Work Text:
Katsuki isn’t particularly good at giving compliments.
Never has been, probably never will be. He’s good at loud, sharp exclamations. Constructive feedback couched in cranky complaints. Crackling two or three word shouts when things are going well, no nonsense, straight to the point grunted directions when they aren’t. Occasional exasperated yelling in between.
It makes him an effective leader, mostly. Endears him to the hard headed, up and coming up hero interns who look at him like they want to be him. Stars in their eyes and dedication in their hearts. Scares most of the soft ones away, sending them scattering when he starts bellowing and yelling and carrying on.
He can acknowledge good work when it happens, but it’s usually a fight to get the words out of his mouth. And even then, it’s little more than a “Good work.” or “Nice take down.” that come out with force.
But it works. It’s who he is and it’s not something he’s willing or, truthfully, even capable of changing.
Except for Shouto.
Shouto has always been different. Always drawn out more from Katsuki than he’s ever really been willing to give. Whether it was rage or self-reflection or friendship, or anything softer. Shouto brings it out of him.
It’s why—nitroglycerin-tinged sweat dripping down his face and neck, ash and concrete rubble stuck in his hair, a road burn scrape the size of his fist on his shoulder and all—he slips an arm around Shouto’s waist the second they fall into the locker room of the agency and reels him in. Pulls him close, presses his sweat-damp face to the sloped curve of Shouto’s neck, and mumbles, “You did so good, Shou, so good,” directly into the skin there.
Katsuki can’t help it. The words spill out of him every time.
He pushes Shouto up against the lockers, less of a gentle nudge and more of a slam, especially when the row of them shudders, metal clanking when his shoulders thunk against them. Shouto, against all possible odds, melts in his arms.
“That last move,” he’s still talking, which is insane, smearing his lips against the slick skin of Shouto’s neck, trying to nose into the curve of his collarbone, “with the fucking boss lizard and the ice wave, so precise, I can’t believe it. Fuck, you’re good as hell.”
Shouto says nothing, just goes even more limp in Katsuki’s arms and sighs, pleased.
The adrenaline hits them in different ways. Katsuki goes chatty, clingy, complimentary. A little too rough, even though they’re usually not delicate in how they handle each other. Needing to press up against Shouto to make sure he’s still there. Whole and perfect, his temperature regulation control slipping after hours handling whatever bullshit has been let loose that they’re sent in to deal with. Soot all along his left side, dusted across the fine bones of his wrist and forearm where he burned so hot he lost the sleeve of his jumpsuit from the elbow down.
On the other hand, Shouto goes quieter, sedate and calm like he always is, but with that specific slipping tinge to it he gets whenever they fuck, especially when Katsuki compliments him in any way. Where he lets Katsuki take care of him, manhandle him, press him up into things, make him come. He curls just as close, tucks his fingers into Katsuki’s belt loops, seeks out his racing heartbeat even when he pretends he doesn’t.
He’s beautiful and alive and so goddamn good at his fucking job. Katsuki is hard just thinking about it, just from watching him work.
They don’t team up together all that often. Both of them big enough names to have a backing of underlings to do a lot of the grunt work, collabs so rarely needed unless it’s the big shit. Though Shouto still insists he get his gorgeous, long-fingered hands on everything he does. Katsuki is more willing to let the baby heroes do the tedious parts.
It’s probably also better that they don’t work together frequently, because every goddamn time they get like this.
Frantic and over zealous and keyed up with post-fight endorphins. All over each other like the teenagers they were not all that long ago. Shouto letting all of his hard won control and self-regulation go, Katsuki desperate and babbling, kissing all over Shouto’s face as he tries to get the goddamn tiny zipper of Shouto’s jumpsuit down to get at his dick. Shouto more than willing to go along for the ride, gripping at him and clinging, simultaneously going slack in his arms with how bad he wants it.
They’re a mess. But they aren’t dead. And there are no more fucking giant lizards.
Shouto nudges him back, his right hand way too cold, could enough to make him flinch even through the top of his hero suit, and surges forward to get his lips on Katsuki’s. He keeps talking through it, mumbling compliments and praises right into Shouto’s open mouth.
Their kisses go immediately wet and sloppy. There’s a cut on Katsuki’s lower lip that’s just started to scab over, which means nothing at all when Shouto bites down a touch too hard and the taste of blood spills over in between their mouths.
Shouto moans, loud, the second he tastes it. Fucking freak.
Katsuki loves him so bad.
Pushing at each other's clothes, they end up half undressed and pawing at each other. Katsuki, under the sheer force of his own willpower, wrenches his mouth away from Shouto’s, only to start layering hickies over the faded bruises behind his ear, down his neck.
He’s finally managed to worm his hand into Shouto’s stupid coveralls, fingers slipping over the dripping wet head of his dick before reaching down to get a firm grip on him.
He loves this, loves how desperate Shouto gets even when he’s quiet, how wet and wanting. And Katsuki tells him that, directly into his ear, until Shouto shudders and makes a mewling sound. Tips his hips up into Katsuki’s hand, fists the overgrown hair at the nape of Katsuki’s neck.
“Tell me,” Shouto mumbles, lips swollen and words slurred with it, the first string of actual words he’s said in ten minutes, “tell me how well I did.”
The request makes Katsuki’s eyes roll into the back of his head. He fucking loves when Shouto asks for things he wants, when he breaks through whatever mental roadblock he has about his own pleasure and arches into everything Katsuki wants to give him.
And god, how easy it is to give him this.
“So strong, Shou,” he mutters, fisting his over-warm cock, absently noting the temperature regulation going out the window even quicker than normal. He’s almost hot to the touch, any hotter and he’d burn the tips of his fingers, his entire palms, but Katsuki likes that. Because he’s a fucking freak too.
At least they know enough now to avoid any spontaneous combustion, unlike when they were fooling around in high school under the guise of being friends with benefits. “So strong and good and perfect, a damn good hero, too fucking smart.”
Shouto groans, dragging the blunt edges of his nails down the back of Katsuki’s neck. The white hot prickle makes his dick twitch, makes him press Shouto even harder into the lockers.
Normally he’d draw this out, would spiral Shouto down until he couldn’t take it anymore. Katsuki is good at teasing, at waiting until Shouto says or does what he wants. Unlocking the Todoroki Shouto that weeps and begs and squirms. Plus, he has a particularly dedicated interest in being an absolute dickhead and edging Shouto until he sobs.
But there’s too much arcing and fizzling between them. Too much want and desire and love. The relief at still being alive, the thrill at being some of the best pro heroes currently around.
He can’t wait, won’t make Shouto wait. So he doesn’t.
Katsuki pulls out all of his tricks, entire body tuned specifically to Shouto. He twists his wrist the way that makes him gasp, kisses along the hinge of his jaw, licks at his scar, uses his body weight to pin Shouto to the lockers, to him.
It doesn’t take long for Shouto to come across Katsuki’s knuckles, his entire body winding tight and then relaxing. Compliments and praise about his body, his face, his ability to wield his quirk, all murmured right into his mouth.
Katsuki kisses him through the come down, until his breath starts evening out, no longer seesawing out of him. They’re both still sweaty, covered in dirt and rubble and lizard goo. Everything feels so good right now that none of the aches and pains register, waiting until all of the feel good chemicals have left their brains to slam back into them again.
He’s so hard that it hurts, his dick pressed uncomfortably against the zipper of his hero suit pants, then pressed more comfortably against the firm length of Shouto’s thigh.
Expecting Shouto to take a bit to recuperate, he pops a few chaste, closed mouth kisses to his cheek, his shoulder, his exposed wrist.
He should know better than to assume anything, because Shouto gets his wits about him way quicker than expected. Before Katsuki knows it, Shouto has walked them back to the lockers on the other side of the aisle, slamming him into them with just as much force as Katsuki did earlier.
“Fuck, Shou, what the hell?”
Any answer he might’ve been given is cut off with a kiss. Shouto’s tongue, sharply hot and practically burning, swipes across the roof of his mouth and makes him groan. It comes back again, softer, slower. Cold and soothing.
Shouto pulls away from him with a slick noise, then promptly drops to his knees.
The sight makes him groan, pressing his clenched fist into his mouth. Shouto is all big eyes looking up at him, swollen mouth, perfectly symmetrical face, except for where he isn’t. There’s a cut on his forehead that dripped blood into his white eyebrow, dried now. It’ll be a bitch to get off later, when they wrestle each other into the shower to take care of their scratches and scrapes.
He’s gorgeous. And perfect. And Katsuki feels no hesitation in telling him that.
Cupping Shouto’s face with his hand, he bends down to kiss him right on the mouth. Whispers, “So fuckin’ perfect, princess.” and has to hold back the moan when Shouto’s eyes roll back into his head at the nickname.
They try to use all four of their hands to get Katsuki’s stupid fucking pants undone, made slow and unwieldy by their desperation. He has to bat Shouto’s hands away to get his zipper down, shoving his pants to his thighs and fisting his own cock before Shouto grumbles, uses his left hand to shock Katsuki away with a flare of heat.
“Don’t be a dick,” he tries to say, voice cracking on the last word when Shouto licks a fat, wet stripe up the entire length of him.
Shouto doesn’t respond, solely focused on getting Katsuki as wet as possible before he swirls his tongue, suddenly cold as fuck, around the head of his dick. Katsuki can’t help but jolt, slamming his head back into the lockers.
He’s gearing up to say something that’ll likely piss Shouto off when he hums, pulls back to take a deep breath, then leans back in to take Katsuki down as far as he can into his throat.
The scrape on his shoulder is beating in time with his heart, which is beating in time with his dick. It’s a fucking lot all at once, especially when Shouto pulls halfway off and then slides back down even further.
“Jesus, your mouth,” Katsuki groans, still able to talk shit. Shouto lays a fucking hot hand on his thigh and snorts through his nose when Katsuki flinches.
Everything about Shouto is warmcoolwarm. His throat is blistering, slick and wet, the entirety of his mouth hot too, but his tongue is purposefully cooler where Shouto presses it against the underside of his cock.
Katsuki isn’t going to last long. Wouldn’t last long on a good day, let alone with how crazy they both clearly feel right now.
He grips Shouto’s red hair in his fist, careful not to pull too hard, and cradles his cheek on the other side. He can’t help but groan more praise into the locker room when Shouto goes lax, stops bobbing his head up and down, and lets Katsuki rock gently into his mouth.
It’s perfect, Shouto’s perfect, everything is so good, feels so good. He only realizes he’s narrating his thoughts out loud when Shouto hums, pleased, and the vibrations make Katsuki curve over him, coming down his throat with a cut off shout.
Katsuki hovers there for a bit, warmth and coolness and the ice over top a blown out candle smell that follows Shouto around layered over the scent of exploded concrete wound around him.
Shouto pulls off slowly, the noise wet and slurping. It’s disgusting. It’s fucking hot. He says as much and Shouto practically purrs when he pushes back his hair from his face.
They should put their dicks away. They should patch their wounds and shower off and make their way to the debrief.
Instead, Katsuki hauls Shouto up off the floor, careful of his knees and his likely numb legs, and kisses the taste of himself out of his mouth.
When they pull away from each other, Shouto huffs. Smiles that tiny, pleased smile. Says, “I think that went as well as possible.” in such a severe understatement of their abilities, both pro hero and otherwise, that Katsuki can’t help but cackle.
“We did fuckin’ amazing, sweetheart.”