The hum of the city was a lullaby compared to the buzzing in my ears. For years, it had been the electric crackle of Quirks overloading, a symptom of pushing myself too hard for people who saw me as nothing more than a walking power outlet. Now, it was the phantom feeling of electricity dancing under my skin, a constant reminder of what I used to be.
"Kaminari Denki, the human charger," they'd called me at U.A. A joke, sure, but one that felt like a thousand volts searing through my self-worth. The breaking point wasn't any one event, but the slow, creeping realization that I was a tool, not a person. So, one starless night, I left. No note, no goodbye. Just a whisper of goodbye into the empty dorm room and the promise to myself to never look back.
The League found me. Not really found, more like I let them. They saw something in my discontent, a raw, untapped potential beneath the Pikachu facade. Shigaraki, surprisingly, offered me something nobody else ever had: acceptance. Not just for my Quirk, but for me, whoever that was.
Years passed. I became Voltage, a top-tier villain, information broker, and surprisingly, a sought-after party host. My penthouse, overlooking the Musutafu skyline, paid for itself a hundred times over with the secrets I traded and the illicit deals brokered within its walls. Ironic, wasn't it? The boy who was once used for his electricity now thrived on the power of information.
I was walking back from a particularly tense meeting with Shigaraki, the kind where Nomu drool stained the floor and the air crackled with barely suppressed rage. The alley was dark, reeking of garbage and desperation – a far cry from my meticulously curated life. That's when I saw him.
Shinsou Hitoshi.
My breath hitched. It had been years, but the sight of him still sent a jolt through me, stronger than any Quirk-related surge. He was different, harder, the soft edges of his youth sharpened into the defined lines of a pro hero. He was wearing a dark jacket and jeans under the hero suit. A hero. My hero, or the one I used to dream being saved by.
He hadn't seen me yet. He was looking down at his phone, the dim light illuminating the exhaustion etched on his face. My heart hammered against my ribs. He had always been able to see through me, even when I was masking my insecurities with a grin and a thumbs-up. He had understood.
A reckless impulse seized me. A need to break the ice, to shatter the years of silence, with something shocking, something me.
I sauntered closer, a smirk playing on my lips. "Well, well, well. What's a hero like you doing in a place like this, Shinsou?"
He looked up, his eyes widening in disbelief. "Kaminari?" He said my real name. Not Voltage. Kaminari. The way he said it was like a prayer, a question, a curse.
"The one and only," I purred, leaning against the grimy brick wall. "Though, these days, I go by Voltage. You know, keeps things interesting."
He didn't say anything, just stared. I could see the gears turning in his head, the confusion warring with… something else. Something that made my pulse quicken.
"You always were a sucker for a good story," I continued, my voice a low, suggestive hum. "So, hero, you want to hear how the pathetic U.A. dropout became a king of the underworld?" I took a step closer. "Or maybe you'd prefer a demonstration?"
I reached out, letting my fingers trail lightly down his chest. He flinched, but didn't pull away. His eyes were fixed on mine, dilated, pupils swallowing the blue of his irises.
"Don't you touch me," he growled, but the words lacked conviction.
"Or what?" I teased, my smirk widening. "Gonna use your Quirk on me, hero? Make me confess all my villainous secrets? I'm sure I can think of a few secrets you'd be very interested in."
I could feel the heat radiating off him. His jaw was clenched, his fists balled at his sides. And then I saw it. The unmistakable bulge pressing against the fabric of his jeans.
My laughter bubbled up, a surprised, almost hysterical sound. "Oh, Shinsou," I gasped, stepping back. "Still have a thing for the bad boys, huh?"
His face darkened. He lunged, grabbing my arm and slamming me against the wall. The air whooshed out of my lungs. He was strong, stronger than I remembered.
And then he kissed me.
It was brutal, desperate, a collision of pent-up frustration and something… more. His lips were hard, demanding, his tongue forcing its way into my mouth. I was stunned, disoriented. But beneath the shock, something else stirred. A familiar ache, a long-dormant craving.
I kissed him back.
It was a mistake. A glorious, devastating mistake. All the years of carefully constructed indifference crumbled. The memories flooded back – the stolen glances in class, the quiet conversations in the lunch line, the single, lingering touch of his hand on mine when we studied together.
He deepened the kiss, his hand snaking down to my belt. He unzipped my pants, his fingers closing around my cock. I moaned, a guttural sound that surprised even me. He rubbed slowly, deliberately, pushing me to the edge of oblivion. I gasped with each stroke.
And then, just as I was about to climax, he stopped.
He pulled away, leaving me panting, confused, my body throbbing with unmet desire, the alley feeling suddenly cold. He smirked, a cruel, knowing expression on his face.
"Sleep well, kitten," he whispered, and then he was gone, melting back into the shadows, leaving me alone with my ragged breath and the ghost of his touch.
Days turned into weeks. I tried to ignore it, to dismiss it as a momentary lapse, a weakness. But the memory of his kiss, the feel of his hand… it haunted me. I found myself avoiding certain areas of the city, the places where I might run into him.
Then, one night, it happened again.
I was in another alley, a different part of town, trying to track down a lead on a new hero support item. I heard footsteps behind me, and before I could react, I was grabbed and dragged deeper into the darkness.
I struggled, but my attacker was too strong. I was pinned against the wall, a hand clamped over my mouth. I couldn't see who it was.
Then I felt it. The familiar touch, the slow, deliberate pressure on my cock through my pants. My breath hitched.
His hand moved faster, harder. I moaned into his palm, my body betraying me. I knew who it was. I knew.
Everything after that was a blur. A haze of pleasure and pain, of whispered promises and unspoken desires. He spun me around, his teeth scraping against my neck, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. He ripped my boxers, his hands grabbing my ass.
He stripped me naked from the waist down. The air was cold against my skin, but my body was burning from the inside.
He teased the head of my cock, and then, with one swift movement, he pushed inside me.
The pain was excruciating, a sharp, tearing sensation that made me scream into his hand.
"Shhh, kitten," he whispered in my ear, his voice rough, possessive. "Don't wake the neighbors."
Kitten. That was it. That was the final confirmation.
I let go, surrendering to the sensation. He fucked me against the wall, his movements brutal and relentless. I couldn't think, couldn't breathe, couldn't do anything but whimper and moan as he took me apart.
After what felt like an eternity, he finally stopped. He pulled out of me, leaving me trembling and weak. He dressed me, his touch surprisingly gentle. Then he led me out of the alley and back to his apartment.
We didn't talk. We didn't have to. We both knew what was happening.
The next morning, I woke up in his bed, naked and entangled in the sheets. Shinsou was gone. A note laid on the pillow next to me. It simply had his address.
Later that day, Shinsou had a pro hero meeting. He was quiet, withdrawn, which wasn't unusual. But there was a faint smile playing on his lips, a subtle glow in his eyes that made his colleagues uneasy. He brushed aside their questions, offering only vague answers. Mina and Mineta kept trying to tease him about being in "love" but he ignored them. He wasn't in love, he wouldn't allow himself to be, but he was satisfied which was enough.
Back at the League's hideout, I tried to explain my disheveled appearance, my limp, my vacant stare. The others just laughed, assuming I'd finally found someone who could drink me under the table. I didn't correct them. I couldn't.
My life was a mess, a twisted jumble of conflicting desires and impossible choices. I was a villain who craved the touch of a hero. A liar who longed for the truth. A broken man who was, somehow, starting to feel whole again.
But for how long? And at what cost?