Title: Red Riot, Helmet Hero [pairing]
Rating/Warnings: PG-13
Summary: Osaka pro Kirishima gets a motorcycle; Bakugou has some feelings about it.
AN: Written for Shiritori. here’s some random Kirishima/Bakugou about motorcycles.
Red Riot, Helmet Hero
The engine roars to life and Kirishima beams at Bakugou expectantly. The motorcycle sounds loud rather than smooth and needs either a new paint job or else someone to shoot it to put out of its misery.
“No,” Bakugou says flatly. Kirishima only grins harder. “Absolutely not.”
“Coward,” Kirishima teases, wiggling his eyebrows. “Come on, you don’t trust Osaka’s number one rookie to get you safely from A to B?”
“Is B the sidewalk and A the side of my face?” Bakugou asked, eying the motorcycle critically. “Where did you even get that piece of shit?”
“Saved a garage from an arsonist.” Kirishima’s voice is proud, and Bakugou knows that it’s this story Kirishima wants to show off more than the bike, a good story, a clean solve. How well he knows his territory and the citizens who live in it. “Owner fixed it up for me as a thank you. Big guy, too, he had this tattoo—”
“Save it,” Bakugou interrupts, hands shoved in his jacket so he doesn’t take Kirishima’s big dumb face in his hands and kiss the smile right off it. Osaka’s been so good for Kirishima as a sidekick with Fat Gum, good for his reputation and his rank, but most of all good for Kirishima to see himself the way Bakugou aways has, as a pro, strong, tough, good. An adult with his shit together, unlike his freelance, low-100s-ranked boyfriend who still lives with his parents.
If they were in Tokyo, Bakugou wouldn’t give two shits about kissing Kirishima on the sidewalk, but this is Kirishima’s territory and Bakugou thinks about Kirishima’s reputation more than he ever worries about his own.
“Tell me later,” Bakugou grunts. Kirishima’s eyes go hooded, his grin turning into more of a leer. “I don’t want to hear it until I can do something good about it.”
“Why, Bakugou Katsuki, are you trying to distract me from taking you out to dinner?” Kirishima asks. “Nice try, but I promised Fats I’d make you try this yakitori place this weekend, and last time I let you sweet-talk me into bed first, I barely made it to my Monday morning patrol.”
“Sweet-talk,” Bakugou snorts. Kirishima shoves the spare helmet into Bakugou’s hands. “I said if you didn’t fuck me I was going to murder you.”
“Sounds sweet to me,” Kirishima chuckles as Bakugou shoves his head into the helmet. He raps a knuckle against the helmets visor, laughing as Bakugou smacks his hand away. He reaches for his own helmet and jams it down over his hair spikes with some effort. He doesn’t need the helmet for obvious reasons, but Kirishima is big on setting an example now that a bunch of the neighborhood kids exchange muscle poses with him on his patrols. He reaches out to snag Bakugou by the waist and pull him in close against his thigh, like they’re on the cover of a motorcycle magazine and Bakugou is the bimbo.
They can’t kiss with the helmets on, but Kirishima bonks his helmet gently against Bakugou’s, sweet.
“C’mon, babe,” Kirishima coaxes, as if Bakugou isn’t already a lost cause for him. “Lemme show you a good time.”
