"Ok... last question."
"P--Please... give me.. a breather..."
"I don't think so, Shitty Hair. Unless you want me to count this as a distraction?"
Kirishima's ribs tingled at what sounded more like a promise than a threat. He'd already felt Bakugo's digits wiggle there three times that day. And though that was supposed to be his tutoring session, the blond had learned too. He had learned that Kirishima's ribs were super sensitive to vibrating fingerpads, but also that after that warm-up, slow fingernails curling against the lower part of his ribcage could be even more effective at times. And the redhead wasn't looking forward to an encore. "No! No."
"I get it." Bakugo's slight smirk was dripping with venom. "You don't think you can do it."
"NO! That's not what it is!" retorted Kirishima immediately, his pencil clattering on the note-covered low table as his hands shot protectively to his armpits, shielding them from intrusion.
Loss of self-confidence carried the harshest sentence, and since it usually compounded with "being annoying" and "being loud", once the blond started burrowing into Kirishima's worst spot, he usually didn't stop. The redhead would experience something approaching mercy only if they had a test the next day and Bakugo's punishments risked cutting too much into the sorely-needed tutoring.
Unfortunately for Kirishima, he was a pretty ticklish guy. And though Bakugo seemed to lack the gleeful zeal from when he raked at his ribs, to say nothing of the utterly maniacal streak he acquired when he tortured his armpits, the methodical cruelty with which he tortured the redhead's bare soles was almost worse, in a way. It was the sheer creativity of it, the seemingly endless array of techniques and tools Bakugo experimented with whenever Kirishima made a mistake.
For the sake of expediency, they had started to start their tutoring sessions at the low table, with Kirishima's legs stretched under it and his feet (always already bare) next to the blond. The redhead knew that Bakugo would never mislead him on purpose, but there was no denying his delight when Kirishima made a mistake. A way not to be frustrated with them, Bakugo had claimed once, referring to himself of course.
Exploiting the proximity, he had even started drawing lines with just one finger up and down Kirishima's sole if he took too long to reply, progressively adding more the more he hesitated. A bit of a vicious cycle, not like the redhead dared to complain.
Bakugo was an artist of punishment, and Kirishima's soles were his canvas - sometimes literally. His big, broad, ticklish canvas.
And though anything that kept the blond away from his upper torse was usually welcome, Bakugo's latest addition - oil - had Kirishima reassessing his worst-case scenarios. Messing up second and third conditionals had earned him his tutor's fingernails, and hell if the oil didn't lend the torture a new level of escalation.
But if Bakugo was threatening to treat Kirishima's pleas for mercy as a matter of self-doubt, then...
"I'm... I'm ready."
Bakugo's smirk widened. "Good."
Kirishima curled his toes reflexively when he saw Bakugo's hand move, but no, the blond had just casually reached for something. Something he laid out on the table so that Kirishima could see it: a flat hairbrush with countless plastic ball-tipped bristles.
It was easy for the redhead to guess what it was for; and he had strong suspicions about just how unbearable it would feel.
No mistakes.
Feigning obliviousness to Kirishima's anxiety, Bakugo fixed his gaze on the textbook. "If I had studied, I wouldn't be in this mess. Is this proper English?"
Kirishima went pale.
"You know this one." The blond's reassurance, sincere though it was, clashed with the way his pupils casually landed on the hairbrush. "Think about the conditionals you know."
Kirishima clasped his temples. Think brain, think. He tried to ignore the gravitational pull of the hairbrush. It's not a first conditional, that's for sure. "Wouldn't be" is a third... no, second conditional. What is it matched with?
He yelped when he felt Bakugo's nails curl against his right sole, so much so that his leg jolted and he hit the underside of the table with his knee. A reminder that the oil had lost none of its potency. But Bakugo's strict stare had him stretch his leg and move his sole closer to its soon-to-be torturer immediately. "Tick-tock, Shitty Hair."
"Hadn't"... "Had not"... is that a second conditional? No, it's a third! And "Wouldn't" is a second... so...!
"No, it isn't!" yelled Kirishima, way too enthusiastically.
Bakugo smiled. "And why is that?"
"Because you mixed second and third conditionals!!!"
"That's right," conceded Bakugo, and he lifted up the low-table, moving it to the side.
Is it... is it over?
"I did mix second and third conditionals. It's called a mixed conditional."
Kirishima's triumphant expression froze on his face.
Bakugo stretched his legs horizontally and patted his lap.
No.
"Feet here, Shitty Hair."
"But!! BUT!!!!" Kirishima had no idea what to say. He wanted nothing more than to press his soles flat against the floor, but he knew he would incur even harsher punishment. Still.... an armlock... plus the brush... and the oil...
"No buts. You know the terms. You're not planning on wasting my time, are you?"
Kirishima's heels were resting on Bakugo's leg half a second later, staining the fabric, but neither of them cared.
Bakugo leaned forward, gathering both of Kirishima's ankles in an armlock. He was already brandishing the hairbrush.
"How... how long..."
"Well, we finished about 7 minutes early."
Kirishima's eyes bulged.
"WaIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHAAHAAHHHH!!!!"
The hairbrush struck once, running horizontally across both of Kirishima's oiled soles, drowning his protest with the sound of his own voice.
Holy shit. That was unbearable. There was no way he...
"And I think we can be 5 minutes late," cooed Bakugo... and then the hairbrush resumed its unceremonious motion, scraping at full speed as it would for the next 12 minutes.
Another shrieking masterpiece by Bakugo.
