[while he's fully able and ready to make side dishes out of fish guts and broccoli stalks, refuse like banana peels, peanut shells, bones too oft boiled for a stock, and so forth are going into compost for the greenhouse. it's called recycling. there's a difference between leftovers and "trash" when you're not living in the alleys. bakugou'll raze people to the ground for throwing away leftovers, one for wasting the food, and two for being picky morons who avoided it until the food went bad! denji probably got away with his containers of scraps for a while, but bakugou was likely one of the outsiders who found what to him was a container of trash and recycled it. if they got into an argument about it later, so be it. you're not some alley cat chewing on a fishbone! and if he had to show why those items weren't going to waste, he'll take denji to the greenhouse for a full tour plus lesson in compost.
what's up with that? mostly because he's got a damn boner now and denji's talking about changing his bandages. dismissing his death is his proud flippant way of focusing on something more important: his life. very much an "i survived, bitches" person rather than lying in bed at night reflecting on a trauma he can't even remember. pain, drive, impact, darkness... and suddenly he was standing up again, knowing he had to move. he doesn't "remember" his own death. who the fuck does? so why dwell on it. when he can dwell instead on trying not to think about denji's lips on his skin, memories of his hands sliding between his legs, a warm breath on his nape, a strong chest pressing to his back, hips slotting with his own, a now-familiar girth and length filling him- FUCKING HELL!
so much for making it go away. flopping on the bed, he cussed under his breath and glares death at the ceiling. ceiling, now that denji's head's not in the way. frustration boils under his skin. he'd rather be looking at denji's pretty face than the stupid lines and gleams of his bedroom roof. these bastards couldn't pull him back just a few minutes later when the doctors were done redoing his dressings, so he could focus on his boyfriend rather than getting these damn scraps taken off again? ... why's denji not getting off the bed? so ready to glare at him as he putzes around the room, bakugou completely misses the part where those strong legs never left the bed itself. he tugs his head up from the pillow, eyes finding his boyfriend perched on his knees between his legs instead. fuck, he did that arched spine temptation where the sheet flows down his back to pool erotic around his waist on purpose!
fingers grip at his pants and bakugou growls in relief, surprise, and vexation. he curls his fingers in the bedding beside him, teeth gritting and muscles pulling taut as his boyfriend curls into his pants' rim and tugs down. abdominal definitions crunch on his core as he lifts his hips, using his heels and calves to arch his thighs and waist so denji can work his pants down. fuck, he'll take this if the half-devil's going for a compromise. his lower body's not in any rough shape. maybe some bruises from tumbling around, but those are mostly faded. until he's got his pants worked down to that uncomfortable level of his thighs. guh, he hates that feeling... which is completely lost once denji's warm breath ghosts over his tip and fingers wrap around his aching arousal. a half-choked groan of his lover's name wrangles from his throat, good arm lifting to run his fingers down his own face. fuck. even small kisses like that are intense thanks to the time passed between then and now. knees bend outward, spreading his legs as much as he can with his pants trapping his upper thighs. denji's gonna steal his breath like this.]
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what's up with that? mostly because he's got a damn boner now and denji's talking about changing his bandages. dismissing his death is his proud flippant way of focusing on something more important: his life. very much an "i survived, bitches" person rather than lying in bed at night reflecting on a trauma he can't even remember. pain, drive, impact, darkness... and suddenly he was standing up again, knowing he had to move. he doesn't "remember" his own death. who the fuck does? so why dwell on it. when he can dwell instead on trying not to think about denji's lips on his skin, memories of his hands sliding between his legs, a warm breath on his nape, a strong chest pressing to his back, hips slotting with his own, a now-familiar girth and length filling him- FUCKING HELL!
so much for making it go away. flopping on the bed, he cussed under his breath and glares death at the ceiling. ceiling, now that denji's head's not in the way. frustration boils under his skin. he'd rather be looking at denji's pretty face than the stupid lines and gleams of his bedroom roof. these bastards couldn't pull him back just a few minutes later when the doctors were done redoing his dressings, so he could focus on his boyfriend rather than getting these damn scraps taken off again? ... why's denji not getting off the bed? so ready to glare at him as he putzes around the room, bakugou completely misses the part where those strong legs never left the bed itself. he tugs his head up from the pillow, eyes finding his boyfriend perched on his knees between his legs instead. fuck, he did that arched spine temptation where the sheet flows down his back to pool erotic around his waist on purpose!
fingers grip at his pants and bakugou growls in relief, surprise, and vexation. he curls his fingers in the bedding beside him, teeth gritting and muscles pulling taut as his boyfriend curls into his pants' rim and tugs down. abdominal definitions crunch on his core as he lifts his hips, using his heels and calves to arch his thighs and waist so denji can work his pants down. fuck, he'll take this if the half-devil's going for a compromise. his lower body's not in any rough shape. maybe some bruises from tumbling around, but those are mostly faded. until he's got his pants worked down to that uncomfortable level of his thighs. guh, he hates that feeling... which is completely lost once denji's warm breath ghosts over his tip and fingers wrap around his aching arousal. a half-choked groan of his lover's name wrangles from his throat, good arm lifting to run his fingers down his own face. fuck. even small kisses like that are intense thanks to the time passed between then and now. knees bend outward, spreading his legs as much as he can with his pants trapping his upper thighs. denji's gonna steal his breath like this.]