Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

As soon as the door to Kirishima's apartment opens, Shouto knows he's fucked up somehow.

"Oh, Todoroki," is all Uraraka says, in the kind of tone usually reserved for speaking to tragically injured puppies.

"What'd I do?" Shouto asks, stepping inside.

The others are already there—from the looks of it, they have already started the Friday night festivities without him. This is fine with Shouto, considering the party doesn't really start when he walks in, but rather slows down a bit so the others can explain the rules of whatever drinking game they've opted to play that night to him.

Mina takes one look at him and lets out a shriek of laughter that either means she's already really drunk, or he's done something especially ridiculous. Seeing as he's only just entered the room, this doesn't bode well.

"Oh my god, are those khakis?" she cackles, and Shouto glances down at his tan-clad legs.

"Umm…"

"Todoroki, you made it!" he hears someone call out, and his heart thuds a little harder in his chest as he turns to face the source of the voice.

"Hey," he says, swallows once, "Midoriya."

Midoriya looks like he's well on his way to getting sloppy drunk by the end of the night if the red flush in his cheeks and high shine of his eyes is anything to go by. He's smiling his biggest smile right at Shouto, and he is, as usual, devastatingly cute; although the undercut he sports where his dark, curly hair is buzzed short adds an irresistible flair of innocent sex appeal to his look.

Midoriya is gifted at not realizing how cute he actually is, or where his alcohol tolerance levels lie. He always goes a little too hard too fast, ending up shitfaced way before everybody else, but not early enough that any of the rest of them can make great decisions about what to do with him. Fortunately, that's where Kirishima comes in.

"Todoroki, my man," says Kirishima, draping an arm around Midoriya's shoulders and surveying Shouto up and down. "We've gotta get you out of those pants."

Shouto's face starts to burn, partially from embarrassment, but mainly because Kirishima is casually talking about undressing him while wearing one of those white shirts with the sleeves scooped out, exposing his thick biceps and a good bit of sideboob through the swooping arm holes. Kirishima, in contrast to the rest of them, seems to have no alcohol tolerance limit—he can drink literally anyone under the table, so the responsibility of keeping track of the rest of them usually falls on his well-built shoulders.

"I didn't bring anything else, though," Shouto says, like he's normally expected to have extra pairs of non-shitty pants on hand.

"Holy shit," says a new voice and Shouto turns again to see Kirishima's roommate, Sero, peering around the doorframe from the other room. "Yeah, there's no way we can let you back out like that, you're gonna have to borrow something. Kirishima, aren't you guys about the same height?"

"Are these really that bad?" Shouto asks. It's not that he minds borrowing something, specifically—it's just that he knows if he wears Kirishima's pants, he's going to be thinking about Kirishima's athletic legs, and how his hands are really strong, and how his smile is easy and infectious—

"Sorry, Todoroki," Uraraka says, slipping her arm through his, "but they're hideous. Closet raid!"

Mina squeals and claps her hands, shooting up from the couch. The other guys start to follow, but are quickly rebuffed, despite Kirishima's protests that "It's my closet!" Shouto is momentarily glad the girls are so good at steamrolling. He isn't sure he could stop himself from popping a very obvious boner, knowing he's being watched by three other dudes, which seems dangerous considering he's supposed to be undressing.

It's not like they don't know he's gay. So is Kirishima, and Midoriya is bi, and the fact that Mina not infrequently flits in and out of Uraraka's and Asui's relationship is no secret (thanks to Mina). The thing, though, is that Shouto is new—to this university, to this life, to this group—and all the Gay Thoughts he's had building up for years on end seem determined to all pour out now, now that there's no danger of his father or his father's associates catching them showing on his face. They've also been pouring out in other ways as of late, since he doesn't have to worry about anyone walking in on him masturbating at all hours of the day.

But the other thing is that even though this group has made ample space for him, he's still trying to figure out how he fits in. He doesn't want to make things… weird. Letting on to Midoriya and Kirishima that he can't stop fantasizing about them nearly every time his mind wanders seems like a sure-fire way to make everything awkward. So, not for the first time, he's intensely glad for his well-honed pokerface.

Not too much later, he's learned, at least, that he fits pretty well in Kirishima's jeans. They're a slim fit, more snug on him than he's used to, but he can tell the girls have deemed this a Good Thing, so he's content to accept his newfound presentability. His polo shirt is also discarded in favor of the white t-shirt he's wearing under it and one of Kirishima's blue button-ups.

"It brings out your eyes," Mina says, before correcting to: "Eye. Singular."

"Maybe he's got a grey one I can layer over this," Shouto jokes, and Mina laughs as she drags him back downstairs.

"Now we're talking," Kirishima says approvingly. "Alright, now that we can be seen in public with this guy over here—time to move out or we're gonna be late for the show."

Sero bemoans being left behind, but he has a paper due on Monday; he'll be there in spirit, and Mina swears she'll drink an extra beer for him. And so, clad almost entirely in clothes that are both not his own, and far too cool for him, Shouto finds himself on his way with the others to catch the train to his very first underground rock concert.

The fact that he's never been to one before might sound pretty weird at first, given that Shouto's father is none other than the legendary Rock Hall of Famer: Todoroki Enji, frontman of the world famous band Endeavor.

They aren't close. But it's not because Enji was a distant famous dad or anything like that; Shouto's father had been an overbearing nightmare since Shouto was born, and it only got worse as Shouto's musical talents began to surface. He was a natural on string instruments, piano, bass, viola—from the age of five, Enji had him playing guitar until his fingers literally bled.

He had plans for Shouto, grand plans for the Todoroki family to produce more platinum albums than any other artist, until they could take over the Hall of Fame and finally make people forget the name of the number one rockstar ahead of Enji. Personally, Shouto is fairly certain that a man who has carved his way into the hearts of music aficionados and casual listeners alike as "Rock God of Ages: All Might™" is not going to be easily forgotten. But his old man keeps trying.

Unfortunately for him, Shouto never leaned that way. The glitz and glam he'd been simultaneously steeped in and sheltered from his entire life held no appeal to him. Maybe it was because the sheen had worn off so early, baring the processed corporate underbelly that his dad was such a master of, the manipulation of the fans' ears, the perks that money would always have over creativity. Maybe it was the realization that he would grow up to be nothing but a puppet, less of a frontman than a mouthpiece for his father's machinations, surrounded by Enji's carefully handpicked band and managers and marketing team.

But the most likely reason was because he fell in love at a young age—with the tender, mournful sounds he could draw from the strings of a violin, his mother's instrument of choice, that she'd played for him whenever he cried as a child after his father's unending, harsh lessons. After the accident that had left the side of his face scarred (he has to think of it as an accident, or else he just feels more out of place, more unwanted), after his mother had been committed to the hospital, it was her violin he picked up and played, day in and day out, behind closed doors. He doesn't cry anymore, but sometimes… when he plays… maybe the strings do in his place.

When it came time for him to apply to colleges, his father had pushed him, dragged him, towards the schools with the music production programs, with the famous alumni, with the best connections. But unbeknownst to Enji, Shouto had applied to his mother's alma mater; a small but prestigious fine arts school—namely, a school across the country from the office of Endeavor's record label, and the sprawling Todoroki estate.

He got in, of course. Before Enji even realized what was happening, Shouto had packed up his violin and caught a train cross country. He's still not sure if he was accepted because of his last name or not, but he's determined to prove that he's much more than that, now that he's there.

University is amazing, he keeps discovering. It's not just the freedom of being away from home for the first time; it's the ability to be his own person, without wondering who is watching and scoring his every move. He can stay up late, or sleep in. He can practice his music whenever he wants. He can enjoy things without wondering if that means they'll be taken away from him later.

Which means he can have real friends now. And even if they do get on his back about his khakis, they care about him, they like him; and not because he's sort of famous.

They care about him enough that they were absolutely not having it when he showed some reluctance to go see a show at some dingy club in the city on a Thursday night. He has his first university recital coming up in a couple of weeks and most of his free time is spent practicing to perfection for that. But one of their friends will be playing at this concert tonight, so everyone wants to go.

Shouto's never met him. But then Midoriya had said, "I understand," in the saddest, most heartbroken tone imaginable, and Uraraka had actually visibly deflated, and Mina had stolen his violin bow and refused to give it back until he agreed. And Kirishima—Kirishima had done the puppy dog eyes thing. So there was no way Shouto could say no, in the end, despite his various misgivings.

He's never gone to any rowdy shows like this one. His father had been very careful to isolate him so he wouldn't be exposed to any riffraff or unworthy musicians, not wanting Shouto's tastes or talents to be "tainted". So, even growing up as the son of one of rock music's biggest stars, Shouto had been kept far away from its notoriously seedy underbelly. It hadn't interested him, anyway. He knew he wouldn't fit in—after all, like they'd all been laughing about, "Who wears khakis to a concert?"

But still, sitting on the train with them, he doesn't feel unwanted. He might not be sure where he fit, yet, but that doesn't mean it couldn't be here.

When they arrive at their destination, Shouto immediately sees why he'd been ordered to change. Even with the new clothes, he still feels like he stands out by not wearing one article of fabric that looks ruggedly-yet-artfully torn, like the jeans Midoriya and Kirishima wear, Uraraka's leggings, or Mina's t-shirt.

"So do we get to go backstage and shit?" Mina asks excitedly as they near the doors, clinging to Kirishima's arm. "Are we like, 'with the band'?"

Kirishima laughs loudly. "No way," he says, "when I told him we were coming, he told me—" Kirishima bares his teeth and snarls in a voice at least an octave deeper than normal, "Fuck off, I don't need my mommy to come cheer me on."

Midoriya grins. "Sounds like Kacchan, alright."

"I know, right?" Kirishima says. "He's gonna be so pumped when he sees us."

"Um?" Shouto says, unsure of whether or not they're joking. He's never met this friend of theirs, even though they all talk about him fairly often, always with a strange mix of fondness and exasperation. "So, your friend, he's the… drummer?"

He has to raise his voice because they've finally made it into the venue—it's loud in here, and smells like booze. It's not super crowded yet, but Shouto can tell it's going to fill up fast. Mina zooms off to buy more drinks, her dyed hair a cotton candy pink landmark in the crowd, as the rest of them start to make their way to the stage.

"Yeah!" Kirishima says. "This is a new band for him, though, I'm interested to see how he'll do…"

"Oh?"

Midoriya shakes his head. "Kacchan doesn't have the best track record with not getting kicked out of bands. He's volatile."

"He is an asshole," Kirishima confirms. "But he's our asshole."

Why exactly are you guys all friends with him, Shouto wants to ask, but he settles on keeping his mouth shut for now.

Mina returns, her arms laden with beer, and trades the others cash for them. Kirishima squeezes Midoriya's cheeks with one hand, and Midoriya goggles innocently up at him like a goldfish.

"Can you try to pace yourself, like, at all tonight?" Kirishima asks him, and Midoriya beams, patting his arm reassuringly.

"I'm great at pacing," Midoriya says. Uraraka nearly spits her beer out from laughing. Kirishima tucks Midoriya further under his arm, looking very content to be blatantly lied to.

Shouto realizes he's smiling faintly and looks away, suddenly awkward. He hasn't been offered a drink, because they know better by now. Not that any of them ever pressure him ("More for us!"), but it does all remind him again, make him wonder if he's still sort of a fifth wheel. He isn't sure what exactly Kirishima and Midoriya have going on, but it seems to be something. At the very least, Shouto recognizes it as a something he's never experienced.

The lights start to dim. The club has really filled up since they arrived; Shouto can feel bodies pressing against his back, now, and feels glad that they made it to the front, where there aren't so many bodies in front of him. He has a clear view of the stage, and it makes it feel less claustrophobic.

"Starting, starting!" Mina squeals, as purple, blue, green, lights of all colors, start to sweep and strobe across the stage and crowd.  

The stage is small, no fancy curtains, but it feels more alive that way, as the band takes their positions. It seems like they're local favorites—the crowd starts going wild when they see them. Two guitarists, one blond with a jagged black streak in his hair, excitable smile plastered across his face; the other his polar opposite, his face nearly obscured by his sleek dark bangs and the large black hood of his sweatshirt. The keyboardist, a tall, beautiful girl who draws lots of excited noise from the crowd just with a small smile and wave. And the bassist and lead singer, spiked wristbands, dark eyeliner; she has an infectious air of anxious excitement.

But the drums remain empty. The other four start to warm up, guitars winding through some riffs, keyboard through scales and presets, bass thrumming. The crowd hoots and hollers. Still no drummer.

"Oh, hell," Midoriya says, "you don't think they already dumped him…"

Then, almost like they have some kind of unspoken signal, the cacophony of the instruments stops. One low, growling chord strikes out from the hooded guitarist, and he lets it hang, blanketing the crowd, which starts to shout.

"Here we go," the lead singer hums into the mic. She's got a low, honey voice, matches nicely with the guitar.

The second guitarist fires off next, his instrument adding to the sound, the frenzy.

"Thank you, for coming out tonight!"

Shouto starts to feel it—the hum in the air, the thrumming in the ground, mixing together inside him. The lead singer glances to the side, and a real smile lights up her face as one last person joins them on the stage. Shouto's stomach flips over.

This guy must be the drummer. He's got a riot of blond hair partially covered by a faded grey beanie. Multiple piercings in each ear. Black, low-slung jeans with ragged holes in the knees. Black, sleeveless Van Halen t-shirt, the standard Douchebag Cut, made for the gun show. This can be forgiven. His biceps beg to be put on display. It would be a crime to cover them.

Holy shit, Shouto is glad he came out tonight.

"He always needs to make an entrance," Uraraka says, sounding vaguely relieved. Shouto stares up at the stage.

Oh, he thinks. "Is that Bakugou?"

"Yeah," Kirishima says, "that's Bakugou."

Bakugou, as it turns out, might be the hottest asshole Shouto has ever seen in his life. And that's saying a lot, because the music industry basically thrives off a culture of hot assholery.

He saunters on stage like everyone isn't waiting for him, stops to drag the blond guitarist down with an arm around his neck to grind his knuckles into the top of his head, passes by the bassist to bump her fist with his own, before finally striding to the drums to take a seat at his throne.

He picks up the sticks, twirls them round and around deft fingers, and for a second the whole club holds its breath.

Then he tilts his head back and howls out a yell, before ripping into the drums in the opening lick of the first song, and the world splits apart. The guitars shred, the keyboard wails, the bass pounds, the vocals tear it up, and underneath it all is the pulse of the kick drum and the crash of cymbals keeping time.

And Shouto lets it all take him.

He's never been to any kind of rock show before, period. Not underground, standing room only venues like this, or sold out arena concerts. He's never been to one of his father's shows, he refused to go. He's been to classical recitals and concertos, and loved the lushness of the soundscapes, the freedom of listening to the music in person. But this is different.

This sound is being strapped to the front of a freight train, it's the center of a storm, it's an explosion going off.

And the conductor, and the lightning rod, and the detonator, he's the one they came here to see.

Bakugou's hands are a blur as he beats on the drums like they've personally insulted him. But his sound isn't sloppy or unrefined—there's the sheer undeniability of overwhelming skill there, the perfect augmentation of the music, the accentuation of the rhythm. His teeth are grit and bared in an almost manic grin at times, almost like the effort of keeping the drums under his command is a power he can feel and harness. His arms gain a sheen of sweat, gleaming prominently under the stage lights, the contours of his straining muscles highlighted in the myriad of colors. They aren't the only thing straining. Shouto's borrowed jeans feel distinctly tight.

It's after the third song ends in a screaming crescendo that Bakugou finally notices his friends. Kirishima and Uraraka are jumping around so animatedly he could hardly fail to spot them, as close to the front as they are. His upper lip curls into a smirk, he rolls his eyes—and then he sees Shouto.

The sneer fades from his face. He stares, eyes sharp, lips slightly parted. Shouto finds it suddenly very hard to breathe. He also finds it very, very hard to look away, so he doesn't. He stares back.

"You guys rock!" the lead singer, Jirou, shouts. "Please enjoy the fucking show! We're Heartbeat Reverberation!"

Bakugou doesn't look away from Shouto as the next song starts. His expression melts into a smile, slow and wicked, before he slides his tongue between his teeth to wet his bottom lip. He only breaks eye contact when he starts to play again.

Shouto manages to take a very deep breath. Next to him, Kirishima and Midoriya exchange a glance.

"What?" Shouto yells over the music.

Kirishima claps him on the back. "Good luck," he yells back in reply.

Shouto doesn't know what this means. He's aware Bakugou keeps looking at him, now, and inevitably he is always looking at Bakugou. What if he's wondering who the hell Shouto is, the new guy hanging around his friends. Shit, what if he's annoyed by Shouto being there? If he had brushed off Kirishima coming, then maybe some nobody is even worse.

Shouto has no idea how to respond to the continual staring, but he's not a quitter, so he keeps up the eye contact. The way Bakugou looks at him, gaze stirring every now and then to find Shouto once more, heavy-lidded and appraising, is both intimidating and arousing as fuck. Shouto wants to know what the fuck it's about. His dick, increasingly apparently, also has some questions.

Bakugou is insanely good on drums, but the other band members are as skilled on their respective instruments. Nearing the end, Jirou gets everyone to take a brief solo, to introduce them to the crowd and put them in the spotlight. It reminds Shouto a bit of solo performances at recitals, although the crowd is always silent during those. Here, they cheer all through Momo's fingers dancing over the keys, Tokoyami's and Kaminari's shredding, Jirou's blindingly fast fingerpicking on the bass. The more they show off, the louder the crowd cheers. This seems to be the whole point of rock solos, Shouto muses.

And nobody shows off better than Bakugou. He starts off with a bang, rumbling out a heavy beat, cymbals crashing, slamming the crowd with energy right from the start, and only ramps up from there. He plays as good one-handed as he does with two, spinning one stick in his hand as he keeps the rhythm going with his other, before tossing it clear into the air—he doesn't need to look to catch it, snatching it from free fall to launch into a blistering assault across the whole set. If the crowd wasn't already on its feet, he would have gotten them there; they're jumping, hands in the air, as he pounds the drums once, twice, a third and final time, and he lets the sticks go flying, spinning off god knows where.

His bandmates are grinning as he stands, fist thrust into the air like a prize fighter exiting the ring after a win. He's drenched in sweat, peels up the bottom of his black tank to wipe his face.

Abs so defined Shouto could probably count them from the back row. Pecs so thick they cast their own shadows. His ears aren't the only thing pierced—he's got a small black hoop through his right nipple.

"Holy shit," Shouto says.

Next to him, Midoriya laughs openly at his expression. "Yeah," he says. "Kacchan is a problem."

The problem doesn't end there. Bakugou hooks his thumbs under his hiked up shirt and then skims it off over his head, sending his beanie flying. His hair is even wilder than Shouto had previously thought, now that there's nothing covering it.

"We're gonna play one or two more for ya," Jirou says, as Bakugou steals Kaminari's water bottle. He uncaps it, ignoring the guitarist's protests as he upends it over his head. The water pours over the drummer's muscular bulk, down his neck and shoulders and throat, between his pecs, and the grooves of his stomach, tracing the V of his hips. Shouto suddenly becomes acutely aware of how thirsty he is, his mouth dry as he tries to swallow.

As he's trying to wrap his head around the borderline pornography occurring on stage, Bakugou tosses the now empty water bottle out into the crowd, before stalking to the front of the stage. The crowd's yells get louder the closer he gets, and he props a foot on one of the speakers at the edge of the stage and just grins, basking in their frenzy over him. He balls up his shirt in one hand and then looks into the crowd. Straight at Shouto.

Before Shouto can react in any way (Smile? Wave? Pretend not to notice?), Bakugou throws the crumpled up bundle of cloth directly at him. It lands on top of Shouto's fucking head.

For one too-long moment, he just stands there, too stunned to move, the shirt obscuring his vision entirely. It's warm and damp plastered against his face, and that should be gross, but fuck—it's nasty-hot, the scent overwhelmingly heady, sweat and sharp deodorant shoved right into his nose, paralyzing him. This is it, this is what he's gonna be jacking off to for the next couple months at least.

He curls his fingers into the fabric, which feels time-worn and soft, dragging it down his face. When it's low enough to allow him to peek over the cloth again, he sees Bakugou hasn't waited around. He's already turned his back, seating himself behind the drums again as the band launches into another song.

They play a couple more songs to a thunderous audience who won't let them stop at just one or two more; but eventually, as all good things must, it comes to an end.

"Thank you so much!" Jirou shouts, waving at the crowd, as the music crescendos one last time behind her. "Goodnight! Thank you!" And then the music drops out and it's just the noise of excited chatter.

The band chats happily amongst themselves for a bit while the crowd continues to mill about. But Bakugou stomps to the edge of the stage and hops down, making a beeline for his friends.

"What the fuck did I tell you about showing up tonight?" he snarls. Shouto is pretty sure he's never heard someone sound so naturally enraged, and he grew up with one of the angriest assholes on the planet for a father.

Kirishima, however, just grins broadly. "Happy to see you too, buddy," he says.

Without changing his pace or his furious facial expression, Bakugou clasps hands with him emphatically. Shouto thinks they might both be flexing. He tries not to stare at all the muscle on display. It's not the most successful effort.

"You were awesome, man!" Kirishima tells him. "I could like, feel my testosterone levels rising during that solo, shit!"

"It was pretty sick, huh," Bakugou says, not a question.

Mina and Uraraka fling themselves at him, both of them looking devious. He resists, at first, before reluctantly surrendering to a group hug. Both girls plant kisses on his cheeks.

"You both suck," he says, sounding only slightly less bad-tempered than before. "Oy, Deku, you bastard!"

"Hey, Kacchan," Midoriya says. He's the only one who calls Bakugou that—and apparently Bakugou's got a nickname for him, too. Shouto can't help but wonder about it. Kirishima, after all, is the one who's known Bakugou the longest (since high school), but only Midoriya uses that name for him.

Midoriya yelps as Bakugou goes after him, shoving Midoriya under his arm to put him in a chokehold.

"Kacchan, you are so fucking sweaty," Midoriya informs him.

"Yeah? Bet you like that, you nerd," Bakugou says, grin vicious. "Why'd you cut your hair like this, it looks like shit."

"No, it doesn't," Shouto says, reflexively. He's really not sure if Bakugou is messing around or not, and it's probably not his place to say anything. After all, these are Bakugou's friends, before they're Shouto's.

But still, Midoriya is so damn hot with that undercut, Shouto doesn't want anyone giving him the wrong idea.

Bakugou releases Midoriya, who pops up anxiously like a cork in water. "Ah, oh!" he chirps. "I need to introduce you guys! Shouto, this is our friend, Bakugou Katsuki! Kacchan, this is—"

"Are you shitting me?" Bakugou says. "I know who Todoroki Enji's fucking kid is."

"O-oh…" Midoriya says. "Right…"

Shouto is actually fairly surprised by this. Not many people can recognize him on sight. His father has tried to keep him out of the media's eye, especially after he got his scar. Most people who know who he is are in the classical sector—not people like Bakugou.

"Hey," Shouto says, as coolly as he can. Like he hasn't been completely lusting over this guy and his abs for the past ninety minutes.

"Hey," Bakugou replies. "That's my shirt."

"Um…" Shouto says, belatedly realizing he's still clutching Bakugou's discarded t-shirt in one fist. "Yeah, I was there when you threw it at me."

Bakugou stares at him. "So, are you gonna give it back or what?"

"I can't keep it?" Shouto blurts out.

Too late, he realizes that's fucking weird, as Mina roars with laughter. But aren't these things always like, mementos? People get to keep them if they catch them at shows, he knows that much—he was sort of banking on it, considering he has plans for it that he can't voice aloud, or really think about, because they're sleazy as all hell. God, he needs to get a grip.

Bakugou looks at the others in disbelief. "Where did you find this dipshit? He's gotta be one of Deku's strays, right?" To Shouto, he says, "That shirt is vintage, and unlike you, the rest of us don't exactly have that kind of shit falling into our laps on a regular basis. Hand it over."

"Why'd you throw it at me, then?" Shouto asks. What is he doing? He needs to give Bakugou his shirt back, right now.

Bakugou leans into him. They're about the same height—Shouto is slightly taller—but Bakugou takes up an impressive amount of space. He seems to loom as he grins wickedly at Shouto, like he knows he has Shouto trapped.

"Because you were staring real fucking hard, pretty boy," he growls in Shouto's face. "I thought it might be good if I gave us both the chance to cool off a bit."

Shouto blinks, and in that moment it finally occurs to him.

Bakugou doesn't hate his face. Bakugou is hitting on him.

With the realization comes a swift internal panic. Bakugou easily pulls the shirt from his fingers as Shouto stands there, frozen, running through any and all options open to him. Flirting is absolutely out of the question, because he's god awful at it. Walk away? Try to self combust?

"Hey, you losers going out for drinks?" Bakugou asks, like he hasn't just rocked the world of an innocent bystander.

"Definitely!" Kirishima says. Mina pumps her arms in the air and yells.

"Oh, Todoroki!" Uraraka says, pulling her phone from her pocket, "Iida said that he could swing by and pick you up if we decided to go out later, I'll text him—"

"It's okay," Shouto says. "I'll come along."

He never comes out if they're just bar hopping, it's not his thing. His friends all stare at him. Bakugou's lip curls.

"You guys trying to send him home?" he asks with a mean grin. "You're some shitty friends!"

"No, no, I just wasn't expecting—sorry, Todoroki!" Uraraka says.

"You're not shitty friends," Shouto says, shooting Bakugou a deadpan look that could potentially pass as a glare. "I just… don't have anything I really need to work on tonight." That's a complete lie. In his mind's eye, the recital looms. He sees his sheet music spread out, hears the notes in his head. But in his defense… he's been practicing pretty nonstop.

"Okay!" Uraraka says, happily. Behind her, Mina is still yelling. She seems to be chanting Shouto's name now.

"Help me pack up my shit," Bakugou tells Kirishima, thumping him on the back. Shouto starts to follow Kirishima to help, but he only takes two steps when an arm slings around his shoulder. Bakugou leans into him, teeth bared as he says in a voice low enough to grab Shouto by the balls, "Quit acting like such a loser and maybe you can get me out of my clothes yourself tonight."

He lets his arm fall away, hopping back onstage to yell at Kirishima. Shouto just stands there, unmoving.

He isn't exactly sure how he's going to accomplish the task Bakugou just laid out in front of him without embarrassing himself. But he is definitely going to give it the old college try.

Chapter Text

The rest of the band is convinced to come along with ease. It turns out one of the guitarists, Kaminari, is a friend of Sero's, and Shouto belatedly realizes he recognizes the keyboardist Yaoyorozu from university. She's double majoring in Composition and Keyboard Studies, and while they don't overlap any classes, they've passed in the halls a couple of times.

They load up the instruments and equipment in Kaminari's van (half Jirou's van, she reminds him, until he finishes paying her back for loaning him the money). Rather than take the train, Shouto's friends opt for hopping in the van, too, even though it's a cramped fit. Shouto is trying to figure out where exactly he's going to squeeze in—there seems to be a spot in the back row in the corner by the window, which would involve basically sitting in Midoriya's lap. He's trying to figure out if the risks (hard-on) outweigh the benefits (Midoriya's thighs), when Bakugou says,

"Like hell I'm getting in that death trap with the rest of you." He stands staring at the van from a distance, looking disdainful.

"Hey!" Kaminari protests, patting the wheel of said death trap. "She'll hear you."

"You're not bailing, right?" Kirishima asks, disappointedly.

Bakugou snorts. "Like hell I am, you owe me a drink from last time. I brought the bike, I'll meet you there."

Bike? Shouto stares at him, trying to imagine this—Bakugou wheeling around town, probably recklessly cutting off pedestrians and vehicles alike. Would he wear a helmet? Would it even fit over his hair?

"Ohhh, okay!" Kirishima says. "See you at Kiyashi!"

"Yeah, yeah," Bakugou says, "that fuckin' dump on the corner near your school, right?"

"That's the one!" Kirishima confirms, sounding far too happy about this apparent dump.

"Great," Bakugou says. "Todoroki, you coming or not?"

"Yeah, I already said I was," Shouto says, still awkwardly scoping out the situation (fuck, he keeps meaning to stop calling Midoriya's crotch area that), one foot in the van and the other on the pavement.

Uraraka smiles too wide, reaches out, puts her hands on Shouto's shoulders, and pushes him. He stumbles backwards out of the van, stunned.

Bakugou sighs loudly behind him. "Unbelievable."

Oh. Oh, wait.

Shouto spins around to see Bakugou is walking away, his back to Shouto again—shit, fuck. "With you?"

"No, you just keep divining how to sardine in there with the rest of them," Bakugou calls over his shoulder.

"We'll see you there," Uraraka says cheerfully. The decisive slam of the van door shutting jolts Shouto out of his indecision.

"There's no room," he says, jogging after Bakugou to catch up to him. His instinct is to fall into step beside the drummer, but he has no idea where Bakugou is walking, so when Bakugou hangs a sudden right down an alleyway, Shouto nearly misses it.

"Alright, then," Bakugou says, sounding like he has definitely noticed how awkward Shouto is being. As if there was a way to miss it. "This is me."

Shouto does a double take. Bakugou has stopped in front of a bike, yes; but it's not a bicycle, it's a…

"Motorcycle," Shouto says. He takes a deep breath and then closes his mouth again. Oh, fuck him entirely.

It's not some sleek, edgy sports bike, nor is it a bulky monster. This bike, Bakugou's bike, is somewhere in between—a classic, black and chrome beast, part muscle, part style, pure sex. 

Bakugou looks at Shouto strangely. "Yeah?"

"I thought you meant… the other kind of bike," Shouto says dumbly.

"The other…" Bakugou starts to say, before he realizes what Shouto was envisioning. His eyebrows shoot up and then he crows with laughter, mocking but genuine. "How the fuck did you think that was gonna work? Were you gonna run along behind me?"

Shouto refuses to admit to his obliviousness. "I was hoping you'd let me sit on the handlebars, actually."

Bakugou throws his head back and guffaws. "You're fuckin' hilarious, holy shit. Put this on." He thrusts a black helmet into Shouto's hands.

"Shouldn't you wear this?" Shouto asks.

"Don't need it," Bakugou says, because of course he thinks that. "I don't want your brains splattering all over if you fall off or something, though. I don't want your dad to sue me."

"He has me insured," Shouto says absentmindedly.

"Oookay," Bakugou says. "God, stop staring at it like a—give me this."

He grabs the helmet out of Shouto's hands and eases it on his head, securing it in place. He stands very close, staring intently into Shouto's face—no, at the helmet, Shouto corrects himself—as he makes sure it's sitting correctly. He's a little bit shorter than Shouto.

He can't really be called handsome, either, Shouto thinks; not like Iida, with his perfectly aristocratic features, or Kirishima with his charming openness, or even Midoriya with his sweet face and captivating eyes. There's a lot of roughness to Bakugou, cold eyes with the angry slant to them, wide, sneering mouth, blunt nose. He's bold and intimidating, rather than outright good-looking.

And still, the mere suggestion of proximity as he finishes adjusting the helmet makes Shouto feel like he's burning up. It's not just the face, or the body, it's the everything. It's the lack of polish that makes him that much more irresistible. Because Shouto doesn't feel like he'll mess it up, if he touches it, drags his hands all over it, sinks his fingers into it. All his life, Shouto's been force fed perfection. He's ready as hell for the opposite.

"... said how does that feel? Hello? Anyone fucking in there?"

"Good," Shouto says, remembering how to use words at the last moment. "Feels good."

" 'Feels good,' what are you, a Neanderthal, suddenly?" Bakugou scoffs. "Get on."

Shouto doesn't actually get on immediately. Bakugou doesn't seem to notice, as he swings his leg over the bike, starts it up—it revs powerfully, a full-bodied rumble that growls its way up Shouto's spine the same way the music had earlier. The reality of what he's seeing is starting to sink in bit by bit for Shouto, as Bakugou drops into the seat, casually impatient, one foot on the ground, one hand on the handlebars.

Bakugou is interested in him in some way, Shouto is sure—he's not sure if he'd call it flirting, because that implies a level of curiosity. Bakugou is obviously acting on the assumption that Shouto is interested; he's leaving the door open. And he's right.

Bakugou rides a motorcycle, and Shouto wants to ride him, all fucking night long.

"I will just leave your ass here," Bakugou drawls, and Shouto snaps out of it. He hurries to clamber onto the back of the bike. It vibrates beneath him, and he can't help but be painfully aware of how easily it stimulates all the currently neediest parts of him.

"Ready," Shouto says, swallowing the thickness in his voice.

"Hold on to me, or you really are gonna fall off," Bakugou tells him. After a moment's indecision, Shouto wraps his arms around Bakugou's middle. It feels very solid. Without another word from Bakugou, they're off—roaring down the street, with Shouto holding tighter than is probably necessary. Bakugou doesn't warn him, though, so he doesn't let go.

Hanging on proves definitely necessary. Half of Shouto's guess was correct, at least; Bakugou is a menace on the road. He swerves in and out of the narrowest spaces, horns blaring at them; cuts some turns so sharply and with such little reduction in speed Shouto is sure his nose is going to skim asphalt. He tries to act like none of this is in the least bit alarming—he senses Bakugou is steering especially recklessly to get a rise out of him.

Seconds after wondering this, he swallows a yell as Bakugou peels away from a red light turned green so fast it slides Shouto backwards on the seat, before he pops the bike onto its back wheel. Shouto yanks himself forward in the seat, slamming his crotch against Bakugou's ass, squeezing him around the waist to keep from falling off the bike.

"Having trouble back there?" Bakugou yells over his shoulder. Shouto can see the shit-eating grin stretching his mouth. This asshole.

"Not really," Shouto says. "You're a pretty shitty driver, though, hate to break it to you."

Bakugou's slams on the brakes so hard Shouto's chin slams into his shoulder. "We're here," he announces, like that was the only purpose of the abrupt stop. Shouto inhales through his nose, biting back all the insults at the tip of his tongue, as Bakugou dismounts the bike. He's not going to rise to the bait—not going to let Bakugou feel like he has Shouto where he wants him.

He pulls off his helmet and shakes out his hair, feeling a little sweaty. "Everyone probably beat us here while you were taking all those detours so you could show off—"

Bakugou grabs his face in both hands, and Shouto nearly drops his helmet. He finds he has nothing smart to offer, only a vacant, panicked stare as Bakugou pushes his head back, peering down at him imperiously.

"Hit your chin pretty hard there," he says, like it wasn't his own damn fault. He rubs his thumb against the sore spot roughly—his fingers and palms are calloused, and warm. Shouto swallows, and watches Bakugou's eyes drop to his throat, before he tilts Shouto's head back down, expression utterly placid, like it's perfectly normal to manhandle the head of another person he barely even knows. When Shouto still says absolutely nothing, he raises an eyebrow. "You bite your tongue?"

"What the fuck do you want from me?" Shouto finally blurts out.

Bakugou tilts his head blankly. "I want your dick."

"For fuck's sake," is all Shouto has say to that.

"Exactly," Bakugou says. "Are you actually stupid or something?"

"No," Shouto says. "I'm actually too smart to sleep with you."

Bakugou stares at him. "No, you're not."

"I'm really not," Shouto instantly agrees. Weak, berates his inner voice. He ignores it. "I need a fucking drink first, though."

"Then get your ass moving."

Everyone else is already inside the bar, as Shouto predicted, but Bakugou doesn't seem upset at being last to arrive. It's like hitting a wall of noise when they walk in the door, the patrons are all yelling to be heard over each other, the room is hot, the music is stereotypical top of the charts. Bakugou doesn't look behind him to see if Shouto is following before he pushes his way through the crowd to where their friends are lined up at the bar.

"Bakugou!" Kirishima starts beaming the instant he sees them.

"Just in time!" Uraraka says. The bartender is just pouring them all a row of shots. Bakugou's mouth twists.

"I don't want that cheap shit anywhere near me," he says.

"I know, I know," Kirishima says easily, sliding him a darkly golden, foaming glass of beer, which Bakugou accepts much more readily. "Todoroki, do you know what you want?"

"That cheap shit," Shouto says blandly. Bakugou snorts a laugh into his beer.

Kirishima pushes one of the shot glasses towards him, a smile growing on his face. He looks back and forth between Shouto and Bakugou. "Oh… okay."

Bakugou narrows his eyes. "What?"

"I didn't say anything!"

"You have that fuckin' smile on your face—"

"This is my normal smile!"

"It's not when you say, 'oh, okay,' like some kind of jerk off—"

Shouto looks back and forth between the two of them, forgotten, as Kirishima just shrugs, still grinning.

"It's just cute when you actually laugh at other people's jokes," Kirishima says. Bakugou shoves him so hard he nearly falls into Midoriya.

"Fuck off," he says, though the words are surprisingly lacking in heat. Shouto downs his shot in one go, and coughs. That really is cheap.

"Oh, Todoroki!" Midoriya says, having noticed him after almost being knocked over. He scoots his way around Kirishima and Bakugou, who are now arguing about Bakugou's inability to understand jokes. "Hey, you came! I'm so happy!"

"You are?" Shouto asks. This seems surprising. Midoriya never has a shortage of people to hang out with, at parties. It doesn't seem like he'd have a reason to miss Shouto's awkward reticence, although Midoriya has mentioned before that the whole popularity thing is pretty new to him, as well.

"Of course I am!" Midoriya says. His cheeks are shiny and pink under his freckles, which is… god, it's so cute. "I really like hanging out with you, I feel like we don't enough!"

Shouto can feel his own face getting red. The fact that Midoriya wants him around, just to hang out with, is inordinately pleasing. He's the first real friend Shouto actually made at university in their first semester there, despite Shouto making that pretty difficult at first, and he's the person who got Shouto to start opening up to the rest of their group. Even in the overwhelming new world of college life, Shouto would still be pretty lonely, if Midoriya hadn't stumbled into his path.

"I like hanging out with you, too," he says, and Midoriya's eyes light up like the night is on fire.

"Yeah?" he says. He laughs, almost nervously. "That's… that's so great to hear. I know this isn't really your thing, and I would never want to force you to, like, be sociable or whatever, but sometimes it's not so bad, I think! We all like having you along, and it does seem like you're having fun, and when I think about how things were before I really want to make sure that you know you're always welcome."

"Midoriya…" Shouto starts to say, because Midoriya rambles even when he's not drunk.

"I just wanted to tell you, I like being around you," Midoriya barrels on, and Shouto falls silent. "It's so, so great to see you smile."

Shouto thinks he might be slowly dying inside. Desperately, he searches for something to say.

"It's not as nice as yours, though."

He hears the words come out of his mouth and says a silent eulogy for himself. Here lies Todoroki Shouto, an idiot.

Midoriya's eyes widen a little bit more, before he looks down and away, as the exact smile Shouto is talking about comes pouring out of him, shy and soft and beautiful. It's a good thing Shouto was dead already. Now he's seeing heaven.

"Ah, um," Midoriya says, eyes flicking back and forth as he rubs the back of his neck. He grabs two more shot glasses full of awful liquor and thrusts one at Shouto, who takes it gratefully. "Cheers!"

They tip their glasses back, and the drink slides burning down Shouto's throat. He shakes his head and wipes his mouth with his hand.

"So you enjoyed the show tonight?" Midoriya asks. "They were pretty good, right?" He looks very curious, as usual; Midoriya is a double major in popular music and songwriting, and consequently very experimental with sound. He's an All Might super fan, but he has a tendency to study all the greats—which is sort of how he and Shouto met in the first place.

"They were," Shouto says. "It was… a lot different to what I'm used to. But I liked it."

"Yeah," Midoriya agrees. "And… Kacchan. You liked him too, huh?"

Shouto snaps his gaze up to meet Midoriya's, which is far too innocent. "Huh?"

"Why the fuck do you two look so conspiratorial, huh?"

Midoriya squeaks almost comically high-pitched as Bakugou makes a sudden reappearance right in their midst. Even Shouto has to work at not looking too alarmed at the prospect of Bakugou having overheard them talking about him.

"N-nothing!" Midoriya says, holding up his hands. "We were talking about the show!"

"Oh, yeah?" Bakugou asks. He looks like he's going to drop it at that, but then a smile spreads over his face, slow and dangerous. He leans forward to grip the edge of the bar behind Midoriya, crowding him back against it. "And what'd you think, Deku?"

Midoriya looks trapped, there, as he stares up at Bakugou. He lifts his chin. "I thought you were really good."

Bakugou's expression sharpens. "I don't need you to tell me that."

"You should try not to let this opportunity go, Kacchan," Midoriya says. His voice sounds serious, suddenly. "I think it could be good for you."

The amused look freezes on Bakugou's face, before he drops his hands away. "Shut up," he says, shoving Midoriya's head, before turning his back on him. "What do you know? Shitty nerd."

Midoriya sighs, but doesn't say more. The two of them confuse Shouto; they seem to know each other too well, yet don't understand each other at all.

As if sensing conflict, Kirishima materializes next to them with a smile and more drinks. Shouto downs his third shot, and then notices Bakugou is still nursing his first beer.

"You're not exactly putting that away like I thought you'd be," he observes.

Bakugou, who still looks sour over whatever had just transpired between him and Midoriya, shifts his baleful eyes to Shouto. "What's the point of drinking it so fast you can't taste it?"

Shouto leans against the bar next to him. "So it does know self-control."

Instead of the rise he was hoping to get out of Bakugou, Bakugou raises his glass again, locking eyes with Shouto over the rim. "What's the point of fucking you if I can't remember it later?"

"Kind of sentimental of you."

"Sentiment has nothing to do with it," Bakugou says. "The fun part is seeing what it takes to make you gag for it."

Shouto leans back against the bar, hoping he looks casual and not like his knees are getting weaker by the second. This is stupid. He's swooning over a jackass. "So, what, this is a 'journey over destination' thing?"

"God, I knew it." Bakugou peers at him, and Shouto senses what's coming next. "You've never done this before."

Shouto could deny it. No one could say he was lying; plenty of people are terrible at sex, and he personally feels like he's a very likely candidate to be an awkward, stiff disaster no matter how many dicks he crams up his ass. He's not really a fountain of seductive passion on his best days, let alone three shots of hard liquor down on a Thursday night. He looks Bakugou dead in the eye.

"Yup," he says. "Is that gonna be a problem?"

Bakugou swallows another mouthful of beer before lowering his glass. He runs his tongue over his lips slowly, eyes sweeping over Shouto's body, meaning absolutely clear.

"No," he says finally. "That seems like a great place to start."

A lazy shiver travels all the way up Shouto's spine. He sets the shot glass down on the bar with an audible clink, and it's like a green light. Suddenly Bakugou is there, a hand gripping heavy at Shouto's waist as he pushes against his front, presses his hips to Shouto's, puts his lips level with Shouto's ear.

"I don't give a fuck that you're a virgin," Bakugou growls in his ear. "You wanna know why?"

"I'm sure you'll tell me," Shouto says, almost managing not to let his voice crack. Almost.

"Nah," Bakugou breathes. "I'm gonna fuckin' show you."

He drains the rest of his beer in one go, thumping the glass on the bar. Roughly, he pounds Kirishima on the back to announce his departure. "Say bye to the girls for me."

"You leaving already?" Kirishima asks.

"Finished my drink," Bakugou tells him. "That's about all of this place I can stand, it's like I can feel the freshman vibe rubbing its nuts all over me."

"Dude, I'm a freshman," Kirishima says, shoving him.

"Yeah? You suggesting something?" Bakugou asks. "Wanna join us?" He jerks a thumb towards Shouto. So much for subtlety, not that Shouto assumed there was much of that where Bakugou is concerned. Kirishima blinks, his eyes flying wide, then shoves Bakugou harder while Bakugou laughs like an asshole. Kirishima's face is doing a remarkable job of matching his hair color.

"You know that's not what I meant!"

Shouto shakes his head, trying to act like he's not embarrassed in the slightest—yeah, this is just a normal night for him. He averts his gaze enough from Kirishima that he makes the mistake of looking right at Midoriya.

Midoriya's eyes are glassy, and he's staring at Shouto fixedly, his lips parted like he's distracted, thinking about something. His gaze strays down to Shouto's waist, where Bakugou's hand is still resting casually and his teeth close over his bottom lip, biting into the soft pink flesh. Shouto's mouth goes dry, and his palms get hot, and he feels Bakugou's fingers dig into his hip.

"What're you looking at?" Bakugou asks, and Shouto glances at him to see Bakugou has noticed the way Midoriya is watching. Watching them.

Midoriya blinks at him slowly, before shaking his head. "Just… didn't realize you were headed out so soon." His eyes settle on Shouto's face again. He smiles. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

Before Shouto can respond (what is there to say to that, honestly, when Midoriya must know perfectly well where his night is headed), Bakugou beats him to it.

"Bullshit, Deku," he sneers. "We both know there's nothing you wouldn't do."

Midoriya is already flushed enough from the alcohol that Shouto can't quite tell if he's blushing or not. But he does grin as he turns back to the bar. "Exactly," he says.

Fucking hell, Shouto thinks, before Bakugou slings an arm around his neck to drag him away.

Shouto ducks out from under his arm. "I can walk on my own."

"Yeah, well, quit trying to get in front of me," Bakugou says. "You don't even know where you're going."

"I remember where you parked."

"You sure? You're not gonna get confused by some toddler on a tricycle, right?"

"Fuck off, Bakugou," Shouto says mildly. "You want me to be horny or just pissed off by the time we make it back to… where are we going, anyway?"

"My place," Bakugou says. "And ideally, you'll be both."

Shouto does not get confused by any imposter vehicles with training wheels. Soon he's back on the bike, allowing Bakugou to put the helmet on him again—purely because Bakugou knows how to do it better than him, and not because he likes watching Bakugou when his attention is focused a) not on Shouto and b) on being helpful rather than an asshole.

"How do you ever get anyone to fuck you?" Shouto asks him, slipping his arms around Bakugou's middle again.

"Why don't you tell me?" Bakugou asks, as he revs the bike obnoxiously a couple times. "You'll have inside knowledge here soon."

"Hmmm," Shouto says, pretending to think. "I guess maybe… morbid curiosity? I'm fairly sure there's no way you're as good as you think you are, but maybe you'll surprise me."

Bakugou turns in the seat to look at him. "You know why I keep trying to piss you off?"

"You're annoying?"

"It's because I'm gonna figure out a way past all this fuckin' ice," Bakugou says, jabbing Shouto straight in the chest with one finger. "But I ain't about that sappy shit, so I'm not looking to melt it or anything. I'm gonna crack straight through."

"Wow," Shouto says. "That's pretty damn sappy."

Bakugou gives him zero warning before he zooms off, the bike lurching forward and flipping Shouto's stomach with its acceleration.

He's surprised to discover Bakugou doesn't live that far from the university. But it does make sense, considering the amount of music venues in the area. His apartment complex is surprisingly decent—not high end, but not a dump, either. Shouto's dorm is much nicer. It's nondescript, if he had to pick a word to describe it. It seems odd, given what little he knows of Bakugou, that he'd live somewhere so normal.

Shouto doesn't stop to wait for Bakugou after he dismounts, pulling off the helmet and setting it on the seat. He can hear Bakugou snap something about not waiting for him; Shouto ignores him entirely, taking the short flight of stairs to the first landing.

"This way?" he asks, as Bakugou jogs up the stairs behind him to catch up.

"I'm number four," Bakugou says, "idiot."

Shouto stops at the door to apartment number four, waiting for Bakugou to arrive with the key. What happens when they get inside, he wonders… Do they just… start? Shit, is Bakugou going to try and kiss him? He doesn't really seem like a kisser, but Shouto wouldn't know, because he's also never kissed anyone before in his life.

His whirring thoughts are abruptly cut off when rough hands and a solid body shove him up against the door in front of him. Shouto gets his arms up just in time to brace himself, unable to contain a startled huff of surprise as he slams into the painted wood, chest pinned uncomfortably against its surface.

"What the fu—"

"You seem really fucking eager to get inside," Bakugou says in his ear. He pushes something into Shouto's hand—a key ring, Shouto realizes. "So you can go ahead and open it."

Shouto grips the key in his hand. He can't see what he's doing in the slightest, because he can't look down at the angle he's been forced against the door. To make matters worse, there's multiple keys, but there's no way in hell he's going to admit defeat. He separates one key out from the bunch and scratches along the doorknob, trying to find the keyhole.

In the next second, he fumbles his grip on the key, nearly drops it, when Bakugou plants his hands on the door on either side of his body, pressing even more insistently into Shouto from behind. His hips slot up against Shouto's ass.

"Hurry the fuck up," he says. "I'm getting pretty impatient."

He punctuates his words with a sudden, hard thrust against Shouto's ass, and sends Shouto banging almost painfully into the door again. He barely notices. All his attention is now on Bakugou's very apparent erection, as he grinds it against the curve Shouto's ass.

"T-too many keys," Shouto manages to gasp out, fingers now snatching them up at random, scrabbling for the right one. Bakugou slides one hand up Shouto's chest, fists his T-shirt tight—his breath gusts against the back of Shouto's neck, coming hot and fast as he rolls his hips hard against him, and Shouto—needs this, embarrassingly bad. Where is the fucking key, he must have tried all of them by now—he jiggles the handle hopelessly.

The door abruptly flies open in Shouto's face. He hadn't done that; and it wasn't Bakugou either. Shouto stares, wide-eyed, into the disapproving face of the middle-aged woman with a severe haircut who has just opened the door in front of his nose. Shouto wonders wildly if Bakugou has a roommate.

"Can I help you," the woman says bluntly.

"Ah, shit," Bakugou says. "You know what? I think my friend here had the wrong room."

"What?" Shouto hisses.

"Sorry to bother you," Bakugou tells the woman, reaching out to yank the door shut.

Shouto continues to gape at it, unmoving, as Bakugou steals the keys back out of his hands, striding leisurely back down the hallway.

"You just gonna stand there staring all night?" he tosses over his shoulder at Shouto.

Shouto backs away from the door, and then turns and storms after Bakugou. "Did you—"

"Lie about which apartment is mine?" Bakugou asks, as he stops at the door to apartment number one, and unlocks it.

"You piece of—"

Bakugou grabs him by his collar and hauls him forward. "The only time I wanna see you in front of me," he snarls in Shouto's face, "is on your hands and knees, taking my dick like a good little rich boy."

Shouto slams his palm against the door and they stumble into the dark apartment as he backs Bakugou over the threshold. Bakugou is strong, but Shouto isn't helpless.

He has no snappy comeback for Bakugou's dickishness. He wants Bakugou to slam his face into the sheets, just as much as he wants Bakugou to sit on his cock and wring him dry. But he also fundamentally hates Bakugou's mouth, so he does the only thing he can think of.

He twists his hands into the front of Bakugou's shirt and lunges forward, smashing their lips together so hard it hurts. Bakugou grunts, and there's a slam from behind Shouto as he kicks his front door closed, before their momentum reverses. Bakugou shoves him back up against it, unwilling to give him the upper hand.

Shouto isn't an expert, but he's fairly sure this isn't what kissing is generally supposed to be like. Bakugou's mouth is hot and outright angry against his own, and Shouto feels as much teeth as he does lips and—Bakugou pushes his tongue into his mouth and Shouto drags him closer, a nearly impossible task with how tightly they're already fitted together. They're both silent, save for the harshness of their breathing when they get the chance, the noises when their lips, slick with saliva, meet and part and crash together again. There's no time or room to think, to try and figure out am I doing this right, for Shouto. He sucks in air on Bakugou's exhale, lightheaded, strokes the roof of Bakugou's mouth with his tongue; Bakugou bites down on it, not gently.

Everytime he tries to move, Bakugou tries to fight him back into being still. When Shouto tries to grab his face, Bakugou seizes his hands and forces them back against the door. Shouto pushes again and Bakugou shifts on his feet to slide his leg between Shouto's thighs. The sudden pressure against Shouto's dick makes him full body shudder, and it's all the opening Bakugou needs. He yanks Shouto's hands up, pinning them above his head. Shouto opens his eyes as Bakugou pulls back—a grin cuts across his face at the trail of spit connecting their mouths, and Shouto turns his head slightly to break it, so it falls wetly on his lower lip and chin. It's so messy. He's so messy.

"So?" Bakugou says, and Shouto swears it should be impossible for his already husky voice to keep dropping in register, but it just keeps going, like a straight punch to his gut every time. "Are we just gonna keep making out or what?"

"Making out?" Shouto asks. He pulls against Bakugou's hold on his wrists. Bakugou doesn't let up in the slightest—he grips tighter. "You're attacking me with your mouth."

"Attacking you?" Bakugou says blankly. "I haven't been doing that."

Before Shouto can dispute this, Bakugou pushes in, grinding his thigh against Shouto's crotch, making him hiss. It feels so fucking good already.

"That's not a bad idea, though," Bakugou murmurs, right before he clamps his teeth over the juncture of Shouto's neck and shoulder, biting down hard.

"Ah, fuck—" Shouto gasps, taken by surprise. It genuinely hurts, but—Bakugou pinches and drags his skin between his teeth, sucking hard as he pulls off before slicking his tongue over the sensitive flesh, and Shouto's cock throbs in response. The fact that his hands are restrained, that he can only stand there and take it, is just making everything feel better, somehow.

He thuds his head back against the door to try and jumpstart his higher thought processes. It doesn't work very well—he barely even notices when Bakugou releases his hands, only so he can push his fingers into the hair at the back of Shouto's head and twist it in his grasp, pulling painfully taut on the strands. His other hand drops low, gripping Shouto's ass through his jeans and jerking his hips forward, forcing Shouto to rock against his thigh as Bakugou presses up into him again. The friction rips a guttural noise from Shouto's lungs and he doesn't need anymore urging before he starts moving on his own, grinding hard and desperate against Bakugou's leg.

"That's all it takes, huh?" Bakugou hisses in his ear. "Just a little hickey and you're already humping my leg."

"Fuck… off—" Shouto groans, hating Bakugou so much, because it's true.

Bakugou leans back to look at him, expression unconcerned. Then to Shouto's horror, he shrugs and turns away, hands shoved in his pockets as he meanders down his front hallway, leaving Shouto in stunned disarray against his front door.

After a second of disorientation, he peels himself off the door and staggers after Bakugou, trying to convince his shaky legs not to betray him. Bakugou hops over the back of his couch and settles there, arms stretched lazily across the back. There's no way he doesn't know what he looks like—the muscles of his back flex through the black material of his tank top, and under his skin above the wide collar. His arms are ridiculous, shoulders broad and biceps hard muscle. Bakugou doesn't even glance at Shouto as he approaches, and the message is clear: if Shouto wants it, he's going to have to play to Bakugou's ego.

Or at least, he's going to have to be more clever about talking back.

Right now, though, Shouto's dick is so hard that it hurts to walk. He stops in front of Bakugou, and Bakugou looks up at him, eyebrow raised in mock surprise.

"Still here?" he asks. "Thought you wanted me to fuck off."

"You know that's not what I meant," Shouto says. "I'm done messing around. I thought we came back here for a reason."

"God, you're fucking unbearable," Bakugou says. "People don't just meet and slap their dicks together and call it a day, alright? I mean, you're welcome to do that, but it isn't any fucking fun, and I'm not about to let anyone, especially not you, call me an unsatisfying lay. I'm trying to make this good for you, so if we're gonna do this, you're gonna stop being a whiny little fuckface and follow my lead, alright?"

He falls silent after his tirade. The two of them stare at each other.

"Fine," Shouto says, because his brain became a traitor somewhere around the point Bakugou said he wanted to make it good for him.

Bakugou's irritable expression clears. "Better."

"So," Shouto says. "Lead me, then."

Bakugou spreads his legs wider, eases back against the sofa with a taunting roll of his hips.

"Why don't you come sit in my lap, pretty boy?" he suggests, and Shouto hates this nickname, it absolutely does not get him hot. "Prove you deserve my dick."

For a second, Shouto does consider walking out. It's a very short second; he can see the outline of Bakugou's cock in his pants and he's pretty sure his mouth might be watering over it. He still approaches cautiously, but Bakugou doesn't make a move, not even when Shouto comes to stand right in front of him. He just waits, expectantly.

Slowly, Shouto eases himself onto the sofa cushions, knees on either side of Bakugou's legs. At first he hovers awkwardly, before deciding, fuck it—he drops fully into Bakugou's lap, seating himself with an equally challenging stare.

"That wasn't so bad, huh?" Bakugou asks condescendingly.

"Now what?" Shouto asks. He's not going to admit that this is actually getting him a bit worked up already, with the tops of Bakugou's legs warm against the backs of his thighs, and the way that Bakugou is looking up at him, like this is exactly where he wants Shouto.

"I'm going to take this off," Bakugou tells him, tugging at the bottom of Shouto's shirt.

Oh. "Um, okay," Shouto says, when Bakugou doesn't move to do it right away. He only starts after Shouto gives him permission, which is… unexpected.

There's no violent rending of cloth or anything, either. Bakugou hooks his fingers under the collar of Shouto's button down first. His hands are warm against Shouto's neck. He skates the shirt down off his back and arms, running his palms slowly over Shouto's shoulders, and Shouto helps pull out of the sleeves to rid himself of the button down entirely.

"Kirishima lent you that?" Bakugou asks, startling Shouto out of the strange headspace he'd been slipping into, entranced by the way Bakugou's hands felt as they slowly undressed him.

"How'd you—"

"Recognized it," Bakugou says. He reaches for the bottom of Shouto's t-shirt next and pulls it off, as Shouto raises his arms to speed up the process. And now, he's shirtless, half naked in Bakugou's lap. Bakugou tilts his head back slightly. "Huh."

"What?" Shouto asks.

"You're hotter than I expected," Bakugou tells him. "I thought you'd be all scrawny and shit."

Shouto is not scrawny. His dad is big on image, and it's rubbed off on all aspects of Shouto's life, including all meals when he'd still lived at home. They also had a gym on the estate his father expected him to frequent, and a personal trainer who kept close tabs on him under his father's orders.

"Yeah, well, I try to stay healthy," Shouto says.

Bakugou snorts. "I'm complimenting you, don't get all defensive."

"It was backhanded," Shouto points out.

"You're gonna have to do better if you want me to praise you."

Shouto highly doubts Bakugou would praise him under any circumstance. He doesn't say this, because there's no point, and right at that moment, Bakugou grabs the neck of his tank top and starts to pull it over his head. Shouto closes a hand around his wrist.

"You said I could," Shouto reminds him. Bakugou lets go of his shirt.

Shouto drops his hands to the hem of the black undershirt, fingers curling into the material. He pulls up, the backs of his fingers brushing Bakugou's stomach—it's hard and smooth against Shouto's skin. He's moving agonizingly slowly, he knows, but Bakugou says nothing to rush him. He just watches Shouto unblinkingly, his eyes fastened on Shouto's face, watching Shouto stare uninhibited at every new inch of skin he reveals.

He pushes the shirt higher, up Bakugou's chest and… right. Fuck… Shouto rubs his thumbs up and over Bakugou's nipples, catching in the black ring pierced through the right one.

Bakugou shifts beneath him. It's slight, but it's also, Shouto thinks, involuntary. Bakugou watches, eyes trained downward, as Shouto hooks the tip of his finger in the loop again and tugs.

Bakugou slow thrusts his hips up, mouth falling open as he runs his tongue over his lower lip. He brings one warm hand to splay against the small of Shouto's back. A low, promising noise works its way out of his throat and Shouto shuts his eyes as it spirals through him like a current of pure electricity. He's breathing heavier and he's only now realizing—god, what is this? Why does he feel so fucking helpless, and even weirder, why is he so okay with it?

"Get it off," Bakugou growls, and Shouto opens his eyes so he can see what he's doing. He pulls the tank top off completely, and then Bakugou is shirtless again, they both are, and Shouto doesn't have to be told what to do next.

He kisses Bakugou again. But it's different this time. Bakugou doesn't restrain him. Bakugou lets him go.

Shouto grabs his face in both hands, fingers splayed across Bakugou's cheeks as he kisses him open-mouthed, tongue sliding over Bakugou's lips and slipping past them when Bakugou opens his mouth. It's hot, so hot inside him, tastes a little like beer and Shouto probably reeks of vodka; it stings when he bites Shouto's bottom lip and drags it between his teeth. Shouto writhes in his lap, and two thick, strong arms wrap around him, one around his waist and the other up his back as Bakugou grips the back of his neck and lets Shouto devour his mouth.

He rocks up into Shouto from below, circling his hips as Shouto mindlessly grinds down on him. His hands explore at random, his fingers finding that fucking nipple ring and toying with it obsessively, and Bakugou's fingers scratch and tug at hair on the nape of his neck in the same frantic rhythm. Shouto's hips move on their own; whatever he's doing is probably embarrassingly awkward, but he can't stop and he doesn't care. He's hard as fuck, and it feels simultaneously better than anything he's ever felt and like not enough at all. As good as Bakugou's hands feel on the bare skin of his back, the layers of clothing where they grind together in an increasingly frantic rhythm are infuriating.

"H-harder—" Shouto demands. "Bakugou—"

Bakugou slides a hand under him, grazing his ass to grip his thigh—and then he lifts Shouto, shifting on the couch to lay Shouto on his back and climb over him. He kisses Shouto again, but he pulls away far too soon, and there's no more pressure on Shouto's dick, and he just wants more.

"Hey," Bakugou murmurs. "You're gonna do something for me."

"Don’t just stop—"

"Touch yourself," Bakugou tells him.

Shouto tenses up. "What?"

"Jack yourself off," Bakugou says, staring down at him, and oh, god, he's serious. "Show me how you do it, and then I'll touch you."

"Why?" Shouto asks, just barely manages to stop himself from whining.

"Because," Bakugou says, and he's smirking like he knows he can ask for anything, right now, and Shouto is doomed to comply, "you're hotter than I expected. And I want to watch."

"Fuck," Shouto says, hands fumbling for his zipper. "Fine."

He pushes the pants down, and his underwear, and his cock bobs free, embarrassingly hard and flushed an impatient red. He's been leaking into his underwear and it's obviously wet, streaked with precome. Bakugou notices, if the leering is any indication. Shouto pushes it to the back of his mind, wraps his fingers around his dick, and starts to work himself desperately.

He hiccups out a breathy moan. Just from getting his own hand on himself; he's gotten so worked up that it feels impossibly good. But maybe, also, it's because of the way Bakugou is staring at him, gaze trained on his face more often than at his dick (though his eyes still stray downward). He's leaned low over Shouto, so close Shouto can feel the heat off him, and when he speaks, it's in the lowest rumble, so coarse and rough it makes Shouto's toes curl.

"This how you do it, Todoroki?" Bakugou asks. "Every time you're alone?"

"Haah—I—yeah—"

"Yeah," Bakugou says. "And what do you think about? Tell me."

Shouto shudders. "D-different things." He can't tell Bakugou. He can't admit to what he's been thinking about lately. Since he got to school.

"Different people, you mean," Bakugou says.

"S-sometimes—"

"I see the way you look at them," Bakugou says next.

Shouto freezes. Oh, fuck. "What are you—"

Bakugou takes him apart.

"All the filthy thoughts running through your head," he says, dropping his head low to breathe right in Shouto's ear. "They're so fucking obvious."

"I don't—"

"That's why you want it so bad tonight, isn't it?" Bakugou says. He bites Shouto's earlobe and Shouto gasps at the sudden sting, back arching. Bakugou runs his tongue over the same spot before tracing over the shell of his ear with deliberately painful slowness. "You've been hoping and hoping one of them notices you long enough for you to get in their pants."

"That's not—" Shouto tries to say, but Bakugou knows, he fucking knows.

"Like Kirishima, right?" Bakugou huffs a laugh, and Shouto wants to die on the spot, because Bakugou has figured out that Shouto wants to bang his best friend, relentlessly. "I can fucking smell you sweating every time you look at him."

Shouto shakes his head violently. It's not like that, he wants to say, even though it is exactly like that. Unfortunately, Bakugou is not satisfied with this denial.

"Then how about Deku?" he whispers, and Shouto shuts his eyes; but his mind is already flinging itself in that direction as Bakugou fills in the blanks with sadistic glee. "You want those fucking thick thighs over your shoulders. You wanna fuck his tight little ass until he can't walk."

Shouto chokes on nothing. He knows he can't think this; because Midoriya is sweet and innocent, and Shouto just wants his smile, just wants to run his fingers over the buzzed hair at the base of Midoriya's scalp before tangling them in the longer strands, just wants to spread him open and make him scream—

"Izuku is just my f-friend—"

Bakugou swipes a long stroke over the length of his cock, rubbing his thumb through the precome gathered at the tip, smearing it over the head.

"You get this wet when thinking about your friends?" Bakugou taunts him, and Shouto gives in.

He rocks his hips up, spine curved as he fucks into Bakugou's hot palm. Fingers scrabble at the worn sofa upholstery. His mouth opens on a silent cry.

"There you go," Bakugou says, "fucking finally. God damn, I knew that nerd would be your fucking weak spot. He's tighter than this, you know." He squeezes Shouto's dick to punctuate his words.

"Wh-what—" Shouto's eyes fly open, and he groans. Bakugou has pulled himself out of his pants, working himself in time with the way he's stroking Shouto—his dick is nice and thick, and if what he just said is true, then...

"You're not dumb," Bakugou says. He sounds a little delirious himself—getting off on the power, and the knowledge, and the fantasy. "There's no way you haven't realized we fucked."

But Shouto hadn't. He doesn't want to admit it, but he hadn't assumed anything, beyond flirtatious interest. He's still not used to how loose and easy this lifestyle is—how possible it is to just spend one night or several with the person who locks eyes with him across the room, without the weight of endless expectations or judgement. A walk of shame the next morning seems easy, seems desirable in comparison (Shouto doesn't know yet if he will feel any shame; he likes to think he won't, not when landing Bakugou kind of seems like the equivalent of medaling at the First Time Olympics).

Right now he feels very little shame in imagining the two of them. Together.

Bakugou seems to realize the exact moment it all clicks for Shouto, the second Shouto figures it out. He drops his weight on top of Shouto, settling heavily between his legs so their cocks slide together against Shouto's stomach. Fucking—shit, Bakugou's dick has been inside Midoriya. Shouto grabs at him with one hand, grips Bakugou's ass through his jeans to make sure he can't stop or back off or leave Shouto wanting again. He's shaking beneath Bakugou as he holds onto him, so close to tipping over, nearly unable to hold on any longer. They've barely done anything. He's fucking weak, and he doesn't care.

"Would you—fucking stop—" Bakugou says, and then he's dragging Shouto's other hand away from his mouth. Shouto's palm has been pressed flat to his lips, blocking any of the reedy, desperate whines his throat keeps producing from escaping. He hadn't even realized he'd been covering them up. "It's creepy when you're fucking silent," Bakugou snaps, voice hoarse. He ducks down to mouth at Shouto's jaw and chin, teeth grazing impatient and staccato every time he jerks his hips. "I can tell you like all this sex fantasy shit, your dick's like a fucking diamond right now—"

"What about your—" Shouto stops, panting, as Bakugou rocks him with a particularly vicious thrust, like he's trying to shock the sounds out of him. “W-what about your neighbors, asshole?”

"What the fuck do I care about 'em?" Bakugou asks. "If I'm not getting dirty looks tomorrow morning, you weren't fucking worth it."

"Sh-shut up—"

"Let me hear you," Bakugou demands. "Quit acting so fucking repressed, it's annoying as shit." He laughs, suddenly, borderline manic. "If Deku can do it, you can—I've never heard anyone moan as loud as that little cockslut—"

"Oh, fuck—" Shouto cries out, louder than he means to, loud period.

It's not like this when he touches himself. He's methodical, and clean, he knows what he likes and that's what he sticks to—and even when he lets himself imagine the hands and lips he really wants on him, even when it chases hot little shivers of pleasure up and down his spine, it's not like this.

It's not rough and hard to the point of near pain, it's not filthy, it's not sweat dripping over his skin and his cock leaking over his stomach to stain the ratty sofa under him, and no one is making him like it—but fuck, fuck, Bakugou is ramming every new sensation down his throat relentlessly, and Shouto might be choking on it, but he fucking wants it.

Bakugou grabs Shouto's face in one hand, and reaches his other hand down to squeeze their cocks together, twisting his wrist fast, too fast for Shouto to handle. It's too much stimulation—he can't stop the harsh, panting cries that keep tearing out of him, again, and again.

"Don't be fucking rude," Bakugou growls against his mouth. "Stop thinking about him and moan for me, you jackass. Todoroki."

Shouto's orgasm hits him like a bullet train. He clutches Bakugou's upper arms so hard he hears the other man hiss as Shouto bucks up under him, dropping thick lines of cum all over his stomach and chest. Every shock that rolls through him, making all his muscles clench, drags another loud, high gasp from him.

"Ah, ah—ahh—"

"Fuck, yeah," Bakugou breathes, "look at you…"

He sounds genuinely appreciative, and that—that causes some more warm somersaults in Shouto's stomach he doesn't want to think about. He can't think too hard about much of anything at the moment, anyway.

"I'm the first one that gets to see you like this," Bakugou says, and Shouto moans for him again, into his mouth as Bakugou claims another kiss.

This is what Bakugou meant, Shouto realizes. When he said he'd show Shouto, said he didn't care that Shouto had never done anything before. Bakugou wanted to push him, and he wanted Shouto to push back, and Shouto would be a liar if he said the results had been anything but damn amazing. Shouto has no interest in lying about it.

Bakugou hasn't finished yet, and Shouto lies there, blissed out, as Bakugou ruts his dick against Shouto's sticky, slick stomach. He tenses and shivers as it keeps rubbing against his softening cock, tossing his head uselessly when it starts to feel too raw and painful.

"Ba-Baku—gou—nnh—"

Bakugou makes a displeased noise, but raises up slightly, propping himself up with a hand by Shouto's head as he wraps a messy, cum splattered hand around his cock to finish himself. Shouto gurgles against his will, and then laughs, a couple weak, hiccupy chuckles. Wow, that's his cum.

"Real fuckin' pleased with yourself, aren't'cha?" Bakugou asks. He grabs Shouto's hand and brings it to his dick, before wrapping his own fingers around Shouto's. His cock is hot in Shouto's hand, a bit too sticky to make his movements comfortable, but Bakugou doesn't seem to care, as he guides Shouto to stroke him harder, faster.

He looks stupid gorgeous, staring down at Shouto like that—full body flushed, sweat drenched hair with the shitty living room light burning behind it in a halo, cock leaking more and more from the slit every time it pushes through their interlocked fingers. His eyes are intently focused on Shouto's face, still, even as the haze of pleasure starts to overtake him.

"You're really beautiful," Shouto says.

Bakugou's mouth falls open, and he looks pissed for about a half a second—before his eyes roll closed and he tips his head back, striping Shouto's hips and abdomen white again, adding to the previous mess.

When the aftershocks work their way out of him, he opens his eyes and runs a hand through his already catastrophic shock of hair, before glaring down at Shouto.

"Who the fuck tells someone they're really beautiful while jacking them off?" Bakugou demands. "God damn moment killer."

"I was creating the moment," Shouto says.

Bakugou shakes his head and looks away. "You're weird as shit." For a second, Shouto thinks he sees something like an exasperated grin flash by in Bakugou's expression, but when Bakugou looks back, it's gone. Now he just looks like he's waiting for Shouto to say something.

"So, um," Shouto says, "now what?"

"Not even a thank you, huh?" Bakugou asks.

"What am I supposed to be thanking you for, exactly?"

"The best damn night of your life," Bakugou says, without a trace of irony. He climbs off Shouto's legs, grimacing at the state of his lower body. "You can use my shower if you want," he adds. "And then I can take you back to your place."

"Oh," Shouto says, surprised. He was expecting Bakugou to show him the door immediately. "Thanks."

"Don't mention it," Bakugou says, as he uses Shouto's undershirt to clean himself off. Shouto almost calls him on it, but then sighs. He has Kirishima's overshirt, at least.

Speaking of which… "Oh, shit."

"What?" Bakugou asks.

"These… aren't my pants," Shouto says, looking down at the mess they've made.

Bakugou laughs so hard he tears up. "Sounds like that's Kirishima's fucking problem."

Chapter Text

The dull thud of Shouto's back hitting the wall reverbs off the grubby gray tile of the bar bathroom. He lets out an involuntary "oof", annoyance flaring temporarily.

"Did you lock the door?" he asks.

"I said I got it," Bakugou snaps. "So why are you still whining?"

Shouto recognizes it for the challenge it is. "I'm not whining," he says. "And I don't trust you, that's why."

"Todoroki," Bakugou growls, and Shouto huffs, still indignant, as Bakugou bites his ear a little too hard. "That is… very… fucking hurtful." His fingers skim the hem of Shouto's shirt, dipping to brush the skin right below the waistband of his jeans, and Shouto turns his head so Bakugou won't hear him gasp.

They're both coming off the high of another one of the band's shows, Shouto from watching, Bakugou from playing. It's the first show Shouto had come to see since he met Bakugou a few weeks ago, since they started doing… this. Meeting each other, touching each other… tasting.

Shouto leans his head back too quickly, smacking it painfully against the tile when Bakugou undoes his jeans, taking some of the pressure off Shouto's straining dick. This is definitely happening, they are about to get down to way more than just some sloppy making out in a dirty public restroom, and Shouto considers telling Bakugou that they should go back, to one of their apartments, but—the challenge still sits in the air between them.

He isn't gonna fucking whine.

Plus. It's the only time Bakugou will let Shouto look down on him from up above, like this; when he sinks slowly to his knees, watching Shouto the whole way down, knowing the difference in their vantage points doesn't make a damn difference. Shouto doesn't have anything to compare it to, besides his own fumbling attempts that Bakugou has consistently laughed off (though he has yet to discourage Shouto from trying), but he suspects that Bakugou gives pretty fucking decent head. Once he gets his mouth around Shouto's dick, Shouto is basically putty in his hands.

"Ouch—" he hisses, as Bakugou tugs sharply on a patch of the fine red hair disappearing into Shouto's underwear with his teeth. "Fucker." Bakugou just laughs, and Shouto kicks at him. "Hurry up, everyone's gonna wonder where we went."

"No, they won't," Bakugou says. "They fuckin' know."

Shouto's face burns at that. It's true; there's no way anyone's missed what's going on between them, because Bakugou is embarrassingly obvious about their tendency to rip each other's clothes off at the drop of a hat. He's not affectionate; he's just proprietary, and unconcerned with other people seeing him get gropey in public. Which he does, often.

Right now, he's taking Shouto's demand that he hurry up surprisingly well, given how much he normally enjoys doing the opposite of what is asked of him. Shouto bites his lip to keep from making any noise as Bakugou starts mouthing at him through his underwear, soaking the cotton as he sucks on the tip of Shouto's dick.

It really isn't going to take long, no matter what he does. It had been different; there had just been something different about watching Bakugou on stage, now they've started fooling around. Now that Shouto knows that Bakugou's body feels as good under his hands as it looks under the stage lights. Now that he knows what it means every time Bakugou glances at him from behind the drums.

"Shit—" he exhales, when Bakugou drags his underwear down to mouth at the hot skin of his cock. Teeth graze dangerously along the underside of his shaft, and he shoves a hand into Bakugou's hair like it'll steady his shaky legs.

Bakugou has been on him all night and it's been driving Shouto insane. Standing too close, stealing his drink to "try it" (drain it), pulling Shouto around by the back of his shirt and laughing when Shouto gets irritated. Sitting on a barstool with his legs spread open and tugging Shouto in between them, so that Shouto is all but forced to sit on his thigh. But it's not the incessant touching that really drives him up a wall, it's the way Bakugou seems to just take it for granted that Shouto is with him.

This is mine, seems to say the firm, warm hand splayed against the small of Shouto's back, or shoved into the back pocket of his jeans.

Shouto isn't sure if he likes it or hates it. But either way, it gets him hot.

Those same burning hands pin his hips back against the bathroom wall, and Shouto strains against them, fighting to thrust into the heat of Bakugou's mouth. He knows Bakugou can take it. And then he does—Bakugou breathes in through his nose and pushes forward, swallowing the length of Shouto's dick until he hits the back of Bakugou's throat. It's Shouto who chokes, an involuntary whine of pleasure.

Bakugou swallows, before pulling nearly all the way off, a lurid grin on his face, tongue dragging over Shouto's cock messily.

"S'loud out there," Bakugou says. "No one'll know if you're loud in here."

He has this sort of obsession, with hearing Shouto, with making Shouto noisily lose control. Maybe it's because Bakugou likes everything loud, his music, his bike, even the sound of his own voice.

"Earn it," Shouto says. He's never really stopped being difficult with Bakugou, since Bakugou has certainly never stopped being difficult with him.

"You shithead," Bakugou says, unperturbed, "that's not even a challenge."

He fucking earns it, and he's right, it's abysmally easy. In under a minute, he has Shouto blurry-eyed, legs trembling, hands fisting in his hair as Bakugou hollows his mouth around his cock, lips and tongue and occasionally teeth making quick and talented work of Shouto's resolve. He pants loudly, fills the bathroom with the harsh noise of his breathing as he hunches around Bakugou's kneeling form, strangled groans dragged out of him over and over as Bakugou systematically destroys him.

"Nnh—Bakugou—" He has half a mind not to warn Bakugou, but his instincts are still polite.

Bakugou backs off him slowly, with an obscene slurping noise, to tongue at his slit. "So fucking easy," he says, and Shouto jerks and cries out with his orgasm, too startled to hold it in. Bakugou doesn't like it on his face—but he does swallow.

"Fucking gross," Bakugou mutters, like he isn't used to the taste by now. He hauls himself to his feet and grabs Shouto's face in one hand, squeezing his cheeks between his fingers, so he can't escape from the bitter kiss Bakugou lays on him. Shouto scrunches up his nose, but otherwise doesn't struggle very much. He likes it more than he lets on, tasting himself on Bakugou's tongue.

"You next—" he starts to say, when the bathroom door flies open.

"Oh, wow—" a voice says, "guys, sorry, I didn't know you were in here…"

To Shouto's horror, when he looks over, it's to see Midoriya standing in the doorway. His eyes are wide and staring, and even now that they've all caught each other looking, he doesn't move.

"Deku," Bakugou growls. "Have you ever heard of fucking knocking?"

"Um," Midoriya says, "how often do you knock on the door to a public toilet?"

His eyes stray from Bakugou's to Shouto's, who can only say a small prayer of thanks that Bakugou is mostly covering his lower half from view. Shouto raises a hand to wave, weakly, and then promptly wonders why he did that. He can feel the blush climbing up his neck to reach his cheeks—it's going to take over his face.

He's not exactly still hung up on Midoriya—okay, he is maybe a little bit still hung up on Midoriya. And it churns his stomach, in ways both good and bad, to have Midoriya staring at him right now, when he's on the tail end of the afterglow.

"Well, anyway!" Midoriya says, his characteristic smile reengaging itself across his face. "Glad you two are having fun tonight!"

"We're not done," Bakugou snarls.

"Okay, okay!" Midoriya concedes, backing quickly out of the bathroom. "I'll—I'll leave you… um, to it!" The door closes behind him, and Bakugou lets out a noise of extreme annoyance.

"You didn't," Shouto mumbles, still too blissed out to entirely snap, but feeling his irritation mount all the same, "lock the door like I asked?"

"I was a little distracted, genius," Bakugou snaps, which is true—Shouto's tongue had been pretty far down his throat. Still. "Besides, he's a fuckin' idiot."

"No, he's not…" Shouto says, because Midoriya was right, they really should have locked it.

"Who's fucking side are you on?" Bakugou demands.

"When am I ever on your side?"

"Whatever," Bakugou says. "Turn around."

"You still haven't locked the door," Shouto says.

Bakugou stares at him like he's considering headbutting him and taking them both out, before he turns and stomps to the door, locking it so emphatically the handle wobbles in its slot. He looks back at Shouto, eyebrows raised furiously.

Shouto turns around, mostly appeased now that the door is taken care of, and also because Bakugou hasn't come yet, and Shouto wants him to finish.

He braces himself against the wall as Bakugou fits against him from behind. He runs his hands down Shouto's sides—he's still nonverbally appreciative of Shouto's physique, and Shouto pushes back into his touch.

"Don't be demanding," Bakugou, the most demanding person Shouto has ever met, admonishes him. "You got yours already."

He still presses himself more firmly against Shouto's back, hooking his fingers into Shouto's underwear to push it all the way down, falling with his jeans around his ankles. Without warning, he smacks the back of Shouto's thigh so hard the sound echoes around the bathroom. Shouto startles, from the surprise, and the sudden sting.

"Keep 'em together," Bakugou tells him, and Shouto squeezes his legs together as he feels Bakugou's cock slide between his thighs.

Shouto bites his lip. Heat starts to flare in his stomach again as Bakugou starts to fuck his thighs. Yeah, okay, he just came, and it was good—but there's some kind of difference, between the blowjob and this. Bakugou's chest pressed to his back, his dick rubbing between Shouto's legs and against his balls, his hands gripping tight at Shouto's hips. He drags one back to grab a handful of Shouto's ass, squeezing painfully hard, and Shouto chokes around an involuntary sound in his throat as Bakugou spreads him open a little. They've done it like this a couple times, now, like this or with Shouto behind Bakugou, and it's really good. It's almost like…

"Wh-why—" Shouto gasps out, as Bakugou snaps his hips forward again, and the slap of skin on skin gets louder, "why haven't—we fucked yet?"

"What do you think this is," Bakugou says, voice a delicious growl next to Shouto's ear.

Shouto knows they've done a lot of filthy things, absolutely would not call himself a virgin anymore, and it's all been very fucking good, but—

"I'm not entrusting my ass to you," Bakugou says, sounding amused.

Shouto writhes around in displeasure and hears a soft "Haah—" from behind him. He does it again, slower this time, sliding his thighs together, and gets a satisfied groan from Bakugou.

"I'd let you fuck me," Shouto tells him.

"Obviously," Bakugou says, "but that'd be too easy."

"Don't care—" Shouto decides. "Don't be such a—"

"You want me to put it in?" Bakugou asks. His voice takes on that tone of scathing mockery that passes for his brand of teasing. "Hmm, Todoroki?"

He pulls back, far enough that his dick slides between Shouto's ass cheeks. The tip catches, just barely, against Shouto's entrance, and Shouto shoves his face against his arms and moans. He knows Bakugou won't, because they don't have any lube beyond water and hand soap, but god—Shouto almost wishes he would anyway.

"Are you sure?" Shouto asks, turning his head to try and see Bakugou.

"Sure about what?" Bakugou asks. His voice is getting less steady, more breathless, shaky. His movements are erratic, now, thrusts short and sharp between Shouto's legs.

"That you don't want me to fuck you?" Shouto asks. "You could tell me how, I just—"

"Not gonna make it fuckin' easy for you—"

"I just want to be inside you."

"Fuck—" Bakugou swears, digging his fingers into Shouto's hips. Shouto feels his cock twitching as he orgasms, come trapped between Shouto's thighs, dripping down them sticky and hot.

Shouto grabs for the paper towels with a noise of abject disgust. He can feel lazy puffs of breath on the back of his neck, Bakugou laughing.

"Your fault," he informs Shouto. He barely gives Shouto enough time to mop himself up and get his pants back on before he strides out of the bathroom. Shouto follows at a more gradual pace, slowed down by the churning of his thoughts.

It definitely doesn't seem like Bakugou doesn't want Shouto to fuck him. Or vice versa. He just isn't into the idea of either of them rolling over, so to speak, which… is perfectly typical. Bakugou never wants anything handed to him, otherwise he can't feel like he's earned it.

Shouto emerges back out into the bar, doing a quick scan of the chaos. Unfortunately, though most of their friends are still around, the two he needs most seem to have disappeared during his stint in the bathroom.

"Hey," he says, grabbing Kaminari's arm, nearly making the other man drop the beer can he is attempting to balance on his forehead. Shouto doesn't ask why. "Have you seen Midoriya or Kirishima around?" Kaminari and Kirishima have become nearly attached at the hip since they met a few weeks ago; if anyone will know where Kirishima is, it's him.

"They headed out already," Kaminari says. "They would've said bye, but you were, you know, occupied." Shouto rolls his eyes. Yep, everyone knows. Not surprising.

"Oy, Todoroki," Bakugou calls, "your place is closer, let's go back."

"Did you need them for something?" Kaminari asks.

"It's nothing," Shouto says. To Bakugou he yells, "I'm still finishing my drink."

Bakugou scoffs loudly and Shouto ignores him. If he needs to make Bakugou feel like they've both earned it, fine. But first, he is going to need to talk to people with a little more experience in the area than he himself has gained.

*

Another week comes and goes, and Shouto does not talk to his friends about the situation (which is how he has started referring to Bakugou's dick in his head; again, he would like to break this habit).

It's easy to put it off. After all, it's not like he isn't getting any. He's actually getting literally a hundred percent more than he was prior to Bakugou eye-fucking him at that first concert. The sex is consistently mind blowing, sometimes even more than Shouto can handle, not that he'll ever admit that. But the point still stands that Bakugou is definitely trying to provoke him, and Shouto can't let him get away with that.

He just has to grow a pair big enough to ask Bakugou's best friend and his ex, both of whom Shouto has fairly frequently thought about naked, how to go about it.

His phone rings as he's walking back to his apartment from an evening lecture, down an alley near the now-familiar bar on the corner they've come to frequent.

"Hello?"

"Oy, Mozart, you home yet?"

Shouto grimaces away from the blast of noise on the other line. "Bakugou? I'm walking back now, I just passed Kiyashi—where are you?"

"Just got off work," Bakugou says. He works part time at a local family-owned restaurant, where the owners put up with him both because they've known him ages, and he's a damn good cook. Shouto has stopped by a couple times during his shift with the others, and even he can admit Bakugou knows his way around the kitchen.

Shouto hears the telltale rev of an engine and a horn honking. "Are you on your bike? Get off the phone!"

"I don't have to close my eyes to talk on the fucking phone," Bakugou says. "See you in a—"

Something impacts the back of Shouto's hand and his phone flies out of his grasp, skittering over the asphalt. He jerks around to look behind him, startled.

There's a couple guys walking along behind him in the alley, a few steps back. One of them stands much closer to Shouto than the rest—clearly the one who just slapped his phone out of his hand. He wonders if he's about to get mugged. They don't look much like muggers, though; they just look like drunk college kids. Considering he's right around the corner from the bar…

"What the hell was that for?" he asks. He doesn't try to pick up his phone yet. Some sense of his is warning him not to turn his back.

"Who was that?" one of them asks, voice slurring. Definitely drunk. "Your boyfriend?" The way he says the word is all sharp edges and nasty insinuation—but all it does is make Shouto snort in surprise.

"I don't have a boyfriend," he says, nearly amused by the thought despite the circumstances.

"No?" asks punk number one. "Then how come we always see you hanging off of that blond kid with the…" He badly imitates Bakugou's perpetual scowl and Shouto has to fight to keep the disgust off his face. Not that Bakugou's expression is ever really pleasant, but it beats this piece of shit's face, for sure. "You seem real cozy with him."

"First of all," Shouto says, "I have never and would never hang off of him. Second, it's none of your business either way. I'm disinclined to continue this conversation, because I don't like wasting my time on stupid things. You all should rehydrate. Bye." None of them look like they know what to do with this kind of dismissal, and he takes a few steps backwards, bending to pick up his phone without taking his eyes off of them. They don't move to follow, and once he's satisfied there's some distance between them, he turns his back.

"Hang on just a second—" he hears one of them say, sounding pissed at being blown off so easily.

He doesn't get any further. The roar of a motorbike is deafening in the alleyway and Shouto turns again, to see that one of the punks has stopped in his tracks, hand outstretched towards Shouto, staring into the bright glow of a headlight as it barrels towards them, getting closer, closer—

Bakugou flies by on his bike, stands up in the seat, stretches out his arm—and clotheslines the ringleader of the little group across the neck as he passes, completely destroying him.

"Holy shit!" Shouto yells. Even he's not sure if he's yelling at Bakugou or for him. 

Bakugou skids the bike to a stop, dismounting so violently Shouto can practically feel it from where he's standing.

"What the fuck's going on here?" Bakugou demands. He sounds like a mad dog, furious and snarling. "Where you just fuckin' reaching for him?!"

He directs this last at the guy crumpled unmoving on the ground, who does not look like he's in much of a state to answer. His friends are trying to help him up, but he appears to be dead weight. Shouto hopes for Bakugou's sake he's not actually dead.

"Well, if he was," Shouto says, "I think you successfully took care of that."

"Fuckin' punk," Bakugou says. "Don't start shit if you can't finish it."

Shouto has the fleeting thought that few people could probably finish anything after getting pummeled in the throat at high speed, but he chooses not to voice this. Asshole did have it coming.

"Anybody else want some?" Bakugou asks.

"Not worth it," Shouto says, his voice as cold as he can make it. "Let's go."

"Don't tell me what to do, loser," Bakugou says, kicking at Shouto's shoe petulantly. But he does turn around to walk next to him. As soon as his back is turned, Shouto hears the vitriol from behind them, an angry mumbled shout.

"Blond fairy cocksucker—!" Followed by several slurs increasing in offensiveness.

Bakugou stops walking. He turns. He's smiling, but it's altogether too forceful, and a vein in his forehead is noticeably twitching. "You wanna repeat that?"

"You're a—"

But he doesn't get to repeat it. Because Shouto gets there first and lays him out on the first punch. After that, no one tries to stop them when they leave.

"Okay, credit where it's due," Bakugou says, his voice whipped away by the wind as they take the bike the rest of the way back to Shouto's place. "I was kinda expecting you to be super wimpy but that was a solid punch."

Shouto's knuckles are split and stinging like crazy, and he grins nonetheless. "I've been taking self defense classes since I could walk. I'd've been fine even if you hadn't showed up."

"Doubtful," Bakugou says. "Why the fuck were they on you, anyway?"

"They thought you were my boyfriend."

"Seriously?" Bakugou throws his head back and laughs. "Like I'd ever date your dumb ass."

"Shouldn't that be my line?"

They get back to the apartment in no time. By now, Bakugou seems to be under the impression that he owns the place more thoroughly than Shouto's landlord, and certainly more than Shouto himself. As soon as Shouto unlocks the door, Bakugou pushes past him, kicking off his shoes and beelining for the fridge.

"Beer," he says, as Shouto locks the door and deposits his school bag. Shouto isn't sure if Bakugou is offering to bring him one, or demanding one for himself.

"Sure," Shouto settles on. He is surprised when Bakugou does bring two open bottles over to the couch, passing one off to him. "Thanks."

Bakugou waves his hand. "Too bad the other two were little bitches," he says conversationally, kicking his feet up onto the couch. His socked toes nudge Shouto's thighs. "Haven't been in a real fight in ages."

This is the least surprising Bakugou Statement ever, so Shouto doesn't even question his wistfulness. "It seemed pretty pointless."

"Well, yeah," Bakugou snorts, "when you lay 'em out as fast as we did."

Shouto nods absently. "People are stupid."

"Wise fuckin' observation," Bakugou says. "That was your first fight, huh. Lemme see your hand."

"What?" Shouto asks, but Bakugou sits up to pull his beer out of his grip and grab his injured hand to inspect his knuckles. His mouth twitches. "What?"

"Nothin'," Bakugou says. "You hit that fucker hard. Wait here."

He stands, pats Shouto somewhat condescendingly on the head, and disappears into the bathroom. Shouto sits there, wondering what just happened, as he listens to Bakugou rummaging about like a large and grumbly squirrel.

He returns eventually with a wet towel and a roll of gauze Shouto didn't even know he owned. Expectantly, Bakugou holds his hand out, and then grabs Shouto's again when he doesn't move fast enough.

"You're not just gonna splash some whiskey on it and call it a day?" Shouto asks, as Bakugou starts to clean his split knuckles.

"What the fu—no! That'll completely dry out your wound bed, you moron," Bakugou instantly berates him, which is more or less what Shouto was going for. Bakugou is hilarious when he builds up a head of steam. "Do you only know first aid from old western movies? Christ, who is keeping you alive out here? Do you even know how to do laundry? I know you don't cook anything but ramen."

"It's delicious," Shouto says, which serves the dual purpose of ruffling Bakugou's feathers even more and being true. He never got to eat instant ramen at home. It's straight up addictive. "Anyways, dressing a wound and selecting the right rinse cycle are not the same thing, at all."

"You gotta clean this before it gets infected from having some homophobe's sweat in the cuts and shit," Bakugou says, so matter of fact that Shouto can't stop the huff of laughter that escapes him. "I'm serious, asshole, especially with the violin and stuff. You're gonna keep splitting them open again if you don't take care of it."

"Sorry, nurse," Shouto says, and Bakugou shoots him a scathing look that is entirely undercut by how carefully he draws the cool, damp towel over Shouto's knuckles.

"You've never done shit like this," Bakugou says.

"Back alley brawls?" Shouto asks sardonically.

"That wasn't a brawl." Bakugou shakes his head mournfully. "But no, I mean… fuck, I dunno. Be open about fucking dudes, and shit."

"I wouldn't mind being a bit less open about the fucking part," Shouto points out, and Bakugou grins, unrepentant. "But being into guys is, yeah, whatever. I never did anything about it until now anyway."

"Why?" Bakugou asks.

It's such an easy question for him. Shouto is certain that Bakugou has never had to ask himself whether or not he should go after what he wants in his entire life, that's not the way it works for him. Shouto, meanwhile, has always had to weigh the positives and the negatives.

"Because now I can," he says simply. There's too much to explain, otherwise. Except, Bakugou is inconveniently too smart for that.

"You picked a weird fuckin' time to stick your dick outta the closet," Bakugou says. "I mean, for most people I get it, college and shit, go crazy. But you? You made it into one of the top schools in the country, everybody knows who you are, even if it's just 'cuz of your last name. People are gonna be trying to get a piece of you and your pops can't protect you anymore—"

"Exactly," Shouto says. His voice is sharper than he means it to be. "Yeah. I'm on my own."

"Hm." Bakugou huffs. Shouto can't tell if he gets it, or if he's just unimpressed. "So, what happens when everyone finds out?"

Shouto has never quite contemplated any of this, because there wasn't any point before now. Before, he was just trying to stay afloat; everything had been a struggle against his dad, everything had been trying to figure out who he was and fighting against being made into something he was not.

Now he has his own music. He has his own friends. He can breathe, and he's still got a metric ton of bullshit to figure out, but now a little bit of it is whether or not he likes the thought of waking up with someone else in his bed.

He doesn't know with full certainty who he wants that someone to be, yet. But it's not like he needs to decide right away.

"Then they find out," he finally replies.

Bakugou doesn't really smile, but he does look like he may think what Shouto just said is pretty ballsy, so it's a net gain. "And your dad? His record label and shit?"

"Fuck 'em," Shouto says, with clarity. "Let them waste their PR money."

Bakugou nods. "Pretty damn anti-establishment of you," he points out. "You sure you don't wanna do the whole rock'n'roll thing?"

Shouto smiles and shakes his head. "No, I'll leave that to you," he says, as Bakugou unrolls the gauze and starts to wrap his wound up.

He's had Bakugou's hands on him plenty of times, but never quite like this. Even when he's not being rough, Bakugou is never quite soft. He just takes what he wants how he wants, though not without a fight, first—the kind that leaves them both with bite marks and bruises in the shape of fingertips and breathing heavily against each other's skin.

But right now, he doesn't know that he could describe Bakugou as anything besides gentle. His knuckles still sting, but Bakugou's hands, as callused and forceful and demanding as they usually are, don't hurt him even once as they finish the bandaging job. He doesn't even really look mad about it, Shouto realizes. His attention is focused, and he's frowning slightly as he works, but it doesn't seem like annoyance.

"…good at it?"

Shouto blinks. "Huh?"

"Pay attention to the guy fixing you up," Bakugou says.

"I scraped my knuckles," Shouto says dryly. "I didn't lose a limb."

"I said, are you any good at it?" Bakugou repeats. "Violin."

"Oh," Shouto says. "I'm… yeah, I guess."

"Modest," Bakugou observes.

"You asked."

"Is that what you put on your application?" Bakugou says. "Did you write, 'yeah, I guess I'm pretty good'—"

"Just like you're pretty good at playing drums," Shouto says nonchalantly.

"Fuck you, I'm fucking amazing!"

Shouto doesn't even bother pointing out the hypocrisy. He's fairly sure Bakugou doesn't actually care.

"Sometimes I'm not even convinced you play," Bakugou continues.

Shouto frowns. "What does that even mean?" he asks. "Of course I play."

"Okay, well, I wouldn't fuckin' know, would I?" Bakugou says. "I've never heard you, even though you've been to like, a bunch of my shows—"

"Three."

"Three's more than zero, genius," Bakugou says.

"I mostly just play at school," Shouto says. "I use the practice rooms there, so I don't disturb anybody."

"So fuckin' considerate," Bakugou says derisively.

"Do you want to hear me play?" Shouto asks. He blurts it out without thinking and Bakugou just stares at him. Shouto stares back, wondering—did that sound kind of desperate for approval? Needy? Lame? He keeps quiet even when Bakugou doesn't answer, waiting patiently for Bakugou to finish wrapping his hand, murmuring a quiet thanks as the gauze is tied up.

"Some other time," Bakugou says, then. "You can play for me some other time, but you can't right now, anyway."

"Oh." Shouto swallows. "Yeah." Bakugou still hasn't let go of his hand.

"Okay, what gives?" Bakugou demands, having apparently had enough of the awkward silence. "I pick you up, I defend your honor, I tend to your fuckin' wounds—" Shouto has to laugh despite himself at this portrait of a white knight being painted. "What's with the hesitation, here? I didn't organize this booty call for nothin'."

"A true hero," Shouto says, deadpan, as Bakugou drags him in by his t-shirt to press warm lips against his jaw. "Alright, hang on, I've only got one usable hand…"

Bakugou bites his chin. "You gonna let that stop you?"

As it turns out, no; Shouto definitely does not let that stand in the way.

*

A couple nights after the back alley brawl, they're back at Bakugou's apartment.

"What is your fucking plan here, exactly?"

Bakugou's voice floats down to Shouto from what seems like very far away. He sounds annoyed, but that's normal, so Shouto barely registers it. He's pretty sure Bakugou is enjoying himself, because his dick is hard and he hasn't tried to push Shouto off yet, so Shouto is just going to keep steady on his current path.

He's lying flat on top of Bakugou, cheek smooshed onto Bakugou's chest. It's late, late in the evening, or maybe very early in the morning—Shouto isn't sure, he hasn't checked the time in awhile. He probably should, because he needs to head home eventually, but currently they're splayed out in Bakugou's bed, and Guns N' Roses drifts from the beat up laptop perched precariously near the edge of the mattress by the footboard and it's dark save for the glow of the computer screen and one dim desk lamp. And Shouto doesn't really want to move a muscle, so he doesn't.

Lazily, he pokes his tongue out again, toying with the ring pierced through Bakugou's nipple—flips it back and forth, laves over the metal and the hot nub of flesh below it wetly. Bakugou's nipple is peaked, pointed straight up like a little arrow, and Shouto blinks at it before flicking his tongue over it a little bit faster. He feels Bakugou's dick twitch in his sweatpants, pressed against Shouto's stomach.

"Hey," Bakugou says, in a voice that says he is clearly tired of being verbally ignored, "fuckin' answer me already."

Shouto hums noncommittally, and then mumbles in protest, as Bakugou grips him by the hair and tugs. Rather than get his hair yanked out, Shouto lifts his head, staring at Bakugou dolefully.

"What are you doing?" Bakugou asks him. Shouto shrugs. He slides his other hand over Bakugou's chest, fingers plucking at his other nipple, the non-pierced one. Bakugou makes a noise that Shouto thinks could be interest, but might also be disgruntlement. "Well, decide on somethin'. I'm getting bored over here."

"You don't seem bored," Shouto says. When Bakugou narrows his eyes, Shouto shifts his weight so he pushes down on Bakugou's crotch a little more firmly.

Bakugou rolls his eyes. "Biological reaction, asshole. Doesn't mean anything."

"You have a biological reaction to your nipples being played with," Shouto concludes. "Interesting…"

"It is not interesting, you freak," Bakugou snaps. He looks slightly caught off guard by that one, and Shouto mentally instructs himself not to smile. "They're just—"

"Sensitive?" Shouto asks innocently.

"Todoroki," Bakugou growls, and Shouto decides he can show some mercy.

He pulls himself higher so he can trail his lips up Bakugou's jaw. He doesn't kiss him; instead he keeps going until he reaches Bakugou's ear. He mouths over the many, many piercings there—tongue wetting the stud in his earlobe, tracing the outer edge and tugging at the double hoops there with his lips and teeth. Bakugou lets out a long, steady breath.

"What do you want me to do, then?" Shouto asks.

"Figure it the fuck out, you damn asshole," Bakugou grunts.

And this is what Shouto expected, yeah. Bakugou never asks for more, because Bakugou hates having to ask for things. He demands them, sure, but he won't ask, and he won't just give Shouto an answer. In Bakugou's strange little mind, Shouto thinks, he equates asking with losing, and helping Shouto too easy a victory. But Shouto is getting a little bit better at working out what the idiot wants.

He continues to satisfy his own curiosity, still rubbing his lips against Bakugou's ear, grazing the skin and the little gleaming flashes of metal with his teeth (Bakugou has so many piercings, and they fascinate Shouto; he finds himself wanting to touch them often). But now that they're aligned better, he starts to grind his hips against the front of Bakugou's sweats—Shouto is down to a t-shirt and briefs already, and the jolt of sensation is instantaneous.

Bakugou finally seems appeased. He relaxes into the sheets better, hands leaving Shouto's hair to stroke firmly down his back, before traveling all the way down to squeeze Shouto's ass, one cheek gripped in each hand like someone else is gonna steal them if Bakugou doesn't keep a strong enough grasp. Shouto gasps when Bakugou kneads his flesh through the thin material of his underwear, rolling his hips up as he pulls Shouto down against him. The pace he sets is a little too fast for Shouto's current sloth-like state, but he doesn't mind, either, with how quickly it stokes the low flames simmering in his belly. Fuck, that feels good.  

"Oh, now he wants to make out," Bakugou scoffs, as Shouto turns his head to try and fit their lips together.

"Told you—to tell me what you wanted," Shouto says. "If you wanted me to—nngh—to kiss you… should've said so." He does little more than pant against Bakugou's mouth, when Bakugou slips a hand down the back of his briefs, blunt nails dragging lightly over the swell of his ass.

"Shut up," Bakugou says. Shouto just huffs a laugh and Bakugou does kiss him, if only to make him be quiet.

Shouto can't resist, still, the urge to slip both hands down, feeling around until he can roll Bakugou's nipples between his fingers. Bakugou lets out a stream of breathless swearing, which Shouto takes as a compliment, given the way it goes straight to his cock. Seeing Bakugou lose control little by little, watching him get into it, is unquestionably one of his favorite parts of their weird arrangement. He thinks about it when they're not together, waiting for the next time he gets to push Bakugou closer and closer to the edge like this.

"Maybe what I want," Bakugou tells him, as Shouto thumbs his nipples, "is for you to quit being so obsessed with my tits."

"Unlikely to happen," Shouto says. He feels up the meat of Bakugou's pecs, squeezes them in much the same way Bakugou has a hold on his ass, before coming back to pinch his nipples hard. He almost worries it's too hard when Bakugou jolts underneath him.

But Bakugou plants his feet on the mattress to bracket Shouto's waist with his knees and groans, "About fuckin' time you stopped being a pussy." And Shouto realizes Bakugou is actually telling him what he wants.

He still feels a bit nervous when he tries it—twists Bakugou's nipples punishingly hard, sensitive flesh tortured between his fingers. But Bakugou reacts. His knees snap in against Shouto's waist and he arches his back off the bed, spine curved in a deep, trembling arc. His mouth falls open, like he's about to cry out, but he doesn't—he's silent, overwhelmed, hands dragging all the way up from Shouto's ass to his shoulders, fingers digging into Shouto's skin as Bakugou grinds his dick against him desperately. It's hot—so painfully hot, maybe the most wanton Shouto's ever seen Bakugou before. He can't handle it.

Fuck me sideways, is all he has time to think, before he comes in his briefs.

He barely registers anything for a few mind-numbing seconds, fading back in again to the sound of Bakugou's voice, and a hand shoving at his shoulder insistently.

"—just come? Shouto?"

Shouto blinks slowly, dazed. Did Bakugou just call him Shouto for the first time?

"Did you just come in your goddamn underwear?" Bakugou demands.

"Uh…"

Bakugou's jaw drops.

"Don't say a word," Shouto says, which does absolutely nothing whatsoever to stop him, naturally.

Bakugou laughs so hard that Shouto thinks he stops breathing at one point. His face turns bright red and he covers his mouth with his hand, his laughter filtering through his fingers husky and uncontrollable and full. Shouto has his suspicions that Bakugou dislikes people seeing him genuinely laugh, preferring only to display his nasty sneer at the world if he absolutely has to smile. It annoys Shouto to no end, because Bakugou, whether he likes it or not, is insanely cute like this. Even if it's at Shouto's expense.

"I'm going to punch you so hard," Shouto tells him eventually.

"Oh no, I'm so scared," Bakugou mocks him. "You sure you're not just gonna cream your pants instead?"

"You're the worst and I hate you."

"On the contrary," Bakugou says, and it makes Shouto want to hit him even more, the fact that Bakugou has so little class and yet still has the nerve to say snooty bullshit like on the contrary in his throaty, sexed up voice, "I think the problem here is that you like me a little bit too much."

Shouto drops his head and sighs. He allows himself a moment of acknowledgment—yeah, that was fucking embarrassing. He lost that round. Then he raises his head and looks Bakugou dead in the eye.

"Maybe I do," he says. Bakugou's smirk freezes on his face. Shouto doesn't stop there. "Maybe the way you look when you're holding onto me like that makes me lose my fucking mind. So, yeah, maybe you're right."

"Didn't say I wanted a goddamn greeting card confession," Bakugou snaps, but Shouto knows exactly why he sounds so annoyed all of a sudden.

"I really like looking at you under me," Shouto continues. He reaches down and hooks his fingers in the waistband of Bakugou's sweats, tugging them down experimentally.

Bakugou doesn't stop him. He's not wearing any underwear, and when Shouto pulls down far enough, his cock bounces free, thick and pink and shiny at the tip. Shouto licks his lips, and when he looks up at Bakugou again, it's to see Bakugou biting down on his own bottom lip, staring at him with his brows knitted together accusingly.

"I like when you spout bullshit just because you don't want to admit how turned on you are," Shouto says, sliding his fingers teasingly up and down Bakugou's dick, not quite taking him in hand, grip light and loose when he finally does. "I like the look you get on your face when you want me to touch you. I like the look on your face when you like the way I'm touching you. Or… when you hate it."

Bakugou's expression is a mix of the two now—probably torn between frustration at how slow Shouto is taking it, and arousal at the constant stream of praise, and the way Shouto is jerking him lightly, base to tip, thumb running over the leaking head of his cock.

"You think you're some kinda sex god now, huh?" Bakugou gasps. His hips roll into Shouto's touch, and Shouto knows he's got him where he wants him. After hours of teasing Bakugou, hours of wandering hands and never quite touching Bakugou where he wants it, finally, Shouto has him.

"No," Shouto says. If nothing else, tonight has made it clear that he's still hopeless in that regard. "But… fuck, I really like getting to touch you like this."

"God dammit," Bakugou moans, eyes shutting tight as Shouto squeezes his dick suddenly, picking up the pace. "You f-fucking loser—"

He reaches back to fist one hand in the pillows behind him, head tilting, throat bared. Shouto thinks, probably not for the first time, that he likes this too—the way Bakugou isn't inhibited in bed, for all the rest of the ways he acts so closed off.

"Obviously, I like your tits," Shouto says. "I thought I was dreaming the first time I saw you shirtless."

"Todoroki—"

"I want to suck on your stupid nipple ring like ninety-nine percent of the time—"

"M-maybe," Bakugou moans, though he's still managing that sideways smirk, "I sh-should get a dick piercing, so you'll put your mouth all over that, too—"

Shouto's synapses stop firing for a second. "W-would you?"

Bakugou's eyes fly open to stare at him. "Oh, shit," he says, voice coming out strangled, "you're way too into that."

Shouto makes a noise that even he can only charitably call a gurgle. He shimmies awkwardly down Bakugou's legs until he's level with his dick.

"You should get one," he says. Bakugou's leg twitches when Shouto bites down on the thick muscle in his thigh. "I like your dick a lot already, but you should really consider what you just said to me."  

He works Bakugou's shaft in one hand and messily slides his tongue over the head, pushes it past his lips to suck harder, and Bakugou, of course, comes in his mouth entirely without warning with a deep groan of pleasure, shoving his hand in Shouto's hair to make sure he can't pull away.

"You're a fucking asshole," Shouto says to him a few moments later, after Bakugou's second laughing fit has subsided and Shouto has spit out his cum into a tissue.

"You absolutely deserved that," Bakugou says, "you kinky bastard."

Shouto plucks at his own earlobe contemplatively. "Maybe I should get a piercing…"

Bakugou snorts. "Stop trying so hard to look cool."

"You're just worried I'll surpass you."

Bakugou rolls onto his side to look up at Shouto where he sits on the bed. "Even if I was worried about that, which I'm not, because you never will," he says, "you've at least got that cool ass scar."

Shouto stops tugging at his earlobe. "My… scar?"

"Yeah," Bakugou says. "How'd you get it, anyway?"

"Huh?"

"The scar," Bakugou says. "Nobody ever, like, talks about it."

No, nobody ever does talk about it. Most people don't know how it had happened—only the family, and the doctors who looked after Shouto growing up, and then the doctors at the hospital where his mother was admitted. The press had been all but barred from asking questions about it, or talking about it—any publication that tries, even years later, is immediately blackballed by Endeavor's label, so everybody avoids it. It's the elephant in the room, a glaring omission even with the efforts taken to keep Shouto out from under the media's eye.

"Hey."

Bakugou's voice interrupts Shouto's thoughts, and he straightens in surprise. His hand is covering the left side of his face—he hadn't even realized he was touching the scar.

"You don't gotta tell me anything," Bakugou says easily, waving a hand. "Forget it."

"My mom."

Bakugou looks at him. "What about her?"

"That's… how I got it," Shouto says. He doesn't know why he is telling Bakugou this. He knows he doesn't have to. He never tells anyone. "She did it."

He remembers flashes, from his childhood—bleeding fingers, raised voices, locked doors. The sound of the kettle boiling.

"When I was a kid, sometimes I'd be too—" The strings would cut through his fingers even through the band-aids, and the gauze would be stained red, and it was three AM and he was still playing. "I'd be too tired. To practice. But my dad made me. At first my mom tried to get him to give me a break, but one day, she, um…" He clasped his hands together tightly. "She said if I couldn't see anymore, then I couldn't sightread. Couldn't play. So she did it. Stopped after the one side, though, I think she realized what she was doing…"

He likes to hope she had, anyway. That she'd remembered that she cared about him, more than she had wanted the endless, endless noise—his playing, his crying, the yelling—to stop.

He finds he can't look at Bakugou, even though he knows Bakugou is looking at him. Knows he must be realizing that the scar isn't cool, or dangerous, or bad ass. It's just a sad reminder.

Bakugou blows out a breath between his lips and says, "That's fucked up."

And—it's such an understatement that Shouto laughs. Bakugou sounds as interested, or disinterested, as he always is, and that, somehow, makes the painful ache in Shouto's chest ease, just a little.

"Yeah," he says. "I can play by ear, so I would've had to lose a lot of body parts for that plan to work."

"Christ, Shouto," Bakugou says, but he huffs out a laugh at the morbid humor. "That's not what I meant, you ass."

It's the second time that night he's called Shouto by his first name. Shouto looks at him again, and he can't quite manage a smile, but Bakugou has never exactly been all about the giggles anyway.

"Who else knows?" Bakugou asks him.

"Only Midoriya," Shouto says.

Bakugou nods. "Figured. That's—good, probably."

"You think so?" Shouto asks, surprised. He's unused to Bakugou thinking in terms of things being good for other people, especially emotionally. Honestly, he wasn't sure Bakugou was capable.

"Yeah, I mean, I fuckin' guess, right?" Bakugou says. "He's good at this shit. You don't want me to be your only fucking outlet, I can tell you that much."

"You're sort of literally my fucking outlet," Shouto reminds him. The series of expressions Bakugou's face contorts through is completely worth it.

"You want him to be, you thirsty ho," Bakugou says, somehow affectionately.

"Bite me," Shouto says. He stands up. "Alright, this ho's gotta take a leak and then we can head out."

"Hell no," Bakugou says. "It's fucking late, I'm not driving you back now. I'm tired as shit."

Shouto fumbles the receipt of that information. "O-oh," he says.

Their routine has become kind of standard. Meet up, fuck, Bakugou has a beer and leaves if they're at Shouto's, or he brings Shouto back to his apartment if they're at Bakugou's. Shouto hasn't had to walk home yet. Now it's late as hell, and his muscles still feel a bit like jelly, and he's got cum in his briefs. Shit.

"Okay," he says. "I'll see you next—"

"You can stay or you can go, up to you," Bakugou tells him. He reaches down to grab the laptop from the end of the bed—miraculously, it has not fallen off.

For a second, it doesn't register with Shouto. Then it does.

"Stay here? For the night?" he asks, hoping the croakiness in his voice wasn't that noticeable.

Bakugou raises an eyebrow at him. "Yeah?"

"Sure." Shouto nods. "Yeah. Okay, cool. Sure."

"You said 'sure' already."

"I'm just giving you time to change your mind."

"Would you," Bakugou says, closing the laptop with a snap, "fucking get in bed already, you enormous weirdo?" Shouto starts to move towards him, and he adds, "Turn off the fucking light, first."

"Got it," Shouto says, clicking off the desk lamp.

"Put my laptop on my desk. And get me a new pair of sweats, these are disgusting now."

"Got it," Shouto repeats, taking the laptop when Bakugou hands it to him and depositing it where instructed. He's still not entirely convinced Bakugou isn't going to tell him to get out at any second. He opens several of the drawers in Bakugou's dresser before finding the right one. 

"You can borrow something if you want," Bakugou tells him, as Shouto throws a pair of sweatpants at him.

"Thanks," Shouto says gratefully, because his underwear feels truly terrible. He strips out of them and grabs a second pair of pajama pants. They're some AC/DC knock off, sticks of dynamite patterned all over them, and they're soft when he pulls them on, like they've been well worn in.

Once he's changed, Shouto pulls back the covers on the bed and scoots in alongside Bakugou. It's just now hitting Shouto how tired he is, and he's a little eager on his entry. That's right, exhaustion; that's the only reason he's weirdly excited.

"Oh my god, you're like a baby dog or something," Bakugou grumbles.

"There's a word for those," Shouto says.

"Shut up," Bakugou says. "Just don't get so excited you come in your pants again. Did you know there's a word for that, you fuckin' genius? Premature ejaculation."

"That's two words," Shouto informs him.

"You're two seconds from sleeping on the floor, dickbag."

"Goodnight, Bakugou," Shouto whispers.

"Night, dickbag."

Shouto doesn't attempt to cuddle, staying firmly on his side of the bed. But he can still feel the dip in the mattress where Bakugou is lying, and the heat off his body is especially noticeable under the covers.

And Shouto thinks, maybe, Bakugou was more right than he even realized, when he said Shouto might like him too much.

Chapter Text

Eventually—because they are both far from perfect, and they argue as often as they get along—the two of them have a fight of their own.

Where Bakugou is his own unstoppable force, Shouto has always been every bit the immovable object, and they already have an easy rhythm of bickering back and forth. It's usually just an added layer of sexual tension, the only way Shouto's ever actually flirted with anyone (given that Bakugou is the first person he's ever seduced or been seduced by, period). But Bakugou burns hot on the surface, and Shouto runs warm deep below, and it comes to a head over the stupidest of things.

The end of the first semester is approaching, now only a month away. With it comes the showcase recital for all the first year orchestral students. Things have been picking up for Shouto across all his classes, but most of his time now is spent preparing and practicing his piece. This leaves him less time for other things—like going to shows, bar hopping, and Bakugou.

Shockingly, Bakugou doesn't exactly take well to being lower priority. He's grumpier and more sullen than usual when Shouto has to miss shows in order to study, and his garden variety heckling becomes sharper when Shouto leaves the bar before everyone else because he has to be up early the next day. For Shouto, this results in a strange mix of exasperation, and oddly, fondness. Bakugou is acting annoying as all hell, it's true—but knowing it's because he's irritable over spending less time with Shouto does have a certain ring of satisfaction to it, even if it's just due to blue balls. Plus, the sex, when Shouto does finally have a rare night to spare, is fucking great.  

They've kept up staying over at each other's apartments sometimes. Not every time, not even all that often, but if Shouto doesn't have a morning class, or Bakugou doesn't have an early shift, they stay. Or, not that either of them will admit this, the times the sex is so good that it wipes them of the will to do anything but clean up and laze about after, watching some random shit on a small laptop screen until they both fall asleep.

It's following one of these nights at Shouto's place that he wakes up the next morning feeling groggy and sweaty. The bed is empty, but it isn't unusual for Bakugou to head home before he wakes up. Shouto reaches for his phone to check the time, and promptly has a near-heart attack.

"Fuck!"

He flings the blankets off, going from mostly asleep to wide awake in the span of three seconds. He has a one-on-one meeting with his advisor that morning, and he somehow slept through his fucking alarm.

Hurriedly, he changes his clothes, hoping the laundered fabric will override any lingering smell of sex. He grabs his keys and his backpack and almost falls over while trying to put on a sock, before he finally makes it out of his bedroom. He stops in the doorway, confused.

"Bakugou?" he asks. "You're still here?"

It's a dumb question, because Bakugou is clearly still there, set up in front of the stove and making breakfast. But it is unexpected to say the least. Bakugou seems to have ditched his shirt from the night before (understandable, considering how gross it had been by the time they were finished) and found a new one.

"Is… is that my shirt?" Shouto asks.

Dumb question number two. It's a dark blue t-shirt with the Frozen title logo on it, that Midoriya and the others had bought Shouto as a joke when he'd started to hang out with them more often. Shouto is more than one hundred percent sure Bakugou doesn't own an exact copy of this t-shirt. So yes, Bakugou raided his closet for something to wear, and now he's making breakfast in Shouto's kitchen in Shouto's Disney shirt and boxers.

Shouto's whole body reacts very weirdly to this visual; his dick wants him to shove Bakugou up against the countertop and make Bakugou cling to him in nothing but that shirt, with his legs around Shouto's waist.

But there's a very insistent hammering in his chest that seems to want him to let Bakugou go about his business, while Shouto holds him from behind and shoves his face into his fluffy bedhead and kisses the back of his neck while Bakugou no doubt tells him to get the hell off.

Bakugou doesn't even glance in his direction. "Obviously, I'm still here," he says. "Yes, it's your dumb shirt, and so are these eggs, so how do you want 'em cooked?"

Shouto is having such a hard time wrapping his head around everything that he forgets, for a second, that he's in a rush. But before he can answer about the eggs, it comes back to him, along with his panic.

"Shit," he mutters, "I actually—I don't have time."

Now Bakugou looks at him, taking in the backpack and change of clothes. "Going somewhere?"

"Yeah I have an advisory meeting—or I did, if I can still make it over there in time, I slept through my alarm."

Bakugou snorts. "Yeah, I noticed."

Shouto frowns. "Wait, what? You did?"

"It'd be hard not to after I had to turn it off when you kept up the sleeping beauty routine," Bakugou says, turning back to the stove. "Eh, whatever. You might as well just skip your meeting at this point."

"I can't… do that," Shouto says. "Why didn't you just wake me up?"

"Figured you could use the sleep." The sound of egg shells cracking is followed swiftly by sizzling in the pan.

Much of the fondness Shouto was just feeling is beginning to fade rapidly, to be replaced by a very pronounced need to throttle Bakugou.

"I didn't—" He sighs heavily. "You eat those. I'm heading out."

"Just reschedule, you're good at that nowadays."

Shouto doesn't mean to blow up. Normally, he probably wouldn't have, but he's only just woken up, he's still pretty groggy, and he's panicked about his late start. Most of this is Bakugou's fault, aware or not.

"What is your problem with this?" he demands, louder than he means it to come out. Bakugou's hands still, as he pauses over his cooking. "I'm—sorry that I can't stay, but I can't just blow it off, either!"

Bakugou whirls around, pointing his eggy spatula at Shouto like he's about to challenge him to a fencing match. Shouto glares back, unimpressed.

"It's a fucking advisory meeting! They're optional! If you weren't such a supernerd, maybe you'd realize you're the one with your panties in a twist!"

"Me?" Shouto isn't surprised Bakugou is mad at being yelled at, but beyond that he doesn't have time to explain why the world doesn't revolve around Bakugou just because Bakugou would prefer if it did. "I'm gonna be back in an hour, max. You'll survive, I promise."

"Guess it's great to know where I am on the ladder." Bakugou scowls petulantly. "Actin' more like you're blowing your damn advisor than me."

Shouto stares at him. "Are you serious?"

"Yup," Bakugou says. "Ranking goes: school, sleep, and then way down here—" He swipes his hand somewhere around the vicinity of his knees. "Your hot piece of ass you keep on speed dial."

"Really," Shouto says dryly, "you're referring to yourself as a 'hot piece of ass', now?"

"Do you deny it?" Bakugou asks, propping his fist on one jutting hip.

"Not falling for it," Shouto says, shaking his head as he goes to put his shoes on. "I'm not getting dragged into your jealousy issues."

"Jealousy? Fuck you, I ain't jealous!" Bakugou says heatedly. "I just don't feel like being some convenient sex toy when you wanna rub your dick on something."

"Are you seriously lecturing me about my manners?" Shouto asks. He should just walk out, he knows he needed to be gone twenty minutes ago. But it rankles, gets under his skin, that Bakugou suddenly has a problem with the very same thing he's been using Shouto for from the start. "We aren't, like, a thing!"

Bakugou opens his mouth to argue, and closes it again, looking furious. Shouto stares at him.

"Wait…" he says slowly.

They aren't a thing. That's what Shouto has been telling himself, because otherwise, it messes everything up. Bakugou can't argue with him on this one. It's just sex, between them.

Unless it isn't.

"I'm done talking to you," Bakugou says. "Forget it, just go to your stupid meeting—"

"Bakugou—"

"Nope," Bakugou says loudly, "we're not talking about it—"

"Is…" Shouto grasps for words, but there's none, really, besides the ones that are already hanging in between them. "Is this a thing? Bakugou?"

Bakugou's entire being, from his throat, to his face, to his ears, goes reddish purple with what could be anger, embarrassment, disbelief, or a flaming Molotov cocktail of all of the above.

"Like hell it is!" he yells. "We're just—I'm just using you for sex!"

Shouto takes a hesitant step toward him. "Are you, though?"

"That's all we are to each other, isn't it?" Bakugou snaps back.

Shouto cocks his head, still puzzling things over, still not quite sure, but… "Is it, though?"

"You—" Bakugou looks ready to explode. "You can't just keep saying that, you little turd!"

"Can't I, though?" Shouto asks, and then hurriedly yanks his shoes the rest of the way on as Bakugou literally brandishes the frying pan at him. The eggs, now burnt, stick to it.

"It's not anything!" Bakugou yells at him. "You hairy dick with legs! Who was the one spewing all that shit about what you like about me that one night? Make up your damn mind!"

That night—the first night he'd stayed over at Bakugou's—had been weeks ago. Shouto thought for sure Bakugou didn't remember, hadn't even registered it; just a slight deviation from their normal dirty talk, because Shouto still sucks at that anyway. But the kicker is, it's maybe the closest he's come to telling Bakugou that he might feel more about this than either of them is letting on.

Shouto hadn't ever expected Bakugou to feel very strongly about their arrangement past the sex. Or maybe, he just hadn't wanted to hope for anything too much. It hadn't crossed his mind, that Bakugou might care this much about their time together getting scarce, outside a few horny late night calls. Shouto had assumed it to be general Bakugou annoyance, but… could it be more?

"It wasn't shit," Shouto says resolutely. "I just… I don't think I realized I needed to make up my mind about anything? But now—"

"For fuck's sake," Bakugou says, "I already told you, I don't care. Christ, try to make a guy breakfast and this is what happens, last time I do anything nice for you."

Shouto clears his throat. "Look… when I get back, maybe we should talk about… about what we're doing."

Bakugou snorts. "Let's not and say we didn't."

"Katsuki—"

Bakugou roughly slams the pan into the side of the sink, dislodging the steadily smoking eggs from the bottom and sending them sliding down the drain.

"Just go, already," he snaps. "Neither of us wants any kind of lameass thing with each other, right?"

"How do you know what I—"

"Weren't you just whining about being fucking late?" Bakugou asks in disbelief. "We have now fuckin' talked about it! The end! No more reason for you to hang around!"

He's wrong. Shouto's reason to stay is standing in his kitchen and wearing his t-shirt—and he really, really wants to say as much. But trying to talk Bakugou down from a fight is like trying to talk an angry rhino out of charging.

"Sometimes, you're an ass," Shouto tells him. "And not even a very hot one. But you're not not important to me."

Bakugou looks at him for a long second like maybe the rhino has been pacified. Then he yells in loud, wordless frustration, and yanks the Frozen shirt off over his head, wadding it up and throwing it at Shouto's face.

The gesture feels glaringly familiar—and then Shouto remembers. The first show, the first time they ever locked eyes with each other.

You were staring real hard, and I thought it might give us both the chance to cool off.

"I hate wise asses trying to figure me out," Bakugou finally says.

He refuses to look at Shouto, and his face is still red. Definitely in need of some cool down time. It's lucky Bakugou is pretending to ignore him, because it's hard for Shouto to keep the smile off his face. If Bakugou doesn't like Shouto poking around, that's only because there's something there to figure out in the first place.

"I'm trying to figure out a lot of stuff," he says. "Maybe we just both need time for that."

"Do what you want," Bakugou mutters.

Shouto huffs out an almost-laugh. "I'm trying."

He leaves after that, his head already crowded with too many thoughts. He's been trying—it's just that he can never be sure what Bakugou wants. Shouto thinks, though, that he keeps getting closer to understanding.

*

 Over a week goes by, and Shouto doesn't hear a word from Bakugou.

Shouto hasn't tried to call and Bakugou hasn't texted. Shouto knows he can end the stalemate by making the first move himself, but the thought is absolutely unbearable. He thinks, vaguely, that it's probably not a good thing that his pride is as thick as Bakugou's. But he can picture the smirk that will appear on Bakugou's face, if Shouto is the first to cave in—it makes him hot and pisses him off all at once. And he knows, Bakugou's still got him by the balls. Damn him.

He decides he can still take matters into his own hands without involving Bakugou—or, as Bakugou would say, stop being a little bitch about things. After all, Shouto still has some questions that need answering.

One day he heads straight from class to the block of recording studios the school houses in a separate building. The studios are state of the art; more than a few up-and-coming names in the music world recorded breakout singles and samples right inside these walls.

As soon as he steps inside, the sounds of a dozen different songs, dissonant and intertwining melodies both, wash faintly over him, muffled almost but not entirely by the professional level soundproofing. The windows are one-way, to allow privacy for recording sessions. Inside each studio, he knows, there will be no sound or interruption aside from the musician or musicians who've booked it for the day.

Shouto glances at his phone again to check his texts. His stomach flutters nervously, but he swallows the feeling down.

Sure, come by! We're in room 111.

When he pushes open the door to the room, the bright bump and heavy beat of a synth pop number intensifies. Shouto slips inside and closes the door behind him.

At a sprawling mixing console with innumerable dials, volume controls, and blinking lights flashing, Kirishima sits with his back to the door. It's a rare sighting of him with his hair down, but he has to wear it that way in case he needs to use the noise canceling headphones hanging around his neck.

This is his domain. Kirishima is majoring in music production and audio engineering, with a particular trend towards cheerful electronic-pop mixes with hard beats. Mixing may not be the flashiest part of the industry, he says, but it is its backbone, in a sense.

"I wanna support my bros," he told Shouto, in one of their first meetings. "If they sound good 'cause of me, then we all win!"

Kirishima's hands fly over the panel, making constant micro-adjustments—but even with his concentration fully on creating the best sound, he's still enjoying the music to the fullest. He rocks his head to the beat, feet tapping on the floor. It's unfiltered and raw in the control room, in the middle of the mixing process, but it still sounds amazing.

A lot of the charm of the song comes from the driving vocals. In the live room, separated by a glass partition, there's a hanging mic set up. He hasn't seen Shouto yet, but Midoriya stands in front of it wearing his own pair of headphones, hands clasped over the ear cups, eyes closed as he sings into the mic.

Midoriya is so expressive, feels every word and every note. His singing voice is high and clear, always a little adorably breathless; but he can growl when it's needed, belt on the high notes and whisper the low. He's almost a different person when he sings. His smile is still infectiously bright, but the everpresent nerves disappear. He's confident in a way that seems to always lie right beneath the surface, but when he's on stage, it's magnified, tangible, like lightning crackling over his skin. It's been a couple months since the first time Shouto heard him sing, and it's always as good as the first time—no, better. Midoriya never stops getting better.

He doesn't want to disturb them in the middle of recording, so he stays quiet, but he does shuffle to the side a bit to see Midoriya better. The second he moves further into the room, Midoriya opens his eyes and sees him.

His face brightens in happiness, and he yelps Shouto's name instead of the next notes into the mic. Kirishima looks confused for a moment, before he realizes and turns around, already grinning at Shouto as he stands up to deliver a hug.

"It's been ages, man!" he says, thumping Shouto on the back. Kirishima is very solid, a bit like embracing a brick wall. "How've you been, I feel like we've barely seen you!"

"Ah, don't stop on my account," Shouto says, but Midoriya is already hanging his headphones around the mic and coming out to say hello.

He beelines for Shouto and thumps into his chest, wrapping his arms around Shouto's middle. Shouto hugs him back and feels slightly calmer, with Midoriya's head squashed under his chin. He's solid, like Kirishima, but in a different way—like hugging a familiar and comforting teddy bear.

"Thanks for coming," Midoriya tells him.

"I'm the one who texted you guys," Shouto says.

Midoriya shrugs. "Yeah, but we know how busy you are getting ready for the recital."

"You've got finals, too."

Midoriya grins accommodatingly, like he's willing to let Shouto have this one. "So what's up? Everything alright?" He pulls over another rolling chair as Kirishima pushes one Shouto's way.

Shouto drops into it heavily. "I don't really know."

Kirishima and Midoriya glance at each other.

"Is that, like, a general 'I don't know'," Kirishima asks, "or an I-have-no-idea-what Bakugou's-problem-is 'I don't know'?"

Shouto groans.

"So, the second one," Midoriya guesses.

"Did he talk to you guys?" Shouto asks.

"Kacchan?" Midoriya asks. "Talk about it?"

"Right," Shouto sighs. Talking through a problem is not generally a thing Bakugou seems willing to do.

"He's been scarce, too," Kirishima says. "More than usual, I mean, and when he's not ghosting my texts, he's biting my head off over stupid shit. Uh. More than usual, again."

"Yeah, we… got into an argument?" Shouto says.

Kirishima and Midoriya both look at him with wide eyes.

"Congratulations on getting out alive," Kirishima says.

Shouto scowls. "He's harmless," he says, and is horrified to realize he feels fond of Bakugou and his unpleasant alleycat-esque temperament.

God, he actually misses Bakugou, doesn't he?

"So, not a big argument, then?" Kirishima asks.

"Maybe?" Shouto says. "I mean, there was yelling, but it's Bakugou, so…"

"So the question is, what's he really upset about…" Midoriya says, tapping his chin.

Shouto looks at his furrowed brow and earnest expression, and a wave of embarrassment overtakes him. What the hell is he doing, coming to Midoriya for advice about this?

"Uh, listen…" he says, swallowing the lump in his throat, "I know I asked if I could talk to you but—is this really okay?"

"Why wouldn't it be?" Midoriya asks.

"Because… you and Bakugou…" Shouto trails off, unsure of how to continue.

"Oh," Midoriya says, and Shouto can practically see the switch click on, lighting his face up pink. "Because I fucked him?"

Shouto knows Midoriya isn't completely as innocent as he looks, because he's heard the stories. Their friends are not shy about sharing, often to Midoriya's slight dismay, though he takes it mostly in stride. Still, Midoriya himself isn't the kiss and tell type, and he's usually not so blunt.

Bakugou is the opposite. He likes (liked…) to tell Shouto in great detail exactly what Midoriya looked like with Bakugou's fingers rubbing up on his prostate, or the sounds he made whenever Bakugou pinned him down and rode his dick until he couldn't form words.

"He cries like a little bitch when he's inside someone," Bakugou had told Shouto at one point, with his head between Shouto's legs, his breath hot on Shouto's dick. "Kacchan, Kacchan, slow down, I'm gonna come too fast—"

Shouto had whimpered.

"You should just ask him to bang you," Bakugou said. "He'll fuck anyone."

"I don't want him to sleep with me just because I'm anyone," Shouto had confessed. It felt safe to admit it to Bakugou, for some reason—maybe because Bakugou didn't seem to possess the average human capacity for pity. He might think Shouto was an idiot, but he wouldn't spill the secret, and he'd never feel sorry for Shouto over it. The last thing Shouto wanted was for anyone to feel sorry for him thanks to his creepy crush.

"Todoroki…?"

"Huh?" Shouto asks intelligently, before realizing that he's been staring at Midoriya fixedly for far too long. Kirishima and Midoriya are both staring back, expectantly.

"You don't have to worry," Midoriya tells him. "We're way past it."

"You are?" Shouto asks, and then winces. "Sorry, I'm not trying to imply that—"

"We are!" Midoriya insists. "He's moved on. Right?" Midoriya directs this last to Kirishima.

Kirishima looks caught off guard. "Oh—yeah," he says, nodding emphatically. He smiles between Midoriya and Shouto. "Definitely."

"It was just sex," Midoriya says with a shrug.

"It's just that…" Shouto says, still feeling the need to justify, "you both know him a lot better than I do…"

"Exactly!" Midoriya says.

"We're the best people to talk to about it," Kirishima agrees. "So… what happened?"

They turn out to be a very good audience for Shouto as he relays how events played out.

"Oh, yeah, I could've told you that," Kirishima says when Shouto explains how Bakugou seemed upset about his general scarcity. "He hates feeling unimportant."

"I mean, I figured that much," Shouto says, "but I didn't think he'd notice the way he did? I didn't think he cared that much."

"Cared about what?" Midoriya asks. "The sex?"

"No," Shouto says. "Me."

Kirishima pulls a face at this. "Dude…"

"What?"

"Todoroki…" Midoriya says, with a heavy sigh.

"What?"

"We'll come back to that," Kirishima says. "Continue."

"Okay, well, the morning of the fight—"

"Hold on," Midoriya instantly interrupts. "Morning?"

Shouto nods. "Right."

"You guys get up early enough to bang before class?" Kirishima asks, looking aghast.

"No—well, someti—stop laughing," Shouto tells them. "He stayed over, but there was no morning sex. That time."

"He stayed over?!" Kirishima repeats. "Voluntarily."

"I… think so?" Shouto says.

"Wow…" Midoriya says, looking impressed.

"He fell asleep while we were watching a movie," Shouto adds, somewhat defensively, without really understanding why he feels defensive. He needs them to hear what he's saying, not try to coddle his feelings, in order to get appropriate advice. "We're getting off topic."

"Okay, okay," Kirishima says, "so the morning of the fight…"

"I woke up late!" Shouto says, remembering the agony of the moment. "I had an advisory meeting with Aizawa." The other two wince in sympathy. "I thought Bakugou was gone already, but when I came out of the room, he was still there."

"He was leaving?" Midoriya ask.

"No," Shouto says, "making eggs."

He's met with silence.

"For breakfast," Shouto clarifies.

"And you think he doesn't care?" Midoriya asks. His green eyes have taken on that steely look they get when he's trying to get Shouto to realize something about himself.

Shouto knows that look well enough to know that it's bad news for him, or at least, bad news for his self-doubt and loathing issues. "Well," he says, "after that… everything went pretty wrong."

He tells them about Bakugou turning off the alarm, and accusing Shouto of blowing him off, and Shouto pressing him to find out if they were, maybe, becoming a thing. Or if they already were a thing—he's still not sure exactly what either of them thought he meant. He recounts Bakugou's skittishness, and that they hadn't resolved anything, and that they now haven't talked for days. When he finishes, he folds his hands in his lap to signal he's done.

"Alright, so…" Kirishima says, "there's no denying that Bakugou was an asshole about a lot of this…"

"That usually can't be denied," Midoriya muses. "But…"

"But what?"

"Well, to recap," Midoriya says, and begins ticking items off on his fingers, "he turned off your alarm so you could get some sleep, tried to convince you to stay and let him make you breakfast, blew up because you told him you thought what you've been doing is only about the sex, and now he hasn't talked to you in days because he doesn't know how to respond to you wondering if there might be more between you?"

Shouto gapes at him. The other two watch as he runs his hands through his hair before pulling at it, curling over himself to thud his forehead onto his knees. He groans loudly.

"He likes me," he says, and he should feel euphoric, but mostly, he just feels like a confused idiot.

"Talking it out is very helpful when it comes to figuring out why Kacchan is mad," Midoriya says. He pats Shouto's hair, the motion comforting. "Because he's the worst."

"He's the worst," Shouto repeats. "Why do I like him?"

"Temporary lapse in sanity?" Kirishima asks, somehow managing to sound kind and sympathetic about it. Shouto makes a noise like a bulldog grunting. It's all he can manage. The other two seem to understand.

"I think you guys will be fine," Midoriya says. "He's hard enough as it is to figure out, let alone right before finals."

He keeps on playing idly with Shouto's hair, hand rustling the strands, sifting and gently pulling through them. Shouto doesn't want to move. He's comfortable and he understands things better and it's the first time in several weeks that he's gotten to just hang out and talk to his friends beyond hurried text messages.

"I've also been wondering why he doesn't want to actually…" he hears himself mumble, almost without realizing he's spoken.

"Hmm?" Midoriya hums.

"Why he's not into—" Shouto shuts his eyes and bids his dignity goodbye. "Into penetration during sex? With me?"

Midoriya's hands falter in their steady stroking of his hair. "Wh-what?"

Kirishima makes a small choking noise and then says, "Ah…"

"I'm so sorry," Shouto moans. He's been wanting to ask them this for weeks now, since that time Midoriya had almost walked in on Bakugou blowing him in the bar bathroom. Now he regrets everything. Why did he say that? Why couldn't he just resolve to figure this out on his own?

"No, no, it's fine!" Kirishima says, and Shouto chances a glance up at him. He regrets it the second he catches Kirishima's eye. "Oh, my god, you look like your head's about to explode!"

"It might," Shouto says. His cheeks are basically on fire.

"Wait, so, you haven't?" Midoriya asks, eyes wide as dinner plates. "At all?"

"No," Shouto says, "and it's—it's fine, but it's just that I know—" He only just remembers to stop himself from saying I know how much he liked it with you to Midoriya's face. "It just seems like he wouldn't… mind? But it always ends up… not happening."

"Okay," Midoriya nods. "Okay, yeah, that's kinda weird—" He waves his hands anxiously as Shouto's face falls. "I'm sure it's not because of anything you've done!"

"Or if you did do something, he's probably just reacting to it like Bakugou, and not like a normal person," Kirishima adds helpfully. "And you can't really help that."

"What do you mean when you say it seems like he wouldn't mind?" Midoriya asks.

Shouto leans back heavily in his chair. "It just… I mean, I know I'm not super experienced or anything. But it seems… it seems really good, and we're both—he's into it, and I've made it pretty clear that I'd be fine with doing that, but then it never really… gets there."

The light of recognition goes on in Midoriya's eyes. "So you're letting him take the lead, mostly."

"Yeah."

"You're going too easy on him," Midoriya tells him. It comes out like an admonishment.

"But—" Shouto says, "he's the one who always wants to be in charge."

"Right, he does," Midoriya agrees, "but he likes being in charge best when—"

"When I challenge him beforehand," Shouto fills in, suddenly understanding. Kirishima looks like he's torn between laughing and shaking his head in despair, but he's definitely not disagreeing.

Shouto remembers, with a bright flash of clarity, that Bakugou has always been the most receptive—the most responsive—when they practically fight each other for the upper hand first. There's the first night they were ever together, of course. But more recently, there was the time Shouto had kept him on the hook all night, let Bakugou suffer a little more than he normally would while Shouto mapped all his piercings with his mouth. He'd been so into the feel of Shouto's hands on him, then, so lost to it—he'd looked so good with his legs spread open for Shouto to fit between them, eyes glazed and dark with a hungry need that didn't usually surface there.

"Now you get it," Kirishima says, and Shouto realizes that that memory must be showing on his face. Embarrassed, he nods.

"If you really want to open Kacchan up," Midoriya says, "you've got to piss him off first."

"Seems like you didn't have any trouble with that, huh?" Shouto asks.

"Not really, but I'm also kinda the best at making Kacchan mad." Midoriya grins at him. "You want me to show you?"

"Show me what—" Shouto starts to ask, but then cuts off as Midoriya leans forward in his chair and pulls an unsuspecting Kirishima closer to kiss him hard on the mouth.

Kirishima startles, hands flying up like he's lost his balance, before they reflexively settle at Midoriya's waist. It's not an experimental kiss, or a gentle one—Midoriya leans into it, easily coaxing Kirishima's mouth open, and Shouto watches, hypnotized, as Midoriya turns it messy, dirty—tongue sliding across Kirishima's lips to slick them up, before biting him, catching Kirishima's lower lip and dragging it between his teeth before releasing it slowly. Kirishima's lip reddens, shiny, wet with spit.

"H-hey there," Kirishima breathes, but Midoriya is already moving, still smiling like he has all the power in the world—in that room, at that moment, he certainly does.

"Don't let him get away," he says, continuing his lesson, and Shouto realizes Midoriya is talking to him. When Midoriya pulls himself into the chair, to straddle Kirishima's lap, it's Shouto who squirms.

Shouto wonders if the demonstration loses some of its intended effect, given that Kirishima is looking at Midoriya like he would never even dream of running away. Shouto doesn't blame him. Midoriya slides his hands into Kirishima's hair, pushing the soft, loose strands behind his ears.

"Kacchan always tries to fight you," Midoriya says softly. He trails his hands from Kirishima's hair down his neck and shoulders. "He'll bite." He moves his hands lower and Kirishima's eyes flick down then back to his face as Midoriya runs them down over his chest, pushing him back securely into the chair. "He'll find all your weak spots, he'll try to make you give in, but you can't."

Shouto knows exactly what he's talking about. Every time Shouto starts to get the upper hand on Bakugou, the dirty tricks start. The aggressive touches, grabbing Shouto, coaxing him into moving too fast, until everything's crashing downhill and they can't stop, and then it's over. That little shit. Shouto wishes he'd just say what he wants.

But he isn't sure he wants Bakugou to concede that easily, either. That just wouldn't be Bakugou, not without this frankly dumb level of confrontation.

"So," Kirishima says, and his voice is so hoarse and raw it jolts right through Shouto. He's glad to see he's not the only one affected by Midoriya's hands-on lesson. "What's he supposed to do then?"

"He…" Midoriya licks his lips, and Kirishima's eyes drop to his mouth again, his lashes fluttering as Midoriya ducks his head closer. "He has to make Kacchan want it more than anything. Make him angry. And that's when he'll definitely let you have him."

At the last moment, he pulls back and kisses Kirishima on the forehead, the lesson concluded. They smile at each other, him and Kirishima, for a moment that goes on a second too long—before Kirishima closes his eyes and ruefully shakes his head.

Not for the first time, Shouto wonders why they aren't together. Then again, he's probably not in the best position to be questioning that, all things considered.

Midoriya slides off Kirishima's lap to stand in front of Shouto, who swallows hard. If Midoriya attempts any of that with him, he's going to find out about Shouto's awkwardly lingering crush incredibly quickly.

But Midoriya just gives him a big grin. "You'll be fine. With everything, I mean… you guys'll be fine."

Shouto looks at him gratefully. There is something else he's been wondering, though, something he's not sure is his place to ask. Especially not after Midoriya has helped him so much, but that's the biggest reason the question won't leave his head.

"Last thing… I think," he says, and Midoriya nods like Shouto could ask him twenty more last things and he'd still be fine with it. "You know him so well… so, why…"

And it seems like Midoriya has been waiting for this one. "Why didn't we stay together?"

Shouto nods. It's not just that he wonders about what happened, like he just wants the full story. He sees the way they look at each other, he knows they know each other, in every sense of the word. But it hadn't worked out. So what makes Shouto dumb enough to think it will work out for him instead?

"We think differently about a lot of things," Midoriya says. "We… I guess we both believe in different ways to achieve our goals. But he thinks I'm going about it wrong."

Shouto bristles. "Who is he to say that?"

Midoriya laughs. "He's Kacchan, isn't he? It doesn't mean I have to listen to him. But maybe he gets mad about things that don't concern him because he doesn't know what else to do."

Shouto shakes his head. Insufferable. Bakugou Katsuki is misguided, he's an ass, he has blatant anger management issues he clearly has no intention of addressing anytime soon. He's mad at Shouto because neither of them know how to say "Maybe I want you in my life for reasons beyond your dick", and actually, possibly, they are both being a bit insufferable here.

"It wasn't good for either of us to keep having that same fight," Midoriya says. "But I think the two of you… you're more similar than you realize. So, for now, I think you should just do what you want."

Shouto stares at him as Midoriya's words, an echo of Bakugou's, hit home. Bakugou is always doing what he wants, and he'd told Shouto to do the same—and Shouto is starting to learn that, whether or not he has a damn clue what that is, it's been turning out alright.

And maybe the whole damn point isn't knowing exactly what he wants, or worrying about whether or not it'll work out in the end. Maybe just trying and seeing where it gets him is enough.

Chapter Text

The day of the recital finally arrives, and Shouto feels ready.

Nervous, sure. A little hot in his fitted suit, and he can't get his hair to stay back, and his fingers feel more restless than usual—though he owes most of that to how much he can't wait to show what he's made of, how much he yearns to prove himself as standing apart on the stage. Not Todoroki, just Shouto.

There's one more thing he's wondering about, and he glances at his phone one last time before he drops it into his pocket and decides to let it be for now. The text message he sent the day before has still gone unanswered, but he's not really looking for a response to come buzzing in. It didn't require one, after all. It simply reads:

Yuuei Concert Hall. Saturday, 6:30 pm.

At half past five in the evening, Shouto is out the door and on his way to the concert hall himself. It's Midoriya's friend Iida who has come to pick him up, though Shouto supposes he can consider Iida his friend at this point, too. Iida is not much for partying or hard liquor, so in the early days of the semester, Shouto would usually catch a ride back home with him whenever things got too rowdy. Of course, Shouto had eventually started sticking around, but Iida had never admonished him for it, despite his tendency to worry after them all.

Iida seems quite at home in a nice suit—even more than Shouto does. Iida comes from a well-to-do family, and is enrolled and excelling at the school's opera program. Shouto isn't as familiar with the vocal side of opera as he is the instrumental, but he has tagged along with Midoriya to attend several of Iida's performances—Iida is intensely expressive, and very serious, and particularly good at the body movement aspects of the artform. Midoriya, ever the eclectic reinventor of vocal styles, is utterly in awe of him.

"Not worrying, are you?" Iida asks him, as they get near the concert hall.

Shouto starts to nod, then shakes his head, and then frowns. "Yes… and no? It's not nerves, exactly…" Nor is it quite anticipation, or excitement. "My stomach just feels all…" He waves his hands vaguely.

"Ah," Iida says knowingly, "hunger."

"No…" Shouto says, because he ate properly before leaving. Iida laughs.

"Not in the literal sense. In the metaphorical."

"What do you mean?" Shouto asks.

"I have always thought you seemed very driven," Iida says. "Not by grades or competitiveness, like most of us. It's something more personal than that."

"Everyone's reasons are personal," Shouto says.

"Well, yes," Iida agrees. "But your drive is directed inward, is it not? You want to prove who you are, not just what you can do. But first you've got to convince yourself."

Shouto blinks at him, stunned. He's never had it put that way before—never thought of it in those terms.

"Here we are," Iida says, as he pulls up in front of the hall to let Shouto out. "I'll see you inside."

Shouto takes a deep breath and opens his passenger side door. Before he gets out, he looks back at Iida.

"Thanks—"

"You've got nothing to prove to any of us," Iida tells him, and Shouto is halted again. "So… go show you what you're made of."

Shouto lifts his chin, breathes deeply, and smiles. "I will."

There's still a half hour left before his recital is to begin, so he heads to the green room. To his surprise, Yaoyorozu is already there when he arrives. After meeting so often at shows and crossing paths in their classes, they've become really close. She'd said yes immediately when he asked if she would accompany him on the piano for the pieces that require it.

"You didn't have to get here so early," he says sheepishly. "Now I'm the one who looks late."

"I wanted to make sure the hall was ready!" she insists, giving him a huge hug. He smiles into her shoulder. She's always like this, he's learned, overprepared, but he can't thank her enough.

"You're going to be amazing," she says. "I can't wait for people to hear this. Pass with flying colors."

"If you're saying that, then I guess I can feel reasonably confident in myself," he tells her, and means it. She's always honest.  

"I'm going to start laying out my music," she says. "Do you need anything?"

"I'm okay," he says. Then, "Actually, have you heard from—" He stops himself. He's trying not to dwell on this.

Momo taps her knuckles lightly on top of his head and he winces, admonished. "Don't you worry about that right now," she says. "I'll see you out there."

He nods, and she leaves with another reassuring squeeze to his arm.

Shouto has prepared forty minutes of music, with a five minute intermission. For now he can tune his instrument, practice, or just relax, both before the recital and during the break.

He sets his violin case on the table in front of him and cracks it open. His mother's violin rests inside—light antique varnish, Italian made, certainly no Stradivarius, but Shouto has never cared about that. The tones it produces are clear and natural to his ears, like icicles formed on evergreen. He takes it from his case and feels its familiar weight in his hand, before he begins to warm up.

As he runs through the familiar motions, he reflects back. It's somewhat amazing, that his first semester of university has now nearly come and gone. This recital is the last big push before the winter break. Shouto hasn't quite decided what he'll be doing when the semester ends. Going back home doesn't feel like the most appealing prospect.

His phone buzzes in his pocket and his hand snaps to it a little faster than he'd like to admit. He pulls it out to see Midoriya has texted him.

Glad we got here early! Front row is our territory now! ᕙ(*•̀ᗜ •́*)ᕗ

Shouto can't help but laugh at the joke, given he had only let Midoriya and a few of their other friends know about his recital time personally. It's standard for the school to post announcements, but Shouto has no other friends in the area, and Shouto's brothers and sister had agreed not to come and avoid attracting their father's attention, on the grounds that he send them a video recording. The recording in question will be taken by Kirishima, who agreed very enthusiastically; Shouto is still getting used to how nice it is to know the friends he has made are here to support him.

The thought reassures him as it comes time to leave the green room. He walks down the corridor, sees the piano and Momo waiting, sees the light of the stage at the end. The cacophony of voices is starting to hush, and he feels a momentary sense of confusion, disorientation. That isn't the sound of a few meager voices. That sounds more like…

He steps onto the stage, blinking through the brightness of the lights, to see that the entire hall is filled with people, from the front row to the back. It's the sound of a full room, quieting down to wait with bated breath for the performance to start.

He realizes immediately what's happened. Even trying to keep a low profile, word has gotten out about who he is, about when he's playing. All these people are here to see him perform, and that's fine—he supposes it's not a huge surprise. And he's played in front of larger audiences before.

Still, this time is different. This is his music, that he picked for himself, that he had approved by instructors and advisors, his first independent college recital. And all these people, whether they know it or not, are here to see him be himself for the very first time. He swallows, his grip tightening on his bow.

Suddenly, someone in the audience wolf whistles, and there's a whoop of, "Play it, sexy!" Shouto's eyes dart that direction and he catches sight of Mina and Kaminari, with twin grins on their faces. Shouto has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. Nobody would have ever dared do anything like that at any of the concerts he's played at before. Then there's the others, the other members of Heartbeat Reverberation, and the rest of his friends. Right in front of him, in the middle of the front row, sit Kirishima (who has set up an entire tripod for his camera) and Midoriya. They look fantastic in dressy clothes, but Midoriya has stuck with those damn red kicks of his. Shouto gives them the smallest smile, and they grin back. Kirishima flashes a thumbs up.

They're all there, all except…

Kirishima waves a hand subtly to get Shouto's attention. Without turning around, Midoriya sneakily points over his shoulder.

Shouto glances behind them, towards the back of the hall, and—oh. Oh, wow.

Bakugou came to see him after all.

He stands against the far back wall instead of sitting with everyone else, so Shouto wouldn't have been able to miss him, even if the others hadn't pointed him out. Shouto hasn't seen him in nearly three weeks, and it's like—like a hand punching right through his stomach to strike a match and ignite the kindling there.

He's wearing a fucking suit. It's not required that people dress well just for a freshman recital, and it's not like anyone would have stopped him from getting in without it—he didn't have to do it, but he's there in a black suit, thin black tie, pressed white shirt, dress shoes. He looks as good as he does in jeans, as good as he does naked, Shouto's mouth is dry just looking at him, and Bakugou is staring right back—and it's like the first time they ever saw each other, but their positions are reversed. Now Shouto is on display, and Bakugou is there just to see him. Because Shouto told him where to be.

That has to count for something, right?

Behind him, Momo clears her throat delicately. Shouto shakes himself like he's waking from a trance. He's still in front of a room full of people, and they're all still waiting for him to start playing.

He raises his violin and brings his bow up, poised over the instrument. Breathes, and rests his chin against the chinrest. The first notes ring out from the piano keys, and Shouto touches his bow to the strings, and begins.

The first piece he has picked begins very simply; solemnly. Every note plays like it has been written for that moment, the music deliberated over and carefully handpicked, to be played for that audience in the air of that silent and still auditorium.

And it is utterly silent. Some of the notes barely whisper through the space, but from the birth of each new sound to the dying threads they can be heard clear as a bell. Shouto closes his eyes and feels them, as easy as breathing. Even without seeing, he doesn't feel disconnected—he feels like he's reaching out, like he's pleading, with every sob of the strings.

He furrows his brow as he stirs the music faster, climbing and falling and stretching out from lilting jumps into long luxurious phrases that trickle off his fingertips as the piece starts to show a hint of the fire to come. It starts to get playfully tricky here, a little cheeky as it rises into the upper registers before dropping back down—he thrums a low note from the depths of the violin's sound, and the piano quavers, and together they both burst forth.

Shouto can't help but sway with this new rhythm, the true soul of the piece, hypnotizing, bow drawing over the strings in razor sharp motions as the song cuts forth, alluring and dangerous as it is sweet. Now his fingers truly get to dance, flying over the strings, high to low and back. It's dizzying, he feels giddy with exhilaration. He has had to practice his breathing for this piece rigorously and now it pays off, as ingrained in him as the written music, breathe in on this measure, out on this one, lest he get lightheaded.

The notes fly lightning quick, double back on themselves and then once that melody has been explored they change again; mellowing, slowing once more into a gentle rocking lullaby, dual notes harmonizing from his violin strings—and just when the lull seems almost complete, off they go, the song's motif rousing the audience with breathtaking unexpectedness, carrying them along with Shouto.

He repeats this refrain once more, but the now familiar notes climb to unexpected registers—a less skilled violinist might have drawn only screeches with the bow but for Shouto every note sounds with absolute clarity. The piano plays a phrase alone as if to let the audience catch their breath, but then Shouto joins it once more, the melody drawn out a little slower again as a contrast to what came before and what is coming next.

Now the song is ceaseless, the violin trilling through the high notes joyfully before it drops nearly under the piano playing the motif. The strings launch into a blistering, near frantic undercurrent of tones—faster and lighter and as precise as the beating of a hummingbird's wings.

Shouto's fingerwork here must be immaculate, so as not to muddy that terrifyingly fast section, like trying to find footing in a rushing river current. Here, in front of so many people, his pulse and heartbeat racing, he knows he won't falter—every single fingerfall on the strings, every plucked and bowed sound, he hits every note perfectly.

It's not like the explosive wall of noise of a rock concert. But as the piano drops away and he strikes the onrushing final notes from the violin, firing them forth with so much force that his hair flies back from his face, and the sweat gathered at his temples is flung from his brow, Shouto feels the power of the music rushing through him, pouring from his fingertips. He knows everyone who has come to watch will feel it, too.

And then the song is over.

Shouto gasps as the last high note soars forth and then mingles and fades in the stunned silence that follows the end of the piece. His eyes fly open—just as the audience erupts, into wild applause, unrestrained, so loud and boisterous it might be considered rude in most formal settings. Shouto breathes hard, overwhelmed by the reception. Those cheers aren't just for politeness's sake. In the front row, his friends are on their feet, unable to contain themselves. Kirishima's hands are in his hair, Midoriya is frantically dashing away tears. Shouto looks toward the back.

Bakugou is no longer leaning against the back wall. He's stepped forward, his hands clenched into fists at his side, and his mouth has literally fallen open. He looks… pissed off, actually—but Shouto recognizes that expression. It's the type of pissed Bakugou gets right before he gets too close to Shouto, shoves inside his space and up against him, always an unspoken challenge for Shouto to shove back, to take the upper hand.

Shouto wants to, wants to see how far that gets him. He keeps his eyes locked on Bakugou, as the cheering dies down, and he raises his violin once more.

Right before he begins to play again, he sees Bakugou's lips lift into something like a smile. For now, he'll have to wait—and keep his eyes on Shouto.

Shouto has one more piece to play before the short intermission; it flies by like a dream, and he's just as high on the feeling when he takes a short bow and retreats back to the green room to down a cup of water and wipe his sweaty face dry.

He's barely through the door, however, when it bursts open again behind him. He freezes with his cup of water halfway through his mouth and looks with wide eyes to where Bakugou stands glaring at him in the doorway.

"The hell did you do to your hair," Bakugou demands, slamming the door closed behind him. He stalks towards Shouto, who downs his water in one gulp and tosses the plastic cup onto the table as Bakugou approaches.

Shouto reaches for him and pulls him closer at the same time Bakugou grabs his tie and yanks. Their mouths meet so forcefully it's painful—Shouto thinks Bakugou's teeth may split his lip, and he hisses in pain but doesn't stop. He won't back down; he won't make this easy.

He grabs Bakugou around the waist and bodily hoists him into the air, and Bakugou doesn't quite gasp, but his body shocks all over as his feet leave the ground. His hands grip Shouto's shoulders as Shouto spins him to sit on the table behind them. Shouto steps between his legs, just like he wanted to that morning all those days ago, when he'd woken up with Bakugou in his kitchen and hadn't had enough time to appreciate it. He still doesn't have time—but he will later tonight.

"You look great in a suit," Shouto says, pulling Bakugou's hips toward the edge of the table so they're pressed flush together, and he can feel how warm Bakugou is through the fabric of his pants.

"Shut up," Bakugou tells him, but his voice is ragged already, and his hands are everywhere. "You shit. You didn't say you could play like that."

He tugs Shouto forward again, before giving up on the tie pulling and shoving indelicate fingers into Shouto's hair, totally destroying the carefully combed part. Shouto knows Bakugou wants to be kissed again—so he pulls back where Bakugou can't reach.

"I did say I'm not bad," Shouto says. He wants to keep Bakugou on the hook but it's too much, being this close to him, and not at least touching him. He ducks his head again and puts his mouth on Bakugou's neck, sucking at his skin above the collar of his suit. God, this fucking suit. Shouto wants to rip it off him.

"Not bad? That—you're—" Bakugou groans as Shouto sinks his teeth into his neck.

He can taste the faint hint of salty sweat on Bakugou's skin, and he wants to lick every inch of him. It's been too long, it's been way too long. He rolls his hips against Bakugou's and Bakugou wraps his legs around his waist—yes, fuck, Shouto wants to take him just like this, he's never wanted anything as bad. Bakugou fists a hand in his shirt and twists so hard Shouto thinks he might rip a button off.

"Fuck you, god, I want your stupid hands all over me—"

"Sorry," Shouto pants.

"Haah?"

"Intermission's just about over," Shouto says. They've got about a minute left. Bakugou's expression is murderous and wrecked—it's a good look on him. Shouto's not much better. His tux is completely rumpled, his hair is falling into his eyes, his lips feel sensitive and swollen. He touches the back of his hand to his bottom lip and wipes away a smear of blood.

"Can't believe you didn't call that whole time," Bakugou mutters.

"You've got a phone, too," Shouto says. Bakugou scoffs. "Are you still pissed?"

"I'm always pissed at you," Bakugou says. "Did you figure out whatever the hell it was you were angsting about?"

"Ah," Shouto says. He thinks back to the moment he saw Bakugou in the audience. "Yes."

"Well?"

Shouto leans close enough to say in his ear, "I want to be with you." Bakugou starts to turn, to stare at him, and Shouto catches his face in his palm to hold him still. "And tonight I'm going to fuck you." He hears Bakugou's sharp intake of breath.

"You been thinking about it?" Bakugou asks, and his voice is low velvet. Shouto's dick twitches in his slacks.

"Yeah."

"Tell me."

Shouto shivers. "Wanna hold you down and make you scream my name for once."

He feels Bakugou's slow exhale against the side of his face. Shouto needs to start calming down, now, before he goes back out on stage.

He pulls back and runs a hand hopelessly through his hair—it's still absolutely disheveled. Of course, Bakugou would find a way to leave a mark (or several) in under five minutes.

Bakugou reaches for his tie again, but this time instead of tugging on it, he makes a cursory attempt to fix it, tightening the knot. His hands are steady as he smooths them over Shouto's chest; but his voice isn't, not quite, when he says, "Yeah, I bet those fingers are real talented at other things besides violin."

He glances up at Shouto and Shouto kisses him one more time.

"I think I could play you pretty well, yeah," he says, with a smirk for good measure as he backs away from Bakugou to the door.

Bakugou flashes a grin that's nothing but teeth at him as he goes. "Your dick looks real nice in those pants, by the way."

Shouto flips him off as he leaves, and then spends the last minute before he goes back out on stage trying to adjust his pants and chase his hard on away through sheer force of will.

*

The rest of the recital flies by for Shouto after that. The music seems to come easier than ever, and there's the solid weight of Bakugou's gaze, pinning him in place throughout. Shouto can feel it on his skin.

It's inconsiderate, really—Bakugou showing up to watch, looking as good as that with Shouto unable to do anything about it for another few hours. But Bakugou wanted to hear him play, and he enjoyed it, and he might want Shouto the same way Shouto wants him—and that feels better than anything.

It just makes taking that final bow to a storm of cheers and applause all the more sweet, because it feels complete. Not just because he knows what's coming later, once they get back to his apartment (although he'd be lying if he said that wasn't part of it), but because all his friends came. Whether they admit it or not, Bakugou is a part of that for Shouto, now.

From having nothing like it, to having Midoriya jump out of his seat with excitement after Shouto finishes his final piece, inadvertently leading a standing ovation; Kirishima grabbing his camera to film the crowd before turning it back on Shouto; Bakugou watching from the back with a stare that screams possessive approval—when Shouto takes his final bow, he can't help but smile back at all of them.

There's supposed to be a reception afterwards, nothing fancy—just somewhere Shouto can thank the people who showed up. He had assumed this would be relatively straightforward, with just his close friends coming to watch. But the situation is now complicated by the sheer amount of people milling about the small reception room off to the side of the main hall, people Shouto has never met and similarly doesn't care to know. He's sure some of it comes down to curiosity, but that often goes hand in hand with the type of elbow rubbing that drives him up a wall. He's not intent on ending his night getting buttered up by social ladder climbers.

As he's putting his violin back in its case, however, the issue is solved for him. For the second time, the door to the green room bangs open without warning, and this time he turns to see Bakugou rushing in, again, only this time followed by Midoriya and Kirishima.

"Guys…?" he asks, caught off guard at their rather violent entry.

"You packed up?" Bakugou asks him.

"It's just my violin, so yeah—what—"

"Good," Midoriya says, "we're smuggling you out."

"What are you talking about?" Shouto asks, baffled, and they grin conspiratorially.

"Well, we figured," Kirishima says, gesturing at himself and the other two, "that you didn't really wanna be crowded by all these random people after your big night—which, totally awesome job, by the way—"

"You were amazing!" Midoriya chimes in. "I've never heard you play like that before!"

"Thanks," Shouto says. "A lot of it was knowing you guys were there." He looks right at Bakugou when he says this. Bakugou says "Tch," and glances away like he cares very little about the entire thing.

"Anyways, we're not letting you cap off your night getting smothered by a bunch of wannabes," Kirishima concludes. "We've got Kaminari and Iida giving a joint toast in the auditorium—a bunch of people have recognized Iida, too, so they're keeping them sufficiently distracted."

"Come on, come on," Midoriya says, grabbing Shouto's arm. Shouto snags his violin from the table, and lets them pull him out of the room, Midoriya pulling, Kirishima pushing on him from behind, the two of them giggling madly at their own antics while Bakugou brings up the rear.

"As soon as we pass the reception room, we're in the clear," Kirishima says. They sneak down the hallway like they're in a spy film—Shouto is fairly sure Midoriya is humming the Mission Impossible theme under his breath and feels like he might bust out into laughter himself. What are they doing?

The answer, of course, is being good friends. However, that doesn't necessarily make them stealthy good friends.

"Oh—isn't that Todoroki right there?" a voice gasps as they all pile past the doors. Heads turn, chair legs scrape back from tables as people see Shouto and the crowd starts to move that direction.

"Run, you morons," Bakugou says, and all four of them take off for the front doors.

"You remember," Midoriya asks Shouto, "what I told you?"

Shouto nods. He watches as Bakugou races for his bike, parked just outside, swinging a leg over the back as he hurries to get it started. "I'll give him a challenge."

Midoriya laughs. Before Shouto knows what's happening, Midoriya reaches out to rub his thumb against Shouto's bottom lip—where it's still a bit sore, after he'd kissed Bakugou a bit too forcefully.

"I feel like you probably already are," Midoriya says.

"Todoroki! Get your ass on here!" Bakugou hollers. "Stop distracting him, stupid Deku!" Midoriya just laughs.

"Thanks," Shouto tells him and Kirishima. People are starting to pour out of the front doors, now, just in time to see him jump on the back of the bike. Bakugou revs it a couple times, somewhat threateningly.

"I didn't bring the damn helmet," he says. "So hold on tight."

"You forgot it?" Shouto asks.

"No," Bakugou tells him. "Didn't expect you'd be leaving with me." He urges the bike forward, after that, and Shouto doesn't get a chance to respond before the wind whips his hair back, whistling past his ears.

"I don't mind not wearing the helmet," he calls to Bakugou over the noise.

"Can't hear you!"

Shouto leans forward and presses his nose to Bakugou's skin, where his hairs are soft and part so the nape of his neck becomes visible, above his collar. His smell is so strongly familiar there, and Shouto has missed it—really, really missed it. He's already got his arms around Bakugou's waist, but now he holds him tighter, sliding his hands over the white dress shirt Bakugou is wearing, to splay over his chest and stomach. The material is thin, and Shouto can feel the heat of his skin, even through the cotton.

He can see Bakugou's grin in profile, a knowing smirk stretched ear to ear—Shouto resents it as much as he loves it, because there's nothing to be so smug about. He wasn't trying to keep how he felt a secret anymore.

He knows that he better not distract Bakugou too much, because there's no helmet for him to wear, this time. But all in all, he thinks, as he tucks his head down against the wind and brushes his lips over the back of Bakugou's neck, that's not such a bad thing.

By the time they reach Shouto's apartment, that spot on Bakugou's neck is pink, which could be a blush, or could be because Shouto has been grazing his teeth across it gently for the duration of the bike ride. As soon as they get off the bike, Bakugou grabs him by the jacket and essentially hauls him to his front door, waiting impatiently for Shouto to unlock it.

As soon as it's open, Bakugou pushes him inside. But when Shouto closes it, Bakugou makes no further moves to do anything else. He just scrutinizes Shouto, eyes narrowed, like he's waiting for Shouto to do something, which isn't like him—Bakugou doesn't like to counter, he always wants to make the first move.

"Cold feet, suddenly?" Shouto asks. Sure enough, Bakugou rises to the bait.

"Yeah, right," he scoffs. "You're up to something, and I gotta work out what it is first."

"You didn't really seem to have much to work out during intermission," Shouto says.

Bakugou's glare is fierce, even as his face starts to go red. Out of anger? Embarrassment? Shouto isn't sure, but he enjoys it nonetheless.

"Shut the hell up," Bakugou says. "That was—I was just—"

"You were…" Shouto says, stepping closer to him.

Bakugou stands his ground. "I was working stuff out then, too."

"You don't really have to work anything out, you know," Shouto says, closing the gap between them, until they're standing toe to toe, face to face. "I could just tell you."

To his surprise, Bakugou cracks a grin. "Where's the fun in that?"

"Oh," Shouto says. Tentatively, he raises his hands, reaching out—Bakugou doesn't back away. "Then maybe we keep going, and you try to guess."

"Dammit, Todoroki," Bakugou rasps out, and then there's no more space between them, when Shouto takes Bakugou's face in his hands and kisses him—without the force required to split skin behind it this time, but no less deeply than before, and certainly no less desperate. Bakugou flings an arm around his shoulders and fists his other hand in Shouto's shirt, like he's trying to drag him closer, and Shouto splays his fingers over Bakugou's cheeks like he's trying to cover as much ground as he can, maybe make up for the time their pointless argument had lost.

"Did you really—mmph—" Shouto has to stop talking, because it's hard to talk while Bakugou attempts to kiss him, swipes his tongue over the little cut in Shouto's lip while removing Shouto's tie at the same time. Eventually, Bakugou works out the knot and rips it off, flinging it somewhere at random. "Did you really think I wouldn't leave with you if you came tonight?"

"Dunno," Bakugou mumbles, starting in on his shirt buttons. "I told you I don't want a thing, but I don't know what you want. I didn't know if we… if we were still…"

Shouto resists the urge to smash Bakugou to his chest, possibly to hug him, but maybe also to crush him slowly for being an idiot. "I told you I just needed time to think, didn't I?"

"Yeah, so, I was giving you time!" Bakugou says.

"Where the hell did I say I don't want to—to be around you, anymore?" Shouto asks. "Whether or not we're a thing?"

"I don't know!" Bakugou says. "Isn't that how it works?!"

"I don't know how it works!" Shouto says exasperatedly. "I've never done this before."

"Okay, well," Bakugou says, and then stops, brow furrowed angrily. Not at Shouto, though. He finishes unbuttoning Shouto's shirt, slides his hands inside it against Shouto's stomach, his ribs, staring intently all the while. "Neither have I."

This surprises Shouto. "You haven't? But you and Midoriya—"

"Deku and I weren't really—" Bakugou shakes his head. "I mean, you mix two disasters and it's bound to blow up at some point, so…"

"I don't know that that's entirely true," Shouto says. "And anyways, I'll… balance you out."

Bakugou's expression could cut glass. "Shouto. You're the biggest disaster."

"You definitely are not allowed to judge me," Shouto says.

Bakugou snorts. "Alright…" He reaches up and pushes at Shouto's tuxedo jacket, sliding it off his shoulders and down his arms. "I guess we'll just fuck this up together."

It's more than enough, to Shouto, that Bakugou is willing to try giving something a shot… no matter what the outcome might be.

"I'm all in favor of that," Shouto says, shrugging out of his jacket completely.

"Well, good—can we stop fucking talkin' then?" Bakugou demands, fingers dragging across Shouto's shoulders, and neck, and collarbones, and Shouto decides he's had enough of talking for the time being, too.

Bakugou laughs in his ear when Shouto lifts him again, finally leaving the entryway of the apartment as he carries Bakugou to the kitchen.

"What's your deal with picking me up all of a sudden?" he asks.

"Easier to put you where I want you," Shouto says.

Bakugou is indignant at that. "Oy, fuck you," he says, leaning back to glare at Shouto, "who says you get to just manhandle me however you—ah." His voice grinds to a surprised halt when Shouto unceremoniously dumps him on the kitchen counter and pushes his legs open to get between them.

It's not like before, in the green room, when everything had just sort of been happening. Now Shouto really knows what he wants—there's intent in his touch when he runs his hands up Bakugou's strong thighs over his slacks, before leaning in to kiss him again, slow and lingering.

He wants Bakugou there in front of him, in his kitchen, ready to stay the night and the next morning. It's not a forever—it's just one night. But Shouto is done with pretending like each time they fall asleep next to each other is just an accident. He thinks it's alright, to want to stay.

"You're wearing too many clothes," he tells Bakugou, hands climbing higher up his thighs, and Bakugou shifts his hips so removing them becomes infinitely easier.

"Could say the same for you, dumbass," Bakugou tells him. "Let me f-feel—nnngh, god—" His arms come up to wind around Shouto's neck, and his mouth falls open as Shouto rubs his palm over the front of his pants. "Don't mess around, you fucking prick. It's been too long."

It has been way too long. Shouto wants to give in, to shove his clothes off as fast as possible and drag Bakugou's hips against his and grind against him, make a mess of both of them right then and there. But that's exactly why he can't do it—if he's this desperate, then he knows Bakugou is, too. And he doesn't want tonight to be like any other night. He told Bakugou what he wants to do to him—and he knows Bakugou is all for the idea.

"I'm not messing around," Shouto says, as he slides Bakugou's pants down his hips to let them pool around his ankles. He purposefully ignores Bakugou's very visible hard on to skim his fingers up Bakugou's stomach, before brushing his thumbs over Bakugou's nipples through his dress shirt. They're starting to harden, and Shouto can see the outline of them, clearly visible. "I just want to make it good for you."

"Good for me?" Bakugou asks. "Or good for you? Seems like I remember you were the one who straight up jizzed his pants last time you touched my nipples."

"Yeah, well," Shouto says defensively, "you look really good when you react to it so strongly." He pinches Bakugou's nipples and Bakugou digs fingers into his arms and arches his back in one sharp motion, shaking. Shouto's mind goes a little more blank. "Mmm… like that…"

"I'm not tryin' to give a demonstration," Bakugou snaps, but the edge of his temper is dulled by the slurring of his voice, the way he pants breathlessly and trembles as Shouto plays with his chest. It's over his shirt and he's still helpless—he's fully hard in his underwear, and Shouto can see the fabric darkening where the head of his dick leaks into it. He rocks his hips at the edge of the countertop, like he's trying to get closer to Shouto, and Shouto shifts backwards so Bakugou has nothing, no friction on him at all. "Hurry up and decide what you're gonna do—"

"I told you," Shouto says, leaning his upper body closer, lips trailing over Bakugou's cheek. "I wanna take you, I want to fuck you—"

"Are you waiting for a fucking invitation?" Bakugou asks, then cries out as Shouto twists his fingers mercilessly. "Ah, shit—! I'm not—not going to beg you for it—"

Shouto mouths over Bakugou's earlobe, sucking it into his mouth to tongue the piercings, tasting metal and sweat. "I kinda want you to beg me for it, though," he says.

"You are such a—"

"Be right back," Shouto says suddenly, stepping away from him, and Bakugou practically hisses in anger. "Don't move."

He doesn't leave Bakugou alone for long, although it does take a minute of frantically rifling around in his desk to find what he's after. By the time he gets back to the kitchen, however, Bakugou already has his underwear shoved off and one hand wrapped around his cock so he can stroke himself greedily in Shouto's absence. With his other hand, he's shoved his shirt up high on his chest so he can rub his fingers over his chest, playing with his own nipple ring. Shouto nearly trips over his own feet at the sight of him.

"Fucking hell," he says.

Bakugou squints one eye open at him. "Get over here."

Shouto isn't superhuman, and he can't deny Bakugou everything or they'll never get anywhere, so he complies hastily.

"That better be lube," Bakugou says, once Shouto is situated again, hovering over him and drinking in the sight, of Bakugou slowly wrecking himself for Shouto.

"Yeah, and—" Shouto says, and shows him the condom he grabbed as well. Bakugou laughs.

"God, you're really all serious about this," he says, as Shouto fumbles with the cap on the lube.

"What else am I supposed to be?" Shouto asks. "I want to do this. I have for a long time, and I don't want to mess up with you." Bakugou doesn't reply, and Shouto looks up at him once he's finally got the damn bottle open, to see he's just staring. "What?"

Bakugou shakes his head. He reaches out and pulls Shouto closer, leaning back until his back hits the countertop and Shouto is bent fully over him. He spreads his legs slowly and Shouto braces one hand on the counter next to him.

"Let's see what those fingers can do, huh?" Bakugou breathes, and Shouto's nerves evaporate—he wants to find out what he can do to Bakugou, too.

He slides his slicked up fingers over Bakugou's cock, first—Shouto has barely even touched him here, and suddenly he needs to, needs to fill his hand with the hot length of Bakugou's dick as he pumps him far too slowly, squeezing him firmly all the way up, and down, and back again. Bakugou makes a sound at the back of his throat, sinfully low and appreciative, and Shouto ducks down to run his lips over where his disheveled shirt has exposed his skin, his black tie a limp mess at the hollow of his throat.

"You look so fucking good in this suit," Shouto says hoarsely. Looks good—tastes good when Shouto runs his tongue over his neck, bites Bakugou lightly; sounds good, when Shouto pulls his hand over the head of his cock, thumb swiping hard over the tip.

"I look good in everything," Bakugou says through his teeth.

"Mm-hm. But especially in this," Shouto murmurs. "You got all dressed up for me…"

"I—" Bakugou's words are lost as he rolls his hips into Shouto's touch and Shouto strokes him roughly, drawing another moan from him.

"You can't," Shouto continues, egging him on. "You can't deny it. This is for me. And I'm going to ruin you."

"T-try it," Bakugou pants. "You can't talk, you're wearing a fucking tux, holy fuck—I was gonna have to punch a wall if I didn't get my hands on you tonight."

"I thought you'd say I look pretentious," Shouto tells him.

"You do," Bakugou says, "that's why I'm going to wreck you—god, Shouto, get in me—"

Shouto slips his hand down and brushes his fingers over Bakugou's entrance, testing things out. Bakugou grunts and writhes, trying to get closer—Shouto wants to push in, wants to know what it feels like, but instead he keeps his touch feather light. He threads the fingers of his other hand through Bakugou's hair, hovering his mouth near Bakugou's lips.

"I meant it," he says. "I really do want you to beg me for it."

"T-tough," Bakugou says, but his voice is unsteady. "I know you wanna get your dick in me, I know you want me just as bad—"

Shouto moans softly and Bakugou lifts his head just to kiss him, to drink the sound directly from Shouto's lips. He knows Bakugou wants him, obviously, but hearing him essentially admit it out loud, even if it's to try and get a rise out of Shouto… He pushes forward just a bit, the tip of his middle finger sinking inside of Bakugou.

"Shit," he whispers, as Bakugou chokes out a whine beneath him. Shouto can't stop himself anymore, and Bakugou is no stranger to taking this—his finger slips in, slowly, as Bakugou spreads his thighs apart and huffs breath after breath and relaxes into it, into the feeling of Shouto opening him up a little bit at a time. "Tell me if I'm—if—"

"S'fine—" Bakugou mumbles, "you can add another."

"I haven't even—"

"Add. Another," Bakugou growls, and Shouto does, slipping a second finger in to join the first. Bakugou's mouth falls open, and his eyes slide shut. "Good."

For a moment, Shouto is frozen. He has two fingers up Bakugou's ass, and frankly, he had never envisioned getting this far, with anyone, let alone the human personification of sex itself. The buttons of Bakugou's shirt are straining where it's bunched up under his arms, his jacket dangles off of him, his tie lays shoved to the side and twisted on the counter. His underwear is still half dangling off one socked foot, and he looks so good that it's blowing Shouto's mind just to look at him, let alone take any kind of action. But Bakugou won't let him get away with that, of course. He opens his eyes halfway, lidded and hazy, and says,

"If you're trying to impress me, you're doing a piss poor job."

This gets Shouto moving, finally. He knows what he's supposed to do, so he just goes for it, almost on autopilot—scissoring his fingers open wide, which rewards him with a judder that runs through Bakugou's whole body, as he grinds his hips down into Shouto's hand. Shouto starts to work his fingers in and out, the pace getting faster, faster, as Bakugou relaxes even more around him. Shouto's cock aches in his pants, as he watches Bakugou, feels him and knows that soon, soon…

He adds a third finger and crooks them upward, rubbing inside of Bakugou, and Bakugou's back comes entirely off the counter as he moans shamelessly.

"That's what you need to be doing," he tells Shouto, "that, right there—"

Shouto doesn't want to give him too much too soon, yet, and he pulls back, but keeps tapping his fingers against it in a quick, staccato rhythm. The noise Bakugou makes is dangerously close to a sob.

"You fucking suck," he groans, a wild laugh pouring from his throat. "K-keep going—"

"The—the angle," Shouto says, "it's kinda hard to—"

"You wanna get behind me?" Bakugou asks.

Shouto swallows. "Y-yes." God, yes.

"Mmm…" Bakugou hums, so low and nearly sweet that it makes Shouto's toes curl. "Fuck yeah."

Bakugou maneuvers himself to face the other way, so his stomach and elbows are resting on the counter and he can brace his feet on the ground. The sight of his ass, flushed and shiny with lube, his jacket and shirt rucked up his back, degrades any resolve Shouto might have had left. He shoves his own pants and underwear down and steps up behind Bakugou, pressing his hard cock against Bakugou's ass, sliding it between his pink cheeks. He grabs Bakugou's hips so he can grind into him properly and Bakugou presses back into him, arching his spine in pleasure.

"Wanna be inside you," Shouto says.

"What the hell are you waiting for?" Bakugou asks. He has the gall to sound exasperated.

"I already told you…"

"I ain't gonna beg," Bakugou tells him. "I want you in me, you know I want you in me, so just—" He grabs the condom and rips the wrapper open. "Shouto, come on."

"Fuck," Shouto says, and then he's grabbing the condom, because it's true, isn't it? The point was to get here, to just have Bakugou tell him he wants it. To know that Bakugou wants it the same as Shouto does.

He barely manages to get the condom on with how slippery and shaky his hands are, but he rolls it on and then slicks his aching cock with more lube, a generous amount.

"I'm going t-to—" he says, and his voice isn't doing what it's supposed to, so he tries again. "Are you ready for me to—"

"I'm going to walk out if you don't stick it in me right now," Bakugou says.

Shouto grabs his hip with one hand and lines himself up with the other—and then presses himself in, pushes the head of his cock inside of Bakugou and keeps going, keeps penetrating into tight, wet heat.

Holy. Shit.

"Oh my—god—" Shouto chokes out. "Katsuki…"

"Do not—come yet," Bakugou orders. He sounds like he's fighting hard to keep his voice somewhat controlled.

"You feel so good," Shouto groans, not caring what he sounds like. Bakugou feels incredible, and Shouto wants him to know.

"Shouto," Bakugou says, and of course, now that Shouto is in him, he finally says it: "move, I need you to fuck me, please—"

It's a miracle that Shouto doesn't come on the first snap of his hips. He drags his cock out of Bakugou before slamming his hips back, burying himself inside Bakugou again. His hands grip Bakugou's hips so hard that he knows it must hurt, but Bakugou isn't complaining. He rocks back to meet Shouto, fingers scrabbling over the countertop, voice climbing with every moan. He's never bothered to be quiet during sex, but this time is something different, something more desperate. Like he can't help it, can't stop himself.

Shouto bends over him, his front pressed to Bakugou's back, pinning his chest against the counter. He stretches out his hand so he can grab Bakugou's and rolls his hips upward, and Bakugou cries out, completely gone with everything he's feeling, everything Shouto is making him feel. And it's Shouto's name he keeps saying every time Shouto fills him, again and again; Shouto's name he keeps moaning, and it sounds better than Shouto could have guessed, could have imagined.

"Oh, fuck yeah, fuck—that's it—" he gasps. "Shouto—Shouto, hit me again, right there—"

Shouto has never heard him sound this way. He's never heard Bakugou's voice so needy. "Katsuki—"

"I know—" Bakugou says, and now his words are little more than harsh sobs, stuttering every time Shouto rocks into him, "I know you want—ahh—you w-want me to like it. H-how's it feel to know I do?"

Shouto shoves a hand into his hair and fists it. "Tell me again."

"Nnngh…" Bakugou groans, guttural and wrecked. "Fuck yeah, your dick fits in me so nice—like you were made for this, Sh-Shouto."

Shouto hits his limit—it's too much, hearing Bakugou say that. Hearing Bakugou admit something like that to him; it's as much as saying Shouto belongs to him, in him.

"I'm—fuck, I'm gonna c—"

"Touch me," Bakugou orders, "make me come with you—"

Shouto manages, with one last great push of effort, to get his hand around Bakugou's cock. Bakugou pushes back, impaling himself on Shouto's dick one more time, before thrusting forward into his hand, chasing his pleasure using Shouto's body, and Shouto can't, he can't hold out any longer. He buries his face in Bakugou's back as he lets go and finally comes, inside Bakugou. If he's moaning, he can't hear it—his orgasm hits him in bone-deep, shuddering waves, long and painfully satisfying. They sweep through him head to toe and wring him out completely before they're done with him, crescendoing, fading, gone, leaving him little more than a ragdoll.

"Al… almost," Bakugou mumbles, his hand finding Shouto's, as he strokes himself off with Shouto slumped over him and buried inside him. He gets tight, muscles clenching, and Shouto shivers against him as he feels it all around his very sensitive cock when Bakugou comes over their fingers with a low, broken moan pouring from his lips. Shouto thinks he hears his name follow, soft and whispered, one last time, before Bakugou sags beneath him, spent.

"Do not try to wipe that off on me," Shouto says, accurately predicting Bakugou's next move.

"You gotta move, then, genius," Bakugou tells him. "I'm dripping everywhere."

"Gross," Shouto says.

He moves back and—oh, that feels strange, pulling out. He drags a roll of paper towels on the counter over for them to wipe up with, before peeling the condom off to toss it into the trash. The cleaning up, the catching their breath, the satisfied quiet afterwards… it's not that different from most of their other sexual encounters, even though it had been a bit more… intense. But all the same…

"Bakugou."

"Mmm?"

"Thanks for coming, tonight."

Bakugou twists around to face him, his expression blank. "Was that a fucking pun?" Shouto blinks at him, before they both start snorting with laughter.

"It wasn't supposed to be," Shouto says.

"Good, because it was fucking awful."

"I'm trying to be serious, here," Shouto says. "I was—when I saw you watching today, I just… I figured out a lot right then, I think."

Bakugou quirks an eyebrow at him. "You gonna enlighten me, finally?"

"Yeah," Shouto says. He takes a deep breath. "This doesn't have to be a thing. I like being around you—I like coming to your shows, I like watching you play. You're amazing. I don't think I've ever told you that upfront—you're a really amazing drummer."

Bakugou looks like Shouto has just suckerpunched him in the stomach. "Where the hell did all that come from—"

Shouto isn't done. "I like riding around on your bike," he continues, and Bakugou falls silent, staring at him. "Or drinking with you even when I have lectures the next day. I like falling asleep watching shitty movies with you. So this is what I've figured out." When Bakugou doesn't make a move to respond, Shouto tells him. "I like being around you, and I think you like being around me, too. And that means a lot to me, Katsuki, I can't help that. I mean—I'd like to be able to say that much, at least? I'm really glad you want to spend time with me."

Bakugou swallows. His eyes have gone very wide, and they're fixed on Shouto's. "And then, sometimes," he croaks, "we have really fucking good sex."

Shouto tilts his head. "Are you finally admitting I'm good in bed?" he asks.

"No. I'm obviously saying I'm good enough for both of us."

"Jackass."

"I dunno, Shouto," Bakugou says, "that all kinda sounds like it's a thing."

Shouto shrugs. "Maybe it is, maybe it isn't," he says. "Maybe it's not yet, but maybe it will be. Or maybe it is for me, already. Doesn't have to be for you."

"None of that made any goddamn sense," Bakugou says.

"I'm starting to think this stuff never really does," Shouto admits.

Bakugou huffs. He leans back against the counter and crosses his arms, and appears to be thinking. Shouto waits him out.

"Well," Bakugou says, finally, after what seems like much consideration. "I will say that I don't like the thought of you getting to have a thing without me."

Shouto bites back a smile. "What do you suggest, then?"

"I'm thinkin' about how best to resolve it," Bakugou says. Shouto leans forward to kiss him again, and tries not to feel too smug at how willingly Bakugou kisses back.

"Noted."

As it turns out, doing what he wants seems to be working out pretty well for him so far—at least when that something is Bakugou.

*

The morning Shouto is due to catch the train back home dawns chilly and grey. Winter has fully set in, and it makes it hard to shake himself out of sleep, when the bed and blankets and Bakugou are all so warm.

Bakugou still hasn't quite taken to cuddling, but neither does he sleep isolated to his side of the bed anymore. It's not rare for Shouto to wake up with a knee jammed into his kidneys, but sometimes he gets lucky and Bakugou settles for just draping a heavy arm across his back, or a leg thrown over his thighs. This morning is one of the lucky ones. Bakugou's leg is shoved between Shouto's knees and his head is wedged against Shouto's arm. He's still sleeping soundly, face slack and peaceful. Shouto doesn't want to wake him, but leaving is only going to get harder the longer he waits.

"Bakugou," he whispers, voice still hoarse from sleep. "We gotta get up."

Bakugou doesn't stir. Shouto calls his name again, and when that doesn't work, he puffs a breath of air right into Bakugou's face. Bakugou twitches, eyes opening and blinking, lip curling in a manner that suggests he is already annoyed despite only being half-awake for less than two seconds.

"No," he says.

He rolls over, jostling Shouto as much as is humanly possible, before shoving himself back against Shouto's chest so he can fall asleep again. Shouto blinks bemusedly at the shock of blond hair filling his vision.

"I don't think 'no' is really an option," he says.

"Coward," Bakugou says sleepily.

Shouto yanks the blankets entirely off of Bakugou, which proves to be an effective way of rousing him.

An hour and a half later, after a shared shower and breakfast, they're walking into the train station together. Bakugou, Shouto is learning, is not a fan of the cold. He's stuck close to Shouto's side since they left the apartment, seeking body heat even with his coat and scarf and gloves on. He didn't have to come, really. They said their goodbyes last night (very thoroughly), and Shouto will be back after the month is up for the second semester. He only has one suitcase to travel with plus his violin and backpack—cumbersome, but not impossible to manage. Still, he can't deny that it makes his stomach feel a bit warm that Bakugou helped him bring his stuff to the station to come see him off.

"Oh, there they are," Bakugou says, raising his hand. Shouto is about to ask who, when he sees them approaching—Midoriya and Kirishima, walking towards them from the other end of the station. They both look very cozy in sweatshirts and wool hats—Midoriya's dark hair curls up around the edges, and Kirishima hasn't bothered with the gel. Shouto hopes Bakugou goes with them, so he doesn't have to walk home alone in the cold. He glances sideways at Bakugou, just as Bakugou sneezes and sniffles loudly, and feels a powerful rush of melancholy.

For fuck's sake, he's only going to be gone a month.  They'll all survive.

"How'd you guys know what time I was leaving?" Shouto asks them as they get near enough.

"He texted us," Kirishima says, outing Bakugou immediately. Bakugou scowls.

"You asked, hair for brains," he says.

Kirishima grins, and doesn't deny it. "So, you're all set to go?"

"Yeah, it's the next train," Shouto says. The announcement board says it's due to arrive in two minutes.

"What are your plans for the break?" Midoriya asks.

"Practice my music," Shouto says. "Try to avoid my old man, the usual. What about you guys?"

"I'm staying here, actually," Midoriya says lightly. "With Kirishima."

"Yeah, you're missing out," Kirishima says, flashing a toothy grin at Shouto.

"Oh," Shouto says, and feels a distinct pang of jealousy. He hadn't known Midoriya was staying over break. It feels… more difficult, knowing the three of them will be together, without him. Which is ridiculous. It was like that before, and it's only a month, he reminds himself again.

The noise of the train arriving rushes towards them, and Shouto's hair is whipped by the passing wind as it pulls into the station. He steps aside to let the passengers disembarking off and the crowd files past him.

"Well…" he starts to say.

"If you wanted," Kirishima says, "you could stay here. You wouldn't even have to stay at the dorm, you could stay with Bakugou."

"I didn't decide until pretty much the last minute," Midoriya adds, "but maybe it would be fun to hang out over break if all four of us are in town…?"

The doors behind Shouto ding softly, a last warning for anyone still trying to get on. He looks between the three of them, and then at Bakugou. "This is why you texted them to come."

"I'm just sayin'." Bakugou shrugs nonchalantly and unconvincingly. "I think 'no' could be an option, here."

Shouto sighs, because he knows he's lost. He pulls his bag closer so it doesn't block the doors as they shut behind him—leaving him very much still on the platform, and missing his train that he has walked all the way to the train station specifically to catch.

"Why didn't you all do this before I dragged all my stuff to the station?" Shouto asks them. They are all wearing various expressions of triumph; Kirishima looks proud, Midoriya looks elated, and Bakugou looks self-satisfied.

"We thought the implications of leaving us would hit you harder if you were about to actually do it," Kirishima says, which is horribly right.

Midoriya punches his fist into the air. "Attack while his defenses are lowest!"

"You're all the worst," Shouto tells them, and means the opposite.

"Let's get all this shit back to my place," Bakugou says. The grin he directs at Shouto's luggage is slightly frightening, but Shouto knows at this point that it's just the expression Bakugou gets when he's winning at something.

"You just want a bed warmer," Shouto says.

"Yeah, and I got one," Bakugou agrees. "You ready to head home?"

It's not the home Shouto thought he'd be going back to today, but he's definitely more than ready. He shoves his side up against Bakugou's. Bakugou leans into him, now that he's been given the opportunity. "You're carrying the suitcase," Shouto tells him.

"Like hell I am."

"Oh, is it heavy?" Kirishima asks. "I got it!"

Bakugou shoves him away, grabbing the handle of Shouto's luggage himself. "Fuck off, you think it's too heavy for me?" Midoriya has to turn away so Bakugou won't notice him laughing.

Shouto smiles, watching them, as his decision starts to sink in. Fuck it, why go home if he doesn't need to? He wants to stay right here. And right now, what he wants—sex, music, and maybe-more-than friendships—that's what it's all about.