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Once Bitten, Twice Shy ── izuku / reader

After Izuku reveals his streak of dominant sex has been broken by a first and last attempt at submission — one that turned him off the notion of surrendering control for good — you’re determined to show him that with the right partner, it may just be exactly what the hero needs.

⛰︎ ─── ALL I WANT FOR XXXMAS: A SMUTTY ADVENT event hosted by @niilue

CONTENT・MDNI・ sub!izuku, dom!fem!reader, post-timeskip, reader is a pro-hero, non-linear narrative, ft. the midoriya friendgroup, texting, drinking, bdsm/scene discussion, sub space, kneeling, bondage, handjob, edging, praise kink, pet names, mutual pining, guilt, aftercare・wc. 23.4k

MEL'S NOTE・so excited to participate in niik's delicious dom!reader event :) this fic was written in december to honour timeskip izuku finally being animated because... omfg 😭 the love of my life, fr. happy (very, very belated...) holidays! (what is it they say about being fashionably late again?) title is from last christmas by wham!!! here's a lil moodboard that encapsulates the vibes of this fic <3

‹‹ MASTERLIST ・ READ ON AO3

The Afternoon of the Friday-Flight Curse, Present Day.

Friday is widely known as the worst day to fly.

Particularly around the holidays, when the weeks sandwiching Christmas turn organised hubs of international travel into what may better resemble an overcrowded festival, filled with thousands of sleep-deprived, disgruntled, delayed fliers who together possess a penchant for invoking bedlam. Combine this with a destination that is infamous for its heavy snowstorms this time of year, and you have a recipe for complete and utter disaster.

You’d like the records to state, if nothing else, you had tried to warn your friends.

—

3 Months Earlier.

Among your friend group, Beans is a cult favourite—a mom and pop cafe with a name so on the nose you had laughed before ducking into the hidden entrance, recessed in overgrown shrubbery and advertised by a faded, barely legible signboard. It was a miracle you had spotted the place, as concealed as it was. And within a week, word spread like wildfire in your group chat until it became somewhat of the unspoken, go-to meeting spot for you all. In part, due to its proximity to your respective agencies, but mostly thanks to the homey atmosphere of the cramped space, lending a sense of anonymity hard to come by as Japan’s most distinguished heroes.

The event in which you would ever be bothered by anyone in the dingy corner you're all tucked in, where warm, coffee-infused air swathes you like a shield, feels impossible. And the patrons here mind their own business, too, which helps—content to ignore the heroes frequenting Beans, providing you have enough sense to keep your conversations at a respectable noise level. Which of course, you do.

Most of the time, anyway.

“Look here.” Ochako points to the listing on her laptop—a picturesque mountain lodge dusted with a fine blanket of snow, the glow of a fire leaking through the windows from within. It looks like a scene plucked straight from a holiday rom-com. “We could just go for the weekend before Christmas!”

Clustered around a wobbling table, you all peer at Ochako’s bright laptop screen. A folded wad of tissue jammed under the broken leg is doing precisely nothing to prevent the assortment of drinks littering its wooden surface from spilling their lip each time someone leans an arm on the worn, now-sticky grain.

Tenya opens his mouth to protest.

“Hold on,” Ochako interrupts, lifting a finger to silence him. “Before you say anything: yes, there’s reception, yes, Bakugou is on duty that weekend, and yes," she shoots Tenya a very pointed look, "Japan will be fine while we're gone.”

You raise an eyebrow in amusement before letting your gaze drift back to the inviting cabin. Ochako barrels onward, unperturbed by his disgruntled silence. She's grown into herself since graduating from U.A., and challenging Tenya's obstinacy became what seems to be her new favourite pastime.

“It’s only a few days and god knows we’ll be working straight through Christmas like every year. So we can have our own early celebration together.” When no one objects, she smiles and delivers the killing blow. “Don’t we deserve it?”

And isn’t that a loaded question…

Years of postponed or outright neglected festivities flash through your mind. You honestly can’t remember the last time you had a normal Christmas. During school, maybe? But even your time at U.A. was derailed with saving Japan, and you’re not confident the tree erected in your dorm common room ever got appreciated to the extent it was intended to. Nor that it was plump with gaudy presents or that its pine smell ever tangled with that of freshly baked treats.

Is it strange that only now are you realising you haven’t had a normal Christmas celebration since you were a child?

Shouto’s lips quirk upwards and Tsuyu releases a low hum of agreement, nodding thoughtfully. If nothing else, the deep bags below her eyes should be testament enough to how overworked you all are in the run-up to Christmas. It’s as though the excitement and stress of this season make the general public all the more prone to accidents. Not to mention the plethora of villains that love to strike when the conditions are worse; the days darker and shorter; the people’s spirits are at their lowest.

In reality, it’s exhausting. A fact peacefully co-existing with another: you wouldn’t change your life for the whole world in the palm of your hand. Thus, you can see perfectly where Ochako is coming from.

Tenya doesn’t seem quite as convinced.

“You said that three years ago when we went to that Christmas market in Yokohama," he counters, patting at your spilt coffee with a napkin, "and we were there for less than an hour before there was headline news of a terrorist attack."

Though his voice may carry indignance, you can tell by the stern set of his mouth that he's secretly impressed by Ochako's preparations, and his heart isn't in it. He's craving a break just as much as the rest of you are. But it's Tenya. It’s practically a given that he’s going to, at minimum, try and bring you all back down to planet Earth before the idea uproots him, too.

“Our friends handled it,” Shouto reasons, taking a pointed sip of his sugary concoction. Any suggestion of Ochako's is usually a great one in his books. They're remarkably similar in their approach to persuasion, and since Shouto discovered the importance of work/life balance from Ochako herself years ago, his workaholic routines have, thankfully, yet to return. “So I, for one, am all for it.”

“Me too,” Tsuyu replies, bumping her shoulder into Shouto’s. He smiles at the contact—a small, quiet thing that makes you want to sink into the floor at how lovely it is. Sweeter than his own crime of a drink, you’d bet money on it. “It’d be nice to spend more time with you guys than it takes to grab a coffee between patrols.”

Izuku leans back in his chair, eyes fixed on the laptop screen, and chews on his bottom lip. He’s been suspiciously silent since Ochako raised the idea and you can almost hear the cogs whirring in his brain as he, similar to Tenya, analyses every risk in the concept of several pro-heroes taking a simultaneous holiday. You study the gentle slope of his nose and let your gaze roam to the lip caught between his teeth only half-intentionally. It’s an awful habit, really. Not so much for Izuku as it is for you, unable to be anything but distracted by the contemplative action.

Once more, you’re struck by the thought that one day—tomorrow, or perhaps some years from now—another person will watch Izuku as you do. Develop an infatuation, as you did in school. A simple curiosity which will fester into an adult crush and eat away at them like a disease. Eventually, he will fall for them, too, as those things usually go.

All by virtue of you, the most heroic coward in human history.

“It does look cosy,” Izuku offers quietly. But you can tell by his hesitant tone and the anxious drag of his finger around the rim of his mug that he’s simply softening the blow to what will likely be an objection. “I’m not sure if being a whole flight away right before Christmas is a good idea though…”

Bingo.

“C’mon, Izuku,” Ochako implores, touching the trackpad of her laptop as she rapidly clicks through the tens of tabs she has open—several social media sites, her agency portal, and what looks suspiciously like a thirst edit of the actor she mentioned crushing on at the moment—until an airline page, preloaded with the dates of the trip she’s proposing, appears on the screen. “Here, look!” She scrolls down a list of flight prices.

Izuku releases a mild noise of shock.

“Okay, yeah I know,” Ochako sighs, impatient. “Whatever. Get over it. You can’t put a price on happiness.”

“I can,” Tsuyu chimes in, placing her elbow on the table and propping her chin on the heel of her hand. Izuku’s coffee splashes over the edge of his mug. “And so can Japan Airlines, by the look of it.”

Ochako giggles, flashing a delighted look at Tsuyu before she quiets and taps her fingernail on the table. Her voice is oddly serious when she continues, “What I’m trying to say though, is that it’s simple. I’ve been monitoring flights for like two weeks and the prices keep going up and up and up, so we may as well bite the bullet now if we’re really going to do this." She tilts her head. "Which I think we should, for the record.”

“Iida had some good points though,” Izuku says, looking to the man in question in a silent plea for help. “About all six of us being out of commission for the weekend…”

Iida regards him for a moment, takes a sip of his coffee, and sighs defeatedly. “Our friends will be perfectly capable of handling it.”

Then, Izuku turns to you for some unspeakable reason you refuse to ruminate on. You don’t waste your chance. With an imperceptible tilt of your lips, you feign deep thought and stare at the ceiling. But really, the battle with yourself is already lost. The allure of a warm fire and uninterrupted blankets of snow is too easy to fall for. Besides, it’s been months since you’ve had any extended quality time with your friends and you’ve been quietly beginning to feel the withdrawals from it, drawn away from them for so long a quick coffee meet-up like this one is considered lucky. The low, thrumming ache in your heart crafts your words for you.

“I haven’t seen heavy snowfall in years,” you say to Izuku, watching him carefully. He shifts in his seat and takes a quick sip of his coffee. Years of noticing Izuku, of observing his mannerisms and idiosyncrasies lead you to quickly understand the action is simply done to busy his idle hands lest the quiet, anxious energy he keeps a permanent lid on overflow. “I kind of miss it.”

When the hero places his mug back onto the table, it’s just this side of a little too forceful. He swallows and tears his eyes from yours. Dusted high on his cheeks is a light blush, and you slant your head, pointlessly attempting to read his spiralling thoughts.

Funny… you didn’t even really do anything this time.

Ochako claps her hands together, flashing you a grateful expression when Izuku doesn't protest any further. You smile at her over the rim of your drink once you manage to drag your eyes from the remnants of Izuku’s strange reaction. “Perfect! That settles it, then.”

“I gotta buy new thermals,” Tsuyu mentions offhandedly, watching Ochako click back onto the mountain lodge listing before her fingers start flying over the keyboard, typing in her details to reserve your stay. “And some warmer socks.”

“I think I should be okay,” Shouto murmurs thoughtfully, and you huff a laugh at the sincerity in his voice.

“You’ll be fine, Shouto,” Izuku replies, watching Ochako with an indecisive set to his shoulders. “Self-regulating quirks are some of the most efficient for handling extreme climates.”

Shouto fights back a laugh, entertained at Izuku’s mindless regurgitation of information he clearly knows inside and out, considering it is, after all, his quirk. “Is that so?” he teases, though it goes unnoticed in the face of Izuku’s distraction. “No thermals for me then?”

Izuku shakes his head vacantly, nibbling on his bottom lip again. You fight the urge to tug it free.

Tenya clears his throat. “Can we go skiing?”

“I’m down,” Ochako replies, without glancing up from her laptop.

“I wanna try snowboarding,” you say, excitement creeping into your voice.

“Oh, me too,” Shouto agrees.

Tsuyu drains the last dregs of her hot chocolate before placing her mug back in the damp ring of liquid printed on the wooden table. “Well, I want to have a snowball fight.”

All of you, even Izuku, who looks up at Tsuyu with a fond expression, make various noises of agreement.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Ochako announces a heartbeat later, slamming her laptop closed with a flourish. “Pack your bags and book your flights. We’re going on holiday!”

—

Only a few days later, right as you’re about to slip beneath the waves of the paperwork drowning you, a few consecutive buzzes catch your attention. Before the noise has a chance to spur you into action, your phone is careening off the edge of your desk, where you heedlessly placed it earlier, and clattering onto the floor as though it’s also had enough of today.

You huff, extending a lazy foot to slide it back towards you, and pick it up. Although you have enough paperwork to bludgeon someone with, you’re quick to abandon it and swipe at the screen, grateful for the distraction presenting itself.

Christmas Getaway!! 🎄☃️

Ochako: Guys we should all book the same flight Ochako: Start the holiday right at the airport!! Ochako: No time for a drink than in a place where time doesn’t exist

You: i second that You: love pre-gaming a flight with overpriced airport pints

Shouto: I’ve never drunk before a flight. Shouto: Sounds fun.

Tsuyu: it very much is

Tenya: I’ll stay sober so we don’t miss our flight

You: boooooooo You: the beauty of drinking in an airport is the risk of missing your flight

Izuku: that seems counterintuitive lol

Tsuyu: nah she’s right Tsuyu: it’s like gambling

You: go big or go home You: literally lmfao

Shouto: When should we book our flights for, then, Ochako?

Ochako: Friday, December 19th !!

You: babe friday is like the worst day to catch a flight in the history of global airline travel

Ochako: Are you kidding or not bc I can’t tell over text

You: dead serious

Tenya: I have read that online. Tenya: And I must admit, any Friday flights I’ve caught for work are often delayed.

You: see!!! every single friday flight i have taken has been carnage You: everything’s delayed, everybody is grumpy af bc everything’s delayed

Izuku: i haven’t heard this!! interesting… Izuku: do you think that’s because of weekend getaways like ours??

Tenya: I suspect so.

You: the vibes are off i’m telling u

Tsuyu: i don’t mind when we fly out :)

Shouto: Me neither.

You: how about thursday?

Ochako: I have quirk counselling sessions all day rippp

Tenya: We could catch a red-eye?

Ochako: I lied

You: ???

Tsuyu: lollllll

Izuku: what’s up ochako?

Ochako: I only booked the lodge for Friday to Sunday night I'm sorry!!!

You: can we extent the booking?

Ochako: It's already booked up around our dates rip

Tenya: Ah. Tenya: Don’t worry. Fridays aren’t that bad to fly on. Tenya: Besides, the more time we’re in Japan around this time of the year, the better.

You: it IS that bad

Izuku: i can’t tell if ur being dramatic or not

You: i’m not You: i swear fridays are cursed

Ochako: Forgive me!!!! I didn’t know

You: hush my love, it's my fault anyway <3 You: i should’ve said something as u were booking

Shouto: I’m sure it’ll be okay. Shouto: If our flight is delayed, we have more time to drink in the airport, no?

Tsuyu: hell yeah

You: … You: i hate that ur right sho

Shouto: Thank you :)

Tenya: Just found a morning flight from Haneda, Tokyo departing at 10:30am. Tenya: Arrives in Hokkaido around midday.

Ochako: I saw that one too!!

Tsuyu: sounds good to me

Izuku: yeah me too

Shouto: I am also happy with that.

You: i’ll book it rn You: better than doing my paperwork lol

Shouto: I’m also going to ignore my paperwork and book the flight.

You: that’s the spirit!! You: everyone prepare for some serious morning drinking before our delayed flight

Tsuyu: 🫡🫡

Shouto: Will do!

Izuku: alright…. Izuku: you’re buying though

You: sure, i’ll buy you a drink izuku :)

Izuku: why does that feel like a threat…

Tenya: I am also picking up on the ominous undertones.

You: i do not have a clue what you guys are talking about 😇

Ochako: Bought my ticket!! I’m so excited

Tsuyu: ME TOO

Shouto: I have also bought mine!

Ochako: Holiday shopping trip asap??

You: please

Tsuyu: 100%

Shouto: I don’t need to buy anything but I can come to carry bags.

Ochako: Yes please! Ochako: And that’s a lie, you may not NEED anything but that won’t stop me from shopping for you anyway!!

Tenya: I’m just going to order weather-appropriate clothes online. Tenya: But have fun!

You: okayyyy You: izuku stop typing you’re coming

Izuku: uhhh okay Izuku: i suppose i could do with some warmer clothes

You: that’s what i like to hear

—

The Morning of the Friday-Flight Curse, Present Day.

In hindsight, perhaps you should have insisted harder that you all fly out on Thursday—a normal, non-evil day to catch a flight—and book some other hotel for the night before your stay at the lodge. Because, as it happens, your class of heroes has been a magnet for trouble since you were all fifteen and apparently, even the spirit of a Christmas holiday cannot erase such horrible karmic debt.

You're standing in line for security with Izuku, passport and boarding pass in hand, when your phone buzzes in your pocket.

“Must be them,” you murmur to Izuku, sliding your phone out and tapping on the screen.

Izuku nods. “Yeah I’d imagine so. Probably just letting us know they’ve arrived.”

A notification from the group chat flashes and you hum in response, unlocking your phone. Then, as you read the message, a groan crawls up your throat.

“What is it?” Izuku turns to you, calm and very much used to your dramatics, as he hikes his duffel bag higher up his shoulder. “Are they here?”

Since the moment you awoke this morning, you’ve been trying to ignore a sense of foreboding in your gut. Mostly unsuccessfully, but still. You thought it was flying anxiety—tried to convince yourself it was normal. Without speaking, you turn your phone and let Izuku watch the typing bubble appear to deliver two more messages. Credit where credit is due, it appears your body knew something was fated to go awry today.

If only you’d listened.

Christmas Getaway!! 🎄☃️

Shouto: Bad news Shouto: Can’t talk Shouto: Look online

“Shit,” Izuku hisses. He hurriedly tugs his own phone from his pocket and opens a news app. You lean over his shoulder, and sure enough, a headline reads:

LIVE: Pro-Heroes on Scene as Unknown Villain Threatens to Destroy Shuto Expressway

“Yeah,” you breathe, staring at the livestream of Shouto—clad in sweats and a hoodie, flinging up a massive wall of ice before pulling out his phone—before echoing, "Shit." It would be hilarious watching him try to type in the group chat and dodge the villain’s attacks, in any other scenario but the one you’re currently living in. “They’re going to miss the flight.”

“I think so,” Izuku murmurs. He glances away from the video and towards you, instead.

On his screen, you can see a blur of Tenya zipping between abandoned cars on the expressway as he extracts people from the heart of the fight. Tsuyu’s tongue flings out between Shouto’s attacks in an attempt to apprehend the villain. And somewhere amidst the flying rubble, Ochako is floating nearby as she clearly tries to de-escalate the situation in frantic shouts between each wave of the villain’s assault.

Forlorn, you finally meet Izuku’s eyes.

You’re not worried about them handling it. Hell, if Shouto is able to text you both, they clearly have the fight under control. But there is much more to protecting Japan than a flashy battle. Afterwards, a clamour of newspeople, their oversized cameras shoved in your face as they demand information, has to be addressed. Then, you must communicate with local law enforcement and help cordon off the scene, which often involves wrangling the aforementioned mob of journalists. All before examinations with on-site medics can clear you for return to your next immediate duty: the mandatory debrief with your agency. Long, often incredibly tedious, and resulting in, you guessed it, a shit ton of paperwork.

Even if they defeat the villain within the next minute, there’s no way they’ll make it through security and to the gate in time. You honestly doubt they’d get to the airport before your flight leaves.

Why today of all days?

The line shuffles forward, and you follow the chattering family in front of you, rolling your suitcase along. “Fuck. Should we leave?”

Izuku doesn’t reply for a moment, pocketing his phone and observing the snaking queue of travellers as he thinks. “Why don’t we just get through security first and go from there?” he proposes. “You did say you were desperate for an airport drink…”

You huff, amused. “I did,” you admit. “It isn’t quite the same if you’re not catching a flight, though.”

“Who cares?” Izuku counters, shrugging. “Plus, you owe me anyway.”

“That’s true,” you say, curious as to why Izuku is indulging you. But you’re reluctant to look your gift horse in the mouth, and so your acquiescence comes easily. “Fine. One drink. And then we’ll figure out what to do once they’ve apprehended the villain.”

Izuku nods, clearly satisfied he could convince you, and places a gentle hand on your lower back to coax you forward when the line moves again without you noticing. “Sounds like a plan to me.”

—

Scarcely a thimble of beer is left in your glass when Tenya finally calls the group chat about twenty minutes later. You swipe to accept the call, turn on the speaker, and place your phone on the round table between you and Izuku.

“We’re alright,” Tenya prefaces immediately, and you can hear plainly the adrenaline wound tight around his reassurance. "The villain is apprehended, local enforcement is on the scene, and there were no casualties—civilian or otherwise.”

You breathe a sigh of relief, lifting your glass to drain the final sip.

“I’m glad to hear that,” Izuku replies on behalf of you both, leaning across the table to speak into your phone amidst the steady hum of the izakaya. “It didn’t look pretty from the clip we saw.”

“We've had much worse,” Tenya answers humourously, and isn’t that the truth. “But I’m afraid we’re going to miss the flight.”

“Yeah,” you sigh, frustration already diluted by your drink. Perhaps that was Izuku’s original intention after all. Sly bastard, you think fondly. “We suspected as much. Don’t worry.”

“I’m sure Ochako can get a refund on the cabin if we explain the circumstance,” Izuku adds, his finger tracing patterns into the sweating beer glass in front of him.

“What are you talking about?” A siren rings briefly over the line, and you hear a shuffle as Tenya presumably cups a hand around the microphone before he continues. “Get on the flight, we’ll catch the next one and meet you there.”

Silently, you and Izuku glance at each other over the table.

Why had neither of you thought of that?

“Huh,” you start, a laugh threatening your voice. “Okay. We’re through security and everything already, so that works. When’s the next flight?”

“I’m not sure. Hold on.”

Tenya yells something indistinguishable. The frequency is clearly too high for the tinny call, because the words get jumbled and mashed into a half-distorted crackle over the line. Then, Ochako must grab the phone because her smooth voice comes through clear as a whistle only a beat later.

“The next flight is at four fifteen pm, so we’ll call customer service, explain, and I’m sure they’ll have no issue with squeezing us onto it.” Her voice dips lower, and at her next words you make a mental note to depart some choice words upon Shouto and his big mouth when you catch him later. “You guys go break the place in for us, alright?”

“What the hell do you mean—" You choke on your spit and grab the phone to speak into it indignantly. "—you know what. Nevermind. I don’t want to know. Contact us when you’ve rebooked and when you’re on the flight in one piece, alright?”

“Will do,” Ochako replies lightly, and you can practically hear the shit-eating smile she’s wearing. You roll your eyes. “See you guys this evening. Have a safe flight. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!”

Both of you lapse into silence at the beep of a hung-up call. At once, the easy-going atmosphere melts down into quiet tension that smothers you like a fire blanket. You try for an awkward smile, unsure why you feel so embarrassed, and you must hit the mark if Izuku’s twisted lips are anything to go by.

“Another drink?” Izuku asks—an olive branch, if you’ve ever seen one. “My treat.”

Grateful for a reason you can’t quite place, you nod and slide your glass forward until it clinks with his. “Sure. We have time.”

Izuku grabs both empty glasses. “Cool.”

He stands, tucking his chair back under the sticky table. It’s an action so laughably Izuku—polite and considerate and diametrically opposed to the chaotic atmosphere of the izakaya around you—that a tender exhale escapes you at the sight of him picking his way through the room.

After a few moments of people watching, you glance back at Izuku, as though it’s only ever a matter of when not if you will give in to the perpetual compulsion to do so.

Deciding to update your friends, you snap a quick photo of Izuku leaning on the bartop. Your breath catches in your throat when you look down at it. Dim, golden lighting reveals the lingering ghost of his smile, frozen mid-conversation with a bartender. You zoom in and swallow. Beneath the knit of his crewneck, strong muscles coil distractingly. You trace the slightly blurry mess of curls around his ears; the large, veiny hand caught mid-gesticulation in the air.

Only when your eyes linger on the denim-clad curve of his ass do you realise you’ve been staring at the photo long enough for it to be edging into pathetic territory. Especially given the real-life subject is currently stalking back towards your table, two pints in hand.

Quickly, you fire off the photo with the caption ‘preflight drinks, check!’ and convince yourself it was simply the satisfying framing which captured your interest, not the man within it.

—

For all your complaints about how awful Friday flights are, your own flight is ironically smooth. With a few drinks down the hatch, you boarded (only 45 minutes late, a new record for a Friday, you’re positive), watched a cheesy Christmas film while sandwiched between two strangers, and landed without a hitch. It was even suspiciously easy to hail a taxi, and the driver had no problem when you requested to stop by a market on the way and buy a small mountain of food in preparation for the weekend.

Now, the taxi trundles up a steep, winding pathway so narrow you and Izuku have yelped more than once in fear for your lives as the driver flies around sharp corners. Evidently, he’s familiar with these roads, but you’re not much comforted by the knowledge. Not until you clear the mountain you’ve been hugging thus far and the scenery practically blooms before you; opening up into a sprawling army of evergreen trees, covered in snow so fine it looks like powdered sugar.

“Oh wow,” you gasp, your warm breath fogging the glass.

Trees shoot up into the sky before flying past you in a blur of deep green. You roll the window down an inch, just enough to smell the fresh air without being accosted by the darkening snowfall. Cold burns in your lungs.

“I can’t believe this is so close and I’ve never visited. Feels kinda criminal,” Izuku murmurs in wonder.

When your eyes dart to the man, he’s looking past you, snowfall reflecting in his gaze like you could step through into an identical world within him. Your heart squeezes in your chest. Hastily, you whip your head back to the scenery to hide your face, realising only a second later that the action is likely more suspicious than staring at him in the first place. Whatever.

“I know right,” you agree.

“Big storm’s on its way in,” the taxi driver chimes in, canting his head towards where you’re seated without taking his eyes off the road. “The whole town’s holding their breath. Probably best to stay inside tonight.”

Alarmed, you lean forward and brace a hand on the passenger seat in front of you. “You’re serious?”

Twisting the wheel, the driver hums in response. You all veer sideways as the taxi careens around a corner. “They’re pretty normal here this time of year,” he explains. “You’re lucky you guys arrived when you did.”

“What about the other inbound flights tonight?” Izuku asks, an undercurrent of worry in his voice.

“I have no idea, to be truthful. Usually, they’re grounded when it gets too bad. Just until the storm eases up.”

You groan and flop back into your seat, the beauty of the scenery flung far to the recesses of your mind at the news. “If they get stuck in Tokyo, ‘Zu, it’s the Friday curse striking us for the second time today, I’m tellin’ you.”

“I am starting to believe it’s real, I'll say that much,” Izuku replies, crossing his arms across his chest.

“What, you got more people joining you?” the driver asks, curious eyes straining to meet yours through the rearview mirror. You nod, and he purses his lips in thought. “When’s their flight departing from Tokyo?”

“In a couple of hours,” you answer.

“Ah, well… I can’t say for certain, of course, but it’s unlikely there'll be any flights coming in this evening. The storm’s supposed to hit full force right before dark.”

You glance out the window. While it’s blindingly bright outside right now, you can see the threat of dusk lingering beyond thick snowfall.

“Is that so?” you grumble, fiddling with the seatbelt across your body. “What about tomorrow mornin’?”

“Oh, it’ll be fine by then,” the driver states cheerfully, shooting you a smile through the mirror. “Storms 'round here arrive quick and fast, but thankfully they leave in the same fashion. Who knows, maybe I’ll be picking up your friends from the airport tomorrow,” he laughs.

“Maybe,” you agree quietly, not impressed by him immediately assuming your friends will be stuck in Tokyo until the storm clears.

“Anyway,” the driver grins, changing the subject. “Here we are!”

Sure enough, the taxi rounds a corner and drives into a large clearing. Across it, the brooding log cabin stands solitary, its wooden foundations rising from a sea of snow, and encircled by a wall of trees. The whole picture is eerily beautiful, as undisturbed as it appears. Almost as though it’s been lying in wait for millennia. When the car jerks to a stop, you step out into the frigid air and stare up at the spiked crown of the flanking forest.

A feeling of utter inconsequence envelopes you, and the sheer scale of the terrain reminds you of the human beneath your hero you so often refuse to face. Blood rushes to your cheeks at the bite of cold, and you eventually force yourself to move, rounding the taxi to pop open the trunk. You lift your luggage out one by one, followed by the bulging bags of food, and straighten up to watch the driver wave Izuku closer.

“I best be goin’, I want to get home before the storm reaches the town,” he explains when Izuku bends down. “But when you need to get back to the airport again, give me a call.” He passes Izuku a small business card through his window, rolled down barely a crack against the wind.

“Ah, we will. Thank you for your help,” Izuku says softly, smiling at the man as he takes the card.

“Stay safe,” the driver says.

“You too,” Izuku replies.

The taxi reverses and trundles back down the road it arrived from. You watch until the gleaming yellow disappears back off the mountain’s edge, weirdly content to remain in the chilled air and admire the view beyond. While you’re distracted, Izuku collects both your suitcases and, somehow, the shopping too, setting off towards the cabin before you can react. For a second, you stand baffled at the ease with which Izuku hefts such weight; how his big hands wrap around the baggage and what else you'd like them wrapped around, instead. Then, you snap out of it with a shake of your head.

“Wait! Here, lemme—” You jog up to him and make a grab at your suitcase.

Izuku sidesteps you easily. “Don’t worry, I got it.”

Huffing, you stuff your hands deep into your pockets to hide your awkwardness. “Fine. I’ll get the door.”

After fumbling under a frost-covered plant pot housing what looks to be a baby pine tree, you find the key. Old and antique and brass—embellished with curlicues that give the impression it’s teleported straight from another lifetime. You unlock the door and stand aside to let Izuku bundle past you, turning the key this way and that in admiration. He places the luggage down and surveys the space.

“Oh wow,” he murmurs, immediately venturing further into the cabin. “How did ‘Chako find this place?”

Following inside, you hardly notice when the door is slammed shut by a windy gust behind you. The space is gorgeous—warm-toned and rustic, littered with patterned rugs, thick, warm blankets, and fairylights, wound loosely around the wooden beams of the ceiling, the cabin awaiting their soft glow. You rub your hands together in an effort to recirculate the blood that’s vacated your fingertips. It’s freezing in here, too, but you can see a stone fireplace tucked in the living room, an arrangement of deep-seated, cosy chairs surrounding it, and a bundle of logs piled up nearby.

“I have no idea, but she outdid herself,” you finally say, running your hand over the back of a fur blanket covering the sofa. Under your frozen fingers, it feels impossibly silky smooth. “I feel like I’ve stepped right into a Hallmark movie.”

“Right! She could tell us this is a set, and I wouldn’t bat an eyelash.” Izuku laughs, and the sound settles into your gut like warm honey.

—

You settle into the mountainside cabin seamlessly. Before long, you’ve unpacked in your respective rooms, tucked any perishable foods in the rudimentary fridge outside—no more than a stone chest kept cool by the piles of snow surrounding it—and are perched on a barstool at the kitchen island while Izuku cooks for you.

Outside, however, the snowfall has only worsened. Night is encroaching, dark tendrils overtaking the sky, and you can barely make out the flurrying storm. You stare at the window, beyond where Izuku is hunched over a countertop, squinting as you try to distinguish the craggy mountain contours.

No luck. All you can see is Izuku reflected in the glass. Concentration lines his face, a quiet focus driving the rough, unpracticed motion of his knife on some unfortunate vegetables.

“You sure you don’t want me to cook?” you ask restlessly.

Izuku doesn’t spare you a glance, continuing to butcher the pepper he’s clutching into uneven strips. “Nope. You take it easy, I'm fine. Have a drink if you want.”

A proposal undoubtedly made in the hope you’ll stop bothering him if you have a drink to nurse, but you obey all the same, slinking from your seat to the back door. Down a set of uneven steps, the chest—a few paces away, yet enough for the blizzard wind to whip you blind—is covered in a growing cap of snow. Lifting the hinged lid, you grab two beer bottles by their necks and let the chest drop closed again with a thud. You make for the door.

You’re grateful to reenter the warmth of the cabin just as a violent shiver wracks your body. “Damn, it’s cold out there.”

“I kind of like it,” Izuku counters.

You nudge the door closed with your foot. "Weirdo."

Then, unable to resist, you stalk towards him and tap the frosty glass against Izuku’s cheek, laughing as he jerks away from you with a startled sound. You crack the bottles open against each other and place one by his elbow.

“Here. I can’t drink alone on holiday. It goes against the rules of nature.” You knock your bottle against his with a tiny clink and say, “Cheers.”

“Cheers,” Izuku echoes as you slip back into your seat. He picks it up and takes a sip obediently, humming in satisfaction as the cold beer slides down his throat. “Thank you.”

His easy pliancy to your request, as mundane as it is, throws you back to a recent memory. One that, much to your despair, will be seared in your brain for the rest of your mortal life.

—

2 Months Earlier.

The life of a hero is… busy.

Times when your old classmates can be in the same room at the same time are, unfortunately, few and far between. But this evening, by some beautiful miracle, most of you are—spread across Denki and Hanta’s living room. It's decorated for the occasion. Strung with tiny disco balls, obnoxious mugshots of everyone over the years, and a projector dancing stars across the ceiling in a way that, paired with what tastes as if it could well be rubbing alcohol, prompts mild nausea when you stare at the moving lights for too long.

You feel like a kid again. Kind of giddy and hopeful and dreaming bigger than you should. Wrapped up in the excitement of being surrounded by so many others like you. And while you all carved out hero-shaped spaces for yourselves years ago, it’s stupidly easy to slip back into the familiar chaos of these long-awaited reunions as though you’re still on the path to proving yourself.

“No! No, dude, I’ve got that beat,” Denki wheezes, pointing at Mina with a plastic cup of alcohol. Shouto and Eijiro, sitting beside him on the carpeted floor, flinch out of the way just in time to avoid the splash. “Get this. Some chick I was fuckin’ asked me to slap her ass outta nowhere. I was like, 'Hell yeah, I’ll slap your ass.'”

“So I did, obviously. And she’s into it, moaning like crazy, and then she asks me to slap her again. Harder. And I’m nothing if not a quick study,” Denki boasts, leaning back into the cradle of Hanta’s legs, who is sitting on the sofa behind. “So I slap her harder. Dude, she was eating it up, I swear. And I'm like about to bust because she’s so fuckin’ hot, and then she asks me to slap her harder again. And I’m like… not thinking straight. So I slap her, and she starts fuckin’ crying, bro.”

“Denki,” you gape, cringing.

Around you, the reactions are similar to yours. Shock. Horror. Self-reflection on how they ended up in this conversation.

Denki grins as he takes the sight in, clearly satisfied with the response his story is provoking. “So obviously I panic, and I’m like tryin’ to soothe her and ask what’s wrong, and she whirls round on me with these big watery eyes, calls me an idiot, and asks why I slapped her so hard.”

Fuelled purely by the rancid, cheap alcohol Shinsou offered around like he was trying to get rid of it, the perfectly normal conversation you were all having derailed into this trainwreck. Unsurprising, really, considering how the taste has a gag threatening to make itself known with every reluctant sip you take, and how you can feel the edges of your consciousness blurring happily despite only nursing your second drink.

Precisely when your friends started to compare tales of the embarrassing sex they’ve had over the years, you truly can't recall, and it has since devolved into an increasingly out-of-pocket competition in order to determine who has the worst experience that trumps them all.

More adjusted people than yourselves may consider it oversharing, especially when such acute levels of detail are being colourfully articulated with next to no shame. But with the mountain of shared trauma you and your classmates stand upon, humiliating sexual stories are laughably tame.

You fight back a wheeze as Denki mimics the expression he’s describing.

“Dude,” Eijiro intones reproachfully, looking offended on behalf of the woman.

“It wasn’t my fault!” Denki yells, throwing his hands up. More alcohol flies over the rim of his plastic cup and splatters in a bowl of pretzels in the middle of the floor. “I was literally doing what she asked, I didn’t know she’d start crying, or I clearly wouldn’t have carried out her request, bro! Damn…”

“How the hell d’ya manage to slap her that hard?” Katsuki asks, a shade of bafflement painting his face.

“I have no idea,” Denki moans. “But I’ve been too scared to slap anyone since.”

“You slap me around enough,” Hanta states blandly from above him.

Denki wiggles his eyebrows. “You like it though.”

“Yeah, so did your girl at the beginning.”

Denki flings a hand up to cuff Hanta over the head. Next to them, Todoroki eyes the pair mirthfully.

Kyoka leans forward, and though her voice is modestly level, she captures your interest immediately. “I got one worse than that.”

“Shoot,” Denki replies, settling back between Hanta’s legs.

“I brought a first date back to my place. It was like pitch black, and we didn’t bother turning on any lights,” she starts, swirling the cup in her hand. “I was kinda drunk too, because we went to this metal bar beforehand, so I didn’t notice right away when we got down to it, and she got on top of me, but my face started feeling wet.”

“The fuck do you mean wet?” you ask incredulously.

Mina makes a gagging noise.

Kyoka just shrugs. “So I turn on the lamp next to my bed, wipe my face, and my hand is covered in blood because this girl got a nosebleed and didn’t wanna tell me.”

“Oh my god,” Ochako laughs, covering her mouth.

You echo the sound, leaning into Fumikage at your side in glee.

“But yeah. I go to the bathroom, and I genuinely look like something out of a horror movie. Like my entire face and neck were covered in this woman’s blood.”

“That’s so unsanitary,” Tenya says. “And gross.”

“Tell me about it,” Kyoka agrees, shivering like she’s reliving the memory.

Izuku fights a grin. “I’m guessing there was no second date?”

Kyoka shakes her head vehemently. “Hell no! Maybe if she’d laughed it off or something, I would’ve considered… But when I got back outta the bathroom, she was gone. I thought it was all a bad dream the next morning, to be honest. Still kind of wish it was.”

There’s a lull. A few brief moments of rumination at the hilarious picture of Kyoka scrubbing some stranger’s blood from her face. Then, Hanta asks, “What about you, Izuku?”

“What about me?” Izuku echoes, feigning innocence.

You stare at him in amusement from your spot across the floor. There are very few things you enjoy more than seeing Izuku try to lie. He’s awful at it.

Hanta smirks. “You got any bad sex you wanna share with the class?”

“Uh,” Izuku chuckles nervously. “Nope.” His voice—too quick, too tight—gives him away instantly.

Most of those involved in the conversation veer towards him conspiringly. You’re no exception; studying Izuku as though the weight of your gaze alone could keep him from fleeing.

“Yes, you do,” Katsuki accuses, narrowing his eyes.

“No, I don’t," Izuku shoots back.

“C’mon, Izuku,” Mina whines, grabbing a handful of pretzels. “We won’t judge. Hell, Kyoka could’ve starred in a horror movie by the sound of it. Can’t get much worse than that.”

Izuku’s sour expression screams how badly he wants to dispute Mina’s statement, but how unwilling he is to incriminate himself in the process. Your mouth opens to encourage him before you can think better of it—luckily, your voice fails to show itself, hiding behind the thundering rhythm of your heart. Asking about Izuku’s sex life directly is a slippery slope and one you’re not keen to start down.

As though sensing your attention, Izuku glances at you furtively. His eyes are like fog clinging to a windy day; so brief and fleeting, there isn’t even time to blink. But whatever Izuku was searching for in your expression, he must have found it.

He falters for a moment before steeling himself with a big inhale. “Are you guys familiar with, uh… ah, this is embarrassing,” he laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m sure you are, but… uh, BDSM?”

A rope wraps tight around your heart and yanks it into your throat.

“Damn, Izuku,” Shinsou says, raising an eyebrow. A low whistle sounds from somewhere behind you. “You into that?”

“Well, I— I don’t know. Yeah. Kind of, I guess?” Izuku replies. He flings his gaze across the circle quickly, not really looking at anyone before he continues. “I like the control side of it. Always have.”

When you read between the lines of his sketchy phrasing, it’s like time freezes. This isn’t new for him. Wielding power and control, drawing a curtain of safety around another. If you truly think about it, you suppose it isn’t an unprecedented concept at all. Izuku has been a martyr as long as you’ve known him. Concerningly fast to disregard his own well-being and even faster to throw himself in harm’s way. It’s in his nature—must be embedded somewhere deep in his genetic coding.

So, of course, Izuku is a dom. Why wouldn’t he be? All signs point to such a reality. He’s stronghearted and attentive and the epitome of a true leader. As your stomach sinks, it’s all you can do to ignore the horrible sensation and try to keep a straight face.

Eijiro nods, and you bounce your leg nervously as he continues, “I get that.” When Izuku doesn’t continue on his own, Eijiro prompts, “So… you gonna tell us the story?”

You lift your cup and take a sip. The burn of the liquid slipping down your throat is secondary to the roaring inferno eating away at your composure.

“Ah… well, I wanted to— I thought I’d try the other side of… it. Being, uh.” Izuku swallows. “Releasing that control.”

Releasing control?

“Being a sub, you mean?” Katsuki asks quietly from where he’s sprawled out next to Hanta on the sofa.

Oh my god, you think. No. Please no.

Izuku winces, looking skyward for a moment before answering, “Yeah.”

You choke on the alcohol that decides to lodge itself midway down your throat. Luckily no one, besides Fumikage next to you, appears to notice, too absorbed in the new information Izuku has parted with, though you can't be sure, largely distracted as you fight for air. Fumikage pats your back absently.

“Thanks,” you mutter when you can breathe again. Fumikage just hums, glancing askance at you once as though to deem you won’t immediately keel over, before focusing back on Izuku.

Panic overtakes you.

Izuku has always been out of your reach—foggy, concealed from view, unable to be tainted by your stupid desires, those wishing to replace the faces of your previous partners with his.

Yet this… this.

Izuku’s confession: words which banish the fog like a ray of sunshine.

This is no good.

A notion you have suppressed for such a length of time, you forgot just how potent it is when allowed to roam your mind unbridled and unpunished. As you brush your fingertips along it, your skin withers away as the disease takes hold once more, spidering poisoned roots into your veins.

“I was so nervous,” Izuku huffs. His next words flow more smoothly, like the Herculean part of his story was simply admitting he’s into kinkier sex. Now it’s been conquered without judgment, he appears relatively relaxed in comparison. “I hadn’t done anything like that before and I haven’t since. But they were… I don’t know. We didn’t click I guess.”

Music thumps lowly in the background—some R&B playlist of Denki’s you’d wager—but each word from Izuku’s mouth strikes you with a sobering clarity, as though he's pouring the words right into your ear.

“I don’t, uh, love being degraded, I discovered. Granted, I wish it hadn’t taken that for me to find out but...” Izuku shrugs. “You live and you learn.”

“That’s not embarrassing,” Kyoka pipes up, chewing on the edge of a snapped pretzel.

Ochako agrees, “Not at all. At least you tried it!”

Izuku flushes. “It kind of was... They tied me up and forgot about me.”

Around the circle, there’s a general clamour of disbelief. Offence, too—on behalf of lovely, lovely Izuku who deserves no such treatment.

You, however, sit there in gobsmacked silence.

“They… how long did they forget you were there?” Momo asks gingerly in her honeyed voice.

Izuku’s answering laugh is awkward, his words evasive. “I don’t know exactly. An hour or two, maybe? I felt like a bad dog left outside or something. And then they uh, when they came back they just apologised, untied me and that was that.”

“No aftercare?” Shouto asks quietly, shooting you a meaningful look that you don’t catch, too distracted with deciphering Izuku’s myriad of fluttering expressions.

“Well I didn’t really need it,” Izuku defends, though you cannot fathom for what reason. He shrugs once more. “Not like anything happened.”

“I can’t figure out if this or a face full of blood is worse,” Tsuyu chirps before Shouto can say anything further on his aftercare front.

“This definitely. Holy shit, dude,” Denki breathes. “That’s wild. How the hell did they forget you were there?”

Izuku’s tone levels out, clearly relieved to conclude his story. “No idea. I definitely won’t be trying it again though,” he chuckles.

After this, the conversation moves on, yet you remain rooted to the floor as though your limbs have been filled with lead, and your mind reduced to fleshy mush. Momo supplies an anecdote of her own shitty experience with an ex, yet it’s scarcely able to breach the muffling static between your ears. When it ends, you don’t react to her punchline, only remembering to conjure up a stilted laugh after Katsuki gives you an indecipherable look, because those never bode well for you.

Swiping a hand down your face, you linger on Izuku’s words. For the hero’s first experience with submission to be tainted like this—and for him to think it may be normal, or possibly even deserved—makes you feel nauseous in a way unattributable to the spinning sky of stars above you. Such a terrible dom should not be allowed to scene with anyone. Let alone Izuku.

Irritation claims you like a sweeping storm and abruptly decimates your composure.

“I’m gonna go refill my drink.” You stand, not waiting around for any response before fleeing the scene.

Denki and Hanta’s undecorated kitchen is an entirely different world from the party underway in their living room. One with a colder climate. Quieter, too—the music dampened by its walls. You refill your drink to avoid suspicion before thunking your head on the wooden cabinets above the punchbowl. You take a few deep, grounding breaths and try valiantly to ignore this new knowledge that your best friend is into submission—or, was into submission really—but the effort is in vain. The desire pooled in your heart begins to leak. To slog through your veins, until it is the very thing that fuels your brain’s senseless overthinking.

“Oh god,” you whisper into the sliver of air between your lips and the wooden grain. Humiliating self-pity washes over you. You don’t fight it. “What is wrong with me?”

The stale kitchen air doesn’t respond. You already know the answer.

—

“You know, I wouldn’t have expected you to be into submission.”

Perhaps you should wait longer than the next day to bring up such a sensitive topic, but you’ve never been one for unending patience.

Izuku—your best friend, your partner in crime, a hero currently on duty and in the middle of apprehending some low-level nobody who unsuccessfully robbed the jewellery store on your patrol route—baulks at your words. Mere seconds later his face is aflame with mortification. He fumbles with the quirk-suppressing cuffs until they lock into place around the villain’s wrists with a harsh clank. You grin, gratified at the sight.

“Not here,” he hisses, darting a look to the end of the alleyway. It’s pointless—you’d already done that thirty seconds ago and deemed there to be sufficient privacy. If you ignore the villain sprawled out on the floor, of course. “What the hell is your problem?”

With a hum and a half-hearted shrug, you cross your legs on the wall you’re perched atop before answering, “Jeez, I’m just curious. Let a woman wonder about her friend’s bedroom activities.”

Izuku splutters and looks up, raising his hand to block the sunlight streaming behind you. “That is so—”

“I never said it was moral,” you interrupt.

“I was going to say inappropriate but immoral works, too. Besides, what makes someone look like they’d be into submission without stereotyping anyway…”

Braving your elbows on your knees, you tug at the collar of your hero suit absentmindedly. “It’s just a vibe people give off. Or don’t, in your case, I suppose. I can’t put it into words.”

Izuku squints, clearly unimpressed with your explanation. But before he can shoot back a no-doubt righteous response, the villain squirms on the gravel beneath him. Chiming in with, “Fuckin’ weirdo freaks.”

You tilt your head and ask cheerfully, “What was that? Don’t think I heard you right the first time…”

“I said,” the villain emphasises, his voice climbing higher in volume. “Fuckin’ weirdo freaks.”

"Ah," you breathe. "Apparently I did."

Offence simmers under your skin. You hop from the wall, landing a hair’s breadth from the villain’s face and, without another word, jab a fist into his temple. He falls limp.

“There we go,” you say, dusting your hands off. “Much better.”

“That was unnecessary,” Izuku murmurs. But he doesn’t argue any further, hoisting up the villain and slinging him over a shoulder like he’s no more than a sack of rice. “Thanks, though.”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re welcome, hero.”

Izuku sets off towards the nearest station and you follow, studying the shift of muscles in his broad back. Controlling that kind of power over someone in the bedroom must be a rush second to none, below only that of being bestowed control of Izuku himself. And strangely, you find yourself jealous of whoever this someone was despite the fact they did such a dreadful job that Izuku won’t even consider trying submission a second time.

Ultimately, it is this harrowing thought—Izuku living out the rest of his life under the belief that his experience was the best submission has to offer him—which compels you to speak.

“It was your dom,” you blurt, wincing as your brain catches up with your mouth. Izuku stutters a step but doesn’t stop his procession through the quiet back streets of the city. “That was shitty, I mean. Not you. It’s their responsibility and all to take care of you.” You think for a moment, before adding dryly, “And to remember you’re still there…”

“Maybe,” Izuku replies, though you can tell it’s more to appease you in the hopes that you’ll drop the topic than it is him being convinced.

He’s likely run the scenario over in his mind a thousand times already, turning it this way and that, finding fault after fault after fault in his own performance rather than the dom who should have ensured he had a good time. Who should’ve taken care of him. Who should’ve known he would jump at any chance to pick himself apart until he’s nothing but a tangle of jaded threads.

“Not maybe,” you press, jogging a couple steps forward until you’re walking beside him. You glance askance at his tense face and continue. “It was your dom,” you repeat.

Izuku is uncomfortable, clearly—a furrow between his brows, a foul twist to his lips—but even so, he replies, “They weren’t my dom. Just a dom, I guess. And anyway it doesn’t matter because it’s done now. Everyone has humiliating experiences with sex; yesterday was proof enough of that, so there’s really no use in stewing on it,” he finishes, though you don’t doubt he’s been doing exactly that since.

“I’m not denying that,” you insist, giving his shoulder a quick, reassuring squeeze before dropping your hand. “But there’s a lotta communication involved in these kinds of dynamics, and it’s all too easy for a dom to disregard the scene prep and scare someone inexperienced.”

The 'like you' goes unspoken, but you know Izuku hears it all the same.

The hero sighs, obviously sensing that you’re not going to let this go anytime soon. He’s right—you’re acting on pure instinct. It would be like trying to stop a lion from converging on its prey, a fruitless endeavour that can only end in the lion's victory. “How do you know so much about this anyway?” he asks instead, hiking the villain higher up his shoulder.

You hesitate for a brief, clattering motion of your heart. Then, you remember why you brought Izuku’s story up in the first place. “Uh, I’m a… dom.”

Izuku whips his head towards you so fast it looks painful. “Huh?”

“I’m a dom,” you repeat more steadily this time, an expectant expression plastered across your face. “Most of the time, anyway. So I think I’m somewhat qualified to give you some advice.”

“Since when?”

You tilt your head back thoughtfully. Above you, the sky is a clean, deep cerulean and undisturbed by clouds. If someone were to describe the ocean to a person who’d never seen it before, you’re sure they would believe it to be the sight before you.

“Since as long as I can remember,” you answer truthfully. “I’ve always had this… appetite for control. And it translated into the bedroom, too,” you explain to the sky. “I spent so long feeling guilty about my desire. Thinking it was weird and perverted and… I don’t know really. I just thought it was all bad. But now… well. Now, I’d argue it’s kinda hot.”

Letting your head roll, you shoot Izuku a lopsided smile. There’s a reality to your words. Sometimes it truly is as simple as finding the silver lining and clinging to it for as long as it takes to accept the cloud it’s attached to.

“Wouldn’t you?”

Izuku’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. “I, uh…" He swallows heavily. "I… yes. No. I mean, shit. That’s up to you,” he deflects.

“It’s up to you, as well,” you reaffirm, maintaining eye contact. “So is it?”

A familiar blush is bleeding back across his cheeks, its ruddy colour washing out the freckles you love so much, and his jaw clenches as though fighting to keep whatever it is he wants to say inside the safety of his throat. You can quite honestly say it’s been a while since you’ve seen him this embarrassed. He grew out of his perpetual stuttering shyness many years ago. You didn't realise part of you missed it.

“Let me rephrase. Do you think it’s hot that I’m," you point a finger to your chest, "a dom, ‘Zuku?”

Unsurprisingly, this question only seems to make his predicament worse. The hero’s shoulders hitch up to his ears and he tries to duck and hide behind the villain’s limp body. You don’t let him, tucking your hands into your pockets and bending at the waist to stare at his face. Izuku makes a panicked, garbled sound as he gawks at your crooked smirk.

“How do you want me to answer that?!” he asks, hysteria creeping into his voice. His pace hastens, as if trying to outrun both you and the conversation you're insisting he participate in.

You shrug. “It’s not a trick question. Answer it however you want, I won’t be offended.”

“It’s— I don’t know, it’s alright.”

“Another glowing review to add to my profile,” you joke.

Next to you, Izuku turns his head forward and stares at the horizon resolutely. You straighten up and give a small wave to a little girl on the opposite side of the street who’s bouncing up and down excitedly at the sight of you both, before you round the corner and she disappears from view. Izuku’s so wrapped up in his own messy snarl of emotions that he doesn’t even appear to notice.

“I don’t feel any particular way about it,” Izuku grits out, tightening his hands on the villain.

Unbidden, you see those strong hands grasping desperately in the air as he awaits this shitty dom’s return. Surely he could’ve broken free. But the more you think about it, the more you wonder over the possibilities. Perhaps he was holding out hope for their return, or already too deep in subspace to do anything about being abandoned. The thought has bile rising in the back of your throat, and you promptly switch your attention to a much more alluring one: would anyone be strong enough to hold him down?

You hum, “Liar.”

You’d be strong enough to.

“I’m not lying,” Izuku insists, every muscle in his body coiled tight like a spring-trap waiting to be triggered.

You toe the trap, curious how much pressure it will take for it to snap closed and sever your foot. “Tell me you think it’s hot, ‘Zuku.”

If you didn’t know him any better, you’d say the expression smeared across his face is fear. But you do know him—almost as well as you’ve come to know yourself—so it’s with this confidence, and your newfound knowledge of his preferences, that you know what he’s truly feeling isn’t fear, but that woven pull he must possess to want to give in, to let go, to comply.

“Tell me.”

“I think…” Izuku swallows, finally looking at you in a clear plea. You tilt your chin up, barely, and don’t say a word. “I think it is… hot,” he murmurs. “That— uh, that you’re a dom.”

A familiar flower of pride blooms in your gut, and you offer the hero a gentle smile. “Atta boy. Wasn't so hard now, was it?”

Embarrassment washes over Izuku’s face as his lips pinch shut.

“You’re awfully good for someone who claims to dislike submission.”

“Well that wasn’t… this doesn’t count…” At your silence, he inhales. “Besides, I don’t dislike it. I just don’t think it’s for me, clearly.”

“I wouldn’t be in such a hurry to write yourself off.”

Izuku hums dismissively before asking, “Can we drop it now, please?”

There’s a plaintive note to his voice that you can’t, in good conscience, ignore, and thus you fall silent for the remainder of the block. It’s probably the least you can do after grilling him.

Yet, when you turn a corner, you can see the station at the end of the street, looming too tall and large for the residential area it occupies. Can you be blamed if this is as far as your silence extends?

“What if I showed you what it was really like?” you ask quietly.

Izuku would have to be willfully ignorant not to understand what you mean by the unsolicited question. It’s a simple question. Surface level, really. Just sex. Not your heart served up on a silver platter for him like you wish to be brave enough to do.

He turns to you sharply, and in a burst of confidence that surprises you both, he asks, “You actually would? With me?”

With me…

As though Izuku being in the equation would be the final straw for you. As though Izuku isn’t the entire equation himself. As though Izuku isn’t quite possibly the answer you’ve been seeking your entire life.

Vulnerability is plain in his voice, and it snatches any trace of a tease from your next words. “I would.”

When you reach the steps up to the station, Izuku pauses and finally turns to face you. “Alright.”

“Alright?”

“Alright,” Izuku repeats, a tiny gleam in his eye. “Show me.”

—

The Afternoon of the Friday-Flight Curse, Present Day.

Ring.

You’re drawn from your daydream with a start, and being snapped back into the present feels much like you imagine it would for an insect captured by a Venus flytrap. Direful. Then, horribly disquieting. For a split second, you’re ruminating over the last few months of weird, anticipatory tension simmering between you.

Then, Izuku answers your phone, and you pull yourself together. He leans his forearms on the table, a kitchen towel patterned with polar bears slung over his broad shoulder. You fight not to stare down the billow of his soft, button-up shirt.

“Hi,” Izuku says.

“Hello,” Shouto replies. From that one word alone, you can tell the others have roped him into his first authentic airport experience. Voice slightly slurred, vowels curling around the consonants. “It’s snowing.”

You glance questioningly at Izuku, who shrugs, similarly lost as to the context of Shouto's statement. “With you?” you ask.

“Nope… with you guys. We’re stuck here until the morning.”

“Ah,” Izuku breathes. “Funnily enough, we suspected as much.”

“Huh?”

“Our taxi driver mentioned a storm was coming this evening,” Izuku provides. “That most flights would be grounded. We just hoped it wouldn’t be yours.”

Shouto hums down the line. “There is a Friday curse,” he whispers conspiratorially.

In the background, you can hear Ochako agreeing, “It’s real!”

“I told you guys,” you croon, taking a swig of beer. “That sucks, though. What’s your plan?”

“Stay and drink,” Shouto chirps happily. “I’ve discovered I enjoy airport pints.”

Tenya, sounding more sober but only by a margin, cuts in, “And then we’ll crash at Tsuyu’s because it’s closest to the airport and come back for the first flight out tomorrow, 7 A.M.”

You chuckle. “And you’ll be good for a flight that early?”

“Don’t doubt the allure of morning drinking in an airport,” Shouto chimes in haughtily.

“Oh, I won’t,” you reply, amused.

“Have fun, guys,” Izuku tacks on, leaning his weight further onto the table. The tendons in his forearm shift where he’s rolled his shirt sleeves up, and you eye the sight dazedly.

Overlapping shouts reverberate down the line in response. You think you hear ‘we will,’ and maybe ‘you too,’ but really, it could be anything. Faintly, Ochako calls for another round, and a sappy grin spreads across your face. Izuku hangs up the call, still chuckling at the clear inebriation in your friends' voices. He shares a fond look with you before turning back to his chopping board. A clunky chorus of thumping meets your ears once more.

Sat stationary as you watch, the chill throughout the cabin begins to settle into your bones. You slide from your seat.

“I’m going to light the fire,” you tell Izuku.

“Sounds good,” he replies, chucking the butchered vegetables into an ancient cast-iron pan.

Once you’re kneeling by the hearth, you balance logs atop the ashes of a previous fire and bundle some kindling in the gaps. A box of matches lies next to a fire poker. You strike one on the red phosphorus strip and hold the flame to the tinder. It catches, burning quickly through peels of wood until it reaches the thick logs and begins to gnaw at the bark.

This isn’t the ideal place to guide Izuku through submitting once more. You don’t have any of your toys, you’re not surrounded by the familiar nerdy decorations of Izuku’s bedroom, where you’d agreed the scene could take place, and you feel a bit untethered after a day of travelling. Yet still, some quiet urge gnaws away at your skin.

The fire crackles and snaps. You watch until the flame chews through a log, cleaving the wood in two.

“Food’s ready,” Izuku calls, curbing your fireside brooding. “Come eat.”

You rise to your feet and call back, “Coming!”

The flame seems to have cleaved your own resolve in two; there are worse places to scene with Izuku than a secluded cabin with no occupants but the two of you.

—

1 Month Earlier.

To: [email protected] Subject: Scene Checklist

Hi Izuku,

Please see the attached kink checklist for you to fill out. Then we can start discussing and planning a scene you’re happy with.

Looking forward to seeing what you’re into, hero :)

P.S. Don’t look at my checklist until you’ve filled out yours. Answer honestly!!

📎BDSM.checklist.blank.docx (280mb) 📎My.checklist.docx (340mb)

Sending a BDSM checklist on your work email must go hand in hand with a litany of ethical and cybersafety concerns, but considering how tightly protected hero communications are and how you know Izuku won’t be running to HR, you figure it’s acceptable to ignore them on this occasion. With this in mind, your mouse hovers over the Send button for less than a blink before you press it and lean back in your plush chair. Beyond the glass walls of your office, a steady rush of traffic lulls your mind into contemplation as you stare at the Message sent notification.

What is Izuku into? Besides the obvious submission of course. His tendency towards self-flagellation makes you wonder if he will enjoy having someone lift the burden from his shoulders for a night. Or if his stubborn nature will translate to brattiness. If he needs someone stern and mean to put him in his place. But even as you picture it, it doesn’t seem to fit him right.

Then, you remember what he mentioned at the party.

“I don’t, uh, love being degraded, I discovered. Granted, I wish it hadn’t taken that for me to find out but... You live and you learn.”

No. He doesn’t seem like a brat. And that works perfectly for you—someone good, who behaves, who hangs onto your every word like a puppy.

You honestly can’t think of anything better.

Some hours pass in this way, interspersed with half-assed attempts at filling out your own paperwork from an arrest earlier this morning and even more deliberations over the green-haired hero who must have checked his email by now. A knock on your office door disturbs your procrastination.

“Hey.”

When you glance up, Shouto is leaning against the doorjamb—arms crossed, a suspicious expression plastered over his face. It immediately sets you on edge.

“Hiya, Sho.” You twirl a pen between your fingers and offer him a small, innocent smile. He just finished patrolling with Izuku, that much you know. But there’s no way he’s aware of the email sitting in Izuku’s inbox right now. “What’s up?”

He tilts his head. “Nothing much.”

“How was the patrol?”

“Fine.” Shouto moves further into the room and perches on the arm of the chair before your desk, still clad in his hero suit. You stare up at him, trying your best to seem inconspicuous. “Izuku was acting weird, though. Started right after he got an email from you.”

Shit. Well, it’s not like he knows the contents of said email anyway. Worst case: deny, deny, deny.

“Is that right?”

Shouto nods. “Saw your name right before he turned his phone away.”

“Nosy,” you say pointedly, tilting your chin down to straighten your keyboard and mouse mat aimlessly. “I don’t know why he was acting like that. Just a normal email.”

Shouto narrows his pretty eyes at you, the corners of his lips turning down. “Just a normal email,” he repeats blandly.

You nod once.

“So you won’t mind showing me, then?”

“Ah, I— uh, I really shouldn’t. Confidentiality clauses and all that. I would hate for you to get in trouble with the agency.”

“Now that I think about it…” Shouto begins in a low voice, leaning forward. Instinctively, you rear back. He can be so unnerving when he wants to; feline eyes, laser-focused on you like you’re a helpless field mouse one wrong move away from being eaten. “I think I might recall seeing the subject line. Something about… ahhh, what was it?” Your heart patters something dangerous in your chest and you chew on your bottom lip as you wait for him to hammer the final nail in your coffin. “Something about a scene checklist.”

Now here’s the kicker about your friend: he was your first scene partner. You were a few years younger, as was Shouto, and when you brought up an interest in BDSM—namely domming—one drunken night post-patrol, and he’d expressed his own in trying submission. One thing led to another. You will be forever thankful you had a chance to experiment and learn within the safety of your friendship with Shouto before you explored a scene with anyone else. And because of him, you finally discovered how brilliant it was to release the guilt you carried for so many long, tiring years.

This history alone is not unfortunate, but paired with Shouto’s cripplingly nosy nature and his absolute zero concept of personal boundaries, it becomes a bit of a bitch to hide anything sensitive of this nature from the man. He has an uncanny ability to weasel it out of you, anyway.

Sighing in defeat, you raise your hands. Your deny, deny, deny plan is out the window. Shouto already knows what exactly you sent Izuku and he’s probably guessed the reason, too. “Fine. Fine, Shouto. Yes I sent him a scene checklist. Please don’t ask any follow-up questions.”

Predictably, he asks a follow-up question.

“When did this happen?”

You fold, finding it difficult to keep anything from Shouto even when you want to. But not before heaving a laborious sigh to communicate just how much you don’t want to be discussing this with him. “Maybe a month ago. After the party at Denki and Hanta’s.”

Shouto huffs a small laugh. “I knew it.”

“The fuck do you know?”

You’re halfway along the path to offence, busy trying to figure out if he means it as the condescension it comes across as when he answers, “That you were looking at Izuku like you wanted to eat him the second he said he tried subbing,” Shouto deadpans. “And for many despairingly long minutes after that.”

“I was not.”

“You definitely were. It’s okay, though, it was kind of funny.”

“Brilliant,” you sigh, gaze flickering to the perch Shouto has on your chair just to avoid his gaze.

“You filled out a new list yourself?” Shouto asks curiously.

You swallow. “Yeah, obviously.”

“Still into edging lucky people until they cry?”

Here’s another thing about your friend: he’s even more shameless than you are. And you truly don’t know who taught him this, but you fear you may have set something dangerous in motion when you allowed him into your sex life.

“Shouto, what the fuck.” He doesn’t reply, doesn’t move. Just stares until you wilt like a sunburnt flower. “Asshole… yes, I am. Okay. Not that it’s any of your business. Happy now?”

“Very,” Shouto says. He brushes imaginary dust from his thighs and stands, making his way towards your door. You remain rooted to your seat in bafflement at this entire interaction. Right before he leaves, he glances at you over his shoulder and offers a tiny smirk. “Have fun.”

You flip him off as he disappears.

—

On your desk sits a fresh cup of coffee you’ve just made, wafting delicious steam around the room. You shake your mouse to wake up your computer, type in your password, and sigh in relief. Right at the top of your inbox sits a new email from Izuku. You lift the mug to your lips and click on it, zeroing in on the attached file.

That afternoon, you find out things about your best friend that will stick with you for the rest of your life. It feels clandestine to be reading a litany of kinks and Izuku’s corresponding interest levels at work, but you can’t tear your eyes away.

“Tentacles, huh?” You blow out a small breath. “Who would have thought?”

—

“What’s your fantasy?”

“Me?” Izuku asks indignantly.

You roll your eyes. “Yes, you, dumbass, who else would I be asking for their sexual fantasy in a public park?”

Izuku shrugs. “I don’t know, some people do that.”

“Yeah, perverts maybe,” you say pointedly.

He just gives you a strange look. “And you’re not?”

“I suppose you’ll have to find out, won’t you?”

Izuku’s gloved hands wrap around a steaming takeout cup of coffee as he changes the topic. “I really don’t get why we have to do this here,” he mutters.

“Neutral middle ground,” you explain, gesturing at the public park around you. It’s quiet today, overcast and grey. The grass matted with a thin sheen of morning dew. “It’s easier to have a vulnerable conversation somewhere where neither of us holds much power. I thought about a cafe, but it’s too easy to overhear conversations there. What would be worse than a news headline the next day reading: Japan’s top heroes discuss BDSM contracts in quaint cafe.”

Izuku laughs before continuing warily, “Still.” He eyes the scuff of his trainers on the path you’re both meandering along. “Feels weird. I’m usually on the other side of this interaction.”

You consider this before replying. Perhaps you should have offered to do this at Izuku’s place. While this is far from either of your first scene-planning rodeos, with Izuku’s history as a dom, it’s likely still unnerving for him. You chew on your bottom lip absently. “Do you wanna go back to yours?”

Izuku folds quickly, nudging his shoulder into yours and taking a sip of his coffee. “Ignore me. I think I’m just nervous.”

“That’s normal. If it would make you feel better, though, I’m happy to do it at your place, ‘Zuku. Doesn’t bother me. In fact," you rub a self-conscious hand on your nape, "I should've thought to offer it in the first place, really."

Izuku shakes his head. “It’s fine.”

You nod. Then, unsure how to transition into planning a scene with your best friend, you try to break the ice. “So… you’re… not into physical pain?”

Izuku jumps as if you’d just broken the frozen ground beneath his feet with a sledgehammer, plunging him into frigid water. “Uh, yeah. Not really.”

“Or degradation.”

Izuku nods his confirmation. “Get enough of that in the media.”

“You and me, both. Which you’ll know is perfect if you read my list, too,” you prompt.

Overhead, the trees sway in a cool breeze and Izuku hums. “I did. Never gonna be able to look at you the same way.”

At this, you huff a surprised laugh. “Yeah, ditto.” You turn to him. “Tentacles?”

Izuku’s face flushes and he looks at you in mock betrayal. “Okay, well… uh. Pet play?” he accuses.

You grin. “Yep. Specifically puppy play, if you were curious.” Izuku swallows. “And let the record show, I checked tentacles, too. Which you already know. But that might be a bit much for a first scene.”

Izuku seems slightly bewildered, but you can tell he’s trying to remain laid-back as he tries to keep his affirmative hum steady. You find it way more endearing than you should.

“Do you have an idea of what you want to get out of the scene?”

“What do you mean?”

“Like, not just kink-wise but emotionally.” When he doesn’t volunteer any answer, you ask, “Why did you wanna try being a sub, ‘Zuku?”

Izuku breaks eye contact and fiddles with the cardboard sleeve of his drink as he thinks. You give him space, letting the peaceful atmosphere of the park keep you occupied while you walk. As it turns out, you don’t have to wait long.

“I liked the idea of… of not thinking, I guess? Not having to make any decisions for once. Letting someone else… Ahhh, I don’t know. It sounds silly when I say it out loud,” Izuku laughs awkwardly.

“No, it doesn’t," you reassure instinctively. "You wanted someone to take care of you for once, right? Stop all the overthinking in that brain of yours. Make you feel good.”

Izuku takes a deep breath and nods, silent.

“I get that,” you muse, wrapping the soft fabric of your scarf tighter around your neck and rearranging it to cover your chin from the brisk wind. “And I can do that for you.”

“And it’s not, uh…” he begins uncertainly. You prompt him with a gentle hum. “It’s not selfish?”

Is it embarrassing how you can physically feel his words lance your heart?

“No,” you shake your head, turning to meet his eyes. “It’s not selfish. Everyone deserves to be looked after. Especially you.”

Izuku steels his shoulders as though your words have to be endured rather than met with acceptance. You don’t push. It’ll be easier to show him just how good it can feel to be cared for than to try to convince him of such an unfamiliar concept.

“Now, tell me. What do you want to happen in the scene?”

“Like… like kink-wise now?” Izuku asks quietly.

You laugh. “Yeah, kink-wise. And then we’ll choreograph a dance, ‘Zuku. All the main steps. And along the way, we can freestyle or improvise, but during the scene, you will have the comfort of knowing which major steps are coming next. And that we will follow them one by one until the dance is over.”

Izuku stares at you curiously, openly, and you remain quiet as he extracts what he needs to from your expression. “Alright. Where should we start?”

You smile and think back on his list for a moment. “I seem to recall you expressing an interest in kneeling...”

—

The Evening of the Friday-Flight Curse, Present Day.

Over the cabin, a strange film has settled—almost like a breath withheld. Yet you know this isn't the case. In the stone hearth, a fire roars freely as the logs accept the oxygen atoms to continue burning; in your chest, your diaphragm expands and contracts; in your lungs, alveoli exchange oxygen for carbon dioxide; you can hear Izuku breathing. All these facts confirm the existence of air in the high-lofted room, and confirm that time is indeed passing, but in truth, you’ve never felt further away from any of it.

Tiny tremors shake your hands. “Take off your clothes.”

Izuku hesitates for a beat, nervous eyes meeting yours, before scarred fingers begin to pop open the buttons of his shirt. Under the white noise of rustling fabric, you slacken the leash on your own mind and the quiet seeps in as though visiting an old friend. Izuku’s shirt drops to the floor. Followed by a clink and a thump as his belt joins it. He toes off his shoes, tucks his socks in them. Lowers his trousers and kicks them aside. Then, he’s bare save for the underwear wrapped around his thick thighs. Izuku doesn’t cover himself, but his hands spasm in a motion suggesting he wishes to do so.

From where you stand—two paces away perhaps, yet right now it feels more like a vast, unending ocean—your eyeline wanders down his body, tracing the scars sliced into muscle and the outline of his cock steadily filling out his briefs. All you’ve offered him is your attention, but it’s enough, and you file that little tidbit away for the future.

Once satisfied, the heavy weight of the air guides you into a low armchair by the fireplace. You settle there and tuck your legs beneath you like a child. On the rug before you lies a cushion, and there’s no secret what it’s for.

You tilt your head up to Izuku. “Kneel.”

In a few jerky steps, Izuku crosses the space and sinks to his knees atop the pillow. Closer to the fire now, deep orange light dances across his skin. Warmth, with it—you can feel heat stroking the side of your face and wonder if you must be similarly painted in strokes of sunset. Soon the fire may become oppressive, but for right now, there is nothing more welcome than how it staves away the snowstorm swirling outside.

Coiled like he’s ready to bolt, Izuku sits tense at your feet. Your hand breaches the gap between you to touch the crown of his head and soft curls give way without fight. When you picture Izuku’s own nervous hands ruffling them in that compulsive, pacifying tendency of his, you slide the pads of your fingers down to rest on his nape and he exhales something small.

“C’mere,” you whisper, coaxing his head down and watching his spine naturally bow to accommodate the stretch. “Palms on your thighs.”

Posture corrected, you retract your hand and pick up the novel next to you—one you placed on the coffee table earlier. Having already started it on the plane, the spine is cracked, lines of glue peeling away at your rough treatment. You slip back into the story as simply as breathing; waking up in the cyberpunk city you left, rain drizzling like blood under the darkened sky.

Some minutes pass in this way, the novel resting in your lap, its pages warm by a fire wishing to consume it. Quiet, briefly disturbed by the brush of a new page. Then, a surreptitious glance at Izuku, who’s still bearing his body like a loaded weapon.

You sigh. “Relax, ‘Zuku. ‘S just me, I’ve got you.” Splaying your hand across the grain of your book to keep it open, the fire melts your tone. “Let your thoughts drift by. Try imagining a lazy river carrying them far away from here. Don’t need to think of anything but me taking care of you tonight, sweetheart.”

Subtly, Izuku unfurls. Tense lines softening into curved shoulders and silken expression, entirely unencumbered by responsibility, by expectation—left to drift like a seed in the wind.

“Good boy,” you murmur—a new, quiet appreciation of the man at your feet and the trust he’s yielding to you.

A shiver licks up the hero’s spine, and his head deepens like that of the bowing deer in Nara Park. You suppress a smile and turn your focus back to the novel in your lap to delve into the story once more. While you don’t know what’s going on inside his head, you sincerely hope it isn’t much of anything. And if you’re successful by the end of the scene, there should be nothing at all.

Time begins to stretch and shrink indiscriminately. Only marked by each scene you pass through and the chapters you leave behind. This you find to be the true magic of being a dom—bearing witness to the strange whims of the seconds coasting by, all the while your sub floats above them. A special privilege for you alone: timekeeper.

You’re unaware exactly how much time has gone by when you finally close your book. But the fire still roars in the hearth, and the placidity settled over Izuku is almost tangible, like a weighted blanket depressing him closer to the floor. Untucking your legs, you place your feet on the soft rug, calves brushing Izuku’s thighs, and lay a gentle hand on the back of his head.

“Colour?” you ask quietly, keeping your fingers still to ground him.

He doesn’t reply right away, fighting his way back through the fog to reach you. His head sways slightly. “Green,” he finally replies.

You hum, skimming your knuckles under his chin to lure his gaze from the floor. “Well done, sweetheart.”

Izuku meets your eyes, pupils blown and glassy despite being so early in the scenes, and inhales shakily.

Carefully, you lower yourself onto the floor beside Izuku and splay a hand in the valley between his pectorals. You press lightly, not enough to move him but enough to command, and he lets you guide him down, down, down, until he’s lying on the colourful tufted rug, crowded amidst you and the fire.

You stroke your thumb across the soft muscle. “There we go. Easy now. I didn’t bring my rope with me, but I think I’ve got a solution that might work.”

Izuku’s head tilts to the side. You dance your fingertips down his chest and tap on the buckle of his belt. They flare, wide and wet like a rabbit’s.

“Is that alright with you?”

“Uh,” he swallows. “Yes.”

“Good.” You undo his belt and tug the leather out from under him in one smooth motion. At his silence, you ask, “Having second thoughts?”

You’re only teasing, but Izuku startles like you’re dead serious. Like he’s already messed up. “No! No, I… no second thoughts. Sorry.”

“No sorry’s. I’ll tell you if you have something to be sorry for, okay?” you say firmly. Stroking your hand, belt in tow, up to the smooth skin of Izuku’s neck—slightly tacky with a whisper of sweat. You stare at the sight contemplatively. “It’s a real shame I don’t have your collar with me.”

Izuku tenses. “You bought one?”

You exhale in amusement, though not unkindly. “Yeah, I did, gorgeous. Matches your hair and all. The prettiest shade of green you can imagine.” It’s unnerving, the way Izuku is beholding you so intently. But you don’t let that thought show—tossing it far from the forefront of your mind until it’s barely a hiss in the dark. You finger a line across his throat where the soft fabric would lay. “But I think you’ll behave for me regardless. Isn’t that right?”

“Yes,” he whispers immediately. “I will.”

Just once, quick enough to be mistaken as an accident, you press your thumb and forefinger into his neck. Branding an imaginary collar there. Izuku sucks in a sharp breath, eyes fluttering.

“Hands up, hero.”

As Izuku raises his arms, your touch strays to help him. Curling around the calloused skin of his hands, slotting your fingers between his, shadowing the slow arch his arms carve above his head and joining them on the warm, soft rug.

It’s easy. Almost too easy, you would think if you didn’t know Izuku any better—how he responds to your touch like water to gravity. Bending and reshaping at each new request. Your brain feels like it’s melting from your ears, and a shiver drips down your spine. With every passing second, a shard of your heart slots neatly into a hollow you weren’t aware existed.

How did your heart work so tirelessly to pump blood around your body without it spilling out of these holes with every thumping beat?

How could you have been this oblivious to yourself?

Exhaling a controlled breath, you force yourself to focus. “Gonna tie them now,” you say, keeping your voice level as you gather his wrists. “'S that okay?”

“Uh-huh,” Izuku warbles.

A smile breaches your face and another fleshy shard sinks into a perfectly sized gap.

Cute.

Deftly, your fingers weave the belt around his wrists, and once they’re secured, you wrap the excess leather around the leg of a heavy, low coffee table, a stretch above Izuku’s crown. You knot him to it. Izuku could be free of the binds in a blink—there’s no doubt about this truth. But it’s a test. And secretly, you hope it may calm him, too; the ability to physically stop the scene if he wishes.

To test the restraint, you pull on the slack connecting his wrists to the table and Izuku’s triceps tense in response. Then, you run your fingers along the snug fit of the leather against his skin. All before settling on your knees by his chest.

“How’s it feeling? Anywhere too tight?” You know it isn’t, but somehow, giving Izuku an opportunity to safely reject the scene once more feels necessary.

Izuku closes his eyes. “No,” he murmurs quietly.

“Perfect,” you hum. Izuku’s eyes flicker back open at the sound, dragging lazily over to you. You pet his warmed cheek. “I’ll be right here. Right by your side. Not goin’ anywhere, sweetheart.”

Izuku smiles. Small, guarded. Undeniably fond. You fight the playful scoff that bubbles up in your throat—the habitual impulse to tease your best friend over his saccharine tendencies sweeps over you. It’s a close thing to resist, and you think Izuku notices, because the fringes of his expression brighten.

“Thank you,” he says, mouth twitching.

This time, you do roll your eyes. “Yeah, yeah. You’re welcome, hero.”

Hero, hero, hero.

The blessing and curse bestowed upon Izuku Midoriya. Without warning, the word carries far more weight than mere moments prior. You remember his hushed request, precariously balanced on the belief he is somehow unworthy, and shudder.

"I liked the idea of… of not thinking, I guess? Not having to make any decisions for once. Letting someone else… Ah, I don’t know. It sounds silly when I say it out loud."

Izuku relaxes further into the floor. You suspect it has something to do with the inherent familiarity of your teasing tone, and quietly, you notice you have calmed too. Despite the fragments of your heart returning home, despite the significance of Izuku’s request, despite the sinewy length of him strewn out for you like a royal banquet. This is your best friend. Your equal.

“Colour?” you ask again.

“Green,” Izuku replies easily.

A glance tells you he’s already half-hard. He audibly swallows as you drink in the swelling outline of him beneath his nerdy, All Might-patterned boxers. Izuku seems self-conscious enough about this whole process that something tells you he would have packed a less conspicuous pair had he known your friend's flight would be delayed. As it goes, though, you’re endeared by another display reminding you of who exactly you have at your mercy right now.

Your middle and ring fingers tease the length of him and Izuku's cock twitches. Before long, he’s hot and hard and breathing so shallowly you’d think he is trying to conserve air as you tease him. You fit your hand over his dick, its heat beating into your palm, and circle a finger over the wet fabric at the head. Izuku inhales a stuttering breath, hiding a startled noise behind his clenched jaw.

“Gonna take these off now,” you say, unable to be patient any longer as you finger the elastic of his boxers.

Izuku wordlessly lifts his hips when you begin to coax them off. The fabric slips smoothly down his freckled thighs, calves, and off his bare feet. You toss the pair over your shoulder in the direction of the chair behind you, but whether it lands on its target or in a heap on the floor is beyond your current concern.

Izuku’s dick lies heavily on his hipbone, twitching occasionally as though it has a mind of its own.

“Look at you,” you breathe lowly.

Arousal drips from the head like sap from the wound of a tree. You move, entranced, and guide his legs to bend at the knee, to part, before slotting yourself in the V you’ve created. Izuku is warm, so warm, and on your knees, you settle into the heat like this is where you’ve always belonged. Like you’re finally where you should be. Your thighs rest against his flank, caging him in. Izuku hesitates for a blink, but you see straight through it and, acting on your hunch, press your hands atop his knees, persuading his thighs to slacken and rest over your own.

This position has you shifting subtly, aroused and barely subduing the way you wish to squirm as you imagine the weight of a strap between your legs, the harness tight around your hips, the lubed latex resting atop his cock. It’d be so easy to draw your hips back and slide into the heat of him. You swallow. Try to draw your focus to the scene at hand. Hide the indulgent fantasy deep in your mind like a magpie hoarding a shiny object from prying eyes.

A flash of movement in your periphery catches your attention: Izuku’s hands. Balling tight, splaying wide, balling tight again. Rhythmic. Impulsive too, you’re sure. It makes you want to bite him. Sink your teeth into the softness of his dewy skin and hold onto him like a dog with a new toy.

“Please,” Izuku breathes softly. He’s studying the direction of your gaze, how it drifts from one sign of his arousal to the next like a lazy, snaking river.

You let him. What harm can it do?

“So polite,” you tease. Ever spineless to the rare requests the hero makes, though, you take him in your hand. Stroking him from root to tip, tempo slow as you memorise the veins running along its length with curious fingers.

Izuku’s mouth parts, stomach concaving with a pleasured gasp. “Oh… oh-hah.”

The corner of your mouth quirks up at the noise. Beneath your hand, his pulse thunders—beating like it's as alive as the roaring hearth to your side. You wonder if Izuku can taste the burning fire in the back of his throat, too. Cedarn and smoky. In the corner of your vision, the flames whip the hearth’s inner walls. Swelling, striking higher and higher until you half-worry they’re about to leap straight onto where the two of you are entwined at its base.

You twist your wrist on an upwards stroke, swiping your thumb over the head of his cock, and Izuku jolts hard enough to rattle the unlit candles atop the table he’s tied to.

“Haaah-nghhh— oh my-ah god—”

Intrigued by his reaction, you focus your touch on this area, rubbing your thumb in quick, tight circles below his cockhead. Izuku bites his lip, tiny echoes of a whimper trapped safely inside him. Your brow furrows. Why is he fighting his reaction? You haven’t asked him for silence, not yet at least, and surely Izuku of all people knows the pleasure a dom derives from hearing their sub’s own. Perplexed, you press harder. Surely he cannot remain silent forever.

“Why’re you tryin’ to be so quiet, hm?” you finally ask, after no amount of stimulation seems to encourage him to divulge his pleasure any further.

“I— I don’t know,” Izuku answers, confusion marring his own reddened face. At his temples, green curls are plastered with sweat. You watch a rivulet run down the tendon jumping in his neck.

He’s being honest, that much you can tell. But it still doesn’t answer why he’s holding back, despite the havoc you’re wreaking. His chest stutters, juddering up and down; his thighs tighten around your hips; his fingers scrabble to hold onto the slack tied to the table, the belt drawn tight from all his fidgeting, and he squeezes the length as though it will ground him. Yet he will not let himself make any real noise but breathy pants.

You bring your other hand to work the neglected length of his cock, jerking him harshly while you continue to abuse the sensitive skin under the head of his dick.

“Haah—”

This is the most you can draw from him. Severed, mutilated proof of pleasure.

Is he the type of sub you need to break?

But the notion seems odd, and your gut is already stirring in malcontent while your brain works to catch up to what the real issue is—rapidly dissecting his reaction into parts small enough to analyse.

All of a sudden, you understand. Izuku doesn't want to fall apart to get out of his head; he wants to be guided from it—by you. By the dom who will shoulder the weight of his burden so Izuku can float up into the sky. He needs gentle, confident touches to press into like a stray cat learning to trust.

“It’s okay, baby," you murmur, nodding to yourself as you let this information stretch your patience. "You don't have to know."

Izuku shudders—at your words or your touch, it’s unclear—and juts his head backwards when you fail to relent the pace you’re jerking him off.

“You don’t have to do anything but lay there and take what I give you.”

Izuku nods his head against the floor, gasping. You eye the taut line of his neck. Relish the pressure of his thighs against you. How lucky you are to see the hero like this.

“Good as gold,” you murmur, eyes lidded.

You didn’t bring lube to the cabin for… obvious reasons. But you wouldn’t need it anyway. Izuku is leaking steadily, arousal smearing along his length, your hands entirely coated and sticky. For good measure, you lean over him and gather your saliva, letting it trail from your mouth in a filthy waterfall until it hits the side of his cock. Izuku jumps and he tilts his head forward to look at you. When he realises what you’ve just done, he groans. A sound low and gravelly, scraping the back of his throat.

You smirk. “You like that?” you ask, your voice deepened with your own arousal. “Me spitting on you?”

Izuku squeezes his eyes shut. “Yes.”

“I know,” you reply, somewhat cheekily. Halting the motion of your thumb to bring your palm over the head of his cock, swirling it there. Izuku keens, clenching his jaw shut, and you speed up your other hand, fisting his length. “Saw it on your list, after all,” you croon.

Izuku doesn’t hear—or perhaps ignores the tease—but his tied hands draw towards him like a bow. They don’t get far before being snapped back. Then, his knees bend instead as he attempts to curl them up into his body. You shuffle deeper between his thighs and stop the motion with your elbows.

Izuku pants like a dog as you circle your palm over his cockhead mercilessly, and it’s incredibly rewarding to watch the edges of his subconscious resolve crumble.

“Thought I’d surprise you, sweet thing,” you tell him.

Finally, Izuku bucks up into your touch, right as a rubber band of pure willpower around his hips snaps. You grin, all teeth, and slide your palm back down to hold his cock, fisting it with both hands. On each upstroke, you twist them both and he outright moans for the first time tonight—this lilting, melodic sound that, combined with the steadily stifling heat of the fire, has you feeling a little dizzy where you sit.

You study the haggard rocking motion of his cock sliding through your hands.

Have you done it? Unleashed whatever lay beneath the cloak of responsibility Izuku is permanently wrapped up in. Freed a side of your best friend even he didn’t know existed. You recall seeing Pet names on his kink list, a little cross in the box beside it to indicate his interest, but the reality feels much different. Like each sickenly sweet term of endearment is that much more air beneath his balloon, and that much higher he floats away from the world you occupy.

“Close,” Izuku gasps, “‘M close.”

“Thank you for letting me know.” You do nothing but tighten your fists around him. He stutters mid-thrust at the sensation. “Being so well behaved f'me, gorgeous. Gonna get you even closer though, isn't that right?”

Izuku trembles. “Ah— yes— yes.”

You smile, swiping a thumb over his head. “What about now?”

“Close,” Izuku says, face screwing up, shoulders rising to his ears.

“How close?”

“Ah— haah— gonna-nghhh— gonna come—”

You stroke him once, twice, and remove your touch to splay your hands wide across his pelvis. Izuku’s hands ball into tight fists and he inhales a wet, gasping breath, as though surfacing from deep water. Every muscle lining his body is coiled tight as the shocks of his denied orgasm wrack through him.

“There you go,” you soothe, brushing your damp hands up to his waist, squeezing the soft muscle there, before drawing them back down, past his tensed thighs, and up to his knees.

Izuku makes a noise so pitiful and pained, hidden deep in his throat, that your heart lurches up into your own. You know this is part of letting him down into subspace, but something about the noise has an innate part of you rising to protect. Yet from what? Yourself? It truly doesn’t make much sense at all.

“Don’t worry about a thing, sweetheart. I’m doin’ all the thinking tonight, so just let yourself feel what you’re feeling. You’ll get what you need," you pet the inside of his knees softly, "I promise.”

When your hands drift back to his pelvis, teasingly close to his twitching dick, you press down. He isn’t moving—not anymore—but it’s a silent acknowledgement of what you can do. Of how you can hold him down if you choose to, and keep him at your mercy as long as you like. Izuku’s fists jerk open so fast his fingers remind you of fireworks shooting across a blackened sky. Izuku’s lidded eyes flutter open to look at you. Arousal tingles in your core before shooting straight up your spine like liquid fire.

“I know,” he murmurs simply in reply.

The admittance sweeps through you, flushing away any sane thought you have left.

I know.

I know. I know. I know.

A suspiciously shaky noise escapes your mouth. Izuku’s eyes widen in something almost like wonder, but you refuse to entertain that train of thought. You hide his words among memories and desires fated never to surface, and content yourself with reality: Izuku is your best friend. He trusts you. Nothing more, nothing less. Act normal, for the love of god.

Izuku’s arms strain to reach where you’re trapped in your mind, though he forgets that he is tied and you truly have no idea how, before letting out an agitated grunt. Beneath the leather, his skin is tinged a slight, irritated pink you wish to kiss and soothe.

“Can I—” Izuku starts, pulling again on his restraints again. You’re really not sure what’s unsettled him so, but you don’t like it. All at once, anxiety seems to seep through the film you’ve carefully laid, his breaths climbing into frenzy, his words into panic. “I’m not sure— I want to— But I can’t touch you—”

“Izuku, breathe,” you remind him. “Eyes on me. Just copy my breathing, baby.”

You inhale carefully, hold, exhale. Izuku imitates you, gaze fixed on your parted lips, over and over, until he begins to relax. His fists loosen, the belt slackens.

Worrying your bottom lip between your teeth, you ask, “Colour?”

Izuku takes a moment before replying. You feel much like you’re being tried—suspended on the precipice between innocent and guilty. “Green, I think,” he eventually says.

You shake your head, voice firm when you respond with, “I don’t want you to think tonight. You need to be sure.”

“Green,” Izuku says, resolute this time. “Definitely green. I’m sorry.”

You sigh, lilting in relief. “I thought I told you no sorry’s, hm? Nothing to be sorry for, I’m just glad you’re alright.”

Raising your hand to his face, you brush the dry backs of your fingers over his cheekbone. Izuku tilts his head and cranes his neck, chasing after the fleeting touch.

“I’m alright,” Izuku echoes. Then, he raises an eyebrow. When you lift your own in question, he huffs as though you’ve inconvenienced him, and you bristle in offence. The feeling lasts for mere seconds before Izuku cautiously cants his hips up and washes it away. While the request may be wordless, you don’t think you’ve ever understood him so clearly in your life.

“You still want more,” you observe. Slightly more surprised by your own guileless, inarticulate statement than you perhaps should be.

“I do,” Izuku whispers, his expression caught somewhere between embarrassment and desire.

You stare at the man under you—mind swimming with your own potent mix of emotions—long enough for Izuku’s expression to splinter into self-consciousness, which certainly won’t do. You curl your hand loosely around his cock once more and he sinks into the ground like melted butter.

It’s startling how beautiful Izuku is like this—as open as windows on a sweltering summer day. You actively sear the image into your memory, branding it to admire in the safety of your mind once this is all over. Which… huh. Stupidly, you hadn’t thought about the aftermath when you proposed the scene with Izuku. Too wrapped up in the allure of his submission, then in the high of his acceptance. Yet you’ll be expected to return to normal by tomorrow, to act like best friends, and to pretend as though nothing in you has fundamentally been rewritten by Izuku tonight.

At such a daunting thought, you can't bring yourself to tease as harshly—the barest brush of your thumb beneath the head of his cock, one sticky hand dipping down to fondle his balls. But Izuku reacts as though it’s a punishment, and his head drops back to the floor with a low cushioned thump and a muffled groan. You suspect it might have something to do with how much quicker it is to rile him up. As it’s not long before Izuku’s chest is heaving and he’s shallowly jerking up into your hand once more.

You're pretty sure the quiet is slowly killing you. Amongst the small list of previous subs you've had, most expressed their pleasure readily. And while you know Izuku feels good—evidence damning in the wanton arch of his body and his glassy eyes, pupils blown wide—you’re still anxious. You refuse to let it show, not wanting anything to remove Izuku from the moment. But deep down, lodged inside you like a trapped animal, is the worry that you’re not doing enough. The worry that you won’t be able to return to normal tomorrow. The worry that you’ve ruined your friendship forever.

A ruptured gasp breaks free from Izuku and sufficiently distracts you from this line of thinking for the time being. You roll his balls in one hand, twist the wrist of your other, and listen to Izuku’s staggered exhale, like it’s a fight to even breathe through the pleasure.

You know it all too well.

“Relax,” you remind him. “Doin’ so good, baby. So good. How does it feel?”

Have seen it in subs before him.

“Good,” Izuku chokes out. Echoing your word as though he knows no others he could use. “Really good.”

Will see it in subs after him.

You bite your lip to suppress a smile at his affirmation, and your mouth opens around a reply right as Izuku begins thrusting up into your hand, vigour renewed and clearly chasing his release. Indulging him, you tighten your grip. Izuku hides a moan. Your hand fondling his balls dips down, and when you brush a finger along his perineum and over his hole, he seizes up, hurtling right towards the edge with a surprised, tangled gasp.

"Ohh-fuu-nghh—"

You yank your hands away from him, unwilling to let him come so soon. Izuku’s expression immediately splits into upset and his arms strain the belt, a whine slipping from his lips. You touch his waist, stroke the smooth skin there and soothe, to the best of your ability, as though you aren’t the one putting him through this agony.

Izuku slips slightly. You can see the fog pulling over his gaze, clouding his world down to just you, your touch. “It hurts,” he mumbles, voice smaller than it usually is.

“It does,” you agree, though you feel nothing but pure gratification alighting in your mind. When you stroke his cock again, Izuku lets out an exhale that is more a keening noise than air. You’re so aroused you could die. “Oh, sweet thing, I wish I could make it stop,” you coo, “but you’re being so well behaved. So proud of you, ‘Zuku.”

Izuku bobs his head, fingers straining towards you from where they’re tied. “Y'r proud?” he echoes.

“Yes,” you murmur. “I knew you had it in you. And who would’ve known how lovely you are, hm? Listening to me so carefully. Reacting so beautifully.”

Deciding a reward is in order, you focus your touch on the head of his cock, stroking it in short, shallow motions. Izuku’s back lifts from the floor and his jaw drops open on a silent moan.

“Just like that,” you croon, voice low and velvety, pleasure coursing through you. Then, more quietly, you add, “No one deserves this, baby.”

You’d be surprised if Izuku hears your words. On some level, he must. But his feet start scrabbling across the floor as his whole body rises like the swell of a wave. You don’t stop jerking off the head of his cock. Perhaps it is cruel. But you’d be insane to stop now when Izuku looks nothing short of a wet dream. Flushed and sweaty and twitching—so physically responsive it’s going to drive you to insanity.

Even now, as his body writhes in clear, overwhelming pleasure, he barely makes a sound. Little puffs of breath tangle with the barest whisper of a moan.

"Why are you bein’ so quiet, hm?"

"I don’t know."

Perhaps if you were older, wiser, and more inclined to rise above the caveman-like urges screaming for you to draw forth Izuku’s voice, you could resist. But as it stands, you’re not. And the ghost of his dying whines—each a reminder of your failure as a dom—only makes you want to torture him more.

“Ah— st— stop—” Izuku bites his lip, caging what registers as dangerously close to a whimper. His thighs squeeze your hips, fists clenching and relaxing in time with his quick pants. Then, “—close, close, close. Please—”

For the first time in years, guilt bubbles up in your throat. Deeply familiar, its acridity coats your tongue. You keep pumping Izuku, waiting until he’s a knife-edge from his release; his entire body drawing taut, breath held, the calm before the storm. Then, you tear your hands away and his dick drops back onto his navel, twitching there madly, smearing more shiny tracks of arousal across the tan skin of his stomach as it quivers with the shallow, frantic breaths.

Izuku makes a wounded noise, halfway between a whimper and a genuine cry of distress. Slick as oil, arousal smothers you. This time, while Izuku is attempting to keep another denied orgasm at bay, you drag your finger up and down his sticky length, unwilling not to touch him at all. Izuku’s reaction makes you question if you are truly being unfair, but you don’t linger on it long. Not when his cock twitches like something dying under your touch and his hips begin rocking up into your fingers again.

Izuku pants each time his cock taps back onto his stomach, and you don’t doubt, at this stage, it would be enough to get him off, as delirious and desperate as he is.

“Look at me,” you murmur, staring at the long line of his throat, shimmering with sweat in the flickering firelight. Izuku obeys immediately, almost as though his body acted before he could fully process the request. Such a thought is embarrassingly satisfying.

Izuku looks nothing short of wrecked—a magnificent ship washing up on the shore in desecrated fragments. From the slow, syrupy movement of his eyeline as it tracks over every inch of your face, and the deliberate twist of his brows, you suspect, if not already there, Izuku cannot be more than another failed orgasm away from subspace.

Why does that make you feel so guilty?

Years ago, before you started scening with Shouto, the feeling was as familiar as family. Now, it’s anything but. You haven’t felt like this in so long and you find it incredibly disconcerting to once more be caught in its nasty web. But you feel for Izuku. More than what he must believe, more than this—sex, desire, and power. You fear it may lie somewhere between love and until death do us part.

You knew this. And you still asked Izuku to scene with you. Let him bare his vulnerabilities, let him trust you. For the first time in months, you see clearly how you’ve been taking advantage of him. Accepting any facet of himself that Izuku was willing to give to you, any facet you didn’t already possess, all because you’re consumed by cowardice.

You smile warmly. “Good boy.”

Izuku slips. His resounding whimper is fractured and quiet, but it is there. Your cunt pulses in want. Contentment clouds you. Sliding your finger up to the head of his cock, you wrap the rest of your hand around him. Stroke it slow and deep, from root to tip. Izuku blooms like a Queen of the Night, what you can tell will be a brief, beautiful blossom, destined to fade away before the sunrise.

You decide to enjoy it while it lasts.

Izuku falls at your feet swifter following each denied orgasm, and this time is no exception. Instantly, his hips stutter up into your hand, and he begins thrusting into your hold messily. Slick, filthy noises curl in the air, overpowering any sane, rational arguments about why you should stop that may attempt to make themselves known to you.

“Oh— feels so—” Izuku chokes out. You hum, prompting. But he simply screws up his face, tugs on the belt binding him, and fucks up into the tight, wet hole of your fist.

At the corner of his eyes, tears well up and suddenly, you’re not thinking much of anything besides how much you want to see him cry. You bar one forearm across Izuku’s hips and press him down to the floor. He startles, unable to buck up into your touch. But it doesn’t matter. Not when your free hand starts jerking him off with a pace that is punishing, and a grip tighter than it should be. Your biceps burn, but in the face of Izuku’s surprise, you hardly register it.

“Nghhh—” Izuku keens, positively torched by the flame of your touch. His moan, clear as a whistle, is so intoxicating you find yourself huffing a helpless, almost delirious little laugh in response. Unable to quite comprehend how you’ve gotten yourself in such a predicament, unable to believe you’ve finally breached the barrier holding him captive. “Mpfhhaah—”

“That’s it, sweetheart. You’re spoiling me, here. Sound so pretty.”

“G’nna come!” Izuku gasps, eyes flying wide to catch your own.

There’s an urgency in his voice heretofore absent, and you heed it like a warning, drawing your hand down to squeeze the base of his cock.

You kiss your teeth in reprimand. “Not until I say.”

Izuku makes a wounded noise, hips jerking up in search of his release. But it’s fruitless, his orgasm ebbing away with every passing second. His chest heaves like he’s run a marathon.

“Breathe,” you remind him.

Izuku does as you say, inhaling a deep, shuddering breath. As though not really in control of his body, it quivers. Sparks of pleasure-pain zipping across his form. You slide your tight grip back up his cock, and Izuku whines, looking up at you like a kicked puppy. It only takes a few slow strokes for his arms to be straining against his belt as he gasps out, again, “G’nna come g’nna come g’nna haaah—”

You grip the base of his cock, letting him catch a breath, then two, before you glide your touch along him once more. This is your favourite part: when the window between flying over the edge becomes shorter, and shorter, and shorter, until the sub doesn’t know up from down or how to keep their body still or how to do anything but try to brace for the unending whims of your torture.

“No, you’re not,” you murmur, brushing your thumb over the head.

“Please, ah—”

You grip the base. Wait a few thundering heartbeats. Then, resume jerking him off. Izuku’s eyes flare wide in panic, like he doesn’t know how much longer he can hold out before he disobeys you against his own will. You meet his gaze and smile. It can’t be a terribly reassuring one because Izuku’s face only crumples further, focus flicking down to the wet shtick of your hand on his sensitive dick.

“I can’t—” he starts, before biting his lip as a strange whimper threatens to make itself known.

“You can.”

“No, ah, no, no, I’m g’nna—”

You slide down and squeeze the root of his dick. Glistening arousal beads at his tip and you ache to lean down and taste it, to take him into your mouth. Izuku’s fingers scrabble clumsily along the knot of the belt holding his wrists together, and you eye the action suspiciously until it becomes all too clear how he’s trying to free himself. Before you have the chance to chastise, Izuku’s babbling once more.

“Please,” Izuku begs, a curious wobble to his bottom lip, warbling his words. “‘M gonna let,” he heaves in a hiccuping breath, “you down.”

Something in your fragile, mended heart slips out of place and you can feel the blood gushing from the wound. Hurriedly, you rush to comfort the hero, settling your voice into a low honeyed tone. “Oh, baby, no you won’t. Doing so well, letting me play with you like this. I said I’d take care of you, didn’t I?”

Izuku inhales shakily, hands stilling. “You did.”

“So let me,” you urge, ducking down slightly to force his eyes to yours. When he gives in, the fat tears gathering on his lashline finally spill, drawing wet paths across his cheeks and dropping into the tufted rug below. “Sweetheart,” you sigh, impossibly fond.

“‘M sorry,” he mumbles, looking far too off-kilter to even gather up any embarrassment over his teary state.

You shake your head. “No sorry’s, remember? Just trust me. You’re doing fine, ‘Zuku.”

Izuku appears persuaded, relaxing back on the floor.

“Colour?” you ask.

At your stern expression, Izuku’s mouth—which opened instinctively to answer—snaps closed.

“Think about it this time, please,” you say.

He does, moving small parts of his body from his fingers down to his toes, as though cataloguing his injuries. Then, ever so quietly, he responds with, “Yellow.”

You give him a gentle smile, nodding. “Okay. Want me to slow down a little, honey?” When he hums, you continue in a coo, “I can slow down.”

You trace your fingers up the side of his abused cock, twitching where it rests on his navel. Izuku inhales.

“How ‘bout I let you come, hm? Since you’ve been so good.”

Izuku looks up at you gratefully and your heart lurches up into your throat. Feelings were never supposed to be a part of this scene and yet here they are. Undeniable. Impossible to ignore. All you hope is that Izuku hasn’t noticed them from behind his glassy eyes—maybe the blanket of subspace pulled over him will be enough to dampen his own perception.

“Please,” Izuku breathes, forearms tensing like he wishes to reach for you.

“And so well-mannered, too,” you tease.

Izuku huffs a weak laugh. As though using the last vestiges of his energy to do so. Then, his head thunks onto the floor, and when you start jerking him off again, the smile is wiped from his face completely.

Knowing that you’re working him to release, the atmosphere feels different now. Izuku must think the same, because his body trembles in anticipation.

“Ah— yes, yes, yes—”

You want to hear him undone, just once more. And you focus your touch on the tip of his dick, quickly jerking off the head with one hand while the other focuses on the length of him. It works like a charm; Izuku’s gravelly moan crawls from his throat like a gutted animal clawing away from a predator.

“There you go,” you murmur mostly to yourself, “so pretty.”

“Please, please,” Izuku gasps frantically, “I want you—”

But he never finishes his sentence, his orgasm slamming into him like a freight train running behind schedule. It takes every ounce of self-control you possess not to moan with him. Long, winding curls of pleasure ring out in the air as he rides each wave, shooting come across his stomach, his ribs, his hips, which jolt like they have a mind of their own, almost convulsing in their dedication to unseat themselves from your lap.

I want you—

You stroke him through the aftershocks, studying the sheen coating his sturdy body as it dances and letting his simmering keens slowly melt your brain.

I want you.

These cursed words pick and brush at the ground of your mind until they’ve made themselves a lovely little home to lay down upon, lazing there as though it were a summer field overspilling with flowers.

Realistically, you’re aware those words were not supposed to be the end of his sentence—that he meant to say more, anything more. But he is gone, as far as you’re aware. Already drifting before his orgasm. And as you look upon him now, panting quietly into the air as his body relaxes, now only rocked by sporadic, tailing shocks of pleasure, you know he’s lost to you.

I want you, you think helplessly, staring at the hero in your lap.

Gently, you let go of him and stroke the dry dorsum of your hands along the dip of his waist. The only indication your touch registers is the low twitch of Izuku’s hands, still bound together.

Right.

Slipping from between his legs, which splay out on the floor at the loss of your own to hold them up, you shuffle up his chest. Izuku makes a low, displeased noise and you shush him quietly. Work the knot loose. Let it dangle from the table as you instantly move to soothe the pink chafing around his wrists and start mentally organising through the products you’ve packed for what would be best to calm the irritated skin.

Izuku’s eyes have long since fluttered closed, but it gives you a chance to study the way he floats without judgment. His green curls are matted to his temples with sweat and his whole face is flushed so red you can barely see the freckles beneath. It’s a sight you usually only see in flashes after the chaos of a fight, or later, when you watch the news broadcast clips and allow yourself to look unabashedly; when no one is around to capture the way you stare and post it online for the whole of Japan to view and analyse and pick apart.

You tenderly tug at his bicep. “Let's get you cleaned up, hero.”

—

The still of night makes Izuku appear strangely small, almost fragile, where he's perched on the ledge of the cabin's fancy bathtub and hunched over like he hasn’t yet noticed your arrival. Placing two cool glasses of water down on the sink, you clear your throat and try to pretend as though his tenuous disposition doesn’t bother you. Izuku’s head jerks up right away.

“Just me,” you reassure, shifting past him to flick on the bath-tap. A thrush of water hits porcelain. Idly, you wave your fingers under the stream as you wait for it to warm up and shoot a sidelong glance at Izuku, only to find him already watching you vacantly. “You doin’ alright, gorgeous?” you ask softly.

Izuku hums in response, eyes slipping to the motion of your fingers. Deeming the water warm enough, you press the bath plug into the drain so it can begin to fill. He sits patiently, covered in sweat and come, and entirely bare, but the exhaustion lining his posture is loud. Threading your fingers through his hair, you scratch at his scalp and drag your touch down to the nape of his neck. You wait for Izuku’s head to bow forward in a wordless plea before you gently massage the tense muscle there.

Once the bath is full, you help ease the hero into the water, watching as he sinks until small bubbles lap gently under his nose. You remain quiet, lather a flannel, and begin to scrub his body, careful to keep your touch light. It’s a repetitive task, albeit oddly soothing. And you don’t realise until you’re lathering shampoo into his mess of curls that this isn’t intimacy you usually indulge in with your subs.

Aftercare includes physical touch, massages and balms, food and water, soothing words. But bathing Izuku feels excessively affectionate. Like he’s going to come back to himself tomorrow, lose the obscurity clouding his mind, and see straight through your poor act of pretending to be his friend. Only his friend.

For the nth time tonight, you force yourself not to linger on the worry, and apply all your attention to Izuku. You wash the shampoo from his hair, wrap a towel around him when he clumsily steps out of the tub, and help him into warm clothes, before rubbing a thick, overnight balm meant for facial use onto Izuku’s chafed wrists. And you even linger when he’s tucked into bed, finally pushing one of the glasses filled with water into his trembling hands.

“Drink,” you state.

Izuku gingerly tips his head back and drains the glass. You place it back on the nightstand with a soft thump, next to the full glass and two painkillers for when he wakes tomorrow. All it takes is a brush of your fingers along his cheekbone and his eyes flutter shut, breathing evening out within moments. With Izuku asleep, and with no clever rope binding you to the ship’s mast, you veer forward and brush your lips over Izuku’s forehead.

Only shipwreck and death await you.

—

While Izuku is fast asleep, you lie wide awake. Staring at the wooden slats of the cabin roof like they’ll strengthen your resolve. They don’t. So, throat thick with guilt, you slip a hand beneath the waistband of your pyjama pants, unable to resist the compulsion a moment more. Only two empty beds keep you company, prepared for the girls' arrival tomorrow. Every slick movement of your fingers echoes uncomfortably in the night, but you can’t stop. The humiliation of your predicament zipping through your veins, coiling your pleasure tighter and tighter.

I want you.

This might be a new low—getting off to a few throwaway words Izuku said in the throes of pleasure. They're not even a full sentence, for fuck's sake. Yet the molten pleasure gathering in your core with each unmeasured thrust of your fingers is all thanks to these fragments of a thought. The lines of an architectural blueprint. The basecoat of a beautiful masterpiece.

Nothing conceivable about you.

Certainly not enough to be getting off to them.

The knuckles on your hand catch and you throw your head back, plunging your fingers inside as you try to reach that blissful spot inside you. With your other hand, you frantically rub tight, quick circles over your swollen clit. Stoking the embers of the arousal you’ve been ignoring all evening.

Flashes of Izuku’s pliancy hammer the nails into your coffin: the strong muscles lining his arms tensing to break free of his restraints, the warm weight of his thighs clasping around your waist, the soft lilt to his moans—the urgency in them when he finally let his noises be heard. Thud. Thud. Thud. One after the other. Sealing you in without an escape.

Frantic. That’s how you feel. On the verge of an orgasm so wild you can taste the destruction it brings. Guilt carves a home in your body.

All it takes is the thought of Izuku waking up tomorrow entirely satiated because of you, and you’re rising from the bed as your orgasm sets you alight, burning through you with no remorse.

It’s the hardest you’ve come in months.

—

You wake up to the smell of pancakes drifting through the cabin walls.

For a split second, you’re disoriented as you try to remember why you’re sleeping in an unfamiliar room, why the cold is more biting than usual, why the muscles in your arms are pleasantly sore yet your body deeply satiated. Then, the past twenty-four hours come rushing back to you so fast the breath is physically swiped from your chest. You throw an arm over your face and groan. Mind now disconcertingly alert for how early it must be, considering the white sun slicing through a gap in your curtains.

You prop yourself up gracelessly and place your feet on the floor, dragging your hands lazily through your hair in a half-assed attempt to tame it before you stand and follow the smell.

In the kitchen, you find Izuku wrapped in the quiet of early dawn.

“Morning,” you call, shuffling sleepily to fill a glass with water. Your voice is rough with disuse and you clear your throat before taking a sip.

Izuku turns, poised over the stove; a spatula in one hand, a frying pan in the other. “Morning,” he replies, and you wouldn't say his tone is cautious, but it certainly holds a degree of stiltedness.

You down half the glass, fill it back up again, and hoist yourself up onto a countertop a few paces from the hero. Pretending you haven't noticed, you keep your voice level and ask, “Sleep well?”

“Ah, uh— yeah. I did. Thank you.” Blush bleeds across his cheeks.

You laugh softly. “Anytime.”

Izuku’s eyes widen slightly.

When you register what you just said, you choke, spluttering on a mouthful of water.

“I meant— fuck—” You cough again, patting your chest frenziedly. “You’re welcome. I wasn’t thinking. There’s no pressure for like… a repeat, or whatever.” You awkwardly paw at the water spilt on your pyjamas and wince when Izuku’s bewilderment only seems to increase at your nervous rambling. “Sorry. I’ve made it weird. I just meant 'anytime' to be like, 'yeah, it was no bother, you’re my friend.' Which is… worse… now that I say it out loud. It wasn’t a chore or anything, I swear. I’m just… an idiot. Apparently," you finish with a heavy, self-loathing sigh, scrubbing a hand down your face in mild horror.

Surprisingly, Izuku doesn’t laugh. You can hear the shuffle of him sliding the pancake onto a plate and the sizzle of him pouring new batter into the pan. Then, he appears in front of you, plate in hand.

“Eat,” he says, pushing the plate under your nose. You glance up at him quizzically, flustered and beyond baffled at why he’s passing up the perfect opportunity to poke some lighthearted fun at you before easily letting you down. Instead, he offers you a small smile. “I feel… lighter… than I have in months.”

The crease between your eyebrows deepens. You can’t think of anything to say.

“I would’ve lived my whole life not knowing how good it could feel to release control. Properly this time. And even if it was slightly terrifying,” Izuku continues earnestly, dipping his head to meet your elusive gaze. “I trusted you, and I’m so glad I did. If doing…” Izuku gestures between you both, “...this again has crossed your mind, I want you to know I’d— I’d like that.”

You suck in a breath, fiddling with the edge of the plate Izuku handed you. “You’re serious.”

“As a heart attack,” Izuku replies. You exhale a small laugh. “But only if it’s something you’d like too.”

“It is,” you blurt. Traces of sleep washed from your tone, along with any potential excuse as to your eagerness. Luckily, Izuku doesn’t question it. “It is something I’d like.”

Izuku places a heavy hand on your thigh, swipes a brief thumb over your soft pyjamas, and it feels like the start of something new. The touch is gone before you can get used to it, and then he’s turning back to the frying pan to flip his pancake.

“Eat,” he repeats. And you do.

—

Later that morning, your friends arrive at the cabin in a flurrying tornado of loud-wheeled suitcases, excited chatter, and warm, bone-breaking hugs which you sink into with all the eagerness of someone who has never known touch. It doesn’t take long to tour the space, to drop off bags in bedrooms, and before you know it, you’re bundling back into the living space to catch up.

“Psst.”

You look up from where you’re dealing out playing cards into six even piles for a game of Bullshit and see Shouto staring at you ominously. You raise your eyebrows. “What?”

Shouto’s gaze tilts downwards, and you follow it until your stomach feels as though it may drop right through the floor. “Might wanna hide the evidence,” he murmurs.

“Holy fuck,” you choke, scrambling on your knees over to where Shouto just nodded at.

On the leg of the low coffee table is Izuku’s belt, still knotted around the wood. In all the mess of your emotions following the scene and your intent focus on Izuku’s aftercare, you’d completely forgotten to retrieve his belt. So, it seems, has Izuku. Not that you’d expect him to remember, given the state you put him in. Hurriedly, you work your fingers over the knot and slide the belt free.

Shouto looks at you, amusement plastered over his face. “I see you’ve been occupied while you wait for us.”

“If you breathe a word about this,” you hiss quietly, glancing at the kitchen to check that your friends are still busy gathering a heinous mountain of snacks and drinks from the kitchen. “I will kill you and make it look like an accident.”

At your successfully ruffled feathers, Shouto preens. You ache to smack the expression from his face, but can’t think of a good enough reason to justify the action when the others question why Shouto has a big red mark on his cheek. Instead, you fix him with a sharp look and Shouto raises his hands in surrender, but not before peeking at Izuku curiously.

On instinct, your eyes follow. Izuku is chatting animatedly with Ochako, precariously balancing bowls of popcorn in his arms while he tries to pick up a handful of beer bottles by their necks, too. You truly hope the lightness in his shoulders and the ease of the smile blossoming on his face is visible only to you. And as much as you try, you can’t muster up anything less than primitive satisfaction at the sight of Izuku so clearly content.

“Shut up,” you mumble.

“Hey!” Shouto scoffs. “I didn’t say anything.”

“Yeah, but you were thinking it.”

“Maybe,” Shouto admits, turning back to the fire which he lights with a flick of his finger.

Finally, you wind up the belt and shove it under an armchair, making a mental note to retrieve it when everyone’s gone to bed. “Nosy bastard.”

“That I can’t dispute,” Shouto replies, glancing at you coyly over his shoulder. “How was it?”

Grunting in disgust, you glare at him right as Izuku flumps onto the floor next to you, and any rebuttal dies in your mouth. Izuku glances curiously between you as he relaxes against the sofa behind him. And just like that, the conversation is over, though the pointed look Shouto sends you suggests your salvation will be short-lived.

Izuku offers you a small smile and takes his pile of cards, shuffling through them to organise his hand. While objectively, he isn’t acting much different towards you—perhaps a margin more sentimental, but really, who’s paying attention—the air between you has shifted. Each brush of his shoulder with yours is more charged. The warmth of his thigh is now burning where it touches yours.

If this is the new normal for you both, you’ll be a puddle before the day is out.

But then he pulls back, and the heat vanishes, and you can breathe again. And for some illogical reason, you find yourself craving its return. Hungering for acknowledgement of this new relationship you share, despite the truth of it all swelling deep in your bones.

You are so deeply, irrevocably fucked.

AFTERWORD If you've read this far, thank you 🥹 I sincerely hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I did writing it, and please consider leaving me a comment, reblog, or ask to let me know what you think! <3 This fic, as with all, was a labour of love and it was such a joy to write about Izuku getting shown the time of his life LMFAO

I have a real soft spot for the world of this fic, and this particular version of Izuku, whom I find to be literally the sweetest thing ever. I'm hoping to, at some point in the future, write a few more chapters for it. I have four additional chapters planned for Izuku and the reader's story, and I've already started chipping away at the second. But as I'm sure you can tell by the length of this chapter alone, they're quite a big task, and also the reason why I've listed this as a one-shot. While I plan to continue this universe one day (I will likely do so by adding another chapter to this work), and possibly expand more on some of the reader's lore, it can happily be read as a one-shot in the meantime :)

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