Chapter Text
Bakugou Katsuki is straight.
Has always been a straight A-student, is known to always get straight to the point, and he's pretty much straight edge on top of it, because he can't afford to poison his body for the measly reason of instant gratification as most his peers do. Which is one of the reasons why he's alone at home on a Saturday evening when all his old classmates are out partying; although they do invite him each time, he usually ends up turning them down.
He's the type to go to bed early either way.
Because, once again, he's got a bigger purpose in life than wasting the fucking night away in some stupid bar and involving himself in smalltalk or staying awake and watching pointless videos, or whatever it is that average people do. He doesn't care for that shit, and he really just wants to be the best hero he can be, which is just as much of a public opinion matter as it is one of physical strength, he has regrettably come to learn.
Which means that he doesn't have an option.
He's straight. As straight as someone can be who finds himself looking up numbers of phone sex operators with a scowl on his face, holed up in his bedroom by himself on a Saturday evening. It's not a common occurrence at all - the first time that his sexual frustration has reached a level where it's bad enough to combat his sense of pride and come out on top.
A sort of late Christmas gift for his psyche.
Ironically enough, it's because he slept with a woman yesterday. No one he cares for - just some fan who practically threw herself at him and didn't look half bad. He'd hoped that maybe, by some universal intervention, someone with a body like that could dig out a hint of bisexuality from somewhere deep inside him. It's something he's always hoped for, because it would make things that much easier if he could actually bring himself to be attracted to women too.
That would solve the issue of constantly being distracted by every nice-looking guy he crosses paths with once and for all and clear his head so he wouldn't have think about any of this shit anymore. So much for instant gratification and frustration - God, did he wish he was above all of it. Badly.
But yeah.
That entire plan didn't work out so well, which wasn't a fucking surprise. Keeping himself hard through the ordeal had been nothing short of a task, and he'd essentially made it through by flipping her around, closing his eyes and blending out the high-pitched sounds and too-soft-for-his-liking curves of her body. But still, once that was over and done with, there had been nothing of the desired effect.
At all.
There was no relief.
Instead, he felt the frustration increase in response. If anything, it stirred up the eternal "I am gay but I can't be gay" fiasco inside of him all over again, and now he isn't even tired although it's half an hour past his usual bedtime because he's thinking about how much he really just wants to have what everyone else does; the chance to sleep with someone he's actually attracted to. Not that he's really the only one in this position but he's never been particularly concerned with the shit others go through. This is about him. Bakugou Katsuki, pro-hero Dynamight, who can't simply go outside and hook up with some guy because all of Japan has seen his face by now and there are always people trying to dig up dirt on heroes.
So, a phone sex operator it is.
It sounds like a safe option, because he doesn't have to show his face - doesn't have to go to some place where someone could take a photo of him entering or whatever.
He can already tell that this is most likely going to be a fucking waste of money and time, but Bakugou feels like he's out of options. If he can't actually sleep with a guy, he can at the very fucking least do something to get those moans from yesterday out of his head where they bug him like wailing ghosts haunting a damn mansion.
Red eyes skip across some of the listed companies, and he feels a slight urge to throw up because, did all of those fuckers hire the same fucking writer to come up with advertisements?
If he reads the words 'fun,' 'sexy' or 'adventure' one more time, he's throwing in the fucking towel and resigning himself to a lifetime without ever even hearing a guy moan for him.
But the thought doesn't sit right with him. He isn't the type to throw in the towel, so how the hell is this any different?
He fights villains for a living.
He sure as fuck is capable of this shit.
And his patience is rewarded. Maybe. In the form of a plain-looking and less cheap-sounding listing that doesn't sound entirely ridiculous. He clicks on that one, reads through some of the reviews, and looks at the prices, not that money really is an issue. It all looks acceptable, but he still finds himself groaning and throwing his body harshly backwards into his bed, staring up at the ceiling.
Although he doesn't have to show his face or anything, it still feels like his pride is getting in the way. The thing is, Bakugou has never been the type to really care about what others thought of him, and though being the best hero was unquestionably his purpose and passion in life, it sucked that saving face was such a huge part of the job. He is naturally inclined to think, whatever, and just do whatever the fuck seems right to him, but this matter is a little different.
He's not scared. Fuck no. Phone calls aren't something he particularly enjoys, but he knows that he can just try this and hang up any time if it's shit, which there is an 80% or so chance that it will be.
It isn't about shame either, not really. Because he doesn't have that big of a problem with his sexuality, it's the damn world that still has enough of an issue with it to make this shit unnecessarily hard.
He isn't sure what it is. Why he's hesitating now when this is nothing more than a trial and error deal; either this helps him feel a little less frustrated, or it doesn't. All he really has to lose are a few bucks and he can easily afford that. He's not nervous at all.
"Fuck this shit," he whispers when he has to remind himself of his lack of nervousness again, because isn't that what losers and cowards do? Sit there in a bubble of self pity and refusing to go out of their comfort zone for the things they want. And currently, he wants something more than the shitty feeling of jacking himself off to yet another cheaply produced porn video.
So it's decided.
He picks up his phone, enters the number, and sits up against the wall.
It's picked up on the third ring.
"Good evening, this is Heroic Hours, thank you very much for calling us," a female voice says, and Bakugou wonders if he somehow managed to make the mistake of calling a number that's for straight encounters. Sounds like his luck.
"Evening," he mumbles.
"First off, I'm required to ask if you're eighteen or older?"
"Do I sound like a kid," Bakugou asks, wondering if she's trying to mock him because his voice sure as fuck doesn't sound like a 17-year-old or younger.
"No," she answers, "it never hurts to ask. What exactly is it that you are looking for?"
If only he could tell. Bakugou isn't sure how to word this delicately, so he says, plain and simple, "For a dude to help me get off, why else would I call?"
There's gentle laughter on the other end of the line, and Bakugou seriously considers hanging up now. This shit really isn't worth it if he's got to deal with social interactions before it gets to the getting off part.
"Then you've called the right number. And as a New Year's special, we offer a free first call to every new customer this week, for a good start into the new year."
Bakugou doesn't really give a damn about that, and he feels impatient, so he only makes a noise in response, staring at the aquarium in the corner of his room where his siamese fighting fish are swimming in restless little circles although they have a gigantic ass aquarium they could make fucking use of.
"So, you're looking for a man. Any preferences?"
He supposes that looks don't matter all that much when the entire point is that he won't see the other person.
"Someone with a nice voice or whatever. And around my age."
"That would be?"
"25."
"Ah, I've got the perfect match for you then. Someone who only just started. If you could just give me your card information, then I'll direct the call to him."
"I thought the first call was free," he says, wondering why the fuck she makes it sound like a good thing that he'd be talking to a fucking newbie amateur.
"Well, 15 minutes are. Anything above that will be charged according to the prices listed on our website."
So Bakugou ends up giving her the necessary information, and by the time he's done with that, he isn't even so sure he wants to do this anymore at all. Nothing like talking to a stranger in a semi-formal way when they know you're calling just to get off and probably thinking you're incapable of finding anyone in real life. It's arguably one of the worst kinds of fucking foreplay.
But he's already made it this far.
"Alright then, I'll redirect the call to him and I wish you a pleasant evening," the woman says and then there's the sound of ringing again, and suddenly it's all going a little too fast, almost. Bakugou still feels annoyed by all of that chitchat just now, and his stupid fish are still swimming like maniacs in the other corner of the room.
"Hi," a voice says then, and it's both deep and utterly underwhelming. The kind of hi you'd say to a classmate when you aren't all that happy to see their face in the morning.
"Fucking, hi? Seriously."
".. Evening?" the other man says, and Bakugou cannot tell whether he sounds calm, confused or deliberately irritating. He definitely doesn't sound thrilled.
"What the fuck."
"Uh, excuse me?" the man has the guts to ask and Bakugou isn't sure what it is. Something about the seven fucking words they've exchanged so far has him wanting to bang his head against a wall. This is supposed to help him relax, not raise his stress levels.
"No, fucking excuse me. What kind of greeting was that?" he inquires, sounding half as offended as he feels.
There's silence on the other end of the line for a long moment, and then a, "ah."
But the sound of understanding isn't followed up by any words that would signify any kind of actual brain activity. Bakugou wonders if the call disconnected, but when he stares at the screen of his phone, he can see that it's still running.
"Is this some kind of fucking scam or shit? Because I swear to fuck if it is, I'll sue the shit out of this fucking company."
"It's not a scam," the man says, clears his throat, "I wasn't prepared to get a call so soon. I was watching TV."
"How the hell is that my problem, this is your fucking job, so maybe don't answer the damn phone with a 'hi' and the enthusiasm of a dead fish or watch TV during working hours if your brain can't handle it."
"I doubt anything that's dead is even capable of enthusiasm," the man muses. Out loud. Bakugou wonders if people in asylums are allowed to work part time as phone sex operators. Or maybe this guy is a retired comedian who had to find a new job or some shit, simply because he's not funny at all. Really, who the hell is he talking to right now.
"Aren't you supposed to fucking, get people hard or something. Stop talking about dead fucking fish."
"You started it."
"Oh no, you did. When you greeted me like one."
"So, you aren't aroused," he says and Bakugou changes his mind again. Maybe that guy had hopeless aspirations of becoming a goddamn detective before he ended up on the other end of this line.
"Why the fuck would I be."
"I don't know," the other says in an infuriatingly distracted tone, as if he's actually thinking about possible explanations, "I assumed people who called would just, already be? Isn't that why you'd choose to call this kind of number?"
"You're fucking joking, right. Why the fuck I called is none of your damn business," Bakugou yells into the phone in response. He can't believe the kind of conversation that is currently happening, and he's pretty sure this is not how this shit usually works. Maybe he should have picked one of the more flashy options. Or not have done this at all.
"Ah, but it is. I need to know what you want from me to do my job properly."
"What I want from you is to actually say anything that's remotely attractive so I can get off to it and go to fucking sleep."
"Oh. Right, that sounds reasonable."
Reasonable.
Bakugou cannot handle whatever the fuck is happening here.
"So... what should I call you?" he asks, as if he's got a list lying next to him with some kind of fucking protocol that he's failing to integrate organically into the conversation.
Bakugou can't exactly give away his real name, and even most of the aliases he comes up with on the spot can be traced back to him, because the damn journalists have picked apart every hero name idea he's ever had before he settled on one.
"I don't fucking care. Choose something."
"I'm supposed to choose?"
"Yes, time's fucking ticking. Ten seconds or I'm hanging up," Bakugou threatens, wondering why he hasn't yet. This guy is fucking useless and he doubts that this is going to change; he feels like yelling at him more than anything else. He wonders if that kind of service is offered, too.
It would be useful.
"How about... Bakugou," the dark voice declares then, and it takes a second for the hero the register that this stranger just randomly said his fucking name. He chokes on air as he realises as much, but manages to catch his breath just in time to ask, "what? Why the hell would you pick that one."
He covers the panic up with an extra bit of annoyance.
"Oh, I was watching the news about a villain attack that happened yesterday, just before you called, and there was an interview with the hero Dynamight. And your voice.. There's a.. strong resemblance. Or should I pick another name?"
Bakugou can't believe both his luck and misfortune. Both seem utterly ridiculous today. So the useless phone operator thankfully chose the name for the simple reason of the fact that his fucking voice resembles, well, his voice. That's a bit of a relief, because it sounds like something he actually came up with randomly.
It's still weird as fuck, but if that's all the man thinks it is, then whatever. At least he didn't choose fucking Deku or some shit. That would have killed any chance at getting his dick hard. And he needs that sense of catharsis or whatever, obviously. Otherwise Bakugou would have already hung up on him.
"Yeah I hear that a lot," he comments, before changing the topic, "then what the hell am I supposed to call you?"
"Mmh. I haven't thought about it, this is my first call actually. Let me think."
Bakugou rubs his forehead with his palm. First call. Of fucking course he's the victim to some fucking first time phone sex disaster. It's probably something about vibrations and how his own messed up energy attracted someone of equal disaster calibre or whatever. Why his life can't ever be easy, he doesn't fucking know.
"Then fucking think."
"I am thinking."
"Think faster."
"I'm trying," he says, voice infuriatingly calm. Like he's got all the time in the world. The bastard has probably been instructed to stretch the call well across the fifteen free minutes.
Fucking capitalism.
"I'll fucking hang up," Bakugou repeats and wonders if it's an actual threat at this point. If it was him on the other end, he'd say fuck you and hang up for sure. But he supposes that it works mostly for the reason that this is this guy's first call; he still remembers his first actual mission, and the ridiculous need to do everything right.
Or well, scratch that. He still feels the strong fucking need to get everything right, job-related or getting-off-related, and currently, they are definitely not doing this shit right at all.
"Tick-tock, asshole."
"Shouto."
"What?"
"Ah no, wait. I'm not supposed to give out my actual name, I think," Shouto corrects himself and Bakugou can't believe the stupidity of this man. Had he just left that last sentence out, it would have been whatever.
But now he knows.
That's the mindless idiot is named Shouto.
"How about..," he begins, still thinking.
"How about you just do your fucking job and do it properly, Shouto? Too late to make up a fake name now."
At least they're both in the same boat, in a twisted sense.
Bakugou is utterly convinced that he shouldn't be talking to the phone sex operator the same condescending way he talks to kids that do internships at the agency, but it's hard not to, when Shouto radiates the very essence of dumbass energy that always ticks Bakugou off.
"It'll ruin the mood if you keep yelling."
The mood.
"What the hell are you talking about? The mood has been ruined the moment you - "
"Don't make the dead fish comparison again, that won't exactly help," Shouto interjects and after a moment of pause, adds, "Bakugou."
And God is it fucking weird to think that Shouto is probably trying to force his mind into some sort of role play mode here, when he's really just using Bakugou's actual fucking name. It's in that moment that Bakugou becomes aware of the chance to stroke his own ego a little, which is honestly one of his favorite pastimes, so he asks, "You into that hero or something."
".. Why do you ask?"
"The fucking way you said the name just now."
"I don't know what you mean, saying your," and he emphasises that word to make a point, "name seductively is part of my job. Which you just told me to do properly."
He says it smoothly, but Bakugou is perceptive like a racoon who smells edible trash through layers of poisonous waste.
"Bullshit, bet you're some little Dynamight fanboy."
He doesn't even question why he feels the need to establish this so strongly. He just kind of wants the confirmation that he's the absolute best and even an absolute moron like Shouto can see it. Besides, who the hell would pick the name of someone they didn't find attractive for this?
"My relationship with the hero industry is a little complicated, but I can appreciate that someone who's only been in the business for a few years has already saved 8000 people and convicted at least 400 villains if that's what you're asking. Whether this classifies as a fanboy or not is up to your definition."
Is it? Bakugou doesn't have a clue, he's just astonished that someone so stupid is capable of memorising the numbers, but he supposes that the ability to remember something doesn't necessarily correlate with the practical appliance of knowledge.
Or something.
He wonders if Shouto knows the stats of all the successful heroes.
"Fucking, whatever. Just get on with it."
"Get on with what?"
"The fucking phone sex. What I'm paying you for."
"Oh. Of course, so. You.. sound like a bottom, right? Do you want me to boss you around?"
Bakugou's world stops moving in that moment and his mouth falls open.
"I sound like a fucking what now."
"Like a - "
"Shut the fuck up, my God. Who the fuck even says that out loud, shit."
"So, am I right?"
"No you fucking - don't just assume shit, what the hell."
Truthfully, Bakugou doesn't care all that much about top or bottom or whatever the fuck, mainly because the actual experience he's had with guys can be summed up as disgusting truth or dare kisses with his friends. Other than that, he's only ever been with women although that experience never serves to get worse... although he tries so hard to be into it, even allows himself a cigarette afterwards sometimes. Maybe he's just fucking resistant to pavlovian conditioning though. And those encounters are usually so superficial that he doesn't analyse them or think much about what he wants out of it. It's more of a business thing, fueled by the need to at least sleep with someone every now and then.
Whatever the case, even if he truly doesn't care so much, he honest to god cannot picture the guy on the other end of the line taking the lead here.
Shouto barely seems capable of holding a damn conversation.
And really, Bakugou isn't sure what he pictures him looking like. Shouto's voice is deep, but he sounds.. soft. In a way. Most people sound soft in comparison to Bakugou though. There's a 50/50 chance that Shouto either looks as stupid as he sounds or maybe he's one of those cases where someone is blessed with a pretty face but lacks the iq to match it.
Bakugou isn't sure which of the two he wants to believe.
"Mmh. I don't usually bottom though. In real life, I mean," Shouto declares like it fucking matters. This is a goddamn phone call, and as far as Bakugou is concerned, Shouto is getting payed to say the right words, not to fucking enjoy the thought of the fantasy he is supposed to portray. It's not like they're actually fucking, so what the hell is his issue even.
But that's the thing. Bakugou is a bit vain and overconfident at times, some might even say deluded, and he means it when he says, "then you'll fucking bottom for me today and you'll enjoy it, asshole."
"I'll try."
The enthusiasm of fucking roadkill, all over again. Something has got to be wrong with Bakugou, because the lack of excitement in his voice just screams challenge, and challenges do tend to get him going. (Embarrassingly enough, sometimes literally, back in school, because puberty fucking hated him and beating up sweaty guys in training clothes had been something for sure. Awkward boners had become normal back then and thankfully he was long over that.)
"Think I can't do it?" he asks, all spite.
"Oh I'm sure you'll try, Bakugou."
"Fuck you."
Shouto laughs, and for some fucked up reason it doesn't sound demonic like is should but fucking angelic.
"So, mind describing what you look like? I want to have an image for who's going to be wrecking my ass tonight," Shouto suggests once he's done being amused, and damn if Bakugou doesn't experience whiplash at the sudden shift in tone, in word choice, in fucking everything.
He stares at the screen of his phone once more, wonders if this guy has a fucking twin with the same voice but a different attitude altogether, wonders if playing an idiot is something Shouto does in a misguided attempt to lure people in like a dense siren. But then he remembers. First call. The idiot most likely doesn't have a method of (through the phone) seduction at all.
Then, how the fuck does he get so shameless without any warning.
Maybe Shouto is cut out for this job after all.
"Bakugou?"
He catches himself then. Right, Shouto wants to know how he looks, that makes sense. His voice does sound a bit breathy when he speaks. "I'll fucking humor you alright. I'm fucking fit, like years of hard training fit. Blonde," he offers, but stops himself. Shouto might already have suspicions about the voice resemblance, so he can't fucking describe himself all the way. He adds some fake details, "I wear glasses and I have an undercut."
"Oh. Glasses.. How tall are you?" Shouto asks, doesn't even acknowledge anything Bakugou just said other than the glasses part, which is a lie. He only ever uses glasses when he's reading, and even then, he barely bothers to and chooses to squint at the pages instead.
"5'9," it slips out before he can come up with a fake number.
"I'm an inch taller than you," Shouto says, sounding all kinds of overjoyed at the knowledge.
"Well fucking congratulations," Bakugou growls into the phone, "now tell me what the hell you look like."
"... Well. What do you want me to look like?"
Bakugou stops at that, before he realises that it makes sense. Most people who call would have a type and maybe it's a thing that they actually tell the operator what they're supposed to look like. He debates doing that for a moment, but Bakugou still has that ugly or not question swirling through his mind, and he's a little fucking curious, how bad can that be?
"An inch smaller than me," he says sarcastically.
"Oh, alright then, a little vague but okay. Is that all?"
"It was a damn joke," he actually has to explain, "you tell me what you look like, Shouto."
"As in, what I actually look like?"
"As in, whatever the fuck you feel like telling me. If that happens to be what you actually look like, then fucking go ahead."
There's a pause, and Bakugou wonders what's going through Shouto's head. Maybe elevator music or something.
"Well, according to my best friend, I'm very pretty but I'm not sure I believe her," Shouto says, all shamelessness gone as fast as it came. He sounds like he finds it hard to talk about himself, and maybe Bakugou should have made this easier and given him some generic description. But the thought of that feels a little hollow, because he's never been good at pretending to be stupid. If he'd given Shouto a description, he would have inevitably known the whole time that it wasn't going to match the reality of him.
And maybe it doesn't have to.
Bakugou isn't sure why it should. Curiosity, he tells himself, that's really all it is.
"My hair is a bit unusual," Shouto offers.
"Unusual how?"
"Ah. Color-wise."
"The hell does that even mean? You got rainbow-colored hair or some shit?"
"No, technically it's only one.. color."
"And that color would be?" Bakugou presses, trying to grasp at something. Some kind of visual that makes up for the awkwardness of their conversation. It's got to be a fucking good one, that's for sure.
"Red."
Bakugou doesn't really have a thing for red hair, or at least he doesn't think so, but it is admittedly one of his favorite colors. Anything red or orange is just so in your face that he can't help but like it. When he thinks about it, red hair doesn't sound all that bad, although he always gives Kirishima shit for dyeing his in the most obnoxious shade of firetruck.
"Doesn't sound all that fucking unusual to me."
"Maybe it's not."
"Anything else? I don't fucking know, eye color or some shit."
"Blue-grey," Shouto says.
Horrifyingly enough, the combo doesn't sound all that bad. Bakugou just selfishly hopes that this guy doesn't have the freckles to match the hair color, because freckles just create an immediate Deku association in his head. He doesn't ask, doesn't want the acceptable image that's beginning to form in his head to be shattered.
"Oh, and I'm pretty fit myself. I play ping-pong in my free time."
Bakugou is pretty fucking sure that their ideas of fit aren't exactly the same then, because he literally fights villains for a living and this guy talks about playing fucking ping-pong like 80-year-olds don't do that. Who even plays shit like that at their age, really.
"I can fucking see it."
"Thanks."
"What the hell for?"
"I'm just glad if my descriptive skills are good enough to create an image in your head," Shouto tells him, and he sounds almost proud. Bakugou doesn't go out of his way to clear up the misunderstanding. He's not that cruel.
He also isn't entirely sure how to proceed, because they keep slipping back into those random conversational topics and it's doing nothing to get his dick hard. Sexually frustrated or not. He can't jerk his dick to that.
"So, how the fuck does this even work?" Bakugou asks.
"We'll figure it out. Are you sitting somewhere comfortable?" Shouto asks him.
"I'm sitting on my bed."
"That's a good start I guess. Me too."
Bakugou half-expects him to start talking about the color of his bedsheets or something equally unnecessary. He's still absolutely not nervous, he just honestly doesn't have a clue how they're going to go about this.
"Great."
"You want to know what I'm wearing?" Shouto asks, and the slight change in his tone doesn't escape Bakugou. He sounds a little amused, and it's infuriating because it sort of goes well with the smoothness of his voice. He nods his head although Shouto obviously can't fucking see that, "go ahead, tell me."
"You first," Shouto says and although it's fucking childish and stupid, Bakugou finds himself complying.
"Black loose tank top and orange boxers," he says.
"Oh."
There's a few seconds of silence.
"I wish I could see that," Shouto tells him then and he sounds honest but Bakugou is pretty sure he doesn't actually mean it.
"Shame you can't."
"Yeah, but I do like the sound of your voice as well," is somehow what Shouto replies with, and Bakugou hesitates for a moment, fighting off his pride to make this a little more bearable.
"Your voice isn't all that bad either," he confesses, "when you don't go out of your way to sound like a nihilist on fucking lithium."
"Maybe you'll like it better when I moan for you," is the reply Shouto comes up with and for once, Bakugou finds himself agreeing. That's something he'd actually like to hear, if only because it's better than the apathetic, half-assed way Shouto has with words. That's the only reason for sure.
Not that it's pretty hot how he manages to be stone cold confident when he says that type of thing.
"Your clothes," he simply rasps.
"Ah right. I'm wearing nothing but a large shirt."
"Nothing but, not even -" Bakugou stops there, doesn't ask the question that somehow comes up in his mind. It's bad enough that he's asking himself that, but then again, it's not. Not supposed to be, he called specifically for something to actually catch his damn interest and if that's a red-haired idiot holded up in his room wearing nothing but a shirt, then that's what it is.
".. Not even underwear," Shouto just has to confirm.
Shit, Bakugou thinks, and apparently says out loud.
He's not sure why, but that little piece of information does something to him. Knowing that Shouto talking to him, somewhere, on his bed (if he isn't lying about it all), and isn't wearing underwear. Bakugou wonders if he isn't a little cold like that, because it's fucking December and not all that warm, even inside.
He also wonders how in the world those three little words are enough to get a fucking reaction out of his dick. Maybe he's worse off than he thought, more thirsty than should be possible.
"Fucking tacky," he comments.
"If you want me to be," Shouto confirms, and the words contrast with the lack of.. anything, in his voice.
"I want you to touch yourself," Bakugou replies a little too aggressively, and at this point he's not sure if Shouto actually will, or if he's only going to play along with it and act the part. He doubts that it's anything more than that, and yet his pulse speeds up a little when Shouto asks, "touch myself?" as if the concept is utterly unfamiliar to him and requires an explanation.
"Yeah. You deaf or something?"
"I wouldn't have picked this as a job if my hearing was impaired," Shouto goes again, ruining the fucking mood that isn't even there in the first place, and it's fucking concerning. Because Bakugou isn't attracted to dumbasses, but the almost surprised-sounding 'touch myself' sent some of his blood downwards and he looks at his semi-hard dick in his pants like it holds any answers.
"Fucking smartass."
"How?" Shouto asks.
"How what now."
"How am I supposed to touch myself?"
It's got to be a normal reaction to get a little excited at those words, right? Bakugou sure as fuck hopes so. Shouto just fucking asked him how exactly he's supposed to touch himself and somehow that's enough to make Bakugou aware of the fact that the other man is actually sitting somewhere, saying that, to him. For money, but whatever.
Maybe it's not all bad to be Shouto's first official caller.
At least he gets to mess with him a little, maybe.
"Depends. Where do you want to be touched?"
Strangely enough, the simple question causes the softest kind of stutter in Shouto's breath. It's so quiet that Bakugou is lucky to hear it at all. He smirks a little, wondering if Shouto faked that.
"I want your hand on my dick," Shouto says, a complete stranger to foreplay or subtlety, which doesn't surprise Bakugou at all. This guy is such a fucking mess, Bakugou wouldn't be surprised if he prepared himself for this job by like, watching some cheap porn or something. But thankfully he's seen his fair share or porn as well, both cheap and expensive, and he's got a goal in his mind.
As always, goal-oriented. Not such a surprise that he cannot shake that habit, even now.
He wants to make such a mess of Shouto that he 1) actually does what he tells him to and 2) looses that annoying calmness in his voice once and for all. So he's gotta be a bit more creative than yelling "touch your dick" into the phone.
"Then have fun waiting for that to happen, because you're going to touch all the other good spots first, you hear me?" Bakugou says, and this time he's the one who makes use of his voice. Lets it drop just a little lower than usual.
"You- what?" Shouto asks, and Bakugou is delighted to have caught him off guard. A little too delighted.
"How about you tell me where you're sensitive, Shouto?"
"I- my neck and my hands. My thighs too, and.."
"And?"
"My chest," he says, but the way he says it gives it all away.
"Chest, huh?"
"Will you touch yourself, too? I'm here to get you off, not - you know," Shouto very obviously tries to change the topic.
"Maybe if you try real hard to do as I tell you, you'll actually get me hard," Bakugou lies. Because he's hard in his boxers already and he wonders how this escalated so quickly when Shouto doesn't seem to have a fucking clue what he's doing. Truthfully, Bakugou feels like he's the one doing the job here, but he kind of... wants to. It's fucking strange.
Because yeah, the initial idea was that someone talks him through an orgasm, moans a little, and that's that. He lets it happen, goes to sleep, and is cured of the ridiculous thirst that has been plaguing him.
Apparently not, then.
"Okay," Shouto says and he sounds a little helpless now, "so.."
"So the first thing I do is take your hand."
"My hand?"
"Yeah, your sensitive fucking hand, and you - I run my fingers across your palm because I can fucking hear that you're nervous and I bet that soft shit really does it for you."
"That's, ah. I mean," he doesn't deny it. Of course not. "How do you touch my hand?" Shouto asks and weirdly enough, Bakugou doesn't have to think about it before he says, "I pin your arms down on the mattress next to your head, and then I let my fingertips rest on yours for a moment and just wait. And as soon as I feel you trying to move your fingers against mine and squirm, I look at you because you know you aren't fucking supposed to, and only when you hold still do I let my fingers run down yours and along your palm, all the way down to your wrist. And I can feel the way you shiver because of it, although I've only touched your fucking hand."
"Ah, that's, I -" Shouto says, and it sounds an awful lot like he's going to protest, and Bakugou doesn't like it all that much, because he's over here fucking trying for this idiot and -
"Uh... Bakugou," he says the name like an afterthought, "I was just going to pretend to do this but when you talk like that, it's kind of.."
Bakugou's eyes widen at the admission, because he didn't see that coming so fucking soon, really.
"Kind of what?"
"Hot."
"No shit."
"I - sorry. I'll just try to focus on - "
"You think I'm telling you this shit for you to fucking pretend that you do it and fake moan or whatever? Holy shit how dense are you. I want you to touch yourself, I fucking told you, Shouto."
Bakugou can hear him take a shaky breath on the other end of the line, and he palms the erection in his boxers against his better judgement, sighs ever so softly at the feeling.
"I'll.. put the phone on speaker."
Bakugou feels entirely too happy with those words, and it's even better when he hears shuffling that signifies that Shouto isn't just saying it. He wonders what the man looks like, placing his phone beside himself and reaching out to ghost his fingers across his own hand, imagining that they're Bakugou's.
Ridiculous, probably..
His dick is really fucking hard though and Bakugou doesn't even think that he has a thing for hands, so that's a fucking mystery right there.
Maybe it's the thought of Shouto doing exactly what he says that has him excited. So much for this asshole 'bossing him around.' Yeah. Bakugou can tell that he's practically hanging onto his every word.
.. Even when it's not part of the job. Talk about stroking his ego.
"Remember how I touch your hand?"
"Yes," Shouto confirms, a little rushed as if he remembers it too well, which is just perfect as far as Bakugou is concerned.
...