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Go for the Throat

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The room is dark except for the blue rectangle of his phone screen on the counter. Shinsou watches it go off once, twice, three times, before making the decision to see who’s texting him. It’s a process—slowly sitting up, rolling the ache out of his shoulders, trying to get to his feet without triggering a headache because he still hasn’t had time to find a convenience store for some goddamn painkillers. 

He doesn't have painkillers, furniture, or even a blanket for the mattress he was sleeping on. He’s been on a deep cover mission for the past three years. Back in ‘society’ for three days. His agency-provided studio is a shithole basement affair, but still better than where he’d been staying before. At least it’s relatively clean and devoid of people likely to slit his throat. 

There’s some thing his boss wants him to go through back at the agency, but he'd elected to ignore it on the account of doing whatever the fuck he wants, and also sleeping for thirty-six hours straight. And he did already debrief, so...

So all he’s done is sleep. He doesn’t even have contacts on his shiny new phone, which is the only reason it’s worth getting out of bed to see who the hell texted him. There’s about thirty texts, and Shinsou feels like he’s aged thirty years just by reading them all. It’s Kaminari. It has to be, because no one else texts like that except Midoriya, and Midoriya uses green heart emojis like he’ll die if he doesn’t. He feels abruptly nostalgic. He hasn’t talked to either of them in three long years. From twenty-five to twenty-eight. 

There’s a brief, familiar pang of grief for the chunk of his life that's just gone.  

Shinsou shakes it off, hops on the counter, and reads through Kaminari’s fucking ADHD novel on the screen. Apparently, he’d gotten Shinsou’s new number from Shinsou’s parents, who’d gotten it from the agency because they were still his emergency contact, and he wanted to know how Shinsou was settling in, if he wanted to hang out, if he’d seen this meme, if he’d seen the new rankings on which Kaminari is finally 25th, if he wanted to come to the get together at Kaminari’s apartment that night. 

Shinsou waits to feel something. Nerves, maybe, but nothing really makes him nervous anymore. He could easily hole up in his little cave-studio and claim he’s not ready, but he really doesn’t give a shit either way. And he does need to start reintegrating into society, but last week he’d shot a man through the neck for crossing fucking Takahiro like he had some kind of death wish. Well, call Shinsou a fucking genie, because that was a wish granted. 

Then it was another line tattooed his forearm, marking his fourteenth and last unapproved kill. Hopefully the last.

His approved kill list is too long for an arm, and he doesn’t want to fuck up the Tebori sleeve on his other side. It had taken for-fucking-ever, and the artist only took people in the syndicate. She’s in jail, now, probably. Shinsou vaguely thinks it’s a shame, looking at the snake winding up his arm. She'd made masterpieces, but she was as dirty as the rest of them. Now they’re all rotting in prison together, because Shinsou had put them there. The guilt is expected, another familiar feeling. He’d been one of them. For so long. Done so much—

He needs to focus on the present. Focus on his old hero friends, people like Kaminari, whose worst crime is probably forgetting to brush his teeth. 

He texts Kaminari back, asking for an address. His phone lights up again, likely with the sequel to the first novel but at least this time it does include directions. He hums to himself as he roots through the plastic bag holding his clothes. He’s got… not much. 

He leaves his apartment in a wifebeater under an old, patched up bomber jacket and some distressed jeans that are distressed in the truest sense of the word. He looks like shit, but at least he looks like dangerous shit. He gets two city blocks before he remembers he doesn’t actually need to look dangerous, not anymore.

Not that it’s avoidable now. That ship sailed several piercings and about a hundred tattoos ago. People avoid him on the street. He doesn't mind it, not really. At least he’s not being ostracized for his quirk anymore. Now it’s just for a face full of metal and ink.

Kaminari meets him outside with a running jump, landing square on Shinsou’s chest like he’s a fucking kid on a playground set. 

“Dude,” he shouts in Shinsou’s ear, “I missed you, what the fuck! It’s been so long! What the fuck! Dude!”

Shinsou pries him off, long-suffering but ultimately affectionate. Kaminari’s staring at him, golden eyes wide and luminous in the streetlights alone. His eyes have always looked like they have their own energy to them, a bit of electricity framed by gold lashes. Real fucking pretty. They’d hooked up on occasion, back in the day… way back. Maybe Kaminari’s thinking about it too, based on the way his eyes comb over Shinsou’s body.

“You look… different,” he finally says. Shinsou worries at one of his snake bites, pushing the metal around with his tongue as he sizes Kaminari up. He knows he looks different. A lot different. The sides of his head are permanently buzzed, and the wavy mess of purple on his head is lazily flopping over to the side because Shinsou couldn’t find any hair ties in his plastic-bag-wardrobe. 

But it’s the tattoos Kaminari is staring at. Specifically the one on his neck that says DON’T TALK TO ME in bold, jagged kanji . That one’s not exactly fun to talk about, but he’s… over it now. His tattoos are a mix of good memories, traumatic episodes of his life, and just plain old dumbass ideas. There really was no good reason to get Taste the Rainbow tattooed on his inner thighs. It’s not like the arrows pointing at his dick were necessary. 

He holds up his hands, showing off twin knuckle tattoos instead. “Hush,” Shinsou grins, echoing the words on his fingers. 

“Looks sick,” Kaminari says happily. “Wanna come inside?”

It’s easy to let himself be dragged inside. He’s swarmed immediately, crowded by old friends. Sero’s touching the sides of his head, Mina’s examining his jacket, Jirou’s trying to talk to him about piercings, and Kirishima is bellowing something about manliness from across the room. Three years ago, Shinsou would have been overwhelmed. Now, being prodded by a group of benign but enthusiastic do-gooders isn’t enough to make him blink. 

It’s still a bit of a relief to escape them and search Kaminari’s kitchen for a beer. His place is nice. Like, decorated-by-someone-who-isn’t-Kaminari nice, and a far cry from Shinsou’s walk-in-closet of a place. It feels kind of like everyone hit the interior decoration phase of adulthood while Shinsou was stuck living with a bunch of people ready to knife his vertebrae. Just another thing to shrug off. If he wants a fancy place, he probably can swing it if he bullies agency payroll just right.

Bakugou’s crouched in front of the fridge, digging around for something in a way that’s unbecoming of his unnecessarily branded designer t-shirt. 

Shinsou kicks at his leg. “Yo, grab me one?”

Bakugou looks at Shinsou’s foot. There’s a hole in the end of his sock, and two of his toes are sticking out, purple toe hair and all. Bakugou looks up at Shinsou, eyes narrowed in disgust. “Don’t fucking touch me.”

“Or what,” Shinsou says automatically, already primed for a fight by the time Bakugou’s on his feet. 

“Or I’ll knock your fucking teeth out,” Bakugou snaps in his face, stepping forwards. Shinsou knows that look, the tightly-strung, ready-to-snap feeling that precedes violence and is a steady constant in Shinsou’s own mind. He’s already  pushing Bakugou back with a hand to the chest as Bakugou snarls, “Stuck-up piece of shit, don’t fucking push me.”

Then Bakugou’s got a heated hand on Shinsou’s neck, pushing him back and out of the way as he heads back to the living room. But his hand is on Shinsou’s neck, and suddenly it’s every early-morning back alley street fight and Shinsou can’t tolerate this shit, not if he wants to live through the fucking day. He’s grabbing Bakugou’s wrist in an instant, his other hand grabbing the back of his neck as he slams him face-first onto the edge of the counter. Bakugou whips back up, eyes wide and blood streaming from his nose. 

“I’m gonna fucking kill you,” he shouts, launching himself bodily at Shinsou. They hit the ground hard, fists flying. Bakugou’s bloody nose leaves smears of crimson on the linoleum, and Shinsou damn near bites through his tongue when Bakugou lands an elbow to his chin. 

But Shinsou’s used to fighting dirty, to fighting in close-quarters, and it’s just a matter of moments before he’s back on top, body heavy over Bakugou’s, heels hooked under his knees, hands on his throat. 

“Don’t fucking cross me,” Shinsou’s spitting out, enraged by the sheer audacity that someone would pick a fight with him. “I will fucking end you.”

“What the—stop, fuck,” the other man wheezes out, eyes blazing in fury, tears welling up as Shinsou cuts off his air.

“Shoulda thought about that before fucking with me,” Shinsou growls, pressing down harder to counter the man’s increasingly desperate efforts to escape. 

“S-stop,” he croaks, hands heating up on Shinsou’s wrists. Really heating up. Then there’s a flash of white-yellow light, followed by searing pain and the smell of burning flesh. 

“Mother fucker!” Shinsou shouts, keeping his grip, his face a twisted mask of pain. The fire hits again, and it feels like his wrists are being blown apart. The man under him is finally stilling, eyes doing dim as he realizes Shinsou’s got the permanent upper hand.

Then he’s slapping at Shinsou’s upper arm, above his elbow, quick as fast as he breathes out, barely audibly, “Tap I tap I tap taptaptap—”

Shinsou lets go immediately, conditioned by over a decade of combat training to let go when a tap’s called. Bakugou coughs weakly, hands flying to his abused throat as he glares at Shinsou through narrowed eyes. 

“What the fuck,” he croaks out. Shinsou stares at him, finally remembering where he is and who he’s with. Everyone’s standing frozen in the cramped doorway to the kitchen, as though they’d just sprinted in from the living room only to see Shinsou let him go. 

Fuck, Shinsou’s a fucking monster. Well, that’s not news. 

“Sorry,” he says, shrugging. 

“Sorry?” Ashido shrieks, then quiets as Bakugou rolls onto his side, clumsily getting to his feet. 

“S’fine,” Bakugou growls. “I started it.” Then he’s shouldering past everyone, probably just fucking sulking that he lost. He shouldn’t have fucked with Shinsou, then. Kaminari’s staring at Shinsou, pretty gold eyes all wide and horrified. 

“Man, you need to go cool off,” he says, in a tone that’s meant to be authoritative but definitely falls short of the kind of authority that Shinsou’s used to. But… fuck, Shinsou’s already probably killed the mood enough. He gets to his feet, slowly becoming aware of the white-hot pain in his wrists. 

“Sure,” he says mildly, leaving through the same gap Bakugou had shouldered through earlier. He finds a nice spot outside Kaminari’s apartment complex, and leans against a lamp post as he fishes for the pack of smokes that's almost certainly in his pockets somewhere. He finds them in the inside pocket of his jacket, and heaves out a sigh. His hands shake as he flicks on his lighter, holding its wavering flame over the end of cigarette. 

His wrists are fucked, covered in first and second-degree burns. It hurts so much he can barely feel it, but the nicotine helps calm the shaking a bit. He needs to kick the habit, now that there’s no need to play a part. 

He’s on his second smoke when Bakugou turns up, hands shoved in the pockets of his probably-designer pants, chin lifted in that sulky pout he does that Shinsou hates. There’s a bit of blood smeared under his nose, on his chin. Shinsou looks at the pretty, purple bruise spreading across Bakugou's throat and feels way more guilty than he’s accustomed to. 

“Yo,” Bakugou says. His voice is still raspy, and he’s definitely tense. His eyes rake up and down Shinsou’s body, taking every detail from his scuffed shoes to his shaking hands. Shinsou breathes smoke out through his nostrils, watching it curl soft and orange under the streetlamp’s light.

“Sorry about earlier,” Shinsou offers. Bakugou nods in a small, jerky motion. Shinsou thinks there’s a ring of green pooling under his right eye. 

“I shouldn’t have blown up like that,” Bakugou says gruffly, surprising Shinsou. Then even more so when he adds, “Been wound up as fuck lately. Hope I didn’t freak you out too much.”

Shinsou’s pushing off the post before he can think better of it, up in Bakugou’s space, staring down at him. And damn, he’s got good height on the guy. “You think you can freak me out?” 

Bakugou huffs out a laugh. “Tryna fight again already? You’re fucking easy. Anyway. Was just gonna say I explained shit to the idiots in there. You can go back in if you want.”

“Forget it,” Shinsou says, flicking ash off the end of his cig and onto Bakugou’s fancy t-shirt. Bakugou looks at the smudge on his shoulder, then back up at Shinsou. 

Then he bites his lip, saying, “Why not? Scared?”

“Don’t make me choke you again,” Shinsou says mildly, with absolutely no intention of doing so, but damn, Bakugou’s eyes begin to smolder. 

“What if you did?” Bakugou’s eyes are locked on his, unafraid and full of challenge. Right. Shinsou is revising his earlier statement about not meaning the choking thing. 

“You’re fucked up,” Shinsou finally says.

“And you aren’t?”

Bakugou’s fucking with him. He has to be, but Shinsou can’t tell if he’s trying to fight or fuck and shit, his wrists really hurt. He’s also pretty sure he’s bleeding from somewhere on his scalp, and the knuckles of his left hand are bloodied. Fucking hell. It doesn’t matter that he gave better than he got, he’s itching for revenge. Itching to wipe the insubordination off Bakugou’s pretty, bloody face. 

But he already ruined Kami’s night. He shouldn't ruin anything else, Bakugou included. He’s back one day and he’s already alienated half his friends. He supposes it won’t be any different than the last three years, though. He'd managed without them just fine. Sorta.

“I’m not anything you need to know about,” Shinsou says, pausing to take another long drag. “Go back inside. I’m out of here once I’m done with this.”

“Hell no. I’ll retch if they try to baby me for one more fucking minute.”

“Aw, don’t like being babied? Run along home, then.” 

“Yeah, sure,” Bakugou says, “let’s go.” His gaze drops, then slowly climbs back up Shinsou’s frame. Shinsou can practically feel it drifting over his skin, and shit, maybe Bakugou is checking him out. 

“Let’s?”

“So you're saying  you don’t want to choke me again,” Bakugou says, his voice dropping to a deeper register. 

Shinsou feels his face twitch. That’s a… a bold fucking invitation. He’s already up in Bakugou’s space, but the little shit hasn’t backed off, and suddenly the few inches of space between them is charged like a pack of TNT. And hell, it’s been a minute since he’s had a good lay and he really wouldn’t mind wrapping a hand around that pale neck. Again.

“You trying to get roughed up?”

“If you think you can manage it,” Bakugou says, meeting his eyes one last time before turning to head down the street. Shinsou watches him go, scratching the itchy cut on his scalp and  utterly transfixed by the way Bakugou’s shirt clings to his narrow waist. It’s worth a shot, he decides. Hopefully Bakugou can handle what’s coming to him. 

Shinsou behaves himself on the walk over, silently finishing out his smoke and tossing it in a storm drain when he’s done. They make it all the way inside Bakugou’s posh-as-fuck apartment without speaking. It’s practically a fucking penthouse, up near the top floor with a killer view of the city. Floor-to-ceiling windows. 

“My place is like, 100 square feet,” Shinsou says. 

“I’m top three, bitch,” Bakugou says, taking off his shoes, placing them on the shoe rack, and putting on some slippers. 

“You think I give a shit?”

“I know you don’t. Why do you think you’re here?”

“Christ, you’re really trying to get fucked,” Shinsou says, laughing despite himself. "You always this desperate, or did you get that hard from me wrecking your shit?"

Bakugou looks away sharply, and fuck, Shinsou had been joking but what if? 

That ‘what if’ has him tossing his shoes carelessly on the floor, stepping over to Bakugou, and grabbing a handful of his hair. “How hard,” Shinsou repeats, “did it get you?”

“Fuck off,” Bakugou snaps, pupils scary dilated as he stills completely in Shinsou’s grip.

“You always get off when you fight?” Shinsou goes on, leaning in, speaking the words right into Bakugou’s parted lips. 

“No,” Bakugou says hoarsely, “just when. Just…” he trails off. Shinsou can feel Bakugou trembling in his grip, and fuck if he isn’t getting hard for it.

“Just when what, Bakugou? You gotta tell me if I’m gonna do it to you.”

“Getting overpowered.” His voice sounds like a fucking chainsaw, rough and violent and Shinsou needs to make him scream. As it is, his other hand is already creeping up Bakugou’s throat, tattooed fingers spreading over the bruise he’d left there earlier. 

“So that’s it? You wanna get held down and fucked? Need me to fight you for it? We both know I can take you.”

“Shit,” Bakugou groans, head dropping back into Shinsou’s grip. “Yeah, that’s it.”

“Damn, I'm gonna wreck you,” Shinsou says, voice catching slightly. He is so fucking into this and… and he needs to  pace himself.  

“Wait,” he says, dropping Bakugou in favor of rummaging through his pockets. He finally finds a condom in his back pocket. He pulls it out, holding it between them. The wrapper looks too-soft, worn down and… “I think this one’s been through the wash a few times. You got any condoms?”

“Good to know you've washed your clothes before.”

“Also a safeword," Shinsou adds, ignoring Bakugou with saintly patience.

“Uh, I guess—”

“Shit, we really should talk through this first,” Shinsou decides, tossing the shitty laundered condom onto the floor. It makes Bakugou frown, so he pulls off his jacket and tosses that on the floor, too, then strolls across the living room to set his ass on the back of the fancy fucking upholstered couch. 

“Be right back,” Bakugou says, still frowning as he picks Shinsou’s shit up off the floor and heads down the hallway to his other rooms. That he has. Damn, this dude is loaded. 

Everything looks so clean, so ordered, set up in a way that’s clearly suited to Bakugou, from the rack of weights in the corner of the living room to the chromey blender on the counter. Really fucking civilized. Shinsou lets himself fall backwards, his back landing on plush cushions and his long legs draped over the top of the couch. He stares at the upside-down view of the downtown highrises dropping into a velvet navy sky and thinks of everything he should probably clear with Bakugou. After nearly choking the guy to death, it’s really the least he can do. 

He’s still lying there when Bakugou shows back up, standing between him and those expensive goddamn windows. He drops a pump bottle of lube and a string of condoms onto the shiny surface of the coffee table.

“Kay,” Shinsou says, still upside down, “I’m gonna talk, you’re gonna listen, and then we’re gonna have a nice chat about what the fuck we’re doing.”

So they talk.

Really, it could have gone worse. Bakugou’s a fucking pain to talk to, but he picks things up quick and Shinsou’s only real concern is Bakugou’s notable lack of boundaries. Bakugou doesn’t seem to care what happens to him as long as Shinsou makes it happen. More specifically speaking, he wants Shinsou to make it happen at high velocity with his fists, which Shinsou is more than happy to do. 

A rematch, so to speak. But this time with more dick. 

Shinsou will just be careful with check-ins and hope that Bakugou doesn’t have his head too far up his ass to be real about what he can take. Shinsou reviews his mental notes and finally decides they’ve been thorough enough. At the very least, they’ve covered anything Shinsou would ever consider trying on him.

“And as long as I don’t fuck you up too bad to play hero, everything we talked about's fair game.”

“Yeah.” Bakugou’s arms are folded over his chest, his posture picture-perfect like maybe he can stop Shinsou from slouching by example alone.

“And we’re only stopping if you tap out or use the safeword.”

“Yeah I got that the first ten times,” Bakugou snaps. He looks like he wants to fight, a volatile mix of embarrassment and impatience that Shinsou’s gonna have fun playing with.

“Cool.” Shinsou finally hauls himself upright, spreads his legs, and points at his crotch. “Come suck my dick, then.”

“Are you serious?” Bakugou actually takes a step back. Anticipation curls warm in Shinsou’s stomach as he lets his knees fall a little farther apart. 

“I’m not asking you; I’m telling you. Get over here, get on your knees, and suck my cock.”

Bakugou takes another uncertain step back, his face twisting in a snarl. “Eat shit.”

“Aight,” Shinsou says, already on his feet and stepping over the coffee table. “We’ll do it the hard way.”  Bakugou steps back again, automatically shifting into a stance of a life-long brawler. Shinsou’s blood is running hot, eager, and it’s been a while since he’s had a good fuck but even longer since he’s had a good fight. 

Bakugou dodges his first haymaker, slipping out of the way with scorn in his eyes. Shinsou ducks his counter-punch, grabbing that slender waist like a line-backer with full intention to throw him right down on his pricey hardwood floor. But Bakugou plants his feet, sprawling back because, fuck, Shinsou’s fighting the number 3 hero right now, and Bakugou is scary competent. 

Shinsou really, really, likes it. His ears are ringing from the blows Bakugou is raining down on the back of his head, but his adrenaline is higher than Bakugou’s fucking 54th floor apartment, and his arousal is following quickly after.

Shinsou wins out with brute strength, muscles burning as he drives Bakugou backwards until his heels hit the window. He ignores Bakugou’s vicious cursing and shoves his hand straight down the back of Bakugou’s pants. Bakugou stiffens immediately, going rigid as Shinsou pushes his hand between his cheeks, then shouting as Shinsou grabs at his balls. The shout turns into a wretched moan as Shinsou squeezes, just hard enough to be uncomfortable. 

Bakugou’s shaking in place, hands grabbing Shinsou’s shoulders as Shinsou looks up at him. Had he forgotten they aren’t just there to fight? He watches the conflict play out on Bakugou’s face as Shinsou gropes him, the way his eyes screw shut, how he’s biting at his lower lip like he’s trying to stop himself from making a noise. 

“Feels good, huh?” Shinsou murmurs, straightening enough to mouth at his collar bone, even as he tightens his grip. “You like being helpless?”

“F-fuck you,” Bakugou says, coming out of shock enough to push at Shinsou’s shoulders. “That’s, shit, wait—” his voice cuts out as Shinsou grips harder, drinking in his pained whine. 

“Giving up already?” Shinsou asks, punctuating it with a bite to his collarbone. He likes how it feels under his teeth, and this bite is going to bruise. “Thought you wanted a fight.”

“Die,” Bakugou growls, trying to shove him away, but lacking the leverage to make it happen. 

Shinsou pulls him even closer, pressing their bodies together as he tucks his face into the smooth skin of Bakugou’s neck. Shinsou ignores his cursing, head buzzing with the rush of ignoring what Bakugou wants and taking what he wants instead. He’s always been able to take anything he wants from anyone he wants, if they’ll talk to him, and an entire lifetime of never violating that boundary makes moments like this feel so fucking good. He shuts his eyes, enjoying the slicing pain of Bakugou’s nails opening the skin on his shoulders, breathing in deep to savor the moment that he pushes damn near his entire thumb inside Bakugou’s ass. 

“Fuck, you can’t just do that!” Bakugou shouts, hands grabbing at Shinsou’s face, his hair as he tries to create distance between them. 

“I can do whatever I fucking want,” Shinsou says, curling his thumb in a way that makes Bakugou’s pretty red eyes tear up. He grabs Bakugou’s face with his other hand, pulling his head down until they’re practically kissing. Shinsou stares him dead in the eyes as he says, “I’m going to do whatever I want, and you can’t stop me.”

“Fucking try me.” The fist comes out of nowhere, right to his temple and knocking him off his feet. Only Bakugou can hit like that without any windup, and suddenly Shinsou is staggering off to the side, head ringing. The foot in his stomach comes right after, knocking him straight to the ground. 

“You little bitch,” Shinsou snaps, fury burning hotter than the pain in his ribs.

“Not so fucking tough now, are you,” Bakugou snarls, smoking fists clenched, eyes blazing as he stares down at Shinsou. “Thought you’d be less of a pushover, but you’re just another weak extra.” 

He looks so fucking haughty, all self-righteous and triumphant. Shinsou is briefly reminded of the endless stream of posters, billboards, ads, fancams, whatever of Ground Zero that is plastered across the entire region. He’s never wanted to wreck someone so bad in his life. 

“Yeah?” Shinsou drawls, dropping a hand to palm himself through his jeans. He’s so damn hard, and his eyes roll back briefly at the simple pleasure of it, and of the knowledge that he’s going to break that cocky attitude apart. “Think I’m too weak to take you?”

Bakugou’s scoff rings through the apartment. “I know you are.” 

Shinsou stares at him for one perfect moment before slamming his quirk straight into Bakugou’s defenseless mind. It feels—fuck, it feels good. It always does when he has the warmth of an extra awareness cradled in his grasp, although Bakugou is more like a wildfire than mere warmth. He stands perfectly still, eyes wide open and sightless, a priceless statue and completely, utterly Shinsou’s.

“That’s better,” he tells Bakugou’s brainless body. “You were getting kinda full of yourself.” Bakugou won’t remember any of this, but Shinsou has a habit of chatting with the people he takes. Makes it feel a little less weird. 

Shinsou gets to his feet slowly, dusting himself off. He hums to himself, walking closer, running a hand up the soft fabric of Bakugou’s shirt. Shinsou pinches at his chest, just because he can, marvelling at his sculpted torso. It’s… actually, yeah, Bakugou is easily the most powerful person he’s ever put under. Shinsou wants to do it again, and again, and again.

Shinsou is usually careful when using his quirk on people for the first time, letting them feel it out, adjust to how disorienting it can be when Shinsou wants it to. But it’s not Bakugou’s first time, even if the last time he was under Shinsou’s control was back when they trained at UA, and he knew exactly what he was getting into. 

Shinsou doesn’t bother hiding the cheshire grin of anticipation spreading across his face. Bakugou can’t see it.

“Strip,” Shinsou tells him and watches with delight as Bakugou robotically takes off his clothes then stills, obedient and goddamn gorgeous.

Even if he’s just standing there, he still looks dangerous, all defined muscle and a fuckton of scars. The worst of them are large, pale and shiny, stretching over his stomach and shoulder. But there’s others too, from cuts or burns or acid or any other number of things, and the sight of them all is sanding down the edge of disdain Shinsou holds for mainstream heroes. This isn’t the body of someone who’s lived any kind of easy life… but it’s still a body completely under his control, and Shinsou likes it way more than he should. 

Time to wake him up.

Shinsou lifts his hand, stomach soaring with anticipation as he backhands Bakugou across the face so hard that his head cracks against the glass behind him.

Shinsou crowds him immediately, grabbing a fistful of his hair. He slams his knuckles into the window, holding Bakugou’s face in place as his wide eyes regain consciousness. To his credit, he comes to faster than most, barely alert but furious nonetheless. Shinsou drops his other forearm over his neck, pushing down until he hears Bakugou wheeze. 

“I’m not like anyone else,” Shinsou tells him, slowly and clearly, making sure he’s heard over Bakugou’s labored breathing. “I can take you, hell, I can take anyone, whenever the fuck I want.”

“Not if,” Bakugou chokes out, “not if I don’t reply, and—” Shinsou puts his weight behind his arm, cutting off Bakugou’s words and airflow entirely.

“It’s cute that you still think I need that,” Shinsou says, watching Bakugou’s face slowly turn red. He does still need some kind of response to take control, but he’s way, way past the question/answer thing. He watches Bakugou closely, face hovering above his, waiting for the fight in his eyes to die out. Waiting for a tap, a safe word, something but Bakugou apparently doesn’t want to stop. It’s… pretty fucking great. Shinsou is fascinated, unable to look away from the way Bakugou’s mouth gapes open as he struggles to breath, lip split and bleeding from when Shinsou had hit him. 

Shinsou licks the blood from Bakugou’s lips. Bakugou shudders under his tongue, moaning low in his throat, hands grabbing at Shinsou’s forearm. But then his fingers scratch against the ring of burned skin and blisters on Shinsou’s wrist. Shinsou howls, reeling back reflexively as he clutches his injured arm to his chest. The briefly-forgotten pain is back, stabbing white-hot up his forearm. 

Bakugou’s hands go to his neck as he finally sucks in air, eyes wild and finally, finally afraid.

“You’re gonna pay for that,” Shinsou snaps, riding a wave of rage so strong it nearly drowns out the blinding pain in his wrist. He backhands Bakugou again, knuckles cracking across his cheekbone, snapping Bakugou’s head to the side as drops of blood fly onto hardwood. Bakugou lets out a low, wretched groan. Shinsou slaps the other side of his face without hesitation, rocking his face back the other way. 

Shinsou raises his hand again. Bakugou flinches, eyes hazy and still distracted with the disorientation that comes from being forcibly torn out of Shinsou’s quirk. 

“Wait,” he rasps, “just need a second, I can’t—” Shinsou slaps him again, the sound of it sharp and loud, echoing in the room. “Don’t—” another slap. Bakugou coughs, reaching weakly for Shinsou’s hands, clearly trying to gain back some kind of awareness, but every time he starts to recover, Shinsou hits him again. 

“Please,” Bakugou groans.

“Love when you beg,” Shinsou says hoarsely, unable to look away from the sight of it. There’s a bruise forming on Bakugou’s cheekbone, and Shinsou needs to touch it. Kiss it, bite it, something. He settles for slapping it, the crack of his palm over flesh sending a jolt of pleasure straight to his dick.

“P-please,” Bakugou repeats, eyes welling up as Shinsou, “it’s too much, my head, can’t think...” Shinsou hits him again, just for that comment. Bakugou’s head stays to the side, limp and dazed, still suffering from the aftermath of his quirk—Shinsou’s been watching the strength of his strikes, but Bakugou should be perking up by now anyway.

“I don’t care,” Shinsou says, finally stepping in to grab Bakugou’s face, turning his head back upright instead of hitting him again. “You’re gonna take it anyway.”

“No, don't,” Bakugou says, voice breaking. He sounds bad, bad enough that Shinsou moves in closer, resting his cheek against Bakugou’s, keeping them both still. Bakugou had asked for the violence, but it's still throwing Shinsou to see him look so broken.

“Color?” Shinsou murmurs, listening to Bakugou’s breath catch, then speed up as he gets dangerously close to hyperventilating. “Talk to me, baby,” Shinsou says, keeping his voice measured and calming. “You remember what to say?”

“Yeah,” Bakugou’s voice breaks. “I—” another half-breath, half-sob, then, “green, it’s green, oh fuck.” 

Shinsou swallows hard, briefly overwhelmed by the rush of power the simple word gives him. Bakugou likes this, or at least needs it enough that he wants this to continue. It’s almost like Bakugou’s realizing it, too, because now he’s shifting under Shinsou’s weight, hips twitching forwards like he’s seeking friction.

“Shit, okay,” Shinsou says, deeply pleased. He’d been prepared to be… too much. He’s used to holding back. “There you go,” he goes on, speaking the words into Bakugou’s cheek, one hand caressing his hair, “you like it, don’t you? You like when I hurt you? It’s okay, you can say it.”

Bakugou moans low in his throat, eyes finally meeting Shinsou’s. “It’s so much,” he finally says, all hoarse and wrecked. Shinsou pats his cheek in a rare moment of softness. 

“It’s gonna be a whole lot more, pet. You gotta be good for me and remember what to do if it’s too much.”

“Fuck you, I know.”

“Sweet, pretty thing,” Shinsou hums, “love how you fight back. Gonna break you so nicely.” And he is, because he’s finally starting to trust that Bakugou will enforce his own limits.

“Good luck with that,” Bakugou spits out, and Shinsou is fascinated by how quickly he’s bounced back, but he’s definitely a fighter. Shinsou can’t wait to see what he does next. So he lets Bakugou duck under his arm, or try to, at least, because Shinsou moves fast as a snake, grabbing his shoulder and spinning him, pushing him face-first into the glass and pinning him there with a foot to the small of his back.

“Didn’t say you could leave,” Shinsou grins. Bakugou snarls, trying to reach behind him to grab at Shinsou. “Why are you still fighting? I know you want it, you nasty slut.”

“Fuck off,” Bakugou groans, his voice muffled from being pressed into the window. He looks so good like that, ash-blond hair in perfect contrast to the dark night sky, bruises already forming on his back from Shinsou’s strikes, mixing with older, yellow bruises from past battles. Shinsou steps on him harder. May as well give the poor guy some bruises from pleasure while he’s at it. 

He’s so busy pressing the sole of his foot into Bakugou’s spine that he almost misses the way Bakugou’s arm is trapped against his stomach, the flex of his ass as he rocks against the  glass. Shinsou’s frozen for a moment, head swimming with the knowledge that Bakugou Katsuki is groaning under his foot and humping his own fucking hand.

Shinsou can’t help but laugh. “You fucking touching yourself right now?”

“No,” Bakugou growls, but the back of his neck is turning pink, and his hips haven’t stopped moving. So fucking defiant and slutty, and Shinsou can’t really hold back anymore. He drops his foot, pressing his chest into Bakugou’s back as he wraps a hand around his waist, grabbing his dick hard enough that Bakugou wails at the sudden pressure. 

“What, not gonna swear at me anymore?” Shinsou asks, jacking him off with one hand and grabbing his hair with the other. He’s not gentle with either.

“Fuck, that’s—that’s too hard, slow down,” Bakugou chokes out, arching away from him—or trying to at least, but Shinsou’s hold is tight and merciless. Bakugou’s whining from the rough treatment, but clearly not rough enough since he’s still talking shit like he was born for it. “Fucking sadistic bastard,” Bakugou’s growling, “shit, you goddamn freak, let me go, that hurts, I’m gonna kill you, I—”

“God, shut up,” Shinsou complains, dropping his hand from Bakugou’s hair in favor covering his mouth. Bakugou bites the meat of his hand. Shinsou snatches his hand back, cursing at the indents in his skin. Bakugou is infuriating, so perfect and angry, face as red as his flushed cock. “Fine,” Shinsou snaps, “I guess I’ll have to make you.”

“What, gotta use your quirk for everything?”

Shinsou ignores the obvious goad and reaches down to tug off one of his socks, dangling it in Bakugou’s face. “Gonna stuff this in your mouth if you don’t stop talking shit.”

“Oh, fuck no,” Bakugou actually sounds disgusted. Shinsou has never been more delighted. 

“Oh, fuck yes. Open up for me, hm?” Shinsou asks so nicely, but Bakugou doesn’t seem to want to cooperate as he tries to scramble away, hands scratching against the glass. Shinsou follows immediately after, covering his nose and mouth with a large hand, cutting off his air entirely. He stares at the way his tattooed fingers look over Bakugou’s perfect face, at the way Bakugou’s eyes bulge in rage. “What?” Shinsou asks, grinning at him, “you gonna open up now?”

Bakugou shakes his head, jaw working like he’s trying to bite Shinsou again. He can’t find purchase though, and his chest is starting to heave as he works for air. Shinsou waits him out, unreasonably turned on by how Bakugou looks when the fight drains out of him. He waits until Bakugou’s eyes are glazed over, his movements feeble and slow before he releases him. 

Bakugou sucks in air with a pained wheeze. Shinsou shoves his sock into his mouth. 

Bakugou reacts immediately, head jerking back, eyes screwed up in disgust. It probably tastes fucking vile, and Shinsou honestly doesn’t remember how long he’s been wearing them. But before Bakugou can spit it out, Shinsou slips an arm around his neck, hand clamping over his mouth, sock and all. 

Bakugou’s groan is wretched, and Shinsou is completely taken with him. He curls over Bakugou’s shoulders as he resumes jerking him off, reveling in the way Bakugou struggles to get away. He looks miserable and disgusted, but hell, it’s like he’s trying to fuck Shinsou’s fist. 

“So fucking nasty, pet,” Shinsou purrs in his ear. “You’re really getting off like this? Disgusting.” 

Bakugou’s answering moan is high-pitched and protesting, but there’s no denying the desperate way his hips stutter, the precome dripping to the floor as Shinsou jerks him off slowly, watching what pulls the most guttural moans from him, how he jerks in place when Shinsou twists his fist just right. 

Bakugou’s trying to say something, narrow red eyes pleading, his whole body tensing and untensing under Shinsou’s control and it looks like—

“Damn, kitten, you really gonna come like this? With my fucking sock in your mouth? You like how my feet taste that much?”

“Nnnnnnn,” Bakugou groans, arching against Shinsou’s chest as his eyes roll back.

“Yeah, baby? Gonna come for me?” 

“Ynnn,” Bakugou says unintelligibly, but it’s more than enough for Shinsou to slide back into his mind. Unobtrusively, carefully, stealing his consciousness away right before he comes. Shinsou feels fucking high on it, giddy with power as Bakugou convulses soundlessly, shooting cum into Shinsou’s waiting hand and all over the window. Even if his mind isn’t present, his body still needs the release. It goes on, and on. 

It probably would have been a great orgasm if Shinsou hadn’t ruined it. 

Shinsou plucks the sock from his mouth, making sure he can breathe while he’s under and drops it with a gross, wet splat on the floor next to Bakugou’s feet. He waits until Bakugou’s dick is merely twitching half-heartedly before letting him wake up.

“W-what happened,” Bakugou says, his voice tiny and hoarse. Shinsou holds up a dripping hand and smiles nice and wide. 

“You came so hard,” Shinsou purrs, “you don’t remember?”

“No, no, I can’t have, I didn’t feel anything...” he says hazily. 

“Then what’s this?” Shinsou pushes his cum-covered fingers into Bakugou’s mouth. “Why’s there cum all over my hand, hm? Can you taste yourself? You came for so long, pet, it must have felt so good.”

Bakugou’s eyes are huge, his mouth slack around Shinsou’s fingers as he processes everything, slowly coming back to full awareness. He looks down at himself, then up at Shinsou, and he looks betrayed. Hurt. Outraged, all because Shinsou took something he wanted. Shinsou feels that look viscerally, arousal twisting in his core as he rubs his achingly hard dick against Bakugou’s ass. 

“W-why didn’t you let me,” Bakugou says wretchedly. Shinsou grabs at his dick again, letting Bakugou’s sharp whine of protest run hot down his spine. 

“‘Cause I like watching you suffer,” Shinsou says simply, squeezing his dick until Bakugou wails, “and now you’re nice and sensitive.”

“Fuck,” Bakugou groans, twitching in place, “fuck, please, I wanted it.”

“Aw, you wanted it?” Shinsou is just being mean at this point, grinding the heel of his hand down the length of his dick, over his balls. “You want me to make you come again?”

“P-please,” Bakugou says weakly, “please let me.”

“Next time, I promise,” Shinsou says, slowly releasing him. He’s sore, his wrists still hurt like a bitch and Bakugou hits hard. To his surprise, Bakugou turns in his arms, clinging to his chest for support. It’s surprising he can stand at all, after the sudden way Shinsou had dropped the mind control. 

Bakugou still looks disoriented, looking up at Shinsou with huge, soft eyes. “Please,” he repeats. Shinsou’s ready for him to beg to come, or even to be fucked, but Bakugou just says, “Please… more. I need… more.”

“So needy,” Shinsou says, breathless as desire hits him hard. It’s hard to balance the desire to tear Bakugou apart and making sure that Bakugou is getting what he actually wants. But right now, he’s pushed Bakugou past the need to fight back and he’s just… needy.

“Please,” Bakugou repeats into his neck, pressing himself against Shinsou, “make it hurt, it has to hurt.” 

Shinsou swallows hard. Bakugou couldn’t be more perfect if he tried. “I know, I know,” he says soothingly, “soon. I just gotta get you ready, angel. You gonna be good for me?”

Bakugou nods furiously, nails digging into Shinsou’s back.

“Okay,” Shinsou goes on, walking them over to the window, leaning Bakugou against it. “You stay here, I’m gonna grab the shit. I’ll be right back.” 

Bakugou leans against the glass, eyes fixed on Shinsou even though he’s only going a few feet away. He’s a needy sub, Shinsou decides, who needs physicality and attention, and, damn, the lube on the coffee table seems so far despite being a few feet away. He abandons his remaining clothes on the floor, and he’s back with lube and condoms in a matter of seconds. 

Seconds. Seconds it all it took for Bakugou to get back to his impatient, bratty self. Shinsou really can’t leave him alone. 

“Shinsou, come on,” Bakugou says, “you’re taking forever.” 

“Excuse me?” Shinsou snaps, dropping everything with a clatter.

“I just meant—” his words cut off as Shinsou’s hand cracks across his face, more of a hit than a slap. Bakugou groans, rocking backwards. 

“Don’t fucking rush me,” Shinsou says, deadly calm. “Who’s in control?”

Bakugou glares. Shinsou meets his eyes, lifts his foot, and steps right on Bakugou’s soft dick, pushing hard enough Bakugou’s back thuds into the glass. “Who’s. In. Control.” Bakugou’s curling over, hands clutching at Shinsou’s ankle, but still staring up at him. 

“Y-you are.”

“That’s right,” Shinsou says, leaning his weight forward. “And who’s my bitch?”

“I’m not—”

“It’s rhetorical, dipshit,” Shinsou says. “Spit it out. Say it.”

“I…” Bakugou’s jaw works, even as he’s moaning under the pressure, even as Shinsou can feel him getting hard again under the bare sole of his foot. Self-hate is flickering over Bakugou's face, as though verbal submission is even harder for him than a physical one. Has he ever done it before? Ever actually yielded when the life wasn’t beaten out of him? “I’m…” Bakugou grits out.

“My bitch,” Shinsou says cruelly, pushing down harder, listening to the groan coming deep from Bakugou’s chest. “Say it, pet.”

“Yours,” Bakugou spits out. “I’m yours.”

Which isn’t what Shinsou had asked for, but fuck it’s still working for him. He drops his foot, rushing forwards to catch Bakugou as his knees go weak, lifting him, pinning him against the window.  Bakugou’s shivering in place, like a barely contained eruption, like he still wants to fight, still can fight, but wants to let go even more. 

Shinsou just has to help him let go. He reaches around his waist, pressing Bakugou up against the window, holding him nice and tight. 

“That’s right, sweet thing,” Shinsou growls in his ear, “all mine. You’re all mine, and I’m gonna take such good care of you. You’re gonna hate it so much.”

He does mean it, but he also hasn't gotten laid in at least two months, what with the sudden, hectic way he’d had to wrap up his mission, and getting Bakugou to behave even a little has him dangerously close to the edge. 

"Come on," Bakugou grumbles, like he wants to get hit again. Instead, Shinsou grabs his smokes and lights up, because he hates impatient brats and he also isn't trying to insta-jizz the second he gets inside Bakugou. He could use a break. He takes a slow drag, letting his eyes drift shut and enjoying the sound of Bakugou complaining.

“You keep mouthing off and I’m never gonna let you come,” Shinsou says idly, pushing a careless finger inside him. Bakugou sucks in a breath, tensing around him. Shinsou breathes smoke out next to his face, treasuring the moment he turns, scandalized as his eyes flick to down to the cigarette and back up. “What?” Shinsou grins.

“Don’t smoke in my fucking house,” Bakugou snarls, knocked out of whatever obedient state he’d been in by Shinsou’s sheer audacity. Shinsou shoves a second finger inside him instead of replying, and Bakugou’s eyes shoot open, teeth clenched at the intrusion.

“Keep telling me what to do, and I’ll split you in half,” Shinsou says, pulling the cigarette from his mouth long enough to kiss at Bakugou’s bruised cheekbone.

Then he steps back, because this is a killer view, one worth appreciating. Bakugou’s pale, scar-covered back, the tensing of his muscles as Shinsou works his fingers inside him, the conflict all over his face reflected in the window. Shinsou doesn't bother paying attention to anything except the flex of Bakugou's fingers against glass. He doesn't really care if it feels good for him, so long as Bakugou isn't tapping out. He flexes and curls his fingers, tuning out Bakugou's whines in favor of admiring the view of downtown, the red lines of tail lights in traffic jams, the shooting-star trails of planes in flight. 

He flicks the ash off the end of his cig, letting them flutter down to make soft gray-white flecks over Bakugou's hips. Beautiful. 

"Ready for three?"

"Wait, no—" Bakugou's words are cut short as Shinsou's ring finger joins the other two, chasing Bakugou's body as he jerks against the glass in an attempt to escape the fingers filling him. 

"Hush, hush," Shinsou tells him, the words largely drowned out by Bakugou's pained gasps. "I'm having a moment here. Don't ruin it with your bitching."

"You're hurting me," Bakugou whines, twisting enough that the small collection of ash on his back flutters to the floor. Pale against dark hardwood. Shinsou's pale too, a sickly, marred face hovering over Bakugou's shoulder in the distorted reflection in the window. 

How did he end up in a penthouse apartment, fingering the top third hero in the country? How did he get so fucked up? The tattoos on his face are familiar by now. The kanji for King next to his ear, the small traitor over his eyebrow. That one had hurt. Emotionally. It hasn't quite healed yet, and—and it’s the last thing Shinsou should think about right now. Time to refocus on Bakugou, instead of letting his mind wander through increasingly dark memories.

"We can't have that, can we," Shinsou murmurs, his sarcasm barely audible as he pulls his fingers out in favor of rolling on a condom. Bakugou just sounds impatient, because now he's past the initial hurdle of submission and apparently is nothing more than a slut for punishment.

Adrenaline dumping and the persistent pain in his wrists has Shinsou exhausted and irritated, but he still nearly bites through the filter when he pushes the head of his cock into Bakugou's tight ass. 

"Oh, shit," Shinsou groans, eyes flying open as Bakugou clenches hot and tight around him. "Fuck, angel, that's nice." He grabs Bakugou's hip and yanks him back all the way onto his dick, holding Bakugou there as he trembles and pants, clenching futilely around Shinsou in a way that feels amazing. Shinsou keeps shushing him, enjoying the perfect burn of nicotine in his lungs, the warmth of pleasure building in his dick. He's been so hard for so long, and it takes a lot not to just give in and fuck Bakugou until he comes.

But Bakugou would probably like that.

So Shinsou lets them both adjust, Bakugou settling down slowly, face and chest pressed against the window, back painfully arched from the way Shinsou's pulling his ass onto his dick. 

He finishes out the smoke leisurely, occasionally flicking the crumbling end of it onto Bakugou's back or to the floor. Bakugou's moving subtly, like he's trying to fuck himself on Shinsou's cock. It's sorta cute, but the flush on his face and the clench of his hands make it look like he's enjoying himself way too much. 

Shinsou takes a moment to collect himself, fingers digging into Bakugou's waist as he prepares for trouble. Then he tosses the stub of his cig on the floor right under Bakugou's face. 

He can feel Bakugou tense up as he sees it, righteous indignation as he twists around to glare at Shinsou. “Don’t just drop it on the fl—” 

Shinsou spanks him, hard enough that it’s more of a hit than a spank, and Bakugou’s mouth drops open. 

“What shouldn’t I do?” Shinsou asks, staring him dead in the eyes. Bakugou’s eyes drop to the cherry-orange glimmer of the stub on the floor, lips parting soundlessly. 

“That's right. You should be grateful I didn’t put it out on you,” Shinsou says coolly. And he would’ve, except he doesn’t know how Bakugou feels about scars. 

But oh, how Shinsou wants to leave scars. 

"Asshole," Bakugou bites out, but Shinsou rolls his hips and suddenly Bakugou doesn't seem to be arguing anymore. The rush of it, the friction against his cock has him losing himself for a few moments while he fucks Bakugou up against the glass. 

“Not so,” Shinsou pants out, “feisty now, are you?”

Bakugou groans, hips pushing back against him like he was born to be fucked up against a high-rise window. His hands are leaving sweaty tracks on the glass, but even if Shinsou is nearly ready to nut and call it a day, Bakugou ruins it.

“Your dick's not that big,” Bakugou grunts, “could take two of you. Thought I was gonna be—” another long, hair-raising groan, “—fucked hard.”

Sometimes it feels like Bakugou's the one playing with him and not the other way around. 

“Such a fucking slut,” Shinsou tells him, wrapping his hands around that tiny waist and pushing them both up against the glass. “You want it like this? Want everyone out there to see the number-whatever hero getting railed?”

“I—”

“You know they can," Shinsou grunts, snapping his hips forward, “no way they can't, not with you all pressed up against the window like this. Wonder if it'll make the news tomorrow.”

"No one's looking," Bakugou protests, but he's sounding less cocky and Shinsou's getting that sick rush of power again.

“Just takes one, pet. Bet everyone wants to see you taken down a peg. Always so cocky. Maybe it'd be good for your image, if everyone knew how much you love to take cock.”

“N-no,” Bakugou stutters against the glass, fingers sparking in little flashes of light.

“They'll see that , fuck, it's like you wanna be seen,” Shinsou moans, running his hands up Bakugou's sides, over his chest, touching every inch of him. “Don't even blame you, not when you look this good.”

“No, can't, my reputation, I'm already fucking third place again and I need more—” His hands flash brighter, enough that Shinsou is actually worried for the window.

“More? Greedy,” Shinsou says, “but since you asked.” He wraps a hand around the base of his dick, fingers running over his stretched rim. 

“What are y— fuck,” Bakugou shouts, fists igniting as Shinsou abruptly pushes a finger deep inside him, alongside his dick.

“You break that glass and people really are gonna see,” Shinsou points out. Bakugou actually growls, feral-sounding, but suddenly puts his arms behind his back, wrists crossed and fists clenched, the residual smoke wafting up into Shinsou’s face. He feels like he could get high on it. “Obedient,” Shinsou says, grabbing Bakugou’s wrists with his free hand. “Thought you’d have more fight in you, but I like this too.”

“I still have fight,” Bakugou snarls, fists flashing hot enough it singes the hair on Shinsou’s arm. “I’m still—” He falls silent as Shinsou snatches his mind again, holding him just a moment before dropping control. Bakugou’s eyes flutter as he fights disorientation again.

“You’re what?” Shinsou prompts.

“I’m… nothing,” Bakugou groans wretchedly as Shinsou rolls his hips forwards.

“That’s right. You’re nothing,” Shinsou tells him, cock throbbing as Bakugou shudders beneath him. “Nothing. Just another glorified TV hero who probably sucked dick to get where he is.”

“I didn’t,” Bakugou moans, fingers clenching and flexing as Shinsou’s thrusts rock him up against the glass. “I didn’t, I worked for this, I—”

“You take interviews and ad campaigns and capitalize on being a raging dickhole,” Shinsou snaps. “You’re not good for anything else. Why not just let everyone see what a whore you are, and give up now?”

“No, I tried, I tried so hard ,” Bakugou grits out—then shouts as Shinsou pushes a second finger in. It’s hard to move with Bakugou stuffed like this, but it’s worth it for the pained noises Bakugou’s making. Shinsou could come from hearing that alone, from the way Bakugou’s breath hitches, tears running down his face. “It’s not enough, never enough, they still died and—” his voice cracks, and then he lets out an awful sob, shoulders shaking as he breaks down. 

But died? 

“Hey, kitten, you okay?” Shinsou can’t move much, not with half his damn hand stuck inside Bakugou’s asshole. Bakugou’s chest keeps heaving, grief written all over his face, even as his dick leaks precome onto the floor. Bakugou doesn’t answer, merely sucking in air only to sob it back out. “Color, Bakugou,” Shinsou demands, concerned despite himself. 

Tear-blurred red eyes slide up as Bakugou meets his eyes over his shoulder. His lip is trembling, looking so fucking unhappy Shinsou nearly comes on the spot. But he stays still, giving Bakugou time to take stock of himself. 

“G-green,” he says, his voice wobbling. It’s hesitant enough that Shinsou needs a little more reassurance before continuing. 

“This the direction you wanna go in? Hero shit?”

Bakugou’s eyes well up, and he looks angry, like Shinsou has the nerve to ask his permission. Tough luck for him, because Shinsou might be a lot of things, but he’s not actually willing to break someone in a way they don’t want to be broken.

“I-I just,” Bakugou struggles, “need to hear it.”

“You wanna hear how you’re a piece of shit, worthless hero?” Shinsou asks helpfully.

“P-please,” Bakugou’s voice breaks. Shinsou can’t hold back his moan, can’t hold back the way his hips twitch forwards to chase friction. Bakugou’s face screws up in pain, smoke wafting once again from his fists. Shinsou feels lightheaded with it, high on Bakugou’s distress and the tears dripping down the glass.

“Asking nicely will get you everywhere,” Shinsou breathes out, pushing in a third finger. Bakugou’s knees wobble, and Shinsou has to let go of his wrists in favor of steadying him at the hip. 

“That’s too much,” Bakugou says shakily, chest rising and falling far too quickly. But he groans as Shinsou’s hand slides from his hip to his cock, feeling out his flagging hardness, rubbing a thumb over the leaking head.

“But you like it,” Shinsou says, squeezing his dick lightly. 

“I—”

“You need it to hurt,” Shinsou interrupts, tightening his grip until Bakugou’s every breath comes with a small, pained noise. “I bet it hurts, getting so far, only to realize you’re a fake hero who fights for fame only.”

Bakugou’s crying again, shivering, ass clenching painfully hard around Shinsou’s cock. It’s too tight to feel good, what with the way that Bakugou is stuffed full of his fingers, but Shinsou doesn’t need to feel good. He just needs Bakugou to feel bad. 

“Arrogant little hero,” Shinsou groans, leaning into the pain, “it would be so easy to ruin you. Let the world see what a useless whore you are.”

“N-no, you can’t,” Bakugou manages to choke out. Shinsou is a little surprised he’s still talking at all. He pulls Bakugou’s consciousness back into his control briefly, before letting him go. Catch and release, because he can’t focus for much more than that at the moment.

“I can,” Shinsou tells him, fighting back the sweet pull of arousal. His control is usually so good, but the wrecked man below him is too pretty to resist. “Could phone up the news right now. Could brainwash you and send you up on the roof, and you wouldn’t even wake up before you hit the pavement below.”

“Shinsou,” Bakuguo whines, repeating his name over and over like he can drown out Shinsou’s words. 

“That’s right,” Shinsou says hoarsely, high on power and disgustingly turned on from the whole thing, “your pointless little life is mine. Be happy all I wanna do is fuck you.”

Bakugou’s answering moan is broken, his eyes half lidded, drool dripping down the glass as he hazily begs for, “More, more, more…”

“That’s it,” Shinsou growls, jacking Bakugou off at a nice, rhythmic pace, “enjoying yourself, baby?” 

Bakugou’s whines hit a new pitch, and Shinsou can feel the way his ass milks his cock and fingers as he gets close. Then Bakugou is flying over the edge, cock twitching in Shinsou’s grip, eyes wide and unseeing as he comes for the second time. Shinsou waits him out, carefully extracting his slippery fingers as Bakugou finally stops twitching. 

Shinsou catches sight of himself in the reflection. He looks manic, drunk on anticipation. He likes how he looks looming over Bakugou’s spent body. 

Then he’s gripping Bakugou’s waist with both hands, yanking him away from the glass and all the way down the length of his cock. Bakugou is far enough gone that his protests are only vague groans as Shinsou fucks him viciously. He loves the way Bakugou falls away from the window, bent in half and only held up by Shinsou’s hold on his waist. He looks so pathetic, so destroyed, all because of Shinsou’s hands and his words, and fuck, Shinsou can’t bear how much he likes it. 

It’s animalistic, fast and hard as Shinsou mindlessly chases his own finish, heedless of the limp way Bakugou flails below him in an attempt to keep his balance. Shinsou cares about his own enjoyment only, and it feels too good, way too good, the burn of it building in his core, across his body, way past the point where he can deny it any longer.

It hits him so hard his vision damn near whites out, fingers digging deep into Bakugou’s muscle as the heat of pleasure floods his body, cock pulsing as he comes in Bakugou’s ass. He stands there, barely able to stay upright and hold Bakugou in place, chest heaving as the rush of it finally subsides. 

Shit, that was a lot. He’s never going months without sex again. 

He feels a little numb, a little tingly, but manages to pull out of Bakugou without either of them collapsing. He ties off the condom before dropping it on the floor with a gross thwap. Bakugou doesn’t even protest it. 

“Hey, hey, time to stand up,” Shinsou says, mostly to himself, as he persuades Bakugou’s body to back upright. “You good?” He has to wrap his hands under Bakugou’s armpits to keep him from slumping to the floor.

“Mhm.” Bakugou seems barely vocal, though Shinsou doesn’t know if that’s by choice or necessity. He doesn’t know exactly how Bakugou comes down after a scene like this, which is an oversight on Shinsou’s part, made due to a combination of lust, anger, and adrenaline dumping that ultimately excuses nothing because Shinsou knows better than to get into this kind of thing without planning for afterwards. 

“Angel,” Shinsou ventures, “can I touch you? How are you feeling?” Bakugou doesn’t answer, except to clumsily turn and press himself into Shinsou’s chest like a cum-covered koala. Relief laces Shinsou’s slow breath out. He holds him for a moment, petting his broad back and letting them both calm down. The room is starting to feel too bright, too awake, and Shinsou longs for the peaceful dark of the twinkling city lights just beyond the defiled window. He also longs to be horizontal. 

Now that he’s coming down, Shinsou is exhausted. He hasn’t eaten in days, probably, and his wrists hurt so much it’s hard to think about anything else. But he needs to focus on Bakugou. “Talk whenever you’re ready,” Shinsou tells him gently. “You did good, angel.”

Bakugou nods, rubbing his face against Shinsou’s neck. Then heated tears are hitting his skin, as Bakugou starts to cry. Not violently, like before, but more like tears of release. Shinsou holds him and longs for a bed. Or a couch. Or even a floor not covered in cum, he’s not picky. It feels like hours before Bakugou stops sniffling, even if it was probably only minutes. 

“Let’s go lie down,” Shinsou suggests hopefully. Bakugou makes a wretched noise of protest, which Shinsou takes to mean that the bed is clean and they are decidedly not. So he guides them towards the couch instead. 

“Nnnnnn,” Bakugou protests near-unintelligibly, because apparently they are also too dirty for the couch and holy shit, Shinsou is so tired. 

He barely resists saying something like fucking hell you’re annoying, instead agreeably saying, “Shower first, then.”

It takes a little trial and error, thanks to Bakugou’s huge apartment, but eventually he finds the right door and shepherds Bakugou into a spacious bathroom befitting a top pro hero. The bathtub is more like a jacuzzi, and the shower is all marble tiles and expensive-looking hair products. After a bit of fumbling, Shinsou has Bakugou standing under warm water as he makes sure none of it runs into his eyes. 

Bakugou is pliant under his hands, soft in a way Shinsou has never seen from him. Even if Shinsou usually sees aftercare as an unfortunate necessity, albeit one he makes sure to do well, Bakugou’s quiet hums of pleasure as Shinsou carefully washes his hair make Shinsou feel like he’s holding something immeasurably valuable. 

“Bitch,” Bakugou suddenly says, clearly and distinctly. Shinsou stills.

“Hm?”

“Got shit in my eyes,” Bakugou complains, stepping away from Shinsou to scrub at his face. He’s blinking dewy water out of his eyes, looking at Shinsou as awareness slowly settles back into his expression. He looks down, then back up. “I didn’t know your dick was pierced.”

“You didn’t notice?” Shinsou holds up his limp dick so Bakugou can admire the piercing just below the head. Bakugou grimaces, looking for a moment longer before glancing around the shower like he’s orienting himself.

“I was kinda occupied, Shinsou. Where’s the conditioner?”

“Mmm,” Shinsou hums, dropping his dick in favor of handing the bottle to Bakugou. “Maybe if you’d sucked my dick like I told you to, you’d’ve noticed.”

Bakugou just scoffs, turning to face the shower head as he conditions his hair with a concerning amount of vigor. He looks tense, even if the way his shoulder muscles bulge is very appealing. Shinsou sighs. He needs Bakugou happy and relaxed, but he’s not sure how to get him there.

“Bakugou,” Shinsou tells his back, “I’m here for whatever you need.”

“Don’t need anything,” is the predictable response, a wary string of words uttered as Bakugou turns to look at Shinsou critically, like he’s sizing up the likelihood Shinsou will hit him again if he says the wrong thing.

“Scene’s over, angel,” Shinsou says softly, “gonna take care of you now.” Shinsou watches him process the situation, the way the reluctance written in his frown slowly smooths out to acceptance. 

“Right,” Bakugou finally says, “then help with all the lube up my asshole.”

Shinsou can’t quite smother his laugh, but Bakugou doesn’t seem to mind. He’s cooperative as Shinsou does his best to clean him up, but despite their combined efforts it’s a while before Bakugou deems them clean enough to sit down on the couch, even if they’ve only managed to put on underwear (clean, both pairs Bakugou’s). Shinsou keeps it together long enough to grab Bakugou’s predictably extensive first aid kit, then collapses on the couch like someone took a bat to his knees. 

Bakugou stares at him, standing next to the table. Shinsou is briefly reminded of when he’d told Bakugou to suck his cock, and how that hadn’t even happened. A shame. 

“C’mere,” he offers. Bakugou grimaces, meeting his eyes like he’s weighing Shinsou’s worthiness. Shinsou must have passed the test somehow, because eventually Bakugou’s shoulders drop, and then he’s settling on the couch, allowing Shinsou to coax him into his arms. 

They move slowly. Shinsou takes his time massaging Bakugou’s lower back, Bakugou practically purring into his neck as he relaxes. A stark contrast to a mere thirty minutes ago, and the smears of blood and cum still on the window are plenty testament to that. 

It’s cathartic to allow himself to be so vicious, then let it go. It’s not just the aggression built up during sex, but the anger about everything else in his life, about the botched end of his op, the people he’d betrayed, the lack of support from his agency, all the terrible things he’d done… but it’s hard to feel monstrous when Bakugou is nuzzling at the crook of his neck like a kitten. 

Once all of Bakugou’s tension and wariness is rubbed away by Shinsou’s fingertips, he starts on the first aid. Bakugou is beautifully patient, eyes half-closed as Shinsou fusses over every bruise on his skin. The ring of bruises on his throat is the worst of them, a necklace of ugly purple-yellow from their original fight. 

Shinsou loves all the other marks he’s left, but these leave him nauseous. Bakugou looks at him from under pale lashes, chin tipped up as Shinsou carefully puts ointment on them. He’s spiraling. Shinsou is, not Bakugou, and he’s spiraling because he remembers Bakugou underneath him, the light leaving his eyes, and holy hell what if Shinsou hadn’t stopped?

What if he’d actually hurt him? Irreversibly? Crushed his neck and left him dead and this perfect vicious person before him would be gone—

“Shinsou.” Bakugou’s voice is dry, but his hands wrap around Shinsou’s, pulling him back to earth. “You’re spacing out.”

Shinsou nods, eyes unseeing, heart thudding in his chest. God, his mission was over and he thought he was done hurting people, at least for the time being and, “Holy shit, Bakugou, what if I’d really hurt you?”

“That’s why we had safewords,” Bakugou says calmly. Shinsou bares his teeth, tense and ready to snap despite Bakugou’s gentle hold on his hands. 

“No, before. At Kaminari’s. Fuck, angel, I saw you suffocating and I wasn’t going to stop, I could see the fear in your eyes and I could’ve killed you and I’m so sorry—”

“Slow down, christ,” Bakugou says. The dispassionate tone of his voice is enough to knock Shinsou out of his spiral, and he’s left staring into Bakugou’s strangely chagrined face. “Look, I, uh,’ Bakugou starts, then clears his throat roughly. “I mean, yeah, I was scared. You were fucking demonic but I was more scared I was gonna hurt you.”

“I had you pinned—”

“I have perfect control over my quirk,” Bakugou interrupts, “but it slips when I’m about to get KO’d, you know? I was scared I was gonna take your damn arms off. Or just blow you up entirely, or even the entire apartment building.”

It sinks in slowly. Bakugou’s saying… “How close were you?”

“If you didn’t stop when I’d tapped, you’d be a pile of greasy ash,” Bakugou says grimly. 

“Fucking hell.” 

“Yeah. I’m the one who almost killed you,” Bakugou says quietly, “not the other way around. Just because I wanted to pick a fight. Didn’t expect you to freak on me like that, I guess.”

He could’ve died. Not from his op, not from the countless risky situations he’d endured, but because he’d lost his shit in a fight with Bakugou Katsuki. Instead of sitting on his fancy-ass couch, Shinsou could be in urgent care with no arms. Or just a smear on the ceiling. 

“I’m sorry I lost control,” Shinsou says hoarsely. If he’d have died, it’d have been his own damn fault. Bakugou shrugs him off, dropping his hands to grab the first aid box and drop it in his lap. 

“Yeah, no, I just…” Bakugou trails off, looking at the rolls of gauze in his hands. He looks conflicted, biting at his lip. 

“You can talk to me, angel,” Shinsou murmurs. “You were talking about something happening, earlier.” Bakugou’s eyes flash to his at the pet name, but instead of protesting, he goes on. 

“Had a big loss a couple weeks back,” Bakugou says slowly, fiddling with the gauze. “People died. Kids got really hurt, and even if I was technically cleared of blame I still feel like—anyway, annual rankings were a few days ago.”

“Were they?”

“They’re literally everywhere,” Bakugou says unhappily.

“Right. I slept for like, thirty-six hours before coming here.”

“I’m not surprised,” Bakugou says, before his voice turns bitter. “I got demoted to third fucking place. Behind Todoroki. I thought I was gonna pass Deku this year and get number one but then the hit to my image and shit, Shinsou, I’m a monster for caring about that when people died.” His voice breaks painfully, fingers lax as the gauze falls back into the box. 

Shinsou’s reaching for him before he thinks better of it, but thankfully Bakugou allows him to drape his arms over his shoulders, hissing as he accidentally bumps his wrists. He can feel Bakugou’s shoulders rise and fall slowly as he takes a long, deep breath. 

“I get really fucking wound up about this stuff,” Bakugou says softly. “Kiri’s so sick of me picking fights he won’t even spar it out anymore. That’s why I was banished to the kitchen, and you walked in and after how your mission ended, I knew you’d fight back.”

“How—how did you know? How much do you know?” His friends knew he was undercover, but none of them should know anything about where or what or even exactly when it had ended.

“I was briefed as back up for the raid at the end,” Bakugou admits, looking away.  “I was actually, uh… supposed to be on leave. To deal with the shit that happened to me. So I wasn’t tapped to help, but sounds like maybe I should’ve been.”

Shinsou is left staring at him, speechless for once as things fall into place. Why Bakugou kept boasting about his rank—not boasting, but self-deprecating. Why Bakugou was sulking alone in the kitchen while everyone had fussed over Shinsou in the living room, why he’d seemed like a tightly-wound violin string about to snap in half.

“So what? You heard I’m a mean piece of shit and wanted to pick a fight?”

“The fight did help,” Bakugou says absently. “But this was better.”

“Yeah?” Shinsou is weirdly cheered by this, because he’s still feeling residual guilt about agreeing to the whole thing after spiritedly choking Bakugou in Kaminari’s kitchen. Bakugou huffs out a laugh.

“Yeah. Takes a lot to get me out of my head, but I figured you could do it. I was right, too, so there’s that. Finally feel like I can think for the first time since it happened.”

Do Shinsou’s fingers really need to be stroking Bakugou’s hair so affectionately? Probably not. He does it anyway, pleased with the knowledge that he’d managed to deliver what Bakugou wanted. “That’s good, sweetcheeks.”

“Ugh. The petnames—”

“Can’t stop, won’t stop,” Shinsou says serenely.

“Sorry about going for your throat like that,” Bakugou adds. Shinsou is surprised enough he sits back, leaning into the plush, decorative pillows of Bakugou’s couch. Bakugou looks into the first aid kit, once more poking around in it as he talks. “I wasn’t really thinking, but I guess I sorta thought if you could get ink there then it wasn’t a big deal. Not my brightest moment.”

“Yeah, uh,” Shinsou says, suddenly and abruptly awkward as he pushes the bad memories down by habit. How he’d awoken in a bright room, strapped to a chair, the searing pain in his throat, the way he’d screamed… “That one wasn’t my choice.” His voice comes out cooler than he means to, and Bakugou, the perceptive little shit, catches on instantly.

“What’s that mean?”

He wants to brush it off, but Bakugou is being incredibly vulnerable, and there’s something so compelling about seeing him with his walls down that Shinsou finds himself moved to share. Besides, it’s not like it’s a secret. “Uh, you know. Old boss didn’t like that I was hiding my quirk and figured he’d give everyone a warning. Lucky for me, my quirk also makes me a bang-up criminal, so I jumped up the ranks pretty quick after that.”

“They put that on you against your will.” Bakugou’s voice sounds strained. Shinsou shrugs.

“Yeah, tied down and screaming, the whole nine yards.” Shinsou can’t quite keep the sarcasm out of his voice.

“Right, so I wasn’t just out of line, I was a real fucking asshole,” Bakugou groans. “Shit, Shinsou, I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine. I probably shouldn’t’ve been there in the first place,” Shinsou admits. “I blew off a fuckton of mandatory re-ac sessions that I’m gonna have to start tomorrow.” Ferrero is probably already blowing up his phone about it. God, they’re so boring, but also he does need to talk to a small army of counselors. 

It’s just one of the many joys of underground work. At least Aizawa got him in with some of the better shrinks right at the start. Shinsou would be really fucked if he hadn’t already been on top of his own bullshit before starting the hell-mission. Now he’s just a little fucked. 

“Guessing you didn’t pick out ‘traitor’ either, then?” Bakugou says, like the perceptive little shithead he is. Shinsou’s mouth tightens into a frown despite himself. That one’s fresh. Turns out when your crime-friend-tattoo-artist finds you out and doesn’t have the heart to kill you, branding you ‘traitor’ and then planning to snitch on you is the next best option. She’s in prison, now, because the binds she’s used on Shinsou had nothing on the myriad of bullshit Aizawa trained him to escape but—

“Don’t wanna talk about that one,” Shinsou says, before changing the topic ham-handedly. “But ‘King’ is mine! For once I get a cool nickname, and it’s from a bunch of criminals. Gonna miss that one; my agency just calls us fucking numbers and sometimes a guy wants feel cool.”

Bakugou blinks at him, apparently at a loss. “King, huh?”

“Got a sick crown on my back,” Shinsou says happily, because he does love that one too. Practically photo-realistic, spanning his shoulder blades… “Though you probably didn’t see it earlier, what with getting fucked and all.”

“Dickhole,” Bakugou snorts, then his eyes narrow, roving over the rest of Shinsou’s torso. “Those are tacky as fuck. ‘Live, laugh, love?’ Are you a fifty-year-old white woman?”

“Denks dared me when I was twenty-three,” Shinsou pouts, “I think it’s funny.”

Bakugou rolls his eyes. “For a guy who looks like he should be tough, you’re incredibly lame.”

“Suck my dick,” Shinsou says cheerfully, then sobers, thinking of Kaminari’s discerning gaze back outside the apartment. “I guess I’ve changed a lot in the last three years. Still lame, though.”

“Nah, not really.”

“Hm?”

“I don’t think you’ve changed. I mean, it’s not like I ever paid attention to you,” Bakugou says matter-of-factly, “but you don’t seem that different. You just used to be way more hesitant, and now you just cut the bull. I like it.”

Huh. Somehow it’s hitting him hard, and Shinsou’s left staring at the hush, hush across his knuckles and wondering if he hasn’t turned into a monster, but merely a more capable version of himself. It sits right. And he’s definitely going to have to spend time unpacking it, but holy hell, maybe Bakugou has a point. He hasn’t so much changed as become honed, a sharper, devastatingly effective hero. 

“Gimme your hands,” Bakugou says, shaking him out of his thoughts. 

“Huh?”

“I fucked up your wrists,” Bakugou says, “and I know how to dress burns for obvious reasons. Now give.”

Shinsou is stunned. It’s not that he pumps and dumps—or he definitely does do exactly that, but not after a scene—but he never sticks around once his subs are all fat and happy. Being taken care of is foreign to a concerning degree, but he still sits there and lets Bakugou hold one of his hands, critically turning it over and examining his ruined wrists. 

Now that Shinsou isn’t incredibly distracted, it hurts. The skin is red, shiny, and blistered.

“That’s gonna fuck up my tattoos,” he realizes. His right arm doesn’t matter much, the kill count was largely a scare tactic while undercover, but his snake? That one he loves. He can feel Bakugou’s sigh over the sensitive skin. 

“I’ll pay for your touch up,” he says. “You didn’t run this under cool water after, did you?”

“I was literally kicked out of Kaminari’s house,” Shinsou grumbles. “What did you want me to use, ditch water? A storm drain?”

“Jesus. Anyway, we gotta clean this before I bandage it.”

Shinsou is suddenly being steered to Bakugou’s sink, then gritting his teeth as cool water runs over his wrists. What follows isn’t any better, but soon enough his wrists are wrapped loosely in gauze and bandages accompanied by strict care instructions. 

“This shit’s top of the line,” Bakugou warns him, “but you still need to replace it regularly. The blisters broke in a couple places so you’ll need to keep an eye on that.”

“Thanks,” Shinsou mumbles. It’s a little hard to be pissy about the fucked up tattoo when Bakugou is being so… tender. Bakugou’s hands linger on his, for a moment, as they stand there like a couple of fools. 

“Want some food?” Bakugou says it casually, but actually Shinsou hasn’t eaten since before he passed out for days. And maybe normally Shinsou would be trying to leave by now, with the typical assurances that he’s reachable if Bakugou needs him later but… food.

Bakugou starts on food, and directs Shinsou to the cleaning supplies. Which is really fair, even if Shinsou is wiped, and cleaning up isn’t really that hard when it’s just hardwood and glass, no matter how vile the mess is.

It’s not long before Shinsou is sitting on Bakugou’s kitchen island, watching him hobble around the kitchen, still probably sore from Shinsou’s spirited attempt to shove multiple body parts up his ass. It has Shinsou feeling especially soft, and there’s something special about Bakugou making food, even if he’s completely focused on whatever’s in the pot and not at all on Shinsou. 

“You ever done this shit before?” Shinsou asks. It’s something he should have asked hours ago, honestly. Bakugou shrugs, reaching for something in a cabinet. Shinsou appreciates the view as he stands on his tip toes. 

“Made miso soup? Obviously.”

“The scene, baby.”

Bakugou hums, finally turning around. “Sorta. Tried a few things out, but it didn’t quite… it wasn’t exactly what I was looking for.”

So Bakugou had been looking for something. He’d definitely scoped Shinsou out surprisingly quickly. Shinsou had… Shinsou had probably gone along with things more easily than he should’ve. An intense scene like that takes a lot out of him, more than he strictly has to give at the moment, and now he feels drained as fuck and a little ashamed of himself. 

“If you keep looking, just make sure you’re not so fucking reckless before starting something with someone else,” Shinsou finds himself frowning. The protectiveness is normal, but the slimy feeling that he should have done a better job is unfamiliar. “Or I can rec you some people who you’ll probably like. Responsible people,” Shinsou adds pointedly.

He’s not sure what he expects, but it’s not for Bakugou to limp over to the island and lean between his knees, looking up at him with an undeniably sly expression. 

“Really?” he asks, all throaty and low in a way that shivers up Shinsou’s spine, “you gonna pawn me off on someone else already? It seemed like you had… fun.”

“Just saying we shouldn’t have been so hasty,” Shinsou says stubbornly, even if he’s already losing himself in the curve of Bakugou’s sneer. “And I’m not the only person who can give you this, if you want someone good.”

Bakugou scoffs, but still sneaks his arms around Shinsou’s waist, and then Shinsou is still leaning down to meet him like a flower turning towards the sun. 

“Don’t want someone good,” Bakugou says, eyelashes fluttering in a way that would be coquettish if it was coming from anyone else. “I want a mean son-of-a-bitch."

Shinsou doesn’t feel like a mean anything. He feels like a guy who just got asked to prom by the hot, popular kid.

 He’s saved from responding when Bakugou kisses him square on the mouth, and suddenly Shinsou’s head is swimming with exhaustion or hunger or maybe just from the feel of Bakugou’s warm hands running up his back. Bakugou pulls away slowly, lips wet and  soft-looking. Shinsou wants to bite, but he behaves because he’s realizing abruptly that this is the first time Bakugou’s shown any explicit desire for him, outside of what he invited Shinsou to take from him. It feels really fucking good. 

“Food’ll be ready soon,” Bakugou says, turning away with a brief grin, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to Shinsou. Shinsou appreciates the stretch and bulge of his muscles apparent while even doing the most mundane tasks, like serving the steamy rice or lifting the pot of miso soup. 

Bakugou looks undeniably different to earlier in the day, if only because of the complete lack of tension. Shinsou has never seen him so calm, so void of that edge of aggression he usually carries, like jagged glass that’s been smoothed and rounded out by the relentless waves of the ocean. Shinsou feels briefly grateful that he’s the one Bakugou picked to break down those sharp edges.

So maybe Shinsou ends up staying a lot longer than he intended, but the miso soup and rice was exactly what he’d needed. He falls asleep with Bakugou on the couch, which was honestly unavoidable. There’s something about being safe and warm and on furniture that cost more than 5k yen that just really knocks a guy out. 

The way Bakugou idly plays with his hair doesn’t hurt either, and it’s the last thing Shinsou feels before he passes out.

 

He ends up leaving after he wakes up around 4 AM, because he hates spending the night at other people’s places and it’s honestly a little weird to wake up to a fully lit room with Bakugou calmly reading a magazine that’s resting on top of Shinsou’s skull.

“Sleep schedule’s already fucked,” Bakugou says, like that explains anything. The whole set up still has Shinsou feeling strangely like Bakugou was watching over him, and not just catching up on—Shinsou side-eyes the magazine cover—the latest in interior decor for early spring, apparently.

“Gonna head out, if you’re good,” Shinsou mumbles, rubbing sleep from his eyes. Bakugou holds up his phone, eyebrows raised and unmistakably wry.

“Give me your contact first,” he says, “so we can plan for next time.”

Shinsou tosses his phone at Bakugou’s face. Bakugou snatches it out of the air, all alert and awake. Shinsou tries to pull his brain back together. “Yeah, uh, look. Sweetcheeks. Pumpkin. Honeypie.”

“That’s gross.”

“Shh, no, listen,” Shinsou goes on, rubbing at his temples, “you’re gonna need to watch yourself for a few days. Make sure you don’t start dropping alone and stuff. I’ll bug you every now and then to check in, assuming I don’t sleep for another week, but I’ll leave my ringer on so… yeah.”

There’s a moment of silence while Bakugou pokes at Shinsou’s phone, presumably adding the contact, then tosses it at Shinsou’s face. It hits him in the chin. 

Bakugou barely holds back a snort, and there’s a bit of a laugh in his voice when he says, “Yeah, yeah, you big sap. Whatever you say.”



Shinsou walks back home through the city in the middle of the night, groggy but relatively sated and pleased with himself. Somehow he pulled the hottest fuck buddy he could possibly conceive of, and he’s doing great. It’s frigid out, an awful, late February morning, but his endorphin high keeps him warm the rest of the walk home. 

He wakes up at noon the next day to several texts from Bakugou and he’s ready to panic-sprint back to Bakugou’s place until he realizes they’re just a bunch of links to articles about proper burn care and a vague ‘text me if you need anything else.’ It’s kind of a relief. At the very least, it shows Bakugou is willing to text Shinsou in the first place, and hopefully that will hold up if Bakugou actually needs him for anything. 

And if Bakugou doesn’t text him… he can always check in when he sees him next. Because he probably will see him soon, because he’d agreed to do this again and holy shit, it’s been a long time since Shinsou has been able to have more than a one night stand. 

Shit, he’s really looking forward to this. There’s just so, so many more ways he’s dying to make Bakugou miserable.