Runnin' with the Devil

chatper 2

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.