Chapter Text
***
Shouto’s toes are curling.
He can’t help it. He’s honestly trying, but the way his pants feel against his skin paired with uncomfortable seating makes his stomach churn and he’s rubbing his ankles against one another, tightening his fingers around his pencil as he rereads the question he’s supposed to be answering. The words aren’t making sense and he’s not sure what — he’s supposed to do, really. He isn’t sure why his brain isn’t connecting the dots or doing what it needs to do to grab the answer to the problem but it - isn’t. Doing anything — it isn’t doing anything but making his skin feel tight around his bones.
Shouto draws out another breath and it’s as unintentional as all the previous breaths. And just like the last time — he catches Midoriya’s glance out the corner of his eye, catches Yaoyorozu’s head tilt in silent question, well-intentioned concern; Shouto appreciates it — or, Shouto feels like he should. And he will later, probably, appreciate the concern, but right now, it only makes his insides curl more. His pencil sounds too loud when it falls from his fingers and taps against the desk and Aizawa glances up from where he’s seated at the quiet noise — doesn’t spare Shouto a second glance before he returns to his work.
Shouto doesn’t know what to do when - this happens. He doesn’t know what to do, he doesn’t know what to do and the lack of solution leads to more twisting and curling and Shouto is sinking his teeth into his bottom lip with a sharp breath, fingers scratching at the edge of his desk to physically stop everything that is intangible inside of him. (It isn’t really intangible, he knows that, he knows, and he wishes it were.) He feels like he is about to break, the skin at each of his sides is splitting and tearing themselves apart from each other and Shouto wants to run his hands over his thighs and push them together to stop the tearing, to stop himself from splitting in half.
“Are you alright?”
Shouto doesn’t jump at the voice - it sounds quiet and low next to him — maybe because it is, it’s whispered — and Shouto quietly clears his throat. He forces his hands to steady themselves, presses his palms against the hard surface of his desk, and glances at Yaoyorozu for half a second.
“I’m fine, yes.”
“Are … Is your stomach okay? It looks like you’re having stomach pains. You don’t need to go to Recovery Girl, do you?”
Shouto turns his head and tries to assure her with his stoicism. “No,” he says again, a sigh. “No, I’m fine. Thank you. These questions are just—”
“A bit challenging, aren’t they?” Yaoyorozu suddenly straightens up, frowning harder at the paper in front of her. “I’m struggling as well, but …”
“I’m sure you can do it.” Shouto’s eyes flicker to the clock against the wall, the steady ticking of it.
There are seventeen more minutes left of class. He — can’t. Shouto really can’t - he can’t do this. He can’t calm down, he can’t stop the churning and the agonizing twisting in his gut, the feeling of splitting. He digs his nails into his thighs, pressing his toes more insistently against the soles of his shoes, against the floor and he shifts against his seat as his breath gets caught in his throat.
He can’t do this. He can’t do this.
Shouto presses his thighs together tighter and grips his pencil again. He rereads the question he’s been working on and works his brain to answer it. He says each word in his mind twice and assigns a definition to the arranged letters, strings them with the next set of letters until he’s lost and the lines are jumbled and his mind is echoing with different words. His free hand is clawing into his thigh over the fabric of his uniform pants, pushing into a spot that makes him remember what he doesn’t want to (but feels like he needs to) and he drops his pencil again, his thighs pressing together even tighter as he shifts his hips.
He can’t. He can’t. He can’t.
Shouto digs the heel of his hand into his eye — his thoughts are successfully separated him from the work in front of him - from the written words and questions and what he is supposed to be solving, to toss him into the fire of his mind and his ears feel like they’ve been covered with large palms, palms as large as the ones he feels like are running over his legs. (The hands aren’t there, not really, not actually, Shouto knows this — maybe that’s the problem, though.)
(That is the problem. It’s been a problem for weeks.)
Shouto stumbles to his feet and Aizawa is immediately looking at him — and maybe, like ten other classmates. Shouto doesn't know, he doesn’t care. He can’t do this, he can’t focus.
“May I use the restroom?” His voice doesn’t sound like his and at the use of his voice, his face is heating. His eyes burn. “Please.”
Aizawa nods his head toward the door and Shouto rushes out of the classroom, hands pressed to his hot cheeks.
Nobody is in the bathroom when he gets there. Shouto pushes his way into a stall, locks it behind him, and falls back against the door.
He has a few options here.
Breathing through it and waiting it out always leaves his face hot and wet with tears. His thoughts get dangerous, but he doesn’t have to feel the shame that comes with giving in. Giving in comes with nausea and the disgusting thoughts and the feelings and he is faced with everything that makes him ruined, everything that has ruined him, faced what makes him repulsive and dirty.
Shouto runs his shaking fingers through his hair as he slides down the wall of the stall. He is trembling, his thoughts are going too fast and the tears are starting to well up.
He should just get it over with. He needs to go back to class — he can’t just sit here and cry himself a pity puddle.
Shouto doesn’t know why he’s fighting it so much — he’s done this before, he’s been disgusting, nothing has changed.
He hates how everything is associated with everything. How each thought his mind singles out is like the worst block of Jenga — the block that sends the entire tower falling over and crashing into him.
He’s going home today for the first time in weeks. He isn’t even sure how he feels about it — he doesn’t know what to feel. When he thinks about the nomu days ago and the way his father burned for the lives of others, something ugly starts in his chest and his toes and it only spreads to tingle under every inch of his body.
Shouto already knows Fuyumi and Natsuo won’t be there, they’re as disgusted at Endeavor as Shouto is, but for some reason Shouto keeps — Shouto clenches his fingers around the roots of his hair and presses the tips of them into his scalp. He doesn’t want to think, but he can’t stop his thoughts.
He wonders what’s going to happen when he walks through those doors. Shouto likes to think he knows, but it hasn’t happened in so long, even when Shouto’s been alone with his father in the same room.
For the past few months, his father hasn’t touched him.
He hardly even looks at Shouto all the way anymore. What is that even about? It isn’t like he hasn’t been able to. Plenty of times his father could’ve made it quick, get himself off with Shouto’s hand or mouth or something, and then pull himself together in ten minutes, he’s done it before—at times Shouto thinks his father prefers that instead of fucking—it wouldn’t be anything new.
(Shouto presses his thighs together tightly, shifting his hips up. He’d rather sit there and breathe through it, but he can’t. His nails are sinking into the inside of his thighs and his face is burning with the tears in his eyes because he feels so gross for this.)
But he hasn’t.
He’s — Shouto curls his toes as he thinks of the Nomu again. Of prominence burn, of what his father said to him in the yellow of the sun at the end of his Remedial Class weeks ago, of what he said at the Hero Billboards.
His father can’t be serious about any of that.
He should already know he doesn’t have to pretend for Shouto. Shouto has seen the worst parts of his father — he should know Shouto hates him regardless, there is nothing he can do to fix what he has broken, it’s impossible. It doesn’t matter, though. Shouto will see him later today and he’ll drop the act and everything will just go back to normal because his father’s never been able to pretend for long around him.
There is a flood in Shouto’s mind and he is drowning in his own thoughts as he gives him through the shame and squeezes himself between his legs. (He is disgusting.)
***
“Will you be alright in there?” Aizawa asks him as Shouto steps out of the car.
When Shouto looks at his teacher, he can count the lines under each of his eyes and tell which ends of his hair are split. Shouto wants to say that he should be focusing on himself instead of Shouto — a joke, maybe — but his stomach is clenched too tight, his mind is too busy. He physically can’t.
Instead, Shouto says, “I’ll be okay. Thank you.”
“Take as long as you need,” Aizawa says. He’s stepping out of the car with a small plastic bag - Shouto can’t tell what is inside of it. “I’ll be feeding the strays.” His teacher bends at his knees just as a gray cat pads over.
Shouto would rather be feeding strays right now.
Instead, he’s hit in the face with the smell of — home. It’s a strange combination of all things that make Shouto’s stomach twist and he can’t help the small tremble in his movements when he bends over to place down his shoes.
His father is already home.
He hears the steps and feels the presence as soon as he realizes it and he’s facing him the next second. It hasn’t been that long since they’ve seen each other in general — the last time was a few weeks ago at Remedial Courses. But it’s been a while since they’ve been alone — completely alone. He looks the same.
Almost the same.
“That’s a nasty scar.”
It’s also an ironic one.
Briefly, Shouto wonders if his father has any other scars. Scars on his hips or his thighs or the inside of his legs, or his waist—briefly, he wonders if they match in other places.
“I didn’t expect you to show up,” his father says. “Why did you come?”
Shouto doesn’t have an answer for that. He doesn’t even know why he showed up (he does)—there isn’t anything for him here, at “home” (there is)—especially without an invite from Fuyumi.
“You’re still alive,” Shouto says. “And Endeavor was amazing, taking down that Nomu. So.”
His father opens his mouth. And then he closes it. And then he opens it back up and Shouto wishes he’d just keep it shut. “I see. Is this…?”
Shouto squints. “Is this what?”
“I stand by what I’ve told you,” his father then says. “Is this - you starting to realize that?”
And when he steps in, Shouto steps back and he thinks this is where the night starts. The way his stomach clenches is familiar and somehow comforts his nerves. It drops, his gut, and he’s already breathing fast in panicked breaths. It hasn’t been this in months - but it feels — like home. For the first time in what feels like an eternity—with the way his father is looking at him, the way he is closing in on him, with the way his father is—
“I’m sorry.” His father takes a step back. Takes a deep breath. “I’ll keep my distance. I stand by — the path I’ve been aiming to walk down. Atoning for …”
Shouto thinks his heart is getting ready to explode out of his chest with the next single beat. His eyes are wide and he’s breathing fast as he digs his nails into his skin and stares back at his father.
Atoning.
That word feels traitorous to Shouto.
He wants to claw out his own skin. He’s going to.
It’s like he’s torn open his skin with a chipped block of ice — the melted water is freezing and it is burning his open wounds, his mangled skin is thumping and pulsating and throbbing and getting infected in the open air and Shouto will die from the bleed out before the thumping stops.
His father is trying to — atone. And he is serious about it. Shouto wonders … He wonders if his father truly believes he can atone for everything he’s done. He wonders how his father doesn’t feel sick as he stands across from Shouto and tells him he is trying his best to “atone.”
Shouto wonders why he seems so sincere.
Why his blue eyes are dull if described as blades, why they’re reflecting the light of the room, why the lines in his face are so deep and his lips are so gently pulled — he wonders why he isn’t just sinking his fingers into Shouto’s shoulders and taking what he wants from him like he’s always done. He wonders why he stopped.
It’s been that for years - and suddenly he is trying to atone.
“I don’t understand you,” Shouto tells him.
His father blinks and it’s a question. Shouto opens his mouth, but he closes it in the next second. He doesn’t know how to say what he wants to say without sounding like a desperate slut. Without sounding like he — wants it. Because he doesn't want it. He doesn’t. He never has.
“I—” Shouto shifts his own weight from one foot to the other and he breathes shakily past his tight lips. “Nevermind.”
“What do you want from me, Shouto?”
“I don’t want anything from you,” Shouto hisses. “I never have. I never wanted anything, I’ve never asked for anything.”
They both know what it means. And it isn’t even like his father gave him anything despite him not asking — he didn’t give him anything, he took and ruined Shouto because of it.
His father — he just stares at him.
That’s it. He stares at Shouto with those flat blue eyes that reflect in the light and those deep, somber lines in his face and Shouto is waiting for something that he realizes isn’t coming. (Because his father is atoning. It hasn’t happened in months because his father stands by his chosen path.) Shouto doesn’t want it to come. He doesn’t.
He doesn’t.
(He does. Just a little, Shouto does.)
(Not because he wants it — he doesn’t want it, he doesn’t, but because that’s how it’s supposed to go. That’s how things are. It’s always been that. But his father just stares.)
If his father wants to pretend, then Shouto will let him.
He can indulge in whatever fantasy he’d like to — that’s how it always goes, anyway. His father does what he wants and he indulges and Shouto can’t stop him from doing what he wants because he is so tiny and weak and powerless when it comes to his father.
Shouto turns on his heel. He makes quick strides to the kitchen. He isn’t hungry but he’ll eat something, anyway. He’ll eat dinner with his father and play into whatever family fantasy he has for the night before the real fantasies of his father begin. Like some kind of sick and twisted foreplay.
“Do you want me to—?”
“I can make it myself,” Shouto doesn’t let him finish before he gets started on his cold soba. His father eats something else - Shouto isn’t paying much attention to his meal. They sit in silence, eat in silence.
It’s like his father wants to make it clear that Shouto is the one calling the shots tonight. That’s not true, though. He isn’t actually in charge - that isn’t how this goes. At the end of everything, his father will take everything back and just make Shouto do what he wants and it won’t be a thing until it’s a thing again.
They finish their dinner in silence.
Shouto hesitates, stares at his father for an entire minute before he gets to his feet and heads toward the sink to wash his dish. His father follows him in silence and there it is again—that sick feeling dropping in the pit of his stomach. His hands are collecting sweat and his shoulders immediately tense when he feels his father’s large frame behind him. Shouto holds his breath and braces for the large hands that he is sure will settle on his waist — then a dish is dropped into the sink with the running water. Shouto’s exhale is rushed out when his father takes a step to the side, doesn’t spare him a glance before he turns to leave the room.
Leave the room. He — left?
He left.
The door shuts behind him and Shouto stares at it. It's shut and still and quiet. He doesn’t know what his father is playing at. Shouto wishes he’d just get whatever he has planned for the night over with because he has to return to the dorms in a bit. Shouto bites the inside of his cheek as he finishes up the dishes, his mind running in circles.
Whatever he is going to do can’t be that horrible. But — long build-ups mean just that. Going weeks without his father touching him used to mean—Shouto turns off the faucet and forces his nails into his palms. It used to mean long nights when his father finally caved in. Shouto doesn’t have time for a long night, though—
The door to the kitchen opens up again. His father trudges into the room and Shouto turns his head toward him.
“My teacher is waiting for me,” Shouto says quickly. “I can’t stay for long.”
It means make it quick. Get it over with. Do what you want to do to me so we can both move on with our lives.
“I understand that. Spoke to him outside,” his father nods and mindlessly scrolls through his phone. Shouto wonders what he is looking at. He wonders why his father isn’t looking at him. Why wouldn’t he be? His eyes are always on him. Instead, though, this time, when he does look at Shouto, it’s a half glance above his device. “You’re free to leave whenever … Thank … you for visiting, Shouto. It’s - appreciated.”
Shouto turns completely around to face his father with a slow blink.
There’s an unsteady silence going on between them.
He’s free to leave whenever. But that doesn’t make sense. His father hasn’t … Is he waiting to play some kind of chase with Shouto? Waiting for Shouto to try and rush by so he can grab him by the arm and pin him down like some aggressive game of tag - his father’s always loved catching Shouto when he ran. He’s always loved pushing his strength and superiority onto Shouto, always loved showing him—reminding him that his father always got what he wanted from Shouto and Shouto couldn’t do anything about it.
“Whatever,” Shouto says in response to the gratitude, grits his teeth as he runs his palms over his pants. He wishes they could just get it over with already.
Shouto takes slow and careful and rather rigid steps as he walks toward the door to leave. As he walks past his father. As he steps out of the kitchen.
As he steps out of the kitchen.
His father—is still in the kitchen.
Shouto turns around. His father’s done the same thing.
There — is something there in the look they share. The flicker of understanding in each of their eyes, the question Shouto has passed to his father and the hesitant answer his father has given with a weird stretch and pull of his lips. It - Shouto knows what it means but he doesn’t. Doesn’t — get it.
“Bye,” Shouto says, squinting a little.
Shouto takes a step back, his father’s eyes are watching him carefully. Shouto knows they follow him as he turns on his heel to walk out of the room. He doesn’t need to see his father’s eyes to know — he can feel them, he’s felt them for years, he knows what it’s like to have them on his body.
Except. They aren’t - there’s nothing being done about the staring. Because he makes it all the way to the door without being grabbed and pulled — without them playing that twisted game of tag Shouto had been forced to play for years. He slides into his shoes near the door and he’s opening it up to step outside without the ache and uneasiness and tremble in his step. He just - leaves.
The door shuts. Shouto’s outside, Aizawa is waiting for him near the car. It’s - there’s nothing else.
And once again, like he has for the past two months, Shouto is walking away from Endeavor, his father, without a single finger being laid on him.
***
Bakugou is in Gym Gamma when Shouto pushes through the doors.
It’s late, it’s after hours. Neither of them are supposed to be there. Shouto doesn’t really care what he’s doing there - he just needs to clear his head.
He chooses a spot far away from Bakugou—he doesn’t want to risk the chances of provoking him, which he seems to do a lot with his mere presence. Shouto usually doesn’t mind - it’s one of the things that make Bakugou Bakugou, a thing that makes it a little fun to be his friend (even if Bakugou says they aren’t)—but he can’t tonight. He has too much to think about, his mind is too busy, it’s going too fast and adding Bakugou on with his thoughts would give him a headache.
“The fuck do you think you’re doing?”
Ah. Of course. Even if Shouto pointedly avoids conflict, Bakugou will make it. Shouto stops in his steps and turns to face him. “I’m going to train.”
Baugou gives him a look. “You’re here. I’m here.”
“Okay?”
“You’re gonna train on your own. Like a fucking loser.”
“You were training on your own just before I walked in?”
“That’s not the fucking point! We’re not talking about me.”
Shouto tries to hold down his smile. “Oh. Sorry.”
“Are you gonna spar with me or not?”
Shouto really wishes he had the ability to say no to Bakugou. But there’s a kind of fire about him that draws Shouto to him. Like a moth to a flame—like a lot of the time, Shouto just can’t help it, and he’s moving to get into position and spar with Bakugou.
Watching Bakugou fight is extremely satisfying to Shouto. The way he moves is kind of like a performance. Big and purposeful, but somehow never exaggerated, never dramatic. Each big step is planned, thought out and he somehow does it like it’s second nature.
It distracts Shouto enough. He can’t think about everything that happened today because he’s too busy trying to figure out Bakugou’s next move. Bakugou is good for things like that, Shouto supposes.
He winces when Bakugou grabs his arm to yank him forward and aims his knee at his gut with another pop of a small explosion—and Shouto stumbles back, slapping a hand to his arm.
It burns.
Bakugou’s fingers - hands. He looks up at Bakugou with wide eyes.
Bakugou glares at him. “Fucking what.”
“Your hand—is hot?”
“Yeah.”
“Umm. I’ve never noticed it before. Why does that—?”
“My Quirk, idiot. The explosions? Of course they’re gonna be on fucking fire after the fact?”
On fire. On fire after the fact.
Shouto blinks at him. Bakugou’s hands burn. They’re large and rough and calloused and they burn. Like his father’s hands. Like his father’s large and rough and calloused hands—they burn and they’re hot against Shouto’s skin.
They could feel hot against his waist. Against his thighs and between his legs.
His father hasn’t touched him in months, he hardly even looks at Shouto.
But Bakugou. Bakugou is looking at him. Bakugou—could touch him. He could fuck him. And it could be the same, almost. A little.
“Why the fuck are you looking at me like that?” Bakugou shouts at him. He’s stomping toward Shouto and Shouto wants Bakugou to hit him.
Shouto rushes to his feet, a little off balance, and mumbles, “Sorry. You just caught me off guard.”
“Well pay fucking attention, then, IcyHot,” Bakugou pushes at his shoulders and Shouto allows himself to fall back—he grabs Bakugou’s shirt and tugs him down with him, onto the floor and Bakugou braces his hands on the floor, either sides of Shouto’s head. Shouto’s back hurts from the fall, his shoulders ache a little. “What the fuck is wrong with—”
Shouto kisses Bakugou. He needs this. He needs this—Bakugou can give him everything he needs.
Bakugou straddles Shouto to steady himself, yanks himself away from Shouto’s lips with a growl, he pushes Shouto back to the floor by his chest to stare at him with wide eyes and Shouto stares back, breathing hard, eyes just as wide.
Bakugou is - so large above him, on top of him. His legs are strong and hard over his waist, his frame—it isn’t as large as his father’s, not at all, but Shouto thinks it’s enough. This - this is enough to pretend. He wants to feel Bakugou against him. He wants Bakugou to burn him and hurt him and take what he wants from Shouto—he can have whatever he wants from him, Shouto will let him take it, he won’t do anything about it, he promises.
They’re still staring at each other.
And then Bakugou leans forward, and he kisses Shouto.
The kiss … The kiss isn’t sweet.
Shouto knew Bakugou wasn’t that kind of person and he’s so glad for it. Bakugou runs his fingers through Shouto’s hair, only to grip at his roots and tug and make Shouto’s scalp sting with the hot tips of his fingertips that comes from the fresh use of his Quirk. He bites at Shouto’s lips, pulls and tugs and pushes Shouto back so his head hits the floor, has it exploding with a pain that Shouto hasn’t felt in so, so long. Shouto whines as he claws at Bakugou’s side with one hand, uses his other to grab at his shirt, yanks him close—he needs this.
Bakugou’s kissing Shouto's neck, down and biting at his skin, pulling to mark him—Shouto hates it, but whatever, Bakugou can do what he wants, it doesn’t matter. He wants Bakugou to touch him and ruin him and hurt him because Shouto knows he can—Shouto knows Bakugou can get this right, that’s why this is happening in the first place. His hands are large enough, hot enough, his frame is large enough, his eyes are hard enough, piercing, they’re sharp and he can burn Shouto, he can hurt him, he can take whatever he needs from him and Shouto will let him - he’ll make sure he stays powerless and weak under Bakugou so Bakugou can use him however he sees fit.
And Bakugou—
“Fuck,” he breathes, hands over the fabric of Shouto’s pants, “can - can I fucking touch you?”
Shouto - hates that. He doesn’t—he hates that Bakugou is asking. He just wants Bakugou to take. He can take, he can have whatever he wants from Shouto, he can just take everything, Shouto wants him to take whatever he wants from him. He wants Bakugou to do it right.
“Don’t ask,” Shouto says. “Just - touch me. Do whatever you want to me, take whatever you want, it doesn’t matter. I can handle it.”
“That’s what you want—?”
Shouto groans. “Don’t ask, just do it—do whatever you want - just touch me.”
And Bakugou does.
His fingernails sink into Shouto’s hips from where his pants are a little pushed down and they sting. And then he’s pushing his bulge against Shouto to rut against him as he pins each of Shouto’s wrist to the floor beside Shouto’s head and kisses him again. The grip is tight and the small pops of explosions are hot against his skin — Shouto closes his eyes and pretends they’re flames curling around his arms.
He pretends the hands are larger and bigger, pretends Bakugou is bigger, pretends the groans and pants from Bakugou are rougher, deeper, more animalistic and predatory and terrifying. Shouto bucks his hips up for the friction and he almost sobs at the waves that rush through him.
He hates this. It feels so good. He wants it to stop. He’s missed this. He doesn’t want to do this.
He feels nauseous - but it’s so good—and then he’s cumming into his pants and his stomach rolls with waves of nausea as his body jerks. He’s going to throw up. He feels sick. Bakugou is still going - that’s perfect, he’s doing it exactly right, this is how it’s supposed to go. Shouto holds his breath and waits for Bakugou to finish, like he’s always done with his father. He feels like he’s being used and he feels filthy for it - his eyes sting and he tightens his face to hold in his tears. He wishes it hurt.
And then there is only breathing. Bakugou’s breaths are hot and fast against his skin, against his neck and his chest is directly against Shouto’s rising and falling hard and fast against him.
Shouto is - dizzy. He can’t think. He’s nauseous. He’s sure he is going to throw up. But that’s - that’s how this usually goes. The nausea is supposed to be there, he’s supposed to feel sick. Bakugou’s done it right. Just like Shouto knew he would—Bakugou’s done it perfectly. Maybe he’ll fuck him, next? Or—maybe he’ll have Shouto suck him before then. Whatever, Shouto doesn’t care - it all works for him.
Shouto shifts from beneath him just as Bakugou shifts — off of him.
He shifts off.
Are they done? They can’t be done. It’s never over this quickly. But Bakugou is on his feet. He’s digging the heel of his palms into his eyes, taking big breaths. He throws a look over his shoulders - a scowl. And then he’s walking away.
Shouto makes a noise of strain when he sits himself up to sit on his legs. He’s sticky in his pants. His father would laugh at him for that. “You’re not going to fuck me?”
Bakugou stops. He doesn’t turn all the way around, only looks over his shoulder. He isn’t glaring anymore (Shouto hates that, he wonders why), and his voice is soft when he speaks (he wishes it were filled with more disgust and hatred), “Didn’t know if you wanted to go that far.”
Shouto holds in a scoff. It doesn’t matter how far Shouto wants to go—what he wants to do. He can take it, he will take it. It’s just what he does. Shouto gets to his feet and feels everything rushing in. The uneasiness and the tremble in his movements. He doesn’t know how disgusting this makes him—taking what he needed from Bakugou and wanting more. (He usually gets more. He thought Bakugou would get that right.)
“You should’ve fucked me anyways,” Shouto says. It’s what his father would have done.
This time, Bakugou scoffs. It’s more in amusement, though, Shouto’s eyes are trained on the quirk at the corner of his lips. “You tellin’ me you always want it?”
“I do.” It’s embarrassing and disgusting, but Shouto does. His father used to tell him that and Shouto — as much as he tried denying it, his body said otherwise. He’s ruined in that way, he can’t help it. It’s gross, whatever, there’s nothing he can do about being a whore. “I always want it. So next time, just fuck me. It doesn’t matter.”
He sounds desperate. He sounds like —
“Didn’t know you were such a fucking slut, Halfie”—that makes Shouto ache in two different areas because it’s exactly right, Bakugou got it right, his father used to say it all the time—“my bad. What the fuck ever. I’ll keep that in mind.” It sounds like a mock with the sneer Bakugou spits it through and Shouto desperately hopes he means it as he stomps his way out of the gym.
It’s so quiet when the door slams.
Shouto stands in silence for a bit. He’s still gross in his pants. His face is flush, hair is damp against his cheeks.
He’s disgusting. He’s a slut. He hates himself. He wishes that never happened. He hated it. He wants to hide under his blankets forever. He never wants to be touched again. He never wants to show skin again. He hates everything.
And then Shouto is dragging himself out of Gym Gamma because he desperately needs a shower. He feels filthy all over, there’s a kind of invisible muck attached to his skin, a grime down his neck and his back and everywhere Bakugou touched. He just feels filthy and used and by the time he’s in the bathrooms to take a shower—he’s rushing into a stall to throw up. It’s a familiar routine, bracing his arms on the seat of a toilet, his stomach twisting as he repeats everything that happened with Bakugou. His stomach lurches everytime he thinks about it. It’s too familiar for Shouto’s comfort. It’s gross. He feels so gross. He feels dirty. He wants to take a shower.
Shouto doesn’t even know why he did that with Bakugou. He didn’t even want to - not actually. It felt right in the moment — but he wasn’t even there with Bakugou. Not all the way. He was just thinking of - all the wrong things. It felt good, but it didn’t. He hates himself. He doesn’t know why he did that. He needs to take a shower.
Shouto shakily flushes the toilet and lifts himself from his knees to get into one of the shower stalls. He’s going to make the water burn. He wonders what Bakugou was thinking of while he was with him. Bakugou isn’t fucked up like Shouto, so it was probably something different. Or maybe—he was pretending that Shouto was someone else, too. That makes sense.
Shouto feels too nauseous to stand in the shower, so he sits with his knees pulled to his chest, arms wrapped around his legs. He feels disgusting. He can’t shake the feeling. And his face burns, not with the heat of the water. He tries to keep his lips shut tight when he cries. He always does after the fact, and he doesn’t even know why anymore. Crying doesn’t fix or solve anything and it only makes him feel more pathetic and small in the end. Bakugou asked Shouto if he could touch him - he made sure and Shouto said he wanted it—he initiated it, he acted like a slut all on his own without prompt and he still couldn’t handle it. Shouto buries his face in his knees and his shoulders violently tremble when he begins to sob under the hot water, fingers dragging up the sides of his legs to cut himself with his nails because he hates everything about today. He wants it to be tomorrow already. He wants to forget about everything. He hates it so much.
The worst part about all of this, is he knows he’s going to be under Bakugou again. He knows he’s going to be tugging at Bakugou’s shirt again, begging to be fucked like some kind of desperate bitch because he feels the same way he’d feel after a night with his father and that’s why he did it in the first place. Because his father won’t touch him anymore, but Bakugou will.
Bakugou got it right. He is everything Shouto needs right now and Shouto doesn’t know if that’s a good or bad thing.
(In the end, he realizes he doesn’t care either way. It doesn’t matter. He’ll take what he can get.)