Archive of Our Own

Call it inertia, call it a quarter-life crisis, but Eijirou had crossed Christopher Street three times.

It was simply the act of a body in motion staying in motion. Ignoring the time it took to loop Gay to Waverly and back again. But the problem was the movement. He was on lap three and his courage was dissolving fast. He kept pretending he was just looking for the right address. Squinting at street numbers and scanning brick facades like one of them might suddenly spell it out for him in neon.

He was flanked on all sides, no real means of escape if he was even searching for one. Denki hummed a song he must half-remember from a jukebox or a warehouse party. Then there’s Hanta, smoking a rolled cigarette that looked filled to the brim with cheap Virginia tobacco. And of course Mina, who attempted to lead the pack in wide easy strides.

“Mins,” Hanta said as if warning. He blew a breath of smoke toward the streetlight and watched as it got caught in the beam. “It’s this block.”

Mina snorted from her spot at the front, heels clicking sharp on the pavement. “It’s absolutely this block,” she agreed, her voice crisp. Accent sharpened to a point whenever men like him didn’t listen. “If we do another lap, Ei, I’m taking that hanky and shoving it up where you least expect it.”

Eijirou flushed to the tips of his ears as he reached back and touched the light-blue cotton square tucked into the right pocket of his Levi’s. He’d almost forgotten it was there. The fabric felt like a burning secret. Denki had all but forced it on him at the apartment, holding it out in a folded triangle like a soldier’s flag.

“This is the one,” Denki had said, grin so wide it could’ve split his face. “Right side. Listen, Eiji, you’re a giver. And don’t let anyone convince you you’re not. Big boys can make due too.”

“Jesus,” Eijirou had sputtered, taking the offered rag anyway. “That’s not—I’ve never—”

But his blush had been answer enough.

Now the hanky felt heavy with every step. The promise ring on his right hand was even heavier. The bandana brushed the curve of his ass and announced something he barely understood about himself as the ring caught the light in a dissonant balancing act. A scale tipping in the favor of the hypermasculine, whatever that means to him now. Because he isn’t certain it’s the life with a picket fence and a fiancée anymore.

He tugged at the edge of the hanky as they crossed back over to Waverly to wrap around another time. Mina, of course, noticed. “Don’t fidget,” she said as she swatted his ass lightly. “Makes you look green.”

“I am green,” he muttered.

“No,” Mina insisted, the word stretched out over three seconds. “You’re just… you’re yearning. And yearning looks good on you. You know what you want. Now all you gotta do is chase it.”

A year ago he’d been sorting shipments in a warehouse in Indiana, engaged to a woman who kissed him like it was her duty. They’d called off their engagement in a strip-mall parking lot. Then Eijirou packed a duffle, took the first job he could find in the greatest city in the world, and swore to himself he’d stop living like he was waiting for something to start.

So no, chasing it was never the problem. He could chase it until he was blue in the face. The problem, he’d realized, is that this was his third lap past the leather bar on Christopher and his friends were becoming privy to his panic.

Mina turned on her heel to face him. Her long black jacket swirled around her like a cape as her big gold hoops caught the streetlight. “Eijirou,” she said, planting a hand on his chest. “Just look at me.”

He did.

“You go in there tonight, you hear me? You go in because you want this. It’s the kind of place where a man can figure himself out. You deserve that.”

Eijirou took a deep breath, his eyes lingering across the street before meeting Mina’s again. “But you can’t even go in.”

Mina’s smile was soft and practiced. “You’re right. They don’t exactly like the likes of me in there. Brown transexuals don’t exactly… shake hands with leather daddies. But we’re cordial enough for me to walk you in. That’s not your burden, Eiji. I’m a big girl. I know where to have my fun,” she shrugs. “And I know where you can have yours.”

“After we make sure you’re settled,” Denki chimed in, throwing an arm around Mina’s shoulders. “We'll be haunting Julius’. Or you know, anywhere with a liquor license. Find us after last call and tell us everything.”

“I mean,” Hanta started, a hand buried deep in his pocket as he blew another billow of smoke. “You can spare us some of the details.”

“Nah,” Mina reached out, adjusting the oversized jean jacket covering Eijirou’s shoulders that she let him borrow. It still held the faintest scent of her perfume. He could feel the denim through the cut of his white cotton t-shirt tucked loosely into his jeans. “I wanna know if you get flogged or something.” 

She reached for his hair next, roughing him up a little before smoothing it back down. She combed a lock of red behind his pierced right ear and tugged lightly on the silver hoop there as if in punctuation. Her cataloguing was measured, dusting him off all the way down to his steel-toed boots. “They’ll love you,” she said. “You’re still a little underdressed, but hopefully they get the picture. You’re eager. You’re here. You’re ready to learn.”

“Or be skull-fucked so hard you pass out.” Denki said with a shrug. “Whichever comes first.”

“Or that,” Eijirou drew a breath so deep that his ribs began to ache. “Yeah. Sure.”

He crossed onto Christopher for the fourth and final time before they spotted it. The bar was unremarkable save for a small brass plaque beside the door. The windows were blacked and the brick facade was painted a matte navy. One dim red bulb burned over the entrance and painted the sidewalk in a rust-toned glow that made his pulse crawl up his arms.

It didn’t look friendly. It sure as hell didn’t look safe. But they were already dragging him across past the bouncer and over the threshold into a darkly lit vestibule. Just as black and navy as the exterior. One more door. He took in the low bass and the muffled hum of masculine voices beyond the thick walls. He almost thought about turning back until his past self came to mind. The life he left behind. The empty days. The dull ache of wanting something he couldn’t begin to understand.

What came to mind next was this… possibility. This first step and a catch-breath. The chance of going somewhere that might finally finally tell him who he was.

He closed his hand around the handle and pulled. 

Heat hit him first. A dense and humid wash of it overwhelmed him and his breath caught. The door thunked hard behind him and muted the street. Separating the four of them firmly from the outside world. What he felt now was—

Smoke.

Bodies.

Leather.

The air tasted lived-in like men had been sweating and drinking and fucking here for decades. The room held every drop of it. Eijirou had to blink to get his eyes to adjust to the low lighting. The bar was darker than he had anticipated. Shadow thick corners and patches of deep black where the gentle yellow glow of the bar had yet to reach. All he could catch in the riot of bodies was the occasional gleam of a zipper or shine of polished leather.

He took a tentative step forward.

The floor was sticky, but didn’t feel inherently dirty just… well used. Varnish warned down to nothing under years of boots. Someone brushed past him on their way out, shoulder heavy and jacket squawking with friction. The man didn’t apologize. Just nodded once in acknowledgement. Eijirou tried to nod back without looking too shocked.

Directly ahead stretched a long wooden bar, old and carved with initials and pocketknife scratches. Behind it there were shelves that held liquor bottles with peeling labels and one bright jar of lemons stacked atop each other like tennis balls. The bartender was a large man with a shaved head and a tight leather top that exposed the tops of his bulging hairy chest. He polished a glass with one thick hand. He looked up like he could sense the change in air pressure. Like he knew the smell of new blood.

He was the first to offer Eijirou a polite smile.

Men sat shoulder to shoulder along the bar, some talking low and nursing longneck beers. Others watching the room. Their jackets all looked heavier than his. Boots looked shinier too. Their confidence was so palpable that Eijirou could feel it in the pulse of his throat.

To the left there was a wall plastered with flyers. Gay Liberation March. Live at CBGB. An ad for a fellow Christopher Street establishment, an erotic shop in 111. Another in 84. Another still by West 4th. All of them had corners curling in from the humidity of bodies and were stained a subtle brown from airborne cigarette tar.

A jukebox thrummed to his right that cycled through slow bass heavy soul tracks. A man in chaps smacked its side until the next song kicked in. Something by Patti Smith. A group of men stood sentinel by the pool table, cues like walking sticks as one after another bent over the flat. The green felt was worn along the edges and torn slightly near the side pocket. A row of leather jackets hung along booth backs and high tops, claiming the spaces.

In what looked to be the back, he glimpsed a narrow hallway that was swallowed by shadow. A sign above it read PRIVATE in all caps, though the paint was chipped to the point that the P was almost non-existent. He could almost hear the low groan and thumps and laughter through the hallway. Eijirou looked away quickly, heat rising up his face

His pulse began to beat heavily against his throat as he continued his assessment. Men were everywhere. Men who seemed molded for this dimness. They were almost all bearded or mustachioed. Hard-edged and confident. Their glances lingered in ways that made his skin prickle. It wasn’t predatory, not exactly. More like a hunger shining through their veneers.

They wanted to eat him alive.

In Indiana the bars were divey and loud and bright with cheap beer and even cheaper brown liquors. Guys talked about tractors or high school or football or yard work. Even the few times he dug deep for men like him, even when he was flirted with, rare and clumsily, it felt like a guessing game in the dark. 

But here?

Here everything was lit from within. Men leaned into each other’s spaces like desire was a mother tongue.

His hands itched and his skin buzzed. His ears rang with the noise of the room. He felt too big for his body all of a sudden. Like he’d stumbled into a country where he didn’t speak the language yet he desperately wanted to.

He realized he’d been standing in the doorway too long, blocking the heat and the flow, when a man behind him cleared his throat pointedly. Eijirou cursed under his breath and stepped forward, an apology already on his tongue before he forced himself to swallow it down. Men, the likes of him, were meant to take up space on purpose. They were meant to belong. He was meant to belong here.

Right?

“Jesus fucking Christ, Ei,” Denki said, slipping in beside him. “If your shoulders creep any higher you’re gonna choke yourself out.”

He’d almost forgotten the others were there with him. Denki didn’t match the atmosphere of the place. He was light and bright and full of a shamelessness that cut through all the smoke. He stuck out here like a yellow canary in a murder of crows. He belonged in a midtown disco, not someplace like this.

Eijirou began to worry if he’d be associated with his friends. Or if he too looked so violently out of place that he may be kicked.

Hanta appeared on his right before the thought had the chance to spiral out further. “Man, I kind of forgot how intense this place is,” he said before nudging Eijirou gently. “You good?”

Eijirou nodded almost too quickly. “Yeah,” he agreed. “Yeah. Fine. Just… taking it all in.”

Denki waved a hand at the room like he was cutting through the haze. “Think about it this way, all of ‘em are friends of Dorothy. It’s just that your Oz is a sex club in the Village.”

Hanta and Eijirou cracked twin smiles, but Eijirou’s dropped just as quickly. That was the kind of comment he expected input from Mina on, but she was nowhere to be found. He did a quick lap with his eyes, scanning the room for a second, then two, before she emerged from the vestibule, eyes frustrated and mouth in a thin line. She looked like something conjured under the red lights.

“That was… excessive,” Mina said flatly, voice low as she dusts herself off. “I’ve got about thirty seconds before they kick my ass out again. They clocked me the second I walked behind you guys, but I smiled real nice and batted my eyes and promised him I’m just in here to see my boy off.”

“That’s no fair,” Hanta said. “You always smile real nice.”

Mina threw him a wink. “You know how to sweet talk a girl,” she crossed the last few steps to be by Eijirou’s side and nudged in closer. “You sure you’re gonna be okay?”

“I think so,” he said. “I mean—yeah. Yeah. Definitely.”

“Okay. You better,” she said as she brushed his collar with the backs of her knuckles. “This is your night. I’m serious. That fucking ache you keep carrying around is gonna eat you alive, Ei. You better do something about it.”

He opened his mouth to say something but she had already begun to pull away. Throwing a smile back to the bouncer who had made his way inside and was making the final few strides directly for her. He looked out of place too. Too formal in his build. This muscle was hired, or worse, he was part of the family that owned the club. Keeping an eye on things to make sure they had no other choice.

“Miss,” he said, tone barely polite.

“I know,” Mina said with a sigh as she held her hands up in defense. “I’m not here to cruise or work. I’m just escorting my boy to the door. That a crime?”

Eijirou’s throat tightened as he moved to be in front of her, to protect her, but Denki’s hand was already on his arm.

 Mina turned back to them, plastering a bitter smile on her face. “Don’t worry about me,” she said. “Go do something filthy.”

Eijirou made a sound at the back of his throat before speaking. “I don’t like that you can’t be in here.”

Mina raised an eyebrow. “And I don’t like the patriarchy or taxes,” she shrugged. “What’s there to do about it?”

“I could leave—”

“You won’t,” she said. “And you shouldn’t.”

Eijirou opened his mouth to say more. To defend her. But Hanta spoke up before he had the chance. “In a few minutes they'll probably kick us out too.”

He turned toward him. “What?”

Hanta shrugged as if it was nothing. “A bar like this? They barely tolerate us. This isn’t my scene. Not my people. You and me both know that. Give it twenty minutes and the wrong guy gets the wrong look and suddenly they’re asking us to leave for breathing too loud or messing with the masculine flow.”

Denki looked unbothered by this. “I’d haunt a barstool as long as they let me. But I’ve had more fun being kicked out of better places.”

“That’s not the point,” Eijirou said as tension spikes in his chest. “I don’t want you guys to—”

“To what?” Hanta said, voice almost teasing. “To remind you that there is no perfect bar down here? You’re not gonna fix it tonight. You can either let it stop you, or stay long enough to get what you came for.”

“I didn’t—” Eijirou starts. He means to say come for anything. But they all know that isn’t true.

Mina stepped in close then, getting a gentle manicured hand on his shoulder. “I’ll see you after last call,” she said. “You’ll owe me a story.”

And then she was gone.

Eijirou stood frozen for a second, guilt rolling through his stomach. He hated how the bar could draw such a stark line between inclusion and rejection. Hated that his own curiosity and need and loneliness would drive him somewhere where his friends couldn’t follow.

Denki’s voice was light when he spoke up. “You belong here, man. Even if you don’t feel like it yet.”

“I don’t even know what I’m supposed to feel.”

Eijirou wanted to argue. Wanted to say he wasn’t ready. That he didn’t know enough. That this Wonderland wasn’t for him. Not yet. Mina was right. He was green. He wasn’t the type of guy who turned a blind eye to the people he loved just to get his rocks off in a room full of strangers. But the words tangled somewhere behind his teeth as Hanta looked up, his expression shifting into something unknowable.

“Ooh, don’t look too fast,” Hanta murmured, eyes flicking towards the far end of the bar. “But I think I just found your north star.”

Eijirou didn’t know what that meant until he shifted his gaze just a fraction. Suddenly, everything else in the room, every man, every hum of conversation, fell away like someone had dropped a curtain.

He noticed the man at the end of the bar in little neat pieces as he sat under a dim half burnt out bronze sconce. There was a cigarette between two fingers. The other hand busy curling possessively over the top of a lowball glass with something amber in it. Bourbon, probably. Eijirou felt something tighten low in his stomach at the sight.

He was wearing a black leather jacket, heavy, thick at the seams. It was softened at the collar by use. His shoulders were broad. A working man’s body. And under the jacket was a black ribbed tank, stretched across a chest that looked sturdy even in stillness. He wasn’t posing, but it wasn’t like he needed to. His hair was a bright unforgiving blond beneath a black leather muir cap, a halo that felt at odds with the old scowl he wore like it was a habit. His jaw was square and set firm and his eyes were watchful. He assessed the room in slow sweeps like he was judge, jury, and executioner.

It wasn’t just that he was beautiful. The man was… handsome, sure, but that wasn’t what hit Eijirou. There was this invasive gravity that surrounded him. He seemed almost older than  the bar itself by wear alone. Like he’d lived entire lifetimes in the cracks of these brick walls. Like the air had to form itself around him.

Eijirou couldn’t look away.

His eyes darted down to his backside where a neat little black hanky square sat.

Left side.

Now, Eijirou didn’t know every code yet. What he knew came from Denki’s all inclusive rundown on the train ride here. But he knew enough. Top. A commanding one. Into the heavier things. He watched as the man exhaled a lazy and slow breath, a line of smoke rose and dissolved like a whisper. Eijirou’s breath hitched without his permission. Something deep and animal in him responded. Something lonely. Something hungry. Something he’d been afraid to put a name to.

The big bald bartender leaned in toward the blond man, saying something only he could hear. There was a lighting at the corners of his mouth, a gentle tug into a smirk. Something like amusement. The bartender slapped a coaster in front of him with theatrical exaggeration and the blond responded with a small nod, barely an inch of movement, but the bartender grinned and wandered off like he’d just won an argument.

Eijirou’s chest tightened. It almost looked like they were flirting in a way. Not overtly like men in discos, but in a shorthand forged from familiarity and repressed smiles. It was the kind of interaction that showed that the blond came here often. That he was known to the crowd. He had roots in this dim, humid, secret space. Eijirou felt a pang of envy at the thought. Someone so comfortably a part of a world that still felt labyrinthian to him.

He didn’t even realize he’d been staring until Denki whispered a quick “Don’t drool, Ei. These guys are into that sorta thing.”

Eijirou jerked slightly, a hand shooting up to impulsively wipe at his mouth. “Was I—”

“Nah,” Denki laughed. “But it was a close thing.”

Eijirou’s gaze was magnetized to the bar now. This man was lifting a glass to his lips, the movement almost meditative. He had a black ring with a brassy band on his left middle finger.  His fingers were square and strong, callused. The kind of hands that Eijirou was drawn to without knowing why.

A man’s hands.

“Do you know his deal?” Eijirou asked, voice barely audible over the hum of the jukebox.

Denki snorted. “I think he’ll only bite if you ask nicely,” He slid in closer enough for his elbow to brush Eijirou’s arm. His voice was a hushed blend of amusement and provocation like he was set to dare him. “You are asking nicely, aren’t you, Eiji?”

Eijirou startled, suddenly on the defensive. No. No he wasn’t like that. He wasn’t like this at all. He wasn’t meant to be here. This culture. This space. This body. Denki seemed to notice his panic. “Hey,” he warned, holding up both palms open. “No ones saying you have to go throw yourself at him. I’m just saying you’ll like you better if you stop trying to be someone he wouldn’t notice.”

It felt like something tectonic began to shift at that. Denki’s words landed in a tender spot. He didn’t like himself much at all these days. He’d had become slippery and vague when there was no anchor to hold onto. Yes, he fled. And yes, he was learning. He left his fiancée, his life, for a reason. The life he was supposed to build had cracked wide open. There had been no apology big enough to explain to her the feeling of waking up every morning and suffocating in his own skin. No good way to say he despised white picket fences and Sunday sermons. Despised the idea of being her husband. He loved her in his own way, but he’d never really figured out who he was. So he packed up what he had and ran.

And now he was here, in a bar on Christopher. A light blue flagging out the right side of him. An earring he didn’t have yesterday. And across the room there was a man who looked like everything he’d ever been too scared to want.

So maybe Denki was right. Maybe this could be the start of something different. Maybe it didn’t need to be clean, or forever. Maybe it just needed to be real. Maybe it just needed to be tonight.

He looked down at his palms, then back up at the bar. “You two can go now.”

Hanta and Denki shared a knowing look, both of them damn near giddy with it like they were watching someone jump from the nest. Hanta bumped Eijirou’s shoulder once before pulling back.

“We’ll be at Julius’,” Denki said. “You owe me a cigarette and a very scandalizing story.”

“Maybe two,” Hanta added, already on the move.

Eijirou nodded, though he couldn’t quite smile. He was still on edge, pulled taut. But something was shifting loose in his chest. “See you.”

They disappeared through the doors quickly, leaving Eijirou to keep his eyes glued to the bar. The man hadn’t made any grand movements so far, still glued to his seat, still nursing his drink. Eijirou’s feet moved before his brain could catch up. His body wasn’t willing to risk losing sight of him. The seat beside the blond was miraculously unoccupied. It sat there like a challenge to ruin his whole life.

So, he took it.

The leather stool was cracked and warm under him. He adjusted in it once, then folded his arms over the bar as he resisted the urge to look. He could feel the heat of the man beside him like it was radiating directly into the side of his neck. He could hear him and the bartender talking in low tones. Words just out of reach. There was a chuckle. Another sip. The clink of glass on wood.

Then both of them looked at him sidelong. Not entirely hostile. But not inherently welcoming either.

Eijirou could’ve bolted right there.

The bartender came his way next. He was even bigger up close. Thick-necked and suddenly stone-faced with an earring glittering in one lobe and a gaze like a spotlight. He didn’t say any pleasantries, just tilted his chin with a quick, “What’ll it be?”

Eijirou’s voice caught for a second before he found it. “Schlitz. Cold as you got it.”

The bartender nodded once before disappearing. Leaving Eijirou alone with his pulse and his desperation and the slow sinking realization that he had no idea what he was going to say next.

But he couldn't not look at him.

The bartender returned almost too quickly, beer bottle in hand as he set it heavily onto the counter in front of him.

Unopened.

That threw him a little. He glanced up, mouth parting as if to say Hey could you—but before he could finish the thought, a hand reached across the narrow distance between them. A callused, square fingered hand with a black ring glinting on the middle knuckle.

The man beside him hooked the cap of Eijirou’s bottle with the lip of his ring and popped it clean off. The cap fell in tiny rotations on the bar before stilling.

Eijirou’s throat bobbed. “Thanks.”

The man didn’t answer right away. He took a slow sip of his own drink then rested his elbow against the edge of the bar, head tilting like a question. “You could’ve done it yourself,” he said. “With that dainty little thing on your hand.”

Eijirou’s eyes snapped down to the promise ring on his right hand. It wasn’t… not dainty. A thin silver band. He felt like he was freezing. His mouth opened, then closed just as fast. When he finally spoke, it came out a little too honest and much too fast. “Yeah it’s… from someone. From before. My fiancée, actually. Or—ex. Ex fiancée. I used to—I mean, I was gonna—” he stopped. Tried again. “It’s old. I should’ve taken it off by now, probably. I just… I just haven’t figured out what it means anymore.”

The man didn’t blink. Just let the silence hang until Eijirou’s cheeks went red and his ears started to burn. Then very casually, he leaned back in his chair. His gaze drifted low to his ass in the seat.

No, wait, he was looking at his back pocket. At the pale blue cotton sticking out of the right side of his Levi’s.

Eijirou felt the weight of the gaze like a boot pressing down on the small of his back.

When the man looked up again, something in his expression had changed. Not disappointment exactly, but something had… shifted. Like he’d seen the puzzle piece may not quite fit but he was more than willing to finish the picture none the less.

Eijirou opened his mouth to try again, to explain himself better, to say something that made him sound less like a kid who’d wandered off into a bar wearing his dad’s boots asking for juice. But then, the man lifted a hand and cut him off before he could stumble through another sentence. “Name?” he said, voice low and firm.

Eijirou blinked. “Uh—Kirishima. Eijirou. Sorry. Uh… yours?”

The man’s smile then was a sharp thing. “I’d say you’re pretty enough to call me Sir,” he said. “But for now I’ll let you call me Bakugou. How’s that sound?”

Something in Eijirou’s chest caved in. A small internal collapse around the edges. Like someone—Like Bakugou—had knocked the air out of his lungs.

“Bakugou,” he said, slow around the shape of it. “Okay.”

Bakugou hummed his approval, eyes examining the line of Eijirou’s frame. “You always this polite, Eijirou?”

The shape of his name on Bakugou’s tongue is so… different. So clipped. Precise. Eijirou nearly spit up into his beer bottle, covered only by the clearing of his throat. He took a long swig instead, the bottle sweating in response. “I try to be.”

“Trying’s cute,” Bakugou said. His eyes drawing a long intentional line down back to the hanky in his back pocket. “But maybe don’t come in here flaggin’ cocksucker and expect politeness to get you too far.”

Eijirou felt heat run down his body at the acknowledgment. He suddenly felt sick with it. Entirely overwhelmed. He couldn’t even deny his knowledge about that one. The truth sat at the back of his tongue. That a friend of his picked it for him. That it was a good start. But even that honesty didn’t feel like enough, because Bakugou was right. The triangle neatly tucked in his back right pocket said all he couldn’t say for himself. He tucked it so tentatively like it might bite back. But Bakugou had seen it. Translated it. And he hadn’t laughed it off. Hadn’t dismissed him.

He was still looking.

“I thought it was a good start,” Eijirou admitted. “But, honestly, I didn’t think anyone would notice.”

“Bullshit. You hoped someone would.” Bakugou countered. “Is that what you want from me?”

Eijirou’s heart startled in his chest before it began to kick up in speed. The words hit somewhere almost too deep to process. Like they bypassed the brain and ran straight down. What did he want? It wasn’t just to get off or to suck a stranger off in a darkroom and never see them again. It wasn’t even Bakugou, though there was something about him... This heat that rolled off of him in waves. It was this thing, this ache. This clawing need to be seen stripped of his decency. But admitting that felt too raw.

He flinched from the question and turned on his stool to face Bakugou more fully. “So,” he tried again. He just kept trying. “Do you come here often or is this like a once in a while thing?”

“You’re not answering my question,” Bakugou said. “Did you mean for that to be a line?”

“No!” Eijirou scrubbed a hand down his face, ears still hot. “I just meant—I’m new. Like, really new. And you seem like you’re not.”

Bakugou chuckled. A real laugh at the back of his throat as a smug smile tugged at the corners of his face. “I’ve been around,” he said honestly. “Long enough to know what I like. Long enough to tell when someone doesn’t.”

Eijirou stiffened. He knew he was obvious but… that obvious? “Are you saying I don't know what I am?”

“I’m saying you think you know you’re a cocksucker,” Bakugou’s smirk sharpened. “But I’m sure there’s something else in there.”

That stopped Eijirou in his tracks because—shit. Shit. Bakugou said it like Eijirou belonged to him already. There was a crack forming between want and understanding and he didn’t know how to fill it except to press his thighs together under the bar. He dropped his gaze, picked at the label on his bottle. “I think I want to try.”

“You think?”

“I know I want to try.” 

That seemed to please Bakugou. He leaned in close, lowering his voice just enough to thrum against Eijirou’s collarbone. “Trying’s enough for now,” he said. “Long as you’re honest about what you want.”

Eijirou’s mouth felt dry. His fingers tightened around the bottle. “I know I want to try,” he said again. “But what if I don’t know how to be honest?”

Bakugou’s eyes caught the low light like a blade. “I’ll teach you.”

Eijirou exhaled shakily. “You’re saying that like this is some sort of lesson.”

“It is,” Bakugou said, easily. “Some people spend their whole damn lives lying to themselves. You’ve got a shot at skipping the line. So let me ask you again—”

He shifted, and Eijirou could feel the weight of his attention on him fully now.

“What do you want, Eijirou?”

There were a million ways to dodge the question. A million reasons to turn back. But Eijirou wasn’t built for cowardice. He had come here for something.

He swallowed hard. “I want someone to tell me what to do.”

Bakugou raised an eyebrow. “That all?”

Eijirou’s breath hitched. His palms began to sweat. “No.”

“Then say it.”

“I want…” His voice cracked. “I want someone to make me. I want to—I want to be good at it. I want to learn. I want to please.”

Bakugou tilted his head and Eijirou couldn’t tell if he was evaluating or enjoying the sound of that. “You ever gotten on your knees for a man before? Or is that flag you’ve got just a trial run?”

Eijirou’s whole body clenched. “I’ve—” he stuttered. “Uh, no. No, I haven’t.”

“But you’ve thought about it?”

“...Yes.”

Bakugou’s eyes darted down to Eijirou’s crotch. He tightened his thighs even more. That same smile crawled along his features. “Am I getting you hard already?”

The question shouldn’t have been as gentle as it was, but it landed like velvet on skin. Eijirou didn’t have to look down before he nodded. “Yes.”

Bakugou’s smile, against all odds, softened. Like he was finally beginning to see something in him. “You’re adorable,” he said, but the tone almost felt insulting. Humiliating. “Like a puppy. All riled up and twitchy. Like you’re waiting for someone to tell you to fetch. Like you’re waiting for permission.”

Eijirou bristled. “And if I was?”

Bakugou hummed. “Then I’d tell you to ask me for it.”

Eijirou’s throat clenched. He felt the words lodge there. They were too big to swallow, too dangerous to let loose. It was the kind of dare that curled beneath his ribs and clawed until he was flayed open and bleeding.

The look on Bakugou’s face made him realize that that may be a good thing.

“Is that what you want?” Bakugou murmured. “You want to ask?”

“I didn’t say—”

“You didn’t not say.”

Eijirou’s jaw clenched. His fingers were still twisted tight around his bottle, the condensation slick on his palm. Or maybe that was the sweat. He looked away to break the pull. There were other voices in the bar. Other bodies. Music thrumming into the bones of the building. He forced the world to expand. To accommodate the sensory. But it only lasted a second before the world zoomed back in to only them two.

Eijirou managed a defiance. “I don’t like being called puppy.”

Bakugou let out a low laugh, disbelief clear on his features. “That right?”

“I’m not some—some pathetic mutt begging for scraps, alright?” Eijirou felt a little more confident now.

“I’d never give you scraps,” Bakugou said. “Plus, you haven’t started begging yet.”

Eijirou shot him a look. “I don’t think I beg.”

“Well, I think you do,” Bakugou said simply. “Or at least, you will.”

There was no cruelty to it. No challenge. Eijirou felt his spine stiffen. “You don’t know me enough to make that assumption, Bakugou.”

“You’re right,” Bakugou shrugged. “I don’t know you. That’s why I’m askin’ all these fucking questions. What I do know is that you came into my bar. Sat at my elbow. Wore you’re little blue hanky like a secret wish. And, I know I’ve already got you hard. This is just conversation, puppy. "

“I don’t—” Eijirou stopped himself, he could feel his flush deepening. His breath grew shallow. 

“You got a boyfriend, Eijirou?” Bakugou asked, and Eijirou was almost shocked to hear his own name again.

“No.”

“You looking for one?”

Eijirou blinked. “What does that have to do with—”

“Nothing,” Bakugou said. “Like I said, just asking questions.”

There was no denying the heat Eijirou was feeling now. Like the temperature had just been dialed up several degrees. He took hold of the collar of his t-shirt and began to fan himself. His jeans were growing tighter by the second. He took his freehand between his thighs to adjust himself. “Why me?”

That seemed to surprise Bakugou. “Hm?”

“You could have anyone here,” Eijirou clarified. “Anyone. So why’re you—why me?”

Bakugou tilted his head, gave him a thorough once-over that felt near clinical. Almost too much so to be truly flattering. “Because you look like you might need it.”

Eijirou couldn’t find the words to respond.

Bakugou leaned in again, the heat of him folding over Eijirou like a wave. “And I like giving people what they need,” he said, voice soft now. “I’m a sadist, Kirishima. That’s what the black flag means. You know that, don’t you?”

Eijirou looked up at him and nodded slowly.

“I like hurting people,” Bakugou said, voice still level. “I like bruises. I like spit. I like begging. And you?”

He nudged Eijirou’s knee with his own, just enough to make contact. “You look like someone who wants to hurt. You wanna feel it, don’t you? You want someone else to feel it for you.”

He had. He did. He’d thought about it with his hand choking his cock. His face suffocated by pillows. He’d wanted someone to press down on him hard enough that it left a mark. Wanted to be called a name that didn’t fit politely in his mouth. Wanted to be known in something he didn’t have the language for yet.

And Bakugou was offering it like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like it was in reach.

“All you have to do is ask me for it, and I’ll give it to you,” Bakugou said. “I’ll show you who you are.”

Something in Eijirou snapped them. A sudden defensive panic. Part pride. Part fear. Part overwhelming arousal he couldn’t even begin to metabolize.

“I want to be good. But—but I’m not some,” Eijirou took a deep steadying breath, “Some freak who wants to get pissed on or dragged around like a dog, alright? I want—”

“You sure about that, puppy?” Bakugou tilted his head, slow and mean and grinning. His words seemed to come to him so easily. It almost sounded as dangerous as it felt. And it felt like a loaded gun to the temple. His hand was still clawed over his drink, spinning the last few dregs in the bottom of the glass. There was a leash forming between them. 

“Oh.”

“You ever wonder why men like me walk like this?” Bakugou asked. “Why we fuck like this? Why we wear leather like armor and lace our boots to the goddamn shin? We do it for pleasure, sure, but it’s ‘cause we have no other choice. This—”

He gestured to himself. To the leather jacket bracketing his shoulders, to the hat fitted snugly on his head, to the boots. “This ain’t a fucking costume. This is how we survive. This is how we live. You think we got the luxury for shame? You think guys who came before us, who bled for this, who got thrown into gutters with their ribs showing. You think they didn’t know they were freaks? Being a freak is how you make it through the fucking door. You think pride means not crawling? You think we wear leather just cause it’s pretty? I wear it so bruises don’t show. So when someone gets roughed up in a bar, we can thank them. You ever think about that?”

“I—” Eijirou tried, but the words got caught in his throat.

“No,” Bakugou said. “You didn’t. You didn’t fucking think at all. You came in here scared of what it meant. Of yourself. Of your goddamn purity ring. Of wanting something this real, this filthy, this fucking sacred. You think being a freak is something to be ashamed of? It’s resistance. You wanna serve, then serve. You wanna be a mutt? Then be one. You don’t have to be soft and you don’t have to be sweet. You can be mean, and nasty, and honest with you goddamn self.  You came in here thinking you weren’t one of those guys, but look at you. I see what you want. You want someone to leash you. To spit on you. To call you exactly what you are, fag.”

The word slammed into Eijirou’s chest like a brick and, fuck, it felt good. It scraped against the softest parts of him. He’d spent so long trying to carve a path that wasn’t that, hadn’t he? Not limp-wristed or flag waving. Not cruising alleys or lingering too long in changing rooms. Not the kind of guy who took it. Not the kind of guy who made his mother cry at night because of who he was. But hearing the word from Bakugou’s mouth made his pulse kick. It made him hard. It made him feel filthy. Suddenly the version of himself he’d been polishing felt empty. Like a hollow boned doll. Plastic and silent. But this? This was the kind of truth that hurt.

And he wanted it to hurt worse.

Bakugou saw that flicker. That whipcrack of shame twisting into arousal.

He almost laughed. “You wanna be a freak, don’t you?” He whispered. “You wanna be bent. You wanna be fucked open. You wanna be a good little dog for someone mean. But you know what I want? I wanna walk you like a damn mutt. I want you to lick my boots so clean you can see your reflection in ‘em. I want you sobbing on your knees and hard as fuck from it. I want to watch you come. I want to smell it. I want to taste it. I want your cheek on the floor and I want to hurt you just enough for you to forget what your name is. I wanna debauch you. I wanna desecrate you like you’re the fucking American flag.”

“And when all that’s done,” he murmured. “I’m gonna ask you again if you’re not just some freak who wants to get pissed on and dragged around, alright?”

Bakugou leaned back into his seat, letting the heat of his body cool between them just enough to settle the ache in.

“What’d’ya say, puppy?” 

The name in his direction again felt dirty. Almost viral. Like just the tone of it would make Eijirou sick with it all over again. Like having Bakugou in front of him, liquor warmed and ghosted in the haze of cigarette smoke, wasn’t already enough to solve this desire.  “Take the offer now before you lose it.”

He felt suddenly sexless in comparison to this man. Contained to something private and distant. He’s in this… perpetual state of wanting to be a part of something like this. To be held. To be possessed. He’s been told his whole life that he could not belong as he was. He had  decentered his identity to be made tolerable, palatable, invisible.

But now?

Eijirou wanted to be seen.

“Yes, sir.”

Bakugou licked his teeth, his grin split his face in half and his eyes grew dark. “Atta, boy.”

The world seemed to hinge on those two words as Bakugou stood and drained the last of his drink. He set the glass down on the counter with a solid thunk. His boots hit the floor in punctuation, loud even over the din of the bar. He didn’t look back to check if Eijirou would follow.

He didn’t need to.

The hallway opened in front of them, lined with shadows. The faded _RIVATE sign almost suggested secrecy. He tripped on the threshold as the hallway narrowed quickly, sound dampening as the bodies and lights behind them vanished. There was no red here. No music soothing over like a balm. Just the sound of breath and moans and the soft scrape of boot against craggy concrete. 

At the far end a curtain hung limp in place. Black velvet. Heavy with use. Bakugou shoved it aside without hesitation and gestured him in. Eijirou stood in the doorway just long enough to clock the smell of leather. Of a body’s salt. A strange cloying musk. His eyes had to adjust to the dark.

The room wasn’t too large. Maybe the size of a service hallway. Padded benches lined the walls. Some of them were even occupied, shifting silhouettes half-swallowed by the darkness. Shapes moved. Whines, groans, the soft hiss of teeth meeting skin. One of the walls had rings bolted into it. Stained leather cuffs hung from one of them. Another had a man knelt between someone’s thighs. Someone else was mouthing against another man’s cock in the corner. And there was a pair curled together on the ground. One holding the other’s head down like it was benediction.

The air was humid with need.

Eijirou swallowed hard, suddenly hyperaware of every movement his body made.

Bakugou tilted his head. “Still with me?”

“Yeah,” Eijirou nodded. “Yeah just—Just never seen anything like this.”

Bakugou’s grin in turn was a slow drawl across his mouth. “You get used to it.”

Eijirou wasn’t sure he wanted to. He wasn’t sure he wanted to dull this feeling. This slack jawed, wide eyed awe. It was buzzing inside his damn teeth. He followed deeper into the humid dark, sidestepping a low moan and a body curled into another. He glanced briefly as someone’s body arched sharp in silhouette, a collar pulled taut enough around his throat that even in the dark Eijirou could see the way the skin bowed. There was a definite devotion to the act and it was dressed in sweat and restraint.  He moved around them the way one would move around an altar.

Bakugou stopped in a corner. It wasn’t private, but nowhere in the small darkroom was. But it was recessed. Bracketed by the wall with the hanging cuffs and padded ledge that looked halfway like a pew now that Eijirou thought about it. The leather straps swayed gently as if disturbed by their very breaths. The dark stain along one of them once again caught his eye. He hoped the smudge was a fingerprint but a part of him believed it was the bare edge of blood.

Eijirou couldn’t help but stare.

“Something catch your eye, Red?” Bakugou’s voice came from behind him, low and amused. Fond almost.

Eijirou turned back slowly. “It’s just… all real all of a sudden.”

“‘Course it is,” Bakugou said. “Nows the time you strip.”

Eijirou blinked, beside himself. His hands came up to his chest as if to protect some microm of his modesty. “Wait—now?”

“Yeah. Now. Jacket, shirt, jeans can stay on if you’ve got nothing underneath,” Bakugou’s voice dropped a note darker. “You got nothin’ underneath?”

Eijirou’s chest burned, but he nodded once. “Didn’t think I’d—” He tried, before relenting with a sigh. “Yeah. Nothing’s underneath.”

Bakugou let out a sound like a caged thing as his jaw twitched. “Jesus Christ.”

Eijirou suddenly didn't know where to put his hands. His own skin felt like a costume. He reached for the hem of his shirt instead.

“Slow,” Bakugou insisted. “Let me see you.”

He obeyed and shifted to pull the jacket from his arms first, denim bunching at the elbows before it slid off. He folded it and tucked it onto the ledge behind him, hands trembling just enough to make the movement feel clumsy. Then the shirt. The cotton was cheap and dark with sweat under his armpits. The shirt caught the back of his neck and it had to be tugged free. The air hit his skin like breath. It was damp. It was alive.

Eijirou’s eyes adjusted to land on Bakugou once more like they’d never left him. His stance was wide, his black tank was tucked into tight dark leather pants. His heavy belt was now loosened with one hand sliding it through the loops. The buckle sang and leather hissed. Eijirou felt the sound more than he heard it. Felt it low in his stomach. Deep in the meat of him.

He was suddenly enamored with the human ability to feel with just his eyes. To divine the slick slide of leather, the gentle indentation of hide along skin. The fine line a belt mark would leave behind. The heat of another body not touching his own. The shape of Bakugou’s jaw as he pulled his belt the rest of the way free and let it hang from his hand like a noose. Like a threat.

He hadn’t touched him. He almost didn’t need to. His body knew it already. He could feel the way the leather would give under his fingers . He could hear how it would sound. The zip of Bakugou’s pants undone to reveal what he wanted, the hitch of his breath if Eijirou sank to his knees and mouthed at him until the leather peeled back and revealed his bulging—

“Gonna stare all night?” Bakugou said.

Eijirou cleared his throat and blinked for good measure. “Just… watching.”

Bakugou stepped forward. The buckle of his belt glinted, a harsh slash of brass. “This isn’t a movie theater, sweetheart.”

“Aren’t you gonna undress too?”

“Nah,” He twisted the belt once between his hands and leather folded in on itself with a practiced flex.

Eijirou swallowed, throat dry. “Why the belt, then?”

“You’ll find out,” Bakugou’s grin was hungry. “Now kneel.”

Eijirou’s legs folded before the command had even finished echoing through the room. The concrete beneath his knees felt rough. Biting into the bone. He felt the fire of muscle as the pull of denim low on his hips settled into place. Hands were loose on his thighs and his pulse felt as loud as a thunderclap underneath his hummingbird throat. His body trembled with something that wasn’t unlike fear.

“Good boy,” Bakugou murmured, stepping forward until the toes of his boots bracketed Eijirou’s knees.

The sound of it, the words, the presence, it all vibrated low through Eijirou’s chest. It frayed at the tight stitch of his composure. He lifted his gaze slowly. Just in time to see the way Katsuki wrapped the leather around his tight first before undoing it just as casually. He was fidgeting. 

“Do I…” Eijirou began, trying for boldness. “Do I get to take my pants off?”

Bakugou snorted. The sound dry and wolfish. “I only get to see your dick for the first time once, cocksucker. I wanna savor it.”

God, hearing it again sent something through his chest that Eijirou didn’t have the language to name. Like a bolt of lightning directly to his heart. “I don’t,” he tried. Then tried again. “I don’t think I like being called cocksucker.”

Bakugou cocked his head to the side. “I thought you didn’t like being called ‘Puppy’, puppy.”

He froze, hands still clutching faintly at the edge of his belt loops, caught between want and words. “I…lied.”

The smile that curled Bakugou’s mouth was a slow thing. He toyed with the belt in his grip, letting it dangle loose between his fingers. “I bet that means you’re lying to me about the cocksucker thing too, then?”

Eijirou didn’t answer.

Bakugou rolled his eyes like he already knew. He pressed the toe of his boot forward, nudging between Eijirou’s thighs. Fuck he was aching for something to touch him. But the pressure is an off thing. A gentle touch to his inner thigh to get him to spread just a bit wider. He does. “You got a safeword?”

Eijirou shook his head. “No, sir.”

Bakugou hummed and considered this. “I use ‘Mercy'. So let's stick with that. Don’t use it unless you mean it, alright? And don’t lie to me again. Now, what’s the safeword?”

“Mercy.”

“Again.”

“Mercy, sir.”

Bakugou nodded, accepting this as he took another step closer. “Hold out your hands.”

Eijirou obeyed with little hesitation, palms up, fingers trembling just so. The moment felt significant as Bakugou doubled the belt over itself and formed a firm loop. He bounced it against his own palm. Once. Twice. Three times. A soft rhythmic whisper of leather. Then he snapped it hard enough to echo in punctuation.

Eijirou couldn’t help but flinch, but his hands stayed out.

Bakugou’s smile widened. “Do you like pain, Kirishima?”

Eijirou hesitated. “I don’t kno—”

The belt cracked across his palms in a flash. Just hard enough to wake up the skin in raw heat. The sting shivered up his arms, fizzed along the nerves and curved low in his gut. 

Bakugou tilted his head. “So, do you?”

Now it sounded like an honest question.

Eijirou looked down at his hands. They were already beginning to pink, but they were still almost steady. Barely trembling. He could still feel the heat on his skin. He felt… alight. Not shocked. Not afraid. Just open.

“Yes.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes, sir.”

Bakugou chuckled, his voice low. “Good baseline. What do you want from me?”

The question landed heavier than it should have. What did he want? Anything? Everything? But maybe those weren’t the answers that would serve him here. 

Eijirou took in a breath. Tried to be honest with himself. “I want… to suck your dick.”

Bakugou’s eyes seemed to narrow. Like maybe that was the wrong thing to say. “Is that all?”

Eijirou shook his head. “Oh, no,” he said, voice growing a little desperate. He rushed to add in, “I want what you want. I want to do the things you like. To see if I like them too.”

Bakguou stepped in close enough that Eijirou could smell the smoke still clinging to his skin. “So you’re comfortable as a submissive?”

The word alone sent a twitch through his whole body. It slotted into something unspoked. Clicked like a key in the lock of his spine. “Yes, sir.”

“Good,” Bakugou’s voice was approving and Eijirou couldn’t fight the shiver that ran through him. The word stuck in his skin like needles.

Bakugou undid the top button of his pants and dragged the zipper down slow, but didn’t peel them off. His hips rolled forward with purpose. Indulgent. Blonde hair bushed from where the zipper had been and the soft line of his cock was visible now. Heavy and straining and tight. He wasn’t wearing underwear either. The shape of him so open sent a burn up Eijirou’s throat. 

“You’re not gonna pull yourself out?” Eijirou asked, voice thin with hope.

Bakugou smirked. “I told you, Eijirou. I wanna savor this.”

The smile he gave was crooked and slow moving. Sharp with intent. He bounced the belt off his hand once more and Eijirou’s wrists began to twitch. “Keep your hands out,” he said and Eijirou shook his hands out once before returning them to their spot. Palms flat. Wrists loose. Breathing uneven.

The next strike landed softer. Not light, Bakugou seemed incapable of that. But less biting than the last. The heat bloomed up anyway and Eijirou’s breath caught as he watched the red line appear at the heel of his palm.

Bakugou kept going.

He alternated rhythm now. One slap then a pause. Then two in a row. Then another lighter one just when Eijirou had started to brace harder. It kept him off balance. Kept him guessing. And with each slap of leather, something in his head got… quieter. It wasn’t entirely empty. Just… further away. Like the belt was clearing out the noise. Like he was descending through water, and every strike pulled him ever deeper. 

His fingers curled on reflex, and the jolt hit higher this time making him flinch and his knuckles twitch.

Bakugou caught onto it immediately. “Uh uh,” he said, tone sharpening. “Don’t curl. I don’t want this cracking your knuckles.”

“Sorry,” Eijirou whispered.

Bakguou tapped the belt gently against his own palm again. “Keep ‘em open. This is just a warmup. You want something real, don’t you?”

Eijirou nodded, his whole body nodding with it. “Yes, sir.”

The next one lands harder. He made a noise then. Something embarrassing and soft and pulled out of him without permission. It punched from his chest on a staggered inhale. And he felt his spine twitch like a string had been plucked.

The pain blurred or deepened or something he couldn’t understand. All he knew was that it was starting to feel good. Real good. Not just in his skin, but in his head. His muscles trembled from the tension of holding still, but the longer he held it the more he felt himself drift.

It was like falling asleep without losing consciousness. Like floating in his own skin.

Bakugou slowed again. A few more strikes, spaced out. Then none at all.

Eijirou didn’t realize he was trembling until Bakugou spoke again. “Get on the floor.”

He blinked up at him. Bakugou’s voice didn’t change as he nodded toward the cement. “Hands and knees.”

Eijirou moved before he had the time to think. The floor was cold beneath his kneecaps through the denim, shocking after the heat thrumming under his skin. He braced his palms flat, a hiss behind his teeth as the pain surged from contact alone. It felt good. Fuck, it felt so good.

His head went light with it. He stayed there kneeling with his back slightly arched and his hands planted on the concrete, breath shaky and fingers twitching. His arms strained from the positioning but he kept them steady. When he looked up finally, Bakugou’s boots were there.

And they were close.

Black leather. Well-oiled and broken in. Thick soles. A small scuff at the toe that told him they’d been worn in and worn hard. The laces were thick, double knotted. There was dust at the heel and just a hint of what looked to be residue from street salt where the sidewalk kissed the edges. 

Eijirou couldn’t look away.

He wanted—

God, he wanted to—

“Lick,” Bakugou said.

The word landed like a shock but Eijirou’s mouth opened before his brain could catch up. He felt his body tip forward on his aching hands just slightly, nose filling with the scent of sweat and wax and leather. 

His tongue dragged slowly along the toe of Bakugou’s right boot.

The taste was bitter. Like polish with something deeply human beneath it. The salt of skin maybe. Or other tongues? Eijirou groaned softly, the sound catching in the back of his throat.

Bakugou let him set the pace.

Eijirou licked again, this time slower. His tongue is a reverent thing. He let his lips brush the leather, let his breath fog over the shine. He kissed the boot, tongue dragging along the edge of the rubber base.

“Good boy,” Bakugou murmured above him. “Really good, puppy. You’re doing so good for me.”

Eijirou’s chest welled with something thick and unnameable. He nosed along the toe, letting himself mouth over it. Gentle at first. Just his lips pressing in soft kisses along the curve. Then the flat of his tongue again, firm and wet as he dragged it up the length of the boot’s tongue and into the laces. Kissing the spot where knot met leather, mouth open now as he panted against it. His own moan nearly startled him. He kissed again, suckled gently on the edge of the tongue before letting his eyes slip closed as Bakugou kneeled down in front of him. His hands sinking into Eijirou’s hair.

“That’s it,” Bakugou whispered. “Fuck, that’s it. You’re filthy for me already. Look at you.”

Eijirou wanted to see himself like this. On all fours, lapping at the dirty edge of a leather boot. His cock strained against his denim. His hair a wreck in Bakugou’s fist. Tears began to peak out from the corners of his eyes, pleasure surging through him like the fucking sun. He kissed higher, mouth brushing where laces crisscrossed and doubled back. He sucked at the ridge of each knot like a reward. He wasn’t even thinking anymore. Just chasing the next place to kiss, the next patch of leather to taste. The sharp scent of polish mixed with the worn salt of sweat and the faint oil of leather conditioner. His cock twitched in his jeans as his hands curled against the floor before he remembered not to. He forced them open again, palms smarting, and nearly whimpered at the sting.

Bakugou tugged surprisingly gently at his hair. “Up. C’mon. Get up for me.”

Eijirou stood on shaking legs, flushed and dazed. He let himself be turned and maneuvered toward the padded bench in the center of the room. His breath caught as Bakugou guided him forward by the base of his spine.

“Hands on the bench,” Bakguou said, his voice low and cool, “Keep ‘em flat.”

Eijirou did. The padding was a blessing under his sore palms. He braced his weight on it, back arching naturally into position and felt the first ghost of leather whisper against his spine before the first strike landed.

A sharp quick sting. Not cruel. Not yet. But it lit him up, a gasp pushing out from his lungs.

“Count.”

“On—ah,” he choked out. Eijirou jerked and let out a muffled moan, back arching away from the feeling. He shook it off with a series of harsh exhales and in response he got a gentle hand to where the stinging was. A flat palm rubbing out the welt that was just created there.

“Good boy,” Bakugou said as he continued his ministrations against his back. Up his spine and back down. A cross his lower back, just above his hips. Then up again, scapula to scapula. Like he was painting a lattice along the expanse. “You can take it.”

The second and third strikes came faster, licking across his back just under his shoulder blades. There was no time for two, but Eijrou managed to break out a groaning breath of “Three.”

“You sound so fucking good when you count, Eijirou,” Bakugou told him. Another came down before he could finish blinking.

“Four—Fuck,”

It wasn’t unbearable. Not even close. It was hot. Warm like a line of lightning beneath his skin that curled up and nestled just below his navel. He braced himself as the next one landed lower, across the curve of his ass. The denim softened the blow but did nothing to dull the ache. “Five.”

He was panting now. Drool clung to the corner of his mouth, but he didn’t care. His cock ached against the button of his jeans. His thighs twitched. Bakguou kept the rhythm tight, and cruel only in its’ consistency. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Never giving too much, never letting him settle too long.

“Eleven!” Eijirou panted out, that time swaying forward with the brunt of the hit. His neck felt loose, hanging heavily off his shoulders. “Twel—Fuck, can I—sir, can I take my pants off?”

The next hit came down harder.

“Thirteen!”

“Not yet, puppy,” Bakugou crooned, taking his hand to his spine again. This time the pressure felt like burning. Like a fire that chased the crosshatched lines across his back. “You wanna be bare for me? You gotta earn it.”

Eijirou nodded fast, hair sticking to his forehead. “Okay. Yes—Yes, sir. I’ll earn it. I’ll be good. I’ll be—”

Another hit.

“Fourteen!”

The next touches came in a flurry, spaced out enough to breathe but an open palm landing where they’d already hit.  The backs of his thighs, his ass, his back. The feeling made the denim too tight. The seams dug into his hips.

“You sound so damn pretty when you take it, Eijirou,” Bakugou drawled. “You’re a goddamn sadist’s dream.”

Eijirou whimpered. He couldn’t help it. His shoulders twitched with the ache and his back burned and his arms shook from holding the position. But God, he didn’t want it to stop.

“You ever have someone beat you before?” Bakugou asked, voice thick before striking him again.

“Fifteen!” Eijirou swallowed around the pleasure drenched haze. “No, sir.”

“Didn’t think so. But look at you. Fuckin’ blooming under it.”

Eijirou’s head sat firmly bent between his shoulder blades as the attacks stopped abruptly. “Wha—” he started. “Why’d you stop? ‘M I doin’ good? Sir, am I good?”

“You’re fucking perfect,” Bakugou stepped around him, checking up on him by cupping his chin and tilting his face up. There was drool clinging to Eijirou’s chin now, dripped down from his open mouth and his eyes had gone hazy and unfocused. Bakugou’s thumb stroked Eijirou’s lower lip until it hung open as he spoke. “You still want the jeans off?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Okay,” Bakugou said, finally. Like it cost him to say it. “Then take ‘em off.”

Eijirou all but scrambled to obey. His hands fumbled with the button, hissing when his palms met the metal. The pain was still sharp. Still sweet. They were going to bruise for sure. He got them down to his thighs and let them fall away, stepping out as carefully as he could. His cock bobbed as he moved. Flushed and already leaking.

He turned back to the bench without a word and placed his palms flat again. 

Bakugou let out a long breath. “You’re doing so good for me, puppy.”

“Thank you, sir,” Eijirou said, nodding.

“Good,” Bakugou purred, pressing his lips to a particular burning spot between his shoulder blades. “Fuck, that hole is gorgeous.”

Eijirou’s breath hitched, thighs twitching where they parted just enough to keep himself braced wide. He didn’t dare move. Not when Bakugou was this close to him. Not when his voice sounded like that.

“And look at that pretty cock of yours, you’re dripping,” Bakugou dragged that hand down to the small of his back and let his fingertips graze the top swell of his ass. “Haven’t even touched it yet. You’re dripping like a whore just from the belt.”

Eijirou could feel himself whimpering more than he could hear it. The sound too high. It mingled with the sex of others. Drowned out in pleasure. But it sat in his throat, a keening sound as his knuckles whitened against the padded bench. His hole throbbed at the praise, fluttering around nothing. His cock hung heavy between his thighs, tip wet and shining in the half-light. Pre was dripping down the inside of his leg from the impact alone. Droplets hitting the ground just a touch faster than his own sweat. 

Shame began to flare hot and bright, but broke just as fast under the heat of being witnessed like this.

The belt struck again. “Ah!” Bare skin this time. The strike was clean and sharp. Leather slapped across the curve of his ass with a sound like something breaking. A snap. Eijirou jerked, breath punching out of him as he gasped his count. “Six—Sixteen.”

“That one land sweet?” Bakugou asked as he gripped a handful of Eijioru’s ass. Massaging the muscle under rough fingers. The leftover burn of the strike melded into his spine. “Fuck, you look like you’re about to come on the spot. That one was good, wasn’t it, puppy? That one was real good. Think we can crack twenty? Think you can take four more for me?”

“Four—?”

Eijirou blinked slow, moaning from somewhere low in his belly now. His hips shuddered forward involuntarily, cock giving a weak pulse against nothing. The praise barely registered as words anymore. It was just tone now. Cadence. A pressure in his chest that lit his nerves and made him want. Want. He nodded without realizing, breath pushing out. It took more of a concerted effort to pant “Yes,” voice broken and needy and raw. “Yes, s—sir. Yes, sir. I can take it.”

“Where were we?”

“Seventeen.”

Every part of him trembled with it. But yes. Yes. He couldn’t stop thinking it. Yes, four more. Yes, a thousand more. He wanted to give it. Wanted to be good. To make Bakugou proud of him. There was no more fear, just a dazed spiraling sweetness that longed for that belt. That voice. That hand.

“You’re a fuckin’ dream,” Bakugou growled. “Got me hard just from listening to you count.”

Bakugou let the belt drag down, trailing over the burning welts before it lifted again. Eijirou felt himself bracing, ass high and legs just slightly bent. But then—heat. Wetness. Warm and almost deliberate from where it came from above to slick down the cleft of him. It caught on the curve of his hole and dripped down. Had Bakugou just—

Had he—

It hits Eijirou’s ass again with a shock, this time landing on the swell of his right asscheek. And, yes, he was right. Spit.

“Oh my God,” Eijirou sobbed, hips jolting at the sudden heat of it. “Sir—fuck—”

“You’re such a mess,” Bakugou rasped, hand gripping one cheek to spread him wide. “You wanna get fucked like this, don’t you? All red and open and drooling?”

Eijirou made a sound that might have been a sob. His mouth hung open and yeah, he was drooling a little now. He was sure of it. Chin slick and lips parted like a starving thing. And wasn’t he? Wasn’t he starved for this? This attention, this heat, this filthy fucking voice coaxing the truth out of him?

His hole fluttered again, clenching around air. He could feel the spit dripping. He could feel how wet he was now. Slick and obscene and flushed hot all the way to his ears. He felt open in ways he’d never experienced before. It echoed in his mind like gospel. He felt seen in ways that cracked him down the middle and spilled out every unspoken thing he’d ever craved. It was too much and not enough. There was a warmth behind his squeezed shut eyelids now like he might cry just from being looked at like this. Handled like this. Ruined so well.

Another crack against his ass.

“Eighteen!”

“Two more, baby boy. Just two more.”

Another.

“Nine—oh fuck.”

“Stay with me, Red. One more.”

Eijirou’s body was shaking. His legs barely held him. Drool strung from his lip to the padded bench below as he nodded, nodded, nodded. Unable to form a proper word other than a breathless curse now even if he tried. His ass was on fire, heat radiating out like a second heartbeat. The number nineteen was still caught somewhere between his ribs and the backs of his molars. Lost to the shuddering gasp he’d sucked in instead. 

One more. Just one. 

His vision was blurring at the edges, wet and soft and hazy. His mind felt too quiet now. Peaceful in that way that only came with surrender. He didn’t want it to stop. He wanted Bakugou’s belt etched into his very flesh. He wanted to be split open and poured into a mold. There was no part of him left untouched. No thought unshaped by Bakugou’s voice or his hands or the sweet brutal rightness of being broken open under him.

“One more,” he echoed, breathless. “Please.”

The last strike fell across his burning inner thighs in a cross hatch before the belt fell to the ground. Eijirou could hear the gentle jangle of metal on concrete, the sighing squeak of leather unraveling, and the gentle thud as the bulk of it hit the floor a second after the buckle.

For a moment, all Eijirou could do was breathe. His skin sizzled. His ass was molten. Every nerve lit up and twitching in the aftermath. His thighs burned where the belt had snapped, still quivering, still so damn sensitive. But his lungs worked. His bones held. His cock throbbed between his legs, untouched and still leaking. Smearing wet across the bench. He’d never felt so undone.

And he’d never felt so safe.

“Atta boy,” Bakugou murmured, palm soothing over the heated raised skin he left behind. He cupped the curve of Eijirou’s ass like it belonged to him now. Like he was just checking his work. His fingers pressed into the swell, kneading him gently again. “Took all of ‘em easy. You were made for this.”

Eijirou whimpered, barely nodding.

“You did so fuckin’ good for me, Red. All the way to the end.”

The words washed over him like cool water, making him shiver in the wake of the heat. He felt cracked open. So full he didn’t know where to put it. He could only stay bent over, thighs quivering, arms beginning to tremor from where they held him up.

There was a rustle of movement from behind. The soft sound of cotton shifting. Eijirou’s dazed eyes blinked open and looked over his shoulder just in time to see Bakugou remove his leather jacket and peel off his shirt over his head. He tossed it to the side. His chest gleamed with sweat. But what caught Eijirou’s eyes were what was framing it. Black leather straps cut across muscle, anchoring to and O-ring that sat right at center over a mass of scar tissue above his heart. Pale, craggy, uneven. It circled in jagged threads, branching across skin like veins.

It was strangely beautiful.

Scars traveled up Bakugou’s right arm too like something had burst through him once and barely let go. Eijirou didn’t know the story, but fuck he wanted it. He wanted to kiss every line of it. Wanted to mouth the O-ring until he made it shine. Wanted—

“Hey,” Bakugou said suddenly, breaking him out of his rhythm. “Up. Just for a sec.”

Eijirou blinked at him. “Up?”

“Just stand. Lemme move you.”

His body screamed, but he obeyed. Slowly. His knees creaked and thighs ached as he pushed himself upright, wobbling slightly in place. The moment he was clear, Bakugou dropped to sit on the bench behind him, legs spread wide. His gaze dragged over Eijirou’s bare form, hungry and hot.

Then he crooked two fingers. “Come here.”

Eijirou moved without thinking.

He dropped back down to his knees and crawled forward between Bakugou’s thighs. The sight of that harness was right there now. Right in front of him. He could smell the sweat caught in the leather. Could see the edge of the scar he’d already begun to memorize. He could have stayed there all night.

But Bakugou patted his thigh. “Over.”

Eijirou nodded before folding himself over Bakugou’s lap like he’d been made for it. Every inch of him slotted into place. Chest against leather, arms draped down, thighs splayed. His ass, red and marked and twitching, was offered up without hesitation.

“That’s it,” Bakugou breathed, one hand curling over Eijirou’s lower back to hold him there. His other hand kneaded one sore cheek. “This is your favorite part, isn’t that right, cocksucker?”

Eijirou moaned his answer. A broken yes lost to the back of his throat.

“This is what you wanted all along? Getting spanked raw just to end up in my lap like a fuckin’ toy?”

His head lolled to the side, mouth slack and wet as he nodded. “Y—yeah… Sir…”

“Yeah, I know,” Bakugou’s hand slipped lower, trailing down the cleft of his ass, brushing the messy slick still dripping from his hole. “You wanted to be opened up, didn’t you? Just like this? Cherry red and ruined. Goddamn, you’re dripping.”

A groan shuddered out of him. He couldn’t help it. Bakugou rubbed a thumb across his spit-slick entrance. “Bet you could come just like this. Just from me touching you here. Think you could, Red?”

Eijirou whimpered before nodding hard again. “Fuck—fuck, yeah—”

“That’s what I thought,” Bakugou rasped, then leaned forward to mouth at Eijirou’s shoulder. Teeth grazing salt-wet skin. “Not till I’ve had my fill though. Gotta get you ready first.”

Eijrou didn’t even try to answer that time. He just shivered when he felt the press of a wet intrusion against his hole. Bakugou must have taken a finger to his mouth, laved across the digit, before pressing it against his ass. The finger was wide and slick and intentional. It danced around his hole before pressing in slowly. 

Eijirou gasped. His knees shifted wider without a thought. His hips rocked back onto the pressure. “F—fuck—”

“Easy,” Bakugou whispered, almost fond. “You’ll get it all. Don’t rush me.”

He couldn’t even if he tried. The stretch was burning-hot and slow. Pressure growing low in his belly. Bakugou fucked his finger in steady, circling motions, dragging slick around the rim and then deeper, deeper, deeper. Knuckle by knuckle. Against all odds the act was almost gentle.

Eijrou adjusted so his face could tilt to the shape of him. His nose was buried in the smooth edge of leather, and even through the haze he could smell the salt and sweat and the thick musk of Bakugou’s cock right there still straining where it’s been tucked away. He couldn’t help but whimper.

Bakugou’s free hand came up to tangle his hair, petting him once before gripping tight. “Yeah? You hungry for it already, puppy? You that fucking desperate?”

Eijirou nodded, feverish, and rubbed his cheek against the bulge without thinking. He was drooling again. Didn’t even care. It made his lips slick when he finally mouthed at the leather. Nuzzling. Seeking. Wanting.

“Fuckin’ look at you,” Bakugou groaned, thumb brushing over the red knot he’s created before guiding him lower. “Come on, then. You know what to do.”

Eijirou did. Even if he’d never done it before, he knew. His mouth knew. His hands shaking as they reached to grab hold of Bakugou’s pulsing cock knew. His whole body knew this was what it had been made for. That this moment was what he’d been burning toward for months. Maybe even longer.

He had to pull the zipper down just a touch lower before Bakugou’s cock sprang free, heavy and flushed dark. Already wet at the tip. Eijirou’s breath hitched as he leaned in, eyes fluttering half shut. He licked a stipe up the underside without thinking. It tasted like something he hadn’t even realized he’d been craving until now.

Bakugou’s hand tightened in his hair. “That’s it. Open up for me.”

Eijirou moaned and did, lips stretching wide as he took the head into his mouth. His jaw ached almost immediately, but he didn’t stop. Didn’t dare. Bakguou’s cock pushed past his lips, and Eijirou sucked him down like his life depended on it. His tongue swirled over Bakugou’s cockhead once it was firmly in his mouth, only gagging when his hips bucked up at the sensation. But he swallowed it down and forced his throat open.

And behind him, fuck, that finger. Still moving. Still pushing in deeper. Joined by a second where they scissored him open without warning. Eijirou couldn’t help but choke on the cock in his mouth, moaning around it. The vibrations made Bakugou curse and his hips shift once, just enough to grind against the back of Eijirou’s throat.

“Greedy fucking thing,” Bakugou hissed. “Mouth made for this, huh? You like choking on it?”

Eijirou couldn’t answer. Not with his throat full. But he moaned again, eager, and swallowed around him. Bakugou’s fingers pressed harder in response, curling up just enough to make his walls flutter. “You’re clenching like you’re begging already. All from my fingers? What’s gonna happen when I split you open on my cock for real?”

Saliva ran down Eijirou’s chin as he bobbed his head, messy and hungry for it. He gagged once more when Bakugou hit the back of his throat again, but he didn’t stop. His eyes watered and his fingers dug into Bakugou’s thigh for purchase.

He loved it.

God, he loved every second of it. The way Bakugou cursed. The way his hips jerked. The way his hand still worked him open while the other stroked his hair like he was made of something precious.

“You’re gonna make me come if you keep sucking like that,” Bakugou grit out. “And I’m not wasting it down your throat tonight.”

That made Eijirou whine. Another high keening sound around the cock in his mouth because fuck, that wouldn’ve been okay too. That would’ve been so okay.

Bakugou’s fingers were faster now. Rougher. He twisted his wrist on each thrust and pressed deep until his knuckles nudged that spot inside Eijirou that made him jolt. He moaned around the dick in his mouth like it was the only thing keeping him from falling apart entirely. 

“Shit, fuck, you like that?” Bakugou damn near growled. “Yeah you do. Your ass is sucking my fingers in. You’re gonna make such a mess when I fuck you for real.”

Eijirou pulled back with a gasp, spit trailing from his lips to the head of Bakugou’s cock. He looked up, eyes glassy and wide, heat flushing his face. “More,” he begged, voice hoarse. “Please. I want—fuck, I wanna be good for you, Bakugou. Let me be good.”

Bakugou’s grin was a savage thing. “Then show me. Show me what a good little cocksucker you are.”

Eijirou didn’t hesitate. He dove back down, tongue flat, lips stretched wide. His nose was pressed to the coarse blonde pubic hair as he took Bakugou deep. His cock slid all the way in, and Eijirou choked but held firm. Gasped around it. Spit bubbled out the sides of his mouth, and tears returned to the corners of his eyes.

God, it felt so good being used like this. Being full like this. One hole stretched open, the other stuffed. No thoughts in his head except more. 

Bakugou hissed through his teeth. “Just like that, puppy. Just like that.”

The praise hit Eijirou like a hand scruffing the nape of his neck. He moaned around the cock and pressed back into the fingers still working him open. They were relentless. Crooked just right. His knees slipped a fraction wider as he tried to rock his hips in rhythm, grinding back against the thrust of Bakugou’s hand while choking on the steady drive of his hips forward.

“You’re fuckin’ filthy,” Bakugou growled, voice fraying into a rasp. “Gagging on my cock while I finger you open like some dumb fucktoy. You were made for this, weren’t you, baby boy?”

Eijirou made an aborted sound in the back of his throat. The room spun with it. He was slick with sweat now, spine curving down and straining under pressure. Every time he managed to take Bakugou deeper, every time his throat spasmed around the girth, Bakugou would reward him with a sharp pull to his hair or a warm palm soothing over his nape. Once even a third finger pushing alongside the others, stretching him wide.

“You want my cock?” Bakugou asked, voice a dangerous thing. “You want me to fuck you, puppy?”

Eijirou nodded fast, mouth still stuffed and spit leaking. His whole body was vibrating now and he didn’t know how to say yes loud enough. Didn’t know how to make it clear that he’d never wanted anything so much in his entire goddamn life.

Bakugou’s hips rocked forward once more, more shallow than the others, just to watch Eijirou take it. Then, he tugged on Eijirou’s hair until he was removed from his cock. The sound Eijirou made was a broken half-swallowed sob of loss. 

Bakugou adjusted, pushing at his shoulders until he leaned down further into the padded seat again, knees spread wide and face down against the leather seating. He fought for his breath, he could still feel the shape of Bakugou’s cock at the back of his throat. His jaw ached. His tongue was thick with the taste of him. And now his ass was fluttering open around nothing. He was empty. He was desperate.

“Hands flat,” Bakugou said, voice close behind. “Don’t move unless I say.”

Eijirou did as he was told and pressed his palms to the bench like he was bracing for more impact.

There’s roughly ten seconds of no man’s land. Ten seconds of waiting as Bakugou stood up behind him, pulling the leather down the pillow of his own ass and letting his cock spring free without any boundary before finally—finally—letting the tip of his cockhead prod against his aching hole. It’s a tease. It’s a kiss. A gentle slap between his spread cheeks.

“You’re gonna take it,” Bakugou said, rubbing slow circles over the small of his back with one callused hand while the other was inevitably fisted around the base of his cock. He moved that hand from Eijirou’s back down to his hip, fingers digging into the raw meat of his ass. “You’ve earned it. Look at you, Red. All open and perfect for me.”

He pressed in just slightly again, the head of his cock caught inside.

“Oh, you want it,” Bakugou’s chuckle broke through the heat. “Don’t pretend you don’t. You want me to fuck it in slow, or stretch you open in one go?”

Eijirou’s hips jerked. His knees scraped against the mat. “Please,” he gasped, head falling forward. “Please, Sir. Fuck—please, just do it.”

Bakugou’s grip locked down tight and the pressure changed in an instant. Forward, forceful, inside. Eijirou’s whole body seized around the intrusion, his voice crying out loud and long into the bench as the stretch turned molten. He could feel the shape of Bakugou inside him, wide and pulsing and so so fucking deep already.

“Goddamn,” Bakugou hissed. “You’re still so tight, Red. You’re—fuck—you’re taking me like a dream.”

Eijirou’s brain shorted out. All he could do was moan and clutch at the bench, eyes squeezed shut, spit slicking his face.

He’s never felt anything like it. Every inch hurt but felt so right. He felt open, exposed and seen and full and so so good that he could barely think.

Bakugou sank down to the hilt and stayed there, hips pressed flush to Eijirou’s ass. One hand still braced his hip while the other began to focus on the lower length of his spine. “Breathe,” he said, “Come on, puppy. You’ve got me now. Just breathe.”

Eijirou tried, but the breath broke apart on the way out. His lungs couldn’t fill. Everything in him felt stretched thin, suspended on the throb of Bakugou’s cock seated impossibly deep inside him. Every heartbeat ricochetted off the pressure. Lighting up nerves he hadn’t even known he had. His fingers scrambled for purchase on the bench as his eyes blurred hot. And Bakgou just stayed there, hand heavy on his back.

“There you go,” Bakugou murmured when the first real breath shuddered out of him. “Just like that. See? You can take me.”

He rocked his hips once. It was just a subtle shift but it dragged something inside Eijirou that made his vision white out at the edges. His mouth dropped open on a broken gasp. He could feel the way the movement carved a path through him. A pressure that traveled straight to his brain and split him from his thought processes and left nothing but want behind.

Bakugou leaned in close, his grin pressing into the back of Eijirou’s neck. “Oh yeah,” he breathed. “That’s it. There you are.”

Then he pulled out halfway.

Eijirou cried out but Bakugou didn’t give him time to gather the sound before he pushed back in in a harsh drive that made Eijirou’s knees skid forward. The bench squeaked beneath his palms. His head dropped forward and he felt his breath catch, then break, then catch again in a string of curses that barely formed.

Bakugou set a rhythm that felt more like a claim on the body than a pattern. Deep, dragging thrusts stroked right against that tender trembling pace inside him every single time. Slow enough to make him feel every inch and hard enough to make him forget it.

“Good boy,” Bakugou praised. “Keep your knees wide. I want to watch you open for me.”

Eijirou tried, but his thighs were already shaking. Every thrust sent heat shooting up his spine and then back down to his belly then blasting to his cock like a current. His dick slapped against his stomach from the force of it, leaving streaks of slick across his skin. He couldn’t stop it even if he wanted to. His whole body was being moved—was being used—and the pleasure of it was so sharp he could barely stay on the right side of consciousness.

And Bakugou noticed.

Because of course he did.

“Look at you,” he laughed softly, breath fanning the sweat on Eijirou’s back. “Fucking melting around me already? You gonna come just from this? Just from getting stuffed with my cock?”

Eijirou’s whine was humiliating, the way it tore out of him without permission. But the humiliation only fed the shame-thrill tightening low in his gut. He couldn’t talk. Couldn’t dare answer. His throat seized around another moan instead as Bakugou’s hands slid down to his hip and dragged him backward into the next thrust. His breath ripped out of his as his arms shook. Palms squeezing the bench's padding.

“That’s it, baby boy,” Bakugou all but growled. “Fuck yourself on it. Let me feel how you take it.”

Eijirou didn’t know he was moving. He was pushing back on his own. Grinding. Rocking. Chasing the pressure and heat and rhythm like something driven by instinct.

Bakugou cursed sharply behind him. “Oh, look at you. You are a puppy, aren’t you? Look at you humping my cock like a damn mutt. Like you can’t help yourself. You wanna come so bad you’re shaking, Red.”

He was. God, he was. Eijirou could feel himself cresting. Feel it gathering at the base of his belly. His cock dripped more pre onto the bench. An almost constant dribble. He could feel every pulse, every flutter in his ass, every clench around Bakugou’s length. “Sir—” Eijirou gasped, finally finding it in himself to speak again. “‘M close. I’m gonna—fuck.”

Bakugou’s voice dropped low and dark. “Already? From this? Oh, but bay we’re having so much fun. First time getting fucked and you’re gonna blow your load so soon? So eager, puppy. So fucking eager.”

Eijirou nodded as his back began to give, forehead pressing up against the bench and spreading spit slick and sweat across his brow. “Please! Please, I can’t—”

“Shit,” Bakugou’s hand fisted in Eijirou’s hair again, pulling his head up just enough that his back arched deeper. His ass tilted into the punishing angle of the next thrust. “You’re so damn sensitive. Look at you. So tight around me like you almost can’t handle it. Can you handle a little longer?”

The question almost sounds honest as Eijirou’s gasp came strangled. He wanted to be good. Wanted to be great for him. He could last. He could keep going. He could—

“No,” he stuttered out, voice breaking into pieces. “No, I can’t—Sir, I can’t! I’m gonna come. Please let me come. Please.”

Bakugou laughed. Goddamn laughed.  Like hearing the negative did something to him. And it no doubt did. Eijirou, eyes closed, kept getting flashes of that black hanky that was probably still hanging from the man’s pocket. Still flagging gaudily as he pounded his ass. Still showing exactly what he wanted. What he’d do to him. What he was doing to him. It wasn’t that he couldn’t hold it, what was being done to him. He wanted to fall apart for him. It felt like his body was made for this type of unmaking. Split open on cock, cheeks red from spanking, and hands still sore from their practice.

Then Bakugou’s hips faltered and Eijirou’s breath stuttered out, choked on the feeling of being so thoroughly filled without all the excess friction. The pleasure hit a sharp edge before it stalled out. Another moan ripped from his lungs as Bakugou pulled out halfway and held him there, open on his shaft. “You don’t get to come yet,” he murmured, the command smooth. “Not till I say. You wanna be good, right?”

Eijirou whimpered.

“You wanna please me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then hold it,” he spit again, another hot wetness landing near his hole and sliding where they were connected. But then he leaned in, pressed a kiss to his shoulder, cruel in its softness. “Let's see how long that pretty body of yours can last.”

The words slid down hot over Eijirou’s spine. A shiver ripped through him so sharp it felt like a tiny seizure, his muscles fluttering helplessly around Bakugou’s cock as if his body were answering before his mind could catch up.

Bakugou noticed immediately. “Oh, that hit you,” he crooned, dragging his thumb up the sweat damp small of Eijirou’s back where he pressed dimples into the skin. “Look at you. Whole damn body twitching. Hold it, puppy. Don’t you dare fucking lose it.”

A strangled noise tore out, a broken affirmative made of pure uncut need. He didn’t trust his voice unless commanded by Bakugou to do so. Didn’t trust anything except the feeling that he was taut. His cock was bouncing up against his stomach with every thrust, every pulse of slick he felt made him clench around Bakugou again helplessly.

Bakugou kept his hand at the small of Eijirou’s back, but splayed his fingers out to take up more land. He pressed him down harder until his chest brushed the bench and head was banging lightly against the wall. Eijirou gasped at the change in angle as it forced him open and made the stretch go from a pleasure-burn to something damn near incandescent. 

“That’s it,” Bakugou whispered. “Stay down. Arch like that. Yeah… just like that.”

Eijirou’s breath came in short panicked pulls as Bakugou began to move again. Slow at first. Deep, grinding things. And with every withdrawal it left him empty in a way that felt cruel.

“Sir,” Eijirou choked out, althouh  it was a mess of a word. Slurred out and broken over three thrusts. “I can’t—”

“You can,” Bakugou corrected, punctuating it with a short, hard snap of his hips that knocked a cry out of Eijirou. “And you will.”

The word Mercy played on Eijirou's lips. A ghost of a thing. A desperate cry to get him to stop. To let him come. But some subconscious part of him knows that would ruin this. This pull. This play. And that is the last thing he wanted. So he let his vision blur. Lets tears gather. Let himself feel flayed open and burning hot as Bakugou soothed his spine once more with another hand up his back. Only to wrap that hand into a fist in the hair at the crown of his head and tug hard.

“You’re gonna come for me, Eijirou. But only when I say,” Bakugou said. “You understand?”

Eijirou swallowed down spit and nodded so hard that his vision jumped.

“Use your words.”

“Yes, sir,” he gasped. “I’ll—I’ll try.”

Bakugou laughed again, his voice devastating. “Try? Puppy, you’re already fucking begging to come on my mark. Look at you. If you didn’t wanna hear it from me, you would’ve been a mess on the ground by now.”

Eijirou pulled in a harsh, stuttering breath as Bakugou pushed in slow. A glacial grind that made his body jerk forward. This was torture. A perfect torture. And even when Eijirou tried to bite the inside of his cheeks, desperate for something else to focus on, even that tiny pain shot straight to his cock. His legs twitched violently with the effort of holding back.

“You’re so close I can feel it,” Bakugou muttered. “You’re clenching like you’re about to milk me dry. Fuck.”

His hand left Eijirou’s hair long enough to slide down his spine again, then lower until his fingers brushed the tender struck skin of Eijirou’s ass. He couldn’t help but whine at the sensation. A sweet electric shock that shot straight to his gut. He was sucking in breath like prayer as his hips pushed back without permission, chasing the last edge of friction needed to push him over the edge. “Sir—” Eijirou said in warning, only to be cut off sharp with a smack to his ass.

“Not yet,” A wounded sound tore from Eijirou’s throat. It felt sub-human. It felt like someone was pulling teeth. His entire body shuddered under Bakugou’s grip, muscles fluttering and tightening and loosening without rhythm as each of his thrusts grew rougher. “You’re doing it. You’re holding it. Stay with me, puppy. Come on.”

Eijrou let out another broken sob. “Sir—Ah—please!”

“You want permission?” Bakugou hissed, grinding down into him so deep Eijioru’s hand slipped on the bench. “Is that what you want? You wanna beg for it?”

Eijirou collapsed onto his elbows, chest pressed to the pad and drool stringing from his lip to the leather. His vision had gone milky around the edges. His own voice sounded far-off when he tried again. “I need to—”

Bakugou leaned over him fully, chest pressed to his back. The warm stretch of his body caged Eijirou in place. The harness scraped Eijirou’s shoulder blades  as the O-ring pressed a gentle cooling sensation against his overheated skin.

“Beg,” Bakugou rasped into his ear. “Beg like you’re supposed to.”

Eijirou’s words poured out in a shattered litany of half formed wants and pleas, every single one punctuated by the trembling clench of his body around Bakugou. “I wanna come—I wanna come on your cock, please Sir. Please let me—I can’t hold it. I can’t. I’m trying to be good, I swear, I’m trying but,” his voice cracked. “Wanna feel you fill me up. Wanna feel you use me. I need it. I need it. I’ll do anything. Be anything. I swear just let me come. Please. Please, please, please, please.”

Bakugou pressed his forehead to the back of Eijirou’s neck. The next thrust was perfect. “Good boy,” he growled. “Come for me.”

The permission detonated something inside of him.

Eijirou didn’t make a sound at first. His mouth just fell open like his body forgot how his jaw hinge worked. Then the orgasm hit so violently that his knees buckled and he would’ve dropped to the floor if Bakugou weren’t still holding him up by the hips. His entire body convulsed around Bakugou’s cock, clamping so tight Bakugou’s breath stuttered.

Eijirou heard himself cry as ropes of come spilled hot against his stomach and down his thighs. His vision went white. His ears buzzed. The world winnowed into pressure and the dizzying sense of falling.

He could barely register Bakugou’s voice, as it broke. “Fuck—fuck, puppy. Shit. Tight. So fucking tight—”

Bakugou’s thrusts stuttered and lost rhythm. Then slammed forward one last time with a groan that sounded torn from him and Eijirou—

Eijirou felt the heat spill inside of him. Fast. Hot. Flooding. It sent another ripple of pleasure up his spine. It was unbearable and it was everything. A radiant ache unspooled something deep in his belly that left him shaking with the sudden knowledge that he’d never been this full before. Never been this seen before. Not like this. Not every sharp edge and every secret softness cracked open and claimed and spilled open. He’d beg to be used and Bakugou used him. Fucked him like he meant it. Held him through the shaking. Stayed. And now, slick with sweat and come as he shakes so hard that his teeth chatter, Eijirou could feel this want like a brand carved into his ribs.

He’d never not want to feel this full again.

They stayed like that for several heartbeats. Eijirou letting the shakes tamper out and Bakugou bent over him, chest heaving against his back.

Then Bakugou sighed a long, steadying breath. “Good…” he murmured, voice hoarse. “Good fucking job, Red. You did so good.”

Eijirou let himself sag fully onto the bench, arms finally giving out. It occurred to him distantly that there were still bodies around him. Mounting. Sucking. Fucking. But he didn’t care. His body was shaking in little aftershocks now. Nerves firing off at random. He felt distant but not entirely gone. He felt floaty. Weightless. Dimmed around the edges.

He’d never felt anything like it.

“Hey,” Bakugou’s voice cut through the haze. “Stay with me. You’re alright.”

Eijirou blinked slowly. Didn’t quite lift his head.

Bakugou eased out of him carefully, one hand steady on his hip when Eijirou whined at the sensitivity. Then came the warmth of Bakugou’s sprawling palm back against his spine, petting once. “Good boy,” he murmured again. “You still here?”

Eijirou swallowed, throat too loose to shape the yes properly. It came out as a soft hum to which Bakugou softly chuckled. 

“Easy,” he said. “Don’t move yet.”

Eijirou didn’t think he could move even if he tried. His limbs were heavy, his thoughts molasses now. He floated in the afterglow like he was drifting just outside of his own body. But he could feel Bakugou shift. Heard the rustle of a shirt and jacket being tugged on. The zip of leather pants. Then, he felt a soft cotton being used to clean off the come from his stomach, thighs, ass and legs.

He opened his eyes just enough to see that very same blank hanky come into view. 

“Gonna wipe you down. You did good. Real good. I’ve got you” Bakugou said. “Can you sit up for me?”

Eijirou made a small noise that was probably meant to be agreement. Bakugou helped him up anyway, hands under his arms and lifting him slowly. Easing him back against his knees so Eijirou could kneel upright again. Though barely. Bakugou cupped the back of his head, thumb stroking once behind his ear.

“Hey,” he said. “You were a goddamn dream, puppy.” 

The words were a balm against the raw edges of Eijirou’s nerves as he blinked up at Bakugou, bleary eyed and boneless. Bakugou got him dressed with ease. Tugging a shirt back over his head. The jeans were a little bit more difficult, but they managed in a caring choreography. Once Eijirou was dressed and able to stand, jacket flung over his shoulder, hair a mess, still entirely too blissed out, they left the darkroom and made their way to the single bathroom. 

Thank fuck it wasn’t occupied.

His body ached in ways he hadn’t known it could. Deep in his thighs. In the small of his back. In the places where he’d held tension too tightly and for too long. But it was a nice ache. A worn-in glowing kind of pain. Like he’d been wrung out and folded carefully back together.

Bakugou kept moving with that same odd gentleness he’d had since they stepped inside the bathroom. Eijirou felt himself being repositioned, helped to sit on the edge of the counter as water ran in the sink. He took Eijirou’s hanky this time, soaking it and ringing it out. Eijirou watched, dazed, as Bakugou dapped the cloth across Eijirou’s face.

He blinked slow before smiling. “You’re being nice to me.”

Bakugou scoffed, bringing the blue rag down Eijirou’s throat. “I was nice the whole fuckin’ time.”

Eijirou gave a hoarse laugh that caught in his throat. He couldn’t believe how light he felt. Even with his muscles still shaking and the cotton of his shirt clinging and stinging against his back, he felt freer than he had in years.

Bakugou glanced up at him, studied him for a beat too long. “This part matters just as much as the rest, y’know,” he said. “You gotta come down slow, or your head’ll fuckin’ crash on you later. Your buzzing pretty high right now, but it’ll dip if you don’t ride it out right.”

“Is that what this is?” Eijirou asked, voice small. “Riding it out?”

Bakugou gave a shrug, smiling at him. “Kind of.”

Eijirou’s eyes fluttered shut again. “You’re… good at this.”

“Yeah,” Bakugou said simply. “I am.”

The cloth was folded again. Fresh water ran. Another wipe down. Eijirou let himself go limp into the touch, head tilted back against the mirror behind him, lips parted as he sighed. He felt like a machine being powered down, each hum of tension fading in increments.

After a while, Bakugou leaned back, surveying him with a satisfied nod. “You hungry?”

Eijirou snorted. “I’m supposed to meet my friends after this.”

A flicker of disappointment passed across Bakugou’s face. But it was gone just as quick. “I’d just take you home if I could.”

The words hit heavier than he probably meant for them to. Eijirou blinked again, heart stuttering in his chest. “Yeah?”

Bakugou looked him dead on. “Yeah.”

It would be so easy to say yes. To follow him out, crawl into a warm bed, and sleep off the static still buzzing in his spine. Let someone else hold the weight for a while.

But he’d made a promise.

“I should go,” Eijirou rubbed at his eyes. “Before they start thinking something happened to me.”

“Something did happen to you.” Bakugou’s face didn’t change much, but his hand curled around Eijirou’s shoulder, thumb brushing once along the collarbone. The touch alone reminded him of the ache in his hips. The sticky warmth of his come still leaking out of him in warm rivulets. Something did happen. He felt changed. Reborn. He didn’t want to let this go. There was this steady open sight between the two of them now. This knowing like he hadn’t just been fucked raw and sweet and ruined in the darkroom of a leather bar. Like they pressed secrets into each other's skin.

“At least let me walk you out,” Bakugou insisted. “Last call’s in ten anyway.”

Eijirou nodded, and let himself be guided out of the bathroom back to the pulsing heat of the bar proper. The room was still lowly lit, bodies still pressed in close although some had trickled out as the night went on. Men with pool sticks dressed in their leather best still stood at attention waiting their turn. But it was different now. Almost blurred. Like the Wonderland he’d seen, this place  had shifted into something closer to Home.

“Is this normal for you?” Eijirou found himself asking as they made their way through the bodies.

“Yeah, kinda,” Bakugou quirked an eyebrow up, sparing him a glance. “What? Surprised I know how to be decent?”

“No, no it’s not that just—”

They stepped outside into the night as Eijirou searched for his words. The noise from the bar thinned behind them as they entered the vestibule. And then was muted into nothing as they stepped back out onto Christopher.

It was quieter than he expected. It’s not like the city ever truly slept, but it did have its lulls. There was the hum of traffic off the main road a few blocks away. A distant cab radio. Someone’s drunken laughter from outside the straight bar across the street. Neon signs flickered over wet brick. And everything smelled like beer and exhaust and the clinging ozone of wet rain. Eijirou shoved his hands in his pockets and breathed out hard.

Bakugou had lit a cigarette. He held it between his teeth with his head tilted up toward stars they couldn’t see. He stroke a match against the damp brick and Eijirou was surprised to see how the thing ignited. It flared up and was gone just as fast, that smokey scent lingering in the air between them as Bakugou took a deep inhale. 

They stood there, in the empty, for a moment. Just existing.

Eijirou’s hands were buried deep in his jacket pockets, thumbs worrying the frayed seam of the lining. The silence stretched between them, but it was easy and breathable in a way that made him ache. 

“I didn’t—” Eijirou started, an attempt to finish his earlier thought but the words got caught in his throat. Lost still to that floating feeling in the back of his mind. He tried one more time. “I didn’t expect it to feel like this.”

Bakugou blew out a cloud of smoke. “Like what?”

Eijirou shrugged, “Like… something I might miss,” he laughed, scratching at the back of his neck. “I can’t lie, I was kinda banking on using then losing you.”

That earned him a small twitch of a smile. Like Bakugou didn’t want to show it, but couldn’t stop it from happening either. It hit somewhere stupid in Eijirou’s chest.

“But in my defense, you didn’t even kiss me,” Eijirou added, voice a tease. He wasn’t sure why he said it. It wasn’t inherently an accusation. Just a fact wrapped around a need he hadn’t known he had. He hadn’t come looking for sweetness. But now that he’d been broken open, now that he’d been touched, he ached for a mouth to press against his. To keep the ache company.

For just a moment, it seemed like Bakugou didn’t have a good answer for this. He just looked at him sidelong through the rising smoke. His smile didn’t widen, but it did settle deeper in his face. Almost like it belonged there.

A gust of wind swept up the avenue, cutting sharp between the buildings. It picked up every damp edge of the night and slipped it straight through the denim of Eijirou’s borrowed jacket. He flinched as the cold found the sweat drying along his skin, his body still open and soft and sore.

“Jesus,” Bakugou muttered, already shrugging out of his own jacket. “You’re shaking.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” he stepped closer, firm hands catching the edge of Eijirou’s collar and peeling it back. “C’mere.”

Eijirou didn’t argue as the denim slid off his arms. He let Bakugou wrap him in thick, heavy, and body warm leather. The heat hit fast. It smelled like smoke and skin and whatever leather conditioner Bakugou used. Something sappy and cedary. Eijirou wrapped it tighter around himself and breathed in for just a second.

“Oh, uh,” Eijirou said, dropping his hands as he watched Bakugou look over the denim jacket in his hand. “That’s my friend Mina’s. She loaned it to me.”

Bakugou looked it over with a raised eyebrow before shrugging it on himself. “Guess you gotta promise to see me again, cause I’m not giving this back tonight.”

Eijirou blinked at him.

“You know,” he said, adjusting his arms into the sleeves. “For Mina’s sake.”

Eijirou snorted softly, the laughter spilling out easier than it should’ve. “Right. For Mina.”

But Bakugou’s attention had shifted. He was staring at Eijirou’s right hand as he pulled in the lapels tighter around himself. Right. Eijirou looked down at himself, the silver band along his finger catching the sodium lights.

“You should get rid of that purity ring bullshit,” Bakugou said, throwing a look its way.  “Your ex got that for you, right? Not like she’s around now.”

“Promise ring,” Eijirou corrected. He lifted his hand, admiring it for what very well may be the last time. Bakugou… he had a point.

Bakugou’s expression didn’t change. He just shrugged like it didn’t matter either way. And he was right. It wasn’t Eijirou’s life anymore. Not his reality. He made it out of his little life. And this was his last anchor tethering him back to it.

They stood in the quiet again. Eijirou’s own fault. He opened his mouth to say something but it kept getting caught in his throat. He wasn’t even certain what it was he wanted to say. Maybe thank you. Maybe don’t be a stranger. Maybe do you want my number or should I just haunt this corner every weekend until we bump into each other again?

But the words don’t come.

Instead.

“Wha—”

Eijirou leaned forward and kissed him. 

Bakugou inhaled sharply against his lips. That flicker of surprise breaking into a deer in the headlights sort of stillness. Then surrender. His shoulders dropped, breath hitching like he didn’t anticipate this. Like he didn’t think Eijirou would mean it.

Bakugou leaned in deeper, one hand finding the lapel of his—or Eijirou’s now—leather jacket draped over his broad shoulders like it belonged there. The other hand hovered, before settling over Eijirou’s jaw.

 They leaned into each other’s hesitation. A slow and steady guiding of hands to hips or the small of backs or cheeks gently cupped. Bakugou tasted like cigarette smoke now and the gentle burn of bourbon. His mouth was warm and pliant. A little rough in the way that mouths kissed open. But, for one suspended second, Eijirou forgot the rest of the city existed. All there was, was the electric blue of neon across Bakugou’s throat and the feeling of his lips against his. Just this man, under the stars they couldn’t see, kissing him like something worth remembering.

They finally broke apart in a slow easing way. But Eijirou rushed in, lips brushing once more. Almost in apology. Then Bakugou opened his eyes, and he looked… soft. And Eijirou smiled, heart running wild in his chest.

“You—” Bakugou started, voice quiet again. “You should go.”

Eijirou nodded as he zipped the leather jacket over his thin white tee. “Yeah. Before they come looking for me.” 

He turned around. Made it only two steps before—

“Hey!”

Eijirou turned.

Bakugou turned his chin toward him, eyes a soft ruby in the dark. “It’s Katsuki,” he said. And when Eijirou only blinked back in response, he continued. “My name. You should know it if we’re gonna see each other again, ”

“Okay,” Eijirou smiled, wide and warm. “Katsuki.”

They didn’t bother with goodbyes. There was no clean cut to this anyway, no definitive parting line that wouldn’t cheapen this. Instead they walked opposite directions down Christopher, taking that turn back toward Waverly. Eijirou rolled his shoulders beneath the weight of the leather hugging him. He felt something settle. Not quite peace, but a sort of equilibrium. Maybe he had been introduced to his first home that didn’t ask him to shrink in a bar’s darkroom. He could be this. He was this.

And Katsuki helped him find it.