Chapter Text
It’s an okay night. A good night, even. Aside from the insomnia that plagues Shouta, tonight was fine.
It’s not like he had much on the agenda anyway. Tomorrow there’ll be more planning and quirk testing with the rest of the League. Shouta’s like a surrogate teacher to them; constantly taking notes and marking their abilities, giving them advice on how they can improve further. Even if he only attended UA High for two years, those two years cemented itself into the wrinkles of Shouta’s brain, information he can hand off to the others who will benefit from it far more than he ever could.
So Shouta sits idly, half of his bright yellow sleeping bag zipped up to his waist, sitting with his back against the wall and a cigarette in his mouth. Spring is finally making its arrival, warm air rushing into the room rather than the cold he's grown so accustomed to. Finally, he won’t be freezing as much as he used to, cuddled inside of his sleeping bag with the thin blanket doing a less than stellar job at protecting him from the cold.
Shouta doesn’t know how late it is. He isn’t afforded the luxury of having a clock in his room, so he doesn’t care enough to keep track of how much time has passed. Even if he did end up dozing off for an hour or two, he’d be back in the perpetual state of exhaustion, the bags under his eyes dark and his thoughts fogged up with the need to sleep. If Lady Luck really is on his side, he might be able to catch an extra hour of shut eye. Wouldn’t that be a sweet release?
Unfortunately, tonight is no different than the other ones, and Shouta has found himself itching for a cancer stick every time he thinks about what had occurred between him and Mic last week. Which, regrettably, has been about give-or-take once a day. Shouta had done somewhat of a good job stopping his bad habit. He knows it’s not a good idea to smoke and he managed to cease majority of the urges by having something else in his mouth, whether it be gum or a piece of jewelry, where the metallic taste served as a distraction, but it’s been a little under two weeks since Mic fucked him through his cramps with that cursed wand and about a week since Mic was his first ever proper sexual experience (see; having a tongue that was sent down from the angels above), and the cigarettes clear his mind better than anything else can.
And hey, the tobacco makes his orgasms less fulfilling so he can stop himself from jerking off to the memory of Mic between his legs, so there’s an added bonus.
Shouta’s about to take another hit of his cigarette, bringing it up to his lips, but his hand stills at the sound of a gentle knock at his door. His eyes lazily drag towards the entrance of his bedroom, a little confused but still concerned nonetheless. When Shouta was a young adult, Shigaraki would come to his room for comfort after having yet another nightmare. This can’t be the same situation, can it? Shigaraki hasn’t done something similar in years and he’d rather disintegrate his own skin off than be caught being cradled like a child. Not like Shouta's complaining. Despite the attitude, he's grown rather fond of the kid he helped raise.
Sluggishly, Shouta shimmies out of his sleeping back and suffocates the cigarette on the concrete ledge of the window. He makes sure to slip on a pair of pyjama pants sitting in the pile of dirty laundry in his hamper, and he walks over to the door. When he opens it, his heart practically drops into his stomach.
“Mic?” His voice doesn’t sound like his own, but the name still leaves his mouth, lingering in the air like the thick scent of blood.
Mic is standing hunched over. Everything about his demeanour has changed. Instead of that familiar updo, his hair is suffocated and strangled, frizzy with certain pieces sticking out. His eyes, once bright green with that contagious smile, are now bloodshot with puffy red cheeks and even puffier eyes. Shouta tries not to pay attention to the way the collar of his shirt is cut, slipping off his shoulder to reveal the beginnings of a tattoo.
He looks like he’s been crying.
“Did I wake you?” Mic mutters, and fuck, his voice is just as broken, wobbly, coming out in pieces. Shouta barely hears him over the whispers of wind passing by.
“You didn’t. Come in?” Shouta suggests, pulling the door open a little more, and Mic, curled in on himself, takes a step inside. Shouta makes sure to lock the door once it’s closed. Just in case.
“Thanks,” says Mic as quietly as before. Like if he were to raise his voice, he’d start to cry.
Shouta only hums and walks over to his desk to grab the plastic water bottle he’s been relying on for the last week, and hands it to Mic. “Drink.”
A soft laugh, strained, catches through the air and seeps deep inside of Shouta’s bones as Mic takes it. His fingers barely brush against Shouta's as he grips it, crinkling. “Thanks, Eraser.”
Another hum and Shouta shimmies back into his sleeping bag. Mic takes a few sips before putting the water bottle down on the table and when he’s done, he can’t help but crack a smile at the lower half of Shouta’s thick frame buried under the fabric of the yellow sleeping bag.
“You look like a caterpillar,” Mic comments. He sits down on the edge of the bed, keeping a safe distance from Shouta. Shouta wishes he could close that gap.
“That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me,” in an attempt to tease the tension, says Shouta. “What happened?”
It’s a good query. He’s never seen the Radio Host so upset before. Present Mic is a staple of sunshine and smiles, confidence and stupidity filing through the cracks of the Voice Villain. Seeing him like this is whiplash, to say the least.
Mic parts his lips to speak, inhales, then closes them again. Shouta takes that as an answer, but Mic is forcing the words out of his mouth before Shouta can stop him, “bad dream.”
“Wanna talk about it?” Shouta asks quietly.
“It’s stupid,” Mic whispers. He hikes his legs up to his chest on the bed, scooching backwards, curling in on himself. To make himself look smaller. It’s familiar, Shouta thinks.
“Not stupid,” he corrects, “nightmares are very common.”
Mic’s gaze is fixated on the freezing cement floor, so Shouta continues in an attempt to get through to the distraught man hugging his knees in a position so reserved, Shouta thinks he’s about to melt into a puddle. “When Shigaraki was a kid, he used to have nightmares. Kurogiri wasn’t… human enough to comfort him, so I would. I understand, Mic. It’s not stupid at all. What would be stupid is not telling me about it and dealing with it yourself.”
Fuck, his fingers are already itching for another cigarette. He chews on the inside of his mouth instead. The packet of gum Dabi picked up for him must be somewhere in his drawers.
“Always straight to the point with you,” comments Mic, cracking a small smile.
“I don’t like beating around the bush. We either deal with shit now or we never deal with it.”
Mic says something completely unfamiliar and Shouta is staring at him, blinking slow. “What?”
“Oh, I said a phrase in English.”
Shouta blinks even harder, if that were possible. “You speak English?”
“Uh, yeah.” It’s odd to see Mic as timid as a mouse. “I was a teacher, remember? I mentioned this to you.”
“You didn’t say you were an English teacher.”
“Well, I guess I forgot.” Mic lets out a soft chuckle that ends just as it started. “I said ‘speak now or forever hold your peace’.”
“Ah,” Shouta replies. “Well, it’s true. What happened in your dream?”
“Hm, well…” Mic takes a big breath, one that puffs out his chest and expands his lungs. He doesn’t look as small as he did earlier. “The dream was about an old friend who passed away a long time ago.”
Shouta chews on the inside of his mouth. He’s never been good at comforting people, especially people who he has an odd relationship with such as Present Mic. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s alright,” he shrugs it off like it means nothing. Like it didn’t have him wobbling to Shouta’s room late at night with his legs shaking so violently he thought he was about to fall against the wall and hyperventilate until he passed out. “I guess I’m still not over it. Been well over ten years and I’m still dreamin’ about him. Whoever said time heals all wounds was a damn liar.”
“I don’t think you just get over death like that,” Shouta replies. “It takes a lot of support.”
The type of support Shouta didn’t receive, but that doesn’t mean he can’t extend a hand to his fellow comrades and colleagues. Mic and him are on the same side, so Shouta doesn’t mind opening up as much as he usually does. If it helps Mic, then he finds it worth it.
After all, this is the most logical thing to do in this situation. Obviously.
“Yeah, well,” Mic huffs a laugh. Sarcastic. Even Shouta understands that. “I wasn’t really given that type of support when he did die.”
“So you have support now,” Shouta says easily. “You can talk to us about it. We aren’t villains to be villains. Something pushed us into this position, which means we can all relate on a certain level. So we'll get it.”
Mic grins, more genuine this time than the last. “And yet when I say the same thing-”
Shouta rolls his eyes. The smile that paints his face probably looks awkward and wrong. “This is about you. Not me. Don’t bring me into this.”
Like a child, Mic blows raspberries and sticks his tongue out. That same tongue that’s been inside of Shouta. He swats that thought away as quickly as it appeared. “I will drag you into this. We’re both in the same boat, after all,” Mic chimes.
“The difference is that one of us has a dick,” Shouta replies, then returns his gaze back to the window. Mostly to try and look as nonchalant as he can, but also to hide his face burning up in shame. He clearly needs to think about what he says before he says them. Right next to the oral fixation, is the bad habit that cues him to speak without thinking it over first. For some reason, it worsens when he’s around Mic.
“Hey!” Mic crosses his arms in mock annoyance. “You wish your dick was this big.”
Now that is a nice mental image Shouta wants to sit on for a long time.
He stares blankly and Mic winces. “Sorry, was that too much? I was trying to make a joke, but I can see how offensive that’d come across as-”
“No,” Shouta interrupts. “It’s… fine. It’s fine. Just a joke.” He pretends not to notice how Mic’s shoulders relax from the tension as he exhales.
Shouta’s never really cared about anything below the waist anyway. As long as he feels comfortable enough in his own skin, then he’s fine. Additionally, doing anything remotely sexual with someone else would be a distraction from his main goals and he’s more than content with using his fingers to get off when his frustration is pent up in a glass jar. Easy and quick.
Which is why Mic is such an odd addition to Shouta’s life. He finds himself daydreaming more and more about what else he could get up to with Mic in private. What else Mic would be willing to give him, say to him, do to him to make him feel good. And what’s worse is that Mic cares. This isn’t a quick handjob in the alleyway of a club after a mission gone moderately right. This is warmth in Shouta’s chest, silly laughter, crying after humping his pillow because he wants Mic to call him baby again.
It’s a distraction from everything important in Shouta’s life and yet he is impressively good at self sabotage with the way he’s constantly beckoning to Mic every chance he gets. Winks across the bar, whispers of good luck before a mission, a supportive hand on his shoulder and a bright greeting (always from Mic) whenever they see each other for the first time that day.
“Can I stay here for the night?”
Shouta’s punched out of yet another daydream by Mic’s voice, once so loud, now soft, gentle. When he gathers enough competence to look at Mic, the blonde is staring into nothingness again. “I’ll sleep on the floor. I just don’t wanna be alone right now.”
“You’re not sleeping on the floor,” responds Shouta, rather bleak. “You’re going to freeze. You can sleep on my bed.”
Mic does a god awful job at hiding the giddiness that paints his face like acrylics on a canvas. He’s absolutely adorable.
“You’re okay with that?” He asks genuinely. “Your bed is so tiny. I’d get it if you want me to leave.”
“All of our beds are tiny,” Shouta says, as if it’s the most obvious concept. Mic’s an idiot for making that observation so late. “Either you go back to your own room to sleep in your own bed, or you sleep with me.”
“Ohh, sleep with you, huh?”
Shouta’s ears burn. “Don’t make it weird.”
“Sorry,” muses Mic, who unwraps his arms from his legs and lays down.
In the same bed he gave Shouta head in. He really needs to stop thinking about that. He needs to get it through his thick fucking skull that it’s never going to happen again.
Shouta closes the window and hooks the extra sheet he snatched under Kurogiri’s nonexistent nose over the glass to obscure light. Bare moonlight pours in through the small gap between the blanket and the glass. Shouta's eyes adjust to the darkness easily, but he can make out the lanky silhouette of Mic lying on one side of the futon.
“Here,” Shouta yanks a corner of the thin blanket and throws it in a bundle at Mic. It lands on his stomach.
“You don’t want any?”
“My sleeping bag is warm enough.”
Mic hums. “Suit yourself.” He smooths out the blanket and drapes it. It doesn’t quite reach his feet so he curls his legs into himself, also to give Shouta more room.
Shouta still isn’t tired, but he’ll drift off eventually. This isn’t the first time he’s stared at the blank concrete ceiling for hours on end, counting sheep, filing through memories of his past and thinking about the what-ifs. This isn’t any different.
The sleeping bag is dragged alongside Shouta, who plants himself next to Mic. There’s a little bit of space in between them, space comfortable enough. Like an invisible barrier separates them, which is how it should be. This isn’t the first time Shouta has slept in the same bed as colleagues. Hell, Dabi set his own bed on fire in his sleep once and he had to share a bed with Shouta until he could get a replacement.
The very next morning, Shouta was hauling a new mattress he stole in broad daylight up the stairs and he practically chucked it at the pierced hellhound he lived with that called himself Dabi.
But Shouta has never been so aware of the presence of another person next to him. It makes his skin tingly and his palms all sweaty and his chest tight.
He pulls the zipper up to his chin, now fully engulfed in his sleeping bag. There’s something so comforting about the pressure of the weighted nylon on him, so even if he doesn’t end up sleeping as much as he wishes he would, he’s at least comfortable while his brain runs on autopilot. Mic flips onto his shoulder to face the wall and pulls the blanket further up his arm and he stills, but he’s awfully tense. Shouta notices it.
“You can relax.
Awkwardly, Mic clears his throat. “Yeah.”
Both of them don’t move.
“You’re still tense.”
“Am I now?” That same teasing tone returns. Shouta notices it as Mic's attempt to wiggle his way out of situations and topics when he feels backed into a corner.
Shouta sighs, exasperated. Mic tenses even more. “Do you want to talk about it?”
A deafeningly loud beat. “Not really.”
“Okay,” Shouta replies, then wriggles a little more inside of his sleeping bag to get comfortable. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
Shouta expects something simple. Like he needs more space on the bed, which Shouta is more than willing to give, or another pillow, which, again, Shouta would give. The last pillow Mic handed Shouta when he was suffering through those hellish cramps was kicked under his bed.
To say Shouta is stunned when Mic practically whimpers out a weak, “hold me?” is the understatement of the year. Hell, even the decade.
“I’m sorry?” Maybe his hearing is finally going because of Toga and Twice’s constant shrieking. Add Mic to the equation and Shouta’s going to be stealing a pair of hearing aids from the elderly soon.
“I’m not going to repeat myself, Eraser.”
“You said ‘hold me’? I just want to make sure that’s what you said–”
“Yes,” strains Mic, who doesn’t move away from the wall. Shouta can’t see his expression but he’s more than aware of how red Mic must be in the face. It’s an awkward situation for both of them, no doubt about it. “That’s what I said, but you don’t have to do it if you don’t want to.”
“No, if it’ll help you then I’ll do it.”
“I don’t want you to do anything you don’t want to do. Plus, knowing you, it’d probably turn you on,” Mic chuckles tautly. Shouta’s face burns even hotter.
“Fuck off,” that catchphrase synonymous with Shouta, “I’m not going to do it if you say stupid shit like that.”
“Sorry, sorry,” the smile is still present in his voice. Shouta smiles a little too, then unzips his sleeping back down to his stomach, just enough to pull his arms out. He hesitates, because of course he does, then inches a little closer to Mic.
Positioning the arm under him is going to be difficult, so Shouta settles for his free arm. He reaches his arm over Mic, hand perched on his chest, and he pulls him in. Mic slacks significantly, a contented sigh leaving his lips as his back presses against Shouta’s. He’s more than aware of his unbounded chest under his long sleeved shirt and the roundness of his tummy pressed up against the other body in his bed. It serves as nothing more than a reminder that Shouta needs all of these glamorous and expensive surgeries to make himself feel better about the skin that’s supposed to be home.
“Doing okay?” Mic asks softly. A hand embraces Shouta’s, the one on Mic’s chest, and it’s enough to ground him from overthinking.
“Yeah, fine,” grumbles Shouta, and he prepares to ignore the arousal that pulls in his stomach. He hates how deprived of touch he is, and he especially hates the effect Mic has on him.
Still, Shouta decides to deal with it. He’ll stop feeling like this soon. It’s just a little bit of touch, after all. Just two bodies sharing their warmth and comfort so they’ll both lull themselves to sleep soon. Even if Mic does that insufferable little rub with his thumb over the back of Shouta’s palm. It drives him insane every time.
“We don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.”
“It’s fine, Mic. How many times do I have to repeat myself?”
Mic hums, an apparent acceptance of this side of EraserHead. The mean, stern side that everyone else is used to. But he’s also accepting the softer side, the side that cares so much to the point where he’s sacrificing his own comfortability for the sake of the League. “Okay.”
Silence. For someone who’s always enjoyed the quiet, Shouta can’t quite stand it right now.
“Do, uh,” he starts, a little breathless, “do my boobs feel weird?”
Mic seems taken aback by the question, but he replies with a simple, “not at all. I honestly wasn’t even focusing on that. Is it making you uncomfortable?”
“...No.”
Mic sighs. “You’re really bad at being honest.”
“I’m being serious.” Shouta’s eyes narrow, even if Mic can't see him.
“How about I hold you? If that’ll make you more comfortable. We’ll get the best of both worlds. I get to cuddle you and you don’t feel uncomfortable.”
“I said I wasn’t uncomfortable, Mic.”
“You’re being unreasonably difficult.”
“I’m not. I’m fine.”
“I’m not going to let you hold me like this if you’re uncomfortable.” Shouta tenses considerably and Mic huffs an annoyed breath. “I just want you to be okay, Eraser.”
“I am okay.”
“I mean- you know what I mean. I want you to feel comfortable doing all of this with me.”
“You don’t have to walk on eggshells around me.”
“I’m not doing that,” Mic bites back, “I’m trying to be mindful of your boundaries. If you don’t like this, we can stop.”
“But you want it.”
“I don’t want it if you don’t want it.” Mic’s tone softens as he adds, “I’ll just cuddle you instead. How does that sound? Plus it would save space on the bed anyway so you don’t fall off.”
Shouta barely makes out the outline of Mic’s head, before he mutters a small, “fine,” and flips onto his other side. He shuffles a little to find a comfortable enough position again. While he does that, he also feels the bed dip down and shift loudly as Mic also flips over. He can’t see Mic anymore, but his presence is so loud, despite the slivers of soft breathing and little grunts.
A hand wraps around the sleeping back and loops under Shouta’s armpit. Mic’s grip is looser, like he’s afraid of hurting Shouta. Like he’s delicate.
Still, Mic continues. His arm rests just below Shouta’s breasts, almost propping them up. Shouta had underestimated how snug it’d be, to have that extra support. Mic’s chest presses up against Shouta’s upper back, feeling his flat stomach rise and fall with every breath he takes. He’s so undeniably warm and the touch has Shouta melting away.
He wants more. He always wants more. He’s greedy and he knows he is, the self awareness only drives him crazier. He knows this is a bad idea and yet he’s still inching towards the ledge, unprepared to dive right in. He doesn’t know why he does this to himself, but he knows he wants more until he can’t stand it.
But then Mic buries his nose in Shouta’s hair and Shouta has to swallow the indecent noise that he suffocates just in time for Mic to mumble, “smells good.”
Shouta tries his best to steady his breathing. “Everyone uses the same shampoo. It’d be pointless to buy anything else unless they need the accommodation.”
“You smell different,” Mic mumbles again, this time experimentally pressing his pelvis against the curve of Shouta’s ass. He can’t control the hitch in his breath and the soft moan, face burning up with desire and humiliation. “Good type of different. Fuck, Eraser, thank you.”
“For-for what?”
“For being so nice to me,” Mic says, then squeezes his arm a little tighter around Shouta to keep him firmly in place.
Safe. He feels safe. He shouldn’t feel safe when he can take care of himself, and yet Mic is squeezing him gently, whispering all these nice things into his ear, taking care of him.
He’s a man. He can do it himself. But the what-if scenarios that once plagued Shouta’s mind when he was smoking comes back, hard hitting and worse. What if he lets Mic touch him again? He rubs his thighs together subtly as the slick of his wetness paints his inner thighs, unpleasant as that may sound. Mic squeezing him only turns him into yet another waterfall. God, he needs to learn how to control himself.
“You deserve it,” Shouta murmurs. Whatever tiredness that could’ve helped him get some rest has been discarded alongside old cigarettes. He’s wide awake, skin hot, and the urge to come all over the mattress. But he can’t. He can wait ‘til morning.
Grip tightens and Mic presses his pelvis on Shouta’s ass again, getting a hiss out of him. Hot breath tickles Shouta’s ear.
“Fuck,” Mic grunts, half annoyed, uncomfortable and yet so undeniably hot.
Blood rushes to Shouta’s ears but this is a step in the right direction towards getting what he wants. He didn’t expect it to be given to him like this, but it’s happening and his heart is soaring through the air like a damn gravity quirk took hold. Mic’s large hand roams further down Shouta’s body, resting at his tummy, covered by the fabric of his shirt, and he clutches fat gathering at his waistline, giving it a reassuring squeeze. Shouta squirms and pushes himself up against Mic’s erection for a third time, ripping something of a half grunt and half moan out of him.
“Shit, Eraser,” Mic huffs, releasing Shouta’s tummy to grab at his love handles, thick with fat. No matter how hard he tries, Shouta can’t help the hushed murmur that leaves him, pleased with how big the hands sitting on his waist are. “Your body is stunning.”
A lump starts to form in Shouta’s windpipe. “Thank you,” he says quietly, because what else is he really supposed to say in this situation? He feels like his brain is about to start melting out of his ears and mess up the bedding. He shouldn’t want this and yet he does, and it seems like Mic wants it as badly as Shouta does. “I, uh. Mic?”
“Yeah?”
“Can you, um. Can you touch me?” he squeaks, face burning up.
“I’ll do whatever you want me to do,” Mic says, resting his nose back in Shouta’s hair to take him in.
He slips his hands under his shirt, the skin-to-skin contact burning at the touch. His palm rests patiently over Shouta’s right areola and the moan that leaves him when the hand presses down and cups his breast is nothing short of shameful. His stomach burns again and the erection serves as a good distraction when Mic starts to roll the bud between his fingers, periodically switching between groping his whole tit and fiddling with the nipple.
Shouta tries again, jerking his ass against Mic’s erection. He begins to do it in intervals; one hand enveloping his breast while he’s trying to coax out more mewls out of Mic, all breathy and quiet in pitch, vibrating against Shouta’s skull.
“Pretty, pretty boy,” Mic gasps softly, then reaches the same arm over to Shouta’s left tit. It’s an awkward position but that worry quickly fades away when Shouta bites his lower lip to stifle a moan as two fingers prods at his neglected nipple. “Making so many pretty sounds for me.”
“Y-you think?” Shouta groans low. He pushes down on Mic’s restrained cock another time, then another, and Mic grunts in response.
“I know,” Mic murmurs. “Are you tired?”
Shouta sighs blissfully. “No. Are you?”
“Not at all,” Mic replies. Shouta can barely hear him over the buzzing of his own lust. “Wanna eat you out again.”
Shouta shudders at the thought. Having Mic’s tongue inside of him again is something he could only dream of. “I'm loud and it's too messy, I don’t wanna get up.”
“Mm, can I try something, then? Tell me to stop if you don’t like it.”
“...Okay.”
The hand previously fondling Shouta’s breast trails back down to his stomach, giving it a little squeeze, running over stretch marks. Before Mic reaches down, past his waistband and into his sleep pants. A heavy puff of air leaves his lips as he grinds back down on Mic’s cock in response.
“Fuck, Eraser,” Mic lifts himself up to free his other arm that was pinned underneath him and pulls the sleeping bag down to Shouta’s hips so his upper body is freely out there, gorgeous belly rolls obscured by only a thin shirt. Mic kicks the bag lower to his knees when he realizes that the fabric bunching together is getting in the way of Shouta’s semi-consistent grinding. He tucks the strands of hair that obscure Shouta’s neck for more space, then secures his lips around the exposed neck in front of him, sending another wave of pleasure throughout his body. Facial hair tickles Shouta's flesh. “I wanna hear you.”
“Don’t - ah - wanna alert anyone.” Shouta chews on his bottom lip. “Gotta be quiet.”
Mic hums again, deciding not to push, and brushes a finger up Shouta’s folds. His hand is calculated and steady, careful not to dip his fingers in. He slicks his fingers up with the wetness between Shouta’s thighs and raises an eyebrow. “You’re not wearing underwear?”
“Forgot to do laundry.” More like he didn’t want to do laundry.
“Oh,” Mic grins and Shouta rolls his eyes again at the playfulness in his voice. “That’s hot, don’t you think?”
“More like uncomfortable,” Shouta murmurs, heat creeping down the back of his neck. “I wasn’t exactly thinking our night would be spent doing… this. I would’ve prepped better.”
“You don’t have to prepare for anything.” Mic murmurs, sucking into Shouta’s skin. It gets a whine out of him and he squirms slightly. “I’ll do it all for you, I just want you to sit back and relax.” Humid breath hits his bare neck.
The idea of not being in control causes the anxiety in Shouta’s stomach curl deeper. His hands shake as an uncontained moan leaves him when Mic sinks his teeth, sucking another mark that’ll hopefully bruise bright purple against sun-kissed skin tomorrow morning.
“Good boy,” Mic murmurs, then a finger slips inside of Shouta. He uses the arousal from his cunt and drags it upwards, against his clit to moisten the area. His finger brushes against the bundle of sensitive nerves and Shouta jerks back against Mic’s erection, pressing the side of his face into the pillow with a sharp gasp.
“Fuck, Mic,” groans Shouta, squeezing his eyes shut. His limbs feel floaty. “Feels good.”
Mic hums something and slides his finger up and down. The wetness helps his fingers move smoothly but he’s deliberately slow with it, waiting a second before his finger barely strokes over Shouta’s hard clit. Shouta is a mess of quiet sounds and heavy panting, squirming in place. He jerks his hips forward, chasing Mic’s fingers, but whimpers when Mic pulls out and rests his palm over his cunt.
“I’m not going to continue if you don’t sit still,” Mic says softly. There’s an edge in his tone. It makes Shouta shudder. “You wanna come, right?”
“Mhm,” Shouta gives a subtle nod, almost unnoticeable, trembling.
“Then sit still and let me continue,” another harsher kiss, teeth grazing against skin, is pressed against a growing bruise on his neck. The pain mixed with the pleasure is enough to have him moan aloud. “Understood?”
Shouta whimpers again. “Y-yes,” he says softly, then settles his weight against Mic’s hip to make sure he doesn’t move anymore than he already has.
“This okay for you?” Mic asks. That edge in his voice has disappeared and what replaces it is gentle concern. “Are you okay with the dirty talk?”
“Yeah, fine,” grunts Shouta, a little frustrated at the finger resting against his slippery lips. He just needs Mic’s fingers inside of him again, needs to come all over his hand, needs him to suck more marks into his skin until he’s covered in bruises. He needs all of it.
“Perfect,” Mic mumbles, then presses another kiss on Shouta’s neck carefully, like it means something more than a simple kiss. “Tell me if I make you uncomfortable.”
“I-I will,” Shouta sighs, and settles into the weight of Mic’s broad chest adjacent to his back. He stares at the opposite wall, door cross from the bed, and expects Mic to continue.
But his hands only rub against his folds, wicking the hairs out of the way. Like he’s waiting for a cue to get started. Shouta doesn’t mind being that cue.
“Fuck, Mic, get on with it,” Shouta rasps, annoyed.
Mic hums in response. “Patience.”
Shouta huffs, and after another few seconds, a lightbulb goes off in his head. He wriggles his hips against Mic’s waist with a smug little grin on his face.
“Fuck, Eraser,” Mic groans when his constricted cock rubs over Shouta’s ass. He snaps his hips back into him, coaxing another satisfied sound and Shouta moans in response to the sudden pressure. Even if it’s not pleasurable, it’s enough to have his gears rolling.
Suddenly, a gasp, almost like a sob, practically shreds out of Shouta’s throat as Mic pulls his hand out of Shouta’s pants and puts a firm hand on his waist. He holds him still, strained cock against the beautiful curve of his ass. “What did I say?”
Shouta presses his lips together to stop himself from replying. Mic’s hand on his waist tightens slightly, enough to bruise. “What did I say?” he growls.
“S-stay still,” Shouta mumbles out. His nerves are fried and he’s visibly shaking. He wants nothing more than to just come, for fucks sake, but Mic isn’t giving him that luxury he’s chasing so badly. “Please, Mic.”
“What are you begging for?”
“For you to touch me.” The words are strung together, coming out in one short breath.
“Where?”
“Clit,” Shouta replies aimlessly. The embarrassment burns his face but he’s too far gone to care about that right now. “Please, Mic. I’ll sit still.”
“Promise?”
Fuck. “Promise,” he vows, and before Shouta has the chance to retract his words and save himself from whatever grave he’s dug for himself, Mic’s hand is back in Shouta’s pants and his fingers dip back into him.
“Oh, fuck–!” Shouta chokes out, gripping the bedsheets. The fingers dragging on his clit are unrelenting, sliding up and down at such a rapid pace that Shouta’s trying hard to keep himself lucid enough to keep still on Mic. He has to listen, and fuck all if he doesn’t know why he’s listening to someone such as Present-Fucking-Mic, but he doesn’t care enough. Not right now, at least. Future him can deal with the consequences when the unfortunate realization dawns on him that he’s a submissive bottom. “Fuck, yeah, yes- Hah, oh, God, thank you-”
More kisses pepper up his shoulder to his neck. “Perfect,” he can hear Mic mumble into his skin.
The praise rushes straight to the hot coiling in Shouta’s stomach. He’s practically yelling into the mattress beneath him when Mic adds another finger and angles his hand upwards, all three fitting fingers pressing directly on Shouta’s sensitive clit.
“Can-can I move? Please?” Shouta groans, tears already stinging in his eyes.
“Of course you can,” Mic murmurs, pressing another kiss, this time at the tip of Shouta’s spine, right under the nape of his neck. It causes a full body shudder. “Thank you for asking, my beautiful boy.”
Shouta hates petnames, and yet he’s babbling like he’s lost his own damn mind. His hips thrust into the fingers for more. “Again-”
If Mic tells him he’s a beautiful boy, he's more than inclined to believe it. Mic raises an eyebrow and his fingers slightly slow down. Shouta attempts to jut up to chase more pleasure. “Again?” he repeats, like he didn’t hear it the first time. Shouta knows damn well he heard him, but the racing thoughts overwhelm the humility he's supposed to feel.
“Call me beautiful again,” Shouta sobs into his pillow, hot tears spilling down his cheeks and onto the mattress. “Please, Mic, please, please-”
The lips against his shoulder curve upwards into a cunning smile. “You like it when I compliment you?”
“Please,” Shouta gasps, bucking into Mic’s fingers, which have slowed their pace considerably. He tries to grind against them but he can only watch sparks fly when they barely brush against Shouta’s clit. Little ‘hng’ and ‘ah’ sounds leave him as he huffs, already out of breath. “Please, Mic, lemme finish-”
“So wet and pretty, all for me.” Mic nibbles on a piece of skin that’s already been marked. “Oh, gorgeous boy, you’re so needy.”
He drags his fingers again, slow, a few strokes, and then they pick up in speed, relentlessly fast. Shouta doesn’t have time to process any of it before he’s pressing his face into the pillow again, halting his grind so Mic can do all of the work. His hands scramble for the bedsheets under him as his stomach clenches.
Shouta presses his thighs together while drool slips past his chin, getting caught in his little scruff and onto the pillow. Mic helps him ride out his orgasm, gently kissing up and down his shoulder as he continues a gentle circular motion over Shouta’s clit, then his hand stills, patiently sitting against the oversensitive bundle of nerves with no other movement.
They sit like that in the silence for a moment. Just as Shouta inhales to expel any dizziness from his previous orgasm, he gasps loudly when Mic’s fingers start to move again.
“Mic–!” He chokes out, involuntarily flipping over to lay down on his back as he presses the back of his head into the mattress. Mic rushes to sit up and Shouta looks up at him through lidded eyes. His nerves are on cloud fucking nine as he writhes by jerking his hips up and down. The push and the pull is so much - he isn’t sure if he’s going to be able to orgasm at this rate, but he wants to so badly.
“I wanna see you come this time,” Mic whispers, fingers moving and moving and moving, and they don’t plan on stopping anytime soon. He swipes his finger down into his cunt to gather more fluid and smears it over his clit.
“Hah! Please, hh- fuckkk–” he draws out that last curse as more tears sting in his eyes.
Suddenly, a hand clasps over his mouth. A hand that doesn’t belong to him.
“Quiet. You don’t want to alert anyone,” Mic warns. His palm is firmly planted over Shouta’s mouth with no signs of releasing him. He focuses on breathing through his nose instead, like how he would when he deepthroats.
Oh, fuck, the idea of deepthroating Mic sounds so good. Letting him finish into Shouta’s mouth, down his esophagus-
Shouta cries out at the mental image and Mic’s grip tightens over his mouth, causing him to whimper in a weird mix between pleasure and pain. “If you keep being loud, I’m not gonna let you finish.”
The simple concept of not being allowed to finish until Mic says so makes Shouta’s tummy clench harder. He mumbles something and Mic gives him a knowing look, then pulls his hand away from Shouta’s mouth. The warmth over his mouth disappears just as it had appeared.
“I’ll be quiet,” Shouta rasps, jutting hips into the touch. “I’ll be good, I’m sorry–”
Mic wipes a tear away with his thumb. “There you go, pretty boy. Thank you.”
The barrage continues until the coiling in Shouta’s stomach rumbles deep, hotter and longer drawn out than his previous orgasm. Mic puts his hand over Shouta’s mouth once more as he finishes, moaning high and thin with his fingers this close to tearing the bedsheets. He snaps his legs shut while his second orgasm overwhelms him. And because it's Mic, he slows his pace almost painfully so as Shouta writhes. The heat dissipates into something cold and distant by the time he’s somewhat back inside of his own body.
Sweat cools against his skin and an awful squelch sound burns Shouta’s face bright red as Mic pulls out and wipes his hand down on his own shirt. He leans over to press a kiss against the tip of Shouta’s nose. “Was that too much? Are you okay?”
Shouta stares, half lucid, then he raises his shoulders up to his ears and his hands, previously entangled in the sheets, are now covering his face.
“Whoa, whoa, what’s up?” Mic asks, concern racing through his chest. His hands stay propping him up but he leans backwards to give Shouta space. “Too much?”
“No, I–” Shouta sighs, staring at Mic through a gap in his fingers. “That was embarrassing.”
“What?” Mic can’t help but laugh at the absurdity. “You weren’t embarrassing at all.”
“I-I told you to call me beautiful,” Shouta's voice cracks. “That’s pretty damn embarrassing.”
“And guess what?” Mic grins. His smile reaches his eyes. “You are.”
Through the moonlight that barely illuminates the room, Shouta burns redder. Mic thinks it’s the cutest thing.
“Do you want anything? I’ll get you a new pair of pants and some water,” offers Mic with a smile enough to pierce through Shouta’s chest like an assassin’s arrow. He lowers his arms and lets his hands sit idly on his tummy.
“Tired,” Shouta replies simply. Finally. “Wanna sleep.”
Mic flops down against the bed with a sigh. He makes a conscious attempt not to press into Shouta. Not yet, at least. “You should at least use the bathroom.”
“Don’t wanna.”
“Eraser,” Mic chuckles. “The bed will still be here when you get back.”
Silence. Then, “I hate when you’re right.” He shimmies out of his sleeping bag and recoils at the feeling of his own wetness dripping down his thighs. His thighs tremble while he snatches the first pair of pants in his hamper and tiptoes across the room and towards the door. Boxer briefs are overrated anyway.
When Shouta gets back, Mic is already curled into bed with his blanket draped over him. It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness of the room again, compared to the bright white light hanging over the bathroom. Without wasting much time and exhaustion clinging to his bones, Shouta climbs back onto the bed and wiggles back into his sleeping bag but allows his arms to hang free.
Mic hooks an arm around him and sighs contently, letting his eyes shut. “You were so good. Don’t be embarrassed about liking specific things in bed. The fun part is learning about what the other person likes, don't you think?”
Shouta flushes. “Watch your mouth.”
“Mm, I will,” Mic yawns as he hides his face into the crook of Shouta’s neck, hot breath hitting his collarbone. Shouta’s too tired to properly freak out over it (like he regularly does, and he doesn’t like the idea that this is becoming a regular thing), but his heart still rams towards his ribcage like a hammer to a nail. “This okay?”
Shouta relaxes into the warmth of Mic’s body heat. “Yeah, fine.”
“Okay, tell me if you want me to move.”
“Don’t uh, you want to get off?”
Mic thinks for a moment. “No, it’s okay.”
“Mic, you just–”
“It’s okay, Eraser, don’t worry about me. I wanna focus on you.”
“It’s unfair,” huffs Shouta.
“Don’t worry about me.”
“...Okay.
Before Shouta knows it, Mic’s breathing evens out and he’s slump against Shouta, softly snoring. It takes the smaller man a few more minutes before he’s also out like a light. He sleeps soundly through the rest of the night.
When Shouta wakes up, the bed has one lesser body in it. The bags under his eyes are worse, unsurprisingly, but he feels better. More refreshed. It could be Mic’s doing but Shouta decides to ignore that little fact.
Shouta prepares for his day by taking a quick shower and wrapping his capture weapon around his neck, then heads to the bar to speak to Kurogiri and Shigaraki about upcoming missions and plans. The door closes behind him and he stops when his eyes land on Present Mic, sitting at a table, chatting up a storm with Twice. He’s in his gear with his hair slicked up like that stupid looking bird and his large speaker wrapped around his neck and that black leather jacket that must be burning him alive in the summer.
Green eyes under orange lenses meet Shouta’s and there’s something colder. It’s so different from the carefulness he showed Shouta last night. Then he returns to his conversation.
Throughout the day, not once does he try to greet Shouta. Not one does he spare another glance at him, and not once does he say a single thing to him.
Shouta finds himself itching for a cigarette again.