“Haunt Me”- KiriBaku, queerplatonic BkDk, size difference, teasing, spanking, edging, spitting, breath play, werewolf boyfriends, big beefy Bakugou.

Here we go! >:) Happy halloween, awooooo.

Kirishima sits on a locker room bench in his boxers, a pair of oxblood army boots laid out in front of him. He fiddles with the white thigh-high stockings in his lap, reluctant to finish changing. Not only cause he’s shy to wear a dress.

(And he /was/ shy, because the red gingham dress that hung in his locker was very, very short. Denki bet him he wasn’t secure enough in his manliness to come to Deku’s halloween party as Little Red Riot Hood,

and he couldn’t back down from a challenge like /that./) But also because he’s waiting for Bakugou again, waiting for his closest friend, roommate, and long-time crush to round the corner from the showers.

The cover story is that he’s waiting for a ride on the back of Bakugou’s sleek black motorcycle, so they can pre-game for Deku’s halloween party. The truth was he’s practically salivating at the thought of watching Bakugou change once again.

It’s a little bit shameless and a little bit weird. But it’s also a routine by now. And if Kirishima wasn’t drowning in denial, he’d admit that maybe it seemed a little bit like Bakugou liked it. Even put on a show for him each time.

It starts with the towel—he drops it, baring his plump ass and thick thighs. Then he towels off his hair, which he wore spiked and choppy on top and shaved in the back. (He got the undercut the same week he got the motorcycle,

and those were just two of the many changes that made Kirishima’s life with his best friend an exercise in self-restraint.)

Then he runs the towel down his plush pecs, over the thatch of ashy blonde hair there, following the

trail down the curve of his stomach and below to...wow.

Kirishima fiddles with his belt buckle. It isn’t manly to stare.

/The Change,/ as Kirishima called it in his head, was a slow and special kind of torture. It started somewhere around second year. After that trip to Nabu Island, after the so-called Wonder Duo started getting...oddly close.

Around the time the problem children started with that weird blood brother pact they had, pricking a finger before every mission and pressing their bleeding hands together.

(And Kirishima wishes he could find it gross, but the truth is he found their whole weird ritual manly as hell.)

But Bakugou had slowly, surely changed. First, there was the preoccupation with power lifting. Then, the bulking, the nutritional shakes, the gut-busting meals. Then the monthly trips to super secret boot camp with Midoriya.

Whenever anybody asked, Bakugou waved them off, saying it was so he could handle his quirk better. No matter that he seemed to handle himself just fine when he had the body of a gymnast.

But soon enough, he’d gotten so big, so broad, so /strong/ that he made Endeavor look trim, and sparring one person at a time just didn’t cut it anymore.

So maybe he started asking Deku to join the very special quirkless sparring session that had been

Kirishima and Bakugou’s alone for /years./ And Kirishima couldn’t really be mad, because it made sense on paper. Bakugou was 6’3” and about two hundred and eighty pounds of pure power,

and without quirks, it took the two of them together to give Bakugou a decent workout. That stung a little. Just a little. Manly aspirations of gianthood stayed just that—aspirations. Kirishima topped out at a measly 5’8”.

He was strong for his size, he knew that, he put just as much effort as Bakugou into bulking up after high school. At least he was still taller than Deku.

And, well. It doesn’t make Kirishima jealous that he wasn’t enough anymore. It /doesn’t./

After all, Bakugou may make it a point to shove his bloody knuckles into Deku’s mouth after particularly rough missions, but he only does his thinly veiled locker room strip tease for Kirishima.

And he only pays for Kirishima’s food when they all go out together. And nobody but Kirishima is ever allowed to treat Bakugou, though even that is rare. (Which was a good thing, because Bakugou can /eat./) And only Kirishima gets to wear his old clothes, which he keeps in the

drawer next to Kirishima’s spare toothbrush and hair gel, since nobody else is allowed to sleep over. (Though, Kirishima often finds himself wide awake on Bakugou’s couch in Bakugou’s medium-sized high school hoodie wishing he was swimming in the 3XL one

draped over the armchair instead, the one that smells like /him./)

“Hey,” Bakugou growls. “The fuck are you spacing out for?”

Kirishima’s heart skips, then beats double time at just the sight of Bakugou looming there in nothing but boxer briefs and the custom gold dog tags Kirishima gave him one year. He’s always looking, never touching,

never knowing what it would feel like to shove his face between those hefty, bouncy pecs and breathe in the concentrated smell of sweat and burnt caramel and—

“You sick or something?” Bakugou said, voice laced with genuine concern. “You’re always so excited for halloween.”

“ I’m fine, man,” Kirishima said, pasting on a grin. He bent to pull on one of the stockings. “Just lost in thought is all.”

Bakugou grunts, and Kirishima understands that in the language of Bakugou’s grunts, this one means mild displeasure.

“If you don’t want to wear that stupid costume, don’t fuckin wear it.”

“But then we won’t be matching! Plus, Denki said—“

“You’re already manly as hell,” Bakugou says. “You don’t have to prove shit to anybody.”

Kirishima blinks at the irony of having his manliness praised by a living goliath whilst pulling on a pair of gauzy thigh-high stockings.

“Am I though?” he says softly. “I’m short—“

“/Average./“ Bakugou grunts.

“And that magazine put me on the list of pretty boys /again/ this year.”

“You’re—ugh, there’s nothing wrong with—“

“Should I cut my hair?” Kirishima says, pulling on a shaggy lock. He let his mane grow half way down his back in recent years.

He liked the way it looked when he was unbreakable, like some sort of demonic hedgehog. But maybe it makes him look girly when he wore it down like this.

“Do /not/ cut your hair,” Bakugou says, slamming his fist on the locker.

“Woah, man, relax,” Kirishima says, standing to grab the dress from where it hung. “Why not?”

“Because,” Bakugou grumbles, angrily stepping into ripped jeans. “You like it long.”

“You think so?” Kirishima says, squeezing his muscular arms into the puff sleeves. The dress is /tight./ “Zip me up, yeah?”

Bakugou grunts, Kirishima understands that in the language of Bakugou’s grunts, this one is reluctant.

But then a very big, very warm hand is sweeping his hair over one shoulder while the other slowly zipped the dress to where it stopped, mid-back. Then, with both hands,

Bakugou sinks his fingers into Kirishima’s hair and combs it back over his shoulder till it falls in spiky waves down his exposed shoulders.

“Thanks, man.”

“Any time,” Bakugou grumbles. “Leave your fuckin hair alone, okay?”

“All right, all right,” Kirishima says, tying a red hooded cape over his shoulders. “Ready!”

“Wait a minute,” Bakugou says, manhandling Kirishima till he was facing the other way. “Your drawers are showing. Take em off.”

“No fucking way, man,” Kirishima said. “That’s hella embarrassing.”

“ More embarrassing than everybody seeing your shitty Crimson Riot boxer shorts? Hold on, I got somethin you can wear instead. Go on, take those off.”

Kirishima bites his lip. It isn’t every day that Bakugou asks him to take his underwear off.

So he hikes up the fluffy skirt and shoves down his boxers, nervous excitement fluttering in his chest when he realizes how exposed he is.

“Here,” Bakugou says, holding out a tiny wad of black cloth.

“Thanks, man,” Kirishima says, plucking the garment from Bakugou’s big hand. He shakes it out, expecting a pair of briefs...but what he gets is a sheer-cup jock strap.

“Woah, why do you have this?”

The thing was small. Small enough to be Deku’s. Kirishima’s face falls.

“Whose is this, man? I don’t want to wear some random dude’s—”

“Look at the back, idiot,” Bakugou grumbles, cheeks tinting pink as he turns back to his locker to finish dressing.

Kirishima turns the tiny garment in his hands until he finds a tag sewn flush to the waistband.

It says “Katsuki” in faded sharpie, just like all his other clothes from high school.

“Oh damn,” Kirishima murmurs, suddenly distracted by the image of sixteen-year-old spitfire messy-hair sour-faced Bakugou, spread out on his dorm room bed in nothing but /these./

“Hurry up,” Bakugou grumbles. “We’re gonna be late.”

And wow. Bakugou’s ‘costume’ is barely that. Ripped jeans, big black combat boots, his motorcycle jacket, /no shirt/ (god help me, Kirishima thinks)—and worst of all,

a black collar strapped tight around his thick neck with a bone-shaped tag hanging off the front.

“Where’s, uh, the rest of your costume, dude,” Kirishima says.

Bakugou tsks and grabs a bag from his locker.

“I’ll put it on when we get there. Wouldn’t fit under the helmet. Now c’mon, let’s go.”

It’s said in that commanding tone of voice that brooks no argument—the same tone that makes Kirishima’s stomach flip in a good bad way.

So he hurriedly steps into /Bakugou’s skimpy underwear/, pulling it up under the folds of his skirt.

The walk from the agency locker rooms to the underground parking garage where Bakugou keeps his motorcycle feels longer than usual.

Kirishima can feel every breeze, every subtle change in temperature on his bare legs. He hesitates when they finally get to the bike, and Bakugou throws an unimpressed look over his shoulder as he straps on his helmet.

Suddenly that long saddle, which Bakugou specifically bought so Kirishima could ride double, seems...forbidding. Kirishima feels so naked, so exposed. But the point of the night is to show just how confident

he is in his manhood, so he throws a stocking-clad leg over the seat, and he only shivers a little when his bare ass meets the cool black leather.

But then his arms are around Bakugou’s thick torso, cheek pressed to his broad, warm back,

and the bike roars to life underneath them, and all his nerves give way to the giddy thrill of ripping through the garage and out onto the highway, wind whipping through his wild hair.

Bakugou drives like he’s trying to beat the sun, weaving between cars and leaning into fast risky turns. Kirishima’s thighs tingle with the hum of the engine, and he can feel the air rushing up and

billowing out his costume skirt. Behind them, the moon is rising, full and bright, glowing in the hazy twilight.