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Hunting down men like Shinsou Hitoshi had never been a part of Shouta’s job description, but he was seriously considering having his contract re-written and his pay hiked up for years of shit like this.
Dressed down in black on black on black, his leather jacket staving off the rabid bite of cold from which he’d come, Shouta shouldered through the club of variously undressed gays and silently wished for death. Or, at the very least, a short coma. As a treat.
He’d already spent the day checking Shinsou’s haunts. The cat cafe that Shouta himself had introduced back when Shinsou had been big-eyed and skittish as a stray with very sharp claws. The closet-sized bar with low lighting, cheap whiskey, and a jukebox of that depressing shit Shinsou liked the listen to. The skatepark, where Shinsou sat at the top of the half-pipe without a skateboard in sight because he didn’t know how.
Shinsou’s apartment. Which, after a few wrangles with the locks, turned out to no longer be his apartment at all. Sneaky fuck.
Ignoring the press and grind of humid bodies around him, Shouta cased the floor in a few sweeps of sharp attention. The strobe lights didn’t make it easy to spot his target among the masses, but if there was one thing Shouta could count on when it came to his protege, it was that he would be attracting attention.
For better or worse.
A familiar flare of high hair caught Shouta’s attention at the far end of the bar. And, of course, there he was, leaning back against the counter, his lanky legs spread to accommodate some tall, dark and handsome asshole without a shirt on. On Shinsou’s other side was another guy, black hair shaggy and eyes dark, seemingly interested in getting in on what Shinsou was offering.
Shinsou didn’t look any different from the last time Shouta had seen him some half year ago. Still adult, still sharp at the edges and long of limb. He’d grown into himself over the five years since graduation, both in sleek, limber muscle and the strengthened width of jaw. The depth of his voice and the quickness of wit, the confidence of his swagger that came with being exceptional in his skills.
Shouta sucked on his teeth, ran his tongue across them as he paused, watching Shinsou go for the pull.
He didn’t even have to work for it. Shinsou spoke with his usual ease, the cadence of his moving mouth too familiar to Shouta for comfort. He looked interested, but not invested. His body language was open, his elbows pulled back to rest on the bar, his chin angled up in welcome to the stranger leaning in between his legs.
Shinsou smiled, a slow smirk that didn’t share his teeth, and Shouta cracked his neck to one side and then the other.
He was holding fucking court, Shouta thought as he started forward, unwilling to wait any longer on his stupid student to finish gathering his pawns for the night.
Shinsou noticed his approach sooner than Shouta expected. To the outsider, his posture didn’t shift and his half-smile didn’t falter. But it was in the set of his shoulders, the twitch of his long fingers, and then Shinsou was glancing aside, as if lazily scanning the room for nothing in particular.
Not a flicker of surprise as their eyes met. The strobe lights leapt across Shinsou’s face and his reflective, feline pupils flared white, then orange. Unnerving for those who met him in the dark.
Shouta kept his expression schooled and solemn, not relenting a single twitch of facial recognition as Shinsou’s generous, wide mouth revealed teeth. He’d almost made it through the thrusting throng of the dance floor when Shinsou sat up, his back in an ugly slouch that would fuck up his spine forever if he kept doing it, and leaned in to say something to the man between his thighs.
The guy fucking pouted—a grown-ass man—at whatever Shinsou said, but Shinsou gently patted his cheek, pressed a kiss to his mouth, and promptly pressed a hand to the guy’s chest and pushed him back, out of his space.
“Hey,” the guy whined as Shouta approached, “don’t you wanna—”
“He’s busy,” Shouta said, hovering close enough that his leg brushed one of Shinsou’s spread knees. Close up, he loomed over the other guy, who wasn’t all that tall. The stranger seemed to notice it too, because looked Shouta up and down once, lingered on the eye patch, aimed a furtive glance at Shinsou, who actually shrugged a shoulder, then slumped away.
The guy sitting beside Shouta barely blinked before he evacuated the scene, leaving a seat that Shouta took. He kept his shoulder to Shinsou, who still faced outward, and made eye contact with the bartender long enough to frighten him into taking Shouta’s order of a double scotch on the rocks.
Neither of them spoke during this time, nor did Shinsou actively look at him. They’d spent years of their lives at each other’s side. Shouta training him, Shinsou learning from him, copying him, struggling, succeeding, thriving. From intelligence missions to stake outs, they’d spent hours and days and years of their lives in each other’s presence.
At this point in their relationship, neither of them were ever in much of a hurry with the other. A very small, secretive spot at the back of Shouta’s selfish skull whispered that this had always been their problem.
Shouta waited until he’d received his drink. Took a sip. With his mouth lingering at the glass, he glanced over his shoulder and found Shinsou slumped against the bar once more. His head was lolled back and loose, his face angled to have been watching Shouta’s profile the entire time.
Shouta hadn’t even noticed. When had Shinsou grown so fucking quiet, so still in his movements, that he’d begun to outdo his own teacher?
Their eyes held, unflinching. The glow of the bar lights and the flicker of the strobes left Shinsou’s pale eyes colorless and full of mercurial color all at once, but none of them his true color. The men who took him home to fuck would never know his true eye color in this club, on the dark streets, in shadowed bathrooms and bedrooms.
A person would have to know Shinsou in the flesh, in the daylight to know his eyes skimmed the hazy horizon of faded blue into hazy lavender.
Shouta’s gaze skimmed down Shinsou’s body, registering the black fishnet shirt that covered arms and torso and disappeared into low-slung, black leather pants. When he looked back up, Shinsou's pale eyebrows rose, his mouth curled at the corner.
“You didn’t come here to party,” Shinsou finally said, amusement carrying in his deep, honeyed voice. Shouta’s low voice may have been sandpaper and shrapnel, but Shinsou’s was smooth, hot scotch sliding down.
Shouta remembered when Shinsou’s voice wasn’t so practiced. When it cracked with emotion and gave away too much. A long time ago now.
“Neither did you,” Shouta said.
“Really?” Shinsou asked.
Shinsou had gone through anti-interrogation training right out of school. He’d aced his intelligence courses. He used questions as weapons, as a sharp hook to the mouth of an opponent so he could reel them in. Shouta was half certain Shinsou didn’t even realize he spoke in questions nowadays.
He’d been molded into the perfect future spy.
“You came here to gather admirers,” Shouta replied, gaze unwavering on Shinsou’s.
“Who doesn’t love admirers?” Shinsou’s eyes wrinkled at the corners with humor.
“You’ve been ignoring my calls,” Shouta said.
“Me?”
“You.”
“Has it occurred to you that I don’t work for you, Sensei?” Shinsou asked without any heat. He was all smiles tonight, apparently. Sometimes he was sullen and avoidant, other times going for the jester’s route. Shinsou Hitoshi had many faces, but Shouta had seen them all.
“How often do I ask you for assistance?” Shouta shot back, playing Shinsou’s game if he had to. He had someone in custody who had intel and no one, not even Shouta, could pull it from him.
“How often?” Shinsou replied, just as quick, egging him on. Before Shouta could snap, Shinsou angled his body to Shouta, those endless legs crossing. Shinsou leaned in, neatly nipped the glass from Shouta’s hand, and took a sip. Their eyes met over the rim of the glass.
“Too often for my liking,” Shouta finally answered, his mouth dry. He hated playing this fucking game. He hated coming to his former student for help. No, he hated coming to Shinsou Hitoshi for help. “Shinsou.”
“I’m a very busy man, you know?” Shinsou said, still framing his comments like fucking questions, as if the threat of him snatching Shouta’s mouth and thoughts was something Shouta didn’t have experience with on an entirely different level. “Government job and all that. What do you think they’d say if I kept helping you on the side? How do you feel about being my side-chick, Aizawa? Thoughts?”
“I’m two of your stupid questions away from breaking this fucking glass over your thick skull is what I feel about it.”
“Mmm. . .” Shinsou hummed and pursed his lips, eyes lingering on Shouta’s tight-mouthed scowl, then back up, as if genuinely considering this option. “How important is it? Can’t you see I’m indisposed?”
“Who taught you to think with your dick?” Shouta shot off, annoyed that they had to talk business in a fucking gay bar while no less than four men were scoping out Shinsou as they spoke.
“Who indeed?” Shinsou murmured, his words barely audible above the club’s wild din. A high flush had flagged his pale cheeks, right up to the ears both stacked in piercings. His gaze had finally averted, the glass on the bar empty between them, the shift in Shinsou’s expression so subtle that it was like watching smoke rise and dissipate without taking any true shape.
Shouta clenched his jaw, felt his back teeth grind in ways that would make his dentist furious with him yet again.
“We have him in holding,” Shouta said lowly, leaning in toward Shinsou’s pink ear. “He has intel that’s Need-To-Know. Details aren’t necessary. You’ll barely need to put in any effort whereas I’ve been stuck with him for over eleven hours. He won’t even rot in jail for long. We won’t have much on him until he gives it up.”
“LoV?” Shinsou asked.
“Higher.”
“Safety Commission?”
“Closer,” Shouta replied, urging Shinsou with eyes alone. He wouldn’t beg, but he was tenacious, and nagging wasn’t the same as begging. If he could wear down a shitty student into dropping out, he could wear down the iron will of Shinsou Hitoshi to go on a little side hustle for him.
It wasn’t the first time and it wouldn’t be the last.
“And what do I get in return?” Shinsou said, the flirty fog in his eyes long-cleared now, that honed mind revealed in the steel shine of his stare.
“A favor.”
Shinsou’s laugh was abrupt and without humor.
“You know I don’t deal in favors. People rarely put-out when called to it.”
“You know I put-out.”
Shinsou’s grin was razor sharp and just as quick to cut if he chose. Shouta had been on the end of it too many times to count, but he was good at collecting scars and one more wouldn’t hurt too much if it were for a cause.
“Do I?” Shinsou asked softly, leaning in so Shouta could smell the beer on his breath, feel the warmth of his mouth barely-not brush Shouta’s cheek as they spoke close, intimate.
This was a game, Shouta had to remind himself. Shinsou may not have dealt in favors, but he used his innate appeal and magnetic draw to imply that if people did deal with him, they’d get something more from him at the end of it.
One of the hardest years of Shouta’s teaching career had been the year Shinsou had discovered that he could use his body and mind to coerce people in ways that didn’t require his Quirk at all. He’d tested his limits with Shouta over and over, more curious at Shouta’s reactions than actually wanting to gain anything from him.
Shouta had been the original punching bag for Shinsou’s sexual subterfuge and all these years later he was still nursing the wounds from that particular trauma.
“What do you want, Shinsou?” Shouta snapped, his patience thinning. Shinsou hadn’t shifted out of his space and Shouta could never tell if the sneaky shithead knew his effect on him or not.
They both knew Shinsou would give in. They both knew he was a good man with a good heart and stricter morals than the majority of his graduating class. While Shinsou was a venerate liar and a no-good flirt, that was his wrapping, not the package.
Of course Shinsou would say yes. He always did. He never turned down an opportunity to help. But he had to make sure he got something out of it regardless. His time and his talents weren’t free and Shouta would respect that even if it meant cracking his back wisdom teeth down the middle for frustration.
“A home cooked meal,” Shinsou said as his mouth left Shouta’s ear and he unfolded himself to stand to his full height. His grace had gone from lanky and leggy in his teens to feline and nearly ethereal as an adult. His lithe build and lean muscle leant him a grace that rarely saw him tripping up or missing a step.
He was almost as quick as Shouta. Not yet, though.
“What?” Shouta stood, their eyes briefly clashing, humor or annoyance. “I’m not cooking for you.”
With Shinsou nearly the equal height to him, it was too easy for Shinsou to place a hand to Shouta’s arm and lean in against under the guise of speaking over the bumping bass of music.
“Don’t I know it. You taught me many things in order to survive, Sensei, but cooking wasn’t one of them. But I know old Mrs Watanabe next door still feels sorry enough for you that she splits all her meals with you. And I want in.”
Shouta paused, masking his surprise with an entire lack of reaction or movement.
“Whatever you want,” he drawled, drifting from Shinsou’s light hold. “Let’s head out. I’ve only got this guy on ice for another twelve hours.”
Shouta walked out of the bar without looking back. The frigid winter wind slapped him hard as he emerged onto the sidewalk, inhaling deep of the clean, crisp air. His lungs had begun to fill too much of Shinsou’s cologne, something night-dark and almost seductively feminine if it weren’t for the white musk and heady spice.
A few minutes later, Shinsou pulled up beside him, buttoning up a plain black peacoat. Shouta didn’t spare him a glance and headed off in the direction of the precinct that held his man in Quirk-nullifying cuffs and an equally powerful collar. They could have taken a cab, but Shouta hated to waste the money on one and a walk would clear his head.
He really had spent hours interrogating the guy. Most people crumpled over time in a room with Shouta. He was rigid, unforgiving, and unrelenting. His eye patch unnerved the weak and his attitude assaulted the strong. But some people were immune or simply stubborn.
The man strolling beside him and humming a showtune also happened to be both.
Shouta could still remember how Shinsou had cried for him when he’d lost his leg from the knee down. He’d been so young then, so determined and honest and rough around the edges before he’d learned to smooth them out with his body and mind. He flung himself into his teacher’s arms, hugged him until it hurt, and cried for him.
That was how Shouta knew Shinsou would always say yes to him. Not out of pity or guilt, but simply because he was unequivocally good.
If not a snarky asshole.
“How’s the new generation of hopefuls, sir?” Shinsou asked after a good ten minutes of walking in blessed silence. He only added the ‘sir’ to piss Shouta off. He knew it, hated that it worked, and refused to show it.
“No one quite so challenging as you,” Shouta said.
“We can’t all be me,” Shinsou said with a grin in his voice. Shouta would not look, would not be pulled into him.
“I can only hope.”
“Anyone with a similar Quirk to me?” Shinsou asked, oh-so-casually.
“No,” Shouta answered, flat and dismal. Shinsou asked the same thing every year. Only once, the very first year out of graduation that Shinsou asked, did he admit it was because he was terrified of his abusive birth father out there having had any more kids.
“Too bad,” Shinsou said with an actor’s sigh. “I know you must miss having me around. Pulling me off into the night as often as you do.”
“Yes,” Shouta deadpanned. “I fucking love pulling you out of gay bars to enforce you doing some good in this world.”
“Oh, I would have done plenty good tonight.”
Shouta’s stomach turned. He did not look at Shinsou. He would not look at him. They just needed to get where they needed to go without incident. Shinsou was fucking pushing it tonight—back in summer he hadn’t been half as difficult to coerce. He’d also been hot and sleepy and Shouta had offered him an air conditioned haven in the police station, and that had been enough to send Shinsou heading out.
Still, Shouta did not rise to the comment. He ducked his chin into the collar of his coat and marched.
“How’s Hizashi?” Shinsou asked, less than ten minutes from the precinct. The streets were dead but for a few drunken businessmen. The trains were done for the evening and no one wanted to pay for an extortionate cab.
“You ask as if you don’t know,” Shouta drawled. The sting of knowing his best friend and Shinsou regularly texted never seemed to fade. He wasn’t jealous, it was just annoying.
"And Eri?"
"Same as when you saw her a couple of weeks ago on her birthday," Shouta replied, bland as he could be.
“And Shirakumo?” Shinsou added breezily, ignoring Shouta’s jab as he got to what he’d really been after, Shouta realized. Shinsou was often pleasant, up until he reached the information he really wanted.
Oboro had been the beginning of the end between the two of them. Shouta could never put a fine point on Shinsou’s growing distance upon Oboro’s recovery—and the subsequent relationship Shouta and Oboro picked up following his rehabilitation—but the division in Before Oboro and After, in Shinsou’s attitude, had been startling.
“He’s fine,” Shouta replied flatly. He could practically feel Shinsou’s shoulders tighten, his slouch becoming more pronounced as he hunched into himself against the cold or something else. The precinct was coming up, a few buildings down. “Last I heard.”
“Last you—”
Shinsou didn’t finish his sentence. Rare.
Shouta made a mistake. He looked.
Shinsou’s pale eyes were wide as he stared at Shouta’s profile, his cheeks bright and red with the cold, along with his ears and nose. He’d tied his well-styled hair into a messy bun atop his head since leaving the club, or right before leaving, Shouta hadn’t noticed. The vulnerability around his eyes and softened mouth, the bow of his brows, made him look painfully young again.
Shouta’s heart clenched. He didn’t analyze it.
He also wasn't going to have this discussion on the street, with so many dark corners for Shouta to pull Shinsou away and explain everything, to finally finally kiss that talented, poisonous, pretty mouth until he wasn’t sure if it was mind control or the loss of his own mind that led him to never letting go of this single, infuriating person.
So Shouta barely shrugged a shoulder and started toward the ramp up to the double glass doors of the precinct, leaving Shinsou behind.
“Let’s get this over with,” Shouta rasped. “It’s late and it’s only going to get later.”
For a moment, Shouta realized that Shinsou wasn’t following at all. But before he could shoot an impatient look over his shoulder, Shinsou was at his side once more, holding open the door with a gracious sweep of hand, a smirk, and shuttered eyes.
“Age before beauty,” Shinsou said.
“Oh, fuck off,” Shouta muttered, exhaustion suddenly heavy on his shoulders as he slumped into the building. He wanted to fall face-down onto his bed and smother himself into unconsciousness. That sounded like the best idea he’d had all night. The worst, being the one who strode beside him, head held high, shoulders back, oozing appeal.
They waved past two underpaid policemen who looked overworked and harassed. It wasn’t often they actually caught someone of worth, and the guy in holding was worth more than most. Shinsou followed him into the interrogation room behind two way glass.
Shinsou pocketed his hands in his long, dark coat, and even with the black leather pants and big black Docs, he didn’t look out of place here, coolly eyeing the man through the class. As long as no one knew he was wearing fishnet under the coat and nothing else.
But Shouta knew. He really wished he didn’t know.
“What do you need to know?” Shinsou asked, low and clipped, all business. His job with the government surrounded intrigue that even Shouta wasn’t privy to, layered between conspiracy, interrogation, and sliding secrets out of people before they knew how to say no.
Shinsou would never be the flashy, free-smiling Hero he’d dreamed of when he’d come into Shouta’s care. But he had become utterly extraordinary in doing good from the shadows. Shinsou seemed at peace with his lot nowadays.
“Ito Sho,” Shouta said, matching Shinsou’s mellow tone as he handed off a file left on the desk that faced the mirror. Shinsou’s security clearance was higher than his own by a mile. There was no use hiding it. Shinsou would have probably pocketed the papers when Shouta wasn’t looking, anyway. “Priors a mile long. Been shacked up with the villain known as Zeus for some eighteen months.”
“Zeus is one of the breakouts from Tartarus assault back then?” Shinsou asked, as if he didn't know. He worked closely with the Tartarus’ clean-up crew, even seven years after the incident. There’d been no way to catch them all back then, the Heroes so strained at the edges and ripping at the center.
Shouta didn’t bother to reply. He continued on as he watched Shinsou flick through the thick file, gaze flying across the documents stamped with EYES ONLY.
“He knows where Zeus and his group are holed up. We’re fairly certain Zeus had hands not just in recruiting new members of the LoV, but has always had someone working within the Safety Commission. Possibly several someones. But Ito here knows where to start.”
Shinsou looked up, lingering on the hunched man in the interrogation room, then flicked and held on Shouta. His eyes were a silvery-grey in the shadow, washed out of their startling nature in daylight. Mercurial eyes, changeable as the man himself.
“He’d rather die than give it up,” Shinsou said.
“Looks like,” Shouta drawled slowly.
With that, Shinsou snapped the file shut and handed it off to Shouta. He smiled, but there was no humor, no life in it. He had his shark’s smile on now, all blood-in-the-water hunting hours.
“Let’s get to it, then.” Shinsou brushed by Shouta, the space behind the mirror tight, but not so cramped to excuse the way Shinsou’s entire side brushed and pressed against Shouta like a cat marking their owner as territory.
Shinsou went out the opposite door that led into the side corridor and into the interrogation room. Shouta watched Ito flinch at the sound of the opening door. He was exhausted but not broken. Just pissed off. He was the size of a panda and just as strong when without the nullifying cuffs and collar.
His dark, beady eyes narrowed as Shinsou—a slim small thing by comparison—dropped back into the steel chair opposite the table screwed to the floor and folded his legs with apparent lack of concern for the murderer in the room with him.
“Evening, Mr Ito,” Shinsou said, and although Shouta could only watch the back of Shinsou’s head and the long line of his neck, Shouta knew he was smiling that shark’s smile. “Or would you prefer Sho?”
“Like I care,” Ito answered. “Call me what you want, won’t make no difference.”
And that was it. All Shinsou ever needed was one in, one reply, to sink his teeth into the prey and shake them around until their brains scrambled in their skull.
Shouta’s blood surged with the knowledge of how many times Shinsou could have and could still do the same to him. And didn’t. Had never even hinted it as a tease or a joke.
Shinsou was incredible. Shouta couldn’t take credit for that noble spine of steel or stubborn soul that refused to relent to the rancor of the world. He could only hope he’d been part in pointing him in the right direction.
The interrogation was over in eleven minutes.
Eleven minutes to Shouta’s eleven hours. He didn’t often feel like a fool, but he had made notable exceptions when they happened to involve Shinsou Hitoshi.
“Do you need to stay and oversee transport?” Shinsou asked after he’d returned to the small room, leaning back on the desk and folding his arms to consider Shouta. Slightly sitting, he was once more shorter than Shouta, like he’d once been.
“Fuck that,” Shouta muttered, running a hand through his hot mess of hair. He’d tied it half back, but unconsciously shoving his fingers through had made it worse. He was greasy-haired, tired, and the port where his lower leg automail was plugged ached from the cold. “I got what I needed recorded. I’ll shoot an email to the board, dig a hole, bury myself, and sleep for a thousand years.”
There. Shinsou smiled in surprise, earnest and delighted, his eyes squinting with it. This wasn’t one of his several practiced smiles, smirks, or sneers. This was the Shinsou Hitoshi that Shouta remembered before Shirakumo Oboro had returned and set off an entirely unexpected chain of events ricocheting into the future.
“Please don’t,” Shinsou said, his honeyed voice warm and smooth and worth steeping in. “At the very least I would miss you, and we both know my needs are very important.”
Shinsou was one of the most low maintenance humans Shouta had ever met, perhaps only matched by he himself, who could, would, and did live on the street without complaint at certain points of his life. Shinsou was a foster kid bounced between homes who all ended up fearing his silent demeanor and sneaky Quirk.
If Shinsou had deep seeded needs—and he did—he would never say them out loud.
“Which way is home?” Shouta asked instead of addressing Shinsou’s insinuation. He didn’t miss the way Shinsou’s eyebrows rose in surprise.
“What do you—”
“I went to your apartment first,” Shouta said, strolling up to Shinsou, invading his space more than was safe for either of them. He leaned in, looming over as Shinsou placed hands back on the desk and reclined enough to grin knowingly up at him. “It’s not your apartment anymore. I broke in. Nearly gave the old lady inside a heart attack. She did have five cats, though. That’s what tripped me up into thinking it was still you there.”
Shinsou’s smile only spread as Shouta spoke and it kept him talking more than he normally would. He hadn’t seen Shinsou smile so naturally in so long. Years, maybe. His heart cramped up, so unused to beating this hard.
“The second clue was the lack of clothes strewn across the floor. The pyramid of ramen cups was suspiciously missing. She had fresh flowers in a vase in the entryway.”
“A vase of flowers?” Shinsou repeated, sounding appropriately scandalized. “What the fuck kind of sicko moved into my apartment? Everyone knows that you plug several air fresheners into the walls and pray the cat smell away.”
“Obviously,” Shouta replied, feeling his lips unconsciously curve in reply to Shinsou’s delight. He suddenly realized he’d stepped into the vee of Shinsou’s lanky legs, the warmth of his inner thighs pressed to Shouta’s hips.
When? When had he ended up in exactly the same easy trap set for some dumb asshole at a gay bar? How?
And just like that, the spell was broken and Shouta stepped out of Shinsou’s dangerous space. For a brief, horrifying second, Shouta felt Shinsou’s thighs abruptly squeezing around his own, as if hoping to keep him sucked in, before releasing just as quickly. Shouta may or may not have heard a shaky exhale in the room, but he was already turning away and heading for the door.
“You know how to get home from here?” Shouta rasped, shocked at the sound of his own fucking voice as he gripped the doorknob. He’d realized with sudden, vicious clarity, that there was no way he could safely walk Shinsou home tonight.
And if there was anything he’d stressed to be for his former student—both during his time at UA and after and now—it was safe. For Shinsou’s sake and for his own.
“No,” Shinsou said, surprising Shouta anew. He turned to watch Shinsou stand, smoothing out the thick peacoat that needed no ironing. His eyes didn’t meet Shouta’s as he added, “You promised me a home cooked meal.”
Shouta blinked.
“What. Fuckin’ now?”
Shinsou’s eyes flashed to meet Shouta’s briefly and it looked like Shinsou was going to say something entirely different before he just smirked, that air of confidence settling across his features, a familiar smokescreen.
“What was it you said about putting out? I’m hungry now, Sensei. You wouldn’t leave a former student hungry out in the cold.”
“You damn well know I have and would,” Shouta all but growled, but he already felt his defenses crumbling. He rolled his eyes and turned away, unable to look at that shit-eating grin right now. He felt so seen, so fucking mocked when Shinsou called him that. As if he knew and had known all along that he had a hold on Shouta more than a student, more than a man, more than a Hero with his Quirk, could ever have on him. “Fine. Come home with me then.”
There was a moment of silence behind him before Shinsou was moving across the room, a slim hand at the small of Shouta’s back as Shinsou gently urgently him through the doorway and murmured:
“Any time.”
***
As a rule of thumb, Shinsou Hitoshi made poor life decisions. This was never necessarily because he thought they were poor decisions at the time, but they often revealed themselves down the line to be about as well thought-out as shooting off a few rounds in a submarine.
His reputation was solid. A successful Hero with a clever mouth and even quicker mind. Someone decisive and trustworthy, a steel trap of secrets, a smooth talker and altogether reasonable human being.
It was a very good front for the hot mess of his heart and the train wreck of his personal life. Very few people were privy to this knowledge, and even less people were allowed to know him close enough to understand that he was both the Hero and the disaster wrapped into one. Those who embraced him for it without judgement were those he held dearest to his secret heart.
Aizawa Shouta reigned at the top of the list, but he rarely seemed to be up for that crown, despite Hitoshi leaving it on his head so many times over the years.
Tonight, though. Tonight felt different.
Hitoshi’s poor decisions were pelting him like mortar and Aizawa was twirling his crown around one finger, leading Hitoshi along like he was just a foot soldier again.
Hitoshi had felt him before he’d seen him. There was no magical connection between them, no Quirk to link them, but Hitoshi knew the weight of Aizawa’s stare after eight years of it.
He’d been in the middle of pulling two men who looked hefty and intimidating and intense enough to be shitty imitations of his former teacher when he’d felt eyes on him. He was used to that. People watched him all the time for various reasons. Normies, spies, villains, friends, lovers—but no one looked at him like Aizawa.
By all appearances unconcerned, Hitoshi had glanced away, the man between his legs entirely forgotten, and couldn’t help the smile that overtook when he caught those coal hot eyes searing into him from the center of the dance floor. He’d been in all black, just like Hitoshi, only layered up and protected from anyone who might try to touch even a sliver of his skin.
Aizawa looked furious. Shinsou smiled wider as Aizawa had approached, only remembering the guy between his legs and beside him when one of them gave a whine for attention. He saw them off quickly with a lying promise of ‘another time’, then embraced the presence of his every secret wet dream.
Playing with Aizawa was, unfortunately, the only fun Hitoshi could get out of him these days. Hitoshi’s flirtations were just shy of utterly indecent toward a man who was in a committed relationship. He’d long ago settled for lingering, longing looks that could be construed as his act or his honesty, just to keep Aizawa unable to accuse him of anything entirely untoward.
Of course he had every intention of relenting to Aizawa’s request. Of course he did. He wondered if Aizawa knew it too. He had to. He couldn’t know just how tightly he had Hitoshi in his fist, though.
Hitoshi had made certain, and would continue to make certain, that Aizawa didn’t have it easy with him.
So, they silently walked the winter streets side by side, arms brushing. Aizawa limped, his prosthetic more evident in the colder months, Hitoshi had always noticed.
As ever, Aizawa was a tight-lipped, constant presence at Hitoshi’s shoulder. He rarely ever rose to Hitoshi’s jabs and often answered his questions with more questions, as would anyone with half a brain around Hitoshi. Not that Hitoshi would ever hit Aizawa with his Quirk, but it was nice to know that he made Aizawa leery and annoyed, even after all this time.
Asking about Shirakumo was Shinsou’s way of letting fireworks off inside the submarine, let alone a few warning shots toward the hull.
He’d been doing to himself for years. Years. After the Tartarus assault, after Aizawa had learned to walk with automail and a missing eye, after classes had tentatively resumed and life had stumbled and slumped onward, there had been Shirakumo.
Hitoshi hadn’t thought much of it at the time. He and his sensei had continued training as ever. Perhaps Aizawa had been a little more gruff around the edges, more impatient and prone to snapping, then to sudden bouts of softness that took a young Hitoshi entirely off guard—perhaps Aizawa had crawled out of the rubble a few dear friends and body parts less, but it hadn’t simply been the physical changes that eroded the growing gap between them.
Shirakumo. Aizawa had dedicated hours, weeks, and days to him. Hitoshi had joined him once, sweet-talking and subtly threatening his way into it, going through Hizashi first to get to Aizawa’s side.
Shirakumo had been going through rehabilitation there. Not physically, as he looked just like his photos, but his hair wasn’t clouds of white, but dark, deep storm clouds roiling above his head, and his bright blue eyes sparked with violent yellow lightning when laughing. Then something would snap and he’d slip back into his Nomu cloud cover, his memory snapping out like a light.
To watch Aizawa’s dedicate his every free, waking hour to his lost and found friend left Hitoshi battling with too much. Awe at Aizawa’s determination. Pity for the both of them, these friends torn apart by horrific circumstances. Sadness for the weight in Aizawa’s shoulders and the dark circles beneath his eye patch and good eye.
Jealousy. Jealousy in hot, hormonal waves of poison. Hitoshi was surprised his hair never turned green.
That they became an item after Shirakumo was released should not have been a surprise.
Hitoshi should not have spent nights crying into his pillow, muffling his sorrow should someone in the dorms dare hear. He should not have retaliated by discovering his sexuality and using it as a weapon, just to watch Aizawa look at him in ways that would get his teacher fired. He should not have begun holding back his smiles until it became a habit.
But he’d done it and had continued to do it out of graduation. Hitoshi had immediately allowed himself to be recruited into the government—had slipped past the veil of the public for top secret training, just eighteen years old and burning from the inside out to prove himself a man, a Hero, better, stronger, worth something to someone. Someone in particular.
He’d dropped off the face of the earth for nine months. By the time he returned, the gap between him and Aizawa had become a gorge. And Aizawa had still been with Shirakumo. Still didn’t look at him twice.
And why would he?
The years since had been a delicate balancing act of attempting to bridge the abyss between them, while also staying on top of their relationship by remaining just the wrong side of available, and also pining. So much pining.
When Aizawa had tucked his chin into his coat against the cold and clearly, concisely said, “He’s fine—last I heard,” Hitoshi swore he heard his entire heart splatter to the sidewalk.
He tripped up a step and whirled, his body entirely out of sync with his usual centered control.
“Last you—”
Hitoshi gaped for a moment, clamping his mouth shut just as Aizawa flicked an inscrutable look his way, all dark, furrowed brow and severe mouth. He didn’t have to say anything, because Hitoshi heard the single line for what it was. He decoded peoples’ words for a fucking living.
They’d broken up. Sometime in the past twelve months. He hadn’t inquired last summer, six months ago when Aizawa last hunted him out.
Aizawa was, for the first time since Hitoshi was seventeen years old and struggling with a crush that would evolve into so much more—Aizawa Shouta was single.
Reeling, Hitoshi barely registered that Aizawa had entirely walked away. He’d dashed in pursuit and spent the rest of his time in the precinct attempting to remain sharp and professional. The job was a simple grab and go, in and out, practically fast food. Hitoshi would bug Aizawa later for a copy of the interview—his own superiors would be interested in this development.
Having Aizawa talk to him like old times, to break his own bubble of privacy just to invade Hitoshi’s, was heady, drugging more than any Quirk. This was the slick, hot pump of blood through his veins, the recognition of Aizawa’s natural male sweat scent this close, the dark flicker of amusement in Aizawa’s eye as he seemed to scan and linger at Hitoshi’s smile. It was the weighted feel of Aizawa between his casually spread legs, those tree trunk thighs exuding muscle heat through their joined jeans and leather.
This is it, Hitoshi had thought, his brain all but a melted as he gazed up at the close face of Aizawa Shouta actually smiling at him, just a little. This is it.
And then the steel shutters had dropped, hard enough for Hitoshi to repress a flinch as Aizawa had turned away and stalked toward the door with stiff shoulders.
Hitoshi’s shaky exhale was the sound of his lungs collapsing around his tender heart. This was why he didn’t hope for shit.
“You know how to get home from here?” Aizawa had rasped, the rake of his voice burning so distractedly good through Hitoshi’s guts. He was gripping the doorknob hard enough that Hitoshi considered Aizawa might crush it in his palm.
Then he noticed the way Aizawa’s hand was shaking.
“No,” Hitoshi had found himself saying. He’d avoided eye contact for once, terrified of what he would share if he showed them off, and kept his head lowered and his voice cool as he mimed soothing the non-existence wrinkles in his coat. “You promised me a home cooked meal.”
Hitoshi could feel Aizawa’s burning, heavy gaze on him.
“What,” he croaked, almost laughable in his affronted tone. “Fuckin’ now?”
Hitoshi refrained from saying, yes, you could fuck me now, and merely ushered Aizawa from the room fast enough that neither of them could change their minds.
In summary, on the list of poor decisions Shinsou Hitoshi had made in his twenty-three years, inviting himself into his thirty-eight year old former mentor’s home in the early hours of dark winter was absolutely in his top five.
They walked again, but this time quicker, with some odd sense of urgency rushing them both toward the door. Aizawa’s apartment was the same, because of course it was, the man preferred monotony in the way Hitoshi would enjoy a jump off a cliff with no harness. Not very fucking much at all.
“You moved your furniture,” Hitoshi said with a hint of surprise as they stepped into the genkan.
“I didn’t,” Aizawa said shortly, dropping to crouch and untying his winter boots. He swayed slightly, a little off balance, and Hitoshi quickly realized it must have been his automail smarting from the cold.
Instead of taking off his own shoes, Hitoshi dropped a bracing hand to Aizawa’s strong shoulder, keeping him stable as he finished with the shoes.
And if Hitoshi allowed his fingers to brush through the soft, tangled trail of Aizawa’s hair as he removed his hand, so what? Hitoshi had very few scruples with acting in ways that benefited him exclusively.
Sue him. Others had certainly tried.
I didn’t, Aizawa had said. Hitoshi mused as he sat himself on the edge of genkan and worked on his nearly knee-high battered black Docs. Shirakumo, then. It made sense. They’d lived together for years, of course he’d have some say in the hovel Aizawa was allowing himself to live in.
Not that Hitoshi could pass judgement. His apartment looked like a raging homosexual teenager was squatting there. And he was. Not squatting, though. The lack of furniture often gleaned that kind of impression, but Hitoshi was rarely home to do anything but sleep and cuddle his cats. In fact, his cats had a lot of furniture, whereas he stuck with the bare basics that would afford him the ability to cut and run if he ever had to.
Failed foster life paired with undercover government life would do that to a guy.
“Your coat,” Aizawa murmured, standing directly behind him. Hitoshi had nearly jumped with the shock of it. No one could sneak up on him like Aizawa. He’d been the one to teach him how to keep stealth in the first place.
Hitoshi looked up and over his shoulder, smiling up at Aizawa’s expression of sheer consternation.
“Thanks,” Hitoshi managed, his mouth miraculously drying up. He stood, stripped from his coat, and handed it off. When Aizawa didn’t move, his good eye flicking down, then quickly away as he turned and moved to hang the coat behind the sliding door of a closet, Hitoshi frowned and looked down as well.
He was still wearing his fishnet top with absolutely nothing underneath. He also wasn’t wearing underwear. Or socks. Anything that would have gotten in the way of a good fuck.
Hitoshi never blushed. Never. But about Aizawa, his body betrayed him and he felt his face burn as he too turned and made straight for the kitchen, his bare feet padding on the cool wood floors.
He’d spent more than one night in this apartment; training, learning, lounging, lying about being too tired to take the bus home so he could sleep on the sofa that smelled of Aizawa. Normal creepy teen shit. And so he was much more comfortable opening the fridge himself after five years away and digging around for a can of iced coffee. He didn’t it when the stove clock showed 3:17am, but caffeine no longer affected him enough to actually keep him from sleep.
“I’m going—” Aizawa paused when Hitoshi jumped and swore, whirling to stare at him with big eyes. Aizawa flicked a dark brow and jerked a thumb in the general direction of his bed. “The fuck is wrong with you? I’m going to change. You want clothes?”
“Clothes?” Hitoshi parroted. Horrified by his own jangled demeanor, Hitoshi let his stiff shoulders slump and his slow, lazy grin creep out as he cocked his head and eyed Aizawa from head to toe. “What, you don’t like my outfit?”
Aizawa’s eyes darkened, his pupils swelling. There was no mistaking it. Hitoshi watched people for a living. He'd watched Aizawa Shouta for a lifetime.
“You—” Aizawa pressed his lips together tightly, licked them, placed his hands on his hips and looked off down the hall, the very picture of aggravation. The sick part of Hitoshi—the prevalent part of him—was delighted, and his smile grew more genuine. “You’re going to complain you’re cold in five minutes and let it be known that I won’t fucking care.”
With that, he swept out of the room.
“Wait wait wait,” Hitoshi called around his bubbling laughter, chasing a stomping Aizawa down the hall and reeling into Aizawa’s room in tow. He snickered at the mayhem of black clothes strewn around Aizawa’s room, only to absolutely beam until his cheeks hurt when Aizawa went digging through his comfy clothes drawer, which burst with expected color. “You’re right, I’m sorry, you’re right. Give me that kitty shirt I used to—”
Said purple shirt covered in cartoon cat heads smacked Hitoshi in the face. The very same one that he’d worn on impromptu sleep overs so long ago.
Face solemn for no other reason than to mask the whirl of emotion in Hitoshi’s chest, he turned away from Aizawa but remained in the room. He could feel Aizawa’s displeasure at having been caught trying to take care of Hitoshi like old times, but Hitoshi stayed silent for the moment as he stripped from his skimpy see-through shirt and shucked on the new one.
It was soft and old, scented of Aizawa’s same detergent—and had shrunk in the wash. Or, no, Hitoshi had grown, because the shirt was short enough to expose his belly button.
Laughing anew, Hitoshi turned with a great flourish, gesturing to himself in the short shirt and leather pants.
“Bottom on the top and top on the bottom?” Hitoshi asked, grinning.
Aizawa blinked. His gaze skimmed across Hitoshi’s shoulders, widened with age and exercise, then lowered slowly, suffusing heat through Hitoshi’s gut as Aizawa’s attention lingered on his exposed belly and the pale curl of fuzz his low-cut pants afforded.
Then Aizawa looked back up and rolled his eyes.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Aizawa said, his voice rough and gritty, but there was no anger in his words as he turned and raked through his drawer. His own pajama bottoms were hanging loose at his hips, a soft pink and black plaid fleece that framed the dimples above a thick ass that couldn’t be hidden by the drape of fabric. Hitoshi knew his legs were even thicker, those thighs hairy and crushing from a lifetime of Hero work, of hanging upside down, from whatever blood sacrifices he’d made to be awarded a tall, built body like his.
“Gay and twisted,” Hitoshi replied easily as he caught the grey UA sweatpants Aizawa threw his way. He lamented the disappearing of the ass dimples as Aizawa pulled on a ragged Sanrio tee. “The usual.”
“Some things never change,” Aizawa said, obviously in better humor now as he bumped Hitoshi’s shoulder on the way out.
Hitoshi couldn’t help but hopelessly grin after him before waiting until he was alone. He quietly shut the bedroom door and took a good three minutes to peel the leather from his legs and slip into the sweatpants, entirely commando. He had to pull on the inner strings of the sweats and knot them off to keep them slipping down his hips, but it did the trick. His belly was still out for the world to see, but as Aizawa hadn’t lent him a second shirt instead, Hitoshi took this as a cue to count his blessings and keep it on.
With a lingering, longing look at the tempting mess of Aizawa’s queen sized bed—the one place Hitoshi had never dared touch—Hitoshi padded back toward the kitchen where he could hear a scuffling.
“Hungry!” he announced as he made his home sitting up on the edge of the sink. There was no real counter space to sit on, so the lip of the sink it was. “I worked so hard for you, Sensei! And how do you repay me? By dragging me through the cold—”
“You were barely wearing a shirt and don’t think I didn’t notice you weren’t wearing socks—”
“Making me talk to some mean man and then threatening not to pay me back after I did you a favor. And now I’m still barely wearing a shirt and it’s all your—”
“How do you manage to speak with your mouth so full of shit,” Aizawa said, expression unfazed as he took out multiple stacked containers from his kindly old neighbor who had been insisting on feeding him for as long as Hitoshi could recall.
“I have a very talented mouth,” Hitoshi crooned on automatic.
Aizawa jerked up so abruptly that the back of his head smacked inside the fridge.
“Mother fucker!” Aizawa hissed, rubbing the back of his head as he pulled out and kicked the door shut with his automail foot. Hitoshi winced at the dent his toe left in the fridge. There were several more beside it, signalling that Aizawa might have a little fetish for kicking the fridge when he was frustrated.
“Ouchie,” Hitoshi said with a shit-eating grin.
“For once in your life,” Aizawa said between his teeth as he returned to the towers of tupperware across his counter. He aggressively began to unclick the tops and set them up across the counter. “Shut up.”
Now, there was friendly banter and there was aggressive banter. Hitoshi’s eyes narrowed on the tense bunch of Aizawa’s shoulder blades.
“Now now,” Hitoshi said with purposefully infuriating condescension, “just because you’re too delicate to handle a little harmless double entendre—”
Aizawa was on him faster than Hitoshi had a chance to yelp, hands gripping the edges of the sink, boxing in Hitoshi with thick, obscenely muscular arms straining against the thin tee. Aizawa’s teeth were barely with each word he enunciated, his good eye searing into Hitoshi’s wide ones.
“There’s not a single harmless thing about you, Shinsou.” And oh fuck, when his voice dropped this low with displeasure, Shinsou’s thighs melted right down to his toes. “And frankly, your behavior is unprofessional as all hell.”
Hitoshi, who’d been unconsciously licking his lips, his eyes fixed on the way Aizawa’s mouth moved when he was angry, abruptly looked up in surprise.
“What?” He asked, huffing a sharp laugh. “Unprofessional? We don’t work together, Aizawa. I’m not under any obligation not to—”
“Not to what?” Aizawa all but hissed, leaning in closer, as close as they’d been in the bar when Hitoshi had dared nearly brush his lips to Aizawa’s stubbled cheek. “To what? Flirt with your teacher? Make absolutely ridiculous insinuations to—to someone nearly forty years old to your barely twenty? Do you understand how—”
“I’ve fucked over-forties,” Hitoshi said, straight and clear, unashamed and keeping direct eye contact.
If Aizawa thought he could shame him about his sex life, he’d be dead wrong. Hitoshi would do him one more and have Aizawa cowering with sexual frustration. Aizawa might not want Hitoshi like Hitoshi wanted him, but that didn’t mean Hitoshi didn’t know how to appeal to the common denominator. He’d seen Aizawa stare. They’d been noticing each other for seven years.
And now there was no cloud of Shirakumo Oboro hanging over Hitoshi’s head to keep him mild.
“I liked it more than most,” Hitoshi murmured, leaning in to where Aizawa had frozen, stunned and staring. The tip of his nose just touched Aizawa’s as Hitoshi whispered, harsh and quick, his own hands gripping Aizawa’s wrists for balance. “First time I did it I’d just returned from my government training. You know, where we didn’t speak for almost a year? That one. I got home and tried to find you. Searched everywhere. And when I found you again, there was this distance.”
Hitoshi was too close to see the recognition in Aizawa’s face, but it felt in the tense line of those beautiful shoulders. Humming softly in consideration, Hitoshi angled his chin, drawing his lips up the sharp cut of Aizawa’s jaw, just barely touching the skin. Aizawa’s shuddering inhale was as incriminating as a gunshot.
“Yeah,” Hitoshi breathed out softly. “You know the one. The edge of something we’ve been skirting since I was young enough to put you in jail for it. That edge. I was so furious with you for brushing me off like I was still a kid—”
“Nineteen is still a kid—” Aizawa rasped, the ragged husk of his voice sparking a delicious shiver down Hitoshi’s spine.
“—that I hopped over to the nearest gay bar and picked up a nice—big—older man. You’d have been, what, barely thirty-four then, but I’ve always been a go big or go home kinda guy, you know? And boy, did I let him pummel me through the sink in that same bathroom.”
Hitoshi pulled back then, his hold tightening on Aizawa’s sturdy wrists with a bruising force. He aimed a crooked smile at the flushed face of his former teacher, a thrill running through his filling cock when he noticed the heavy, shallow way Aizawa was breathing.
“Oh, hey,” Hitoshi murmured smoothly, all honey and secret poison beneath the sweetness. “It looked a little like this. My legs were higher but—”
Aizawa broke away and retreated back as if burnt, Hitoshi releasing him and letting him go. Hitoshi was more than exhausted now. He was bone-deep tired with the need to go home, bundle up, and sleep for days. The pained longing lining Aizawa’s handsome, rugged face was enough to have Hitoshi slipping from the sink with a muted sigh that didn’t express what he was feeling whatsoever.
“Sorry,” Hitoshi muttered, waving off a perfectly still Aizawa as he dragged his feet out of the kitchen. “I took it too far. I won’t make you uncomfortable, Sensei, but don’t search me out for jobs either. It’s too exhausting to deal with you. And me. And you and me, which of course does not exist and never h—OOF.”
The wind knocked clean from his lungs as Hitoshi slammed into the darkened corridor wall, his cheekbone knocking against a framed photo that crashed to the floor. Stilled in surprise more than pain, Hitoshi’s eyes bugged as the heavy, imposing weight of Aizawa draped over his body from chest to back and thickened, hefty cock to ass.
One arm had been expertly twisted to the small of his back, Hitoshi’s fist pressed to the hard, muscled meat of Aizawa’s belly. Parted lips panted at the back of Hitoshi’s neck, mouth pressed to his sensitive hairline, tickling the hairs and skating goosebumps where the breath came hot and humid. The smell of Aizawa surrounded, overwhelmed him in that unquestionably masculine musk of arousal and sweat.
“You,” Aizawa ground out, his voice hoarse as he viciously thrust his full body weight against Hitoshi’s, painfully further flattening him into the wall, and Hitoshi went instantly rock solid with a groan, “are fucking infuriating.”
Hitoshi tried and failed to catch a single full breath, his body so crushed between the wall and Aizawa’s unrelenting body. His desire was a brand between Hitoshi’s asscheeks, snug and girthy, a solid pressure that didn’t grind or rut, but didn’t move away either.
“Insolent,” Aizawa hissed, his free hand roughly painting down Hitoshi’s shoulder, a firm, aching pressure down his ribs, his bare, calloused palm scraping over the delicate skin of Hitoshi’s hip where the short shirt rode up. Nerves flared and flashed, curling Hitoshi’s toes in a shock of pleasure at the small touch. Hitoshi swallowed hard and gasped for a shallow breath of air, his cheek smashed against the cold, unforgiving wall. Aizawa gripped Hitoshi’s hip and held him fast, his mouth a sinful rasp of, “Insubordinate.”
That one made Hitoshi laugh. Or, the breathy scrap of a laugh. He was entirely pinned, Aizawa with at least fifty pounds of muscle on him and just a hair taller, fueled by anger and arousal.
Hitoshi hadn’t been expecting this at all. He’d intended to incense, to shame a little, to shock enough that he could make a dramatic exit with his head held high.
He hadn’t expected Aizawa to pin him to a wall like a fresh kill ready for butchering.
“Seems to me—” Hitoshi’s throaty moan stole the conversation when Aizawa bit the nape of his neck mid-sentence, teeth sinking in deep enough to burn, hot tongue swirling as Aizawa sucked a great big bruise to life right where a shirt collar couldn’t hide. “God. S-seems to me like—fuck—like you’ve always en-enjoyed a little insolence.”
“You’re a fucking idiot,” Aizawa snapped, voice dark and deep and fucked-out before they’d done much but keep their clothed bodies clung together. “How would you have reacted had I shoved you against a tree like this during training? Had I stripped you down and fingered your tight little asshole before anyone else could get a hold of you and show you how it’s done?”
Every receptor in Hitoshi’s brain misfired in spectacular fashion and he simply began to shake.
How many times had he imagined it with his own fingers inside himself? How many times had he washed his sheets in the early morning silence before the dorms had woken up because he’d spent training with Aizawa pining him to the training mat again, again, again. Embarrassing him, debasing him, overpowering him with that great big body of honed muscle and molotov eyes.
“Sh-should have found out,” Hitoshi managed, breathing harder than he had any right to be. No one talked him into a frenzy—no one thought to. Hitoshi’s entire world revolved around listening, parsing together meaning and intention, catching the cadence of a person’s voice. And all this time, no one had thought to talk him right to his knees.
And there was no doubt in Hitoshi’s mind that if Aizawa stepped back, Hitoshi’s molten legs would collapse beneath him. He’d never been so fucking hard.
“You have no idea,” Aizawa rumbled at his back, teeth grazing the bite he’d left. He still kept Hitoshi incapacitated, arm wrenched between them, Hitoshi’s free hand grappling behind him to clench in Aizawa’s thick, lush hair to keep his face buried in prone nape of Hitoshi’s neck. Aizawa’s voice muffled into Hitoshi’s skin, imprinting there, skating pleasure through his core.
“No idea,” Aizawa whispered fiercely, sounding somehow destroyed by the words he could finally release. “No idea, Hitoshi, what a fucking torture you’ve been. What you are. What d’you want from me? A quick fuck? A challenge—”
Hitoshi disengaged from Aizawa’s hold as quickly as he’d been put in it, stamping down on Aizawa’s flesh foot and spinning like a dancer in Aizawa’s arms. Aizawa cursed and paused in surprise just long enough for Hitoshi to embrace the opening. This time it was Aizawa who tripped back into the wall, his broad back thudding to the opposite side of the corridor as Hitoshi followed hot in pursuit.
“A quick fuck, Aizawa?” Hitoshi snapped, hands bunching in the collar of Aizawa’s shirt. He made no attempt to hold Aizawa in place. It was impossible, and a distant, calculating sliver of Hitoshi’s skull wanted to see if Aizawa would run. “Who do you think you are to me? Through all of these years, did you ever think I would have been willing to jeopardize who we are to each other for a series of quick, meaningless fucks?”
“I—”
“I can get that anywhere,” Hitoshi said, catching the dark fire snap in Aizawa’s eye and the way a high flush of fury crept up Aizawa’s throat. Hitoshi allowed himself a smile, a cruel and unforgiving one as he leaned in and palmed Aizawa’s scratchy cheek. Hitoshi leaned in, inhaling Aizawa’s heated exhale, sharing breath, so close to the kiss that wouldn’t seem to come.
“There are so many people who would love to fuck me, Sensei—” Hitoshi’s eyes flicked up at Aizawa’s deep, throat-thick growl. Hitoshi’s cock answered in turn, tenting the flimsy sweatpants to press against Aizawa’s hip. “There are so many people who want to fuck me,” Hitoshi repeated, unwilling to break their eye contact. “And I would have dropped any and all of them for you.”
Aizawa apparently hadn’t been expecting that, because his entire aggressive countenance dropped like a bag of rocks. His face went lax, soft, dazed with the admission, and Hitoshi refused to blush from the reveal. He refused to be anything but authentic now. This was apparently the one and only time they were going to attempt it.
“No,” Aizawa breathed, gritty and raw. “You’re an idiot.”
“You keep saying that,” Hitoshi muttered, “but I’m the only one here who isn’t particularly surprised by this turn of events.”
“But—”
“Did you think I’d ever really come between you and Shirakumo?”
Despite every screaming, aching nerve in his body, Hitoshi released his hold on Aizawa’s shirt and took a calming step back, his hands digging into his pockets to keep them to himself. He tried to mentally will away his hardon, but apparently even ex-boyfriend talk wasn’t enough to shame that part of his body.
Hitoshi eyed Aizawa carefully, noting the heavy length of interest outlined down Aizawa’s leg. He promptly looked back up and kept his attention steady on Aizawa’s currently unreadable expression.
“Let me answer for you since you seem to think so little of my sex life,” Hitoshi said, unable to keep the brattiness from his voice, and he watched Aizawa’s gaze narrow in reply. “I never had an intention of damaging anything between you two. Not when I was seventeen and so jealous out of mind that I could barely sleep. Not when I was nineteen and back from training. Not up to two hours ago, when I still assumed you two were together.”
“Shinsou,” Aizawa said, a sharp warning to his tone.
“We both know my whole—” Hitoshi vaguely gestured to himself, inferring plenty about himself from the one movement that even Aizawa seemed to understand by the way he slumped against the wall and pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger to rub. “Thing. The way I present myself allows me to get away with a lot. To get what I want, when I want it, without having to use my Quirk. People think sluts are harmless, that flirts are stupid. I know you never thought of me like that, but I also knew you wouldn’t hold my flirting with you against me because you figured it was a part of the act.”
“It’s hardly an act,” Aizawa muttered, dragging his hand down his eyes, resting over his mouth to rub there as he aimed a withering glare across the widening space between them. “I don’t think you realize just how you’ve made my life hell, Shinsou.”
Hitoshi stared.
“Your life?” Hitoshi barked a laugh and turned, stomping toward the bedroom with the intention to collect his clothes.
“Fuck this,” he said under his breath. “Fuck you,” he said, not much louder as he swiped his leather pants from the floor and looked around the heaps of black clothes for his own shirt.
“Yes, your life has been so damn difficult with your gorgeous, funny childhood crush boyfriend whom everybody instantly loves. So you lost a leg. Boohoo. You’re still hot as hell, it’s not the end of the world. And the eyepatch suits you. What did I do to you but willingly fade into the background so your perfect ass could go off with—”
“How do you talk with all that shit in your mouth?” Aizawa reiterated as he entered the bedroom and shut the door behind him. When Hitoshi threw a glare over his shoulder, Aizawa merely raised a brow and leaned against the door, arms folded casually across his chest. His muscles bunched and bulged like that, distracting when Hitoshi was determined to ignore him in favor of rummaging through the clothes strewn across the floor.
“Say it again,” Hitoshi bit off. “Might be funny the third time around.”
“It’s not funny, “Aizawa said, sounding remarkably put together for someone who’d felt five seconds from fucking Hitoshi through the wall. “None of this is.”
“Oh?” Hitoshi stood up in full, fists on his hips, his leather pants hanging in the crook of his arm. “I think this is one big joke. Much of my life is.”
“The only joke here is how much effort you clearly put into restraining yourself from getting embroiled in my relationship when it had always been you who was the root of my problems anyway.”
Hitoshi didn’t dare make a single expression in reply. Aizawa simply stood there, his arms hanging at his sides as if the fight had been sapped straight from him at the admission.
But to what Aizawa was admitting, Hitoshi didn’t understand. Couldn’t bear to misinterpret the words or read into them more than what Aizawa straight out told him.
“I don’t know what that means,” Hitoshi whispered, unsure of his own voice for once.
Aizawa’s lips thinned, his gaze darting away, then back, lingering, then lowering to Hitoshi’s frown and back up. He didn’t move from the door.
“You’d been a lot easier to ignore in the early years,” Aizawa said quietly, the rumble of his voice more gentle than it ever was, all that edge shaved off by apparent exhaustion. The sun would be rising in mere hours. “A kid testing his legs, his charisma, his natural talents. And yes, your mouth has always been talented, but you don’t need to say so all the fucking time.”
Hitoshi didn’t even have it in him to mime a laugh. He could only twist the leather pants in both hands, fists clenching hard as he stood stock still and listened.
Aizawa scrubbed both hands over his face and softly groaned into them before he let them drop once more, the bruises beneath his eyes more pronounced somehow. He sighed, deep and long, like he was purging something from his lungs.
“You hadn’t even graduated by the time I wanted you more than anyone I’d ever met,” Aizawa said, plain and clear as day. Hitoshi’s heart wrenched from his ribs and clawed up his throat, but luckily Aizawa didn’t seem to expect a reply, because he barreled forward. “I’m not blaming you for what happened between Oboro and me. The feelings I—my feelings, my feelings are what slowly eroded us. Because every time you came around I was happier. Every time you made a shitty joke I inexplicably laughed and every time you looked at me over your shoulder as you left, I was always the last one to look away so I could watch you walk.”
“Aizawa,” Hitoshi murmured, unsure of his footing here. Unsure, for one of the first times in his adult life, how to communicate what it felt like to hear this laid out the key to a code Hitoshi had never been able to decipher.
“He brought it up once,” Aizawa murmured, voice barely a rumble on the horizon. Hitoshi found himself coming close to listen, every nerve and blood cell in his body rising to attention, humming with recognition, with reciprocation. “Just once. Remember the wrap party we’d attended for the finale of Mina and Denki’s reality TV show last year?”
“Couldn’t forget,” Hitoshi said dryly, a small smile sneaking across his lips. They’d invited every single Hero friend who would come in order to make their finale the biggest bash in reality television history. And they’d reach their goal in spades.
Hitoshi had spent much of his time at the open bar with Aizawa, the two of them drinking slow and steady while trading low-key insults about the guests in muted, amused tones. Bakugou had eventually, to the surprise of no one, set the couch on fire in a fury with Deku. Half of class 1-A ended up naked in the pool and that segment had to be heavily edited for public television, Sero and Kirishima filled a bathtub with beer and shoved their heads in to bob for apples and by apples, they meant crushed beer cans, and someone—Todoroki—set off the fire alarm to end the party early.
“Did you realize Shirakumo was at the bar with us too?” Aizawa asked, meeting Hitoshi’s eyes now.
Hitoshi frowned, still twisting leather between his hands as if it were better to hold onto them than nothing at all as everything spun out of control.
“No?” he finally admitted. “I don’t remember him being there at all.”
“Me neither,” Aizawa said lowly, the meaning clear in his eyes.
“Oh,” Hitoshi said softly, realization dawning like the incoming day.
Neither of them had known anyone existed when they were together. They’d been that annoying couple who weren’t and were never a couple. And it had been perhaps one of the last straws for Shirakumo.
“I’m sorry,” Hitoshi whispered, the sudden wave of helplessness washing over him cold and alarming. “A part of me had always wanted you two to break up, but not in—not in any way that would come true. Does that—does that make sense? I’ve never wanted you unhappy. I’ve never wanted him un—”
The world stilled and tipped on its axis as Aizawa pushed forward and enveloped Hitoshi in a tight, overwhelming embrace. For the second time tonight, the breath rent from Hitoshi’s lungs in a cry of surprise, the warmth of Aizawa’s face burying in the crook of Hitoshi’s shoulder like a dream that could never ever come true.
“Don’t.” Aizawa’s face was muffled in Hitoshi’s shoulder, and all Hitoshi could do was stand there in shock, his very clever mind entirely unable to compute. “Don’t apologize. The man I know never fucking does anyway, even when it is his fault.”
Hitoshi hiccuped a helpless laugh.
“Shinsou,” Aizawa murmured, one hand riding up his back to bunch in the mess of his high hair bun.
“Hmmm?”
“Can you drop the fucking pants already and hug me?”
“Drop my pants?” Hitoshi asked with automatic sly humor curling in his voice, even as he did drop the pants and banded arms around Aizawa’s firm waist. “Why, Sensei, how could you say such a scandalous—”
“You have got to stop calling me that,” Aizawa choked out, strained and taut as he abruptly held Hitoshi out at arms’ length. He looked a little frantic and a lot wrecked by this entire experience. Hitoshi wasn’t sure Aizawa was going to emotionally recover from having to expose himself like this for another person.
Hitoshi trained his face into big, innocent eyes and soft pout of innocence.
“Really?” he asked, allowing his gaze to pointedly drop. “Because it certainly looks like you appreciate it. Is it just when I say it or—”
“Of course it’s only you,” Aizawa snapped, still holding him away by the shoulders. “I’m not a fucking pervert!”
Hitoshi’s eyebrows rocketed toward his hairline, abject glee stretching his smile as he watched the dread smack Aizawa across the face.
“Shinsou,” Aizawa snapped, his voice going school-teacher strict, which only seemed to leave Hitoshi’s cock more interested in the interaction. Aizawa seemed to read the delight in Hitoshi’s face, his brows dropping to stern reprimand. “No. Stop. Stop smiling. I—”
Hitoshi reached out with both hands, cupped Aizawa’s face in his palms, and leaned across the gap to kiss him soundly. The kiss was close-mouthed and warm and adoring and nothing like Hitoshi had ever imagined their first—or any—kiss would be.
Aizawa reacted with a growl so unexpected that Hitoshi didn’t have a second to regroup before Aizawa’s arms clamped around his waist and Hitoshi was being backed up until his calves hit the bed. Their mouths had yet to part, and with Hitoshi’s surprised gasp, Aizawa’s tongue thrust inside with a groan.
The kiss was thoughtless; a chase, catch and release to repeat over again to Hitoshi’s breathless, dizzying delight. Every time he broke away to breathe, to attempt a semblance of control, Aizawa seemed loathe to let him. Big, beautiful hands molded to Hitoshi’s waist and hips, fingertips digging into the gaps between his ribs like they would search out his heart and poke at the tender places.
They had yet to even fall to the bed, but eventually Aizawa’s weight plastered to Hitoshi’s body paired with the ravenous, ravaging way Aizawa tore into Hitoshi’s mouth had his knees weakening and he toppled back. Hitoshi collapsed like a man shot, arms flailed out, head cushioned into the riot of Aizawa’s cushy, unmade bed. Softly panting, eyes hooded and watchful, Hitoshi watched Aizawa creep toward him, one knee pressed into the mattress between Hitoshi’s thighs as he slowly crawled forward like some kind of great black cat.
Hitoshi lightly rubbed two fingers to his own lips, feeling how hot and swollen they were. Aizawa seemed to zero in on the motion because his attention dropped, riveted to Hitoshi’s mouth as he loomed forward, his body not touching Hitoshi’s from above, only poised above upon his approach.
“You drive me crazy,” Aizawa said, the gravel in his voice riding straight through Hitoshi’s core to curl up hotly between his splayed thighs. Aizawa’s knee was so close to rubbing up against him, but the anxiety at the back of Hitoshi’s brain refused to move, refused to be the first to fully relent past a kiss. “Do you understand, Hitoshi?” Aizawa’s voice cracked as he looked down at him with a face dark as doom. “You haunt me.”
Hitoshi stilled entirely, his hand slipping from his lips to drop listlessly beside his head as he gazed up into the face of the one man who had the power to rip open his ribs and have his heart for a snack. Aizawa looked some mangled mix of angry and aroused, stumbling on the line he’d apparently been walking for quite some time.
Because of me, Hitoshi's thought, his mouth opening to speak, but his mind only speaking for him and to himself. He’s struggled because of me. Longer than I could have ever realized.
“Stop smiling like that,” Aizawa said flatly, dead serious in every way but for the blown out pupils and kiss-bright lips giving him away.
“What way?” Hitoshi asked, unaware he’d been smiling at all.
“The smile when you’re busy enjoying my suffering,” Aizawa replied, sounding just as dead inside. Still, he did not move from his spot above Hitoshi. He came close, dropping down to his elbows, his t-shirt dipping and just hinting the wealth of dark, curling hair beneath.
“Excuse you,” Hitoshi said, feeling his Cheshire cat smile ache his cheeks as he brought his arms up, fingers linking at Aizawa’s nape to play in the lush locks tied back. “How often have I ever done that?”
“I’m fairly certain your life’s goal has been to make my life difficult while you smile about it from the sidelines,” Aizawa drawled, almost casual. And then he shifted just so, his knee slotting high between Hitoshi’s legs, a nice thick thigh pressed up against Hitoshi’s cock, and Hitoshi felt the smile fall right from his face. Aizawa leaned in, the weight of his chest against Hitoshi’s making it difficult to breathe in the best way. They might have been the same height but Aizawa was a beast compared to Hitoshi, and Aizawa’s face just happened to be near nose-to-nose with him. “Thoughts?”
“N-none,” Hitoshi breathed out, his fingers clutching at the back of Aizawa’s shirt, holding on for dear life when hardly anything had happened. “Th-thanks for asking.”
Aizawa hummed, a deep rough purr of sound as he slipped a hand between them to take Hitoshi by the chin. His calloused fingertips so close to Hitoshi’s mouth sent him spinning. A gasp eked out as Aizawa angled Hitoshi’s head to the side, cheek to the pillow, so he could drag his hot, humid mouth along the line of Hitoshi’s jaw to linger at his sensitive ears.
“Always wondered if this was truly the only way to shut you up,” Aizawa murmured, so dark, so deep that Hitoshi felt it vibrate through to his dick. “The amount of times you’ve infuriated me over the years with that smartass mouth and I imagined shoving it down your throat was the only way to really finish you off.”
The long, whining, pitiful sound Hitoshi made in reply would have shamed him if he had any inhibitions left. He felt Aizawa’s slow smile against his ear, the stubble scratching his cheek and jaw and neck, and fireworks, fire working through him like nothing else ever.
“I—fuck—” Hitoshi shuddered when Aizawa licked a stripe up his neck, biting down on Hitoshi’s earlobe, spitting sparks and shorting out his nerves one by one. “I would have let you. Any time, Sensei, any time.”
Aizawa made a sound like he’d been punched and abruptly rose up, shucking his shirt in the process, revealing the rolling horizon of his shoulders, the hairy rise and fall of his chest, the darker vee of curls skimming down his firm stomach to stop at the spot where a distracting, delicious peek of his cock sprung up from the waistband of his pajamas.
“Be careful with that,” Aizawa said, sober as a judge, the ferocity in his eyes darkening his demeanor.
“Mmhmm,” was Hitoshi’s reply, as he had absolutely no intention of being careful with anything at all, except perhaps his thundering heart. Reaching out, hungry gaze flickering between the intensity of Aizawa’s face and the impressive length of his erection, Hitoshi pressed a single fingertip to the crown of Aizawa’s cock, smearing the milky pearl at the slit.
Aizawa’s full body shudder, the catch of his breath, swelled Hitoshi’s confidence and he smiled then, slow and feline, tongue slicking across his top teeth as he met Aizawa’s eyes.
“It’s awfully big, Sensei,” Hitoshi said, watching Aizawa’s eyes burst fully black, red rising up his ruddy cheeks, his hands fisting onto his own thighs as he seemed to unconsciously roll his hips against Hitoshi’s own covered cock. “D’you think it’ll even fit? I’m so tight and. . .well, untouched, y’know?”
And, while Aizawa had always been faster and Hitoshi was distantly aware of this, the shock railed through him all the same as he found himself dragged up the bed like a ragdoll and flung into his stomach. Hitoshi barely had a moment to curl his fingers into the sheets to keep from sliding when Aizawa tore his pants down his hips and away.
The hiss of recognition had Hitoshi grinning into the blankets, dizzy and violently turned on regardless.
“Why the fuck aren’t you wearing underwear,” Aizawa croaked.
“I was trying to get laid before you barged in all angry and repressed,” Hitoshi muffled into the sheets.
Aizawa didn’t reply, but Hitoshi could feel that he’d said the wrong thing. He opened his mouth to cover his tracks—
And then those capable, murderous hands of his were riding up the backs of Hitoshi’s thighs, thumbs skimming the thin skin behind his knees, palming up his thighs to cup both asscheeks at once and knead the muscle and fat before he spread.
“Do you really think,” Aizawa murmured, his voice just shy of murderous as he knelt between Hitoshi’s legs, steady hands encouraging Hitoshi to get on his knees, hike his hips up, press his face into the mattress. The hot sear of Aizawa’s long, girthy cock, freed of clothes, pressed between Hitoshi’s ass cheeks, lightly rutting. “D’you really think that they’d have done for you what I can?”
Hitoshi folded his arms on the bed and rested his cheek on the, peering over his shoulder and meeting the surprisingly unhinged look in Aizawa’s gaze. He hadn’t stopped squeezing and spreading Hitoshi’s ass, like he was mesmerized simply to be there.
“I don’t know,” Hitoshi lied, his voice low and quiet with the intent to strike. “Had you thought he could do for you what I could?”
A muscle in Aizawa’s jaw tensed and popped, the veins in his neck standing out, his grip on Hitoshi’s ass stiffening to bruise. But he didn’t look away, didn’t shift from where his cock subtly rut against Hitoshi’s most delicate skin.
“No,” Aizawa bit off, like it hurt to say. “No. Never been good at deluding myself, even for the better.”
A smug part of Hitoshi preened, swaying his ass gently, encouraging the friction of Aizawa’s cock. The other half of him forgot to feel bad at the admission because Aizawa was ducking his head and swiping his tongue across Hitoshi’s asshole with no warning whatsoever.
The wail Hitoshi released took him by surprise, swept up in the vibrant, pulsing pleasure of Aizawa pressing in with stiff tongue and soft sucks, searching fingertips and purposeful, unrelenting, sloppy thrusts that encouraged Hitoshi into a lax, shaking puddle on the sheets. Aizawa barely made a sound but for the slurps of tongue and squelch of scissoring fingers, but once, when Hitoshi keened a sound like a question, did Aizawa reply with a guttural groan that wracked through Hitoshi like an incoming apocalypse.
Of course Aizawa would eat ass like it was his job. He was a fucking beast.
“God,” Hitoshi breathed out, nails cutting into his palms for how hard he fisted into the sheets. He could barely keep his ass up anymore, his thighs had gone liquid and his knees were shaking like no one had ever done to him. “Are you gonna f-fuck me or not, S-sensei? I can take it—”
Hitoshi yelped and giggled as Aizawa flipped him over like he weight less than a puppy. He was flying high on endorphins, drunk and loose as he smiled loose and easy up at a wrecked Aizawa. He was gorgeous in the way statues of perfect, battle-ready men of old were; hard and carved and unreal.
When Hitoshi gripped the edge of the shirt, shrunken with age and time shirt to finally slip out of it, Aizawa’s hand cuffed Hitoshi’s wrist and squeezed.
“Leave it,” Aizawa, rasped, sounding fucked up before he’d even shoved his dick in.
Hitoshi opened his mouth to retaliate, but quickly stretched into a smirk as he looked between the near-crop top and Aizawa’s heated, hungry look. Gleeful realization set in.
“Oh?” Hitoshi said, low and teasing as he inched the shirt up to expose his perked up, pink nipples. The air pricked at them as he watched Aizawa watch them bead up and tighten. “You like this on me, Sensei?”
“Yes,” Aizawa whispered, barely a sound, his eyes dark and fixed on Hitoshi’s nipples, his one hand squeezing around a tube of lube that Hitoshi hadn’t even noticed.
“You remember I used to wear this years ago, don’t you?” Hitoshi murmured, bringing both hands up to flick and rub thumbs over his nipples.
“Yes,” Aizawa repeated, just as soft, just as strained, gaze trained on Hitoshi’s chest as he unscrewed the lube and seemed to dump an unruly amount onto his cock, slowly slicking up his hand with it as he worked his huge, straining erection. Hitoshi was going to feel this for days like he never did.
“When I slept on your couch,” Hitoshi crooned, his hands trailing down his body to reach between his legs and bat away Aizawa’s hand. He took that first, blessed hold of Aizawa’s cock in full and slowly began to work it, his palm cupping over and squeezing Aizawa’s crown as he went. “You’d always give me this same shirt to wear. It was so big on me then. Did you wear it later or did you just jack off with it?”
“Both,” Aizawa murmured, and here, this was Hitoshi’s realm. Leading his lover on—no, leading Aizawa onward, wading him through the admissions, all warmth and encouragement as Aizawa spilled his secrets while dribbling over Hitoshi’s fingers.
“I like that,” Hitoshi said, soft and breathless as he took his slicked hand now and dove two fingers into his hole, already loosened and ready for Aizawa from his hungry mouth. “Weren’t you just so good for me in secret, hmmm? Thinking about my tight, inexperienced body while you fucked into your hand and inhaled my scent.”
Aizawa’s eyes were wide now, fixed where Hitoshi worked himself open. Hitoshi did him a favor and brought one foot up to rest on Aizawa’s chest, giving him a better view as he curved three fingers inside his ass and saw the edge of stars.
“Did you—” Hitoshi gasped as Aizawa pulled his hand away and met Hitoshi’s eyes just as he fed his cock into Hitoshi’s hole. One long, hungry slide that edged in slow, slow but unstoppable, slow and merciless in the wake of Hitoshi rising, frantic cries as Aizawa pierced him straight through.
Too much, it was too big, more than what Hitoshi was used to, all jumbled with the swell of emotions and the unparalleled desire that surged through his senses. His hands flailed blindly, searching, finding Aizawa’s furred thighs, nails digging in to hold on as their eyes clashed and Aizawa inched back out, then back in.
“Did you—“ Hitoshi tried again, sounding parched and dry as the desert as Aizawa leaned in and scooped a hand around the sweaty small of Hitoshi's back, hefting up the curve of his body to arch against Aizawa’s cock just right. “Holy fuck, Aizawa—“
“Ask me,” Aizawa snapped, his lips curled back in a snarl, black eyes cutting through Hitoshi as he began a steady pull and drive, too slow for what either of them wanted, but maddening enough that Hitoshi was losing his mind.
But Hitoshi gripped onto the slippery slope of his thoughts, distantly registering that Aizawa couldn’t say it himself, that he was too good, too noble, and Hitoshi had just enough bitter and mean in him to say it out loud.
“Did you—hah—“ Aizawa was thrusting faster now and Hitoshi’s body was bent like a bow for him, stomach shivering, thighs burning, his hands bunched in the pillows above his head now. He briefly looked down to watch the slide of that great thick cock nudge at his distended belly, but Aizawa slapped the side of his thigh so hard that Hitoshi’s cock spurted prematurely and his attention swiftly returned.
“Did you wear it while you were in bed with him?” Hitoshi whispered, frantic now, biting down on his lip as Aizawa worked both of Hitoshi’s knees over Aizawa’s shoulders, folding Hitoshi in so he could loom once more.
“Yes,” Aizawa bit off, bowing further forward, the backs of Hitoshi’s thighs stretching as his knees came toward his chest. A drop of sweat rolled down Aizawa’s temple, quivering on the line of his jaw as he railed Hitoshi into the mattress, then fell on Hitoshi’s lips.
“Good,” Hitoshi snapped, gaze burning into Aizawa’s. His entire body quaked against the drive of Aizawa’s hips, of his hot coal stare, of the devastation and desire darkening his face. “And did you—did you—“
“Hitoshi.” His name was almost a whine, desperation fraying the edges, guilt frantically grinding against lust and greed. Hitoshi could hear it, feel it straight through his bones, and reveled in it.
“Did you ever fuck him and think of me?” Hitoshi asked, out of breath, vision going wet, Aizawa’s hair framing his face and tickling Hitoshi’s cheeks as they maintained brutal, unyielding eye contact.
“Yes,” Aizawa whispered, sounding destroyed.
Hitoshi reached out, hands clawing at Aizawa’s hair, digging into his scalp, yanking him in to moan his name and kiss him and breathe him and feel the trembling, overwhelmed sigh that passed from Aizawa’s lungs into his own. Heat washed over them in waves, lapping across their skin in time with the frantic slick slap of hips, bruising in force, just shy of painful as each thrust knocked a cry out of Hitoshi’s mouth again, again, again.
Aizawa was frenetic, all shifting muscles and hands that claimed everywhere he could touch. Ravenous kisses, open-mouthed and dragging, more smears of lips and tongue and scrapes of teeth across Hitoshi’s face, his neck, and shoulders while Aizawa fucked him so hard his skull started to rhythmically hit the headboard. Hitoshi pressed his hands to the wood, shoving back against Aizawa, matching him thrust for thrusts, Aizawa’s face burying in the bitten curve of Hitoshi’s throat, heaving for breath but never slowing.
The crest of Hitoshi’s orgasm came on so suddenly that the spark of pain came first, shocking every nerve into Hitoshi’s body before the rise and rush and crash of the rest came slamming into him. Hitoshi’s hoarse shout had Aizawa abruptly bolting upright, sitting back on his haunches, eyes wild but frighteningly focused on Hitoshi’s face as he gripped Hitoshi’s hips and mercilessly fucked him through the orgasm until Hitoshi was writhing, kicking away in an attempt to escape the shocks of over-stimulation.
Aizawa simply rolled him onto his side, picked up Hitoshi’s leg to hoist it over his shoulder, and pounded in erratically, powerfully, the thick muscles of his thighs and stomach quaking with it, his gaze locked onto the sudden tears that spilled over Hitoshi’s cheeks as he babbled, too much too much oh god oh Sensei please please I can’t—
Aizawa clenched his teeth and came, his jaw working around the grunt, a flush riding up his chest to neck to cheeks. Hitoshi gaped in shocked, too fucked-out to speak as he flopped back to the bed fully and felt the liquid heat swell and fill his guts. Hitoshi outright whimpered when Aizawa pulled out and collapsed face-down beside him, one arm flailing out across Hitoshi’s spent, sweaty body.
The terrain of Aizawa’s beautiful back started to slow as Aizawa’s breathing evened and Hitoshi found his eyes closing without permission. He wanted to look longer, savor more. What if Aizawa backed out after this, too riddled with guilt and other useless emotions that wouldn’t help him or them or anyone now or in the future?
Because this was Hitoshi’s life and that absolutely definitely would happen to him. Romance and dreamy eyes would not play into his estimation of the future.
What if he shouldn’t have asked all those intrusive personal questions? The thought hadn’t really occurred to him, certainly not in the heat of things. Hitoshi literally asked intrusive questions for a living and being nosy came naturally to him.
Aizawa was a walking medal of fucking honor. Hitoshi was fool’s gold.
“Stop,” Aizawa said into the mattress, if speaking was what that sound could be called.
“I’m not doing anything,” Hitoshi said, staring at the ceiling. His body felt like it was floating. His mind, however, had wings as ever.
Aizawa grunted but didn’t reply, just laid there, splayed out. Hitoshi raised his head just a little, to look down the length of Aizawa’s body and appreciate the generous curve of that ass. The dull glint of his automail from the knee down was barely visible toward the end of the bed. Hitoshi dropped his head back with a sigh.
“Someone should turn out the lights,” Hitoshi said to the ceiling fan.
“Ugh.”
“Yes,” Hitoshi replied, “I also think it should be you.”
“Let me die already.”
Hitoshi flicked a brow and turned his head to stare at the mass of hair that might have been hiding a man beneath. He refused to frown or allow the disappointment to leak into his voice.
“Aw,” he said, going for teasing. “Sensei already regrets sleeping with his young, nubile student? Don’t worry, I’m very flex—”
Aizawa had already rolled and taken Hitoshi with him before he could finish the sentence. Flustered by the unexpected affection, Hitoshi allowed Aizawa to splay over half of his body, the automail leg wedged between Hitoshi’s loose thighs. Aizawa propped his elbow beside Hitoshi’s head, resting his cheek on his fist as he stared down at Hitoshi with an unreadable, solemn expression. He was so unbearably handsome.
“No,” he said simply.
“No?” Hitoshi asked, eyebrows raised in a show of doubt.
Aizawa’s jaw worked like he was chewing on his words before spitting them out. Hitoshi wanted to touch Aizawa’s riot of hair but refrained, keeping his hands to himself for now, until it felt safer.
“You. . .” Aizawa began, then scowled directly in Hitoshi’s face and said nothing.
“Are. . .” Hitoshi supplied. When Aizawa didn’t say anything, Hitoshi said and gave a weak smile. “A homewrecker?”
“What?” Aizawa’s face animated anew, displeasure writ in every line. “No. No. You’re not—my feelings for you were only one the part of the problem. Oboro and I are—he will be my friend forever. But we’ve grown into adults who aren’t the same the as the kids we were.”
Hitoshi didn’t say anything. He also understood to be quiet when it would benefit him.
Aizawa seemed to recognize this and gave him a narrow look.
“You’re waiting for me to run,” he said lowly.
Hitoshi’s lips curved, automatic defense.
“I wouldn’t stop you,” Hitoshi said. “It makes sense.”
“Sense,” Aizawa replied, as if repeating the wrong answer to a question in class. His face was so close and Hitoshi wanted to hope so fucking badly that it was pathetic. They were still tangled, with Aizawa’s leg between his own, the weight of Aizawa’s body half across his, a comforting, solid warmth.
“Well,” Hitoshi said carefully, slowly. “It’s not as if either of us planned this. Certainly you didn’t. You’ve been separated for nearly a year, if I had to guess—” he nodded when he saw the affirmation in Aizawa’s gaze and continued. “Which means you’ve had plenty of time and even more interactions with me to pursue anything you may have wanted to. And you didn’t. I respect that. I’m not going to force you into anything with a person like me—”
“Person like you?” Aizawa’s mouth curled in displeasure, his good eye hot and intense on Hitoshi’s widening ones. “What the fuck is this, Shinsou? I just told you that I’ve been torturing myself over you for years and you act like you’re some whim I couldn’t deny myself because I want you solely for your body? Do you realize how fucking insane that sounds?”
Hitoshi glanced away, if only to cool down from the burning accusation and exasperation radiating from Aizawa’s expression.
“Well when you say it that way I feel rather silly.”
“Silly?” Aizawa repeated darkly, and then squished Hitoshi’s cheeks in his hand to angle his face so they stared each other square in the eye again. Aizawa’s gaze scattered across Hitoshi’s features as if searching for something. He sighed, but didn’t release Hitoshi’s face, which was smushed up like a fish. “I’m going to fucking smother you.”
Hitoshi fluttered his lashes despite knowing he looked like a goldfish.
“With your dick?”
Aizawa’s mouth twitched, the pinch of his brows smoothing out as he released Hitoshi’s face in favor of running his hand down Hitoshi’s chest and side to rest at his bruised hip. He squeezed none too gently and leaned in, his tone almost playful, but with the depth of his voice, it sounded unbearably sexy.
“Don’t test me.”
Hitoshi didn’t bother to repress the shiver. He allowed himself to reach up and tuck a thick lock of Aizawa’s hair over one ear.
“Apparently you haven’t met me. That’s all I do.”
"Shinsou,” Aizawa said, a warning in his voice, all teacher-like in a way that had Hitoshi’s mind imagine how he could sneak into UA and have Aizawa punish him over a desk one day. He must have drifted so far into his thoughts that it made Aizawa nervous, because the hand on Hitoshi’s hip skimmed up to cup Hitoshi’s cheek. “Stay,” Aizawa said soberly.
No one ever asked Hitoshi to stay. Never asked others to stay either. The single word had his heart racing.
Hitoshi only smiled, a curl of humor at the corners of his mouth.
“God you’re needy,” he said, promptly rolling over and away from his lover with the thought of heading to the bathroom for clean-up and to get his head back on straight. He need to do a happy dance, have a mental break down, cry, and pull himself together in the span of three minutes, without Aizawa around. Because that was definitely on his list of things to do the moment he was alone.
“Hey.” Aizawa practically barked it as an order before steely arms banded Hitoshi’s waist and tossed him back on the bed. “Get your skinny ass over here.”
Mock-offended, Hitoshi landed on the mattress and found himself once more pinned. Apparently this was going to be a thing, the male posturing and all. Hitoshi would have to find a way to get Aizawa begging on his knees sometime. Because apparently, they had time.
“You love my ass,” Hitoshi said, grinning as he reached up and pulled Aizawa down for a kiss
“You have no idea,” Aizawa groaned into Hitoshi smiling mouth, and he proceeded to show Hitoshi just how deeply he did appreciate it.
***
Keeping an eye on Shinsou Hitoshi was easy when he stayed in Shouta’s bed. This was something he’d already assured himself he’d make a habit.
The old, stupid shirt had finally been lost in the fray, somewhere around sunrise and the third round, when Hitoshi physically passed out so hard that he’d simply never woken up. The mauve shadows beneath his delicate, pale skin might have been present as always, and the chain of bruises across his chest from Shouta’s mouth didn’t help, but even in sleep there was a glow about him that hadn’t previously been.
Shouta laid there, staring like the creepy fucking pervert he apparently always had been. Only this time it wasn’t a secret and the one person he’d never wanted to know had not only found out, but had abused his weakness with such delicious, intentional abandoned that Shouta had felt powerless to do anything but fall in line and obey.
This was the power of Shinsou. Not his Quirk, but the Hero himself, the man who could encourage and manipulate anything out of anyone.
Shouta was fucked. In theory, for the rest of his life.
He was glad Shinsou wasn’t awake to see him smiling like an idiot about it. At the very least, he had an image to maintain.
The elastic in Shinsou's hair had long popped off and lost in the sheets, leaving the wild mass splayed across the white pillow, an ethereal shimmer of amethyst and periwinkle and silver wed together, his eyelashes the same unreal shade.
On more than one occasion in the far past, Shouta had crouched before the couch where a younger, sinful Shinsou had slept and simply stared, studying the straight, fine line of his nose, the curve of his lips, the serious angle of his brows, the subtle blue veins of his shut eyelids. He’d never touched, but he’d committed this face to memory like a treasure and a curse in one. Shouta couldn’t remember the last time he’d been around to see Shinsou up close and in repose, but he was savoring this morning after like it would be the only one they ever had.
But it wouldn’t be. Because Shinsou was staying.
Shouta was fucking insane. He would arrest himself if it weren’t absolutely ludicrous at this point in his life.
Unable to hold himself back like the lifetime of holding back he’d already achieved, Shouta reached out and brushed the corner of Shinsou’s mouth, the backs of his fingers painting up the soft rise of his cheekbone. While Shinsou had been sullen and passionate and smart as hell back then, he’d grown more refined, honed down to sharp, concise edges with a tongue like a double edged sword, that passion neatly tied and tucked away to keep from rusting over his training.
Shouta had been inexplicably drawn to the first and had fallen in love with the second. The true Shinsou fell somewhere in the middle, and that one was his favorite.
And he was an absolute goddamn dirty old pervert.
Shouta must have made a sound of distress at the idea because Shinsou’s eyes popped open as if he’d never been asleep. He blinked once, twice, the clouds clearing from his eyes, and his pale lips seemed to curve on automatic, just from seeing Shouta before him.
Shinsou’s eyes caught the midday sun that streamed through the room and his gaze shot through like a summer sunset in washed out purple and blue.
“Hello,” Shinsou said, his honeyed voice gone a little velvet from sleep.
“Hi,” Aizawa said, unsure what the hell he was supposed to say now. He didn’t do morning-afters. He didn’t do the night-befores either. He didn’t do people, period, and certainly not like this. “How about that food? I'll throw in some coffee if you're not obnoxious.”
Shinsou smiled like Aizawa had proposed. He reached out, took Aizawa’s face in both hands like he’d done the night before, and planted a kiss square on his mouth.
“Now this is how you return a favor.”