do they even need to say to each other?

He approaches their car very deliberately. If he was a villain, their drunk selves would be done for. Once he’s a few meters from the car, he sees Kirishima’s head hits the window of the backseat’s door. His bright red hair stays plastered on the glass.

That’s not your car, idiot

Bakugou can hear them laugh inside.

It stings. He hates it.

Maybe he should make one of the tires explode, just to see their reaction…

And then Kaminari’s fingers scrape against the glass to thread into Kirishima’s hair.

Bakugou might be inexperienced, but he’s not dumb.

He takes a few steps forward to hear them better. The two dumbasses get loud when they’re drunk.

“I was thinking of cutting it, I used half a bottle of conditioner to tame it earlier…”

“Don’t, man. Long hair looks so good on you!”

Kirishima does look good with longer hair, especially when he keeps it down; Kaminari is right—he has no right to be.

The ugly tug in Bakugo’s chest gets more intense.

Maybe he should just scare them off for real. Send an explosion blasting above then car’s roof and see them scramble out, screaming like little girls. He heh…

He readies his hand.

“Nngh…”

His plan is interrupted by a loud moan.

That’s Kirishima voice.

 

In a fight-or-flight situation, Bakugou is one to fight. Villains don’t stand a chance against Ground Zero. He will fight no matter how desperate the situation looks—he knows he will win.

In Yaoyorozu’s garden, next to Kaminari’s car, with Kirishima’s moan ringing in his ears, his fight-or-flight system gets stuck and he freezes.

Then he hears it again.

“Fuck, you’re already so hard, Ei… how long has it been?”

“Being hard is my thing, bro.”

Kirishima’s shitty answer makes his stomach do a flip. He’s a fucking idiot.

“Last time was…mmmh… with you, so do the math.”

Bakugou doesn’t want to be there. He shouldn’t be there. Doesn’t want to.

“That’s not healthy….”

They might see him.

He crouches, still frozen. He should leave.

I need to leave.

Kirishima has done this before. The realization hits Bakugou like a truck.

Why with Kaminari, why? How long have they kept this up?

He remembers to breathe.

“I want to suck yours, too.”

His face flushes. It’s the first time he hears Kirishima saying something like that.

It’s drunken and loud and it hurts.

Wrong, wrong! His body betrays him and he’s still there. He doesn’t want to.

“Do you have the condoms with you?” Kaminari’s voice is slurring. He hates it.

After some fumbling, wet sounds come out of the car. Sloppy and viscid. He feels like throwing up.

“Mind your teeth…”

Kirishima’s answer is a wet groan.

Bakugou can’t move. What roots him in place? Is it disgust? The ugly, expanding squeeze on his chest makes his cheeks flushed. His pants feel tighter on his crotch, and he hates that too.

Wrong.

He can’t process what’s happening. He can’t figure out an appropriate reaction, because that would mean facing them—and so he’s still frozen.

He shouldn’t get hard. He shouldn’t get hard, hearing Kirishima with Kaminari, because his mind is going to fill the gaps, and he doesn’t want that to happen.

“Hey… I got you hooked on this stuff, didn’t I?”

“Best purchase ever.”

The cryptic exchange drags Bakugou out of his shitty circle of disgust. What are they talking about? Is it drugs? Did Kaminari drug Shitty Hair? Should he actually do something?

A small voice inside of him, filled with resentment, tells him no.

“Hey, Denki… wanna top today?” Bakugou forgets how to breathe once again. “I actually prepared myself for once.”

He threads his fingers in the parking lot’s grass, to ground himself. He’s on his knees now, facing the car. His mouth feels dry. He swallows thickly.

“For real?”

When the car starts to move, following a jagged rhythm, Bakugou regains his senses.

Seething, pure, unadulterated rage makes him see red. How dare they. He’s going to rip the door from the shitty car and catch them in the act and—

Kirishima’s groan goes straight to his dick, and then Kaminari’s groan turns whatever is going on in his pants into receding disgust.

They don’t last long. Kaminari comes first, and helps Kirishima with a handjob. The grunt Shitty Taste in Men makes is a familiar one—Bakugou has heard it through the walls of their shared apartment, and even before that, when they were still attending UA.

“So, what did post-nut clarity bring you today?” Kirishima’s voice is languid. Bakugou can barely hear him.

“I just realized you’re like Pavlov’s dog, man.”

Kirishima sighs. Bakugo strains his ears to listen. Another cryptic exchange.

“I can’t come without.” He hates the bashfulness in Kirishima’s voice, because he can picture his face, his smile, those big eyes looking up at him.

“Forreal?”

What the hell are they talking about?

“Yeah. Even when I’m alone I need to open one and… smell it.”

He hears clothes rustle.

“Gross!” Kaminari’s tone is whiny. Fuck, Bakugou wants to obliterate the fucker.

“Expensive, you mean.”

They’re ready to leave, and he’s sitting next to the car, spying on them like a fucking psychopath. Still crouched, he beelines for the side path, grateful for the grass that soften his steps.

Once he’s behind a tall bush, Bakugou stands up and pats his pants. His boner is gone, and a plan is forming in his mind.

Kaminari leaves the car first, with an idiotic smile plastered on that oh-so-punchable face of his.

As soon as he steps in between the tall bushes that mark the entrance of the parking area, Bakugou grabs him by his shitty choker.

“Hey!!”

His palms crackle.

“One sound and you’re dead. Follow me.”

Kaminari squeals but does as ordered. Bakugou drags him away from the maid-infested hallway; he follows the outer wall of the mansion until he finds a poorly lit area.

Means nobody’s inside in this wing. Nobody can hear him beg for his life.

“Hey Bakubro, why—"

“Shut the fuck up.” He wipes his sweaty palms on his pants. “What the fuck did you do to Kirishima?”

“Oh...” Kaminari’s eyes widen. “Oh.” He looks around, panicked. “OH.”

“Stop yelling and answer me.”

“You mean right now? We… had sex.”

Bakugou can’t help curling his nose.

“How often?”

“I would tell you but it’s none of—”

He grabs the fucker’s choker and that does the trick.

“T-twice a month or something.”

“Why.”

“That doesn’t sound like a question—”

Bakugou presses his palm against Kaminari’s face.

“That’s something we do, all right? I’m pent up, he’s pent up, nothing wrong with some horizontal dancing to ease—eek!”

He doesn’t want to hear that. Interrogating Dunce Face is almost therapeutic—he feels angry and he relishes in the familiar feeling. “Are you drugging him?”

“What?”

“Are you forcing him to have sex with you?”

“What the fuck!” Kaminari has the guts to look offended. “As if I could do such a thing. No!”

“What the hell is he hooked on?”

Kaminari’s grows more tense.

“You heard that as well?”

“Yeah.” Bakugou grabs his choker again and squeezes his neck. “Now fucking answer me.”

“Scented condoms.”

“…you better tell me the truth right now—”

“Caramel scented condoms, all right!”

In a fight-or-flight situation, Bakugou is one to fight. He does not freeze. This time, when something indescribable coils around him and threatens to root him in place, again, he rebels. He fights.

He punches Kaminari straight in the face.

The fucker flies on the ground. Bakugou wants to punch him some more. “That! Fucking! Hurt!”

“Good.” His lips curve in his familiar, comforting manic smile.

“You wanna know why me?” yells Kaminari. “Because I’m not an emotionally constipated asshole—“ Bakugou kicks him “—who doesn’t want to see past his own fucking nose—” another kick, this time in the shin “—and realize that the man is in love with you!”

Bakugou stops.

“Why the fuck else would he only suck me off if he can taste the food-grade version of your sweat? It’s fucking gross.”

Bakugou looks around.

“Do you think I like being a replacement for you?”

Where’s the exit? He sees a tall iron gate in the distance. Perfect.

“See? See? That’s what I’m talking about!”

Bakugou shows him his crackling palms. “Speak one word to Kirishima about our little discussion and you’re dead.”

“Blah blah.”

Bakugou kicks him again for good measure. “I mean it.”

 

He hates it. He hates everything. He wants to blast off in the air, let loose, punch something, destroy, do something.

The ugly tug in his chest has a voice now, and Bakugou’s trying his best to ignore it.

He needs me. He wants me. Not him.

He should have stopped them. He should have taken Kirishima away instead of freezing like a little bitch. If he really was that drunk, they could have—

Stop it.

Mine.

No.

The walk to their shared apartment is pure torment. Kirishima is not there to welcome him. Of fucking course. Kaminari must have spilled the beans.

He wants to scream. Bakugou wants to bite and mark and never let go.

Instead, he slams the door of his room shut and pumps his erection, without taking two steps to lie on the bed.

It hurts—good, it should hurt. What kind of sick fuck masturbates to that?

 

He wakes up to the smell of burnt eggs.

He couldn’t sleep his rage away—it’s still there, quite like embers, ready to ignite. He puts on some loose jogging clothes, grabs the face mask he needs to keep some privacy when in civilian attire, and gets ready to head outside.

Kirishima is there, bare chested like usual, with scratch marks on his waist. Bakugo’s rage screams for blood, but he has a plan now. He allows his eyes to wander on Kirishima’s muscular body, admiring how glorious his back looks while the man opens a window to let the smoke go out of the kitchen.

“Hey!” Kirishima’s smile is toothy and shiny. It makes his palms crackle, so he hides them in his pockets.

“Morning.” He tries to stay neutral. “Don’t burn them all. I want breakfast when I come back.”

Bakugo’s stomach does a flip when Kirishima gets closer.

“Where are you going?”

“Out, for a jog.” He flees. He has a plan.

 

He can’t scream. He can’t destroy. All he can do is run like his life depends on it. Focus all of his energy in his muscles, wreck his breath until his eyes lose focus, and then stop.

He’s drenched in sweat. He’s used to the smell—he needs to dig his nose in his own palm to recognize the burnt sugar of nitroglycerin.  

A droplet runs down his temple.

Perfect.

 

When he goes back, Kirishima scrambles to the kitchen, just like a dog excited to see his master.

“Took you some time! Let me warm up your breakfast.”

Bakugou takes off his shoes, takes off his hoodie. The air is chilly on his sweaty skin. He approaches Kirishima, who’s reaching for the microwave, and he plants his hands on the counters, at his sides, trapping him between his arms.

Kirishima is taller, thicker, built of pure muscle mass—yet he jolts in surprise.

“Uhm… do you need anything?”

The sounds of the night before play again in Bakugo’s mind; resentment makes them hurt, and something else that he can’t describe. He hides his face in Kirishima’s back. It’s easier that way—he only needs to care about his voice.

“Stay like this.”

“Are you OK?” Kirishima’s voice is laced with concern.

“No.”

“Wanna talk about it?”

Dunce Face called Kirishima ‘Pavlov’s dog’. Bakugou’s hands test the truth behind the nickname: they move from the counter to Kirishima’s sides.

“Aw, do you need a hug?”

Bakugou’s hands move lower, on the tent in Kirishima’s pants.

“…hey now. What’s this?”

He is hard. For me. He wants me.

Bakugou presses his own growing erection on Kirishima’s heavenly ass.

“Are you—!”

“You’re mine.”

Kirishima is stronger, and Bakugou can’t really prevent him from turning around. The two face each other.

Kirishima’s cheeks are the same color of his hair, and his eyes sparkle with emotions. He’s so… shiny. Precious. Hesitant.

Bakugou should be mad. He is mad. Somehow, his anger is being appeased.

“What happened?” Kirishima’s voice is laced with concern, hesitation, and… desire. He touches Bakugou’s cheek, strokes him with his thumb, oh so tenderly.

“Nothing. But you’re mine. Wanted you to know.”

Kirishima smiles, for a split second, before hiding his face in Bakugou’s shoulder.

“You have a way with words.”

“You know what I mean.”

He wants to add ‘I want you to stop seeing Kaminari on the side’, but he’s not that dumb. He knows better.

Kirishima’s making the shoulder of his t-shirt wet. Is he so happy he’s crying?

Bakugou runs his fingers through bright red hair, messes it up to steal a giggle from the other man. When Kirishima shows his face, he’s wrecked; he’s so fucking pretty when he’s red faced and covered in tears and snot.

He leans in for a kiss, but Bakugou stops him.

“Not when you’re like this. ‘s gross.”

Kirishima laughs. He hugs him with the strength of a bear, and fuck, it’s what Bakugou wanted. His rage is gone, replaced by a quiet euphoria—quiet because it allows him to admire the wrinkles around Kirishima’s eyes, and how charming his smile is.

Fucking smitten, that’s what he is. Now he can admit it to himself—he has won.

Kirishima wraps his solid arms around Bakugou’s body and presses their bodies together.

“Mmh…” His smile is filled with mischief. “You don’t want to kiss me but you’re excited by this?”

Their erections are touching though the fabric of their pants.

“Don’t be an animal.” Bakugou grabs his butt and gives it an experimental squeeze. Fuck… “I ain’t fucking you until we’re three dates in.”

Kirishima’s face lights up like a tree on Christmas day.

“We’re going on dates?!”