|•Bakubottom oneshot's•|

A tireless game| monobaku-part 2

Summeray : You can't avoid him, he’s in the air. Or: the times when Monoma can help Bakugou, and the time he can’t.

Ao3 author  :  All credits to | ferries |

Chapter 2 -

Paris, fair maiden Paris who carried in the folds of her gown rat droppings and the decadent stench of human ooze. Paris, with her winding boulevards and twining tunnels that ran like veins, where cold weather and colder people prowled. Paris, where he’d loved and lost and mourned; Neito couldn’t wait to leave it all behind. He promised himself he’d move after one month, then two, three, four, and then, before he knew it, before he could even fish his vomit-stained dignity from out of the gutters, he’d already spent two years in this shithole. 

He lamented this all the way to the club, cursing his own foolishness, cursing his bitch of an editor (at the moment she was the scapegoat to blame for delaying his future-planning). She’d taken one look at his most recent script and dismissed it as ‘hackneyed’. Hackneyed! Him! He was Neito Monoma, off-(off-off-)Broadway playwright, damn it! Underground American theatre was hardly regarded as glamorous in these circles, granted, but at least his previous editor had had the decency to feign interest. Fuck them all, anyhow. He had half a mind to simply pack his bags and leave this Parisian-brand snobbery in the dust. By now he was used to it: the feat of sweeping into a foreign city with nothing but a suitcase in hand, carrying on the next day.

Frustrated in a way he couldn’t articulate, he tried to focus on the projected trajectory for the night. The original plan had been binned; he was now in the mood to direct his irritation toward some poor deserving alpha with an O-dom fetish. The wind howled around him and he shrank into his coat, glad that the familiar doorway was at least in sight.

Tucked away inside a refined Haussmann-style block, framed by muted neon, the venue appeared far too respectable for what it really was: a sex club, where the hosts offered condoms and the willing offered flesh. Neito stepped inside, unwound his scarf. Immediately he was greeted by a scent both familiar and unfamiliar, faintly smouldering, distinctly omega. His first thought: impossible! Everything in his past had been left behind, scattered like ashes across cities, states, countries; he’d taken care not to leave a speck clinging to his person. But scents never lied.

He rushed through the cloakroom, not even bothering to shrug off his coat. Inside the club proper, snare drums and thrumming synths threatened to swallow him in their rhythms, but he powered on with a single-minded focus. The first person he bumped into was a regular by the name of Antoine.

“Ah, Neito! What’s the rush?”

“That scent,” Neito said, panting, trying not to cough. “Where— whose is it?”

“I believe they’d been keeping a slave omega in the basement here,” Antoine said. “A couple of rowdy alphas broke in and now they’re, well… I shan’t say. This place has really gone downhill, my friend.”

“What are you on about? What slave?”

“Well, how would I know? All I heard is that they’re keeping it for a few weeks at most.”

Having heard enough, Neito headed for the door that led to the back alley. He ran past gyrating bodies and a crowded bar, passed over leering glares that never stopped following him even as he reached the exit. As soon as he yanked the door open, it hit him: the scent of pain and desperation, and above all else, the acidity of bergamot he had never forgotten.