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A Different Kind of Limelight

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It's a bitter joke at first. He's drunk on a single beer, tablets laid out for the crash on the nightstand, browsing forums full of civvies talking shit.

There's an ugly dick challenge.

Far be it from Yagi Toshinori to deprive them of a winner.

He links through VPNs, uses a randomiser for his account name and password. Takes a picture. Just his trousers and pants pulled down, his cock flaccid on his thigh. He doesn't bother to make it pretty. A click, and an upload with a tagline hows this for a winner, and then it's time to crunch himself some glucose and hang over the toilet for a bit.

He wakes up to notifications on his laptop.

The first one is winning my pussy more like

Which, well, that's one person. Everyone's a stopped clock about some things. But then there's others. Approving of it. Asking for pictures of it hard. Discussing how big he is, how he might be able to fuck with it, how it might feel in their cunts and arses. Some of it gets - lurid, the kind of thing he used to grimly breeze past as All Might but now that it's about Toshinori, his saggy thighs and his soft dick, now -

Seriously. Seriously, these people.

But he thinks about it. And the ugly dick challenge is a weekly thing on this forum, and -

Well, the next time, he's sober, dirty porn going strong, stroking himself hard to the thought of what these anonymous people might say. If they'll tell him he's delusional, crazy, no-one wants to see that shit, put it away. (There was a little of that the first time. But... a little. A minority. Baffling.)

He puts a little effort into the picture this time. Takes a few shots. Tries to... what even is a good angle on a dick? When he's been in the mood, that's been it. Tits and arses and crotches, hooray and away we go.

Not this.

But he tries, he does his best, and this time he stays awake to watch the comments roll in. They're - approving, strangely. They like it. They like it?


But it feels so good to think they mean it.

It escalates. Yagi has places all over the city, access through the agency, his own accounts.

It's easy to set one aside. Buy a camera. Go through the rigmarole of separate security accounts, IP, providers, DNS, VPN, the works. Like hell he'll let himself be caught, what? Taking pictures of his dick?

No-one would ever mistake him for All Might, the thought putrid in his mouth as an abscess.

And still, they like it. They tell him to switch to the nice dick competition, and while he doesn't place top, that's reserved for the young men with cocks hard as diamonds, with interesting lumps and bumps and shapes, he's a respectable lower half of the top twenty. Which he didn't expect.

He doesn't expect the recommendations to film himself, either. To post clips of his dick. They talk about him getting hard, fantasise openly about running into old men with cocks like his. Being taken advantage of, or wined and dined and drilled open by some older man with his dick. They think he's old and wrinkly, and he is, but they think that's sexy.

He doesn't understand it at all.

The more he posts, though, enough to build a collection, enough to be travelling regularly to the - frankly, studio he's built for himself, with its bed and clean walls and nice natural light, the more confident he finds himself feeling.

Not just as All Might; that's easy, that's always been so fucking easy. All Might's problem has never been attractiveness; granted, the muscles outright disgust some people, but not many. As Toshinori, though, shrunken, wasted, fighting the dragging depths of cachexia, the idea that there are people out there who like to look at his cock is... inspiring.

It makes him pay more attention to his tie, his shirt cuffs, how the loose fabric drapes. Not that he has a prayer of looking good, but he stands taller these days. Finds himself balanced better, breathing easier with it. More open. There are people who like his dick, and it helps.

He gets a cam account, in the end. One of the other commenters, a regular who followed him from the ugly thread into the other competitions and into the gif threads, always supportive, encouraging, helps him set it up.

Toshinori goes the whole hog, of course. Gets different back accounts, a disposable phone, sets it to run on a different network, loads it with VPNs, goes in and scrubs out the bloatware, does the same for a laptop, for his cameras. Multiple, now.

It's a whole other life, and it's not All Might's. It's Toshinori's. Toshinori is the one who touches himself for the cameras, who learns how to keep his face out of frame at all times, who goes to school and teaches and daydreams of going to the studio after work.

His first session is sparsely attended; he has to work out better timing, apparently. Different blocks of schedules for different demographics with different days of the month they get paid.

But he learns. He learns to make clips of his sessions available, learns to charge a fair price though he doesn't need the money ("its bein fair to everyone else like u ok", and he understood the argument), learns to chat with viewers in text and voice. He learns to flirt, to drag it out. Learns that there are people who like long knobby fingers, who like to see him get hard, who like him to start sessions clothed, who will talk at him about what they want but never tip while others tip out of nowhere and say nothing at all.

The others are friendly, too. There's a backchannel of sorts, a way for people like him to talk. Camboys, they call themselves, and he hasn't been called a boy in decades but he sort of understands the idea. Camman doesn't quite have the same ring.

Toshinori has friends. Work friends, but friends. It's not like his colleagues at UA; they're nervous of him, too stiff or too friendly and all of it forced.

There are people who ask him how his day went, who understand how strange and good it feels, and he likes it. He likes it a lot.


And like all good things, it doesn't last.

The teacher's lounge shouldn't be a place for this conversation. Toshinori shouldn't be overhearing this, but he is. He was talking to Yamada about English, the differences between school English and natively-spoken English, and then - Aizawa. Asking if Yamada needs financial help, interrogating him if he's using a VPN, if he's being safe, if he's aware there are creeps out there.

He's generously concerned for his friend, and the account he shows Yamada is Toshinori's.

Yagi swallows a clot or six, trying not to choke, as Yamada both protests and crows. "You wouldn't support my filthy habit?"

"I tipped your filthy habit! But I'm worried about you. Are you using a VPN? You can't just hide your face, you know."

It takes time for Yamada to reassure Aizawa he is in fact doing no such thing. "I wouldn't be single if my dick was that perfect, yeah!"

He chokes. They apologise for talking about crude things in the lounge. He tells them, voice murky, that it's fine, and tries not to eavesdrop. Or panic.

Aizawa, who doesn't like him, who thinks so little of him, Aizawa who barely tolerates him, watches his cam shows. Has tipped his cam shows.

He can't think of the username offhand. There are quite a few, now. Toshinori wouldn't say he has fans, more... regulars? He can't tell which one was Aizawa offhand. Did Aizawa write to him, in the chat? Did he - has Toshinori taken suggestions from him?

"I'm actually kinda flattered," Yamada says. "This dude is hot. Look at those hands! They're huge. You thought that was me, really?"

"I was worried," Aizawa grunts.

"If I ever have hands that big, never worry about me again, yeah," Yamada says. "Worry about yourself then, you'd be drooling all over me, yeah."

His hands? Aizawa? Drooling?

Aizawa's cheeks are buried in his scarf but his forehead is ruddy. "Shut up, Hizashi."

"Tip extra for me next time, yeah!" He sounds entertained. "You tipped?"

"Shut up. Seriously."


Toshinori's found it so hard to adjust to this new body. For decades he was All Might, always: only on duty or off duty, but never really changing. He was himself. Media-friendly, sure, it was like a comfortable old coat.

This body is more like wrapping himself in chicken wire and pretending not to be naked. Was like that.

These days there are people who have vocal opinions on his body, his dick, his balls, his skin. Who type come fuck me with that fat old man dick, I've been naughty and he can laugh, and be flattered, and at least believe the intention behind it.

He asks once if he should shave his pubic hair. Even as All Might it was lush around his cock, unnaturally silky, but everyone in session protests the idea when Toshinori raises it. He tries to point out that it would be easier to see, but they all shoot it down. They like his 'lion dick', apparently, and call it pretty, and fluffy, and a good outline.

Thinking of himself as having a lion dick makes him smile. Makes him cheerier. There are people who like to look at him, and maybe they're misguided and maybe they're wrong, but they put their money where their mouths are.

It means nothing to All Might, and everything to Toshinori who has never felt sexy without All Might. But they don't know who he is and they want him anyway. Compliment him anyway, and let him please them, and it's so simple to spread himself wider, to moan a little louder, and hear the little ding of more tips.

He's never made anyone happy so easily. It's always been pain, and grinding through, and pretending there is no such thing in his body as nerves, or a vulnerable heart, or adrenaline, or fear. That's always been what making people happy meant.

This? This is so easy. So vulnerable, and so warm. His regulars talk to him, and ask how he is, and he thinks he knows which one is Aizawa. He isn't sure yet, but he thinks he's identified him.

Not that he knows what to do with that yet. But it feels a little good, too.


The one most likely to be Aizawa is a regular viewer of the free sessions but doesn't always join the group sessions. When Toshinori's in the free-but-tip-please zone, though, he does ask for small things. For Yagi to show his balls, to put his hands in frame. (The idea Aizawa really does like his hands - Toshinori doesn't know what to do with this burnished feeling that Aizawa likes anything about him.)

Sometimes he says things like I would love to choke on that cock, which is extraordinarily dirty for the Aizawa he knows but somehow very in character, and sometimes when Yagi is using a cockring, he'll caution Toshinori not to hurt himself. To be careful.

It's only lately he's begun to understand how that might be in Aizawa's character, too. He's fundamentally kind in a way Toshinori's always struggled with - he had to learn how it looked from Nana, how it felt from Recovery Girl, but he's still short of it. A smile plasters over the lack in him, but not always.

Fundamentally kind, and fundamentally trusting of Yamada, even with personal details. Personal sexual details.

In the middle of the staff lounge.

Toshinori tries not to listen, the back of his neck hot, as Aizawa drapes over Yamada's shoulder and outright whines that he wants Toshinori's username to fuck him.

Fortunately Yamada is sensible enough to have an answer unlike Toshinori wheezing on his own tongue. "You might not be able to pay him for that," he says. "If you've never seen his face he's probably a pretty private guy. Like, maybe there's just no amount of cash that could do it."

"I can wear a blindfold!" Aizawa sounds frustrated, openly, and for the first time Toshinori feels a little bad about the outfits he's been trying on lately, the fleshlights he's fucked for the camera, see-through and gripping his cock tight. "It's got to be worth a shot."

If Toshinori weren't listening, it wouldn't be.

But he is, and that night he gets a message from Aizawa's maybe-username.

It's a polite message. Very polite.

Hi, sorry if this is weird or creepy... but would you be willing to do a private session for me? Not a group session. One on one. It's fine if you don't answer, I won't ask again.

Toshinori has no idea what to do.

The more he shows himself to Aizawa, the likelier it is he will put the pieces together. He works with the man. He can't keep risking this, can he? It's already miraculous Aizawa hasn't put his voice together with his colleague.

If he meets him in person, like he said he wanted, then it will definitely be game over. But that isn't what he's asking for, and Yagi braces himself.

Either he finds out now, or he finds out later. There is no plausible future where Aizawa doesn't find out. The man's brilliant at details, a master of putting small things together; a detective all the more talented for how thoroughly he honed his skills.

But Aizawa might want Yagi Toshinori. Aizawa likes his cock enough to complain about how much he wants it to Yamada in front of Yagi.

He's guilty about it. Oh so very guilty. But. But he replies, I can do a private 1:1 chat if you like?

Aizawa replies, a few hours later, yes. Can you tell me how big your cock is? I want to get a dildo matching it to ride.

Toshinori is flushed and sweaty just reading Aizawa's messages.

Earlier he was quite composed even though he came all over himself for his viewers, scooped it on his fingers and loudly slurped it on request, but this is what makes the nape of his neck uncomfortably hot?

There's no way this ends well.

But he gives Aizawa his measurements. Tells him not to feel pressured to match them. Tells him it's a sweet idea, but to take his time.

He's learned his cock is big. Big enough, in fact, to be desirable all on its own, for the slowness of his erections to be a bonus.

That Aizawa wants it -

Toshinori touches himself thinking about it, biting back guilty apologies, and tells Aizawa when he's available.

It feels like he should do something special for Aizawa.

For anyone he's doing a one on one with, but for Aizawa, especially, and choosing the right outfit takes time. He frets over it, buys multiple things, buys multiple more.

Eventually the right outfit arrives, elbow-length gloves and corset lacing all down his front, opening over his cock to show it off.

He's fortunate that none of the other teachers have seen his scar, true, but he doesn't want this to be about that. It's a fantasy for him, too. A fantasy of Aizawa having more than cold words and reprimands for him, a fantasy of being desired not just by strangers, but by those who know him.

Unrealistic, of course. But what is this entire endeavour if not selling fantasy? If he's selling it to himself, too - why not?

He waits until Aizawa is online. Connects him into a private room, one on one, just them, and only then does he walk into frame and kneel on the bed, careful to keep his head tipped out of the way to avoid being revealed by any bounce.

He kneels. Presents himself. He's half-hard already. This is Aizawa, who has strong thighs and stronger principles, who openly slavers over his body as though there has never been a moment Toshinori is not desirable, not worth caring for, and Toshinori wants it. Desperately.

He speaks. It's risky, of course. Aizawa will be paying attention to his voice. But Toshinori would say these things to any private session, and for Aizawa he wants to say them. "I like to do something special for one on ones. Do you like it, viewer-sama?"

Aizawa types back, yes., and then: is it okay if I send a picture?

Toshinori is in so terribly deep already and he knows Aizawa can see him hesitating, his hands hovering over the keyboard he keeps on the bed. "Yes," he says.

A few minutes he gets a picture of a... well, he's never seen this part of Aizawa before. He knows those legs, though, those thighs. He's stared at them often.

This is Aizawa. Definitely.

How long can this last before Aizawa realises, before the jig is up? He doesn't know.

Yagi knows it's risky to speak. But his cock, and he can't help a pleased, wistful sigh. He doesn't want to help it. Aizawa deserves to know someone likes his cock too, and he fumbles for words and decides on the simplest in the end. "I like it, viewer-sama. Thank you."

What should I call you? Your username is a bit long to moan when I come.

Toshinori flushes, hands stuttering, and he knows Aizawa can see him jump. He put the keyboard in frame on purpose, just for Aizawa to watch. Aizawa's mentioned his hands often.

Even in the tiny square of his own camera in the upper left corner he can see how pink his skin has gotten. Even the exposed diamonds of flesh on his belly are redder.

What to say? What to fucking say without giving himself away? He can't give his name.

"Whatever you want," he says aloud, forgetting to type, and cringes at himself. Way to give himself away. "Ah. Um, I don't do this often. I never know what to say. What should I call you?"

Call me sensei, Aizawa replies, and Toshinori feels an awkward burble of laughter start in his belly.

Sensei. Aizawa, sensei.

He has no idea how true that is. "Okay, sensei," Toshinori says, and tries to regain some ground.

If he's going to be found out anyway - he might as well enjoy himself while it lasts, right?

"Watch me, sensei-sama."

He lied, technically; he's never done a 1:1 before. Everyone else advised against them. Too much intimacy, too awkward, too much chance of turning a regular into a creep. But this was, is, Aizawa.

It's easy even as he's tense the entire time, waiting for Aizawa to put the details of his voice, his body shape, together. But he doesn't. He only writes things like your cock is beautiful, I want it inside me, only tells Toshinori show me your fingers, I want to see the lube on them, and Toshinori blushed and did, hoping the cameras would pick up the gobs of shine.

He fingers himself for Aizawa, strokes himself and works himself open, let Aizawa watch. It's not something he does. Toshinori generally only dresses in outfits and touches himself, shows up with a plug already in place that he coyly plays with on advice from his camboy friends.

But for Aizawa, reticent, kind Aizawa, who is the first he's ever heard say out loud that he wants Toshinori as he is now -

For him, it's easy. It's the easiest thing to finger himself for the camera, to adjust the tilt to leave out his face, to work in two fingers, and three, and moan. To stroke himself with plain fingers, no toys, just his cock and his hand and the camera, his singular audience.

Aizawa sends him a picture once they're done. Another picture.

Of himself. His rim open and pink, his cock soft and covered in come.

Because of Toshinori. Because he bought that dildo and fucked himself while Toshinori touched himself for him at his direction.

He would regret the way Aizawa's limping when he comes into school the next day, but when he leans over to Yamada and says, "I got a private session and it was amazing. Hizashi, I think I'm in love with his dick," Toshinori can't regret anything.

But Aizawa doesn't stop there.

"And his hands, and his mouth, and the way he talks, fuck I could come from his voice alone."

He sounds like he wants Toshinori. It feels like a thousand tips. It gives him an idea.

Toshinori already has a private phone number for all this. It was part of signing up for the service. Different phone, different sim card, different name.

It's so risky.

But he could. He could, and it would involve less coordination, and Aizawa's voice. In his ear, telling him - and not just over text, but the sound of him. If he moaned. If his voice went husky when he was aroused. If it would hitch if Toshinori said particular things.

It's so risky.

The next time he sees Aizawa log in, he messages him. I liked our session. But I'm busy and I can't be in front of a camera very often. Would you be all right with a phone session?

He's not expecting Aizawa to reply right away. But he does, with Yes., short and decisive and very like him. How much does it cost?

Toshinori has a brief internal debate. Should he charge for what arouses him too? His camboy friends would say of course he should. Should he charge for deceiving Aizawa? Probably not.

Half the price of a 1:1 video session, he writes back. I can do most evenings after nine until midnight. Let me know.

There. That's enough time after school, most nights, to scramble over to the studio flat and get ready. Enough time to some get some sleep on the futon before school.

Aizawa offers once a week at a regular time and Toshinori gratefully accepts. He doesn't think his nervous heart could bear it more often than that. The more he talks to Aizawa, lets Aizawa see him, both at work and on camera, the more likely it is he will figure Toshinori out. Will discover the camboy he's been paying is Toshinori, and All Might.

But Aizawa is so kind to him. A great many of the regulars are kind in their own way, if understandably crude, but Aizawa is one of the few who notes that he sounds thirsty, who tells him it's okay to turn off the camera if he needs to stretch.

And the phone sessions work. They work so well until one night Aizawa is exhausted and Yagi is too worried for him to continue.

Yagi is worried about Aizawa. The man works so hard and while he's so enthusiastic in their sessions, how could he keep that up and everything else too?

He's not surprised when Aizawa can't do it once night. The flesh is willing but the spirit is tired, and he interrupts him, mustering courage, risking it like he risks it every time he speaks. "You can stop trying, sensei-sama. I don't mean stop the session. Just, um, look, you're tired. I won't charge you. So, um, relax. Please?"

Aizawa tries to play it off, the stubborn man, but there's only so much yawning Toshinori can take before the ratio of dirty talk to yawning is balanced heavily in favour of letting the man sleep.

"Talk to me," Aizawa says in that familiar rough voice. "I'll probably pass out soon."

"Ah..." He should have expected that. "I'm not sure what to say. Ah..."

Are there stories about himself he hasn't told Aizawa? Many. Are there stories about himself Aizawa might recognise? Some.

He's going to have to go personal.

"Ah, well, ah, I suppose I can tell you about myself a bit. Er, I grew up dockside. In Tokyo Port. Lived a very fishy life."

In more ways than one, not that Aizawa needs to know.

"I spent a lot of time on tugboats, pulling in container ships. Sometimes we filled in aboard the big ships. I was a cabin boy for three months, Tokyo to Beijing and Darwin, and back around through Manila. It was interesting but the sea is - very big, out there. A bit too big for me back then. I was glad to be home. Though I'm still a seafarer at heart, I suppose. Sometimes I wake up and I've forgotten my land legs."

He chuckles nervously.

"I'm sorry, this is probably very boring."

Not that Toshinori doesn't want to bore Aizawa - getting the man to sleep, finally, is part of the goal after all. But there's boring and there's tedious, and Toshinori feels tedious.

"It's not." His words are slurred with sleep. " 's cute. You're cute."

Cute? Toshinori? His heart lurches. "Goodnight, sensei-sama."


He overhears Aizawa in the teacher's lounge the next day, again, talking to Yamada, again, about the camboy that told him personal stories.

Apparently Aizawa's never really heard of tugboats or what they have to do with shipping, and the pang of fondness he feels for Aizawa's city boy ways contrasts sharply with regret for telling him.

It wasn't the smartest thing to do. It's an identifiable story. Too identifiable. But Aizawa doesn't tell Yamada the details and he's polite to Toshinori when they're stuck trying to figure out an authentication bug the software's thrown up instead of accepting their painstakingly-entered grades.

"I'm going to be late," Aizawa mutters. "Shit."

Ah. It's Thursday. The usual day.

He doesn't have the burner phone on him. He doesn't know what it sounds like when Aizawa calls it, when he leaves a suspiciously nonspecific message of held up at work, talk to you after 11.

This is wrong to do to Aizawa, isn't it?

It must be. But he's never had anyone praise him into his own ear. Never had anyone guide him through his fingers inside himself, tell him it's all right when he sets off a coughing fit. Never had anyone grunt into his ear for the thought of Yagi Toshinori's cock and body, and he would wonder if not for the details.

If not for the way Aizawa specifies how huge his cock looks against his thighs, tells him specific daydreams of rubbing his cock into the jut of his hip, the skin there, until he comes all over Toshinori's belly button.

It's a sweet fantasy but detailed according to the body Toshinori has. Another of Aizawa's knacks, that, his talent for seeing the truth, and the idea he sees Toshinori's truths, all but one -

Toshinori touches himself to it, sometimes. The memory of Aizawa wishing Toshinori would fuck him. His cock in that arse. His fingers. How desperate, how whiny he sounded.

He fantasises about telling Aizawa he could have it all, if only he asked the right man. He fantasises Aizawa would say yes.


Aizawa's requests get bolder.

Truthfully, Toshinori's desires do too. Sometimes he tells himself Aizawa can't possibly mean it, must be imagining someone else, but he still shows up to the group private sessions, to the free bait sessions. Still tells Toshinori he wants his cock, still worries for him if he spies a rope tied too tight or a knot pressing wrong.

He's there the first day Toshinori shows his scar. It's an accident. He was reaching for some water, thirsty after coming all over himself on an All Might themed dildo. He came as hard to the dirtiness of riding his own cock as the spill of messages telling him he was hot and sexy and how much he was making them come too. His own cock, and none of them know.

Toshinori reached over, reached back to steady the dildo where it was threatening to poke, and that was enough to push his shirt up over his hip and reveal the long cramped fingers of a void stitched hollow.

The chat was already concerned for him, telling him to drink water and that he did great, a buzz of tips as he let a little water pour on himself and drip off his belly and slide on his oversensitive cock, but now there's a flurry of outright worry.

WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED MAN??? and holy shit ru ok and that looks NASTY and wtf u ok??? and, from Aizawa's username, flashing past while Toshinori tugs at his shirt, ashamed and grateful, does it hurt?

Because the others might worry, but Aizawa - he's learned Aizawa is kind. He is the sort of man to ask if an old scar hurts.

"I'm okay," Toshinori tells them all, overwhelmed, grateful, frightened. "I'm okay. That's just - I don't like showing it, so I stay covered up. Sorry you saw that." And then, for Aizawa: "It hurts sometimes. But I'm careful. Sorry, everyone!"

They type back quickly. is ok man!! and I get why u cover up for sure and looks so gnarly tho and, from Aizawa: I don't mind seeing it.

He's so kind to the camboy he thinks Toshinori is. So kind.

Toshinori offers a 1:1. There's only one man he wants to look at him right now.

He does it through the settings, waving goodbye to the private group as though he's going offline. But Aizawa accepts right away so it only switches over to a room of him and Aizawa alone.

His shirt is still riding too high. He tugs at it, unsure of what to say. "Thank you," he says finally. "I can take it off, if you've - I know you've probably come already, but, ah... I wouldn't charge..."

This is a mess. Just a flat out fucking mess.

"I'm sorry, this is silly. I won't charge anyway, don't worry. Excuse me."

WAIT Aizawa types.

Toshinori hesitates. Curls his hands together in his lap over his groin, pulls a towel over it to hide himself.

You can show me if you want.

Does he want to?

Showing it off when it's to people who don't give a shit, who don't want him - it's fine. It doesn't bother him if his shirt flies up in public, if someone sees down the neckline and gasps.

Sometimes he thinks they fucking well should. Everyone should gasp at the sight of him. Look, everyone! The ruin of your favourite fantasy! Look! He's pathetic!

That, he doesn't mind.

But Aizawa has stroked himself to Toshinori's voice, has voiced appreciation for every part of Toshinori he's ever been allowed to see. His hips, and thighs, and hands. His back, when Toshinori's brave enough to bend over and show the camera a dildo working inside him.

When he spreads his legs and fucks into a fake arse or cunt, lube squelching, balls slapping, and lets them watch, Aizawa compliments that too. Brings it up in the phone sessions. Tells him how hot he looked, how he wished it was him. Pretended it was his body on camera, and fingered himself to the thought.

You don't have to Aizawa types, and Toshinori realises he's sat frozen for several minutes now.

"I want to," he tells Aizawa, and shakily peels off his shirt. "Please don't tell anyone."

Showing the scar to someone who wants him for the first time is frightening. Exhilarating.

Is it sensitive?

"Ah, yes?"

To touch?

"Some parts are," he answers, uncertain where this is going.

Would my tongue feel good?

Oh. He flushes all over. Swallows. "Yes. I can..."

Immediate: Yes.

He touches it for the first time in front of Aizawa. He's rubbed lotion into it, changed dressings, picked at it, slapped it just for the hot pang of disgust.

Not like this. Gently. Like someone could find it sexy even if not Toshinori himself, and it feels good. Unsettling, but good. Pretend it's my hand Aizawa types when Toshinori hesitates. Pretend I'm touching you.

"Yes, sensei-sama," Toshinori says, easier with it now, though it still makes him shy with how much he wants it to be real. "I'd like that."

Lick your fingers.

He shivers, obeys. Toshinori has the trick of being loud about it now, slurping, letting thick strings of spit drip down his fingers to compensate for hiding his face. The camera is good enough for Aizawa to see.

Touch yourself.

Toshinori doesn't quite know what that means, and he hesitantly puts his fingers to his chest where his nipple once was, rubbing uncertain circles. From there his fingers drift, and he's so used to numbness, to prickling pain, the hateful rasp of fabric over his skin when it isn't loose enough or tight enough.

But this is a different kind of sensitive. Not completely pleasant, but Aizawa is watching, and he likes it. Right? He does like it.

Imagining himself through Aizawa's eyes is a shameful, craven, wonderful thing.

He pushes aside the towel, shows his half-hard cock. "May I touch this too, sensei-sama?"

Fuck yes. You look so good.

Toshinori sounds sexy to him. He knows he sounds sexy, but to look good even like this? Aizawa doesn't lie.

It makes him bold enough to wrap his fingers around his shaft and point his cock upwards against his stomach. Contemplate, for the first time, what it might feel like to have the hot splash of come on his scar.

Toshinori shivers with how much he likes it, and touches down the stapled lines and bobbled keloids, wondering. Stroking a little faster at the twitches and twinges. For the first time it's... actually not bad.

You learn fast Aizawa writes, and Toshinori shivers pleasure at the praise.

The little square camera view of himself in the top left is such a bold man, naked on spread knees, showing off a ruined body. Touching an enormous fuck-off scar for consumption, as though it is something that could ever be wrapped up in desire and arousal.

But it is. It is. Toshinori feels it all over. He feels sexy.

Is this what he looks like to Aizawa? Sexy and confident and hot?

It makes his cock pulse in his hand, his breath catch. Aizawa thinks he looks like this, and for the first time Toshinori looks at that little square version, and knows it as himself.

He is that person. That man. He is.

Toshinori has to stop and gulp back a sob. "I'm sorry," he croaks out. "I'm sorry, um..."

Emotions happen Aizawa writes. This is the first time?

Toshinori nods but Aizawa can't see it, and he jerks a thumbs up and exhales, wrapping his arms around himself. "I'm okay. You're being very kind."

Sorry for not tipping, Aizawa writes back. Kind of broke.

"I'm still not charging," Toshinori tells him, relieved. "It's a free show. Um, enjoy it." The knots of scars beneath his arm would make that a lie by default - enjoy, pft - if he didn't have so much proof.

If he couldn't still see himself, naked and bold and... desirable.

Toshinori cradles his cock in his hand again. He likes it right now. Likes his thighs, and the drape of skin. Likes the little belly roll at the base of his cock, how it bunches pubic hair silky against his fingers. Like a mane.

A lion dick, they called it, and now it makes him smile.

He flushes. He's been quiet, and forgetting Aizawa. "Sorry, sensei. I'm, um..."

You have no idea how hot it is to see you enjoy yourself Aizawa writes back. Do as much of it as you want.

"You're not busy?"


Toshinori shivers in a breath and wets his fingers, and trails spit over his scar. The cavity, and the loss, and the failure. The thin beat of his heart.

For the first time he's glad of it.

Toshinori smiles to himself in confusion as he touches it, explores with his fingertips. It's always been such a consequence.

But like this, it exists. It's part of him, and it feels things. Good things that shiver in his belly, that tangle discomfort and desire into arousal.

He touches that hollow of himself, the radiating core of everything he lost, and while there's no feeling he can see himself in the corner. He can see his own hand on it, the shape of his fingers.

Go on Aizawa writes.

Toshinori's hard, trembling with it, the head wet in his fingers, foreskin slipping forward under gentle pressure to cover it once more, slick and shiny.

It's his. His body right to that emptied core. A reservoir of pain, true, and grief, but also maybe of his own pleasure. If he comes all over himself, streaking his body, pooling on his skin, it's his come and his skin. His body.

This is Toshinori's and he's understanding with every touch how he can want it too.

Want it and show it, and he draws a grinning, full breath that hurts and stretches and feels so good.

This is his.

"Hey," shivering happiness, the thrill of tipping over into possibilities, "do you want to watch me come on it?"


He laughs. It's betraying, and telling, and oh if Aizawa hasn't figured him out yet that would do it, but oh, he can't stop now. He doesn't want to stop.

He arches back, stroking himself, bracing carefully on his hand to tip his body back at the right angle, balls drawn so tight they ache.

That feels good, too, and he strokes himself fiercely, face stretched in unfamiliar joy that makes it hard to see.

A tug, a jerk, and come splashes all over his cock and the mane of his pubes. Up his thin sagging belly, over his side, his chest, that scar. He strokes himself, stripes his body with victory, and the come gathering in that hollow, following the channels of his scars to pool and drip, makes him laugh again.

Fuck that man and the misery and the pain. This is his.

The comedown this time is giggly, exhausted, and Toshinori reaches for water, kneeling awkwardly.

He cannot believe he did that. But he did. He can see it, feel it. He did that.

Laughter turns to tears.

He did that. "Sorry," he chokes, and Aizawa gave this to him. He gave Toshinori this, and he can't lie to him anymore. "I need to tell you something."

He sniffs, brushes his knuckles over his eyes. Puts his face into view.

"It's me," Toshinori tells him. "It's me, and thank you so much. I needed - I needed that so much. And I'm sorry. I really am sorry," desperate. "I hope you understand."

The session doesn't end.

Aizawa doesn't close out, doesn't write, and Toshinori peers into the camera, confused. Did something break? Is it frozen?

Answer the phone.

What? But his burner phone vibrates on the table, and he picks up, unsure, kneeling back into view. "Yes?"

"So the dry eye makes me a little blind," Aizawa says, exasperated, "but not that fucking blind."

Oh. Well. He giggles, riding the giddy high. His body feels so good. So fucking good.

"Seriously," Aizawa says.

"Sorry," Toshinori says again, and tries to be serious. "When did you know?"

It feels silly to be on camera still, but it's comforting too, the structure of the screen layout reassuring in its bounds and report buttons, the idea he could hang up and end this whenever he needs to.

This is how he found himself. It feels right to be seen like this, still, in all his truth.

Aizawa hums. "The first time you called. Someone coached you to drop the dock accent but there's two times you slip. When you're frustrated, and when you're turned on."

And of course fighting the school software would've given him a good earful of the first, and the phone calls a wide array of the second.

Toshinori flushes, settles cross-legged to save his knees, his hips aching.

The come is starting to cool, and the stickiness feels good, like taping himself back together into a whole.

"So," Toshinori says, feeling playful, hot, sexy, "does that mean you want a picture?"

Aizawa chokes in his ear.

Toshinori crouches down into camera view to make sure Aizawa can see Toshinori laughing at him, too happy not to squirm with joy at getting one over Aizawa for once.

"I'm taking that as a yes, Aizawa-sensei-sama," he sings at him, all himself to the childhood bones of salt and seawater and sea legs tilted to brace his own body and live within it.

Oh, to have it back again.

The picture is filthy. Toshinori loves it, and sends several more, knowing Aizawa is watching through the camera. Seeing Toshinori share himself. Frame and capture and give what is his.

Just the thought is so satisfying he wants to curl up in his body and pet it and take a nap in it.

Toshinori sends several closeups, sticky pubes and semen trailing the rivers of scars, the well of the hole full as his heart.

The last one is of his chest, the few splashes that made it up to his collarbones, the top half of the picture dominated by a smile he can't help, doesn't want to help. It's true. It's real. And his.

This is Yagi Toshinori's, too.