Work Text:
There are only a few things Tomura can say he actually likes.
They’re in a very specific order, unlike the list of things he dislikes, which just kind of exist as a cloud of annoying or gross or irritating and hard to interact with. He hates loud people, and doing the dishes, and cleaning up after his shithead roommate when he gets cigarette ashes on the carpet, and wiping down the couch after the same shithead roommate lays around in his boots, and he hates having to live with said shithead roommate because his daddy is paying him the guilt money that supports his disgusting habits in the first place.
“I can tell you’re thinking about me,” Dabi says, hunched over on the ground. He reaches out and picks up a bag of chips off of the convenience store shelf, before giving it a cursory shake and setting it right back. “Anyone within a sixty-mile radius can feel you brooding right now, y’know.”
“It’s because you’re annoying,” Tomura huffs, nose buried in his jacket. It’s not even that cold in the store, he’s just trying to be difficult, even though Dabi keeps that insufferable little grin on his face like all is right with the world.
“Why don’t you go look at some magazines or something?” Dabi suggests, eyebrows raising when he shakes another bag of chips and apparently realizes there’s something interesting in that one. “You’re still stalking that little model you like, right?”
“It’s not stalking,” Tomura spits, fists clenching in his pockets. “And he’s not a model either. He’s a photographer. An artist.”
Dabi waves the bag of chips in the direction of the magazine stand pushed against the back wall with a snicker. “Whatever, shortcake. I’ve got post notifications on for that little account you have to edit photos of the two of you together. Loving the bathroom selfie, personally.”
“Shut up,” Tomura huffs, shuffling off towards the magazine stands anyway. “I keep blocking you and you keep making new accounts.” He growls when Dabi just waves, not looking away from the chips.
So maybe he is interested in seeing if the magazine stand has an issue from his favorite photographer on it, just because he knows he recently did a small photoshoot.
And, well, as much as he hates Dabi, he loves Eraserhead.
He’s a paragon of beauty, a bright spot in the dark sludge around celebrity culture. He’s held above it all, passionate and handsome and motivated less by his adoring fans than his overwhelming passion. Tomura hates public figures, but Eraserhead is different.
He finds the magazine he was looking for, a two-day-old issue with an innocuous cover, bearing the signature of the company Eraser works with when he’s modeling instead of behind the camera. UA magazines are trite and overrated, but they have Eraser in them, standing a few pages in, hair pulled back in a slick ponytail and legs wide. They always make Tomura grow warm in his oversized coat, mouth pressing into a tight, excited line. He’d be lying if he said the man’s attractiveness didn’t contribute to his hero worship.
He shoves the magazine under his arm with a huff and then pulls it out to make sure he didn’t wrinkle it, before cramming it back and heading back to where Dabi has somehow acquired an armful of bags of chips.
“Do I have to pay for that?” Tomura asks, with narrowed eyes.
Dabi’s face breaks into a smile, the tattoos on his face pulling across his cheeks. “Nah. Daddy’s guilt money.”
“Knock yourself out then,” Tomura huffs, pushing him towards the register.
“Do you have work today?” Dabi asks, smiling at the girl behind the register as he hands over the obscene amount of chips.
“Unfortunately,” Tomura grumbles, gripping the magazine under his arm tighter. He’d hoped Dabi hadn’t seen it, but based on the way he reaches over with a gimmie motion, he’s been caught out. At least he doesn’t have to pay for it now.
“I don’t get why you complain so much. It’s a fucking cat café. You sick of coming home smelling like kitty litter?”
The girl behind the counter giggles a little bit and Dabi’s smile takes on a gleam, his eyes dropping down to her chest. Tomura sticks a leg out and kicks him in the shin for the effort. “You sick of coming home smelling like a trash can, then?”
“Nah,” he says, reaching out to ruffle Tomura’s hair. “You probably are though.”
“Shut up,” Tomura snaps, batting his hands away from his hair. “I can’t fucking stand you.”
“Hey, watch your language in front of the lady,” Dabi sighs, turning to the cashier with a crooked smile. “Sorry about him, sweetheart.”
“It’s okay,” she says breathlessly, cheeks flushing as she goes back to bagging up everything. “Do you want me to put the magazine in with everything else?” she asks, holding it out to Dabi.
“That’s alright,” he says, reaching out to slide it out of her hands. He winks, and Tomura makes a gagging noise in the back of his throat. “He likes the easy access.”
The girl’s face turns even redder, and Tomura snatches the magazine out of Dabi’s hand with a growl, tucking it against his chest.
“You’re so annoying,” Tomura murmurs.
“Maybe you’re just easy to rile up, princess.”
--
Stalking. It’s not fucking stalking, alright? Tomura has stalked people before, and he knows this isn’t it. Dabi is just being a little shit, and it’s grating on his nerves more than it should because it’s about Eraserhead.
He locks his phone and glances around the café, leaning forward to rest his head on the counter as one of the Persians climbs onto the counter, her big fluffy face dropping as she stretches. He hisses at her quietly, just for something to do, and then smiles when her only response is to step forward and rub their cheeks together.
At least nobody is here to ostracize him right now, not with Magne in the backroom and the chairs scattered around empty of anything but the cats. He’s lucky his job is just standing around, making the occasional drink, and snapping at the handsy couples that come in and try to pick the cats up. It’s good money for his magazine habit, especially considering he buys both the spreads Eraserhead works in and on, just because he likes the quiet intimacy of it. It feels like getting to look through his eyes for a little while, seeing the world how he does.
And, of course, the peace doesn’t last. The bell above the door jingling as Tomura peels himself off of the counter with a sigh. “Welcome—” he starts, before freezing in place.
The man shrugging his coat off in the door is tall, but not excessively so, face half shadowed by his long hair, but Tomura can see the line of his nose, his cheekbones, the pale skin. The Persian jumps off of the cabinet and he doesn’t even notice.
Tomura has hallucinated a few times in his life—Dabi gets him fucked up sometimes, and a bad trip is a bad trip is a bad trip—but he’s never been surer that fucking Eraserhead is standing in the small cat café Tomura works in, looking half put together and even sexier for the effort.
Eraserhead—fucking Eraserhead, god, shit, what the hell—lifts an eyebrow at Tomura, and shifts his weight, a hand going into one of his pockets. Tomura has seen him standing like that a thousand times in the photos he’s poured over relentlessly, and he’s never been a religious man, but he’s this close to going to his knees in worship.
Eraser comes closer, a hand at the back of his neck and his eyes nowhere near Tomura’s face, and Tomura, in turn, can’t stop staring, watching the little imperfections that get blotted out in magazines show up for him to take in.There’s a faint scar on his cheek, and a distinctly bloodshot quality to his eyes that Tomura realizes he’s never seen because they probably get blotted out.. He looks like he hasn’t slept in a week. Tomura wants to sit on his face.
“Uh,” Eraser says, and Tomura jumps out of his skin, though the only indication he gives is a little twitch. “Can I register?”
Tomura is half a breath away from saying something damning like I think about you every night before I fall asleep or Can I have a little bit of your hair so I can start a collection, but what comes out instead is the thankfully typical, “Of course.” It’s a little breathy, a little star-struck, but he can’t really be blamed when Eraser puts a gigantic hand—and really, he could wrap his fingers around Tomura’s wrist easily, what the fuck—into his pocket to pull out his phone.
Eraserhead nods, and Tomura fucking shivers, just at the slight movement of his loose hair—it’s usually up when he’s doing photoshoots, so this really is natural, unfiltered Eraser—and leans over to the screen beside the coffee machine. “Your name?” Tomura grunts, still trying to keep a hold on his rapidly beating heart.
“Shota.”
Shota.
Tomura knows Eraserhead’s name, it would be hard to keep a secret when he’s a largely public personality, but to hear him say it, to have him introduce himself as Shota is… fuck.
Tomura nods, not trusting his voice, and watches as Eraser—Shota—moves inside, headed towards one of the big plush chairs in the center of the café. He’s so, so, close, Tomura could just go over and curl up in his lap like one of the cats.
He looks even better in person, facial hair scruffy and real, hair nearly covering his eyes. He’s just sitting on his phone, but one of the tabbies gets interested and wanders closer, and he lifts a hand to pet her without even looking up.
God. Tomura is getting hard.
He darts into the back room and runs directly into Magne, holding one of the bags of food for the cats.
“There you are,” she says, pulling the bag higher up on a hip. “Can you feed the cats—”
“How long until Toga is here?” he mumbles, staring over her shoulder instead of at her face. Shota is barely fifty feet away and Tomura’s wet dreams given form, and he wants to get back out there, put his head against his thigh, and be pet like one of the cats—
Magne’s eyebrows press together, her mouth setting firm. “Another hour or so? I’m not sure. Why—”
“I’m going to take a break soon,” he says and snatches the cat food out from under her arm. “Watch the store when I leave.”
“Okay?” she says, voice following Tomura as he pushes back into the main shop, the bag of cat food clutched against his chest, heavier than he thought it would be.
Some scared, irrational part of him makes him stop a second before he pushes back into the main café. What if he’d made it all up in some kind of stupor, and the second he goes back out Shota will have disappeared without warning? What if Tomura goes back out, and that once innocuous chair is empty, berefit, and he’s going to have to resign himself to the fact that he’s so touch starved and lonely that he’d conjured up the vision of the only person he wants to see right now?
The door swings open, and Tomura breathes a sigh of relief, watching Shota hold up one of the cat toys for a bright orange kitten to play with. The tabby from earlier is curled up in his lap now, too, purring happily. God, he has to be dreaming. His hand twitches for his phone.
With a too-stiff walk past where Shota is sitting, Tomura sets to filling the food bowls spread around the store. He stealthily peers through his bangs at the side of the man’s head, the curve of his cheeks and the dark sweep of his hair. He looks so relaxed, a cute little twitch to the corner of his mouth like he’s thinking about smiling. Photos of Eraserhead smiling are lacking—Tomura knows, because he’s looked—but usually he’s not concerned about that. He’s stoically handsome, but there’s something equally appealing in the relaxed way his mouth is set, the smile that seems to be reserved for rooms where cameras are sparse. Tomura thinks he’s beautiful.
He goes back to the counter grudgingly, hoping maybe Shota will come order a drink or something so that Tomura can talk to him…or just so he can look at him. Instead, he seems content to let the cats gather around him—they like him so much, Tomura is jealous—and go through his phone, and finally, mercifully, when one of their scraggly rescues with a missing eye rubs against his leg, letting loose a little smile.
Tomura can’t stop himself, he pulls out his phone and snaps a few photos from under the counter, and the angle probably shit but it’s worth it for even the idea that maybe he has something of Shota’s that no one else has. It makes his chest feel light.
Eraserhead stays for around an hour, petting cats and sitting on his phone, and Tomura pretends to be doing something behind the counter when he walks up again, hands back in his pocket.
“Leaving?” he murmurs, watching as Shota rubs at the back of his neck with a nod. Tomura rings him up for the time he spent there (and feels a little guilty for it, because if it was his own shop he’d be able to come in for free, whenever he’d want, and maybe bend Tomura over the counter) and when Shota hands him his card, their hands brush for just a second, and Tomura tries to repress a shiver.
And then, just like that, he’s gone.
Ha. As if.
“I’m going for my break!” Tomura shouts, ducking under the counter to grab his jacket and pull it over the uniform.
“Wait!” Magne shouts, but Tomura is already out of the door, head whipping around as he looks for a head of dark hair.
He sees Shota turn a corner and nearly trips over his feet trying to follow him, jogging until they’re close enough that Tomura isn’t scared he’s going to lose him, and then his head kind of catches up with his legs. Is he just going to follow him? What if Shota is going to work? Shit, Tomura needs to be back at work, before Magne has time to conjure up a lecture.
His little crisis is thankfully unnoticed, seeing as Shota is wrapped up in his phone as they walk. He texts quickly, and then huffs out an irritated sigh, and Tomura watches, fascinated, as all of the easygoing relaxation drains out of his body while he lifts the phone to take a call.
He stops, glaring down at the ground while he rants into the speaker, and Tomura slips behind a wall, watching as his face tenses and relaxes, eyes rolling at one point.
He’s so pretty…Tomura takes a few more pictures for posterity.
No wonder Shota works as a model—he looks so good on camera, eyes dark and mouth frozen. Tomura drags a thumb down the screen, right over Shota’s little scar. He shouldn’t edit it out, but Tomura is a little glad he has because now it’s his. His and Shota’s little secret.
Shota starts walking again and Tomura jolts forward with a yelp, trailing him as he gets onto a train. Tomura sits a few feet away so he doesn’t realize he’s being followed, and then trails after him when Shota gets off at his stop.
They end up across town, walking down a street, and then Shota turns, and Tomura stares as he enters an apartment complex, the door closing behind him slowly.
Shit, shit, shit. Is this where Eraserhead lives?
It’s a fairly nice complex, a little on the small side, and Tomura stares at the door long enough that he starts to feel that same seeping panic, worried that if he lets Shota out of his sight for too long, he’ll disappear. Worried, he goes in after him, thankful when Shota starts up a flight of stairs instead of getting on an elevator, mail clutched in one hand. It’s hard, trying to follow him up the stairs without making a sound, but Tomura has certainly pulled off harder.
When Shota peels out of the stairwell, Tomura hangs back, peeking around the corner as Shota pulls out a pair of keys and ducks into an apartment.
It feels almost too good to be true. Maybe he’s visiting a friend (but then why would he have keys? (does that mean maybe it’s a lover? (no, no, Tomura can’t think about that.))) But he waits for five minutes, and then ten, and when nobody comes in or out of the door, he whips out his phone and takes down the address, the apartment number, and resolves to…keep it to himself. To do nothing with it.
Stalker, Dabi says in his head.
Tomura goes back to work.
--
And the next day, he goes back to Shota’s house.
I’m not a stalker! He’d hissed at Dabi, the night before. Dabi was out of his fucking mind giggling at Tomura’s play by play, how he’d somehow developed enough luck to manage to tail the Eraserhead to his apartment.
For his sake, I hope he figures it out. Dabi says, taking another slow rip from his disgustingly green bong. I hear restraining orders are all the rage these days.
“Fuck him,” Tomura says lowly, sliding the little hairpin he was wearing into Shota’s worryingly simple locks. It pulls some of the short hair near his face out of its tie, but that’s a simple price to pay. “He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”
He hadn’t meant to come back, honest, it’s just…Magne had let him go early because business was slow, and he’d walked past the train station they’d taken the day before, and… he just ended up here. The Eraserhead updates twitter he keeps post notifications on to let him know that Eraser was spotted at a shoot for his DJ friend which had felt like an invitation from the universe. He’s not home, Tomura has a window of opportunity. That’s all it is. He’s an opportunist—not a stalker.
The lock clicks and it’s glorious, like the credits screen of a video game. Tomura shivers as the doorknob twists and slides open, showing off the entryway to Eraserhead—Shota’s—home.
It’s…nice. Livable for most people. All of his furniture is dark and sleek, but not expensive, not gaudy. No, Eraserhead isn’t like all those other shiny celebrities. It feels like he’s at anyone else’s apartment, like Dabi could be upside down on the couch with his boots on.
He creeps in slowly, phone held aloft and camera app open, snapping photos of the most mundane things.
Shota has a few plants, and Tomura gets a thrill out of the one that’s dying because it’s just another sign of his staggering humanity. He really is perfect.
He’s got magazines spread out on his coffee table next to a few used plates—likely from Shota’s breakfast—though curiously none of the magazines are one’s with him in them. They’re all the ones Tomura knows he worked on, behind the lens instead of in front of it. He picks up a full-page spread of one of his little actress friends—the mature one with the red nails and the full bust—and snarls because he never cared much for Shota’s celebrity connections outside of the fact that they get his favorite person behind a camera.
He sighs and goes to sit on the couch, only to realize he’s sat on something, that feels distinctly unlike couch.
He lifts his hips and reaches under him, glancing at the bundle of material he determines is a sweatshirt. It’s a dark grey, unfairly soft, and a little wrinkled from more than just Tomura sitting on it. It’s worn. Maybe… maybe Shota slept in it…
Without really thinking, he lifts the jacket up to his nose and inhales, eyes rolling back with a moan. It smells exactly like he thought Shota would, smoky and dark and earthy, and Tomura buries his fucking nose in it, toes curling against the floor. It smells so good, Tomura wants to… god, he wants to smell this forever.
He folds in half and clutches the fabric at his face, body running hot. The jacket is cold, but he can just imagine what it would smell like with a person in it, with Shota in it, his body pressed against Tomura, a firm chest and the scratch of his stubble against Tomura’s face, on the inside of his thighs…
His hand is halfway down his pants when the doorhandle jiggles, and Tomura thinks, wildly, Shit.
Maybe he is a stalker.
--
Shota has had a rough day.
Most of his days are Rough Days, but for some reason, he just feels…out of it. Drained. Uncooperative, Nemuri had jeered, an hour into Hizashi’s shoot. Shota had grunted from behind his camera, unwilling to respond for fear he’d snap.
He’s strung tight as a wire and exhausted as all shit, and all he wants to do is go home, and curl up in his bed, and hope his cat feels like being pet for once in her miserable little life.
He’s almost so out of it that he doesn’t realize that in reaching for his door handle, it starts to open. Key still tucked into his back pocket, his door just starts moving, swinging forward slightly with a creak.
Whatever, he thinks, and pushes forward. Maybe I left it unlocked.
When he’s met with some shithead he’s never seen sitting on his couch, the sweatshirt he’d put on this morning after a shower clutched in his hands, he thinks, Huh. At least I didn’t leave the door unlocked.
“Eraser—” The person starts, and Shota sets his keys down on the bowl near the door with a sigh.
“Who are you?” he asks, leaning against the entryway wall. He’s close enough to his door that he can bolt, and—as embarrassing as it would be—he knows his neighbors are home because he’d seen the door to Toshinori’s apartment shut when he’d hit the top of the stairs. He’s one good scream away from someone calling the police, and he would, if the kid on his couch didn’t look like he’d blow over with a stiff wind.
Said kid just blinks, head tipping to the side with a slow smile, face going pink like he’s embarrassed. “Hi,” he rasps, and Shota feels his face twist into a scowl.
“Get the fuck out of my house.”
“Hold on,” the person coos, hands going up like that will get Shota’s guard down. “I thought you wanted to know who I was?”
Shota studies his face, the way his hair hangs over the familiar blue shirt, the embroidered cat in the corner. “You’re that kid from the cat café,” he says evenly. “I know who you are.”
The kid… his name started with a… T? An S? lets his face break into a lopsided little smile. “That’s good. Yeah, that’s me.” He pushes a hand across Shota’s couch, leaning closer with an excited little twinkle in his eye. “I’m a big fan,” he purrs.
Shota pushes himself closer to the wall, arms tightening across his chest. “That’s great, kid. Seems like you also have a boundary problem.”
That makes him T-S something pout, the starling red of his eyes narrowing. “I don’t have a boundary problem,” he mumbles, leaning back to curl in on himself. “I know you.”
“The fuck you do,” Shota says. He glances at the door behind him, and wonders if just calling the police himself would be worth the hassle. “Listen, kid—”
“Tomura.”
“—kid. Thanks for the name, I’ll use it if I need to file a police report,” Shota sighs, a hand pushing through his hair, noticing the way Tomura’s eyes follow the movement hungrily. “You get the fuck out now without causing me any hassle, and forget I even exist, and I’ll pretend this never happened.”
Tomura’s pout deepens, a hand reaching up to scratch at the side of his neck. “Don’t you want to… punish me?” he asks quietly.
Jesus Christ.
Shota sighs, and pinches the bridge of his nose, teeth grinding. “What part of ‘without causing me a hassle’ made you think I want to give in to your weird power fantasy? Get out of my house.”
“Fine,” Tomura says on a sniff, standing up and glancing at Shota as he heads towards the door. “It was nice meeting you,” he spits, and goes through the door with a slam.
Shota sighs and glances at his thankfully empty apartment. Only to realize the brat took his jacket.
Damn it.
--
Shota has had people break into his house plenty. And by people, he mostly means Hizashi, but that’s a moot point.
“What?” Nemuri hisses when he calls her after he showers. “Somebody broke into your house? And you just let them leave?”
“The hell else was I gonna do?” Shota grunts, leaning against his countertop. His kitchen smells pleasantly like coffee, and Shota knows that it could be caffeinated to hell and back and still not keep him from sleeping. He reaches for the decaf anyway. “Was just some little fanboy. Didn’t even know I was popular enough to have stalkers,” he mumbles, raising up to pull a mug out of the cabinet. “Plus, I could’a snapped him like a twig if I needed. All skin and bones.”
Don’t you wanna punish me?
Shota rolls his eyes as he fills the cup with coffee. There’s no way that kid was older than twenty, and Shota knows whatever he wants is way more than what he can handle. He knows the type. He’d been there, once.
“…I know you like to pretend you’re laid back, but this is pushing it, even for you, sweetheart. What if he comes back?”
“Then I’ll kick him out again. He stole my sweatshirt anyway, that should fuel whatever weird jerk off sessions he has for a few weeks at least.”
There’s a sigh from the other end of the phone, a clink as he sets his cup on the counter. He’s going to have to find another sweatshirt to sleep in. Damn it. “Do you want to come stay with me? Seriously, Shota, I’m worried. You don’t know he’s not going to come back.”
“He’s not going to come back,” Shota sighs. He takes a sip of his coffee. “Not anytime soon, at least.”
--
He’s right about that, at least. It takes the kid another week and a half before he’s back.
What a peaceful ten days I’ve had, Shota thinks, as he opens up his door to his stalker hunched over on the floor, stroking his cat. Tomura, that was his name, looks comfy as hell in a too-large sweatshirt hanging off of his thin frame, knees up to his chest as he pets down his cat’s nose, bare feet against Shota’s floor. He’s so pale he’s greying, and Shota blinks twice, like maybe he can will the kid away.
A head whips around when the door closes, and its only then that Shota realizes why the jacket looks familiar. It’s his, the one Tomura had taken the last time he was in, and the fabric is spilling off of his shoulders and hanging off of his body as he scratches behind his cat’s ears.
“Welcome home,” he says, without even the self-consciousness to look embarrassed. “What’s your cat’s name?”
Shota sighs and rubs at his temples. “Why,” he says.
“She’s really pretty,” Tomura coos, like that’s the question Shota asked, and his traitor of a cat just purrs, pushing up to butt her nose against Tomura’s hand. She’s not normally this friendly, but Shota doesn’t have time to dwell on that when Tomura is standing, hands linking behind his back as he rocks on his feet. “She’s nicer to me than you are.”
Shota is about to open his mouth to snap before he lets go of a curiously wheezy breath. It makes Tomura’s head tip to the side, the corners of his mouth ticking up as though he’s noticed the mistake. “What?” he asks innocently.
Apparently, the sweatshirt was the only thing Tomura was wearing.
Shota can see his pale thighs underneath the hem of the too-long jacket, the way the fabric pools along his bare collarbones. His chest and his neck are flushed slightly, the color crawling up to his face as Shota stares, and all the thoughts in his brain scatter like a broken puzzle.
He’s attractive the way cigarettes are attractive, in that they kind of make you want to get down and dirty, pull yourself lower than you are. His lips are cracked, and he looks like he’s desperately in need of exfoliant, face and legs covered in scars that look old and faded, but it makes Shota feel…strange, thinking about how his legs are so thin that he could probably wrap a hand around the kid’s thigh.
“I should call the police,” he says hollowly, still looking at the place his sweatshirt ends and Tomura’s skin starts. Is he even wearing underwear?
“I wouldn’t do that,” Tomura says, a little lilt catching his voice. He takes a step forward that makes Shota take one back, instinctively, eyes narrowing and flicking up to Tomura’s face.
“And why not?”
Another few steps from Tomura, one step back for Shota that pushes him against his door. He doesn’t feel trapped, but Tomura smiles like he should, footfalls light on the hardwood. “Because. Don’t you want to punish me, Eraser?”
Not really, he thinks, consciously, before being hit with the separate, unconscious, a little bit. He’s lanky, all leg and barely shorter than Shota, but he can tell he’s probably lithe under the jacket, probably sharp in all the right places. All the wrong, places.
Shota stares him down as Tomura slinks up, a hand going out to touch the top of Shota’s stomach. The jacket is so big it hangs off of his fingers, and Tomura is barely shorter than Aizawa, but he’s all leg, thin lines, and probably even paler under the jacket. Shota might be able to pick him up without throwing out his back. Fuck.
Tomura’s hand slides up his stomach and Shota doesn’t even breathe, watching the bright shine of his eyes underneath his messy hair. Shota is a weak, weak man, who doesn’t have work tomorrow, and should probably be more averse to sleeping with his stalker.
“Don’t you want to see if you can break me?” Tomura asks, head tipping to the side, mouth just barely brushing Shota’s jaw.
Whatever. Nemuri can yell at him for it later.
“Hey,” Shota snaps and catches Tomura by the wrist. He yelps when Shota yanks him forward against his chest, and then again when the cold pads of Shota’s fingers touch the skin at the back of his thigh, just under the back of his jacket. He keeps the hand on Tomura’s wrist in place, yanks him forward again just to let Tomura know he is not the one in control currently. “Is this how you get most people to sleep with you?”
“No,” Tomura breathes, shining eyes going to Shota’s face. “You’re special.”
“Sure, kid,” Shota says lowly, dragging his fingers up Tomura’s thigh. His skin is smooth, a little soft, even if there’s barely any meat there to give. It makes Tomura bury his face in Shota’s neck, and Shota realizes with a start that he runs warm, blue hair tickling his jaw. “Bet you don’t just go around stealing anybody’s clothes, either.”
“Ah,” Tomura breathes when Shota grabs a handful of his leg and gives a squeeze, feeling thin skin under his fingers. “Why would I do that when I have you?”
“You don’t have me,” Shota says, and lets the kid yelp and mewl when he slots a leg between his thigh and uses the hand under his ass to pull him onto Shota’s leg. It’s like watching a switch flip, Tomura’s arms going around his neck as he sighs happily, hard cock digging into Shota’s leg. “Little slut,” he admonishes, using the hand on Tomura’s ass to pull him down harder.
Tomura gives a little roll of his hips against Shota’s thigh that makes him groan, breath puffing against Shota’s neck. He’s making Shota feel like a live wire, stomach dropping when he squirms slightly, toes just barely hanging off of the floor. As good as he sounds, it’s going to take more than that to make up for breaking and entering. And occupying his blissfully free night.
Tomura holds his neck with shaking arms as Shota touches his fill, sliding hands across Tomura’s soft skin, around the scars on his legs and squeezing at his ass. He avoids his dick, just to fuck with him, a hand staying to support his weight on his thigh as Shota pushes at his stomach.
“S-Shota,” Tomura rasps against his neck, hips grinding forward. “You feel so—good, so much better than I ever thought you would—”
“Yeah?” Shota says, low into his ear. It makes Tomura press his face in tighter, a quiet whimper breaking past his lips. “Probably would have had your filthy nose in my underwear if I’d left you any longer, huh?”
“S-shit!” Tomura gasps, hands clutching desperately at Shota’s chest. He pushes at his stomach a little more, just feeling the extra bit of fat there give way. He’s got a little belly on him, and Shota thinks it’s insufferably adorable. “Fuck, Eraser, god—"
He’s sliding his hand back towards Tomura’s thigh when he feels his hand brush the sticky head of his cock, just barely, and Tomura makes a cut off choking noise, legs squeezing around Shota’s as he comes into his hand.
“Are you serious?” Shota asks, pulling back to glance at Tomura’s face. He’s bright red, eyes hazy and lips parted, and the second little retort he has lined up on his tongue dies at the already fucked out look on his face.
“Off,” he says hurriedly, and sliding Tomura back down his thigh. He makes a desperate little noise as he slides away, limbs moving sluggishly, but Shota puts a hand on his chest and walks him a step backward, before brushing past to move down the hallway. “Come with me.”
He doesn’t have to turn back to know Tomura is following him, his footsteps light on the floor as Shota leads him towards his bedroom.
“Get on the bed,” he says and lifts his shirt over his head. Tomura clamors to do what he’s told quickly, legs curled up underneath him as he sits at the foot of Shota’s bed.
Tomura’s face breaks out in a little cocky smile, hands sliding down his spread thighs. “Are you going to fuck me, Eraser?” he asks lowly, watching Shota pull his belt from its loops and toss it off to a corner of the room.
“What kind of punishment would that be?” he says, ignoring the way Tomura stares openly at his chest, hands twitching in his lap. He makes a looping motion with his fingers, reaching down to pop the top button of his jeans. “On your back. Head off the mattress.”
Tomura looks like it’s fucking Christmas, crawling to the foot of the bed, and flopping down onto his stomach, rolling catlike and graceful onto his back with a grin. Shota puts a hand out, tracing down the line of Tomura’s neck towards his mouth, watching Tomura’s eyelashes flutter as he grips at the mattress in an effort to stay still.
“Freaky little stalker,” Shota says, pressing his thumb to Tomura’s lips. He looks pretty like this, hair hanging off of his face and mouth parting as Shota pushes past his lips, red eyes blinking wide. The comment makes him shiver though, makes the blink of his eyes slow and heavy-lidded. “Legs up.” Tomura scoots his legs further down the bed towards him, until his knees are towards the ceiling and the jacket is doing nothing to hide his milky thighs. He really has nice legs. Nice…everything.
Aizawa huffs a little laugh as Tomura’s eyes flutter closed, tongue curling around his finger. Maybe having a stalker isn’t too bad.
He thinks about asking the kid to say please, but where’s the fun in making him do what he wants when there’s already plenty of hero-worship in his eyes? Instead, he says, “Don’t touch yourself,” and pushes Tomura’s jaw open, finger slick with his spit as Tomura’s tongue lolls out, smearing spit messily onto his chin.
It’s difficult trying to get his zipper down with one hand, but he manages, sliding his cock from his underwear triumphantly. Tomura opens his eyes again, pupils eating at the crimson of his eyes as he stares cross-eyed at Shota’s cock, probably mourning the fact that he can’t see it head-on. “Come on,” he hums, and pushes forward, tapping the head of his cock against Tomura’s dry lips. It smears sticky precum across his mouth, connecting his little cupid’s bow to the head of Shota’s cock. “Wider.”
Tomura sounds desperate, hands fisting in the sheet as his eyes go to Shota’s face, mouth widening sweetly. Shota wraps a hand around Tomura’s throat with a smile, feeling his pulse jump as his eyes slip back closed, his knees spreading on the bed like it’s instinctual.
Tomura’s mouth feels heavenly as Shota slides forward, even as his body tenses and relaxes like he’s not sure what to do with himself. Shota gives his throat a gentle little squeeze and one of his arms goes to his side, fist clenched like he’s really trying not to touch.
He makes a little noise as Shota pushes deeper, trembling when Shota shushes him quietly, squeezing gently at his throat.
“There you go,” he mumbles, feeling Tomura’s tongue slide over his cock like he’s not sure what to do with it. “You take it so well.” There’s a muffled moan around his cock, a quiet sliding noise as Tomura’s foot pushes across the bed.
Shota fucks Tomura’s mouth slowly, stopping when Tomura gags, making encouraging little noises when he’s able to push in further than before. Tomura is messy, inexperienced, saliva sliding out of the corner of his face and down his cheeks, making his lips shiny and his face red.
It’s been too long since he did this, he thinks, because the desperate little cry Tomura makes around his cock has his head spinning, gut clenching as he tries to stave off his own orgasm.
“Now,” he breathes, pulling out so he can watch tears bead on Tomura’s light eyelashes. “That’s good, isn’t it?”
Tomura nods, sniffing slightly like he really is crying, and Shota groans, sliding into Tomura’s mouth again. He’s not sure if he wants to come now and then kick Tomura out just for the lesson of it, but the idea of Tomura waddling outside in his too-big jacket with come on his face makes him shudder, arousal throbbing through him so hard he has to stop thrusting for a moment.
He pulls his cock out of Tomura’s mouth with a deep, shaky breath, a hand wrapped around the base of his cock, and watches as one of Tomura’s eyes slides open, watery and full of tears.
“Eraser?” he asks, and his voice sounds rough, just this side of grated, and Shota slides his fingers back up Tomura’s neck for a moment. His face curls into a grin, knees parting higher up on the bed. “Are you gonna come on my face?” he asks.
“Thinkin’ about it,” Shota huffs and makes a choked noise when Tomura just sticks his tongue out, eyes fixed on Shota’s cock like he’s gagging for it. Well, fuck. Who is he to deny his biggest fan?
He slides his hand through Tomura’s spit on his cock, the sound loud and wet in the otherwise quiet room, and Tomura’s breathing picks up as Shota gets closer, as though it’s his pleasure, his cock under Shota’s slippery hand.
He comes with a groan, cock jerking and spilling messily across Tomura’s spit slick lips and his tongue, dripping down his cheek towards his eye.
“Oh, fuck,” Shota groans, watching as Tomura shakes nearly out of his skin, the hand on his neck moving so Shota can take a few shaky steps back against his dresser.
Tomura laughs, a raspy thing, and sits up slowly, smile present even with come cooling on his face. “Did I do good, Eraser?” he asks breathlessly, lifting a hand to push the come on his mouth between his lips. “Did I make it up to you?” he slurs around his fingers, leaning forward onto his knees as he sucks his own fingers.
Little shit, Shota thinks as he climbs onto his bed. Tomura barely gets a second to yelp before Shota is pushing a hand into the small of his back, folding Tomura face down and ass up. “Some punishment if you’re still being cheeky afterward.”
Tomura laughs again and Eraser slides the sweatshirt over his ass, down his back, and sucks in a too sharp breath.
“What?” Tomura laughs. “You didn’t think I’d just wear some old boxers to show my ass off for my idol, did you? I’ve got class, if anything.”
“Fuck,” Shota groans again, hands going to the lace stretched over Tomura’s body. They’re pretty little black panties, barely covering his backside, and Shota wants to rip them off with his teeth. “Shut up for a minute, will you?” He grunts and leans over Tomura’s body towards his bedside table. It presses their hips together, Shota’s flagging but not soft erection to the swell of Tomura’s ass, and it makes Tomura keen, hands scrambling at the sheets.
“Christ,” he wheezes, face turning sideways on the bed, unable to move with Shota still holding him down. “You have a lot of energy for an old guy.”
“Personal trainer,” he grunts, ripping open his drawer so hard it rattles so he can slap around for the lube he knows is in there, sitting back on his heels with a slap to Tomura’s pale cheeks. “Thought I said shut up,” he growls, ignoring Tomura’s half-pained little gasp, the way his hips squirm enticingly.
He slides the panties out of the way instead of off, watching as they pull tight against his skin, bunching up dark against white skin.
“This is the best day of my life,” Tomura breathes, and Shota huffs out a sigh, dribbling lube onto his fingers and pressing a slick finger to Tomura’s hole. “Eras—mngg!”
It slides in easy, stretching Tomura out well, and Shota rocks onto his knees, a hand going to the back of Tomura’s neck to push him harder into the sheets. “You fuck yourself before you came here?”
“Of course,” Tomura pants. “I’ve been—fuck, shit, Eraser—f-fucking myself in your jacket—since I got it.” He groans, long and loud, and Shota doesn’t feel nearly as bad for his neighbors as he does feel excited for himself.
“You’re insufferable,” Shota huffs, sliding a second finger beside the first easily. “Insatiable little creep.”
“Yes,” Tomura gasps, rocking back against Shota’s fingers. “Y-yes, please, fffuck! Just like that, Eraser—”
Shota fucks him hard with his fingers, slick and warm with the heat of Tomura’s insides, and eventually, the little gasps aren’t enough, it’s a punishment, and Shota needs Tomura weeping. He curls his fingers a bit, just searching, and is wholly unprepared for the way Tomura’s body jerks, hand slapping at the blankets on Shota’s bed.
“Shit!” He yells, hips trembling as Shota pushes against his prostate harder, better than Tomura can probably reach it himself. “Oh f-ffffuck! Eraser—S-Shota, that feel so good, s-so—don’t stop, don’t—”
Shota moves the hand on the neck to slap him on the thigh again with a growled, “Don’t tell me what to do,” and goes back to it, pressing insistently at his prostate until Tomura is hiccupping, body tensing and shaking as he shouts.
“Eraser,” he whines, fists curling in the sheets of his bed. “Shit, let me—touch, lemme—touch, I can’t, I’m so close—”
“You can get there just like this,” Shota says lowly, another slap landing on Tomura’s shin. It makes him push his hips back with a thinly veiled sob, hips jerking as he shrinks in on himself. “Thought you wanted me to fuck you?”
“Yes, hah ah, y-yes, just… can’t! I can’t fucking come l-like, fuck, fuck, please—”
“Tomura,” Shota growls, half in warning, but it’s enough to make Tomura jerk back with a cry, body shaking as he comes, insides squeaking Shota’s fingers like they’re trying to milk him dry. Fuck, the idea of that on his cock…
He barely gives Tomura a breath of reprieve, pushing him by the hip until he flips over with a yelp, dropping onto the bed with red cheeks and a trembling lip.
“Eraser…” he gasps, laid bare and sweaty. He’s a dream, laid out on his back and panting hard, knees up and thighs spread, come spilled onto Shota’s jacket, pushed up to his chest.
“Not done,” Shota growls, stroking at his cock with a lube messy hand. Tomura is probably laying in his own come. Shota doesn’t care.
“Come on,” he says and grabs Tomura by the hips. He’s still shaking like a leaf, eyes wet but not crying, not quite, so when Shota slams inside of him with a sigh and Tomura’s back arches clean off the bed, well…
They’re getting somewhere.
Tomura is groaning wetly, drooling down his chin and clutching at the bedsheets as Shota fucks him on to his cock, sliding Tomura’s hips against his with every thrust. He fucks him hard, watching Tomura’s hair wave around his face as he pants and scrabbles, feet sliding for purchase along the blankets. He looks good, lifted off of the bed like that, and finally, blissfully unable to speak, letting out loud whines as Shota tries to punish him, just like he wanted.
“Dirty bitch,” he growls, and Tomura whines, loud, a hand coming up to fist in the pillows near his head, eyes rolling back as Shota fucks into his prostate. “Bet you could come just like this, huh?”
“Yes,” Tomura warbles, hips starting to twitch at their own accord. “F-fu—haah—Shota. M-more, I want it—”
Shota shushes him and wraps a hand around his throat again, squeezing at Tomura’s windpipe until all he can do is wheeze and choke, body arching harder. “You’ll take what I give you, won’t you?”
Tomura doesn’t even seem like he can respond, and that’s just fine with Shota, chasing his orgasm ruthlessly in his body. Tomura feels good, fucking amazing, shivering around his cock and coughing out moans when Shota has to let go of his throat, and it seems to surprise both of them when he chokes out an alarmed, “Fuck! It’s too good, too good, S-Sho—nnggg shit—I’m gonna come—” and barely lasts one more hard, pointed thrust before he’s spilling a pathetic amount of come onto his own stomach, insides clamping down on Shota’s cock as he cries, hips bucking wildly.
The sight, though, of Tomura fucked out of his mind and dribbling spend onto his own clothes pushes Shota over the edge, groaning as he comes inside of Tomura, hands letting go of Tomura’s hips to steady himself on the bed so he doesn’t collapse.
“Eraser,” Tomura says breathlessly, and Shota feels arms wrap around his neck, a nose in his hair. “You really are perfect.”
“Shut up,” Shota grumbles, for what feels like the hundredth time today, panting embarrassingly. He feels Tomura pull and goes down with a sigh against his chest, nose nudging under Tomura’s ear. “You’re fucking disgusting.”
That makes Tomura laugh and then shiver, his breath all wheezy from when Shota had his hands wrapped around his throat, and it makes him kind of want to go again, even though his body is literally begging him to stay still.
There’s a hand in Shota’s hair then, carding through the too-long strands at the nape of his neck. “Can I stay?” Tomura asks, sounding for the world like he can’t even imagine Shota would deny him.
The fact that he’s even considering it should say something about how badly Shota needs to get out more often. This kid broke into his house, stole his jacket, and bothered Shota so bad he ended up fucking him. The answer should be no.
“Can you cook?” Shota asks, pressing his nose further into Tomura’s neck.
A laugh from Tomura, a little tug to the back of his hair. “No.”
“Can you pay for breakfast?”
“No.”
Shota sighs. “Can I fuck you again when I wake up?”
The hand in his hair pets soothingly, Tomura’s body shaking as he makes a noise that sounds worryingly close to a purr. “Even if I’m asleep.”
Shota sighs.
Whatever. Nemuri can yell at him for this later, too.
“Fine,” he acquiesces, eyes sliding shut. “But that’s the end of it, y’hear me? You leave me alone afterwards.”
--
A week later, when Tomura is spread out over Shota’s couch when he comes home, he feels like he should be surprised.
“So,” he asks, another one of Shota’s too large shirts sliding down his stomach. “What’s the cat’s name?”