The Mess We Seem To Be

by orphan_account

Summary:

Stain and Shigaraki have made their mutual disdain for the other clear, however there's a piece in the middle they could almost always agree on.

Everyone knew that Stain and Tomura didn’t get along. In fact, saying they didn’t get along was putting it mildly. The two were far more inclined to kill each other than to ever consider working side by side. From the very first moment they met, it was clear they were two forces that clashed like oil and water—both volatile, both unyielding, both too stubborn in their ideologies to find common ground. So it came as a surprise to nearly everyone when Stain agreed, however begrudgingly, to entertain the idea of cooperating with the League of Villains.

“If I find it interesting enough, I might,” had been his half-assed response to the proposal, more of a dismissal than an acceptance. And yet, after that day, he began to drift in and out of their orbit like a storm that couldn’t quite decide where to land. He never fully committed, never abandoned his crusade as the Hero Killer, but he hovered on the fringes, showing up when it suited him, vanishing without a word when it didn’t. The League didn’t trust him, and he made no effort to earn their trust. Least of all Tomura.

Tomura hated Stain—loathed his holier-than-thou attitude, his rigid moral code that reeked of hypocrisy, the way he judged everyone like he was the final authority on what it meant to be "just." Stain, in turn, despised Tomura's chaos, his reckless destruction, his lack of purpose beyond tearing everything down. They argued constantly, tension simmering like a ticking bomb waiting to explode. They didn’t agree on anything. 

Well—almost anything.

There was one exception. One point of mutual understanding between them, though neither of them would admit it out loud. And that exception had a name: Spinner. Or as they called him in private, Shuichi.

It was almost ironic. Not even Spinner himself understood how it had happened, how he managed to wedge himself into the space between two men who could barely stand to breathe the same air. He’d idolized both of them from the start—Stain for his uncompromising ideals, Tomura for his unapologetic rebellion. Even now, when things had grown complicated and messy and blurred around the edges, he still looked up to them in different ways. There was something about Spinner that drew them both in—maybe his loyalty, maybe his unwavering need to believe in something greater than himself. Maybe it was the way he listened when no one else did.

Whatever it was, it was the one thing Tomura and Stain could agree on, even if it meant gritting their teeth and pretending not to notice the quiet tension that existed whenever all three of them were in the same room. Spinner was the eye of their storm, and neither of them wanted to lose that.

Even if they’d never admit it.

Shuichi knew that Chizome had his own way of doing things—his own code, his own sense of justice that didn’t always line up with anyone else's. He operated on a wavelength entirely his own, distant and unwavering, like a blade honed too sharp to touch. And Shuichi respected that. He admired it, even. It wasn’t always easy to understand, but he tried. Because for all of Chizome’s rigid convictions and solitary habits, there was something about him that made Shuichi feel seen in a way that no one else ever had.

Still, knowing all that didn’t stop the flutter of excitement that stirred in his chest every time the older man appeared in the hideout. It was rare, inconsistent—Chizome came and went like a ghost, answering to no one and bound by nothing but his own beliefs. But when he did show up, it was like the air changed. Shuichi’s ears would twitch before he even registered it consciously, his body reacting before his mind caught up. His pulse would quicken, his tail flicking with anticipation he barely knew how to name. 

And then—then Chizome would look at him.

Not just glance his way, not just acknowledge his presence like he did with others. No, Chizome smiled . That rare, quiet smile that softened the sharp lines of his face and made Shuichi’s heart skip dangerously in his chest. A smile that wasn’t just polite or amused or dismissive—it was genuine, maybe even fond. And it was always for him.

If Shuichi could see himself the way Chizome did, maybe he’d understand just how deeply that meant something. If he could step outside himself for a moment—see the way the other League members never got that look, that softness, that subtle tilt of the head when Chizome listened to him—maybe then he’d realize.

He was the only one Chizome looked at like that. The only one who made the Hero Killer’s eyes soften, even for a heartbeat. The only one who could draw that rare warmth from a man otherwise defined by cold conviction and brutal purpose.

But Shuichi didn’t see it. Or maybe he didn’t believe he deserved it.

So he settled for those brief moments—the quiet glances, the almost-smiles, the occasional brush of understanding—and held them close, like secrets only he got to keep.

“I just don’t see what the big deal is,” Tomura muttered, his voice low and distracted, eyes still glued to the glowing screen in front of him. His fingers twitched idly against the controller, though he hadn’t made a move in the game for several seconds now. Across the room, Shuichi was quietly collecting his things—phone, keys, jacket—moving around with a lightness that suggested he was trying not to provoke anything.

Tomura noticed, of course. He noticed everything.

He hadn't wanted to agree to this arrangement. Not at all. The idea of Shuichi— his Shuichi—dating Stain of all people had rubbed him raw from the beginning. It gnawed at him in a way he didn't know how to explain without sounding possessive or pathetic. He hated sharing what was his. Always had. And Shuichi is his—his first, his comfort, the one constant that kept his more violent urges at bay. There was a sense of security in that, something grounding in the way Shuichi always came back to him, no matter what.

But Shuichi was also his own person. He wasn’t something Tomura could cage or claim, no matter how much his instincts screamed otherwise. And that was part of why he loved him. Shuichi had this quiet strength, this gentleness that somehow survived the chaos they all lived in. It made people underestimate him—but not Tomura. Never Tomura.

So he’d said yes. Begrudgingly, bitterly—but he’d said yes. Because no matter how much it burned, Shuichi's happiness mattered more. And for some twisted, inexplicable reason, being with Chizome—the man who preached murder like gospel and walked around like a knife given sentience— made Shuichi happy .

Tomura could see it. The way Shuichi smiled after seeing him. The lightness in his steps that wasn’t always there before. The ease in his shoulders that didn’t even come from Tomura himself. And he hated it. Hated that it wasn’t just him who could bring that out. But he also couldn’t deny it was real.

So, yeah. He pretended it wasn’t a big deal. He played his games and muttered under his breath and tried not to let it show too much. But underneath it all, there was a darkness curling through him, coiled tight like a spring. Because while he had allowed it, that didn’t mean he trusted it. Or him.

If Chizome ever hurt Shuichi—even a single scratch, even a moment of pain he didn't deserve—Tomura wouldn’t hesitate. There wouldn’t be a conversation. There wouldn’t be a warning. He’d reduce the Hero Killer to ash and dust before anyone could blink. No one would hold him back, not the League, not Shuichi, not anyone. He might have agreed to share, but he never promised to forgive.

Because Shuichi was everything. And anyone who forgot that wouldn’t live long enough to regret it.

 

____

 

“Wait, we can’t—” Shuichi’s protest came out weak, barely more than a breath, and it died in his throat as strong hands gripped his waist and pulled him down, settling him firmly into the older man's lap. His balance tipped forward, chest brushing Chizome’s as his knees found purchase on either side of the man’s thighs. His heart thudded in his ears, and for a split second, his breath caught.

 

He wanted to say no. Wanted to say that this was definitely not the place. Not here—not in the common room of all places, where anyone from the League could walk in at any moment. The last thing he needed was someone like Toga or Twice catching them in the act. Or worse—Dabi. Shuichi still hadn’t lived down the time Dabi walked in on him and Tomura curled up half-dressed on the couch. That incident had spawned a rumor so obscene even Hawks had made a crude comment the next time he’d seen Shuichi, wearing that shit-eating grin that made it impossible to tell if he was kidding or dead serious.

And now here they were again, only this time it was Chizome, and Shuichi was already dangerously close to losing the last of his composure.

“I’ve just missed you, Shu,” Chizome murmured, voice low and rough, like gravel laced with longing. His fingers slid beneath the hem of Shuichi’s shirt, calloused and warm as they traced along the sensitive skin just above his hips. “I’m sure as long as you’re quiet… no one will even come in here.” He tilted his head, lips brushing just beneath Shuichi’s jaw. “You can do that, can’t you? Be a good boy for me?”

Shuichi shivered at the words, his breath hitching as Chizome’s tongue dragged slowly along the column of his throat, tasting the skin there like it was something sacred. His hands tightened slightly on Chizome’s shoulders, torn between pushing away and pulling closer. The heat between them was rising too fast, threatening to swallow his rational thoughts whole.

“Chi—” his voice cracked softly, trembling with hesitation and desire all tangled together.

But Chizome only hummed in response, his hands moving deliberately now, smoothing up Shuichi’s sides, thumbs brushing the ridges of his ribs through the thin fabric. The attention was overwhelming, grounding and intoxicating all at once. Shuichi let his head tip back slightly, eyes fluttering shut as the warmth of Chizome’s mouth ghosted over his pulse point. Teeth nipping, teasing, it wouldn't be the first time he’d bite him if he decided to leave his mark. 

He knew this was reckless—stupid, even—but Chizome always had a way of making the world fall away, reducing everything to touch and breath and the deep, dangerous affection between them.

“I-I can be good,” Shuichi caves with a whisper, his voice trembling with a mix of nerves and want. He nodded once, hesitant but sincere, opened his eyes now fixed on Chizome’s face. The admission made something warm settle in the older man’s chest—something dangerously close to affection.

Chizome leaned in and pressed a kiss to the tip of Shuichi’s snout, the gesture oddly tender given the heat simmering between them. He grinned, sharp and fond all at once.

“Good boy.”

What followed was a slow, careful dance—one of shifting limbs and half-stifled sighs, of fingers working beneath fabric with practiced efficiency. Clothes were peeled away piece by piece, but not once did Chizome remove Shuichi from his lap. It was like he refused to let go, even for a second, and Shuichi clung to him in return, his tail curling in quiet anticipation, his breathing growing shallow with each passing moment.

When at last Shuichi sat bare in his arms, Chizome paused.

White eyes drank in the sight before him like a man starved. There, with the dim light of the common room casting shadows across his scaled skin and soft contours, Shuichi looked like something out of a dream. Vulnerable, beautiful, his . His lean frame was covered in subtle ridges and lines, every inch of him unique, every part of him a quiet rebellion against the world that had called him ugly and unworthy for far too long.

And somehow— somehow —he still didn’t see it.

Chizome didn’t quite know when his attraction to Shuichi had started. Maybe it had been slow, creeping in around the edges of their encounters before he even realized it. At first, he’d just found the younger man amusing—awkward and shy, practically tripping over his own words every time he got within five feet of Chizome. Stain: The Hero Killer in the flesh. His attempts at recreating the Hero Killer’s costume had been laughably earnest, all wrong proportions and too much reverence. Chizome had teased him mercilessly, half expecting him to run off red-faced and humiliated.

But Shuichi never did. He kept showing up, kept watching him like he was something sacred, like he mattered in a way he hadn't in a long time. And little by little, Chizome found himself looking forward to those nervous smiles, those barely-formed sentences, the way Shuichi’s entire body would tense with uncertainty whenever they locked eyes. It was endearing. Disarming. An excuse to visit the League’s base more and more. 

There was something so genuine about him—so real in a world of masks and manipulation. And when that cautious desire began to flicker behind Shuichi’s eyes, when he started letting himself reach out, touch, want —Chizome had felt it too.

And now, here he was, with this brave, trembling boy sitting bare in his lap, trusting him with something no one else ever got to see.

Chizome reached up and cupped Shuichi’s cheek, rough thumb brushing just beneath his eye. “Do you have any idea,” he murmured, “how beautiful you are?”

Shuichi blinked, startled, a flush creeping across scales. He opened his mouth to respond, but no words came—only a soft sound, helpless and overwhelmed.

And Chizome thought, this is mine . This awkward, endearing, loyal creature—this boy who tried so hard to be good.

And he would make sure he always felt like he was.  

His free hand trailed slowly down the length of Shuichi’s toned torso, fingers brushing over the dips and ridges carved from countless hours of dedication. The younger man’s body was built more for agility than brute force—lean muscle stretched under scaled skin, firm but graceful. Every twitch beneath his palm told Chizome exactly how reactive Shuichi was, how sensitive. 

But he didn’t stop there.

His hand moved lower, past the subtle definition of Shuichi’s abdomen, until his fingers grazed the slit nestled between his legs—smooth, hidden, and completely unique to him. It was one of the many things that fascinated Chizome about Shuichi. Not just the heteromorph’s loyalty, not just his awkward charm or his unwavering belief in people who didn’t always deserve it—but this, too. His biology . The living testament of a quirk that reshaped his entire body into something no human anatomy book could quite explain.

The slit pulsed faintly at the touch, heat radiating from within. Shuichi shuddered and let out a soft, half-choked noise, hips shifting instinctively.

Chizome smiled, not cruelly, but with deep appreciation. So responsive . So beautifully complex.

Nestled safely within that hidden opening were his twin cocks, a trait unique to Shuichi’s reptilian physiology. Hidden from the world until properly stimulated—until his body, his instincts, deemed it safe. Intimate. Trusting.

It wasn’t just arousing—it was sacred, in a way. Something no one else got to see. Something that belonged only to the ones Shuichi gave himself to completely. For Chizome and Tomura for as much as either man hated to admit they still had to play nice for Shuichi's benefit.

And that, more than anything, made Chizome slow his pace, his touch reverent.

“Still with me?” he murmured, voice husky but steady, thumb stroking gently at the sensitive seam. “You're doing so well, Shu.”

Shuichi whimpered softly in response, claws digging into Chizome’s shoulders as his breath came in shallow bursts. His slit was already beginning to part, slick warmth beginning to pool where the arousal had built. The twin shafts—still only partially revealed—twitching with anticipation.

Chizome watched it all unfold with the focus of a scholar and the patience of a man who knew how lucky he was to be trusted with this. With him .

He still remembers how embarrassed he’d been telling not just Chizome but Tomura too. He had been so scared they’d hate him or be disgusted perhaps that was one of the few rare moments where he and the League leader actually put their differences aside long enough to take care of the one thing they cared about most. 

It had taken everything in him to even bring it up, his voice barely above a whisper, hands fidgeting in his lap, unable to meet either of their eyes. The anxiety had curled in his gut like barbed wire, twisting tighter with every second of silence that followed. He had half-expected laughter. Worse—rejection. Maybe even disgust. He'd grown up with those reactions, with people staring too long or pretending not to see him at all. He was used to being overlooked, avoided, called a freak behind his back. It had conditioned him to assume the worst, especially when it came to something as deeply personal as that part of himself—his anatomy, his biology. The thing his quirk had made him into.

Shuichi had been terrified that the moment he showed them that side of himself—the physical truth of who he was—it would all come crashing down.

But it hadn’t.

That moment, raw and vulnerable as it was, had unexpectedly become a turning point. One of those rare, surreal instances where Chizome and Tomura—two men who barely tolerated one another on a good day—set their animosity aside. No snarled insults. No pointed remarks. Just… silence. And then understanding.

Chizome had been the first to speak, his tone calm, almost clinical in its steadiness. He’d asked questions—not invasive, not judgmental, just curious. Careful. Gentle. And Tomura, for all his possessiveness and frayed temper, hadn’t snapped or scoffed. He hadn’t turned away. He’d sat beside Shuichi on the bed, thigh pressed to his, fingers twitching in that familiar way they did when he was trying not to reach out but wanted to.

“I don’t care what’s in your pants, idiot,” he’d muttered, his voice gruff but tight with emotion. “I just care that it’s you. ”

For once, the tension between the two older men faded. They both saw the same thing in Shuichi—someone worth protecting, worth holding onto, no matter what his body looked like or how it functioned. And in that rare, fragile moment, they had been united by something stronger than pride or rivalry.

It wasn’t perfect. It was messy, awkward, a little chaotic—like everything else in Shuichi’s life. But it was real. And for someone who had spent most of his life feeling less-than-human, being met with acceptance from the people he loved most had been almost too much to process.

He still remembered the way Chizome had held him afterward, firm and grounding, and the way Tomura had quietly curled in beside them, fingers finding his like it was the most natural thing in the world.

For the first time, Shuichi had felt whole .

Back in the present, Chizome remained as patient as ever, taking his time like he always did when it came to Shuichi. There was a rhythm to the way he touched him—no rush, no demand. Just steady, reverent movements, like each time was the first, like Shuichi’s body was something to be worshipped, to be explored all over again.

He always started slow.

Chizome liked watching the tension melt from the younger man's frame, liked the way Shuichi’s claws flexed and his breath hitched with every gradual increase in pressure. He liked how responsive the mutant was—how honest his body was, even when his mouth could barely form words. It gave him a map to follow, and Chizome was a master at reading it.

Now was no different.

With Shuichi still straddled in his lap, Chizome slipped his hand between them, guiding two fingers to the slick warmth of the slit nestled between the heteromorph’s legs. The entrance twitched at the touch, already wet with the telltale sheen of his natural slick. They’d learned over time just how much his body provided when properly aroused—how his mutation not only gave him a unique physiology but also ensured he was never unprepared for intimacy.

He pressed in slowly, carefully. Two fingers slid into the tight, sensitive space, rubbing gently against the twin shafts still only half-emerged. Shuichi gasped, his body jolting slightly in Chizome’s hold, tail twitching behind him.

“There we go,” Chizome murmured against his throat, voice low and thick with want. “Always so good for me.”

His fingers curled just right, applying just enough pressure to coax more of the hidden lengths free. The sensation was overwhelming for Shuichi—half pleasure, half instinct—his body trying to unfurl into it, needing to be filled, to be known .

Chizome loved this part. The way Shuichi trembled above him, mouth parted in a breathless moan, eyes fluttering closed again as he lost himself in sensation. There was something deeply intimate about watching the younger man come undone like this. No masks, no bravado, just the soft, vulnerable truth of who he was beneath it all.

And Chizome never rushed it.

He wanted Shuichi to feel everything—to know without a doubt that he was wanted, that his body was not something strange to be hidden, but something to be worshipped.

“Shhh,” he whispered, nipping gently at the base of Shuichi’s neck, “I’ve got you. Let me take my time with you, love.”

And as the slick heat clung to his fingers, and Shuich fell forward whimpering softly into his shoulder, Chizome smiled—steady, dark, and endlessly devoted.

And that’s how Tomura ended up finding them.

He was the only other one in the hideout likely to be up at such an ungodly hour—fresh off the high of demolishing some poor bastard in a late-night gaming tournament. The rush was still buzzing in his fingers as he slinked out of Shuichi’s and his shared bedroom, shirt half on, hair even more disheveled than usual. His stomach grumbled loud enough to echo in the hallway.

Figures, he thought with a grimace. Dominate the leaderboard, and my reward is stale cereal.

Tomura padded into the common area, rubbing at one eye as he muttered curses under his breath—only to stop dead in his tracks at the sight laid out before him.

The couch.

Shuichi.

Stain.

The older man had the heteromorph straddled in his lap like he owned him, fingers still buried in places Tomura very much considered his territory. Shuichi’s breathless moans were soft but unmistakable, his body glowing in the low light, flushed and vulnerable and beautiful in that way that made Tomura’s chest ache and burn all at once.

Chizome’s white eyes met his. Of course they did. The bastard didn’t even look surprised.

Tomura’s hand twitched at his side, that familiar itch crawling along his fingertips. Not out of violence—but possession . Jealousy. That ever-present rivalry that simmered between them, always one misstep away from boiling over.

He hated the way Chizome touched Shuichi with that same quiet confidence he used in everything. Hated that he got to see parts of the gecko mutant that Tomura hadn’t even known were possible until a few months ago.

But more than that—more than the irritation, more than the barely bridled frustration—there was that painful, stinging truth he couldn’t escape.

Shuichi was his. But Shuichi was also Chizome’s.

And Shuichi had made it very, very clear he loved them both.

“Seriously?” Tomura muttered, deadpan, though the sharp edge of his voice betrayed more emotion than he meant to show. “ The couch? You couldn’t even make it to one of the spare rooms?” He always refuses to acknowledge the fact that technically yes, Kurogiri had set up a room for the killer. 

Shuichi let out a half-choked noise—somewhere between embarrassment and apology—but wasn’t moved from where he sat, breath still ragged.

Chizome’s smirk was subtle, infuriating. “I thought you were sleeping, Shigaraki,” he said evenly, hand never leaving Shuichi’s hip. The other never stopped moving. “You’re welcome to join us, if you’re feeling territorial.”

Tomura bristled, eyes narrowing, but he didn’t storm off. He didn’t snap. Instead, he walked forward, steps slow and deliberate, until he stood just in front of them. There were times when he would just scoff and go back to what he was doing, he didn't have the same interest in things like this as they did. Something that had ignited many conversations but seemed to at least end with them all having a better understanding of each other. 

He looks down at Shuichi nlw—flushed, trembling, gaze flicking nervously between the two of them—and his expression softened just a touch.

“You really are the worst at saying no to him,” Tomura said, crouching in front of the couch and brushing a hand gently along the side of Shuichi’s thigh. “It’s pathetic.” His pinkie never lands, a small reminder of just how dangerous those hands were.

But his voice wasn’t cruel.

It was affectionate.

And if Chizome noticed the way Tomura leaned in and pressed a kiss just above Shuichi’s knee—low, possessive, reverent—he didn’t say a word.

Because even if they still hated each other in almost every conceivable way, they could agree on one thing:

Shuichi was worth it. Every fight, every bite of jealousy, every damned moment of sharing.

Even if neither of them would ever admit it out loud.

“T-Tomura—” Shuichi stuttered, his voice cracking around the sound of Chizome’s fingers curling just right inside him. His body jerked in response, a soft, breathy whimper escaping his lips before he could bite it back. He wanted to look behind him, to see the blue-haired man he could feel so distinctly at his back now—his presence cold and electric all at once—but Chizome's hand on his hip kept him still.

There was no escape.

Only sensation.

Only the thunderous pounding of his heart in his chest and the heat blooming deep in his gut.

Tomura didn’t say a word as he settled behind him for real now, the couch dipping under the added weight. His hands were cold against Shuichi’s heated skin, fingers tracing the slight ridges of his scales with an almost clinical curiosity, like he was mapping him for the first time. But there was nothing detached about the way his nails scraped just faintly over sensitive spots, dragging sharp gasps from Shuichi’s throat.

Shuichi shivered, tail curling reflexively around one of Tomura’s legs.

Chizome smirked from beneath him, his gaze locked with Tomura’s over Shuichi’s shoulder. The unspoken challenge was there, as it always was—who could make him cry out louder, who he clung to harder, whose name he whispered first when pleasure finally overwhelmed him.

For what it was worth, this —Shuichi between them, trembling, panting, desperate—might’ve been the only time the two of them functioned with any real cooperation. Rivalry sharpened their focus. Shared desire honed their instincts. And Shuichi?

Shuichi was rightfully, thoroughly in for it.

Chizome leaned up, his lips brushing the shell of Shuichi’s ear. “Is this what you wanted?” he murmured, voice like velvet laced with danger. “You’ve got us. Hope you’re ready, pet.”

Behind him, Tomura’s low chuckle rumbled against his back like thunder. His lips pressed to the curve of Shuichi’s spine as his hands slipped lower, cold fingers replacing Chizome’s briefly—deft and hungry.

“Better hold on tight,” Tomura said, voice husky with amusement and want. “You’re not getting out of this anytime soon.”

And caught between their hands, their mouths, their heat—Shuichi didn’t want to.

Chizome’s fingers didn’t let up, unrelenting in their rhythm, skillfully coaxing Shuichi’s twin cocks from the slick warmth of his slit. Each curl and press sent waves of pleasure rippling through the heteromorph’s trembling frame, his claws now digging into the cushions beneath him for something— anything —to ground him.

He was already panting, barely holding himself up, when he felt Tomura move behind him.

The soft, wet drag of his tongue against the sensitive underside of his tail made Shuichi arch with a gasp, his hips stuttering forward only to be reined back in by Chizome’s firm grip.

“Easy,” Chizome murmured, voice low, almost amused. “Let him take his time with you.”

But time felt abstract in that moment. Shuichi was trapped between them in the best kind of way—Chizome’s hand working him open from the front while Tomura took his own unhurried path along every inch of exposed, scaled skin behind him. It was maddening, overwhelming, perfect.

Tomura’s tongue was colder than expected, or perhaps he was running too hot. It was a sharp contrast to the searing heat growing inside him. It traced over places he didn’t even realize were sensitive, until he found himself moaning, trembling under the weight of their attention. His tail coiled again, brushing against Tomura’s side in a silent plea for more.

He no longer cared where they were—the couch, the common room, the very heart of League territory where anyone could walk in. None of it mattered.

All that mattered were the hands and mouths that worshipped him like he was something rare, something precious. All that mattered was how they touched him like he was theirs—not as property, but as something cherished in their own twisted, possessive ways.

And Shuichi, caught between them with his twin cocks twitching against Chizome’s palm and Tomura’s mouth trailing down the small of his back, didn’t want to be anywhere else.

Shuichi whimpered the moment Chizome's fingers slipped from his slit, his body instinctively pushing back in protest, not ready to be left empty. But he wasn’t left waiting long—not with the unmistakable sound of a zipper being undone behind him. The sound alone made his heart stutter, breath catching as anticipation curled deep in his gut.

He barely had a second to brace himself before cold hands slid around from behind, fingers wrapping possessively around his twin cocks now fully emerged and slick with his own arousal. Then arms were wrapping around him, wrapping around his cocks. Tomura’s touch was calculated—firm, knowing—his thumbs brushing over the sensitive ridges near the base of them in a way that made Shuichi cry out, head falling forward against Chizome’s chest.

“You’re trembling,” Tomura murmured, his lips ghosting against the back of Shuichi’s neck. He’d moved behind him now standing over them on the couch, “Don’t tell me you’re already falling apart.”

Chizome chuckled, the sound low and almost indulgent. “He’s always like this when he knows what’s coming.”

The weight of Chizome’s hand returned to his hip, grounding him, anchoring him in the moment. He pressed forward, slow but sure, and Shuichi’s breath hitched sharply—his body straining between the cold, expert strokes from Tomura and the slow, stretching pressure of Chizome entering him.

It was too much. It was never enough.

Pinned between their bodies, their attention, their unspoken need to outdo each other—Shuichi couldn’t think, couldn’t speak. All he could do was feel. Every motion, every breath, every soft groan that spilled from their mouths like secrets meant only for him.

And in that moment, surrounded, claimed, loved in their own fierce, possessive ways—he never felt safer.

Shuichi had been so embarrassed the first time Chizome brought up fucking his slit—his face flushed deep beneath his scales, tail curling tightly around his leg in nervous reflex.

“ It’s not a weird question ,” Chizome had said, voice calm, genuinely inquisitive as his fingers traced gentle patterns along Shuichi’s hips. “I just want to understand. Is it only a sheath for your cocks, or… can it be used like a pussy?”

There had been no mockery in his voice, no judgment. Just curiosity —a kind of fascination Shuichi still didn’t know how to respond to. It had caught him completely off guard. No one had ever asked him something so intimate, so specific, and certainly not with such quiet care.

Shuichi had stammered at first, tail flicking nervously. “I-I don’t know… I mean, I’ve never tried—never thought about using it like that…”

And honestly, he hadn’t. His anatomy had always been something he tried not to focus on too much, especially when he was younger. He’d always assumed it was just another function of his quirk—a biological storage space for something that already made him different, harder to relate to, harder to explain.

But Chizome had offered him patience. Space. Time. And the first time they explored that possibility together, it had been slow, cautious, and reverent.

As it turned out, yes —it could be used that way. And not just that, it was incredibly sensitive. Possibly even more so than his cocks.

The first time Chizome had worked his fingers inside, Shuichi had come undone in a matter of minutes, tears slipping from the corners of his eyes from the sheer overwhelm of it. The pleasure was unlike anything he’d felt before—deeper, more consuming. And Chizome had been so careful, so attentive, guiding him through every moment, murmuring reassurances and praise until Shuichi could barely breathe.

Since then, it had become another part of their intimacy, one Shuichi still got flustered about but no longer feared. Because with Chizome—and later, even with Tomura—his body wasn’t something to hide or be ashamed of.

It was something they learned together.

Explored together.

Cherished.

Chizome pressed deeper into Shuichi, slowly, deliberately, until their bodies were flush and the heteromorph could feel every inch seated inside him. His breath hitched in a shaky gasp, claws digging into the upholstery as his legs trembled from the stretch and pressure, the ache already curling into pleasure far too intense to manage.

“Good,” Chizome murmured near his ear, voice low and thick with restraint. “You take me so well every time, Shuichi…”

At the same time, Tomura’s hands never stilled—not even for a second. His fingers remained wrapped around Shuichi’s shafts, smearing the slick that leaked steadily from both tips as he stroked him with maddening precision. He was watching them with that quiet, focused intensity he always had when he got involved, and his cold touch contrasted perfectly with the burning heat building at Shuichi’s core. 

For what he wished to claim, Tomura didn't get involved often. Sex was still something he still didn't find himself interested in but he would always help Shuichi through things like this. 

The overstimulation was getting to Shuichi quickly—each movement, each sensation pulling him further under.

Chizome’s hips began to move, drawing back only to sink in again with a deep, steady rhythm that made Shuichi’s breath catch every time. The hands on his hips aiming to steady him and guide him all the same, his walls clenching down instinctively, his slit slick and pulsing with need. It was so much—Tomura’s cold, skilled grip, Chizome’s steady thrusts. Pinned between them, taken and touched, Shuichi was unraveling.

And neither of them was planning to let up.

“Please, please, please —” Shuichi’s voice broke between soft, desperate whines, his breath hitching with every word. Every nerve in his body felt like it was crackling with fire, alive in a way he’d never experienced before—overstimulated, overwhelmed, and yet aching for more.

He didn’t know how much longer he could last like this. Sandwiched between the two people he cared for most in the world, every touch from them felt like fire and ice as one in the same. Their hands, their voices, their bodies— everything was focused on him, devoted to him like he was something precious. It was too much. It was perfect.

And somewhere in the back of his mind, where the heat hadn’t burned away all his thoughts yet, he still couldn’t understand why.

Why him ?

Why someone who had spent so long hiding, apologizing for existing in a body that made others uncomfortable? Why someone who once believed he’d never be seen as more than a foot soldier, a mutant freak, a background piece in someone else’s story?

But here he was. Loved. Claimed. Wanted beyond reason.

And he knew— knew —what both of them would say if he dared to speak those doubts aloud.

Tomura would scoff, roll his eyes and mutter something gruff like, “Don’t be stupid,” but then he’d press his cold lips to Shuichi’s forehead in that quiet, affectionate way he thought no one noticed.

And Chizome… he’d look him right in the eyes, voice low but steady, and say something like, “You think I’d be here if you weren’t worth everything?”

They both had their ways of loving him. Messy, imperfect, sometimes possessive—but always real. And here, between them, gasping out broken pleas, Shuichi finally believed he didn’t have to be anything other than exactly who he was.

He belonged here. With them.

Tomura’s lips ghosted over the curve of Shuichi’s neck, cold and possessive, his teeth nipping at the sensitive scales there—just hard enough to make the heteromorph gasp. His breath hitched, body trembling as the sharp sting sparked something electric deep in his core.

Before he could even process the sensation, Chizome pulled him in—rough hand framing his jaw, forcing his head to turn. The kiss was messy, commanding, and utterly consuming. The hero killer’s tongue pushed past his lips without hesitation, claiming the space like he’d done a thousand times before. It was all heat and hunger and raw, unapologetic want.

Shuichi whined into the kiss, but Chizome swallowed every sound greedily, each muffled moan only encouraging him further. Tomura’s mouth never left his neck, alternating between bites and soothing licks, his hand tightening ever so slightly around Shuichi’s cock—reminding him just how thoroughly trapped he was.

He was caught between ice and flame. One lover grounding him with possessive, unrelenting heat; the other teasing and coaxing him with cool precision. Every nerve was alive, every thought slipping away as they dragged him deeper into their orbit.

He didn't stand a chance—and he didn’t want one.

Shuichi could barely get a full breath in, lips raw from Chizome’s relentless kiss, his body caught in the overwhelming rhythm of their shared desire. Every thrust sent sparks down his spine, every squeeze of Tomura’s cold fingers around him had his legs trembling harder. The heat coiling low in his belly was impossible to ignore now—rising fast, tightening, demanding.

He tried to speak, to warn them that he was close, that he was right there , but Chizome didn’t let up, barely pulling back enough for Shuichi to gasp in air, let alone form words. The grip on his waist was bruising, grounding, and Tomura’s bite at the junction of his neck sent a sharp jolt that shattered whatever composure he had left.

Then, it hit—sudden and all-consuming. His entire body locked up as his climax surged through him, blinding and breathless. He cried out, voice breaking into a whimper as his release painted across the front of Chizome’s shirt and spilled over Tomura’s pale hands.

The world around him spun, but their touches never stopped. Through the haze, he felt the quiet hum of approval from both sides, felt their weight and warmth pressing into him like an anchor.

He was undone—and still they held him like he was the most treasured thing in their world.

It didn’t take long after that—Shuichi’s trembling, overwhelmed body tightening around him was all it took to push Chizome over the edge. His breath hitched sharply against Shuichi’s shoulder as he buried himself one final time, hips stuttering with the force of his release.

For a moment, the world stilled—just the sound of their heavy breathing, the warmth of shared exhaustion.

Chizome’s grip loosened, and he pressed a final kiss to Shuichi’s temple before slowly, carefully, slipping free from his body. Shuichi let out a soft, shaky breath, instinctively curling into the space where Chizome had been, skin flushed, limbs boneless. He was spent in every possible way, trembling with the aftershocks of everything they’d poured into him.

Tomura’s arms wrapped around him next, cold hands gentler now as they smoothed over his scaled back, grounding him with quiet affection. Neither man said anything for a beat, but it was there in the way they held him—wordless and heavy with meaning.

They’d broken him down and built him up all over again.

And they'd stay, right there, until he was ready to move.

Notes:

I was a little nervous to post this directly on my page where people I know could see it but on the off chance anyone actually does read this then please let me know what you think.

I highly doubt anyone cares about this ship outside of me. <3