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Paint you Wings

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“Kirishima, how do you initiate sex?” Todoroki asks. It’s late on a Thursday and Kirishima and Kaminari had, unfortunately, run into Todoroki while he was making tea. Kirishima blanks for a moment, but smiles broadly, while Kaminari looks vaguely horrified beside him. Kirishima’s hair is in a tamer style than when they were first years, but his voice is just as loud and boisterous as ever, which makes Todoroki briefly rethink his decision to ask Kirishima any kind of sensitive question.

“Stripped down, hands and knees on the bed usually does the trick!”

“Kirishima!” Kaminari exclaims, but Kirishima remains without an air of modesty to him.

“I see. Thanks,” Todoroki says, taking his tea and exiting.

“Why would you say that!” Kaminari asks when Todoroki turns the corner.

“Cause that’s what I do, and it never fails,” Kirishima says, a thumbs up and rather obscene grin cracking his face.

“Why, why would he ask that?”

“I dunno, man. Todoroki’s weird sometimes.”

“You have no idea what he actually asked you, do you?” Kaminari asks. Sometimes it feels like there’s a single brain cell that their trio shares, and it seems that Kaminari is the one holding it right now. Kirishima offers no response, so Kaminari sighs and continues. “I’m pretty sure he was asking how he can initiate sex, not how you weird fuckers go about your mating process. Which again. Why, why, would he want to know?”

“Shit, you don’t think he’ll actually do it, do you!?” Kaminari shrugs.

“If Midoriya has a heart attack in the next few days, we’ll know.”

“Wait, they haven’t done it yet? They’ve been together over two years!”

“You forget it’s Midoriya, who’s brain short circuits whenever Todoroki does something cute, and Todoroki, who seems to have no clue how to relationship.”

“Still…” A shrug and Kirishima’s retreating back is the only answer he gets.

 


 

Shouto and Izuku had been dating since Shouto was barely sixteen. He’s now almost eighteen, and they haven’t gotten past making out and handjobs. Part of this, Shouto surmises, is because he has no idea how to indicate he wants to go further. Also, because up until recently he wasn’t sure he did want to. Words his father has said to him over the years echo in his head, beating him down whenever he thinks about pushing their relationship.

“No one is ever going to choose you with your poor attitude and that face.”

“Your own mother didn’t want you.”

“You should focus on your studies, that’s the only thing you have to look forward to in life.”

“You’re a disgrace, Shouto. A pathetic disgrace.”

“You have too much of your mother in you.”

His bicep throbbed. The injury was over a year old, but somehow, when his mind dwelled on his father, the wound seemed to ache. It was a reminder of the last time he’d gone home, the time his father had found out he was romantically involved with Izuku.

His father had never hurt him outside of training, so it had blindsided him when he’d been backhanded into the wall as soon as the door had clicked closed behind him. Even beyond the blood rushing in his ears, he’d heard Fuyumi’s weak pleas for his father to calm himself.

He’d gripped Shouto’s right arm with his hand ablaze, the teenager still trying to untangle his thoughts when the pain seared through him.

Izuku’s eyes had burned when he’d seen Shouto the next day.

“You have to tell somebody, Shouto!” He’d pleaded.

“I can’t.” They’d had this argument so many times, or at least variations of it. It had taken time for Shouto to even realize what his father did to him was wrong. He had thought that kind of training was common for up and coming heroes. Finding out it wasn’t though, it didn’t change anything. Not really. “You know I can’t.” All-might was gone, retired, and the world couldn’t afford to find out their new number one hero beat his child; that’s if they believed him at all. A child’s word against that of the top hero. He could practically hear people laughing at his claims.

“You have to do something. I can’t stand to see you hurt like this.”

Then don’t look at it.

In the end, they’d made a compromise. They’d told All-might and Eraserhead what was going on, made them swear the knowledge wouldn’t leave UA and they’d used the school’s administration to keep Shouto from having to go home at all. Citing this that or the other whenever Endeavor tried to drag his son from the school.

It didn’t fix anything, but it helped Izuku to know his boyfriend was three-floors up, and that he was safe.

 


 

Shouto hears the assailant before he sees him, pivoting on his heel and sending a blanket of ice in that direction. He’s been praised before for his reflexes, for being able to sense things before they happen. It’s not really all that impressive in its reality. He has low vision in his left eye, so he’s trained his hearing to be more astute than others’. It’s also why most of his attacks are far larger than they really need to be; his precision and depth perception is still something he’s perfecting. The thing about his hearing though, it’s downfall lies in living in a dorm with nineteen other overly loud teenagers, some of which like to have sex directly above him. Loudly. He’s contemplated freezing the ceiling on multiple occasions.

The tang of a knife being unsheathed has him whipping his head around in time for the blade to speed past him, nicking the cartilage on his ear, shaving off several red hairs, and a second lodges itself between the tendons of his wrist. It’s far too reminiscent of the alley fight with Stain, and now Shouto is pissed. Now he’s going to have to take time to see Recovery Girl instead of getting some god-damn sleep. He turns to the villain, who looks like he’s contemplating his mistake and then ice is sprouting forwards and claiming him up to the nostrils.

A fine frost leaves his lips. He looks down at the knife lodged in his arm. He could pull it out, but then he would risk bleeding. He could leave it, but then it could get in the way. He takes a deep breath. This is going to fucking suck.

He ignites his arm where the knife is, heating the blade until the bit still protruding is red hot and his arm is trembling from the pain. He rips it out with his right hand, the surface scorching his heat-sensitive finger-tips.

“Perfect,” he mutters. A small trickle of blood escapes the wound, but that’s all. He presses chilled fingertips to the aching flesh before icing the injury fully. It won’t last long since his left side runs warm, but it’ll keep for a few minutes as long as he doesn’t activate his fire. The villains in his corner neutralized, he skates off to find Deku.

   It doesn’t take long for him to find his boyfriend, whose own group is disarmed and captured, Shinso off to the side looking rather proud of himself.

Or at least, he thought they were all disarmed. Izuku is looking at him; face pensive and his easy smile tightening before falling to a frown when his eyes pass over the wound on his forearm and the crimson stain drying on his neck. There’s a click clacking sound as a small object rolls away from the group of bound attackers and towards the heroes but it’s Shinso who recognizes what it is.

“Grenade!” He yells, his capture weapon already wound around his palm, its end finding its way around Izuku’s waist and pulling him, who had been the closest to the weapon, away. It’s Shouto though that leaps forward, knowing that regardless of them getting out of the way, the villains and anyone in the surrounding buildings were screwed if it went off. He hears Izuku’s voice in his ears over the pounding of his heart, can hear Shinso struggling to keep him back. He gives a sweep of his arm, a quick shield of ice covering it, and strikes the ground hard with his right foot, sprouting a pillar of ice that sends it shooting up above the nearby rooftops before he unleashes his fire, using that to propel it further, and then as the fire melts the ice, detonate it.

   It goes off like a firework amongst the looming clouds, and his pulse is throbbing in his neck, his feet and fingers numb from the threat of it all. If he’d been seconds later, if it had gone off moments sooner, they would be in a very different situation right now.

   The villains look star struck, and Izuku has gone boneless with relief, still ensnared in Shinso’s scarf.

“You idiot!” He shouts, and Shouto winces.

It hadn’t taken long for them to get their wounds checked. For once, Izuku managed to get out relatively unscathed. Shouto was given a healing boost, gauze, and the instruction to take it easy for a few days. Izuku had rolled his eyes and scoffed, knowing Shouto to be incapable of what a reasonable person would consider “taking it easy,” but he kept his mouth shut otherwise. He’d gotten a disapproving look from the ambulance medic but he hadn’t really cared.

They walked back to the dorms in silence, neither wanting to brave the audience or crowd of the train, enjoying instead the rain trickling around them, the way it kept leaving small traces of bare skin between the layers of dirt.

“I should call my mom,” Izuku mutters when they push through the glass doors to Alliance Heights, his shoes squeaking on the tile, Shouto’s cleats clacking. Shouto nods, his mouth turned in a slight frown. It worries Izuku when Shouto gets quiet; it’s different from his normal few words and it took him awhile to pick apart normal from troubled. He’d known for a while that his boyfriend internalizes, that he still struggles with a lot of insecurities and periodic depression from his years around his dad. Even now Shouto is still quiet and a little awkward, but he smiles more and more all the time and it’s beautiful. Izuku takes to the stairs, one last look at his boyfriend whose mismatched eyes are to the floor as he waits for the elevator. Yeah. This is definitely that latter form of quiet. It’s never a good sign when he starts closing off. Starts hiding behind his mask of indifference.

The door thuds behind him and he toes off his dirty shoes at the door. He peels off his suit as he walks to the bathroom, the fabric resisting where it’s stuck to him from the heat and dried sweat acting like glue. He’s shedding dust with every step he takes and he grimaces thinking about how long it’ll take to clean all this up.

He takes a brief shower, all things considered, a feeling of apprehension hanging in his gut as the warm water sloshes down the drain, growing clearer with each round of washes.

He throws on clothes quickly: jeans and an all might tank top because some things never change; the shirt letting some of his abrasions breathe. He grabs the first pair of socks he can find, not caring that they don’t match in the slightest and bolts from his room.

Maybe it’s their history. Maybe it’s the afternoon they had. Maybe it’s none of those and he just really wants to see his damn boyfriend. His door slams as he slides out of it, jogging down the carpeted hallway and to the stairs, his heart too fast and his blood burning too warm to wait on an elevator. He skids as he rounds the corner, grasping the rail to steady himself. He’s eighteen now, graduation is in his sights, but that doesn’t mean he’s any more coordinated outside of heroics. It doesn’t mean Kirishima is any less loud, Bakugo any less explosive, Iida any less… Iida. They’ve all changed, mostly for the good. Grown and matured. Broken and healed. It’s been a rough three years, but they’ve made it. Much as some days feel like the end won’t come, or that the next won’t follow, they’re all still here.

He stops in front of Todoroki’s door, pulling his own key to the lock and opening it.

“Shouto?” He calls. Shouto walks in from the bathroom, his hair wild around his face and tickling his collarbone. His white hair is tucked behind his ear, the red hanging freely, obscuring his vision. Though, from what Shouto has told him, it’s no big loss. Shouto had tried to hide it for a long time, until they’d been picking things up at his home and he’d, apparently, snuck up on Shouto and ended up pinned.

Shouto had been redder than his hair when he realized whom he’d put on the ground. He’d stumbled over an apology before jumping off of Izuku and tripping over his feet, stumbling into the door that hadn’t been pulled all the way open.

He’d come clean a week later that his vision in his left side sucked. Permanently damaged from his injury years ago. There was nothing that could be done.

Shouto is still self-conscious about his scar, about what people think when they look at him, so he lets his hair cover it. Let’s it look like it’s the light reflecting the bright color of his hair on his face rather than a deformation.

Izuku thought, and still thinks, he is beautiful either way.

His efforts to tell the younger were generally met with a less than dignified scoff.

Shouto is in sweatpants that are hanging around his hips, the sharp cut of the bone peeking over the fabric, drawing Izuku’s green eyes to them. There are small scars and long healed burns littering his torso, much like Izuku’s own body. The cost of working as a hero that refuses to back down, shut up, or acknowledge limits.

There are fresh bruises scattered across his rib cage and gauze around his wrist where he’d been stabbed. Then there’s the brilliant burn on his bicep, the flesh angry and marred, raised and pulling tight as Shouto moves quickly for his shirt. Long-sleeved. Covering the wounds both old and new. Izuku feels like his chest may melt, and without thinking, his feet are carrying him over to his boyfriend.

Izuku cups Shouto’s jaw as soon as his head clears the neck of the shirt, prior instinct wanting him to tip the other’s head down, but with his recent growth spurt (he’s a late bloomer in more ways than one everyone had joked when he shot up four inches in a semester) and tilts his jaw up instead, lips meeting. He pulls Shouto’s hair free from where it’s caught in his shirt, fingers tangling in the fine strands. He’d intended to go in gentle, soft and reassuring, but it turns desperate in a moment, the fear from earlier, the memories in his boyfriends scars making him push, trying to draw something out, trying to prove to himself Shouto is okay, he’s here and he’s safe and he’s okay.

The fingers of his free hand are digging into Shouto’s waist, pulling him closer, dragging him against his front. Shouto tangles his fingers in the hair at the base of Izuku’s neck, too long from many missed haircuts, winding the strands around them and pulling, just enough to make Izuku retaliate, nipping at his boyfriends bottom lip and hauling him up to wrap slender legs around his own increasingly thick torso.

They’ve spent a fair amount of their relationship close. Shouto is a tactile person. It’s mostly innocent but he’s always pressing some part of himself against Izuku, Brushing fingers, Shouto’s back against Izuku’s chest as they chat or study, legs in laps or tangled together on the couch. He’s never outright asked, but he can surmise he’s making up for years he’s lost. There are plenty of times though it’s… less than innocent: a different kind of touching, kissing and making out, grinding and cuddling, but never going all the way.

This time though, this time it feels different. Something is burning through Izuku’s veins, catching fire in a way that’s different from Shouto’s quirk. Shouto’s skin is burning even beneath his layers, heat radiating off his cheek and wafting into Izuku’s face.

With a little less grace than he means to, he kneels and drops Shouto on the futon and looks at him, all pale skin and flushed cheeks, his fingers twitching to get a grip back on Izuku. Izuku positions himself between Shouto’s legs, a position they often use in Shouto’s room when kissing, but this time, seeing Shouto beneath him like this, his body aches for more.

They’re tangling tongues, and Shouto reaches between them to pull off Izuku’s shirt, tugging the hem between long fingers. Izuku chuckles when it gets stuck around his shoulders, leans up and yanks it free, his hair wild from the fabric rushing over it. Shouto’s mouth is dry, and if he weren’t consciously trying not to, he’d be gaping at his boyfriend.

Izuku practically pounces on Shouto, drawing his lips back to his own, taking a small amount of pride in the fact that they feel scorching beneath his. He can always tell when Shouto is losing it, his quirk being pretty telltale about his emotional state. Luckily, for both of them and some furniture, Izuku doesn’t have nearly the same volatile reaction.

He trails his kisses down Shouto’s jaw before latching onto his neck. Shouto threads his right hand through deep green curls, his left burning a path across Izuku’s shoulder blades. He can feel Shouto’s breath against his ear, soft pants, warm enough to draw up goose bumps down his spine. He bites down on Shouto’s pale neck, making the other arch under him, then there’s a hand on his cheek and the one in his hair is pulling him back up.

He opens his mouth to take a breath and Shouto’s tongue pushes in, tangling with his own and that does nothing to help his hard-on. Luckily, judging by the hardness tenting Shouto’s sweatpants, he’s not the only one.

He pulls back, both of them a little desperate for air and wraps his fingers around Shouto’s waistband. Izuku pauses to meet Shouto’s eyes, making sure he’s on board. There’s a shaky exhale, and then he lifts his hips and Izuku pulls them down his legs. They get caught around his ankles, and Izuku gets knocked in the head when Shouto tries to pull his leg free by force.

Izuku leans down, dropping kisses to the exposed skin, trailing from calf to inner thigh where his boxers are, and back up the other leg. It’s weird, the way his boyfriend’s temperature changes, the way his skin can be cool or even chilled on one side, and burning on the other. Even when he’s not using his quirks, there’s a subtle difference, two or three degrees, one side running a little below average, and the other above.

“Izuku, did you lock the door?” Shouto asks. Izuku looks up to see Shouto has his forearm across his eyes, his other hand on the sheets, small spots of condensation dampening the sheet beneath them.

“Uh, I’m not sure.”

“Check will you, this is not something Aizawa or any of our friends needs to walk in on,” Shouto grumbles. Izuku smirks though, hearing Shouto call them ‘our’ friends. There was a time not too long ago they were ‘Izuku’s’ friends. Shouto had argued they only tolerated him because he was dating Izuku.

There’s a lot they’ve had to work through in their relationship, on both sides. Between Shouto’s inexperience with social interactions and the complexes he has from his father and Izuku’s own ramifications from years of bullying, they’ve had their share of fights. Of building the other up. Of late night talks and tears. Izuku gets off the futon, padding over to the door and flicking the lock because yes, he had forgotten to lock it when he walked in. He turns around and – freezes.

“Uh, Shouto, what are you doing?” Izuku’s hand is still on the door where he’s locked it. Todoroki is on his knees and elbows on the bed, head buried in the pillow. He doesn’t say anything and Izuku can see his neck is red between the strands of hair. He walks over to his boyfriend, plopping heavily onto the floor. “Shouto, look at me, please?”

Bright teal and silver grey looking up at him, surrounded by skin flushed not with arousal but with embarrassment. “What are you doing, love?”

“I... I think I made a mistake.” Todoroki says quietly. Izuku waits, hoping there’s explanation to follow. Shouto turns his head, facing away from Izuku. “I asked Kirishima... how to initiate sex... and I think I should have asked someone else.” Izuku can’t help it. He laughs; he laughs until Shouto kicks him, sending him tumbling.

He sits up to glare at Izuku who is sprawled on the tatami of Shouto’s bedroom, his red hair flickering with fire at the ends. It’s amazing how two people can be related yet so different. Seeing Shouto with his hair ablaze surrounded by destructive displays is almost a religious experience, something to behold and watch in rapture. It’s beautiful and graceful and glorious. His father exudes power, but in a dominating and vehement way, seeping disdain and violence. Similar powers, even similar presentations, but so, so different.

“Please tell me how you phrased that question,” Izuku says over stifled giggles, trying to reign in just how enamored he is by his boyfriend.

“The same way I explained to you,” he deadpans. “‘How do you initiate sex.’ What else would I say?”

“I think he thought you were asking what he does specifically.”

“Why would I ask what he does for Bakugo?” Shouto says, the fire dying out, his pallor returning to its normal ivory.

“Maybe he thought you were just kinky like that,” Izuku says winking. He receives a well-deserved pillow to the face. It’s iced over lightly, not enough to really hurt, but enough to rattle him a little bit.

“I’m glad you think this is so funny.”

“On the bright side, you know what gets Kacchan going, you could use that next time you two spar.”

“I am never speaking of any of this again, Izuku.” Shouto is pouting, and it’s adorable.

“Shouchan,” that gets his attention. “Why didn’t you just talk to me?”

“I didn’t want you to know that I didn’t know what I was doing.”

“We’ve been together since second semester. Before UA, I’m still not sure you even had much exposure to other people. I was pretty sure we were in the same boat, and I didn’t want to rush you. It’s okay to not know.”

“Not used to it is all,” Shouto mumbles. It still makes something painful twist in him when he’s reminded how fucked up Shouto’s childhood had been, every time something seemingly mundane throws him for a loop because he’s just never had to deal with it before.

“I know.” He says, trying to force down those feelings. “You know I love you?” Shouto nods, his eyes on his lap, fingers lacing with frost.

From his position on the floor, he leans up and catches Shouto’s lips, his hands grasping his boyfriend’s hips. The heat catches quickly, and Izuku crawls back, slotting himself between slender legs. Shouto’s hands grip his ever-broadening shoulders, and Izuku is tugging him closer until their flush, hardened lengths are grinding, causing Shouto to break the kiss, dropping his head to Izuku’s shoulder, heat radiating from the point of contact.

“Sorry,” Shouto pants. Izuku kisses the top of his head, running a hand through the soft length of hair. “Had to… refocus.”

“No need to apologize. You can let go.”

“Not if we want the dorms standing in the morning,” Shouto says, and Izuku chuckles.

“Maybe we should ask Hatsume for flame retardant sheets.”

“It was a joke. But, actually, I do have some... for a while I had nightmares and my quirk responds to intense emotion, especially when I’m not paying attention.”

“I’ve noticed. You almost burned me the first time we kissed. You froze your desk when me, you and Kacchan got detention for his outburst and your water bottle turned to ice when we were told your dad was doing a special class for us at the end of last year. Your fire tends to be more volatile, but your ice responds as well.”

“Are you going to kiss me again?” Shouto interrupts.

“Promise not to set me on fire?”

“It’s getting likelier the longer you just sit there.” The tone is flat, but his lips betray his amusement. Despite the pause and teasing, they’re both still throbbing and aching and desperate, the tension humming as Izuku strokes his hair again, leaning in. Shouto doesn’t wait, lunging forward. It’s a little rough, and he may end up with a bruised bottom lip, but the kiss is fuel to the fire in his gut.

Shouto pulls Izuku up by his waistband, and he’s on his back, Izuku looking down at him like he’s something precious, something sacred, and it makes him want to turn away, hide. He’s used to anger. Disdain. Disappointment. He’s still getting used to… this: to friends, to happiness, to… intimacy. He’s in boxers and his long sleeves, and he’s not going to lie, he’s got trepidation regarding removing any more layers. Losing his boxers makes him more naked around Izuku than he’s ever been outside of locker rooms, and the shirt... he can barely stand to look at that scar, he doubts Izuku wants to look either.

He grapples for the button on Izuku’s pants but his fingers are frosting and slipping. He’s sure his other side is running a significant fever but he can’t seem to scrabble two brain cells together to stop it. Izuku grasps his hand with his own, the skin feeling fiery around his cool fingers. The smile Izuku gives is reassuring; it’s not belittling his nerves or his lack of experience. Izuku is his safe place.

He bites his lip and frees his hand from Izuku’s, the other peeking down at him with a question in his eyes. Shouto flips the button and tugs the zipper down, and threads his fingers through the loops and pulls. Izuku’s blue briefs are on display, his jeans puddle around his knees. In a brief throw of adrenaline or courage, he’s not sure which, he yanks Izuku down by his shoulder, his bare foot, and when did he lose a sock and why is he only wearing one sock, digging into his boyfriend's ass and pulling him closer.

The suddenness coupled with the mild binding the jeans have on him has Izuku tumbling forward into him, his elbow falling roughly to the pillow scant inches from twisted strands and just barely catching his weight from slamming fully into Shouto.

“Shouchan,” Izuku says, his voice tinged with amusement.

“Needed you closer.” Shouto wraps his arms around Izuku’s muscular neck, pulling himself up to meet, burying his burning skin into the relative coolness of his boyfriend, Izuku’s pulse thrumming quickly against his ear.

“You could have let me untangle myself. I almost crushed you.”

“I trust you.” It’s muffled and barely audible since he’s speaking into skin, but Izuku hears him and dammit. He can’t wait anymore.

He dives in, licking into Shouto’s mouth, his free hand fisting in the fabric at Shouto’s waist. Shouto’s breath catches when he starts pulling at the shirt, and Izuku pulls back to look at him. His mismatched eyes are off to the side, and he’s got a white-knuckle grip on the sheets.

“Shouto, it’s okay. You know I still think you’re beautiful. I hate that he hurt you, but it doesn’t change how I feel about you. I love you, Shou. Do my scars change that you find me attractive?”

“I caused some of those,” Shouto mutters.

“I’d rather have them than not have you,” he whispers, lips brushing his ear, drawing a pleasant shiver from his lithe soon to be lover.

Izuku draws him out of the shirt, kissing up the skin he exposes, the muscles twitching when he ghosts over somewhere sensitive or ticklish. He’s got the shirt up around his armpits, exposing the delicate scars he’d caught a glimpse of when he walked in.

He grins at Shouto, earning a small look of confusion before he laps at a rather cool nipple.

Shouto groans momentarily before it cuts off with a choked moan when Izuku nips at the bud. Shouto’s face is approaching the shade of his hair and now he has his forearm over his eyes again, biting at the inside of his cheek to keep quiet as Izuku applies his ministrations to the left side.

His skin is hot beneath Izuku’s fingers, and he hooks his thumbs under the shirt where it’s bunched beneath Shouto’s armpits. Something like a whimper breaks through Shouto’s lips when Izuku tugs on the fabric, and damn that makes something in Izuku drop like lead. Reminds him of nights pulling a trembling and freezing Shouto into his arms, wiping tears off his cheeks and dragging him into a warm shower to stave off the frost overtaking them both.

He hesitates because as much as he wants this, he wants Shouto to want it. He doesn’t want it to be another thing he does because he thinks he has to. He’s done far too much of that.

Shouto takes in a deep, shaking breath, glassy mismatched eyes meeting Izuku’s bright jade. He nods once, a twitch of his head and then he steels himself, nodding vigorously. Izuku leans in, pressing a kiss to cool lips.

“Do you trust me?” Shouto exhales sharply. It’s a thing of theirs because whenever Izuku says those words, anything that follows is true, sometimes blunt, sometimes it’s something that stokes the fires sometimes it quells the ache, but never once has he lied, and Shouto nods again. “You’re beautiful, and I love you. Regardless of scars, mental or physical. I love. You.”

“And I love you.” Izuku tugs the shirt off, revealing pale skin and small, healed, injuries. Except for the one he got today, and the one that hasn’t had time to fade. The angry and wrinkled red skin wrapping around his bicep, from this angle, it’s just a red blob. On the sensitive skin underneath his arm, there is the distinct shape of large fingers. Izuku places his hand over the wound, long healed, and his heart swells when Shouto doesn’t flinch away.

“You know I’m angry that this happened, but it doesn’t change anything about how I feel about you, or how we are together.”

“I know. I know...” his eyes flutter as Izuku’s fingers dance over his side, warm hands dancing over the cooled skin.

“You’re so beautiful Shouchan.” Izuku presses their foreheads together, lacing his fingers through Shouto’s right ones, his other hand brushing hair he can reach while propping himself up. “I can’t believe sometimes that you’re just as gone on me.”

“You’re the better half of us, Izuku. How could anyone know you and not love you? You’re smart, strong, trusting, and you care so so much. That alone is justifiable evidence anyone who doesn’t like you is certifiably insane.”

“I’ll be sure to tell Kacchan that,” Izuku chuckles. Shouto groans.

“Can we stop mentioning him in bed.”

“Okay,” Izuku says.

“I am serious though. If anyone’s lucky it’s me. If anyone doesn’t deserve their partner it’s me. I feel like I’m constantly waiting for you to come to your senses.”

“Did your dad call again?”

“No…”

“Shouto you’re worth more than anything. And you deserve happiness. I don’t care what micro-dick has said to you in the past or any shit he spews out of the mouth that’s somehow more obnoxious than Present Mic. You deserve love. Anything that’s happened in the past is circumstance, but it isn’t your fault. Your mom, me, Iida, your brother, anyone else, it wasn’t your fault. And I’ll tell you this every day for as long as it takes.”

“Even if it’s years?”

“Especially if it’s years.”

“Izuku. I want you to fuck me.”

“Shit, Shouto,” Izuku curses, his hand flying down to squeeze at his cock through his boxers. “You should not be able to say stuff like that.”

“Why? You don’t think the word fuck is in my vocabulary? I’ve been around our class long enough to be well acquainted with it. My room is close enough to a couple of boisterous boys who don’t know about volume control. I’ve heard it plenty and in this context.”

“Alright, alright. You’ve made your point.”

“Then ‘please’ fuck me.”

“You asked.” He quips. Izuku grinds his groin into Shouto’s, efficiently cutting off any further retorts from his boyfriend. Shouto’s boxers are damp from pre-come leaking onto them, and he’s rutting back against Izuku, hands gripping a muscular waist when suddenly Izuku is gone.

He’s untangling the mess Shouto made earlier, yanking the jeans the rest of the way off of his miraculously minimally scarred legs. Shouto watches, enraptured, as bit by bit more of Izuku than he’s ever been openly allowed to gape at is suddenly right in front of him in all its sweaty, hard glory. His scars, his freckles, his strength. Only a couple of the things Shouto is so in love with. More of those are beyond skin deep.

Izuku peels his boxers off, kneeling before his boyfriend, completely nude and feeling far more vulnerable than he thought he would bared to his lover. Shouto’s chest is heaving below him, and his eyes, his unique and mesmerizing eyes, are glued to him. They look near black and green with the amber light from the sun and shadows playing on his face. More than ever, he looks ethereal splayed out on the sheets.

Izuku crawls back forward and wraps his fingers around the black waistband of Shouto’s boxers, looking once more for confirmation before pulling them down slender legs. Shouto is strong, but it’s obvious his stature came from his mother’s side. His muscles are wirey and sculpted from endurance. He’s still more than a formidable match for Izuku, in sparring and, it seems, in lovemaking.

Shouto leans up, propped on his elbow and catches Izuku by his, pulling him back down.

“Now, Izuku.” Shouto whispers.

“Pushy.” Izuku reaches down between them to wrap his fingers around Shouto’s cock. Shouto is looking down between them, watching Izuku’s movements.

“What are you doing?” Shouto asks.

“Well, I was planning on making you feel good. Now I feel like I’m doing the wrong thing,” Izuku says, his voice trailing off into something more reminiscent of mumbling than speech.

“It’s unnecessary.” Shouto lies back, head resting on his pillow and spreads his legs, his cheeks turning red. “I just want you to fuck me. You don’t have to play with me.”

“Baby, you do know how this works right?”

“I’m not an idiot or a child. I know what goes where.” Shouto snaps, but he’s looking away, not willing to meet Izuku’s gaze.

“Darling.” Shouto sighs but continues to look away, pulling his legs closed, but a rough hand on his knee stops him. Izuku’s scarred hand caresses his cheek, then nudges his chin to make him meet his eyes, brushing the stray hair from his eyes. His right eye is dilated, black overtaking the color, his left fixed in a middle state, as it has been for years.

“It’s okay not to be perfect on your first try,” Izuku says, voice gentle, soothing. Shouto recognizes his tone, knows it’s the one he uses to shush hysterical rescues, to quell the fear in those he saves. Shouto looks at him, and then down.

“You’re still hard.”

“Well, yeah.”

“Okay.” Shouto hooks his legs around Izuku’s waist and flips them, utilizing his ability to make use of the weight he has against larger opponents. His own erection has flagged some in the serious conversation, but that doesn’t matter.

“Sho-” he’s cut off with a moan when Shouto wraps his fingers around Izuku’s cock, spreading pre-cum before giving a firm pump. Shouto leans over the bed, producing a mostly full bottle of lube from between the futon and the floor.

“No more waiting. I will ice this door closed and not let you out until you fuck me, Izuku.”

“I never said I wasn’t going to, I just ah,” Shouto wraps his left hand around Izuku again, slick with lube and warm, maybe a little too warm, from his quirk.

“I’m ready,” Shouto positions himself above Izuku’s cock, the hot skin pressed against his entrance. Before he has a chance to sink down there’s a crackle of energy and the wind rushes out of him as he’s thrown onto the tatami mat on his back again.

“You’re going to hurt yourself,” Izuku says, his eyes flashing like lightning.

“I can take it-“

“If we are doing this, it’s my way. You are not. Hurting yourself for this. This is supposed to feel good for both of us. This isn’t something you have to grit your teeth and bare. You’re supposed to like it.” The crackle of energy fades, leaving only two naked and tangled heroes to be in its wake.

“Fine,” Shouto relents and Izuku smiles, kissing him gently before grabbing the bottle that had tumbled away in their skirmish. Izuku slicks his fingers up, rubbing them together before looking to Shouto, who has his legs locked around Izuku’s hips.

“You’re going to have to give me some moving room, Sho,” Izuku says, and almost immediately most of the tension falls out of them. He shifts back, trying to keep calm under Shoto’s heated gaze; he can feel those eyes on him and flicking his own gaze up confirms he’s right. He gives his boyfriend a smile and then touches him, gently, but Shouto still jumps.

“What are you doing?” Shouto asks, eyeing Izuku.

“Nothing yet,” Izuku mumbles against his knee.

“Just put it in me,” Shouto grumbles.

“I have to prep you first.”

“Why?”

“So it feels good, stop being difficult. Spread your legs for me.” Shouto doesn’t respond, and a chance look shows Izuku he’s red in the face, but he lays back, eyes on the ceiling, and begrudgingly lets his legs fall open. “That’s good,” Izuku purrs. Shouto’s breath hitches and Izuku is pretty sure his cock twitched. “Do you like that?” Izuku asks, “me telling you how good you’re doing?” Shouto whines before clasping his hand over his mouth. “Oh no you don’t, I wanna hear you.”

Shouto doesn’t move. Izuku ducks down, dragging his tongue along the underside of Shouto’s cock. The moan it elicits is muffled and soft, but damn it does things to his own erection. He draws kisses up Shouto’s chest until he’s settled on his neck and laps at the cool skin there, his fingers circling his lover’s entrance before gently pressing his fingertip in.

“You’re doing so good baby,” he mumbles against Shouto’s neck. Cool fingers are on the back of his own, the other diligently working to silence his sounds, but the quiet keen still manages to slip past. “No need to be shy. I like hearing you.”

He’s worked most of his finger in, and Shouto is hot. Izuku pauses in his mission to mark up Shouto’s neck and bites down on the junction between neck and shoulder where he knows he’s especially sensitive, slipping in a second finger, making a sharp yelp turn into a drawn out moan. Izuku drinks up the moan from Shouto’s mouth, knocking teeth a little in his urgency.

He’s finding it harder and harder each moment to hold back, to go slow and gentle, the fire in his veins and ache in his groin begging him to get on with it but this is Shouto. This is his boyfriend whose had far too much experience with pain, and far too little with pleasure. Who likes to act haughty and unaffected but is all soft and sensitive just beneath that exterior. Who doesn’t know how to take jokes or read sarcasm, who looks confused when Kirishima and Kaminari get into pop culture, or someone makes a raunchy comment, who asks Izuku about what a conversation from hours ago meant when they’re finally alone. All of this is new to him, and Izuku wants to make it great.

He trails down to lick at Shouto’s ear, crooking and twisting his fingers until Shouto arches up and lets out a choked moan.

“So good, Shouto. Does it feel good?” He’s thrusting his fingers shallowly now, avoiding that spot deliberately. Shouto’s cock is leaking pre-come against his toned stomach, neglected. He runs his fingers across Shouto’s prostate again, drawing another heady moan from spit slick lips.

“Feels good,” he pants. “Get on with it.” There’s desperation but no conviction behind those words, all the pressure earlier had fallen off. “This is embarrassing,” Shouto mumbles.

“Why?” Izuku asks, drawing back again.

“I sound obscene, and I’m… exposed.” Shouto says, his eyes resolutely focused on the ceiling.

“It’s just me here Shoucchan. There’s no reason to be embarrassed. I love your voice. Shows me you’re enjoying this,” Izuku says, punctuated his words with another pointed jab to his prostate. “If you really don’t like it I’ll stop.”

“Don’t. Please. Don’t stop any of it,” Shouto says.

“Doing so good for me, Shouto,” Izuku says, scissoring his fingers again. He does some shallow thrusts, and Shouto pushes into his touch, trying to drive his fingers deeper, eliciting a smile far different from the one Izuku uses when he’s fighting or talking to his peers. This one is devious and prideful.

He sucks on a dusty nipple when he slides in the third finger. Shouto is writhing beneath him at this point, fucking himself eagerly onto Izuku’s fingers, broken moans and pleas spilling from his lips. Izuku tells himself he’s going to give it a few minutes, let Shouto get used to the third, maybe try a fourth.

He lasts forty-five seconds.

“Shouto,” Izuku says, and his voice is foreign to his own ears. “I think this will be better if you’re on top.” Shouto’s face barely changes, a tiny quirk of his eyebrow, an unspoken question. “Lets you control the pace.” Shouto nods, and Izuku flips them, leaving Shouto kneeling on shaky legs, one knee on either side of Izuku’s hips. “Take as much time as you need,” Izuku says, though his dick is begging him to get a move on with this.

Shouto takes up the position he’d been in earlier, grasps Izuku’s leaking cock in his left hand and positions it against his entrance.

“You might want to put more on it, just make it easier.”

“You know a lot,” Shouto says, his ears tinged red. “More than I do.”

“I looked into it.”

“So did I.”

“I didn’t ask Kirishima,” Izuku jokes. Shouto narrows his eyes and gives Izuku a rough squeeze, making him groan. “If you don’t want this to end before it starts I wouldn’t do that again,” Izuku forces out, trying to will himself to a less sensitive state, thinking about anything that might take the edge off.

He’s not successful.

Luckily, or unluckily depending on how you look at it, Shouto moves quickly. He pushes the head of Izuku’s cock in and fuck it’s even better than he’d thought. He takes it an inch or two farther before he pauses.

Izuku is hanging on by the skin of his teeth, and Shouto, he’s burning. He’s never felt a burn like this. It’s nothing like the virulent fervor of his flame, or like the dull warmth behind a blooming bruise or blistering burn. It’s good. He’s only taken half, and that’s being generous, of Izuku’s cock and he feels beyond full.

Shouto sinks the rest of the way down far quicker than he probably should have, and sooner than Izuku would have liked for him too. Izuku belatedly thinks it might have been better if he had been in control of the pace. Shouto doesn’t seem to know how to pace himself in any aspect.

When Izuku finally opens his eyes, and he doesn’t really remember closing them, the sight before him is one he’d like permanently etched onto his eyelids. Shouto’s hands are braced on Izuku’s thighs, he’s flushed from his cheeks to his chest, his hair mussed and twisted, the strands falling soft on his shoulders, and then Izuku notices there are tears welling in those mismatched eyes.

“Are you okay, Shouto? Is it too much?” Shouto doesn’t answer verbally, but he shakes his head vigorously. Then he looks down at Izuku, and the first tear falls, tracking down his left cheek.

“Should I ask you that?”

“I’m fine,” Izuku says, but then Shouto flutters around him and nope, nope, he’s not. “Too good.” He manages to force out.

“Yeah,” Shouto sighs out.

“Okay,” he manages to pant out, finally somewhat confident he’s staved off the orgasm for the moment. “You can move now.”

“I can’t,” Shouto says. “You’re gonna have to,” the words are barely out of Shouto’s mouth when Izuku flips them back, the familiar futon beneath Shouto’s shoulders once again.

Izuku draws out slowly before pushing back in, and the breath is pushed out of Shouto’s lungs, the angle drawing Izuku’s cock even deeper somehow.

“Oh shit,” Shouto moans.

“Fuck you’re so good,” Izuku pants in his ear, strong arms braced around his torso. Shouto makes a whining sound that he’d be ashamed of if he still had enough functioning brain cells to feel anything but white-hot pleasure. “Didn’t know you had such a praise kink.”

Shouto thinks about responding, but any words are knocked out of him when Izuku’s next thrust drives right into his prostate, his cock dragging against the sensitive spot, damn near whiting out what’s left of his vision.

He’s moaning shamelessly now, his hands gripping and pulling at Izuku’s shoulder blades, his toes curled and heels dragging his boyfriend closer. It’s gentle as far as sex goes, but it’s overwhelming.

“You’re so beautiful, Shouto,” Izuku whispers, though it’s almost like a prayer. “So perfect for me.” He could do this all day, tell him how loved, how cherished he is. Listen to the way he reacts to the praise, the way his breath catches, the way his reddened cock twitches and throbs.

The room echoes the slapping of skin, Izuku’s heavy pants and groans and Shouto’s increasingly high keens of pleasure. Izuku reaches between them for Shouto’s cock, knowing he’s not going to last much longer the way this is going because it’s just too slick, and tight and hot. Idly he wonders if all sex feels this good, or if it’s just Shouto.

He’s surprised when Shouto tells him no.

“Too much. I’m close. Just like this.” Izuku draws his hand back and has to suppress the urge to slam his cock into Shouto hearing that.

“That’s really hot,” he admits. “You gonna come, Shouto? Without me touching you?”

“You are touching me,” Shouto says. Izuku gives a breathy laugh before catching his lover’s lips, swallowing his sounds.

“You’re a dork,” Izuku mutters in a break for breath.

“Your dork,” Shouto says quietly. Izuku smiles and he takes his hand and laces their fingers together beside Shouto’s head as he rocks forward, driving his cock into Shouto, relishing in the slick heat around him. Their breaths are mingling, moans running together. He can feel himself rocketing forward, his orgasm relentless. He catches burning lips, a shockingly cool breath chilling the spit on his own. A particularly well-aimed thrust has him swallowing a harsh sound.

“Fuck ‘Zuku,” Shouto groans against his lips …and that’s it. Izuku’s cock throbs as he comes, unloading deep into his boyfriend. Shouto arches into him at the feeling, the last thrust against his sensitive nerves driving him over the edge, causing him to spill between them messily.

They’re both sweaty and Izuku’s muscles are trembling. It’s a little funny. The fact that they both rendered their showers pointless, and that, though Izuku can take down villains, spar for hours, and train near endlessly, this is what has him exhausted. Shouto’s eyes are glazed, but it’s not in the way that frightens Izuku. It’s in the ‘I’m fucked boneless and ready for a nap’ kind of way.

Izuku is down for the nap. What he isn’t down for is waking up crusty and gross, so he pulls away, wincing sympathetically when Shouto whimpers and grimaces, come leaking out and onto the futon.

“Fuck. I didn’t wear a condom,” Izuku says.

“Mm.”

“Are you listening?”

“Yes. I don’t know why it matters though, besides being a little uncomfortable.”

“Did you get any sex ed?”

“Yes. Fuyumi. Unless you’ve secretly been having loads of sex or drugs, we’re fine. I made an embarrassing display of showing this is my first time with this, and I pretty clearly cannot get pregnant.”

“You’re too coherent post-sex,” Izuku says.

“I wouldn’t be if you hadn’t started this talk,” Shouto mumbles. Izuku shakes his head before grabbing a hand towel and proceeding to clean up his boyfriend. For someone who had been so reserved not too long ago, he seems to have no issues with Izuku manhandling him into some semblance of clean. The sheets though…

“We might want to clean the sheets.”

“I’d rather burn them. Easier.”

“Well, do you want to go to my room for a nap?” Shouto nods. “Then come on.”

“Don’t wanna move.”

“You are remarkably lazy.” He gets a heated glare. “All right. I’ll carry you.”

“Like hell.”

 


 

It gets a little bit more awkward at dinner.

“I don’t think you fuckers could have been louder!” Bakugo complains.

“Sorry, Kacchan.”

“I’m not.”

“The fuck icy-hot!”

“Shouto!” Shouto slurps his noodles impassively, not heeding to either of the two scolding him, or the others refusing to make eye contact.

“Well, I’m not. I have to listen to those two consistently.”

“Did no one ever teach you to be quiet?! You don’t make a sound when we’re sparring but this you’ll scream for. Deku’s not that fucking great!” Shouto looks at him and tilts his head. Izuku smiles sadly. Shouto has had plenty of practice keeping quiet while getting hit; it’s not a good thing he’s so put together during fights. This though… He has no… well, now he has some experience. He feels an odd sense of pride knowing he was the first to touch him like that, to elicit those sounds, to teach him how to feel good.

“Maybe you should’ve been there.”

“Shouto!”