Runnin' with the Devil

chatper 2

"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.