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All press is good press, according to most heroes.
Not Enji, though. He refuses to be the center of a scandal, his personal life turned into a sideshow act for the vultures of the press to consume. His record as the number one hero is spotless; only a fool thinks that anything less will get them anywhere in life, let alone reach the top of the hero charts. It’s a gem of wisdom he’s tried many times to pass onto Shouto, integral to furthering his career, and just plain good advice from a father to his son. Shouto will just have to get over himself and see things from Enji’s point of view.
Which is why it’s vital that he speaks with Shouto immediately, so he can set him straight on the proper stance to take during their next press conference. He won’t allow his youngest son’s personal choices to paint their family in a bad light, especially when they have an image to maintain; one of strength and respect, not poor decision-making and reckless abandon.
He’s raised Shouto to know better than that.
At the very least he should exercise some goddamn tact, and especially when it comes to Bakugou Katsuki. Everyone’s silence has its price, and while Enji’s pockets run deep, he’s getting tired of cleaning up after the two of them; tabloids, social media, rumors in his own agency. Keeping his son’s relationship tightly under wraps is its own full-time job, costing a hefty sum to shield their little fling from the spotlight, and while it’s no secret that Bakugou loves to be the center of attention—bold and brash in every sense—it’s almost to his own detriment, and certainly to Shouto’s. If they have to act like animals, as hormonal teenagers are wont to do, Enji would prefer that they do it in private.
And yet, of course, like every other boy their age, they can’t seem to think with the head attached to their shoulders. Sure, Shouto knows better, but Enji will deal with him later.
Right now, it’s Bakugou that needs to learn a lesson in discretion.
The aforementioned asshole is still in Shouto’s room, having overstayed his welcome despite Enji’s express disapproval. It’s not as if they couldn’t afford a hotel for a few nights, since both of them receive an intern hero’s salary, but for whatever godforsaken reason—probably to piss Enji off, most likely—they’ve chosen to stay in the Todoroki home.
Perhaps it wouldn’t be so much of a thorn in his side if Bakugou didn’t all but rub it in Enji’s face. As if cleaning up the evidence wasn’t enough, it’s almost like the boy wants him to see everything in person; parading through the halls half-undressed, fresh hickeys and teeth indentations all over his chest and stomach, peeking out from below his waistband. Without Shouto nearby to see it, who else would he be showing off for like that, if not Enji?
The privacy of his children means nothing. This is Enji’s home and everyone in it answers to him, so he opens Shouto’s door without so much as a knock.
He’s not sure what he expected to find, but the smell hits him before anything else. It’s unmistakable—the scent of sex and sweat thick in the air, Enji’s nostrils flaring as he takes it in. He knows they’ve been going at it like a pair of rabbits, but it’s another thing to practically wade through the musk like a goddamn fog.
And there lies the culprit of it all, or at least one of them. Bakugou is asleep in Shouto’s bed, a half empty glass of water and an open bottle of lube on the bedside table, sprawled out in only a pair of sweatpants, laid out like the whore he so desperately wants to be.
Enji doesn’t bother to close the door as he approaches the bed. His gaze sweeps over the boy, eyes narrowing as he takes in everything. He’s kept a tight lid on his own tastes over the years, both for his own privacy and his family’s sake, but the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.
Of course Shouto wouldn’t know. If he did, he’d think twice about bringing home a boy that would get a rise out of Enji in more than one way.
He watches Bakugou’s chest as it rises and falls, slow and rhythmic, mouth slightly agape. There’s an attractive flush to his cheeks, a post-coital dusting of pink that makes Enji want to shove his face into the pillow he’s using—a position Bakugou is probably well accustomed to, given how much of a brat he is in daily life.
But he doesn’t do that, or at least not yet. Instead he touches Bakugou’s lips, pushing a thick finger past his teeth and gums, pressing against the soft heat of his tongue—good, he runs hot. Few can handle Enji’s body temperature without being scalded, but it seems like Bakugou is one of the lucky ones.
He removes his finger from the boy’s mouth and methodically unbuckles his belt, popping the button and pulling the zip, pushing his slacks down far enough to get his cock out. Enji has never been a man of impulse, but one of precedent and careful planning, so he’s thought about this for some time: getting himself in Bakugou’s mouth, shutting him up by fucking his throat.
Thinking about it gets him going, makes him grow hard against his palm as he takes himself in hand. Realistically, he knows it won’t all fit—it almost never does—his girth greater than the average mouth can handle. Most can take in the tip, eyes welling up with tears as they try to accommodate the stretch, jaws cracking at capacity when they try to swallow down any further than a few inches. If Bakugou were awake and willing, he’s sure the boy would rise to the challenge—but he’s not, and Enji doesn’t really care if he wakes up or not.
He prods against Bakugou’s lips, smearing a bead of precum over them. They’re surprisingly soft, but maybe it really isn’t that surprising; Bakugou is a hero and takes excellent care of himself, as he should in all aspects.
Or maybe it’s because he’s asking for it, nothing more than a simple slut.
It’s easy for Enji to pull his jaw open, pushing into the heat of his mouth. He grabs a fistful of blond hair and begins to rock his hips forward, wetting his shaft enough to slide in and out.
Enji allows himself a quiet groan, a private moment of pleasure all to himself. Bakugou is out like a light and his mouth feels damn good, better than some of the professionals Enji has paid for in the past, but he wants more—he needs to be deeper, needs to push as much of his cock inside Bakugou’s lithe body as he can possibly fit.
He pulls back and repositions, pulling Bakugou towards him so that his head dangles just off the edge of the bed. From here, Enji can push further and fuck into his throat; at least about halfway, before Bakugou’s mouth simply isn’t large enough to take any more.
The column of his neck bulges obscenely on every thrust, Enji’s cock clearly outlined in the narrow space of his esophagus. He uses an old trick to loosen him up: massaging Bakugou’s neck by hand, additional stimulation for himself as he feels the weight of his own grip through the boy’s throat. Anyone else would certainly be clawing and slapping at Enji’s thighs right now, sobbing and sniveling at being fucked without pause, but not Bakugou.
The little bastard is still asleep.
Enji pulls out and walks around to the other side of the bed, cock bobbing forward as he grabs Bakugou by his narrow hips. He yanks him backwards, close enough for Enji to hike him up and prop him into position—how he’s managed to remain unconscious through it all, Enji has no idea. Heavy sleeper, he supposes. He gets on the bed behind him and hooks his fingers in Bakugou’s waistband, sliding his sweatpants over his ass and pushing them all the way to his knees. Of course there’s bruises, and teeth marks too—quite a few of them, old and new, a testament to the salacious lifestyle Enji has had to clean up after, and his hole is still puffy when Enji spreads his legs for him, though at least he doesn’t see any of Shouto’s cum leaking out of him.
He’ll be plenty full when Enji is done with him, though.
He grabs the bottle of lube carelessly left out in the open, popping the cap and rubbing some on his fingers. He fully intends to get what he wants, but there’s no need for a trip to the emergency room afterwards—yet another incident Enji would have to pay for, just to keep things under wraps.
He spreads some on himself, and the remainder on Bakugou’s waiting hole. As he lines himself up, he realizes just how much he dwarfs Bakugou in every way: his height, build, overall stature. Bakugou isn’t small by any means, and yet Enji nearly envelopes the boy completely as he slides inside him.
Another quiet groan. Fuck, yes.
Bakugou is easy and pliant as Enji fucks into him, gripping his slim waist with both hands. His fingers meet in the middle and he can feel himself bulging through Bakugou’s lower belly, protruding from his stomach as Enji rearranges his guts—a personal favorite anecdote of Enji’s, since most boys Bakugou’s age would snap in half before he had a chance to appreciate it.
He doesn’t get much of a chance to appreciate it now, either. Just as he’s really getting into it, Bakugou starts to rouse—just a little, barely stirring in his sleep, and then suddenly all at once.
“Do you always take advantage of people when they’re trying to fucking sleep, old man?” Bakugou asks, his fingers digging into the sheets. He turns his head to look over his shoulder, hazy red eyes glaring at him through slitted lids. “Didn’t know you were such a perv.”
“Quiet, boy,” Enji tells him, annoyed—but unsurprised—that Bakugou immediately starts shooting his mouth off. “You wanted this.”
“Hah,” Bakugou says, a short bark of a laugh that tapers off into a groan. “Keep tellin’ yourself that, bastard.”
“Don’t speak to me that way,” Enji rebukes, shoving Bakugou’s face into the sheets. He thrusts particularly hard, practically gutting a carnal moan out of him. “You’re the one parading yourself around my home, acting like a slut.”
“Oh, my bad. Keep telling yourself that, daddy.” Bakugou laughs again, muffled by the mattress. “Icy Hot’ll be back soon. Is that what you’re gonna tell him, too?”
Enji really doesn’t care what Shouto thinks of what he’s doing or however Bakugou chooses to explain himself, so he doesn’t dignify him with an answer. What goes on in private, stays in private—a lesson Bakugou will learn today, by the time Enji is finished with him.
“You’re a goddamn hypocrite, y’know,” Bakugou continues, his words grunted in between Enji’s thrusts. “Getting us in trouble for—mmff—the same shit you do behind closed doors. Bet your fans would love to know their number one hero is really just a—”
Enji yanks Bakugou’s head up, just in time to hear the sound of the bedroom door open. “That’s the point,” he says, turning his head to look at Shouto. His son looks surprised—but not as much as Enji would expect him to be, considering the position he’s found them in. “I don’t care what you do, as long as you do it in private.”
He shoves Bakugou’s face into the pillow and picks up his pace, fucking him harder and faster, hunched over his son’s boyfriend as familiar heat and pressure coils in his gut. Bakugou shudders beneath him as Enji’s core temperature climbs higher, twin trails of smoke rising from the place where his fists grip the sheets. Enji’s lip curls at the boy’s inability to control his quirk, but a part of him is inwardly pleased—most would have lost control far earlier, which speaks volumes regarding Bakugou’s level of endurance. If he wasn’t such a pain in the ass, Enji would be impressed.
Enji finishes silently. The only sounds in the room are the loud smack of their hips as he bottoms out one final time, and the muffled bellow of Bakugou’s shouting as extremely hot, thick cum pumps into him. It’s a shock to the boy’s system, certainly, and Enji expected as much. He pulls out and dumps Bakugou into the bed, letting him collapse in the pool of his own spend strewn across the sheets.
Shouto hasn’t moved until now, when he finally steps away from the door and approaches the side of the bed. He picks up the forgotten glass of water, peering inside the glass. “You were supposed to drink it all,” he says to Bakugou, which immediately raises the hair on the back of Enji’s neck.
Bakugou flips him off, groaning into the pillow. “Got what you wanted, didn’t you? Fuck off.”
“So did you,” Shouto points out, looking at Bakugou, then at Enji.
“Shouto,” Enji warns, his voice low. He doesn’t like the way they’re talking; like they’ve done something that Enji doesn’t know about, something that he isn’t going to like in the slightest bit.
“You’re not as secretive as you think you are, old man,” Shouto says plainly. There’s a spiteful glimmer in his eyes, Enji’s own fiery blue glaring back at him on one side. “So unless you want everyone to know about what you just did, I suggest you leave us alone.”
Enji stands and pulls up his pants, looking down at his son. Just what is his protege trying to get at? “I’ve only been trying to protect you,” he says icily. “Both of you, and our family. Integrity is everything, Shouto. You’d do well to listen.”
“Integrity.” Shouto scoffs, then holds out the glass in his hand. “Is this what heroes with integrity do? Drug underage boys, then have sex with them while they’re unconscious?”
Enji reaches for the glass, plucking it from Shouto’s hand. If what Shouto’s suggesting is true, then this was a trap laid for Enji that he fell right into; hook, line, sinker.
The glass cracks and shatters in his grip, the remaining water splashing over his fist and onto the floor. “I’ve spent the last few months cleaning up after you,” he says, glass clinking to the floor as it rains from his open palm. “So if this is how you choose to repay me, go ahead. My record is clean, Shouto, and I’ve spent my career maintaining that image. If you want to ruin both your futures by starting a smear campaign against me, then that’s your choice.”
Enji brushes the glass from his fingers and steps away, heading for the door. He stops just before stepping out, but doesn’t turn to look at either of them. “I’d hoped that you would have learned by now,” he says remotely. “But if I have to teach you the hard way, I will. It’s your word against mine, Shouto.”