Thread by @writinglory

knew you’d linger like a tattoo kiss 💫

#shinkami commission for @/ryder_addy! thank u again for being the absolute sweetest

cw // nsfw , alcohol , semi-public , jealous shin , mirror sex , spit as lube , angst with a smutty resolution

rts + qrts mean the world 💖

(this whole thread will be posted tonight, but the copying and pasting is going to take a little while... please bear with me!)

💫 🥃 💫

Denki is at the climax of the fun little anecdote he likes to spin on fresh meat at the bar when a glacial, reverberating chill stirs the air.

He doesn't notice at first, excitable as ever about the prospect of getting laid, and is all too happy to continue on with his story.

"Okay, so then this guy sneezes, right? And I'm fucking /caked over/ in this shit—sticky, bright pink ectoplasm jizz-stuff all up in my nose—my partner, too. You know him. Cellophane?"

The hunk of beef on the neighboring barstool nods cooly, then smirks when Denki's amicable pat to his bicep becomes a squeeze.

"So we're staring at each other, all three of us, and Sero starts shaking so hard I /know/ he's just trying not to lose it."

Denki laughs to himself as the scene unfolds like a cut from a blooper reel inside his head.

"But me? I'm in like, full-blown shock, pun intended. This stuff starts trickling down the back of my throat. You know when you have a cold, and—never mind, not important."

Sipping off the foam of his beer, the other patron blinks at Denki curiously.

"Moral of the story is that even though I do /not/ have a gag reflex..." he throws a wink towards his company for dramatic effect, "I started to dry heave /so fucking hard/ that my quirk went absolutely haywire.

We're talking a million volts of pure electricity straight to this villain's head. You could see his skeleton right through his skin, just like in those old cartoons."

"Oh my god."

"Yeah," Denki grins proudly, then finishes off his third cuba libre of the night in one swig. "So that's how we rounded up the Shibuya Slasher... /and/ rendered him fully bald at the ripe age of thirty."

Denki's prospect—every oversized, bearded inch of him—is still for a moment.

It's that dreaded dead space, the tipping point where he finds out if the last forty minutes spent trying to woo this guy were in vain, or if his asshole is going to get the proper stretching it deserves after yet another week of pulling overtime at the agency.

The muscles beneath his palm tense up.

Denki's whole body mirrors it, but the tension's released not a millisecond later as the bear-man explodes into roaring laughter.

Success!

Denki’s cheeks glow pink with his smile, and all is right with the world.

"So wait, wait," the guy says, voice like melted butter against the raucous, neon backdrop of the club. "You're saying the fucking /Shibuya Slasher/ had a... hell, I'm not even sure what to call it."

"A mucus quirk."

"A /mucus quirk/. The whole time? While he was going around—"

Denki interrupts him, not caring to relive the gruesome horrors that serial killer had inflicted sans-superpowers while trying to maintain that low, simmering arousal he wears like glitter under the bar lights.

"Hero work isn't always so glamorous."

"No, but you are."

A warm, tree-trunk thigh slots between Denki's, suit pant material slipping against the fabric of his shredded-up jeans.

Their glasses clink together as the guy addresses him professionally, deep and sultry in a way that makes Denki want to bend himself over the stools right then and there.

"/Chargebolt/."

"Kaminari is fine."

He picks up his glass and swirls the ice around as an idea worms its way into his head—no, pants. He's thinking with several body parts at once.

"Buy me another drink, and I just might let you call me Denki."

The corner of that bearded mouth twitches.

"I always knew you would be smoother in person."

Denki chokes back a retort.

That one… kinda stings. Backhanded compliments don't really do it for him.

And they were doing so well up until now. Denki wouldn't say he's picky with his pulls, but he's trying to get /dicked down/—not /looked down/ on.

He’d just go hang out with Bakugou if that was the end goal here.

"I'm Tsukauchi, by the way."

Record scratch.

"Sorry, /what/?"

"Tsu-ka-uchi," he pronounces with greater clarity, as if Denki hadn't heard him over the bass-heavy background noise.

Oh no, he heard him alright.

Same name as the hot cop who used to hang around UA that Denki had an entire gay crisis over. Got it.

Someone must have left the back door open, because a sudden, full-body blush is startlingly hot compared to the chill that crawls down the back of Denki’s neck.

Right. Okay.

Backhanded compliment from someone synonymous with a sexy, older authority figure from Denki’s youth?

Suddenly, he’s more than willing to overlook this guy’s headassery.

He bites his lip and returns his glass to the bar, settling right back into his coquettish skin.

"Shot of tequila, please."

"Sure thing, gorgeous."

Tsukauchi's rum-colored eyes glisten as he flashes a smile and waves down the bartender. Denki watches him carefully, every movement from the stretch of t-shirt over his chest to the slight crinkle of his nose as the DJ starts up a remix of an old disco song.

Denki is about to rib him for his taste in club music when Tsukauchi's grin suddenly drops and his entire posture flinches, knee jerking away from between Denki's as another draft glances over his wrist.

It’s almost like a real touch ghosting his bare flesh, or a pair of frighteningly studious eyes perusing him.

"Hey, do you have a boyfriend or something?" Tsukauchi demands, incredulous.

What?

"Um, no? I already told you I'm here alone." Huffing a laugh, Denki attempts to mask his own offense. Just because he likes it dirty doesn't mean he plays that way. "Sorta the whole point of this thing, isn't it?"

Tsukauchi narrows his eyes, but he's not looking at Denki, instead staring down something approximately three feet behind him and to the left.

"Kaminari, I think you have a stalker," he says darkly. "I'd be happy to get security involved."

"Sorry, /what/—?"

"I'm no expert, but why else would a stranger be glaring at us like he wants to eat me alive?"

Okay, Denki has to see what all the fuss is about before this entire operation falls to pieces.

Inside, a generous part of him is hoping Tsukauchi's got his cards mixed up and they can go back to laughing and drinking and comparing arm muscles like nothing ever happened.

Denki loves his weird little fanbase, but there's a time and a place for signing autographs, and while he's attempting to get fucked at the club on a Saturday night is most certainly Not It.

Jealousy is a cruel bastard. Luckily, Denki has a talent for de-escalating most situations with a well timed wink and a smile.

So he pivots on his stool, arms himself, and hopes he can diffuse whatever this is before the bartender is back with his shot.

This is very much not the case.

Those were /definitely/ eyes on him before. Eyes that are palpably cold and ringed like Saturn and far too calculating for their own good. Slow-shifting, deep velvet purple, angry twin seas that Denki is tossed into without a lifeboat.

And so, /so/ achingly familiar.

"Shinsou," Denki breathes.

His former classmate makes a sound between a grunt and a growl, averting his gaze as he downs what looks like whiskey in one gulp. Denki can’t help but track the bob of his slightly scruffy throat, mouth agape.

They've had a sort of here-and-there relationship since high school. They work in the same prefecture, of course, but aside from showing up at the same parties and getting roped into the occasional joint debrief for a team-up, chance meetings are like unicorns.

They might have stayed close, but any hope for a lasting connection went out the window as soon as Denki turned down Shinsou's offer to become roommates after graduation.

Shinsou even had the apartment picked out beforehand—something cramped and low budget that Denki would’ve had an absolute field day decorating—but he’s an idiot who valued their friendship too fiercely to accept.

And now that friendship is practically nonexistent, melted away into nothing like an early spring snow that was never meant to stick by design.

Fuck.

It wasn't that Denki didn't /want/ to live together. Actually, it was on his mind for months before Shinsou decided to take the plunge by texting him a link to the real estate listing,

along with a sweet little "Thoughts? 💜" that Denki still hasn't cleaned out of his inbox all these years later.

Shinsou wears his heart on his sleeve, so open and in your face with his emotions that most people look right past them because they're trying to read too much into his personality.

But Denki always knew his crush was there, had a nagging one of his own to match, and that's the very reason he had to decline.

Had they moved in together, and had the tension boiled over into something beautiful and fragile that would hurt too damn much if it broke, Denki would be absolutely shattered. Would lose his best friend in the entire world and have no earthly idea how to cope.

Is what they are now any better?

Denki really couldn’t say.

At his core, he's still a coward. No matter how many daring rescues or expensive photoshoots or medals of honor cross his hands, deep down he's the same, awkward teenager who was always too afraid to take risks.

There's nothing wrong with playing it safe sometimes, is there?

The way Shinsou won't even /look/ at Denki now that he's got his attention says otherwise.

He'll try to play this one cool. For old time's sake.

"Uh, hey. What brings you here?" he asks, arms crossed over his chest as if to conceal his frantic, fluttering heart.

Shinsou, by contrast, isn't trying to hide himself one bit.

He looks fresh off of work, black leather pants sticking to his legs like wet paint, tucked into bulky, scuffed-up combat boots that barely fit on the rung of his barstool.

He's still wearing the fishnet undershirt that goes with his hero costume, strings of violet mesh criss-crossing over a lightly furred chest and spiderwebbing all the way down to his hands, where the sleeves extend into built-in fingerless gloves.

It's a good look on him. /Really/ good. Jesus, Denki’s feeling parched.

Shinsou clears his throat (probably sore, poor thing) as he draws circles out of condensation on the bar, interlinking them like sections of a venn diagram.

He's got this... /emptiness/ about him, an air of complete indifference to match the arctic energy he'd strung along into the club, and honestly, it’s starting to piss Denki off.

Who cares if his stupid voice is sore? Not Denki. Not if Shinsou isn’t going to give him the time of day.

But why bother plopping down next to him in the first place?

/Boyfriend/, Tsukauchi’s subterranean timbre echoes around in Denki’s brain.

Boy. Friend.

Shinsou is only one of those things. Just another lonely boy at the bar.

“Same thing as you, I suppose.”

Oh.

Oh /shit/.

Denki instantly wishes Shinsou had kept on ignoring him, because Tsukauchi’s voice has got /nothing/ on that dangerous, quirk-laced sorcery.

He scrambles to recover, praying to the party gods that he isn’t visibly sweating off his eyeliner.

“Yeah? And what is it you think I’m doing?”

Shinsou’s cheek twitches in an almost-smirk, as if he’s about to start teasing, but the dimple disappears just as quickly as it arrives. In a blink.

Shrugging off the question, Shinsou stares resolutely at his reflection in the glass.

Denki exhales, just shy of literally /fuming/.

Shinsou’s moods have always been volatile, but Denki never had the misfortune of bearing the brunt of one on his own.

They don’t talk much at all these days, aside from courteous hellos at city events or the odd drunk text that Denki still wallows in shame about initiating, but what the hell would have done /tonight/ to make Shinsou so furious with him?

Tsukauchi makes a sound of annoyance at his back.

“What the fuck is this guy’s problem?” he barks, devoid of any kindness.

“Trust me, I’m wondering the same thing.”

Denki sighs and casts a small smile over his shoulder in hopes of placating him.

“Just give me a second, okay? It’s totally fine, I know him.”

“Yeah, but—“

“He’s harmless, Tsukauchi, really.”

As he lies through his teeth, Denki pointedly ignores the snide click of Shinsou’s tongue at his other side.

Tsukauchi deflates, but the bartender’s timing is impeccable. He sets down a shot glass and a beer, and Tsukauchi reaches for his drink immediately.

Well, at least now he has something to keep him occupied.

“Fine, but I’m here if you need me,” he says before bringing the glass to his lips.

Denki smirks as he imagines a bearded knight in shining armor carrying him off into the sunset, bridal-style. Damn, he might really like this guy for more than just appearances.

He needs to get this Shinsou mess sorted before he starts acting a complete fool in front of him.

“Is there something you want from me?” he demands, keen on not wasting any more time as he whirls on the purple flame from his past.

Said flame is watching him intently, as if Denki is finally worthy of his eyes again now that Tsukauchi has turned away.

It’s presumptuous. Arrogant. Alarmingly fucking /sexy/.

White-hot arousal settles down below Denki’s stomach, far stronger than anything else he’s felt tonight.

/Damn him/. Damn Shinsou for being so—

“You tell me.”

—so /infuriating/.

Denki isn’t here to play mind games. He’s not above electrifying the whole bar if Shinsou doesn’t start acting civil. Even the bare minimum of acting /normal/ would be acceptable at this point.

Fuck it.

If getting bitchy with it will earn Denki some answers, then that’s what he’ll happily do.

He squares his jaw, reveling in the taut pull of a trademark choker against his throat.

“/Hey/. Are you gonna talk to me like a fucking human being or not?”

The words /should/ sit heavily on the atmosphere with how much salt Denki pours into them, but Shinsou simply blows it all away with a single roll of his eyes. Petals on a fucking dandelion.

“Just forget about me, Denks,” he says, lazy like wax dripping down the side of a hot candle. “You seem to have a talent for that anyway, don’t you?”

And just like that, any lingering sparks of desire for this dickhead fizzle out, replaced with something dark and unkind.

It’s a gaping bottomless pit inside his chest—a swirling chasm of regret and pure embarrassment that eats at him with razor-sharp teeth.

He shrinks inward, swivels on his stool, and waves Shinsou off as nonchalantly as his body allows.

Denki came out to have a good time, not to be chalked up to a small and insignificant presence by his old crush.

(That’s the worst part of this, isn’t it?

That the crush still has a pulse, no matter how hard Denki tries to shove it into permasleep.)

Shinsou doesn’t seem in a hurry to leave, so Denki resolves to ignore him as best as he can, starting with knocking back his shot of tequila. No chaser.

“God, that’s better,” he murmurs, savoring the burn of liquor all the way down his chest as it fills up that dark, hopeless space.

Tsukauchi offers a soft grin and spreads one of those big bear paws over Denki’s thigh. It pulls him into his flirtatious mindset pretty easily.

/Shit, that’s nice/.

“Welcome back.”

“Yeah, thanks,” Denki giggles, feels frost blooming up his spine and shakes it off. “Where were we?”

💫 🥃 💫

(tbc to give my fingers a rest, brb)

the top

https://twitter.com/writinglory/status/1459683499733049347

The next hour passes in somewhat of a blur. Denki is careful not to get himself drunk, but the ever-darkening mood of the club is getting him into a certain headspace that makes time fly and his inhibitions loose.

He and Tsukauchi have spent the better part of the last hour getting further acquainted. Denki learns he’s a big-shot accountant with a speed-writing quirk that he happily demonstrates using a crumpled napkin.

He’s a gym rat, and a bookworm, and he has a pet chameleon and a kid from his previous marriage. He’s a lovely person all around, and even though some of his comments seem egotistical, Denki doesn’t believe he’s doing it on purpose.

When all is said and done, he’s an excellent deviation from Denki’s usual taste in the more grungy types who look like they haven’t slept for seven weeks straight.

Or maybe that’s just Shinsou.

Denki would like to think he’s doing a good job of brushing him off, but the friendlier he gets with Tsukauchi, the more acutely he can feel that ice-cold gaze skimming all over the back of his person.

It’s annoying at first, but then Denki decides playing into his petty side is worth a second shot, and it quickly becomes a delightful game of how viscerally he can get Shinsou to react.

He starts small—touching Tsukauchi outright earns subtle creaking sounds where Shinsou is surely shifting around uncomfortably on his stool.

Then, he takes care to pepper in blatantly sexual innuendos, trying to indicate as plainly as possible that he’s more than ready to be taken home at any time (which he is, Shinsou can fuck right off about it, and those angry little chuffs aren’t earning him any sympathy points).

And then there’s the real kicker, which happens when the DJ switches over to a favorite lo-fi beat from Denki’s sex playlist that /really/ makes him want to move his hips.

So he does. Filthily and without abandon, right into Tsukauchi’s lap.

“See something you like?” he purrs, circling his hips around as well as he can without completely toppling the stool. Those thick thighs are warm between his legs, driving Denki a little bit crazy.

The sound of a glass slamming onto the counter from behind rings out like victory bells. Denki bites his lip and grins.

“Oh, definitely,” Tsukauchi says, broad hands settling on either side of Denki’s waist.

Another audible creak, and then Denki’s pulse jumps when a low, frustrated groan meets his ears.

The tempo of the music picks up, and he does this suggestive bouncing motion on his thighs that makes Tsukauchi’s eyes roll back and tense sets of close-by knuckles /crack/.

Denki dips down to Tsukauchi’s ear, speaking to him with the most sultry inflection, nowhere near a whisper on purpose.

“You know, I bet that beard would be a /real/ nice texture between my thighs.”

His tongue is lolling halfway out of his mouth when a firm hand clamps around his elbow and /yanks/, effectively tugging him off Tsukauchi’s lap and to his feet.

/What the fuck/?

The world is upside down for about a minute as Denki is dragged to the dim back corner of the club, stunned speechless as he’s shoved face first into the graffiti’d bathroom.

Shinsou immediately scares off everyone inside with a snarl, then sets about kicking in every stall door to make sure they’re empty before storming back towards the entrance.

There, he reaches behind Denki to lock the deadbolt and pins him to scratchy wood with the entire length of his body.

Shit—Shinsou still has a whole head of height on him.

Denki pushes away the rush of endorphins stirred up by that little realization and shoves at the (unreasonably hard) wall of chest in front of his nose, as if to physically retaliate against his own brain chemicals.

“‘Toshi, /what the hell/?” he hisses. “What the fuck is wrong with you, you fucking /psychopath/?”

“Me?” Shinsou growls, both hands planted on either side of Denki’s head.

There’s no escape, and Denki hates how much it sets him on fire to finally have Shinsou’s full attention on him.

“What the fuck is wrong with /you/,” he tacks on, “Acting like that right in front of me?”

Denki reels back—well, as much as he can without performing some kind of impossible mitosis with the bathroom door—and his stomach does a somersault as he recognizes the unmistakable flicker of genuine /pain/ in Shinsou’s eyes.

This feels like a stalemate, too confusing to move on from without some kind of confrontation. It’s overdue, Denki supposes.

He considers his next words very carefully.

“You didn’t have to sit next to me, you know. You could have waltzed up to anyone on that dancefloor and had them on their knees for you in minutes.”

His eyes skim over cuts of muscle behind the fishnets.

“And that’s without even turning on your quirk.”

Shinsou barely clocks the compliment, narrowing his eyes in disbelief.

“You think I had any choice?” he says lowly.

His thigh presses up between Denki’s, and it’s /so/ much better than Tsukauchi’s for no good reason. Denki fights back against a shudder.

“You think I walked into this fucking club, saw you draped over the bar looking like /that/…” Shinsou trails a long finger down the side of Denki’s neck, then hooks it gently under the loop of his choker, “... and would be able to just turn around and /walk away/?”

Denki gulps, at a loss.

“/Denks/,” Shinsou breathes, his other hand skirting around Denki’s waistband as if struggling to decide whether to pull him closer by it, or use it as leverage to hold him still.

That spark of pain flares to life again—this time a swallow so thick that Denki can /hear/ it getting lodged in Shinsou’s throat.

An answering swell of emotion wells up in Denki’s chest so suddenly, he has to hold back tears.

“If you think a day goes by where I don’t think about how much you should be /mine/, then you’ve got another thing coming.”

Inhaling sharply, Denki digs his nails into the grain of the door, just to have something to hold onto.

“But—it’s been s-so long,” he says, shocked at the tremble in his own voice.

“I know. Fuck, you think I don’t know that?”

Denki blinks, trying for all his might not to get hard against Shinsou’s thigh. His body is just so /overwhelmed/ after remaining at a low burn for the last couple of hours, and none of this is helping his case.

“Tell me you don’t want me anymore,” Shinsou sighs. “Tell me right now, Denki, and I’ll walk away for good.”

“Hitoshi…”

“I won’t say that I’m sorry for any of this, because I’m not,” Shinsou croaks. “You have to understand. When I saw you, I knew I had to try, just one last time. Even at the risk of you hating me forever.”

Denki watches Shinsou wrestle with a slow breath that catches on itself—trips and falls gracelessly like summer rain.

“I knew I had to try, or it would kill me,” he finishes.

Now, after almost a decade of pro hero work, Denki has never once experienced the “body moving on its own” bullshit that Midoriya and Bakugou are always going on about.

But there’s no other explanation for how violently Denki surges up on his toes, not hesitating for another second to capture Shinsou’s mouth in a swift, bruising kiss.

(tbc in just a bit)

Shinsou melts into it, long limbs folding over him, clutching at every piece of Denki he can reach. It’s hot, all gruff sighs and alternating flicks of tongue that have Denki popping a boner in no time, because even after all these years apart, one thing remains inherently true.

For every patch on Shinsou’s sleeve, Denki’s got enthusiasm to match them ten times over.

There are some certainties in this, like the fact that Denki thinks /he/ might die if he has to live another second without Shinsou’s mouth tracing his, but there are variables, too.

Is this just an overdue conclusion to their friendship? A mutually horny parting of ways after which Shinsou will end up ghosting him for life?

Or is this a glaring warning label on a bottle of poison that Denki should probably stop to read before letting it spill over, making things even worse than they are now?

Shinsou pulls away and looks at him, wet-lipped and starry-eyed, and Denki thinks he’s got his answer. Or at least some semblance of an expectation.

Something about his awestruck face has Denki holding his breath for a love confession—a grand gesture to calm the fear that’s drumming at the back of his ribs.

His expectations crack like pottery as Shinsou breaks into a wide, cocky smile, predatory intent glinting in every flash of tooth.

“I knew it,” he exhales, tightening his hold on Denki’s beltloops. “I knew you still belonged to me. Not gonna let anyone else have you tonight.”

Denki feels that whiplash of his temperament like lightning. Shinsou can go from jealous to insecure to full of himself in a matter of minutes.

Just the thrill of trying to keep up with him is worth almost any pain.

Denki nods, and Shinsou’s fingers are already undoing the button on his jeans, dragging them down to his knees along with his underwear.

He gasps as cool air hits his cock, which falls against the leather-clad curve of Shinsou’s thigh, resulting in a shock of pleasure.

Shinsou’s eyes dart around the room, formulating some sort of plan, and Denki finds himself steered towards the long bathroom vanity in the next breath.

He falls forward with a yelp. Shinsou pushes him further down by the small of his back, encouraging him to plant his hands on the dirty counter for support.

Shinsou’s body shrouds him easily, curved all the way over his spine with hips pressing firmly against the curve of Denk’s ass.

Restless hands crawl under his shirt, pushing up, up, up, and restless lips are quick to follow, sucking at Denki’s shoulders and neck, behind his ear... wherever Shinsou can find a bare sliver of skin to nibble on.

“You’re /mine/,” Shinsou keeps whispering against his ear, increasingly bolder and rougher in tone. “/Mine/.”

“/Fuck/,” Denki almost breaks his nose on the porcelain when Shinsou tugs at his dick with an insistent grip that burns like a brand.

“M’yours,” he murmurs, because it’s the truth. Forever and always. He’s consumed by it. “/Yours/, Hitoshi.”

Shinsou makes a low, beastly noise of approval and gets a hand under Denki’s jaw, yanking him into another desperate kiss that punches any remaining oxygen right out of Denki’s lungs.

He moans, mouth falling open, twisting his neck as much as he can to welcome the warm intrusion of Shinsou’s whiskey-tongue.

But something firmer presses down, and it takes Denki entirely too long to open his eyes and realize Shinsou’s got /his fingers/ in his mouth.

“Suck,” Shinsou demands, and Denki obeys without a single qualm because when will he get another chance like this? Maybe never, and that’s /terrifying/, but it just means that he needs to make the most out of this opportunity while he’s got it.

He sets about wetting Shinsou’s fingers liberally, pressing back against the thick bulge that sears his bare flesh through too much fabric. Shinsou seems to get the memo, and with his free hand, works the buckle of his pants loose.

It clinks against the floor, just as Denki pulls off him with a soft smack of lips.

Shinsou doesn’t waste any time, guiding his digits to the pink rim of his hole and pressing in.

Denki cries out in pleasure-pain, flailing for the slippery knob of the nearest sink.

He’s lucky he has a decent amount of sex, or this would hurt a whole lot more, but as Shinsou pets him open, fucks and curls his fingers with no finesse, all Denki can focus on us how /good/ he feels. How /right/.

“Oh, god, hurry,” he begs, already aware of the orgasm coiling fast and tight inside his gut.

“Yeah, yeah,” Shinsou mutters, frenetic as he lines the hot head of himself up with Denki’s wildly fluttering entrance.

“Waited too fuckin’ long for this,” he confesses as he bottoms out in one stroke, and it’s all that Denki can do not to come on the spot.

He braces himself on his elbows, drawing in a slow breath that immediately gets pushed out of him as Shinsou sets a hard, ruthless pace.

It’s /so/ fucking good. All of it. The bite of Denki’s hipbones against the sink, the strong loop of Shinsou’s arm around his waist to keep him trapped against his chest, feeling every sticky, panting moan cling to his cheek.

And /oh, god/, that sharp burn of stubble against Denk’s soft face—so hot and so much better than any scraggly, scruffy beard could ever be.

Fuck, he’s gonna come. He’s gonna come if he doesn’t do something right this instant.

“How—ah—how long?” he asks, hand shooting down to make a tight ring around the base of his cock, staving it off.

“How long have you been waiting for this?”

“Shit,” Shinsou groans, rhythm faltering at the sex-wrecked sound of Denki’s voice. “I don’t, fuck, Denki—I don’t know.”

“Because I would have let you fuck me on day one,” Denki says with as much purpose as he can muster, meeting Shinsou’s thrusts when he feels his balls begin to drop by just a fraction.

“If you, god, if you had just asked, I would have given you my perky little ass before anybody else.”

Shinsou nearly /whines/, collapsing further onto the arch of Denki’s back.

“Y-you like that don’t you?” Denki laughs, then moans as Shinsou grabs his waist to hold him down, fuck him deeper. “Too bad you were too busy playing mind games... /mnnf/... you could have gotten here first.”

Shinsou slams home, and for a second Denki thinks he might have made him come with words alone, but then Shinsou huffs into his ear and snaps forward again, taking him by complete surprise.

“It doesn’t matter,” he says, “Not. One. Fucking. Bit.” His words are punctuated by the slap of skin that echoes through the bathroom.

Denki grits his teeth, once again willing away the oncoming tide.

“Doesn’t matter if I fucked you first or not, because I’m gonna fuck you best,” Shinsou continues, a hand crawling up to the base of Denki’s neck. “Just look at yourself, look at how good I make you feel. No one else can fuck you like me, Denks. Not ever.”

Shinsou tugs impatiently on his hair, and part of Denki doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction of following orders, wants to revel in the chase a bit longer just because he can.

But Shinsou is pretty much directly hitting his sweet spot with every movement, and he can only hold out for a few more thrusts before his eyes are flying open, meeting his own reflection in the mirror.

He’s a mess, no surprises there. Streak of makeup run down his cheeks, black tears that seep into the ends of his royally fucked-up hair like ink into the gold.

His mouth hangs open, body quaking, and the sight of himself is so fucking lewd that he’d certainly lose it, if he were a lesser man.

But no.

It’s the sight of Shinsou—all flashing teeth and fishnets and feral energy looming behind him—that does him in, has his cock giving a valiant kick against the counter as he coats it with long spurts of cum, all the way up to the mirror.

Shinsou cries out at the sudden clench, but he manages to pull out in time, jerking his intensely hot spend onto Denki’s lower back, wringing weak shivers and gasps from both of them at the sensation.

Denki lets his body sag against the sink, not caring at this point what kind of germs his picking up as Shinsou cleans him off with a paper towel.

There’s a moment of silence as the post-orgasm clarity kicks in, Shinsou moving to wordlessly lounge against the door with his pants still unbuttoned while the club beats startlingly loud against his back.

Denki sighs and tries to gather his wits, opting to straighten up his own appearance as much as possible instead of meeting Shinsou’s eyes outside the shimmering filter of the mirror.

“I’ll have you know that my standards are usually a lot higher than this,” he jokes. “Can’t remember the last time I didn’t even make it out of the club.”

Shinsou hums.

“So is this the special kind of exception, or is it the kind you’re gonna end up regretting tomorrow morning?”

Denki blinks, pausing with a strand of hair between his fingers as he lets Shinsou’s monotone wash over him like monsoon season.

This is /his/ Shinsou, the teasing bastard he knows and loves without conditions, no matter how much time and bad decisions they’ve accumulated between them since the foolish teenage years.

Denki’s so happy to see him, he could cry.

“Both,” he croaks. “Definitely both. But I’m only gonna regret the muscle pain, I think.”

Shinsou smiles, slow and catlike and blessedly /normal/.

“Come here, you.”

Denki goes—bodily launches himself into Shinsou’s arms, nails twisting into his stupid fishnet shirt and spreading out over his pale skin. He nuzzles against him, stretching up on his tip toes to get as close to eye level as physically possible.

“Hi,” he breathes. “Nice to see you.”

“You too.” Shinsou tucks a chunk of Denki’s bangs behind his ear. “Come here often?”

Denki sputters something between a laugh and a sob, clutching onto Shinsou’s shoulders for dear life.

“Did you—I mean—did /you/ mean—“

/Fuck/, why are words so fucking hard right now.

“‘Toshi...”

“Look,” Shinsou sighs, tucking a strand of Denki’s bangs behind his ear. “I didn’t plan for this, obviously. I didn’t stalk you here like that fucking guy tried to insinuate. Fucking washed-up, no-good stock broker looking ass.”

Shinsou says that last bit under his breath for comical effect, and Denki can’t help but grin.

“I know you’re scared of this—of us,” he says. Denki holds his breath. “Shit, me too. Scared to fucking death of losing you.”

Denki nods, bracing himself for an amicable parting of ways.

“But I’m more scared of not ever knowing what would happen if we tried.”

/What/?

Wow. Okay.

Wait a second.

“You could have said something,” Denki urges, shaking him forcefully as if to better communicate his point. “You could have fought for me harder back then if you really felt the same way all along.”

Denki swallows, bracing himself for an ugly truth he’s not sure he’s fully prepared to hear.

But he has to know.

“Why didn’t you, ‘Toshi?”

Shinsou’s gaze skims over his face, disbelieving.

“Because I trusted you and your instincts,” he finally answers. “You hurt me real bad, Denks, and I didn’t know how to move forward with you after learning how you felt, but that doesn’t mean I had a right to change your mind.”

Denki scrunches up his forehead in utter confusion.

“You’ve always steered me right,” Shinsou explains. “If splitting up after UA is what you thought was best, then I wasn’t about to argue against you. Not the one person who always stuck by me.”

After shaking his head several times to process this slew of information, Denki wises up and swats him across the chest.

“Well you’re wrong,” he says.

“Both of us are idiots who should have talked this out forever ago, and apparently we /still/ don’t know how to behave like fucking adults, because banging away our problems in a public bathroom is one hundred percent /not/ the smartest way to handle things.”

Shinsou raises a sword-shaped brow.

“Oh? Did you have something else in mind.”

“Yeah, actually.”

Cocking his head, Shinsou motions for him to continue.

“You can take me home, for starters.” Denki uses his fingers to count out his thoughts like items on a grocery list. “Then you can fuck me /in a bed/, for chrissakes,

and then once you’ve made me thoroughly forget my name several times over, we can have a nice, long discussion about why I should have never turned you down all those years ago. Because evidently my feelings for you are persistent and won’t be packing up their bags anytime soon.”

Denki lets the statement breathe, his own chest heaving as Shinsou’s freezes up with a choked off inhale.

“Yeah?” he asks, achingly hopeful.

“Yeah,” Denki smiles, his whole body full and flooded with saccharine warmth.

“That’s a lofty list of demands, but I think I can meet it.”

“Good,” Denki exhales, more relieved than he’s probably ever been about anything in his life. “The sooner the better, because my stomach is starting to feel a little crusty. You’re showering me too, by the way.”

Shinsou chews his cheek. “Always so needy.”

“I’ll let you walk out of here with your hand in my back pocket, since you’re into that whole possessive thing.”

“Done deal.”

To seal the contract, Denki cranes his neck up for a kiss, and Shinsou plants one on him like it’s second-fucking-nature.

Heart full and hunger somewhat satiated for now, Denki lets Shinsou steer him out of the club, but not before making a pit stop at the bar, where Denki hands over any loose bills in his wallet to Tsukauchi and kindly thanks him for his services.

Shinsou obnoxiously squeezes Denki’s ass through the back pocket of his jeans the entire time, making a whole show of it in front of anyone unlucky enough to look their way.

💫 🥃 💫

// end

not me making shin tuck kami’s bangs behind his ear twice in a row 🥴🥴

anyways, once again I let myself get carried away but I just can’t seem to help it when shinsou is involved!

here is my ko-fi if u enjoyed and are feeling generous 💕 ko-fi.com/gloriousporpoi…

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