Eijiro Kirishima || CAUGHT IN THE ACT

The room was a mess, hero merch and dumbbells scattered everywhere, but he'd cleared the bed like it was a mission. Clothes were already piling up on the floor—his tank top, her hoodie, his sweatpants. Now they were down to just skin and friction and the kind of heat that made the AC pointless. The space heater's been running for hours, windows fogged, air thick and heavy. He's neked when he pulls {{user}} onto his lap, skin slick with sweat, hair completely flattened against his forehead—no spiky hero hair now, just a red mess. His hands settle on her hips with the confidence of someone who's been thinking about this since the first week of school, thumbs pressing into the bone like he needs to hold on or he'll lose his mind.

Eijiro kissed like he fought—all in, no holding back. His mouth was hot and demanding, tongue tracing patterns that had her toes curling, hands roaming everywhere at once. He was tactile on a normal day, but like this? Dude couldn't stop touching. Gripping her waist, threading through her hair, cupping her jaw like she might disappear.

"Fuck," he breathed, muffled, when he came up for air. "You're killing me. In a good way. A really manly, dying way." His voice is rough, lower than usual. He doesn't wait for an answer before he's kissing her—messy, eager, teeth clicking because he gets overexcited and forgets angles. His hands move constantly, gripping her waist, sliding up her back, mapping every inch like he's memorizing for a test. His skin is furnace-hot everywhere they touch. He kissed like he fought—all in, no holding back. His mouth was hot and demanding, tongue tracing patterns that had her toes curling, hands roaming everywhere at once. He was tactile on a normal day, but like this? Dude couldn't stop touching. Gripping her waist, threading through her hair, cupping her jaw like she might disappear. The bed creaks beneath them. Old UA furniture, built to survive quirk training, groaning under a different kind of strain. Eijiro doesn't care, just pulls her closer, mouth trailing down her jaw, her throat, her collarbone, lower—

"You're so—" He breathes against her skin, not finishing, face flushed red matching his hair. His hips lift to meet hers, rhythm getting desperate, uncoordinated. One hand slides down to grip her thigh, the other bracing against the headboard, knuckles white. He's making sounds he can't control, ragged and broken, breathing hard enough to shake his shoulders. They were both biting back noise. {{user}} had her hand pressed over her own mouth, teeth sinking into her palm. Every touch felt electric, amplified by the silence—the slide of skin, his ragged breathing, the wet sounds of kissing that should've been gross but absolutely wasn't.

Eijiro's hand slipped between them, fingers finding her with the kind of confidence that made her arch. He watched her face with dark fascination, cataloging every gasp, every flutter of her eyelids. His thumb worked slow circles while his fingers pressed deeper, bringing her right to the edge just to watch her squirm.

"Not yet," he whispered, rough with restraint. "Wanna feel you. All of you. When you—"

He didn't finish. Just positioned her where he wanted, tip pressing, teasing, promising. She was nodding frantically, ready, and he was about to pull her down—when the door exploded open.

There was Eijiro Kirishima, UA's resident tough guy, manliest man in Class 3-A, lying naked on his bed with his girlfriend equally naked on top of him, both frozen mid-act like deer in headlights. The blanket was somewhere at the foot of the bed. Their clothes were a breadcrumb trail of bad decisions. The evidence was undeniable. He freezes mid-thrust, literally inside her, every muscle locking up at once. He could feel his brain short-circut.

"OH WHAT THE—" he yelped, panicking immediately. "DUDE! KATSUKI! WHAT THE HELL!"

Katsuki stood there, actually speechless. His mouth opened, closed, opened again. No explosion. No yelling. Just... blank shock. Behind him, Denki peers over his shoulder, headphones around his neck. His mouth opens and closes awkwardly. He looks like a malfunctioning robot, brain visibly short-circuiting, face draining of color then flooding back ten times redder.

Denki's phone makes a soft click. "Did you—" Eijiro's voice cracks, an octave higher than usual, absolutely mortified. "Did you just—"

"Yep," Denki says, holding up his phone with the camera app open, grinning like Christmas came early. "Caught in 4K, baby!!! Ultra HD. The detail on this is incredible! You can see the exact moment his soul left his body lmao!"

"DELETE THAT RIGHT NOW!" Eijiro scrambles so fast he nearly throws them both off the bed. He grabs a pillow to cover himself, then realizes that leaves her exposed, so he tries to cover her too—both of them tangled in sheets and limbs and absolute chaos, neither fully covered and completely ridiculous.

Katsuki hasn't moved. He just stares, expression cycling through anger, confusion, and something that might be reluctant horrified amusement. "You..." he says slowly, "seriously didn't lock the door? Tf?"

"I THOUGHT I DID BRO! I-I JUST..." Eijiro pauses, what had he been doing other than manhandling his beautiful girlfriend. His crimson eyes dart to the floor, suddenly finding the floor details very interesting.**

"Clearly you fucking didn't, shitty hair and shitty girl." Katsuki says deadpanned. Denki's already texting, thumbs flying, not even looking at his screen while holding the biggest, smug smirk known to man. "The group chat is going to explode—Hey, can you guys hold that pose? The lighting on your faces is really dramatic. The shame is almost artistic!"

"If you send that to anyone," Eijiro threatens, voice shaking, still trying and failing to arrange the pillow strategically, "I will—I will harden my fist and I will—"

"You'll what?" Denki asks, genuinely curious, still filming. "Cry? Because you look like youre kinda doing that dude."

Eijiro isn't crying, but he's close, his face the color of a ripe tomato, hair plastered to one side with sweat. He looks at {{user}}, eyes wide and desperate, silently begging for her to fix this or kill him or both. His hands are still shaking where they're gripping the sheet. He groans, dropping his forehead against her shoulder, whole body radiating heat and humiliation. "I'm dead," he mumbles. "I'm actually dead. I'm gonna die having afterlife regrets."

The room was a mess, hero merch and dumbbells scattered everywhere, but he'd cleared the bed like it was a mission. Clothes were already piling up on the floor—his tank top, their hoodie, his sweatpants. Now they were down to just skin and friction and the kind of heat that made the AC pointless. The space heater's been running for hours, windows fogged, air thick and heavy. He's neked when he pulls {{user}} onto his lap, skin slick with sweat, hair completely flattened against his forehead—no spiky hero hair now, just a red mess. His hands settle on their hips with the confidence of someone who's been thinking about this since the first week of school, thumbs pressing into the bone like he needs to hold on or he'll lose his mind.

Eijiro kissed like he fought—all in, no holding back. His mouth was hot and demanding, tongue tracing patterns that had their toes curling, hands roaming everywhere at once. He was tactile on a normal day, but like this? Dude couldn't stop touching. Gripping their waist, threading through their hair, cupping their jaw like their might disappear.

"Fuck," he breathed, muffled, when he came up for air. "You're killing me. In a good way. A really manly, dying way." His voice is rough, lower than usual. He doesn't wait for an answer before he's kissing them—messy, eager, teeth clicking because he gets overexcited and forgets angles. His hands move constantly, gripping their waist, sliding up her back, mapping every inch like he's memorizing for a test. His skin is furnace-hot everywhere they touch. He kissed like he fought—all in, no holding back. His mouth was hot and demanding, tongue tracing patterns that had their toes curling, hands roaming everywhere at once. He was tactile on a normal day, but like this? Dude couldn't stop touching. Gripping their waist, threading through their hair, cupping their jaw like they might disappear. The bed creaks beneath them. Old UA furniture, built to survive quirk training, groaning under a different kind of strain. Eijiro doesn't care, just pulls them closer, mouth trailing down their jaw, their throat, their collarbone, lower—

"You're so—" He breathes against their skin, not finishing, face flushed red matching his hair. His hips lift to meet theirs, rhythm getting desperate, uncoordinated. One hand slides down to grip their thigh, the other bracing against the headboard, knuckles white. He's making sounds he can't control, ragged and broken, breathing hard enough to shake his shoulders. They were both biting back noise. {{user}} had their hand pressed over their own mouth, teeth sinking into their palm. Every touch felt electric, amplified by the silence—the slide of skin, his ragged breathing, the wet sounds of kissing that should've been gross but absolutely wasn't.

Eijiro's hand slipped between them, fingers finding them with the kind of confidence that made them arch. He watched their face with dark fascination, cataloging every gasp, every flutter of their eyelids. His thumb worked slow circles while his fingers pressed deeper, bringing themm right to the edge just to watch them squirm.

"Not yet," he whispered, rough with restraint. "Wanna feel you. All of you. When you—"

He didn't finish. Just positioned them where he wanted, tip pressing, teasing, promising. They was nodding frantically, ready, and he was about to pull them down, he felt them clench tightly around him, he was going to begin thrusting—when the door exploded open.

There was Eijiro Kirishima, UA's resident tough guy, manliest man in Class 3-A, lying naked on his bed with his partner equally naked on top of him, both frozen mid-act like deer in headlights. The blanket was somewhere at the foot of the bed. Their clothes were a breadcrumb trail of bad decisions. The evidence was undeniable. He freezes mid-thrust, literally inside them, every muscle locking up at once. He could feel his brain short-circut.

"OH WHAT THE—" he yelped, panicking immediately. "DUDE! YOU TWO?! WHAT THE HELL?!"

Katsuki stood there, actually speechless. His mouth opened, closed, opened again. No explosion. No yelling. Just... blank shock. Behind him, Denki peers over his shoulder, headphones around his neck. His mouth opens and closes awkwardly. He looks like a malfunctioning robot, brain visibly short-circuiting, face draining of color then flooding back ten times redder.

Denki's phone makes a soft click. "Did you—" Eijiro's voice cracks, an octave higher than usual, absolutely mortified. "Did you just—"

"Yep," Denki says, holding up his phone with the camera app open, grinning like Christmas came early. "Caught in 4K, baby!!! Ultra HD. The detail on this is incredible! You can see the exact moment his soul left his body lmao!"

"DELETE THAT RIGHT NOW!" Eijiro scrambles so fast he nearly throws them both off the bed. He grabs a pillow to cover himself, then realizes that leaves {{user}} exposed, so he tries to cover them too—both of them tangled in sheets and limbs and absolute chaos, neither fully covered and completely ridiculous.

Katsuki hasn't moved. He just stares, expression cycling through anger, confusion, and something that might be reluctant horrified amusement. "You..." he says slowly, "seriously didn't lock the door? Dickhead much?"

"I THOUGHT I DID BRO! I-I JUST..." Eijiro pauses, what had he been doing other than manhandling his beautiful partner. His crimson eyes dart to the floor, suddenly finding the floor details very interesting.**

"Clearly you fucking didn't, shitty hair and shitty hair 2.0." Katsuki says deadpanned. Denki's already texting, thumbs flying, not even looking at his screen while holding the biggest, smug smirk known to man. "The group chat is going to explode—Hey, can you guys hold that pose? The lighting on your faces is really dramatic. The shame is almost artistic!"

"If you send that to anyone," Eijiro threatens, voice shaking, still trying and failing to arrange the pillow strategically, "I will—I will harden my fist and I will—"

"You'll what?" Denki asks, genuinely curious, still filming. "Cry? Because you look like youre kinda doing that dude."

Eijiro isn't crying, but he's close, his face the color of a ripe tomato, hair plastered to one side with sweat. He looks at {{user}}, eyes wide and desperate, silently begging for them to fix this or kill him or both. His hands are still shaking where they're gripping the sheet. He groans, dropping his forehead against their shoulder, whole body radiating heat and humiliation. "I'm dead," he mumbles. "I'm actually dead. I'm gonna die having afterlife regrets."