Chapter Text
The infirmary smells like antiseptic and old paper, the late-afternoon sun slanting through half-closed blinds and striping the floor in gold. Recovery Girl’s office door is shut and locked; she’s across campus dealing with a third-year who tried to “test the limits” of Cementoss’s quirk and is now regretting several life choices. That leaves the entire wing quiet except for the low hum of the ancient air-conditioner and the soft rustle of Akeru’s wings every time he shifts his weight.
Denki is face-down on the cot, gym shirt rucked up to his ribs, track pants pushed down just far enough to expose the back of his left thigh. There’s a livid purple bruise blooming high on the hamstring and a long, angry pull that makes him hiss every time he tries to flex. Aizawa had sent him here with a clipped “Kaminari, sit the rest of training out before you tear something permanently,” and Denki had limped in expecting an ice pack and a lecture.
Instead he got Akeru.
His brother had taken one look at him, sighed through his nose, and said, “Pants down, stomach on the cot. Let me see how bad you fucked it this time.”
Denki had obeyed without thinking. He always does, with Akeru.
Now Akeru is kneeling on a rolling stool beside the cot, sleeves rolled to the elbow, wings folded tight against his back so they don’t knock over trays of tongue depressors. His hands are warm, slick with arnica gel, and impossibly careful as he works the knot out of Denki’s hamstring with slow, rolling pressure. His quirk is on it’s lowest setting; invisible, just a faint prickle against Denki’s skin that keeps swelling down and muscle fibers from locking up. Every press of thumbs is clinical, professional, gentle.
Too gentle.
Denki’s face is mashed into the pillow, arms folded under his cheek, and he is dying.
He can feel the heat of Akeru’s palms sliding higher, closer to the crease where thigh meets ass, and every single nerve is screaming. His cock is trapped against the thin padding of the cot, half-hard the second Akeru’s fingers had brushed bare skin and now fully, achingly hard. He is leaking into his boxer-briefs, a slow, humiliating drip he prays the fabric will contain. The room smells like citrus gel and the faint ozone that always clings to Akeru’s feathers when he’s focused, and underneath that is Denki himself: sharp, desperate arousal that no amount of teenage willpower can hide from avian senses.
Akeru has to smell it. Has to.
But Akeru just keeps talking, low and calm, like nothing is wrong.
“—so I told Bakugou if he keeps landing on his tailbone like that he’s going to compress a disc before he’s seventeen, and of course he told me to fuck off. Kid’s got the self-preservation instincts of a drunk raccoon.” Akeru’s thumb digs into a particularly tight knot and Denki can’t quite swallow the whimper that punches out of him. Akeru’s hands still for half a heartbeat, then resume, slower. “Easy. Breathe through it. You’re tighter than I thought; when did this start hurting?”
“Uh. . . second round of spars?” Denki’s voice cracks like he’s thirteen again. He clears his throat, mortified. “Kirishima got a lucky hit.”
“Mm. Red Riot’s getting faster.” Akeru’s palms glide down again, long strokes from mid-thigh to knee, field flickering faintly gold where it kisses Denki’s skin. “Hold still, I’m gonna work the adductors now.”
Denki’s brain blue-screens.
Akeru shifts one hand to the inside of Denki’s thigh, fingers spreading, pressing deep, and Denki has to bite the pillow to keep from moaning outright. The heel of Akeru’s hand is maybe three inches from Denki’s balls and the angle is obscene and perfect and Denki is going to die, he is actually going to die here on this cot with his brother’s hands on him and his dick leaking like a broken faucet.
He tries to think unsexy thoughts. Math homework. Aizawa’s disappointed face. The time Sero taped him to the ceiling.
Nothing works.
Akeru’s voice stays level, conversational, infuriatingly kind. “Almost done. You’re doing good, Denks. Just relax into it.”
Relax. Right.
Denki’s entire body is a live wire. His hips want to rock forward, chase friction against the cot, but he locks every muscle and prays Akeru attributes the tremor to pain. The field is warm, soothing, and it feels like a caress. Every pulse of it sinks into his skin and pools low in his gut and Denki has never been more aware that his brother could ground him out completely if he wanted to, could drink every frantic volt straight out of Denki’s body and leave him boneless and begging.
Akeru’s wings twitch once, a tiny betraying flutter, but he doesn’t let them flare, and his hands never falter. He is pretending so hard it hurts them both.
“There,” Akeru says at last, voice soft. He smooths one last pass over the bruise, field fading to nothing, and pulls Denki’s track pants back up with careful fingers that never quite touch skin again. “Ice it tonight, stretch tomorrow morning. If it’s still tight after forty-eight hours come find me, okay?”
Denki nods into the pillow, terrified to speak. His heart is hammering so loud he’s sure Akeru can hear it.
Akeru stands, rolling the stool back, wings folding tight again like he’s locking them down by force. He doesn’t look at Denki’s face. “You good to walk back to the dorms?”
“Y-yeah. Totally. Thanks, nii-san.”
Akeru’s smile is small, tired, fond. “Anytime.”
He turns to wash his hands at the sink, giving Denki his back, wings a dark silhouette against the window.
Denki sits up slowly, thighs trembling, cock still painfully hard against his zipper. He grabs his bag to hide the wet spot on the front of his pants and limps toward the door on legs that feel like jelly.
He doesn’t see the way Akeru’s knuckles go white around the edge of the counter, or the way his reflection in the dark window shows gold eyes fixed on the floor, pupils blown wide.
He doesn’t hear the soft, almost soundless exhale that shakes out of Akeru’s chest the second the door clicks shut.
⟡───────✦───────⟡
The dorm room is quiet except for the soft rustle of Tenya turning a page he isn’t actually reading and the low hum of Denki’s phone speaker playing some forgotten lo-fi track. The lights are dimmed to “Iida-approved study ambiance,” which is really just the desk lamp and the fairy lights Sero helped Denki string up last month. The door is locked. It always is when they’re both in here past ten.
They started this whole thing by accident, of course.
Denki had padded into the communal showers at two-thirty in the morning because insomnia is a bitch, only to find Iida — perfect, pristine, rule-following Iida — leaning against the tile with one hand braced on the wall and the other wrapped around his own cock, eyes squeezed shut, biting his lip so hard it was white. Denki’s brain had short-circuited. Instead of backing out quietly like a normal person, he’d blurted, “Can I suck you off?” and then promptly died inside. Iida had opened his eyes, flushed crimson from collarbones to hairline, and whispered a stunned, breathless “Yes.”
They’ve been a mess of sneaking around and “just this once” ever since.
Right now Tenya is at the desk in his stupidly neat pajamas, pretending to review tomorrow’s English notes. Denki is sprawled on his stomach across the bed in nothing but an oversized Shiketsu hoodie (Akeru’s old one, soft and faded and still smelling faintly of feathers and ozone no matter how many times he washes it) and a pair of loose grey sweats. One foot kicks idly in the air while he scrolls.
Unfunny meme.
Post making fun of entitled customers.
Cute girl with a tongue piercing.
Ad for protein powder.
A school meme that he fires it off to Tenya just to watch him pick up his phone and snort softly.
Three random illustrations that make him pause, thumb hovering, before he flicks to his bookmarks like muscle memory.
Bookmarks. The good stuff.
He’s already half-hard from boredom and proximity and the way Tenya’s shoulders look under that thin cotton shirt. The first video loads: two guys in a locker room, one pressing the other against the benches, low murmured praise. Denki’s hand slips under the waistband of his sweats without conscious thought, palming himself through his boxers. He knows Tenya won’t mind. Tenya never minds. Sometimes Tenya even sets his phone down, crosses the room in three precise strides, and replaces Denki’s hand with his own, slow and thorough like he’s defusing a bomb.
Tonight, though, the video loses its grip fast. Denki’s mind drifts the way it always does once the initial heat fades.
He thinks about the infirmary cot.
About warm, calloused palms sliding up the back of his thigh, clinical and gentle and maddening.
About the way Akeru’s wings had trembled, just once, like they wanted to flare and he wouldn’t let them.
About the way Akeru’s voice had stayed perfectly steady while Denki leaked into his own underwear like a faucet.
Fuck.
His breath stutters. His hand freezes. The whispered “shit” slips out before he can stop it.
Tenya’s head turns instantly. He’s scarily good at noticing changes in breathing patterns. The desk chair rolls back an inch. “Denki?”
Denki’s face is suddenly burning. He shoves his phone under the pillow like that’ll erase the last thirty seconds of his life. “Nothing. M’fine.”
Tenya closes his notebook with deliberate care. He knows that tone. He’s heard it before when Denki accidentally called him “Sensei” mid-blowjob, or the night Denki had whimpered “Daddy” and then tried to evaporate. Tenya had simply adjusted, filed it away, and used it mercilessly the next time Denki needed to be taken apart.
He stands, walks over, and sits on the edge of the bed. One large hand settles on the back of Denki’s calf — gentle, grounding. “Talk to me,” he says, soft, coaxing. When Denki stays buried in the pillow, Tenya’s voice drops into the low, calm register that makes Denki’s spine melt. “Denki. Look at me.”
Denki peeks one eye out. His face is scarlet.
Tenya waits. He’s patient the way mountains are patient.
“It’s stupid,” Denki mumbles into the mattress. “And gross. And you’re gonna think I’m fucked up.”
“I have literally pissed on you because you begged me to while you cried and called me ‘Iida-senpai,’” Tenya says, perfectly deadpan. “Try me.”
Denki wheezes out something between a laugh and a sob. He rolls onto his side, curling up small, knees to chest. “It’s. . . it’s my brother. Akeru. Earlier, in the infirmary, he was- he was massaging my thigh after training and I-” He gestures vaguely at his crotch, mortified. “I got hard. Like, really hard. And I think he knew. And I can’t stop thinking about it and I feel like a fucking freak.”
Tenya is quiet for a long moment. Not judging, Denki can tell the difference now, just processing. Eventually he exhales through his nose and brushes a thumb over Denki’s ankle, steady and warm.
“I have an older brother,” he says carefully. “Tensei. When I was fifteen I walked in on him changing after a patrol and had a panic attack because I got hard. It happens. Intrusive thoughts don’t mean you’re going to act on them. They’re just. . . thoughts.”
Denki peeks up at him, eyes glassy. “Yeah, but yours didn’t smell it on you with bird nostrils.”
Tenya huffs something that might be a laugh. “No. But I did have to sit through family dinner trying not to look at his forearms for forty-five minutes.”
Denki snorts wetly.
Tenya leans in, voice dropping again, softer this time. “Do you want it to stay a thought? Or do you need it. . . handled?”
Denki’s breath catches.
Tenya’s hand slides up to rest on Denki’s knee, thumb stroking the bare skin just under the hem of the hoodie. “We’ve played ‘Daddy.’ We’ve played ‘Sensei.’ We’ve played ‘strict upperclassman who caught you breaking curfew.’” His fingers tighten, just enough to feel possessive. “I can be Nii-san, if that’s what you need tonight. No judgment. Just us.”
Denki stares at him, wide-eyed, pupils blown.
Tenya waits, patient and steady, the way he always is when Denki’s brain is a minefield.
Denki swallows hard. “. . .Yeah,” he whispers, small and shaky. “Please.”
Tenya’s smile is small, fond, and just a little bit wicked. “Then roll over, Denki,” he murmurs, voice pitched low and warm and impossibly gentle. “Let Nii-san take care of you.”
Denki rolls over slowly, face still flaming, hoodie riding up to expose a strip of stomach as he settles onto his back. The mattress dips under Tenya’s weight when he climbs up properly, knees bracketing Denki’s hips without actually sitting on him yet. Tenya’s hands settle on either side of Denki’s head, caging him in that calm, deliberate way that always makes Denki’s brain go fuzzy at the edges.
“Color?” Tenya asks first, soft but firm. Their rule.
“Green,” Denki whispers. “Just. . . really embarrassed.”
“That’s okay.” Tenya brushes a thumb over Denki’s cheekbone. “We’ll go slow. I want you to tell me exactly what you were picturing in the infirmary. Not the guilty parts. The parts that made you hard. Can you do that for me?”
Denki’s breath shakes out of him. He nods, small.
“It was. . . the way he kept pretending he didn’t notice,” he starts, voice barely above a whisper. “Like he knew I was leaking all over myself and he just. . . kept talking about Bakugou and muscle knots and acting like my thigh was the only thing in the room. His hands were so warm and careful and he was being so gentle it hurt, like he was scared he’d break me if he pressed too hard. And his wings kept twitching like he wanted to flare them but he wouldn’t let himself. I just. . . I wanted him to stop pretending. Wanted him to push my legs apart and put his mouth on me and tell me it was okay that I was hard for him.”
Tenya listens without moving, eyes steady behind his glasses. When Denki trails off, cheeks scarlet, Tenya leans down and kisses his forehead, slow and deliberate. “Thank you,” he murmurs. “That’s perfect.”
Then he sits back on his heels, hands sliding down to Denki’s knees. He spreads them gently, just enough that Denki’s thighs fall open, and settles between them like he belongs there. “Eyes on me, Denki.”
Denki’s gaze snaps to Tenya’s face.
Tenya’s voice drops into that low, steady register he uses when he’s in complete control (calm, warm, impossible to disobey). “Nii-san’s got you,” he says, soft but certain. “You got all worked up in training again, didn’t you? Poor thing. Let me see how bad it is.”
Denki’s breath catches hard enough to hurt.
Tenya’s palms glide up the outside of Denki’s thighs, slow, clinical at first, thumbs pressing into the muscle exactly the way Akeru had earlier that day. He watches Denki’s face the entire time, cataloguing every twitch, every hitch of breath.
“Here?” he asks, pressing into the bruise high on the left hamstring. Denki whines and nods. “Thought so. You’ve been pushing too hard. You have to let Nii-san take care of you when you’re hurt, understand?”
“Y-yeah,” Denki manages.
Tenya leans down, mouth brushing the inside of Denki’s knee — soft, open-mouthed kisses that make Denki’s toes curl. He works his way up, slow and deliberate, lips dragging over sensitive skin, tongue flicking out to taste faint salt. Every inch he climbs, he murmurs praise and gentle scolding in that same steady tone. “Such a good boy, holding still for me. . . You should’ve come straight to Nii-san after training instead of trying to hide it. . . Look at you, already dripping through your boxers. Did you really think I wouldn’t notice?”
Denki’s hands fist in the sheets. His hips try to rock up and Tenya pins them with one broad palm flat on his lower stomach, unyielding.
“Stay still,” he says, mild but firm. “Let me work.”
He mouths over the front of Denki’s sweats first, hot breath soaking through thin cotton, lips tracing the obvious bulge of Denki’s cock. Denki keens, high and broken, back arching off the bed.
Tenya pulls back just enough to tug the waistband down, slow and careful, freeing Denki’s cock to slap against his stomach. The boxers follow, pushed down to mid-thigh, trapping Denki’s legs open.
Tenya makes a soft, sympathetic noise (exactly the same one Akeru makes when he finds a particularly bad bruise) and leans in again.
The first swipe of his tongue is broad and wet, base to tip, and Denki sobs.
“Shh,” Tenya soothes, lips brushing the head. “I know it’s sensitive. Just relax. I’ve got you.”
He takes Denki into his mouth slow and steady, one hand wrapped around the base, the other stroking up and down the thigh he’d massaged earlier in gentle, clinical circles that make Denki shake apart. Every time Denki’s hips jerk, Tenya hums around him, the vibration going straight to Denki’s spine, and presses him back down with that immovable palm.
It’s perfect. It’s awful. It’s exactly what Denki begged for without words.
Tenya keeps it slow, thorough, worshipful, pulling off every few strokes to mouth at Denki’s balls, to lick a stripe up the underside, to murmur soft praise against wet skin. “You’re doing so well. . . Taste so good for me. . . That’s it, let Nii-san take care of everything. . .”
Denki’s hands end up in Tenya’s hair without permission, fingers tangling, and Tenya just hums approvingly and takes him deeper.
He doesn’t let Denki come until he’s a shaking, sobbing mess — until the guilt has been soaked out of him one slow lick at a time and replaced with nothing but warm, syrupy pleasure and the steady certainty of Tenya’s voice telling him he’s good, he’s safe, he’s allowed to want this.
When Denki finally spills down Tenya’s throat with a broken cry of “Nii-san-”, Tenya swallows every drop, gentler than mercy, and crawls up the bed to wrap him up tight.
Denki clings, trembling through the aftershocks, face buried in Tenya’s neck.
Tenya strokes his back in slow, even lines. “You’re okay,” he whispers. “I’ve got you. Always.”