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The controller clicks through two more rounds. Bakugo loses himself somewhere in the first thirty seconds of the first one.
His hips have given up on stillness. They roll in tiny, helpless circles — unconscious movements, his body chasing friction he's been denied for nearly forty minutes. Each one earns him a slap, but the slaps have gotten weaker, Kirishima's focus splintering, his character dying twice in a row because he keeps losing his grip on the controller.
"Fucking —" Kirishima mutters as his character respawns. "Katsuki. Still."
Bakugo can't hear him anymore. Not really. The words register somewhere distant, like noise from another room. His forehead is pressed to Kirishima's shoulder, his mouth open against the fabric, drool staining the hoodie. A thin, continuous sound is coming from his throat — not words, not quite moans, just a raw vibration of need.
"Baby." Kirishima's hand lands on his hip, stilling him. "You with me?"
Bakugo's answer is a whimper. He turns his face into Kirishima's neck, lips brushing his pulse point, and whispers something that might be please or might be Eijiro or might be nothing at all.
The second round ends. Kirishima's character takes the winning shot, and the victory music plays, and Kirishima drops the controller on the cushion beside them.
"I'm done."
Bakugo doesn't react. His eyes are glassy, half-lidded, his pupils blown so wide the crimson is barely a ring around them. A thin string of saliva connects his lower lip to Kirishima's hoodie. His cock is flushed dark, leaking steadily onto his own stomach, the skin slick and shining in the low light.
Kirishima's hands find Bakugo's hips. He lifts him — just slightly, just enough to break the seal — and Bakugo's body jerks, a desperate noise tearing out of him.
"No — no, please, I was being good, I was still —"
"I know, angel." Kirishima's voice has gone soft and rough at the same time. "I know you were. You did so good for me."
"Then why —"
Kirishima doesn't answer with words.
He pulls Bakugo up and off his cock in one smooth motion. The emptiness hits Bakugo like a physical blow — his body clenching around nothing, a wet sound as he's lifted, his legs barely holding him as Kirishima shifts beneath him.
Before Bakugo can process the loss, Kirishima flips him.
Face-down. Chest hitting the cushion. His legs hang off the edge of the couch, feet barely touching the floor. Kirishima's hand presses into the small of his back, pinning him, and then — then Kirishima's cock is at his entrance again, sliding in, and Bakugo moans so loud he's sure the whole dorm heard it.
"Shh." Kirishima's voice is right behind his ear, his chest pressing against Bakugo's back. "You want the whole floor to hear what a slut you are?"
Bakugo's fingers scrabble at the cushion. "Don't — don't care — just move —"
"Move?" Kirishima pulls out until only the tip remains. Holds there. "You've been sitting on my cock for forty minutes, baby boy. You think I'm gonna let you cum that easy?"
Bakugo sobs. Actual sobs — his shoulders shaking, his breath hitching, tears spilling onto the couch fabric. "Eijiro, please, I can't — I need —"
"Need what?" Kirishima's hips snap forward, burying himself to the hilt, and Bakugo's scream is muffled by the cushion. "Need my cock? Need me to fuck you like the desperate little whore you are?"
"Yes — yes —"
"Say it."
"I'm a — I'm your —" Bakugo's voice breaks. Tears are streaming down his face now, his entire body trembling, his cock dragging against the couch with every thrust. "I'm your whore, I'm your slut, I fucking need you —"
Kirishima's composure cracks.
He grips Bakugo's hips and fucks him — hard, deep, the sound of skin slapping skin filling the room, the couch creaking beneath them, Bakugo's cries climbing in pitch until they're nearly screams. There's nothing gentle about it. Nothing measured. Kirishima takes him apart with every thrust, his words a wrecked litany of degradation that Bakugo drinks like water.
"Look at you. Look at this ass taking me. Fucking made for my cock, weren't you? Weren't you?"
"Yes — yes —"
"Say it. Say you're made for me."
"I'm made for you — I'm made for your cock — Eijiro —"
"Whose slut are you?"
"Yours."
Kirishima's hand finds Bakugo's hair, gripping the ash-blond strands, pulling his head back. The angle forces Bakugo's spine to arch, his back bowing, and Kirishima fucks deeper, faster, the headboard of the couch slamming against the wall.
"Look at you." Kirishima's voice is wrecked, barely holding together. "Crying on my cock. Begging for it. You're the most beautiful thing I've ever fucking seen."
The praise cuts through the haze. Bakugo's hand reaches back, searching blindly, and Kirishima catches it — laces their fingers together, pins it to the small of his back.
"Cum," Kirishima says. "Cum for me, angel. Wanna feel you."
And Bakugo does.
His orgasm hits him like a flash grenade — his vision whites out, his body locking up, his mouth open in a silent scream as he spills onto the couch, onto himself, his entire existence narrowing to the feeling of Kirishima buried inside him, fucking him through it, chasing his own release.
Kirishima follows a few thrusts later, a groan torn from somewhere primal, his hips grinding flush as he fills Bakugo. His hand stays tangled in Bakugo's hair, his chest heaving against Bakugo's back, his forehead dropping to Bakugo's shoulder.
They stay there. Breathing. Shaking. Tangled.
Slowly, Kirishima's grip loosens. His hand slides from Bakugo's hair to his cheek, turning his face, and he kisses him — soft, open-mouthed, tasting salt and sweat.
"You did so good," Kirishima murmurs against his lips. "So good for me, baby. I love you."
Bakugo's response is a broken sound, halfway between a laugh and a sob. His eyes are still wet, his cheeks tear-tracked, but there's something loose and peaceful in his expression — the kind of undone that only comes from being held by someone who sees all of him.
"Love you too," he manages. "Fucking hate you."
Kirishima laughs, warm and breathless, and kisses him again.
"I know."