Chapter 1: Surrender in Silk
The room hummed. It wasn’t a sound you could hear with your ears, but a feeling in the air, thick with the scent of old ink from the open sketchbook on the floor and something darker—warm, musky, and faintly metallic. It lingered like the ghost of a whispered secret. Kirishima sank deeper into the worn velvet armchair, the fabric cool through his thin t-shirt. From here, he had the perfect view.
Crimson silk sheets clung to the bed, their edges frayed where desperate fingers had once tugged. The only light spilled in through the half-open window, painting the walls and the two figures on the bed in streaks of blood-red gold.
Shinsou had Bakugou’s wrists pinned above his head, one long-fingered hand wrapped easily around both. Bakugou’s chest heaved, the defined muscles of his abdomen flexing with each ragged breath. A sheen of sweat made his skin glow in the twilight.
“Still with me?” Shinsou’s voice was a low rasp, barely more than a murmur, but it cut through the heavy silence.
“Tch. Don’t get cocky, extra.” Bakugou’s retort was all bark, the usual heat behind it softened at the edges. His crimson eyes were wide, fixed on Shinsou’s face above him.
Shinsou’s thumb stroked a slow, deliberate circle over the frantic pulse point in Bakugou’s wrist. He didn’t smile. He just watched, those heavy-lidded purple eyes seeing everything. “Words are cheap, Bakugou. You’re shaking.”
Kirishima held his own breath. This was the fragile part. The moment Bakugou’s pride could snap like a twig, or… or not.
Shinsou leaned down, his indigo hair brushing Bakugou’s cheek. “Tell me to stop,” he whispered, his lips almost touching Bakugou’s ear. “One word. That’s all it takes.”
A beat. Two. Bakugou’s jaw worked. His gaze flickered, just for a second, toward Kirishima in the chair. Kirishima gave a slow, slight nod, his expression calm. Reassuring.
Bakugou’s defiant growl melted into a shaky exhale. He turned his face back into the pillow, muffling his voice. “...Just get on with it.”
Permission, granted. In Bakugou-speak.
Shinsou’s free hand, which had been resting on the bed, came up. He didn’t move his grip from Bakugou’s wrists. Instead, he traced a single finger down the center of Bakugou’s chest, over the sternum, through the damp blond hair there. It was a casual, claiming touch. Bakugou jerked under it, a full-body shiver that had nothing to do with being cold.
“Watch,” Shinsou said, not to Bakugou, but to Kirishima. His eyes held Eijiro’s for a moment. Sharing this. Trusting him to witness.
Kirishima felt the weight of it, solemn and hot in his gut. He nodded again, his focus absolute.
Shinsou’s finger continued its slow, torturous path down Bakugou’s torso, following the rigid line of muscle. Bakugou was trying to stay still, trying to pretend this wasn’t unraveling him. His hips gave a tiny, involuntary twitch.
“Yeah?” Shinsou murmured, his voice dropping another octave. “That’s it. Don’t think. Just feel it.”
He finally released Bakugou’s wrists. Bakugou’s arms flopped to the silk, but he didn’t move them. He just lay there, chest rising and falling, watching Shinsou’s hand with a kind of hypnotized frustration. Shinsou palmed the front of Bakugou’s black briefs, a slow, assessing pressure. Bakugou hissed, his head pressing back into the pillow.
“Fuck…”
“That’s the idea,” Shinsou said, his dry humor a faint thread in the dark tapestry of the room. He hooked his fingers in the waistband and pulled, not hurriedly, but with a deliberate slowness that made the air crackle. Bakugou lifted his hips to help, a quick, aborted motion that was more surrender than assistance.
Kirishima’s fingers tightened on the arms of the chair. The trust in the room was a tangible thing, as fragile and potent as the scent of them all mixed together. He saw the way Bakugou’s eyes screwed shut, the way his breath hitched when Shinsou’s hand wrapped around him. Not rough. Not yet. Just a firm, knowing hold.
Shinsou leaned over him, caging him in. “Look at me.”
It took a second. Bakugou’s eyelids fluttered open. The defiance was still there, but underneath it was something raw and utterly captivated.
“Good,” Shinsou said, and it sounded like praise. It sounded like a victory. He began to move his hand, a steady, rhythmic stroke that was all control. Bakugou’s lips parted. A sharp gasp escaped, then another, each one less controlled than the last.
Kirishima watched Shinsou watch Bakugou fall apart. Shinsou’s expression was intense, focused, completely absorbed in the micro-reactions he was eliciting—the twitch of a thigh, the clench of a fist in the sheets, the helpless roll of Bakugou’s hips into his touch.
“Shin…sou…” Bakugou gritted out, the name a strained plea and a curse all at once.
“I know,” Shinsou replied, his pace never faltering. “Let go. I’ve got you.”
And that was it. That was the switch. Bakugou’s back arched, a beautiful, tense bow off the bed. A ragged, choked sound was torn from his throat, part sob, part shout, utterly stripped of any pretense. He shuddered through it, his body yielding completely to the waves of sensation, held in the cradle of Shinsou’s hand and unwavering gaze.
Silence descended, broken only by the sound of desperate, gulping breaths.
Shinsou didn’t pull away immediately. He stayed close, his forehead now resting against Bakugou’s damp shoulder, his own breathing slightly elevated. He pressed a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the juncture of Bakugou’s neck, a gesture that was surprisingly tender amidst the intensity.
Kirishima finally let out the breath he’d been holding. A soft, proud smile touched his lips. He watched as Shinsou shifted, reaching for the box of tissues on the nightstand with his clean hand, his movements lazy and satisfied.
Bakugou lay utterly spent, one arm flung over his eyes. The harsh streetlight from the window cut across his torso, highlighting the rapid fall of his chest.
“You’re a bastard,” Bakugou muttered, his voice hoarse and thick.
“You love it,” Shinsou replied, wiping his hand clean before tossing the tissue aside. He collapsed onto his back beside Bakugou, staring up at the ceiling.
A weak, disgusted grunt was the only answer.
Kirishima stood up from the chair, his joints cracking pleasantly. He walked over to the side of the bed and looked down at them. Bakugou peered out from under his arm, his face flushed and his hair a wild mess. He looked thoroughly, completely wrecked.
“Awesome,” Kirishima said, his voice warm and genuine.
“Shut up, Shitty Hair,” Bakugou mumbled, but there was no heat behind it. He let his arm drop, exposing his face fully. He looked… peaceful. In a way Kirishima almost never saw.
Shinsou reached out without looking and tangled his fingers with Bakugou’s where they rested on the sheet. Bakugou didn’t pull away.
Kirishima’s smile widened. This was good. This was right. He was about to suggest water, maybe food, when Bakugou turned his head on the pillow, fixing his now-clear eyes on Shinsou.
“Your turn,” Bakugou said, the familiar, challenging edge creeping back into his ruined voice. It wasn’t a question. It was a promise, low and gritty. “Don’t think you’re getting off easy.”
Shinsou turned his head, a slow, predatory smile finally spreading across his face. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Kirishima chuckled softly, settling himself on the edge of the mattress. The night, he knew, was far from over. The air still hummed, waiting for what came next.