Work Text:
“Hagakure, I need you to do something for me,” Shouto tells his assistant one afternoon in early October.
“That is generally what you pay me for,” Hagakure answers without looking up from her iPad, and Shouto sighs.
“I also need you to not ask questions about it.”
Hagakure hums. “Okay,” she says, opening an email and beginning to type a response. “What is it?”
Shouto forces himself to take a shaky inhale before spitting out in one quick breath, “I need you to get me some tights.”
Hagakure’s typing makes a barely discernible pause. “You’re going to have to be more specific,” she says, and Shouto frowns.
“How so?”
“Telling me what kind of tights would be helpful.”
“Ah.” Shouto’s frown deepens. “Just regular tights is fine.”
Hagakure gives him a look like she desperately wants to roll her eyes at him but is, mercifully, refraining. “Saying ‘regular tights’ doesn’t tell me anything,” she sighs, clucking her tongue. “There’s basic tights, dress tights, lingerie tights—and then materials, of course, there’s wool, cotton, nylon—and then plain versus patterns and believe me, there are a lot of patterns out there these days, so.” She smiles at him demurely. “Specifics, please.”
Shouto just blinks at her. “I… I don’t know like… the kind business women wear?”
“You mean pantyhose?”
“… Sure.” Shouto replies after a pause, because as much as he trusts Hagakure with any and all of his personal matters, he also really doesn’t want this conversation to go on any longer than it strictly must.
Hagakure returns his blink, and then her brow scrunches as she lets out a thoughtful, “Hmm.”
Shouto knows that hum. “I said no questions,” he reminds her, and she huffs.
“Fine. I won’t make it a question, I’ll make it a suggestion.” He opens his mouth to protest, but she levels him with a rather severe stare that has any words dying in his throat as she says, “You should get stockings instead.”
Shouto blinks again. “What’s the difference?” he asks.
Hagakure turns back to the iPad. “When you say tights, you’re thinking of these right?” she asks, and shows him the Google Image tab she’s pulled up displaying a gallery of exactly the kind of sheer black garments Shouto had in mind. “These are pantyhose. They’re pretty basic, made of nylon, and as you said, often used in business outfits. Perfectly acceptable, but maybe a little… cumbersome?”
“Cumbersome?” Shouto repeats, and Hagakure nods.
“Yes. See, they go all the way up to your waist which is great if you want them to stay put all day, but when it comes time to say… go to the bathroom? Then they can be a little annoying. Because you have to slide all of this”—she gestures at the top part—“off. And then they get caught on things and tear and they end up getting ruined rather quickly.”
“Ah.” Shouto frowns. “And stockings… don’t do that?”
“Oh they do. Nylon rips if you so much as look at it the wrong way,” Hagakure says, pulling up another tab with an example of thigh high stockings an gesturing at the screen. “But the main advantage of stockings is that they stop at your thighs. So if you go to the bathroom, you can just go like you normally do. Much more practical.”
Shouto continues to stare at the screen, brow scrunching into a deep furrow. “And… You think stockings would be a better option because of… going to the bathroom?”
“Oh of course.” She nods emphatically. “Especially for a guy. Think about it, half the time when you go you’re standing up, right? Tights would be a nightmare for that, you’d have to shimmy them down in front of the whole restroom. But with stockings no one even has to know you’re wearing them. They’re clearly the better option.”
Shouto considers this for a long, awkward moment.
“Okay,” he says slowly when he manages to find his voice. “Then I guess I need you to get me some… stockings.”
He’s certain his face is nearly the same color as the left side of his hair by now and probably three short seconds away from spontaneous combustion, but Hagakure doesn’t so much as glance at him as she returns to her emails and resumes typing. “You’ll have them by the end of the week,” she promises, and the breath Shouto didn’t know he was holding comes out so sharply he winces a little with the force of it.
“Thank you,” he says, as sincerely as he can manage.
“You’re welcome,” Hagakure chirps, pausing in her work just long enough to give him a bright smile. “It is my job after all.”
Shouto nods, and makes a mental note to give her raise.
True to her word, by early Friday morning Hagakure has a beautiful satin gift box waiting for Shouto on his kitchen counter. Inside he finds three sets of stockings, all extremely well crafted and wonderfully, horribly intimate. There’s also a matching panty for each one, with no explanation given for their presence save a single post-it with a winky face drawn in bright pink marker. It lights his face on fire for a solid ten minutes, and Shouto spends most of his morning waging a fierce internal war over whether or not he should retract Hagakure’s new raise.
(He doesn’t, but it’s a near thing.)
He leaves for Chicago that evening, the stockings and their matching panties packed discreetly into one corner of his suitcase. Shouto tries not to dwell on them, but despite his best efforts they keep cropping up in his thought stream at any given opportunity, each time turning his face into every shade of red under the sun and causing the poor flight attendants to dither over him, wondering if he might be getting sick. It’s exactly the kind of attention Shouto doesn’t want drawn to himself, and it only makes everything that much worse.
Even Izuku notices his peculiar state when they meet at O’Hare’s CTA Station. “Are you feeling okay?” he asks, midsummer eyes wide with concern. “Your face looks really flushed.”
“I’m fine,” Shouto lies. “It was just a very warm flight. I think they were having problems with the cabin thermostat.”
He prays to every God he can think of that Izuku doesn’t notice the sudden rush of blood to his cheeks as his mind immediately snaps to the lingerie and his eventually plans for them, though at this point he’s not even sure he’ll make it that far. With every passing minute the idea is starting to seem more and more ridiculous, and if not for his ironclad willpower and frankly idiotic tenacity, Shouto’s nerve would have failed him before he even put the garments in his suitcase.
Izuku squints at him, which he often does when he doesn’t quite believe Shouto but can’t decide if he wants to push him or not. Shouto musters up a small smile, and thankfully Izuku drops it, choosing instead to fill their trip back to the apartment his usual idle chatter. Shouto only ever absorbs bits and pieces as Izuku tends to talk about everything and nothing, but the content isn’t what matters to him so much as the soothing balm of Izuku’s bright, cheerful tone. It never fails to wash over him like ocean waves lapping at sun kissed sands, making him feel warm and safe and loved.
“So did you want to do anything for the rest of the day?” Izuku asks once they’re home, eating a light lunch of miso soup and onigiri stuffed with Mrs. Midoriya’s homemade umeboshi.
Shouto considers his answer carefully before replying, “I think I’d like to take a nap first.”
Izuku makes a face. “You just got off an eleven hour flight and now you want to nap? I thought the whole point of flying first class is that you get to actually lie down,” he teases.
“Getting to lie down isn’t the same as getting to rest,” Shouto counters. “Airplanes aren’t comfortable, even in first class.”
“Oh yeah, I’ll bet getting served complimentary champagne and cheese platters is so uncomfortable. Those hot towels and real pillows must really suck too. And don’t get me started on the—hey! ”
Shouto’s lips twitch as Izuku rubs at where he just flicked his forehead sharply. “You were asking for it,” he says, and Izuku rolls his eyes.
“Rude,” he huffs. Shouto just smiles.
Izuku decides to run some errands while Shouto is asleep, which works out perfectly because in truth, Shouto doesn’t actually want to nap. What he does want is to be undisturbed, and having Izuku out of the apartment is excellent because now Shouto won’t have to worry about any surprise entrances in the next stage of his plan with the stockings: gathering the courage to actually put them on.
Shouto has no idea how long this part of the process will take, only that in all likelihood, it will drag on far longer than it should. There’s been a near constant battle waging inside his head over the past several months between the parts of Shouto that very much want to put forth the effort and change needed to balance his relationship with Izuku and start chipping away at his mountain of emotional issues, and the parts of Shouto that would very much like things to stay just the way they were before he even met Izuku, which was essentially just shoving everything except his anger so deep down he wasn’t sure he’d be able to feel anything else ever again. It was, objectively, a terrible way to handle things, but it was also simple and familiar and predictable in a way that life with Izuku is most decidedly not .
Life with Izuku is both wonderfully thrilling and absolutely terrifying, and Shouto would be lying if he said there aren’t moments that leave him petrified because he’s about to try something new and unusual that will leave him wide open and vulnerable, with no idea how it will turn out.
Like the stockings.
Which is especially frustrating because this time, Shouto knows it’s a good idea, largely because it isn’t his. It came about one night in early September when Izuku’s friends had gathered for the mysterious and confounding American holiday known as Labor Day for a party. He got cornered by an Ochako that had a few too many Summer Shandies, and was told in the sort of intense earnestness that only drunk girls are capable of achieving, “Shouto. Shouto listen. Izuku? He’s a leg guy. He really, really likes legs. Like a lot. And you? You’ve got great legs. Use them.”
Shouto was so bewildered by this proclamation he couldn’t help but bring it up to Izuku later, though only because Izuku also had too much to drink that night and seemed unlikely to remember anything specific Shouto might say to him. Izuku laughed for about three solid minutes before admitting yes, he did like legs, and then took nearly half an hour to tell the apparently hilarious anecdote of when Ochako figured out she could get a great rise out of him by wearing certain kinds of tights.
So technically, the idea for the tights actually came from Izuku. And because of that, there really shouldn’t be any reason for Shouto to doubt that he’ll like the stockings. But minds are tricky things, and Shouto’s in particular is prone to coming up with vast numbers of utterly illogical but highly persuasive reasons as to why Shouto’s ideas are all doomed to fail. Which is why Shouto’s sitting on the edge of the bed, black stockings and accompanying panties in hand, and hasn’t moved for the better part of an hour.
It’s stupid. Shouto knows it’s stupid. His brain knows it’s stupid, but it’s also very insistent upon the idea that perhaps it’s not actually stupid, and Izuku will hate the stockings, and this entire plan will probably just blow up in Shouto’s face so he might as well abandon it while he still can. Never mind the fact that stockings are inherently sexy, or the fact that Shouto does have nice legs and will almost certainly look very good in them, or the fact that he can get a rise out of Izuku by wearing things as simple as a henley and some low-riding sweatpants. These things are anomalies, and should not be taken into account when deciding that anything Shouto tries to do for Izuku is probably terrible and not to be attempted.
The first movement Shouto makes in almost forty-five minutes is to bury his face in his hands with a barely contained groan. He doesn’t understand why this always has to be so hard.
His phone dings, and with far more effort than it should reasonably take, Shouto grabs it off the nightstand. A text from Izuku tells him that he’s heading home, and wants to know if Shouto has plans for making dinner or if he should grab some takeout. He reads the message three times over before it has a chance to fully sink in, and when it does, something inside Shouto’s brain just… clicks.
It happens sometimes, usually when he’s so far down his own rabbit hole it doesn’t feel like he’ll ever come out, and then one little thing just so happens to make him go tumbling out the other end. There’s a brief flash where the truly logical and reasonable parts of his brain seize hold, and Shouto has learned by now that in these moments, he needs to stop thinking and take action .
Shouto doesn’t answer Izuku’s text. Instead he stands up, shucking off his pants and then his boxer briefs. The lacy fabric of the panties feels odd against his skin when he slips them on, and the fit of the garment isn’t the most comfortable, but Shouto doesn’t allow himself to dwell on that, only finishes adjusting himself as best he can before grabbing the stockings. Tiny sparks of static run up his legs as they slide on, the satiny stretch of the nylon unlike anything Shouto’s ever worn before, and the sensation of something that ends at his mid thigh jarring enough that Shouto has to pace the room a few times so he can get used to it.
He finally stops in front of the full length mirror resting in the corner to assess himself, and what he sees is…
Weird. Not bad, not necessarily, just… Weird.
Because Shouto isn’t used to this. He’s not oblivious to his own natural attractiveness, has long been fine with it being played up for the sake of his career. But in managing his public image his father had always said there was a fine line between what he called ‘mystery and exhibitionism’, one he was insistent that Shouto did not need to cross. And as much as Shouto likes to be contrary to whatever positions his old man holds, this is one place he’s never been much inclined to disagree. Trim fits to highlight his build and neutral palettes to bring out his hair and eyes have always been enough for Shouto, and he’s never wanted to put himself on display any more than that.
So it’s hard to look in the mirror and see himself like this, clad in garments meant for the express purpose of sex. There’s a disconnect, like the reflection isn’t actually him, and he can’t for the life of him decide whether they look good or not. The image is too strange, too jarring, too surreal for Shouto to get a good grasp on. He’s just beginning to wonder if maybe he should scrap the whole plan because he just can’t wrap his head around it when he hears the front door open, and footsteps shuffle inside.
There’s another little click inside his head, and Shouto steps away from the mirror, forcing himself not to look back at it as he grabs some clothes from his suitcase. Don’t think, he repeats to himself. Don’t think don’t think don’t think.
Just do it.
Izuku is putting away cat food when Shouto steps into the kitchen, wearing a soft grey henley and low-riding black sweatpants that Izuku has a frankly inexplicable fondness for. “They’re good boyfriend material,” he explained to Shouto once, which didn’t make sense to Shouto at all, but Izuku was insistent and he opted not to question it.
He can tell Izuku notices the unspoken invitation because one corner of his mouth quirks up in a sly smirk when he catches sight of Shouto, but beyond that, he doesn’t take action just yet. “How was your nap?” he asks instead, and Shouto shrugs.
“Fine,” he answers. “I’m sorry I didn’t answer your text. I just got up a few minutes ago.”
“That’s okay; I figured if you did have dinner plans we could just make a quick run for takeout.” Izuku turns around, stepping a little closer to Shouto than strictly necessary as his lips curl into an impish smile. “So, did you have a preference?”
“No,” Shouto says. “I’m actually not that hungry right now.”
“Mmm, I see.” Izuku comes close enough to press up against him, arms wrapping loosely around Shouto’s neck as his head drops to nose gently at Shouto’s jaw. “Trying to work up an appetite?” he asks, voice breathy and low.
Shouto grimaces, and shoves Izuku’s head playfully away from him. “Ugh. Not anymore I’m not.”
“Oh come on,” Izuku protests, grin wide and sharp as he cinches his arms tighter around Shouto’s neck. “You have to admit that was pretty good.”
“No, it wasn’t,” Shouto counters flatly. “It was terrible and you should be ashamed of yourself.”
Izuku blows a raspberry at him. “You’re no fun,” he complains.
“That’s been well-established by now. It’s not my fault if you keep forgetting.”
“Wow, so rude.” Shouto can feel the upward curl of his lips when Izuku presses them to a spot just behind his ear. “Why do I even put up with you?”
“I have it on good authority that you think I’m very pretty,” Shouto says without missing a beat, and gets a loud snort in return.
“Lucky for you,” Izuku murmurs before capturing Shouto’s mouth in a slow, heated kiss.
It’s the kind that makes him sigh, sends shivers up and down his spine while warmth pools low in his belly and high in his heart. Shouto’s arms go to Izuku’s waist almost without thought. Izuku makes a soft humming noise in appreciation before he slips a hand into the hair at the base of Shouto’s neck, fingernails scratching lightly at the scalp, and it isn’t very long at all before Shouto is gone.
It’s a slow stumble back to the bedroom. Izuku presses him up against seemingly every surface in between, riling Shouto up that much further each time with featherlight kisses and caresses that do nothing except leave him aching for more. By the time Izuku is pushing him back onto the mattress there’s nothing but desire pumping through his veins, and Shouto feels almost drunk on the rapid rise of heat and affection. He wants to lose himself here, and Izuku makes it so very easy for him to do so, with his clever fingers and wicked mouth making the world around him disappear, until all Shouto knows is Izuku, Izuku, Izuku.
Then Izuku grabs his foot, one thumb tracing delicately along the arch, and everything comes to a screeching halt.
Izuku pulls back, blinking slowly while all the blood in Shouto’s abdomen proceeds to rush to his face, turning him indistinguishable from his scar as he abruptly remembers—
Oh. Right. Stockings.
“Um,” is all he can muster as Izuku stares at the black nylon clad foot he’s currently holding, like he’s not entirely sure what he’s seeing.
“What—” Izuku rubs against the arch again, midsummer eyes wide and confused. “Is this—nylon?”
“… Yes,” Shouto answers after a solid five second pause, though it’s honestly more squeak than word.
Izuku blinks several times in rapid succession. “Why… Why are you wearing nylon?” he asks, the question coming out stilted and awkward, like he’s not entirely sure that’s what he should be asking.
Shouto doesn’t answer right away. He can’t, not when the two sides of his brain are screaming full throttle in an effort to gain the upper hand, one mercilessly urging him forward and the other desperately pulling him back. But Shouto can’t for the life of him think of an explanation as to why he’s wearing nylons right now that doesn’t involve something inappropriate, and perhaps it’s the ludicrous thought of trying to come up with one on the spot that spurs him to blurt out, “Stockings.”
Izuku blinks again. “Stockings?” he repeats.
Shouto nods stiffly. There’s so much blood coloring his face he swears he can feel it sloshing around with the movement.
Izuku continues to blink. “You’re… wearing stockings?”
“I… I thought you might… like them,” Shouto manages to mumble after several awkward seconds of silence. The heat from before is gone, leaving a cold wash in its wake that’s got his tongue leaden, his face on fire, his heart drumming a relentless beat against his ribs, and all Shouto can do is wait for Izuku’s response and he knows—he knows—everything should be fine, it should be fine, it should be—
Izuku shifts, leaning forward. Trembling fingers dip past the waistband of Shouto’s sweatpants, but he doesn’t move to pull them down just yet. His gaze flickers up, midsummer eyes wide as he asks, “Um… Can I…”
Wordlessly, Shouto lifts his hips, eyes following the heavy bob of Izuku’s throat as slowly, slowly, he begins tugging the sweatpants off. The pace is excruciating, with every passing second winding Shouto tighter and tighter, anticipation anchoring tight in his lungs, his veins, his heart, and by the time Izuku’s dropping the pants off the side of the bed, Shouto thinks he could snap in half with a single touch. He is acutely, horribly, terribly aware of his current state, half splayed out on the mattress with nothing but his henley and his lace panties and his thigh high stockings, and if it were anyone—anyone—other than Izuku looking at him like this, Shouto thinks he’d die on the spot.
But it is Izuku. It’s Izuku staring at Shouto like he’s seeing something he doesn’t understand yet but still thinks to be marvelous. It’s Izuku’s jaw going slack, Izuku’s breath catching every few seconds, Izuku’s fingers pressing indents into where they rest on his thighs. It’s Izuku’s eyes slipping shut as he draws in a shaky inhale, and holds it there.
Shouto swallows thickly. Words won’t come, so instead he reaches out, brushing his fingers against one of Izuku’s hands. Izuku jerks, and a shudder seems to worm its way through his whole body. “Give… Give me a second,” he rasps.
The low, rough tone of his voice sends a tiny shiver down Shouto’s spine. A spark returns to his abdomen, just waiting to be lit.
And when Izuku opens his midsummer eyes, wild and crazy and dark with something like hunger, it ignites.
Izuku surges forward, and Shouto moans softly as his mouth is captured in a searing kiss, all tongue and just a hint a teeth, nipping at his lower lip in a way that makes fire flare deep in his belly, his fingers clench in the sheets, and tiny noises want to spill from his throat. There are hands on his thighs, touching, palming, stroking every inch available to them, and Shouto thinks the catch of lace and nylon against the skin there shouldn’t feel as good as it does. Maybe it’s because it’s Izuku on him, Izuku’s fingertips digging into the muscles, Izuku’s mouth leaving his to trail down his jaw and groan headily in his ear, “Jesus Christ, Shouto—”
And the way Izuku breathes his name like that—like a promise of all the heat and desire and ecstasy that’s to come—washes over Shouto like flames across a dry and barren landscape, burning all his last nagging doubts and insecurities to ash.
“Izuku,” he murmurs in return, and the way Izuku moans in response sends such a wave of want coursing through him it makes his cock twitch. Izuku pulls back, throwing his shirt to the side and revealing shoulders absolutely covered in freckles thanks to long days of summer sunshine. Shouto’s struck by the urge to kiss them, each and every single one, but before he can move Izuku’s hands are back on him, spreading his legs wide so he can settle between them. Fingers run teasingly up the sensitive skin of his inner thighs, and Shouto can’t stop the shiver that wracks his whole body, or the breathy little moan that escapes him. Izuku’s trail continues up until his thumbs are slipping under thin black lace, coming to rest at the divots of Shouto’s hip bones so they can rub slow circles there. Shouto bites his lip, some soft noise spilling out as sparks skitter down his spine and feed the ever growing heat in his belly. He thinks that such a simple touch really shouldn’t hold such power over him, but then again, almost anything Izuku does can render Shouto undone in an embarrassingly short amount of time.
Like the way he lifts the lacy fabric of the panties just far enough to let it snap back when he moves his hands again. Or the way he trails his fingers down the backs of Shouto’s thighs, so featherlight and teasing it makes his stomach clench. Or the way he grabs Shouto’s legs, bending them so one foot rests against the bed and the other is brought up to Izuku’s mouth. And especially the way he presses soft, lingering kisses against his arch, the inside of his heel, the bony protrusion of his ankle. Shouto’s feet are more numb than sensitive from years of punishing dance routines, but somehow Izuku’s touch there is capable of lighting his entire body on fire, every nerve ending rendered like a moth to flame, and Shouto moans, low and heavy from the back of his throat as Izuku begins to kiss up his leg.
“You are—so—absolutely—fucking—gorgeous—you know that?” Izuku says, punctuating each word with a long press of lips to the most tender parts of Shouto’s leg—the calf, the back of his knee, the inside of his thighs, and most maddeningly, the crease where it meets his abdomen. Another soft noise escapes Shouto, face burning with the way his hips try to buck, eager for contact because every touch Izuku bestows drives him a little more crazy, a little more desperate. If the panties weren’t the most comfortable before it’s nothing compared to how poorly they fit now, but there’s also something about the way the lace stretches over his cock as it hardens that makes Shouto want to gasp and stutter and moan, and he tries not to think too hard about that.
He attempts to sit up, wanting to finish getting his shirt off and maybe help Izuku with his gym shorts. But he’s stopped by a hand on his chest that pushes him back down, and Shouto’s definitely trying not to think too hard about how easily he obeys the unspoken command. “Izuku,” he moans, high from the back of his throat in a way he refuses to admit might be a whine, and Izuku laughs. The laugh should not be arousing. Shouto feels himself twitch anyway, and his cheeks start to burn.
Izuku leans forward for a brief, heated kiss. He rocks his hips in a slow grind, and Shouto lets out another soft moan at how hard Izuku is against him. He bucks again, wanting that contact, that friction, but Izuku pulls back before he can get more than a taste, hands coming to pin Shouto’s hips to the mattress, and Shouto really, really tries not to think too hard about the wave of sheer heat that sends coursing through him, even though it’s not the first time it’s happened, nor will it probably be the last.
“Uh uh,” Izuku chides, grinning somewhat impishly down at him. “Not what we’re doing today.”
Shouto blinks. “But—” he starts to say, and gets cut off with another low moan when Izuku drags his thumbs on either side of Shouto’s cock, not touching but making the lace press against heated skin in a way that leaves Shouto biting at his lip to stop more noises from spilling out.
“Nope,” Izuku says. He starts to slide back, coming to rest on his stomach while he keeps his torso propped up by his elbows. “You did this for me, right?” he asks, one finger tracing the intricate border stretched around Shouto’s thighs.
“I—Yes, but I don’t see what that—” He gets cut off again with a garbled sound as Izuku presses his mouth to the lace, tongue warm and wet, teeth sharp and nipping, and Shouto’s pretty sure his brain just blew a fuse.
“It means I have to return the favor,” Izuku says, voice taking on a low, deep quality, the kind that makes Shouto rapidly start to lose any train of coherent thought he might have had left. “So just like… sit back and relax, yeah? I’m gonna take care of you.”
Shouto swallows heavily. “I really don’t think relaxing is the best—”
Izuku mouths up to the crease of his thigh, so close to where Shouto wants it most, and he abruptly loses the ability to do anything other than try and curb the frankly embarrassing noises that keep wanting to escape him. “You know what I mean,” Izuku answers, murmuring the words against his skin, and Shouto can only gasp and shudder in response.
He brings a hand up to wind loosely through evergreen curls, but that’s all he can manage as Izuku descends upon him like a starving man to a feast, mouth moving anywhere it sees fit except Shouto’s cock. It’s absolutely maddening, and Shouto can’t really do anything except lie back and take whatever Izuku gives him, free hand fisting tightly in the sheets as lips and tongue and teeth lavish him with attention, kissing and licking and nipping at every part of his thighs and hips they can get to. Izuku is everywhere, at the front, the back, the insides, the creases, the divots, and even through the layers of lace and nylon his mouth is warm and his tongue is wicked and Shouto is losing his goddamn mind.
“ Izuku ,” he grinds out between clenched teeth, and Izuku just laughs, reaching up to tug the hand out of his hair so he can gently kiss Shouto’s fingertips.
“Hey… Can I try something?” he asks, looking at Shouto with an expression that has no right to be as bashful as it is given their current predicament.
“Isn’t that what you’re already doing?” Shouto responds, harsher than he intends because he’s hard and aching and Izuku won’t fucking touch him where he needs it.
“I meant something new,” Izuku clarifies, a devious smile spreading slowly across his face. He moves to rest his head against Shouto’s hips, fingers tracing delicate patterns on the opposite side for a moment before he lets out a sharp breath that blows warm air just over where the head of Shouto’s cock is peeking out from beneath the black lace, and Shouto buries his face into a pillow to try and muffle the sound he makes. “Please?” Izuku adds, and Shouto lifts his head just far enough to glare at where Izuku is smiling up at him, midsummer eyes blinking innocently even as he lets out another deliberate gust of air.
Shouto’s thinks he should probably be suspicious of that request, but he can’t seem to keep a single thought straight inside his head, so all he manages to say to it is, “Yes, fine, whatever, just get on with it.”
Izuku laughs again, and Shouto’s toes curl as he presses a gentle kiss just to the head, lingering there for only a second before he pulls away again, and Shouto just barely manages to tamp down on his disappointed moan. Then Izuku is manhandling his legs again, spreading one wide and pressing the other up until Shouto’s knee is nearly to his chest. Shouto blinks, lifting his head so he can get a better look at what Izuku’s trying to do, but it becomes a moot point when he feels fingers brushing against his ass as they push his panties to the side. It clicks in Shouto’s brain half a millisecond before Izuku’s tongue is pressing against his entrance, and the noise he lets out is one he will vehemently deny ever making later.
Shouto has to shove his face into the pillow again as Izuku’s tongue laves over him in long, heady strokes. He’s never done this before, always thought it was one of those things that required more trust and care in a partner than he ever wanted to deal with before Izuku, and now that it’s happening Shouto’s not entirely sure he’s going to survive the experience. Every muscle in his body quivers with each new touch, and when Izuku actually presses his tongue just inside the rim, his whole being quakes with the wave of pleasure that washes over him.
“Izuku—”
Izuku hums against his skin while pressing in again and Shouto can’t stop the way he throws his head back, mouth falling open with a choked off sound because it’s so good so good so good and he thinks he might honestly be dying. That’s what it feels like anyway, with his muscles tensed and his nerves on fire and his lungs panting and his heart pounding and his head full of nothing but static and the need for more more more.
He reaches out blindly and his hand finds Izuku’s hair, sinking into the curls and tugging as a deep, throaty moan that sounds vaguely like Izuku’s name leaves him. And this time Izuku follows, pressing a trail of wet, open mouthed kisses along the skin as he moves along the curves, the creases, and then finally, finally drags his tongue up the length of Shouto’s cock. Pleasure hits Shouto like a lightning strike, and he doesn’t have it in him anymore to stop the litany of small, needy noises that spill from his lips as Izuku continues to mouth at him through the panties, kissing and licking while his fingers knead at Shouto’s thighs. Lace and nylon drag across overheated skin, making Shouto feel too hot too tight too much as Izuku wraps his lips around the weeping head. He suckles gently, pressing his tongue against the slit, and Shouto’s toes curl so tightly it hurts.
“Izuku,” he barely manages to gasp out, “Izuku, I can’t—I can’t—”
Izuku pulls off right before he comes, still mouthing at the base of his cock as Shouto’s stomach tightens and his thighs quiver and his hips buck. He moans, deep and low as ecstasy rips through his body like hungry flames, devouring all in their wake and leaving little more than a ruined mess behind. When the last aftershocks have been wrung out of him Izuku surges up, burying his face in Shouto’s neck and mouthing at the skin there, an incoherent mess of praises for Shouto spilling from his lips as he ungracefully kicks off his gym shorts and slots his hips between Shouto’s legs.
Shouto can’t help the soft little moans that leave him as he wraps his arms around Izuku’s torso, holding him close and running his hands over every inch of skin available as Izuku rocks against him, shaky and inelegant and still so so good. Izuku’s dick is resting hot and heavy at the crease of his thigh, and Shouto has just enough thought left in his brain to reach down and palm at the length, stroking slowly over the skin and rubbing his thumb against the head and Izuku moans loud and long into Shouto’s neck as he comes, hips stuttering against Shouto’s grasp until he has nothing more to give.
They collapse in a tangle of limbs and sweat. It takes a few moments before Izuku rolls off Shouto onto his side, smiling dazedly at him before his brow furrows and he mumbles, “Oh, shoot.”
Shouto blinks. “What?”
“I got your shirt all dirty,” Izuku replies, and Shouto blinks again before looking down at where there’s a few white stains scattered across the grey fabric. He snorts, unable to help himself.
“What is with you and this stupid henley?” he asks. It’s difficult, but he manages to muster the last scraps of his energy so he can shuck it off before falling back and tucking himself against Izuku, who hums happily.
“I told you, it’s good boyfriend material.” He slips an arm around Shouto’s waist, fingers tracing patterns against the ridges of his spine, and Shouto sighs, eyes starting to drift shut.
“That doesn’t make any sense,” he tries to say, but the words get lost as sleep begins to take hold, and soon the world goes black save for the warm, comforting presence of Izuku beside him.
Shouto wakes some indeterminate amount of time later to the sensation of lips against his neck and fingers tracing over the lacy bands still encircling his thighs. He smiles slowly, snuggling closer to Izuku as he murmurs, “If we’re going another round I need food first.”
Izuku laughs, breath washing over Shouto’s collarbones and sending tiny shivers up his spine. “Fair,” he says. “What do you want?”
“What time is it?” Shouto asks. He feels Izuku grab the wrist where his watch is, pressing a lingering kiss against the pulse before he looks.
“Uh… Like nine-thirty?”
Shouto frowns, blinking his eyes open slowly. “That late?” he says, sitting up despite Izuku’s whine of discontent.
“Well, it was already early evening when we fell asleep, so…” Izuku shrugs. “Guess you didn’t actually take a nap while I was gone, huh?” He pokes Shouto gently in the side, his smile light and teasing, and Shouto flushes.
“I didn’t,” he admits, but doesn’t say more than that. Izuku doesn’t press, just laughs and sits up so he can wrap himself around Shouto again, pressing a line of kisses up the length of his neck.
“So… Was I not actually imagining that drunk conversation we had about legs on Labor Day?” he asks after a moment, and it feels like half the blood in Shouto’s body rushes to fill his face. But the sense of doubt and embarrassment from earlier is gone, burned away in that rush of delicious heat, and it’s easier to respond.
“You were not,” he manages after a few seconds, and Izuku laughs again.
“Oh good, because I kind of thought I was losing my mind for a little bit there.” He pulls back, fixing Shouto with a blinding smile. “So, um. Thanks. I uh… I really enjoyed that. If it wasn’t obvious.”
His head ducks, the faintest hint of color spreading across cocoa dusted cheeks, and before Shouto knows it he’s blurting out. “I have more.”
Izuku looks back up, blinking slowly. “More… stockings?” he asks, midsummer eyes going wide and dark at the same time, and Shouto can’t help the little shudder that runs through him.
“There’s… There’s a white pair and a red pair too,” he confesses quietly. “The white ones are fishnet and the red ones are pure lace.”
Izuku’s pupils start to dilate. “Seriously?” he asks, voice going low and deep as trembling fingers start to dig into Shouto’s thigh, but Shouto throws a hand up against Izuku’s chest, keeping him at bay when he tries to lean in.
“Food,” he says, and Izuku’s face scrunches as he lets out a long whine.
“Ugh, fine. Spoil sport,” he says as he clambers over Shouto to stand. “How about this—I think there’s enough stuff in the fridge for yakisoba, so maybe you can make that while I run to Jennivee’s for cake?” He gives Shouto an impish grin as he pulls his boxers and gym shorts back on. “Feels like a sugar rush might be in order.”
Shouto rolls his eyes. “You’re ridiculous,” he mutters, which only makes Izuku grin wider.
“So that’s a yes?”
“Just try to get slices instead of the cupcakes,” is what Shouto says in response, and Izuku laughs, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek before bounding off.
As soon as he hears the door click, Shouto gets up, and heads straight for his suitcase.