crop top
—
“shouto.”
those hands slide up and over his chest. “hanta.”
he swallows. “what are you doing?”
shouto pauses, eyes falling to where his hands have disappeared beneath hanta’s homemade bright pink crop top. “admiring the artwork.”
or; sero wears a crop top. todoroki thinks he’s sneaky. bakugo just wants a snack.
—
it’s a quiet sunday night when shouto todoroki finds hanta sero humming in the kitchen, drying off cups he may or may not have snuck into his room over the past several days.
it’s a quiet sunday night, and shouto spent half the day asleep and the other half doing homework, and he misses his boyfriend. hanta hadn’t been in his room, so the kitchen was the next best place to search for him.
it’s a quiet sunday night, and hanta sero is tippy toeing to place cups back where they belong in the cabinets. he’s tippy toeing and—
ah.
he’s wearing a crop top.
hanta sero is wearing a crop top.
hanta sero, hero in training, shouto’s boyfriend, is tippy toeing in a crop top, arms raised up high and—
shouto thanks his lucky stars. it’s not often hanta wears crop tops, but when he does—
silent, without even intending to be, shouto pads across the kitchen floor, rubbing exhaustion from his eyes. hanta is settling flat back on his feet, still humming, when shouto comes up behind him and, without warning or any preamble, pushes his hands up his shirt, hugs him from behind.
“found you,” shouto says, completely oblivious to the way hanta nearly jumps out of his skin.
“jesus christ,” hanta clutches his chest, peering over his shoulder at the two toned boy. “where did you come from? you scared the shit outta me!”
shouto’s arms slide around hanta’s waist, fingers splayed out across his abs. his eyes fall shut as he presses his cheek into hanta’s shoulder blade, smiling and content. hanta’s built like a dancer, and shouto likes to appreciate the art work, more shameless and less secretive as time goes on.
“was looking for you,” is all shouto offers him.
hanta inhales sharply. one of shouto’s hands is cold, the other warm, and both of them are, for some reason, rather sneaky tonight. hanta swears he isn't ticklish, but he is, and shouto isn’t being very cautious.
hanta gave denki a bloody nose after a tickle fight once. it was an accident, but denki grabbed his sides and his elbows went flying.
“you found me,” hanta says, still trying to sneak a peek at shouto’s ducked head behind him. “i’m almost done putting up these dishes, then we can—we can go upstairs or something.”
or something. hanta takes a shaky breath, still a little scared and still trying not to knock shouto out every time his sly fingers brush his sides. heat crawls up his neck. he'll never get used to shouto being like this.
shouto hums, and it vibrates through hanta’s back. his thumbs rub circles into hanta’s skin, hands still exploring but staying in relatively safe territory. except hanta can’t really put dishes up with shouto clinging to him the way he is, with his strong arms wrapped around hanta’s waist.
just let me finish these dishes, man. two more seconds and you’ll have my undivided attention, i swear.
“can the dishes wait?” shouto shifts. hanta can feel his hands flatten on his stomach, as he stands up straight.
hanta opens his mouth to respond, chuckling lightly, trying to bite back a growing grin, when warm lips press into the nape of his neck.
oh.
maybe the dishes can wait.
shouto’s left hand disappears and reappears up high, pulling the collar of his shirt out of his way. hanta closes his eyes as shouto plants another warm kiss to his shoulder. then another, and another, pulling the collar further as he explores all the skin available to him. his heart crawls up his throat.
“shou, you know—“
“hm?” another kiss to the hollow of hanta’s collarbone, closer to his neck. it’s warm in here. was it warm in here earlier? maybe not this warm. shouto’s heating up the air with his quirk without even realizing. his cool hand is still exploring hanta’s stomach, his chest pressed to hanta’s back. it’s a lot. it’s not enough.
it’s almost laughable. hanta pushes away all the cups he has yet to put up so he doesn’t knock them over by accident.
“we can—“ he can’t even say it, not with his voice shaking, as shouto kisses the crook of his neck, slow and careful. “we, um—we should go upstairs.” another kiss, higher on his neck, slick and deliberate. god.
“yeah,” shouto murmurs. what the fuck. he’s hardly ever like this. why in the kitchen of all places? why am i complaining? i’m not complaining. any place is good. any—holy shit. shouto’s teeth graze the spot just below his ear and he breaks out in goosebumps. “maybe.”
hanta blinks, and blinks again, breath catching in his throat. he turns around, with what little room he has, seeing as shouto has effectively trapped him against the counter. when he turns, shouto’s hands keep sliding, and when hanta is fully facing him, his hands creep right back up to where they were when this began.
god.
shouto’s hair is a mess, like he’s barely just woken up. his eyes are glassy and sharp. he looks—well, needy. clingy. knowing. the corner of his lip is quirked up, and hanta wants to scoop him up and carry him back to his room, right at this exact moment.
“shouto.”
those hands slide up and over his chest. “hanta.”
he swallows. “what are you doing?”
shouto pauses, eyes falling to where his hands have disappeared beneath hanta’s homemade bright pink crop top. “appreciating the artwork.”
he laughs at that, embarrassingly breathy. his neck still tingles. “shouto.”
blue and gray find black. “hanta.”
“are you gonna kiss me like you mean it now or are you just gonna keep teasing me until i flip you over my shoulder and carry you upstairs myself?”
there it is.
shouto’s ghost of a smirk goes wide—it’s a wonderful sight—as he leans in, shutting hanta in against the countertop completely, hands still exploring what shouto can’t see. he can feel hanta’s heart pounding as he closes the gap and kisses hanta like he means it.
hanta’s eyes fall closed as those lips finally find his own, closes them tighter when shouto squeezes his sides, fingers winding into two toned locks and trying not to pull. any coherent thought leaves his head when shouto’s fingers dance down, down, down, then back up, then around, down again. everywhere.
shouto’s teasing him. on purpose.
it’s working.
well, it would work better if hanta didn’t suck in a breath every time those fingers ghost over some of the most ticklish spots on his stomach. don’t laugh. god, please don’t laugh. it’s—jesus christ.
if he could even think straight, he’d wonder if shouto remembers how ticklish he is, how he rediscovers how ticklish hanta is every single time shouto dips his hands under his shirt. which is, to be honest, more often than one would think. it’s a very strange sensation, being dizzy from the touch, dizzy with want and with trying really hard not to laugh.
the cups are forgotten.
it’s when shouto sucks on his bottom lip that hanta lets out the most embarrassing, breathiest sigh of his life. shouto hears it, too, because he smiles without letting go, hanta can feel it. shouto takes a breath, squeezes hanta’s waist, and does it again.
they definitely should go upstairs. the countertop digs into the small of hanta’s back. if either of them were thinking rationally, they’d worry about someone coming in. well, hanta would. shouto wouldn't. shouto doesn't. he never worries at all, completely oblivious and unknowing when he kisses hanta in public, when he touches him in the presence of other people, deliberately or accidentally.
if he could even think straight, hanta would wonder if shouto even realizes how much power he has over hanta.
but since neither of them are paying attention, the location doesn’t seem to matter anymore.
it’s when shouto’s lips trail down hanta’s jaw, teeth grazing his neck that surprisingly gentle footsteps enter the kitchen.
“what the fuck.”
hanta’s eyes fly open. shouto doesn't exactly stop, either because he didn’t hear the third voice or because he simply doesn't care, so hanta takes to gently pushing him back. which then makes shouto whine. because why wouldn’t he whine when there’s someone watching from the doorway of the kitchen, catching them in the act of being entirely way too adventurous. in the fucking kitchen. hanta’s soul leaves him, his entire body flushing with embarrassment.
“oh my god,” hanta starts, stomach and neck and every single part of him on fire. “bakugo, holy shit, dude—“
bakugo.
katsuki fucking bakugo stands in the entryway, brows pinched together, eyes narrowed in the most accusatory way hanta’s ever seen, fists balled at his sides. his face is red.
bakugo’s face is red.
“what. in the goddamn fuck.”
shouto detaches himself from hanta, and hanta really wishes he hadn’t. bakugo’s eyes stay trained on hanta’s face, on the swollen redness of his lips, on the trail of teased skin on his neck.
he considers taping bakugo to the ceiling, or maybe covering his eyes with tape, or maybe using his tape to swing the hell out of here.
hanta is sure it’s a horrible sight. shouto sighs, leans his head against hanta’s arm as he laces their fingers together. that, at least, keeps him on earth, keeps him from completely unraveling and running away.
“dude,” hanta starts again. “bakugo, i’m so—we just, uh—“
“no,” bakugo holds up a hand like he’s gonna blast them both to pieces. “nope. absolutely fucking not. i don’t wanna fuckin’ hear it.”
“i swear, we were just leaving. um, we—just, please—don’t say—“
warning sparks ignite in his palm. shouto yawns.
“get a fuckin’ room, you animals!” bakugo keeps turning redder. “i didn’t wanna fuckin’ see that—fuckin’—“
“close your eyes then,” shouto offers, tugging at hanta’s hand.
hanta chokes on laughter as bakugo face screws up impossibly tighter. “damn you, icyhot bastard! i’m not in the mood for your shit! just—god, get outta the damn kitchen!”
hanta is ready to melt through the floor at this point. to turn to dust, to never been seen again. every inch of him is burning up with embarrassment and want and it’s shouto’s fault. he squeezes the two toned boys hand back and starts leading the way out of the kitchen, bowing to bakugo as he passes.
“please don’t tell anyone,” hanta practically begs.
bakugo is trying not to look him in the eye, trying to ignore the darkening spots on his neck. “yeah, yeah, whatever. go on!”
shouto follows behind hanta with his head held high, hair a disaster, cheeks flushed and lips swollen. he even has the audacity to wink at bakugo when hanta isn’t looking anymore.
they're lucky the entire kitchen doesn’t get blown to bits.
“what the fuck,” hanta sighs when they finally make it to the elevator. shouto doesn’t release his hand. hanta doesn’t want him to let go. in fact, he would like to continue what they started before he dies, but embarrassment overpowers everything else. “that was—that was horrible.”
shouto presses the button for their floor when he finally looks hanta in the face again. hanta’s red, redder than even bakugo was, and he won’t stop chewing the inside of his cheek.
“you’re super red,” shouto comments.
hanta huffs at that, squeezes shouto’s hand. he doesn’t look shouto in the eye. he can’t. “yeah? well, i’m—i’m really embarrassed.”
shouto tilts his head, white hair splaying across his forehead. hanta watches the elevator doors close, blinks when shouto reaches up to tuck a piece of hanta’s hair behind his ear. “why?”
hanta looks at him, then, jaw nearly dropping to the floor. shouto doesn’t look embarrassed, only mildly disheveled. mildly. well, maybe a bit more than mildly. “why?” hanta outright laughs at that. “shou, bakugo just—just walked in on us making out.”
“so?”
so?!
“you had your hands up my shirt.”
“yeah.”
“you had me pinned against the counter.”
“i know.”
hanta’s brain clouds with question marks.
“we—we were making out. in the kitchen and bakugo—katsuki bakugo saw us.”
shouto nods. “yes, i remember.”
is the elevator slow today? hanta rubs the back of his neck; a nervous tick.
“that wasn’t embarrassing for you?”
“not really,” shouto sighs, not dismissive, just a deep breath, like he’s reminiscent or something dramatic like that. hanta considers shoving him into the wall right here. “i’d like to pick up where we left off, though—hey, you're really red again.”
hanta stares at him, flushing from his head all the way down to his toes again. heat crawls over his skin. he almost laughs, turning his eyes to the ceiling in silent prayer. “you’re gonna kill me, shou.”
this doesn’t sit right with shouto at all. “what? why would you say that? what did i do?”
“not literally, i just—“ hanta pulls shouto close to him and admires the way shouto blushes, for the first time all night. the elevator doors open. finally. god. “come on, shou. we’re going to my room.”
finally.
then hanta picks shouto up, wraps his legs around his waist and marches down the hall, both of them laughing quietly and murmuring things to the other. hanta digs for his key without taking his eyes off shouto, off the high blush on his cheeks, off the way his hair frames his face as shouto peppers him in kisses, much sweeter and gentler than before.
after the door is unlocked, hanta kicks it open, tosses his key somewhere he’s sure he won’t be able to find, and shoves the door closed again.
shouto’s grinning like a madman the entire time, already sneaking his hands back up hanta’s crop top.
—
bakugo doesn’t tell a fucking soul, and even puts up the cups hanta forgot about.
—
drops this and sprints away, again
https://archiveofourown.org/works/29904657
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