Work Text:
The late afternoon sun slanted through the tall windows of the art studio, painting the room in warm gold and long shadows. The air smelled of turpentine and dried clay, the usual hum of students long since gone, leaving only the faint creak of wooden floors underfoot. Midoriya Izuku adjusted the straps of his backpack, fingers twitching at his sides as he glanced around the near-empty classroom. He wasn’t sure why he’d agreed to this shared project, Midnight had called it. A collaborative piece. As if he and Bakugo hadn’t nearly burned down the last lab they’d been forced to work in together. And now Shinsou was here too, leaning against one of the easels with that infuriatingly calm smirk, his purple-tinted hair catching the light like a bruise.
Midoriya swallowed hard. The room felt too small suddenly.
Midnight sauntered in, her heels clicking against the floor, her skintight bodysuit hugging every curve like a second skin. She dropped a large, blank canvas onto the central worktable with a thud that made Midoriya jump. “Alright, listen up,” she purred, crossing her arms under her ample chest, the movement making the fabric strain. “You three are gonna work on this together. One piece, three colors. Green for you, Midoriya ” She flicked a finger toward him, and he felt his face burn. “Orange for our resident explosive over here.” Bakugo scoffed, already rolling his eyes, but the way his gaze lingered on Midnight’s hips didn’t go unnoticed. “And purple for our dear Shinsou.” Shinsou inclined his head, amused.
Midoriya’s stomach twisted. Green. Of course. Like he was some kind of overgrown plant, something safe and unassuming. Not like Bakugo’s orange bold, impossible to ignore, the color of fire and warning signs. And Shinsou’s purple, deep and rich, the kind of shade that made you think of velvet and secrets and things best tasted in the dark.
Midnight smirked, as if she could hear his thoughts. “You’ve got two hours. Don’t fuck it up.” With that, she turned on her heel and left, the door clicking shut behind her with an ominous finality.
Silence.
Midoriya’s pulse hammered in his throat. He could feel Bakugo’s glare burning into the side of his face, could smell the sharp, citrusy tang of his shampoo mixing with the faint, musky scent of Shinsou’s cologne. The latter stepped closer, his shoulder brushing Midoriya’s as he reached for a tube of purple paint. “Relax,” Shinsou murmured, voice low, almost a purr. “It’s just paint.”
“Yeah, just paint,” Bakugo sneered, snatching the orange tube with enough force to make the table tremble. “Like we’re gonna make some fuckin’ masterpiece with this shit.” He gestured wildly at Midoriya, who flinched.
Shinsou chuckled, the sound dark and knowing. “Oh, I don’t know. I think Izu’s got a very particular eye for detail.” His fingers grazed Midoriya’s wrist as he handed him the green paint, and Midoriya’s breath hitched. Accidental? No. Nothing about Shinsou was accidental.
Midoriya’s hands shook as he squeezed the tube, the acrid scent of acrylic filling his nose. He tried to focus on the canvas, but his awareness was a live wire, sparking at every shift in the air. Bakugo’s heat radiated from his left, the guy practically vibrating with restrained energy, his thigh pressing against the edge of the table. Shinsou, on his right, was all deliberate stillness, his breath warm against Midoriya’s ear when he leaned in to “adjust” the angle of his brush. “You’re holding it too tight,” he murmured. “Loosen up. Let it flow.”
Midoriya’s grip faltered. The brush slipped, a glob of green splattering onto the canvas right where it met the edge of Bakugo’s designated space.
“The fuck, nerd?” Bakugo’s hand shot out, grabbing Midoriya’s wrist before he could pull away. His fingers were rough, calloused, hot. Midoriya’s entire body locked up, his cock twitching traitorously in his jeans. Bakugo’s eyes flicked down and a slow, wicked grin spread across his face. “Oh. Ohhh.” His voice dropped, rough and teasing. “Guess someone likes getting manhandled, huh?”
Midoriya’s face burned. “I—I—”
Shinsou’s laugh was a dark chuckle, his hand suddenly on Midoriya’s lower back, fingers splayed possessively. “Careful, Kacchan. He might just explode if you push too hard.” His thumb traced a slow circle over the fabric of Midoriya’s shirt, right above the waistband of his jeans. The touch was maddening, a tease of pressure that made Midoriya’s hips jerk forward before he could stop himself.
Bakugo’s grip tightened. “Fucker’s got a point.” His breath was hot against Midoriya’s neck now, his body crowding in from behind. The table dug into Midoriya’s hips as Bakugo pressed closer, the hard ridge of his cock unmistakable against Midoriya’s ass. “You’re such a fuckin’ mess, Deku. Always squirming, always reacting.” His free hand joined Shinsou’s, sliding up under Midoriya’s shirt, fingers skimming over his stomach. “Bet you’d love it if we both touched you at once, wouldn’t you?”
Midoriya’s breath came in short, sharp gasps. His cock was aching, straining against his zipper, the denim too tight, too rough. Shinsou’s lips brushed the shell of his ear. “Tell us, Izu. Do you want that?” His tongue flicked out, wet and hot, tracing the curve of Midoriya’s ear. “Do you want both of us?”
The brushes clattered to the floor, forgotten. Midoriya’s hands clenched on the edge of the table, his knuckles white. Bakugo’s teeth grazed his neck, sharp and possessive, while Shinsou’s hand slid lower, popping the button of Midoriya’s jeans with a practiced flick. The zipper gave way with a whisper, and then oh god Shinsou’s fingers were wrapping around Midoriya’s cock, stroking him through his underwear.
“Fuck,” Bakugo groaned against his skin, his own hips rolling, grinding his erection against Midoriya’s ass. “Look at him. Already leaking.” His hand joined Shinsou’s, shoving past the waistband of Midoriya’s briefs, their fingers tangling together as they gripped him.
Midoriya whimpered, his head falling back against Bakugo’s shoulder. The dual pressure Shinsou’s long, clever fingers, Bakugo’s rough, demanding grip was too much, his hips bucking helplessly into their touches. “P-please—”
“Please what?” Shinsou’s voice was a dark murmur, his thumb swiping over the slick head of Midoriya’s cock, spreading the precome in slow, maddening circles. “Use your words, Izu. Tell us exactly what you want.”
Bakugo’s chuckle was a filthy sound, his hand sliding up to wrap around Midoriya’s throat, tilting his head to the side. “Yeah, beg for it.” His lips crashed onto Midoriya’s, hot and bruising, his tongue forcing its way past Midoriya’s parted lips. The kiss was dirty, all teeth and demand, Bakugo’s free hand squeezing Midoriya’s cock hard enough to make his vision white out at the edges.
Shinsou’s fingers never stopped moving, stroking in tight, twisting motions that had Midoriya’s thighs trembling. “That’s it,” he murmured, his own breath ragged. “Let us hear you.”
Midoriya broke the kiss with a gasp, his body arching between them. “I—I want—both—fuck, please—”
Bakugo groaned, his grip on Midoriya’s throat tightening just enough to make him lightheaded. “Good boy.” His other hand joined Shinsou’s, their fingers working in tandem, pumping Midoriya’s cock with long, relentless strokes. “Gonna make you come so hard, Deku. Gonna watch you drip all over this fuckin’ canvas.”
Shinsou’s lips found Midoriya’s again, softer than Bakugo’s but no less possessive, his tongue sliding against Midoriya’s in slow, deep strokes. The contrast of Bakugo’s rough, demanding touches and Shinsou’s sinuous, teasing ones was madness. Midoriya’s orgasm crashed over him with a broken cry, his cock pulsing in their grips, ropes of come splattering onto the canvas in thick, messy streaks.
Bakugo’s laugh was a filthy, satisfied sound, his hand still wrapped around Midoriya’s throat as he ground his own erection against Midoriya’s ass. “Look at that. Art.” His voice was rough, strained. “Now my turn.”
Shinsou pulled back just enough to smirk, his own cock a thick outline in his pants. “Oh, I think we can do better than that.” His hand slid down to cup Bakugo through his jeans, squeezing. “Don’t you, Kacchan?”
After a long, charged stare that stretches far past comfortable, something in Bakugo finally snaps.
The air between them has been tight all evening every glance lingering too long, every brush of shoulders sending sparks skittering under skin. Shinsou opens his mouth to say something probably a smug little comment, something designed to meddle.
He never gets the chance.
Bakugo moves first.
His hand fists suddenly in the front of Shinsou’s shirt, fabric bunching tight in his grip as he drags him forward. The motion is sharp, decisive, leaving no room for argument. Shinsou stumbles the half-step between them, breath hitching,
And then Bakugo’s mouth crashes into his.
It isn’t soft. It isn’t careful. It’s hungry.
Teeth graze. Lips press hard enough to bruise. Bakugo kisses like he’s been holding back for too damn long, like this is the only thing that will quiet the tension coiled tight in his chest. Shinsou makes a startled sound that melts into a low, steady exhale as his hands come up automatically, gripping Bakugo’s waist to keep them both balanced.
The kiss deepens, turns reckless. Bakugo’s grip tightens in Shinsou’s shirt, holding him exactly where he wants him, angling his head to take more. Shinsou responds in kind slow at first, deliberate, then sharper, matching heat with heat.
The world narrows to breath and friction and the faint sound of Izuku’s inhale somewhere behind them.
When Bakugo finally pulls back, it’s only barely foreheads nearly touching, breaths mingling.
Shinsou’s lips are swollen. His eyes are dark.
But Bakugo doesn’t look satisfied.
His gaze flicks past Shinsou’s shoulder.
Izuku has been watching.
Not shocked. Not intervening.
Watching.
Green eyes wide but steady. Cheeks flushed. Hands curled slightly at his sides like he’s resisting the urge to step forward.
There’s something unreadable in his expression want, maybe. Or challenge. Or both.
Bakugo’s hand slips from Shinsou’s shirt, trailing down slowly as he steps sideways, shifting his attention without breaking eye contact with Izuku. The change is deliberate. Controlled this time.
Shinsou turns just enough to follow the movement, lips curving faintly as he catches on.
Up close, Izuku’s breath stutters. “K-Kacchan—”
Bakugo doesn’t answer.
Bakugo forces Izuku forward, palms flat against the canvas on either side of his head. The paint is still tacky, cool against overheated skin. Orange smears beneath Izuku’s cheek where he turns his face, breath coming unevenly.
Bakugo’s grip is firm at his hips, possessive rather than cruel, fingers digging in just enough to remind him he’s there. He leans in, capturing Izuku’s mouth in a hard, claiming kiss teeth grazing, tongue demanding. It’s messy. It tastes like sweat and acrylic and something electric.
Behind them, Shinsou exhales slowly.
He doesn’t rush. His fingertips trail down Izuku’s spine with deliberate softness, tracing the curve of each vertebra as if committing it to memory. “Look at you,” he murmurs, voice low and velvety. “Already such a mess for us, and we’ve barely started.”
Izuku trembles at the contrast—the heat of Bakugo pressed solid against him, the slow, almost reverent touch at his back.
Bakugo huffs a breath against his lips. “Fuckin’ pathetic,” he growls, but there’s no real bite to it. His thumb drags across Izuku’s lower lip before he nips at it, not hard enough to hurt, just enough to pull another shaky sound from him.
One wrist is captured and lifted above his head, pinned gently but decisively against the canvas. The rough fabric scrapes against his skin as he shifts. Shinsou steps closer, fingers sliding around to rest at Izuku’s waist, then lower, teasing the line of his hip.
“Tell us what you want,” Shinsou whispers near his ear. “Or should we just take?”
Izuku’s thoughts scatter. The air feels too thin. His pulse is everywhere—throat, wrists, hips.
“I—I…”
Bakugo’s hand tightens briefly at his hip. “Use your words, Deku.”
The heat between them builds again, not frantic this time, but steady. Intentional. Izuku’s breath stutters as Shinsou’s touch drifts over sensitive skin, slow and knowing. Bakugo’s mouth finds his jaw, then his neck, pressing open-mouthed kisses that leave warmth blooming in their wake.
“Both,” Izuku finally manages, voice thin but honest. “I want… both of you.”
Silence hangs for half a heartbeat.
Then Bakugo exhales sharply, almost like a laugh. “Yeah,” he mutters. “Thought so.”
Their movements shift—not reckless, but coordinated. Bakugo keeps him anchored, steady and grounding, while Shinsou’s hands guide, coax, explore. Izuku feels surrounded, overwhelmed in the best possible way. Every touch is deliberate. Every reaction noticed.
“Who do you belong to?” Shinsou asks softly, not demanding—just curious.
Izuku’s answer comes without hesitation this time. “Both of you.”
The admission changes something.
Bakugo presses his forehead briefly to the back of Izuku’s shoulder, breath warm. Shinsou’s fingers curl gently at his waist, steadying him as sensation crests again—intense, consuming, but never out of control.
The studio was quiet except for their breathing.
When it breaks over him, it’s quieter than before. A shuddering exhale. A soft, helpless sound. Bakugo’s hold tightens reflexively, and Shinsou murmurs praise against his skin until the tremors fade.
For a moment, none of them move.
Shinsou is the first to shift, steadying Izuku carefully. “Easy,” he says, brushing damp curls back from his forehead.
Bakugo steps back just enough to grab a rag from the table, tossing it toward Izuku’s chest. “Clean up,” he mutters gruffly. “We’re not done with the project yet.”
Izuku lets out a shaky laugh, wiping paint from his skin. “The canvas…”
All three of them turn to look at it.
The canvas is smeared beyond recognition green tangled through orange and purple, palm prints and streaks layered together. Ruined.
Or remade.
The colors don’t clash anymore. They blend violent orange cutting through deep purple shadows, vivid green threading between them, binding everything together. There’s texture where hands pressed too hard, where fingers dragged instead of brushes.
It’s chaotic.
It’s intimate.
It’s honest.
Shinsou tilts his head. “Still think green is boring?”
Izuku smiles, slow and warm. “Not anymore.”
Bakugo was the first to pull away properly, running a hand through his hair, chest rising and falling. “Shit,” he muttered, glancing at the clock. “We’ve got, like, twenty minutes.”
Midoriya blinked, still dazed. Twenty minutes?
Shinsou huffed a soft laugh behind him. “We might’ve… lost track of time.”
Midoriya looked down at himself — at the paint streaked across his stomach, smeared over his hips, at the handprints pressed into his skin like evidence. His face went scarlet. “O-oh my god. The canvas—”
Bakugo snorted. “It’s abstract. Looks intentional.”
It… kind of did. The violent orange slashes clashed beautifully with the rich purple shadows and the vivid green spirals threading through everything. It was messy. Raw. Emotional.
Like them.
Shinsou reached past him to grab a rag, his fingers brushing lightly down Midoriya’s spine in a way that made him shiver. “We should clean up before Midnight comes back and thinks we murdered someone.”
Bakugo barked out a laugh. “She’d probably congratulate us.”
Still, they moved slower now, more aware of each other in a different way. The frantic edge had dulled into something warm. Bakugo helped Midoriya straighten his clothes with surprising care, tugging his shirt down and muttering, “You’re a damn disaster.” But his hands lingered.
Shinsou wiped stray paint from Midoriya’s collarbone, thumb tracing just a little too slowly before pulling away.
Midoriya’s heart wouldn’t calm down.
This is real.
Not just tension. Not just teasing. Not just heat.
The three of them stood in front of the canvas together, staring at what they’d made.
“It needs balance,” Midoriya said softly, slipping back into analysis mode. “The green is too centralized. If we draw it outward—”
Bakugo rolled his shoulders. “Then do it.”
This time when they painted, it was deliberate.
Green threaded through orange like vines through flame. Purple shaded the edges, deepening contrast, creating depth where there had been chaos. They worked close shoulders bumping, hands brushing but the energy had shifted.
Not explosive.
Intentional.
Connected.
The final piece looked nothing like three separate colors forced together.
It looked like something that only existed because they had collided.
The door clicked open.
Midnight stepped back into the room.
Her sharp eyes swept across the studio the slightly disheveled trio, the faint smear of paint on Bakugo’s jaw he’d missed, the lingering flush high on Midoriya’s cheeks, the way Shinsou stood just a little too close.
Then her gaze landed on the canvas.
Silence stretched.
Bakugo crossed his arms defensively. “It’s abstract.”
Midnight hummed, stepping closer. Her heels tapped against the floor as she examined the layered strokes, the texture where paint had been pressed by hands instead of brushes.
“Interesting use of… physicality,” she said slowly.
Midoriya’s entire soul attempted to leave his body.
Shinsou, infuriatingly composed, said, “We explored emotional vulnerability through color merging.”
Midnight’s lips curved.
“I can see that.”
She turned back toward them, arms folding beneath her chest. “Art isn’t about staying clean. It’s about risk. You three clearly understood the assignment.”
Midoriya’s jaw dropped slightly.
Bakugo looked almost offended that they weren’t in trouble.
Shinsou just smirked.
“Clean the studio before you leave,” Midnight added lightly. “And try not to destroy school property next time.”
The door shut behind her once more.
The three of them stood in stunned silence for half a second.
Then Bakugo let out a disbelieving laugh.
“Told you she wouldn’t care.”
Midoriya stared at the painting again, warmth blooming in his chest.
Green wasn’t boring.
Not when it tangled with fire and shadow.
Shinsou nudged him gently. “So,” he murmured. “Same time next week?”
Bakugo smirked. “Next project’s mine to plan.”
Midoriya felt heat rise to his face again but this time he didn’t look away.
“Yeah,” he said softly.
Yeah.