Chapter Text
Shouto taps his fingers against the scratched wood of the bar and watches Bakugo thoughtfully. The smooth, expensive paper in his hand has begun to dampen from his palm sweat, and he wonders if this is how he looked last year, when his world turned upside down.
At first glance, Bakugo seems to be doing well, all things considered. He finally broke into the top ten a couple months ago—even with his particularly nasty attitude towards reporters and the public, his image has now become intertwined with victory, and the public is well aware. Regardless of his rude tendencies (which, really, are like child’s play compared to how he was in school), the people understand that if Dynamight is around, the villain won’t get away.
Watching Bakugo, whether from the corner of his eye or just plain staring, is a bad habit Shouto hasn’t been able to break. It’s not as bad as it was in high school, where he had to force himself to blink, but sometimes he wonders if that’s only because they are no longer as close in proximity.
Shouto feels guilty when he looks at Bakugo these days. His own life is going spectacularly well—number two pro hero, taking over his father’s agency, smiling more with every passing day, talking with friends more and more. He’s quite lucky, in more ways than one.
Bakugo acts as though he’s doing well. He is surprisingly easy to recruit for missions, snatching up every opportunity he can get to take down a drug trade, or bust a fighting ring, or blast a villain all the way to jail. He begrudgingly joins his friends for outings, agrees to the occasional photoshoot, and even acts as the designated driver to whichever drunk classmate he needs to take home.
Shouto has been watching him for almost ten years, however, and he knows better. He knows the way he stares at Midoriya when he thinks nobody is watching. He’s heartbroken, grieving for something he lost when he never even had it in the first place. Every time Midoriya turns to him with a bubbly “Kacchan!” and a sunny smile, Bakugo shrinks further into himself. He’s subdued, now, and not just from maturity.
Shouto watches Kirishima plop down next to Bakugo at the bar. The number eleven hero chatters at a mile a minute, but Shouto doesn’t miss the way his eyes flick towards the piece of paper. They’ve all got one, now. Shouto tucked his in his messenger bag earlier, careful not to cause any damage to the pristine paper.
Save the date, it reads in a looping cursive, You have been formally invited to the wedding of Uraraka Ochako and Midoriya Izuku. Plus Ultra!
Their wedding is about four months from now. It’ll be held at the botanical gardens, right in the middle of spring, when all the flowers have flourished to full blossom but the air still holds a slight chill in the mornings. It’s the perfect time and place for a wedding. Shouto is excited, in the mild way he feels about everything.
Shouto has been helping with planning here and there, whenever and wherever he can. He’s spent many nights in a childish pile of blankets, squished in between Uraraka, Midoriya, Iida and Tsuyu as they scroll through floral arrangements, chairs, tables, catering, and everything in between.
It’s been fun, and he wouldn’t trade it for the world, but now that he’s staring at Bakugo, he wonders if any of it even matters.
You don’t have to hurt, his stupid, primal lizard-brain hisses at Bakugo. Don’t look at Midoriya anymore. Stop looking at him. Look at me.
Right, that’s his cue to stop staring. He ought to be institutionalized for such stupid, irrational thoughts. Shouto steels himself and walks over to Midoriya, who is sandwiched in between Uraraka and Kaminari and clearly over the moon.
“Careful, Midoriya,” he teases lightly, glancing at the array of shot glasses in between the three of them, “You have classes to teach tomorrow.”
Midoriya groans loudly, barely spared from slamming his head into the table by Uraraka’s thoughtful foresight and a quick tap on his back. Upon realizing the lack of pain, he looks over at his fiancée and smiles that absurdly boyish grin of his.
“Ocha!” he cries loudly, pressing a chaste kiss to her cheek. “My savior!”
Uraraka turns a predictably bright shade of pink, unused to such romantic affection even after over a year of dating. It’s adorable. Kaminari seems to agree, judging by his amused coo at such a tender relationship, and he wiggles his eyebrows at Shouto.
“Absolutely not,” he says immediately. He’s shared a few kisses with the electric hero in the past, and he really is not in the mood to end up in a back alley later.
Kaminari pouts good-naturedly while Uraraka giggles, and Midoriya leans his head on her shoulder with a loud, disbelieving sigh. “I love you guys,” he slurs, making direct eye contact with each and every one of them.
Shouto raises a brow while Kaminari rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, we love you too. Now go home before you puke all over your gorgeous fiancée.”
“My—my fiancée!” Midoriya practically swoons as Uraraka helps him stand up, and he plants about six different kisses on her face, smiling more and more with each one. “Oh, I must be dreaming… I’m getting married! To Ocha!”
She’s carrying him bridal style now, while Kaminari takes about eight billion pictures, roaring with laughter all the while. Shouto casts a glance over to the bar, where Kirishima is desperately trying to keep Bakugo’s attention to no avail.
Red, narrowed eyes are fixated on Midoriya, clutched tight and squeaking in his fiancée’s grip. The bags under his gaze are heavy under the dim bar lights, permanent charcoal etched into pale, smooth skin. He’s beautiful, with skin clear of any blemishes, only marred by countless battles with villains.
Shouto thinks he’s been beautiful since the day they first met. He’s still a spitfire, hackles raised and ready to bark and bite and claw his way to victory, but he’s less exaggerated. His walk is confident—a stomp, rather than a swagger—and he occasionally follows along with another hero’s plan when necessary.
It’s painful, watching the love of his life waste away from unrequited love. Ironic, as well, but Shouto has known for a long time he’ll never be able to have what he truly wants. He has long since made peace with the notion. Simply being allowed in the presence of Bakugo Katsuki is enough by itself.
His love is something precious, a beautiful secret kept hidden under layers and layers of pain and trauma. It’s his only secret that makes him smile, the only tragedy that blooms butterflies in his chest. Shouto holds it close, tucks it away from prying eyes and only lets it slip in his imagination.
“Kacchan!”
Midoriya has paused, using Uraraka as some sort of bizarre joystick controller to maneuver him in the right direction. Shouto is torn between bemusement at the expense of Midoriya’s hammered state, pity towards Uraraka for having to handle said hammered state, and a surge of panic at the sight of Bakugo’s narrowed eyes.
“Get out of here, Deku,” he says, with only a fraction of his normal bite, softened by a love he’ll never get back.
Midoriya pouts and pokes his cheek. Shouto wonders if his skin would feel soft and clean, or perhaps roughened by barely visible blonde stubble. His heart aches and soars at the same time, defeated yet excited for a new daydream.
“Kacchan,” he says, with a dopey smile that couldn’t hold malice if he tried, “I love you so much. You’re an amazing friend, an amazing hero, and an amazing person.”
To the majority of the room, Bakugo is irritated at a show of such ridiculous affection. It’s a true testament to his growth and begrudging fondness for his friend that allows such physicality in the first place, they might think.
The majority of the room haven’t observed him for years, though—and the ones who have are blinded by their own lives and emotions and love, only seeing what they wish to see.
They don’t see the storm raging behind such vivid eyes, a constant war between defeat for his and so many others’ sakes, and the inability, the refusal, to give up, despite knowing he has well and truly lost. There’s a finality in Midoriya’s words that even he doesn’t realize, shutting a door that will never be opened again.
“Yeah, whatever.” Bakugo slaps Midoriya’s hand away, and the moment is gone. His left hand trembles, but he shoves it into his pants pocket before Shouto can see how bad it is.
Uraraka apologizes to Bakugo with a smile he probably wishes he hated more and leads Midoriya out with a cheery goodbye. The atmosphere of the bar has not changed. Tragic violin melodies do not start playing out of nowhere, the sky doesn’t open up with a frightening storm, Midoriya does not burst inside with tears in his eyes and a profession of love.
Judging by his past behavior and already volatile state, Shouto can form a reasonable hypothesis that Bakugo will remain in the bar for a maximum of ten minutes before performing an Irish goodbye, the likes of which are even better than Shouto himself.
Shouto stares at his half-empty drink and wonders how he can help without intruding. He hates seeing Bakugo this heartbroken, and it is at times like these that he wishes they were closer so he could have an excuse to help. He supposes it’s for the greater good that they’re not close, however—he doubts he can handle such close proximity to the love of his life for as long as someone like Kirishima or Ashido. It’d probably send him into cardiac arrest within fifteen minutes. If he were to ever lay a hand on Bakugo’s shoulder so casually, he’d probably pass out before getting exploded.
He knows this, logically—to keep his precious secret, he must remain at a healthy distance from the explosive hero—but it’s so difficult to put in practice when he draws him in like a magnet. His very presence is enough to steal Shouto’s breath, confidence oozing from every invisible pore on his perfect skin.
“Hey, ‘Roki!”
Shouto startles from his lovestruck stupor and turns around. Kaminari has wandered off, presumably to loudly bother Jirou and Yaoyorozu, and Sero has taken his place. His hair is pulled back in a tiny ponytail, and dark eyes hover over his frame.
“Hello, Sero,” Shouto greets his friend politely. He’s not sure why he would approach the second quietest person in the bar right now, but he won’t complain. He enjoys Sero’s company—he makes for an excellent colleague, and he was one of the first people to join Bakugo’s agency when he established it.
Sero grins and slips onto the stool. “What’s up, man? It’s been a few months since we last saw each other, figured I’d check in on the number two hero.”
“Has it?” Shouto blinks. He hadn’t realized it’d been so long. He should make an effort to spend more time with him. They were fairly close in high school, trading manga and studying together every once in a while. “I’m sorry.”
“Nah, don’t apologize, we’re all busy.”
“Still, I ought to pay more attention to the passage of time.”
Sero waves his hand dismissively. “Seriously, man, don’t worry about it. I just came over to ask if you wanted to come over to my apartment this Saturday—I’m hosting a game night, nothing too crazy or exciting.”
A game night? Shouto can’t remember the last time he played a board or videogame, let alone with other people, and he’d be lying if he said he didn’t miss the company of friends. He’s lucky to have friends as great as the ones he has, who are willing to welcome him with open arms even after not seeing him for months at a time. The least he could do is attend. Perhaps he’ll bring some sort of gift for Sero, as a token of his appreciation.
“I’d love to,” he says earnestly, shooting Sero what he hopes passes as something close to a smile.
Sero’s returning smile is blinding, and he claps him on the back. “Glad to hear it, ‘Roki. Hey, bartender! Let me buy this guy a shot—same thing I had earlier. Matter of fact, make it two!”
Shouto blinks as the bartender pushes two shotglasses towards them, filled with a liquid that is so frighteningly pink that it fills him with mild alarm. “Um—”
“Oh, I should have asked you first,” Sero interrupts him with a sympathetic wince, “My bad, dude. Don’t feel pressured to drink it, if you don’t want to. I really need to work on m—”
“Oi, Sero!”
Both Shouto and Sero crane their heads towards the entrance to see Kaminari wearing Ashido’s heels and coat, and Ashido wearing Kaminari’s sneakers. Jirou sways between the two, and there probably isn’t a sober cell between the three of them.
“You comin’ to my place, or what?” Ashido slurs, stumbling over her own feet as Kaminari wobbles in her heels.
Sero rolls his eyes good-naturedly and shoots Shouto an apologetic smile. “Sorry, ‘Roki, I gotta take care of these idiots tonight. Feel free to toss the drinks, if you want, I won’t be mad.”
Then, his eyes wander over to the opposite end of the bar, where Bakugo is now brooding alone. “Or, you could give those to Bakugo. He looks like he could use them—I swear, one day his face will permanently be stuck looking constipated if he keeps making that damn face.”
“Sero!”
Sero winces again and hops out of the stool. “See you this weekend, ‘Roki! And feel free to give me a call if you ever want to chat. I miss you, man!”
Without waiting for Shouto’s goodbye, he swoops in between the three drunk mice, looping his arms through Kaminari and Ashido to keep them steady, while Jirou clasps Kaminari’s hand to stay balanced by proxy. The four of them exit the bar with no small amount of whooping and cheering, and the remaining atmosphere is quiet but not unpleasant.
Shouto does a quick survey of the remaining stragglers. Yaoyorozu, Iida, and Ojiro are chatting amicably at the pool table, all of them rosy-cheeked but not sloppy. Kirishima, Shoji, and Sato are all playing a game of darts—looks like Kirishima has given up his fruitless efforts in cheering up Bakugo. He does still occasionally glance over at the bar to check on his friend, though.
Tokoyami and Kouda are getting ready to leave, it seems, while Aoyama and Hagakure look like they’re about to pass out from exhaustion. Tsuyu looks sober enough in between them, though, so he trusts they’ll make it home safely.
It’s much quieter, now, but it feels pleasant. Shouto stares at the two shotglasses in front of him and slides his gaze over to Bakugo. He’s still moping, nursing the same glass he had at the start of the night with that slip of paper being used as a coaster. Petty, but not necessarily malicious.
He thinks about Sero’s advice to give it to Bakugo. Then, he thinks about how that is a terrible idea, especially when he doesn’t know what exactly is in the drink. He knows Sero wouldn’t do anything bad, obviously, but he also knows the tape hero’s alcohol tolerance is through the roof, and a light drink for him would probably kill someone like Hagakure or Tokoyami.
It’s a terrible idea. Combining alcohol and Bakugo’s presence is a surefire way for Shouto to say or do something he’ll regret forever. He should just give the drinks to the people at the pool table, or drink them both himself, or leave them at the bar. He should not go anywhere near Bakugo.
Do not approach Bakugo. Do not approach Bakugo. Don’t go anywhere near him. Turn around, walk out the door. Go over to the responsible people at the pool table. Go home. Offer to take Aoyama and Hagakure home. Grab some ramen. Watch a lighthearted movie. Watch an arthouse film. Go skinny dipping on the beach. Do seventeen backflips in a row. Do not go anywhere near Bakugo.
Shouto gets up from his seat. Good. Now walk out the door. Or turn around. Catch up on paperwork. Cuddle with Cassieopeia. Take down a villain. Overthrow the government. You’re doing great.
He sits down next to Bakugo.
Good grief.
Bakugo, to his credit, does not immediately snap at him for invading his space. “The fuck do you want, Icyhot?” he sneers.
What does he want? He’s breaking his unspoken pact with himself right now, getting close to Bakugo outside of a workplace setting. He’s supposed to admire him from afar, not offer him Sero’s abandoned drink!
“Sero bought me a drink, but he left before we could share. Would you like one?”
Bakugo blinks, eyes widening for just a moment before narrowing once more. He picks up the shotglass with scarred hands and sniffs it. He immediately wrinkles his nose and gags, lip curling at the smell. “The hell is this? Rubbing alcohol?”
“I’m not sure,” Shouto admits. “You don’t have to drink it. I just thought I would offer a distraction.”
That was clearly the wrong thing to say—he can practically see Bakugo’s hackles raise, posture becoming stiff and defensive. “Distraction? The fuck are you talking about, half-and-half bastard?” he snarls.
“You’ve been working a lot recently,” Shouto covers his mistake clumsily, “I just thought you could use a break.”
He mentally sighs in relief when Bakugo accepts his reasoning, relaxing just a fraction and holding the glass in his hands. “I guess,” he says blandly, the fire in his voice smothered by uncharacteristic defeat.
Shouto isn’t used to Bakugo actually looking at him. He always tends to stare when nobody’s looking, so having those eyes boring into his own makes his heart stumble and stutter in his chest. He doesn’t look away, though, too enraptured by the flecks of maroon in his crimson eyes.
It’s Bakugo who looks away first, hissing something under his breath and tipping the shot back. He downs it quickly, throat bobbing with the action. Shouto feels his own throat dry in response. A shudder wracks Bakugo’s frame, and he makes a hideous face, eyes scrunching and tongue sticking out in disgust.
“Fuckin’ gross,” he rasps.
Shouto nods sympathetically, trying (read: failing miserably) not to stare at the sliver of collarbone peeking out through Bakugo’s loose shirt. He’s struck with the primal urge to lick the exposed skin like a damn lollipop, and he’s only broken out from his fantasy when a rough voice rumbles out an “oi.”
He snaps to attention. This is exactly why he shouldn’t be near Bakugo, it just isn’t healthy for his heart and libido. He deserves to be euthanized for thinking about the taste of his skin when he’s clearly heartbroken over someone else. He wonders if Yaoyorozu can create an electric chair for him.
“You gonna drink?” Bakugo asks—demands, really. It’s practically impossible for Bakugo to ask a question unless it’s mission related, and even then, it’s rarely phrased as one.
Shouto should absolutely not drink under any circumstances, not when he’s in the presence of Bakugo looking like a Roman statue right next to him. He’s smart, and rational, and he will absolutely not drink the mystery liquid.
He throws back the shot and furrows his brow at the burn. It tastes like someone poured rubbing alcohol into a glass and then thought really hard about raspberries. It’s disgusting. Shouto is beginning to doubt the legality of this drink.
A chuckle interrupts his train of thought, and Shouto feels utterly hypnotized by the sound. He wasn’t aware that Bakugo could make any laugh that didn’t sound like an evil supervillain, and while it’s still at his expense, it sounds beautiful, like a log being placed into a crackling fire.
“You look like someone shoved a lemon up your ass,” Bakugo says, voice laced with amusement. “I wanna see it again. Oi, you! Get us another round of these. Put it on Elbows’ tab.”
“I don’t think Sero would be happy about that,” Shouto points out.
“Elbows lost a bet with me three years back,” Bakugo excuses it with a cocky grin, “Said if I beat him in a drinking contest, he’d buy all my drinks for the next five years. He’s lucky I’m not as borderline alcoholic as the rest of the dumbass brigade, or he’d be living in a ditch.”
Shouto feels dizzy from such close proximity. He can’t believe Bakugo willingly shared a story with him—is this what he’s been missing out on for so long? Why on earth has he been holding back from this?
This time, they both throw back the shot at the same time, each trying to keep a straight face for as long as possible. Bakugo loses, of course, wrinkling his nose, and then demands another round so he can really beat Shouto.
He loses that round, then the next round, then the one after that, and then the one after that. Shouto has lost count of how many shots of that pink liquid they’ve taken, and the room is starting to spin a little bit, but the thought of refusing a challenge from Bakugo hurts too much to even think about.
Shot number question mark burns a little bit more than the others, and Shouto can’t help the shudder that wracks his frame when it tears down his throat. Bakugo, whose cheeks are flushed and eyes lidded, hollers with victory and slams his fist on the bar hard enough to rattle the glasses.
“Get fucked, spicypot,” he slurs, grin lopsided and eyes unfocused.
Shouto feels about the same, unsteady and dizzy, but his chest is lighter than it’s been in months, and he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t having fun. It’s been the perfect excuse to stare at Bakugo without having to be careful, all under the guise of their stupid competition.
“My name’s not spicypot,” Shouto mutters, swaying in his stool a little. “It’s Shouto.”
Bakugo scoffs and clicks his teeth. “It’s your stupid fucking hero name, too. Number two hero, and all he’s got is his stupid first name.”
“My name isn’t stupid.”
“No, it’s Shouto.”
They both stare at each other for a moment, completely lost, and then Bakugo bursts into raucous laughter, shaking so hard with mirth that his shoulder knocks into Shouto’s. The touch burns, and it’s something Shouto could certainly get addicted to.
Bakugo is still laughing when a red blob approaches them from the other side of the bar, and Shouto squints for a solid ten seconds before registering Kirishima. He’s a bit blurry, though—Bakugo is the only clear thing in this godforsaken bar.
“Having fun?” Kirishima’s voice is light, but there’s something tight about it. Shouto doesn’t feel focused enough to pay attention to it, though, so he just bobs his head in a nod.
“Bakugo lost,” Shouto hiccups. “He only won one round and I won…”
How many did he win? He sticks up a few fingers to try and estimate a number, but soon puts them down once he starts seeing thirty fingers where there should only be ten. He read a book not too long ago about a soldier with PTSD who saw warped versions of his fingers and never quite returned to himself. He hopes he doesn’t turn into that soldier. What was the name of the book, again?
“You motherfucker,” Bakugo snarls, getting up from his seat and stumbling a little, “I won more than that!”
Shouto hums to himself. He remembers the book was written by an American author, and had a frighteningly accurate depiction of PTSD despite the historical time period it was written in and the lack of proper research. He wonders if he’ll turn into a drunkard stumbling through the streets from his memories of war.
He has a support system, though, unlike the soldier from the book. He has his mother and his siblings, his friends, and his pretty little secret all there to keep him sane.
“I, uh, I think you’ve both probably had enough to drink,” Kirishima says.
Shouto silently agrees when he stands up, because everything is spinning a little and the bar is hazy and Bakugo’s eyes look like the type of red he only sees on the battlefield. If he puts his hair and Bakugo’s eyes together side by side, will they be matching shades?
Kirishima glances between the two of them and holds up a hand. “I have to take Hagakure and Aoyama back to their places, but I’ll order a ride for you two—”
“Are you fucking stupid?” Bakugo’s sneer is still lethal, even when he can barely stand up straight and is basically squinting at everything around him. “My place is a five-minute walk, you moron. Icyhot can get a ride from there instead of this nasty ass bar.”
Shouto politely does not mention that this bar is not nasty at all. It’s quite nice, actually, despite its homely furnishings, and it probably only seems cheap because Bakugo hasn’t had to buy a drink for himself in years.
“Yeah,” Shouto agrees, not really sure what he’s agreeing to. All he knows is that he wants to spend as much time with Bakugo like this until he has to go back to his regularly scheduled pining. “Thank you, Kirishima.”
Kirishima raises his eyebrows but doesn’t comment again on their inebriated states. Instead, he just pats Bakugo on the shoulder a couple times. “Take care of Todoroki, alright? Don’t ralph on him or anything.”
Shouto bobs his head a few times once again, and then loops his arm through Bakugo’s in a fit of clouded vision and thoughts. All his senses are dulled by the alcohol, but the musk of sweat and caramel oozing from Bakugo’s pores is intoxicating him even further.
He has the stupid, primal urge to lick the thin sheen of sweat on the blonde’s brow, but he’s smart enough to know that he would probably get murdered on the spot.
Shockingly, Bakugo doesn’t immediately yank his arm away and start spewing insults at him. He just scoffs loudly and starts walking toward the entrance, refusing to grace anyone else with a goodbye.
The air is chilly but not too cold yet, and it does absolutely nothing to sober him up. He’s probably pressed into Bakugo’s side in a way that can’t be excused, but, if anything, the grip on his own arm just gets tighter.
Somewhere, in the back of Shouto’s mind, the thin shred of rationality still fighting against the tide of pink shots and the delicious presence of his one true love screams at him. You’re making a mistake, it shrieks, don’t go into his apartment! You’re going to do something you regret!
Shouto decides to politely tell his inner voice to go fuck itself, and then hums out loud. Surely, if he blames everything on his intoxicated state, he’ll be able to get away with saying things he normally wouldn’t.
Things such as “You’re still in love with Midoriya, aren’t you” included. Maybe it wouldn’t be the best idea to say that, though. He’s toying with the possibility of getting his arm ripped off or exploded when he stumbles, unable to walk any further.
Bakugo is standing stock-still, eyes foggy but narrowed at Shouto like he just told him to go jump off a building or something. Boy, wouldn’t that be ironic? His eyes go from confusion, to terror, to outrage, to defeat, then suspicion, all in the span of about two seconds.
“Oh, no,” Shouto says, in a voice much more deadpan than how he actually feels, “I said that out loud, didn’t I.”
“What the fuck,” Bakugo says, although it sounds more like whathfuck. It’d be funny, if Shouto weren’t in a similar state. And if he hadn’t screwed up their entire tentative acquaintanceship in one sentence.
Bakugo keeps walking, although he doesn’t really seem focus. Shouto wouldn’t be surprised if they ended up just walking circles around the block. He doesn’t really mind, though, not when Bakugo is still allowing him to clutch onto his arm and pretend like he isn’t being a disgusting creep by subtly squeezing the tight cord of muscle on his bicep.
“You’re in love with Midoriya,” Shouto repeats, because drunk him is apparently the reigning champion of digging his own grave. Now all he has to do is lie in it.
He’s grateful that Bakugo is just as drunk, if not more, than him. Instead of flying at him in a flurry of fists and explosions and enough expletives to make every mother in a twelve-kilometer radius wake up in a cold sweat, he just clenches his fists tightly.
“You don’t know shit, Icyhot,” he hisses, almost tripping over a crack in the sidewalk but catching himself at the last moment.
They turn to walk into an apartment building—fancy, certainly more so than Midoriya or Uraraka’s apartments—and Bakugo doesn’t say another word. Shouto doesn’t, either, even as they walk into the elevator and the floors start moving up, up, up.
“I’m sorry,” Shouto apologizes, because he is sorry. He didn’t mean to ruin Bakugo’s good mood. Or their friendship. Or his life. Anything, really.
Bakugo grunts, shoving his key into the lock and managing to turn it after a few tries and the occasional spark from his palm.
Shouto reluctantly releases his grip on the explosive hero’s arm when they walk inside, and glances around the blurry interior.
It’s well-kept, albeit a bit barren. Sleek walls, warm lights, the occasional fake plant adding a splash of green to the room. He’s actually not sure if they’re fake, but there’s no way a real plant maintained by the number two hero would look so good.
Bakugo throws off his shoes and walks down the hallway, shoving open a door. Shouto tentatively follows, unsure of where he should be but his stupid hindbrain craving Bakugo. He should euthanize that part of his brain.
No, he really shouldn’t. He loves Bakugo, he loves his secret, he loves the way he looks and smells and sounds and he loves keeping that pretty little secret tucked close to his heart when he falls asleep at night.
His bedroom is just as nice as the rest of the apartment, with a huge bed and red silk sheets that look positively sinful against the porcelain skin peeking from under his shirt. He’s flopped onto his bed, on his back and staring at the ceiling with an unreadable expression.
Shouto stands in the doorway, unsure of where he should be. It’d probably be best for the both of them if he went ahead and left. If he’s lucky, neither of them will remember this interaction, and things will go back to normal. “I’ll call a—”
“Is it obvious?”
Shouto startles. Bakugo doesn’t sound angry, per se, but he certainly doesn’t seem pleased, either. How should he respond? Can he even respond without drooling? Shouto tries valiantly to not look at the way Bakugo’s shirt rides up when he loosely throws his hands behind his head. He fails.
“No,” he eventually replies, because a little truth can’t hurt right now.
Bakugo huffs out a mirthless laugh. He moves a hand to place it on his face, sliding it down and dragging each finger across his nose, lips, and chin. Shouto’s hand twitches.
“Fuck,” Bakugo whispers, then he slams his hand into the sheets. “Fuck!”
In a bizarre mimicry of earlier, his hands are trembling again. His face looks gaunt, even in the warm light of his lamp. “I was so careful. I was so fucking careful about it, and now Deku’s right-hand man knows how pathetic I am.”
Shouto frowns. “I’m not anyone’s right hand man.”
“You’re gonna rat me out to him, aren’t you?”
He feels a small sting of hurt at the question. Does he really think so poorly of Shouto? Why would he do something like that? Midoriya might be important to him, but he treasures the importance of such delicate secrets.
“If I wanted to tell him, I would’ve done it our first year at UA.” Shouto doesn’t miss the way Bakugo’s entire body tenses up at his words.
Plush lips part into an “o” shape, and Shouto thinks about tea kettles and parasocial fans and anything that will stave off his evil, evil boner. “You… you’ve known this whole time.”
Shouto shrugs. “It’s not my place to say anything. Your secret is safe with me, Bakugo, I promise.”
The tension seeps from Bakugo’s body like a second skin, and he melts further into the silky sheets. If Shouto weren’t so drunk and uncomfortable from this conversation, he would wonder if this was a particularly dangerous wet dream.
“Whatever,” Bakugo snaps, a halfhearted attempt at his normal biting snark. It doesn’t fool either of them. “Not like I spend every waking moment thinking about this shit or anything. God, fuck, I just—I just want to forget about him. Just for a little while.”
Shouto needs to figure out a way to salvage this. He needs to somehow make them both forget this ever happened. He needs to wipe both of their memories. He needs to high-tail it out of here. He needs to scrub his brain out with soap and holy water. He needs to forget about smooth skin on crimson sheets and hooded eyes and plush lips wrapped around a shot glass and—
“I can help you.”
What?
“Huh?”
Yeah, huh? What the hell is he thinking? Is he going to proposition himself like some sort of sex-starved freak? He can’t do this, he’s breaking every rule and boundary he’s ever set. He’s crashing through them all like a bull in a china shop, and he shows no signs of stopping.
“You said you want to forget.” Shouto takes a step closer to the bed. His vision is fuzzy, everything a spinning blur except the angel of a man laying so tantalizingly close. “Just for a little while, right? I can help you.”
He doesn’t miss the way Bakugo’s breath hitches. His stupid lizard brain takes that action and runs with it, an endless loop of he wants you he wants you he wants you he wants you chanting in his head like a nonsensical melody. He feels insane. He feels heady with sensation and nothing at all.
Bakugo scowls, but his gaze lingers on him, burning like a brand. “Are you asking if I want to have sex with you?”
“Not if you don’t want to,” Shouto says, the exact opposite of what that tiny little piece of rationality is screaming at him to say. Perhaps the need to sabotage everything in his life is genetic.
He takes a step closer. His knees are almost on the bed, now, so close. All he has to do is lean forward, and he’ll finally be able to taste the skin he’s been dreaming about from a distance for so long. He won’t, not if Bakugo doesn’t agree, but he feels dizzy with anticipation nevertheless.
“You’ve got a pretty fucked up version of pity,” Bakugo mutters, his eyes still never leaving Shouto’s own. What is he looking for?
Shouto’s frown deepens. Is that what he thinks this is? Pity? What kind of person does something like this out of pity? “It’s not pity. I just don’t want to see you hurting. I don’t want you to be sad anymore.”
Bakugo takes a deep breath. The silence is deafening, a loud choir of nothing waiting for the crescendo of even more nothing to swell. “What if I say no?”
“Then I’ll leave,” Shouto says simply. “I’ll get an Uber, go home, and we’ll forget this ever happened.”
He’ll do it. He’ll do whatever Bakugo asks of him. He could tell him to leave the country and never speak to him, and Shouto will follow through without any hesitation or protest. The last thing he would ever want to do is make Bakugo feel uncomfortable, or unsafe.
Don’t you get it, Bakugo? I’m in love with you. I’ll do anything for you. I’ll learn how to freeze time, if you tell me to. I’ll kiss away every burden on your shoulders. I’ll fuck you so hard you’ll forget you ever liked Midoriya. I’ll let you empty all your frustration onto me, into me, all around me and inside me.
Bakugo shifts in the sheets until he’s sitting up, cross-legged, grabbing onto Shouto’s shirt and pulling him down until their faces are only centimeters apart.
His breath smells like the mystery shots and greasy bar food and everything Shouto has ever wanted. The room is spinning, his head is spinning, all he sees is blonde and red, red, red.
“You’re a cocky little bastard, aren’t you,” he growls. Shouto tries not to whimper out loud, lest he lose the last of his dignity. “You think you can kiss it all away and I’ll feel better?”
“Maybe,” Shouto replies, “There’s only one way to find out.”
He must have said something correct, because one moment he’s wondering if the Uber driver will notice his half-chub, and the next there’s an impossibly wet warmth on his lips.
Instinct grinds the last of his rationale into dust, and he kisses back with a fervor he thought impossible. His hands trace patterns into soft, smooth cheeks, little swirls and circles and hearts. Bakugo doesn’t waste a single second, snaking his tongue into Shouto’s mouth as soon as he opens it a single centimeter.
It’s wet. If it were anyone else, Shouto would probably cringe at the messiness of their kissing, but it’s Bakugo. Everything he does is beautiful. He kisses like he fights—challenging, desperate, calculating and strength all wrapped in a tight little present.
His tongue licks over his teeth, slips against his own, sucks and pulls and bites until one of them whimpers. Maybe both of them do. They pull apart with a wet smack, and Shouto is ready to beg and plead for his impossibly soft lips to come back, when he’s suddenly yanked onto the bed in a tangle of limbs and muscle.
Shouto only takes a second to recuperate before he latches his mouth to the side of Bakugo’s neck, inhaling the smoky sweet scent of burnt caramel and musky sweat like a sensory-deprived freak. He licks a stripe up the fleshiest part of his neck, relishing in the tremble of Bakugo’s breath, before sinking his teeth into the tender skin.
They both moan in tandem. Shouto feels high off the sound alone, moving his mouth down in an attempt to hear it again, and again, and again, forever. He bites and licks and sucks, pulling harder when Bakugo gasps, teasingly brushing his lips along another mark when he hears a groan.
Yes, he thinks, crazed with it, scrabbling at Bakugo’s shirt with his hands until he gives up and burns it away with a careful flick of his left hand. Bakugo gapes at the sight of his shirt burning away into nothing, and Shouto licks his lips hungrily.
He’s got a feast spread out before him, a blank canvas practically begging to be marred. He doesn’t feel like himself. Anything he wants, anything, he’ll do anything right now. His dick throbs in his jeans as he finally gets his mouth on that chiseled stomach, marking up and down his chest like a starving wolf and devout worshipper all at once.
Shouto is a filthy juxtaposition. He’s a sinner, he’s evil, he’s taking advantage of someone else’s heartbreak just to sate his own selfish desire. He can’t stop. It’s only been a few minutes and he’s already addicted to the taste.
“Ugh,” Bakugo groans when Shouto’s fingers skirt along the edges of his waistband, “C’mon, Icyhot, more. More.”
“More?” Shouto pants, vibrating with need and want.
“Yes,” Bakugo snaps impatiently, rutting his hips into the air.
“I’ll give you more,” Shouto whispers, half-dazed and eager, so eager to please. “Is it good?”
Bakugo scowls. “Don’t ask stupid questions, fuckin’ moron.”
No, no, Shouto thinks, massaging the red and purple marks littering the number two hero’s chest. Tell me it’s good. Tell me I’m good. Tell me you’ll let me keep going. Tell me you’ll let me do this again, and again, and again, forever.
“I need to know if it’s good,” he says, emitting a frosty chill from his fingertips as they ghost just underneath his waistband, relisihing in the goosebumps erupting over smooth skin. “I don’t want to do anything you don’t like.”
He continues his ministrations, little brushes of his fingers over a sinful waist, practically salivating over the way Bakugo hisses and twists in pleasure. “Hah,” he hisses, “Yes, fuck, fuck you, it’s good, don’t fucking stop.”
Shouto spurs into action, shucking Bakugo’s pants and underwear (thankfully saving them from the same ashy fate that befell his poor shirt) and staring in awe at the stiff, red cock in front of him. It’s unfair, really, that even his dick is beautiful, leaking a tiny bead of precum from the tip that Shouto reaches out and catches on his finger.
Red eyes follow his movement as he brings it close, practically hypnotized by the sheer wonder of it all. Bakugo moans, honest-to-god moans out loud when Shouto sticks his finger in his mouth.
“You’re such a f-freak,” he stammers, snarky tone left hypocritical by the way his cock jumps in response. “Are you that desperate for it?”
Shouto keeps his mouth shut to prevent him from saying stupid like “yes,” and instead shuffles his body lower and lower until his ankles are hanging off the edge of the bed. His breath ghosts over Bakugo’s dick, and he licks a tentative stripe up the underside.
Bakugo moans again, a guttural sound, like it came from somewhere hidden and vulnerable. Shouto needs to hear it again, immediately, right this very second. He licks the tip this time, flattening his tongue to cover as much area as possible.
“Fuck,” Bakugo grunts, and this sound is just as good. “Stop fuckin’ teasing me, jackass.”
Shouto doesn’t want to stop teasing. He gives his dick a few kitten licks, just to be a little bit of a jerk, and smothers a tiny grin when Bakugo growls in frustration.
“Come on, Todoroki,” he snarls, and oh, if that doesn’t go straight to Shouto’s weeping cock, “Are you gonna make good on your offer, or what?”
He feels like a man possessed when he swallows down two thirds of his cock in one go. It throbs in his mouth and his own pulses in response. He moans at the salty taste, heady and fuzzy. Bakugo throws his head back and whines, fingers threading in Shouto’s hair and twisting.
Shouto sinks down a little further, breathing deep through his nose and rutting his hips into the sheets in little ministrations. Please, he thinks desperately, use me, use me, do whatever you want to me, let me make you feel good just this once.
When a few minutes pass with nothing but desperate whimpers and the tiniest of tugs on his hair, Shouto pulls up for air. They both get distracted by the thick string of saliva connecting his lower lip to the tip of Bakugo’s leaking dick, but Shouto snaps out of it first.
“Come on, Bakugo,” he goads, poking the bear in its nest with all his self preservation thrown out the window. “Fuck my mouth like you mean it.”
Bakugo snarls something imperceptible and practically shoves Shouto’s mouth back onto his cock. He chokes at the sudden motion, but quickly falls into his role. He swallows and moans around the muscle, drunk on pink liquid and lust and desperation and maybe love, hidden somewhere he’ll never reveal.
He goes up, and down, guided by the feverish snapping of Bakugo’s hips and the fingers yanking at his hair. It hurts, it hurts so bad, but it feels so good that he doesn’t even care, choking and spluttering and drooling like the selfish piece of shit he is.
Make it worth my time, Bakugo’s hips seem to say, a stark contrast from the keens and grunts and groans that slip past his lips unbidden, make me forget.
Shouto’s orgasm hits him like a train—sudden and unexpected, he moans loudly over Bakugo’s cock, drool slipping and sliding as his hips twitch and buck into the sheets unpredictably. His head is fuzzy with aftershocks as the cock slips deeper down his throat, in and out at a rapid yet still rhythmic pace.
He could stay like this forever, if Bakugo wanted. He’d let him use his mouth anytime, whenever he wanted. Shouto feels almost disappointed when Bakugo’s voice chokes off and he shouts out a warning. He tries to pull off, but spitters are quitters, and Shouto shoves his mouth as far as he can go.
Bakugo releases into his mouth silently, face scrunched into the most beautiful expression of twisted pleasure he’s ever laid his eyes on. Shouto wants to frame it. He wants to hoard it like a dragon would tuck its treasure close by.
He swallows down every last drop, not letting up until the twitches start to look painful and Bakugo wrenches him off with a gasp. They’re both sweating, but Bakugo practically glistens in the glowing light of his room.
“Fuck,” Bakugo pants, mottled chest heaving with every breath. He looks filthy, hair sticking up everywhere and eyes wild. He looks beautiful.
Scarlet eyes rove over Shouto’s gasping form, and then zero in on the wet spot on his pants. “Did…” his lips twist into the cockiest smirk he’s ever seen in his life. “Oh my god, you creamed your pants like a teenager.”
Shouto scowls and sinks into the sheets. They’re absurdly comfortable—maybe he should invest in a set of silk sheets himself. “There is nothing shameful about receiving pleasure from giving it to someone else,” he defends himself.
Bakugo snorts. “Yeah, you keep telling yourself that.”
Both of them flop back onto the pillows at the same time, exhausted beyond belief. Distantly, Shouto knows that he’s in for a monumental shitshow in the morning. It looms over him like an oncoming storm, threatening and inevitable.
For now, though, he keeps his eyes trained on Bakugo as he leans over to turn off the lamp, clearly in the same boat as Shouto.
Nothing good can come out of this. Nothing. Shouto is hopelessly, undoubtedly in love with Bakugo, an irrefutable fact just the same as the blue sky and corrupt government. He’s certain that he gave Bakugo a good time, judging by the instant snoring he hears almost as soon as the blonde’s head hits the pillow, so he doesn’t have to worry about whether or not he upheld his end of the offer.
It was a terrible idea. They were both drunk—still are, really—and Shouto took advantage of Bakugo’s heartbroken state to give in to his own desires. He’ll regret this tomorrow, this he is certain of, but he can’t be bothered to care right now, much too satisfied with the feast he just gorged himself on.
He can’t help the surge of pride that swells in his chest when he sees the bruising hickeys all the way up Bakugo’s chest and neck. He looks like he got mauled by a bear.
As the edges of sleep whisk him away to dreamland, the tiny piece of rationale rises like a phoenix from the ashes. Shouto only thinks one thing as he finally falls asleep, a fact he will be unable to avoid in the coming days.
You’re really going to regret this.