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“Kacchan. Kacchan, pay attention to me.”

They’re on the floor of the lounge of Kaminari’s shitty apartment, Deku sat between his legs and pressed up warm against his chest. God, he’s so fucking warm, Deku’s like a goodamn space heater when they’re high.  

And they are, perhaps, very high. Kaminari had slipped another joint into the pocket of his shirt when he'd tried to bail on this stupid party an hour ago, and then Deku had looked at him with those goddamn emeralds he has for eyes and said just a little longer, Kacchan, please?  

So, they’re on the floor. Katsuki can feel the pounding bass of the music where his back is pressed against the wall. 

“Earth to Kacchan.” Deku’s voice cuts sweetly through the fog. He blinks once, then reaches out and plucks their shared joint from where it’s dangling precariously from the corner of Deku’s mouth. He’s a hero, after all.

“What. Do you want.”

Deku drops his head back onto Katsuki’s shoulder and beams up at him. Warm, Deku is always so fucking warm.  

“Kacchan.” Deku rearranges his face into something that Katsuki thinks is supposed to make him look serious. “What do you. Think about. Shouto-kun.”

Katsuki takes this opportunity to have another drag from their joint. He has a feeling he’s gonna need it. “What about him,” he says flatly.

Deku, for the record, happens to know exactly what Katsuki thinks about that half and half bastard. He can count on one hand the number of things him and Deku have agreed so soundly on over the years, and, god help him, one of them happens to be Todoroki fucking Shouto. 

Or, more precisely, fucking Todoroki Shouto. 

Deku drags his gaze lazily across his face, then turns back around to drag it up Todoroki instead, who’s been leaning against the kitchen doorframe for the last fuck-knows how many minutes. Katsuki’s lost track. Perhaps because of all the staring he’s been doing. 

He looks unfairly good tonight, fuck. The loose cut of his white t-shirt dips down below his collarbone, and his jeans might as well be painted on. He’s toying absently with his earring as some girl from their stats class tries in vain to chat him up, a lone gold hoop hidden under a curtain of white hair. Katsuki wants, with a particular kind of desperation, to know exactly what kind of sound Todoroki would make if he were to close his mouth around it.  

Deku’s head thumps back against his shoulder again. He reaches back and fumbles around blindly at Katsuki’s face until he manages to extract the joint from his mouth. “You could seduce him,” Deku says, as though they’re discussing what to have for dinner.  

Katsuki snorts, leans down and bites lightly at Deku’s shoulder. He’s got his collarbones on full display as well tonight, because he’s an asshole who knows all of Katsuki’s weaknesses. “Of course I fuckin’ could,” he says directly in Deku’s ear. 

“Or I could.”


Deku turns back to him, looking mock-affronted. “I could! I’m actually friends with Shouto-kun, unlike you.”

Katsuki glowers at him. “Just because I’m not sitting around making fucking daisy chains with him or something doesn’t mean we’re not friends, dumbass.”

They’re not friends. They trade snark and increasingly mild insults, and Todoroki’s been letting him copy his English assignments since first year, because fuck that language. This semester they’ve been having lunch on Tuesdays because their class schedules align and it wouldn’t make sense not to. No other reason. Certainly not because Katsuki’s got a fucking crush that started as a fantasy of getting that bastard between him and Deku and proceeded to spiral completely out of control. 


“Fine, you seduce him then," Deku says. "I’ve got like five papers due this week, anyway.”

“Why should I do all the fucking work?”

Deku blinks up at him. “Do you want me to help?”

Katsuki knows when he’s being baited. He’s just not strong enough not to chomp at the bit. 

“Shut up. See if I don’t keep his pretty face all to myself.”

Deku hums, selfishly taking the last drag off their joint. Bastard. “Okay. Wanna go home, Kacchan?”

“Yeah. I need a plan.”

Shouto is suffering.

He doesn’t deserve this, probably. Once he used his quirk to freeze a cicada to a tree because Touya wanted to look at it up close, but he’d been a kid, for christ’s sake. Surely he’s not experiencing any karmic retribution for those misguided actions now. 

Bakugou kicks him very un-gently under their lunch table, jolting him out of his musings about the unfairness of the universe. 

“Oi. Pay attention to me when I’m talking to you.” 


Shouto does not feel very sorry. He feels like he is suffering. 

They’re sitting at their usual Tuesday table, the one closest to the heating vents because it’s December and Bakugou is perpetually complaining about the cold no matter what season it is. Shouto has spent the better part of three years trying to figure out how to use his quirk to remedy this problem without making Bakugou think that he’s hitting on him.

Even though that’s exactly what he’d be doing.

Except he’s not going to do it today, because. Because. The last few weeks have been. Weird. He’s never been particularly adept at reading social cues, so his solution to navigating a situation he doesn’t fully understand is usually to observe it from a safe distance until more information becomes available. Or, in extreme cases, to ignore it completely.

This has qualified as an extreme case, he thinks. The problem is that Bakugou does not take well to being ignored. 

They have a routine. Lunch on Tuesdays and the handing over of English notes on Sunday nights and sitting diagonal from each other in their thermodynamics course, Shouto one row to the right and one seat behind Bakugou. They’re both creatures of habit, as it turns out. And the routine is good, the routine works for them. Shouto thinks they might even be friends.

But Bakugou, seemingly out of nowhere, has begun breaking their routine. He shows up at Shouto’s door demanding that they compare homework solutions or walk to class together. Or needing a cup of cold tea heated back up to drinking temperature via Shouto’s left, and then deciding that he better just stay in Shouto’s room to study in case it goes cold again. 

It’s - not unwanted, not at all. And even if it was, Bakugou is very persuasive and Shouto is very weak to him.

It is part of the suffering.

But the suffering is mainly due to this: Bakugou has a boyfriend. A very serious and committed, very sweet, very attractive boyfriend who creates Shouto’s own personal version of hell around him daily. And if Shouto was smart, he would’ve noted that down from day one and never befriended either of them.

It’s possible that he is not very smart.

Bakugou kicks him again under the table, his foot somehow connecting with the exact same spot on Shouto’s shin. He’ll definitely have a bruise there tomorrow. 

“Am I fucking invisible to you? What’s your deal today?” Bakugou says, narrowing his eyes at him. They’re not very nice eyes, objectively. Angular and red and always seeming like they can actually see Shouto’s mind trying to gather up enough braincells to form a coherent response to anything he’s asked.

“Sorry,” Shouto says again. “Just - distracted.” Well. It’s not not the truth.

Bakugou peers at him intently. Shouto tries not to squirm in his chair. “Distracted by what?”

“Uh,” Shouto starts eloquently, but is saved (or damned, perhaps) by a flash of green appearing in his peripheral vision.

“Kacchan! Shouto-kun!” 

Midoriya waves to them and bounces his way across the room, weaving gracefully between all the tables and chairs. Bakugou leans back and pulls an empty chair from the table behind theirs for him, accepting the kiss Midoriya drops on his lips as he sits down. 

“Hi guys! Oh Kacchan, I’m starving, will you share with me?” he says, eyeing the remainder of Bakugou’s curry ravenously.

“No, fucking get your own food if you’re so hungry,” Bakugou says, curling one arm protectively around his bowl even as he drapes the other along the back of Midoriya’s chair, keeping him close. 

Midoriya sticks his bottom lip out in a dramatic pout, and it’s- it’s a lot, for Shouto. Because he is suffering.

“You’re mean, Kacchan. I want a divorce.”

“Fucking marry me first, then.”

“Fine, but only so I can divorce you over curry-related injustices.”


Shouto hopes they’re not serious. He’s not sure he could stand being invited to the wedding. 

“You can share with me, Midoriya.” The words tumble out of his mouth without really having his brain’s consent on the matter. He wonders if the way Midoriya turns his megawatt smile on him is worth having Bakugou kick him in the shin for the third time.

(It is.)

“Thanks, Shouto-kun, you’re the best!” Midoriya makes a show of removing his boyfriend’s arm from his chair so that he can scoot over to Shouto’s side of the table. Bakugou scowls at him. “I only have a few minutes anyway; I have class at one. And I know how much Kacchan hates it when I interrupt your lunch dates.”

Shouto flinches at the word ‘date,’ but the other two seem unaffected. Midoriya reaches across the table and pilfers Bakugou’s chopsticks, then leans into Shouto’s space and twirls up a few noodles from his bowl. 

“If I was gonna take fuckin’ Candy Cane over here on a date, it sure as hell wouldn’t be to the same place we’ve been having lunch for three goddamn years. Who do you think I am, Deku?”

“Where would you take him, then?”

Yes, where would you take me? Shouto’s brain supplies helpfully, instead of focusing on other, more important tasks. Like remembering how to breathe properly, and processing the fact that Bakugou just called him a candy cane. 

“None of your fucking business.”

“Are you saying I can’t come, too, Kacchan?” 

That godforsaken pout again. Christ.

Bakugou leans half his body over the table, plucking his chopsticks back out of Midoriya’s hands. He gets close enough that they could kiss again right in front of Shouto’s face, and that’s a concept he should definitely file away for later instead of considering in the present moment and company. 

“Only if you’re good,” Bakugou says, weirdly- quiet? Soft? Shouto doesn’t know what’s happening. Bakugou’s eyes slide from Midoriya’s face over to his own, and he blinks once before dropping back down into his chair. 

Shouto looks down at left hand, checking to make sure it’s not on fire. It would be a shame if he burned down Bakugou’s favorite not-date spot.

The two of them lapse back into useless banter as if they hadn’t just turned Shouto’s world upside down, and soon Midoriya has to go to his class. He kisses Bakugou on the cheek as he stands to leave, then looks directly across the table at him, one arm still draped around his boyfriend.

“Thanks for sharing, Shouto-kun,” he says.

Has he mentioned how much he’s suffering?

Things escalate, after that.

They still have lunch on Tuesdays, until Bakugou incurs a schedule change and asks if they can move their ‘date’ to Wednesdays instead. They still sit together in class, except that Bakugou bullies or bribes or does something else to the guy who normally takes the desk directly to Shouto’s left so that he can sit there instead. Shouto still heats up tea and lets Bakugou sit at his desk and complain about how English tenses make no sense, but now Midoriya occasionally shows up for the express purpose of nudging Shouto’s sanity down the already slippery slope it’s on. 

Bakugou nixes every half-insulting nickname he’s doled out over the years and replaces them exclusively with variations of ‘candy cane.’ This is confusing because 1) Shouto is quite happy with the way his hair grows, and so is not insulted at being compared to a striped candy, 2) Christmas has come and gone, and so the seasonal relevance has lost its humor, and 3) Bakugou has complained time and again about his distaste for any and all sweets, which Shouto can only assume includes these particular mints as well. And yet, the way Bakugou says the nickname is twinged with a strange sort of fondness and meaning that he relishes in every time he hears it.

He has the distinct sensation that he is being toyed with, but for the life of him cannot identify how or why. It’s maddening.

It is, as always, Midoriya who gives him some clarity on the situation. Perhaps more clarity that he bargained for. 

They’re on the main floor of the campus library, at one of the big open tables designed for group projects or other collaborations. Midoriya has brought enough books for eight people even though it’s just the two of them, and has spread them out across the entire surface. Shouto keeps to his allotted corner, having brought just his laptop and the one book he needs to finish his (and Bakugou’s) English assignment.  

He’s feeling quite productive today, having powered through writing the introductory section of his paper and now getting to the actually interesting part. Which is why it’s such a tragedy when he looks up and sees Midoriya with a goddamn candy cane stuck in his mouth, and all of his remaining braincells immediately decide to go on holiday.

He stares for long enough that Midoriya must sense his gaze, because he looks up from the thick text he’s been reading and meets Shouto’s eyes. 

“Oh!” he says around the candy, before taking it out of his mouth with a slurping noise that’s just- it’s obscene, that’s the only word for it. “Ready for a break? I could use a walk soon, I think.”

Shouto is ready for a break. From life, maybe.

He goes too long without saying anything, and Midoriya traces his eyeline to where it’s still fixated on the candy. “Want one?” he asks. “I brought a few.”

Shouto tears his gaze away. “No, thank you,” he manages. His voice sounds weird to his own ears.

Midoriya shrugs, turns a page in his book. “Okay. I’ll give the rest to Kacchan later.”

It’s a leading statement if Shouto’s ever heard one. He takes the bait, because he is a weak man with two crushes and rapidly dwindling self-control. “Bakugou hates sweets,” he says.

There is a long silence in which they simply look across the table at each other, locked in a contest that Shouto is bound to lose.

Midoriya breaks first, putting his candy cane down back in its wrapper and leaning forward on his elbows. He steeples his fingers, and a confident smile blooms on his face, like he’s about to reveal one of the mysteries of the universe to Shouto.

Perhaps he is.

“Would you like to know a secret about Kacchan, Shouto-kun?”

Ah. Definitely a mystery of the universe, then. Shouto nods, indicating for him to continue.

“You’re right, he mostly hates anything sweet. But,” Midoriya pauses, maybe for some kind of dramatic effect, “he loves candy canes. In fact, I think he likes them just as much as he likes me.”

Several things slot into place all at once. One, that he has not been imagining the weird escalations of the past few weeks. Two, that the weird escalations are part of him being - what, courted? Seduced? Flirted with through convoluted metaphors? Probably some version of D) all of the above. He hates multiple choice exams. And finally, it dawns on him that Midoriya and Bakugou, they - they planned this. Nothing that has happened has been coincidence, and nothing has been the product of his mind filling in the blanks of two previously-deemed-unrequited crushes. 

And so, he does what any sane person would do in this situation, which should probably only exist inside of some second-rate made-for-TV film.

He panics.

“I have to go,” he announces, standing quickly from his chair and closing his laptop with far more force than necessary. His ears are ringing too much for him to hear whatever it is that Midoriya says in response. “Goodbye, good luck with your paper,” he says, then turns on his heel and flees the scene of the crime. 

Shouto knows avoidance. It’s his primary skill, aside from alternately freezing things and setting them on fire. 

He takes his time processing the information that Midoriya had spoon-fed to him in the library that day. He hides in his room and doesn’t answer when Bakugou knocks the first hundred times over the next few weeks. On the one hundredth and first time, he opens the door, but only because he has a headache and is likely to become a fire hazard soon if the noise continues.

Bakugou doesn’t even wait to be invited in, just steps over the threshold, closes the door, and backs Shouto into it by dragging on the collar of his shirt.

“About fucking time,” Bakugou spits at him, and oh, he’s angry. It’s written all over his face, in the tense lines of his body. His red eyes flick back and forth between Shouto’s, and he’s maybe a little...upset, too. Hurt. Shouto hates himself a bit for being the one to make him that way.

“Stop. Avoiding us,” he says, accentuating his point by digging his knuckles into Shouto’s chest where they’re still buried in his shirt. “I’m fucking failing English without you, Todoroki. And it’s making Deku sad.” 

“I’m sorry. I- ”

“I don’t care. Whatever Deku said to you that you didn’t like, you can just fucking forget it, alright? We didn’t mean to - upset you, or some shit.”

“You didn’t upset me.”

A complicated series of emotions flits over Bakugou’s face in the ensuing seconds. Shouto tries to file each one of them away for later analysis. He really does wear his heart on his sleeve, he thinks, once you come to understand how he works. 

“Then fucking go back to normal, I’m tired of this hide-and-seek shit. Got it?”

He nods mutely, and Bakugou lets him go and steps back. Shouto feels the loss in his bones. The door closes quietly behind him, and Shouto is left to nurse his headache and ponder exactly how badly he’s screwed this whole thing up.

Just like that, things go back to normal. Or some version of it, at least.

He goes to lunch with Bakugou on Wednesdays. He studies with Midoriya on the quiet floor of the library, where they don’t have to do anything besides keep each other company at the smaller tables. Midoriya does not eat anymore candy canes, and Shouto doesn’t know whether to be grateful or disappointed. Bakugou shows up at his door with his cold tea and his complaints, and it is so, painfully, normal.

Maybe he doesn’t want things to be normal anymore.

A Sunday in February finds him and Bakugou sat under the kotatsu in his room, where they’ve been holed up for most of the day studying for their thermo final. He doesn’t really know why they’re bothering, since the nature of both their quirks gives them a pretty hearty leg up in the subject. But it’s bitterly cold outside and has been snowing heavily since noon, and truthfully Shouto can think of nothing else he’d rather do with his Sunday. 

He takes a moment to study Bakugou instead of his notes. It’s just unfair how pretty Bakugou still is to him, Shouto thinks, watching him pull the sleeves of his sweater down over his fists. It’s Midoriya’s sweater, he’s fairly certain, a soft heather grey that looks too big across his shoulders. His hair is a flattened mess on one side from where he’d been laying on the floor an hour ago in a fit of finals-induced despair. The one trip they’d made outside today had been to retrieve Bakugou’s reading glasses from his own room, before I claw my fucking eyes out and you have to deal with the aftermath, Todoroki.

Bakugou calling him by his actual name is...upsetting, in a way he doesn’t really understand. Somehow more impersonal than when he was pretending to have never learned Shouto’s name to begin with.

The thin gold frames slip down Bakugou’s nose a bit as he erases and rewrites something in his notebook, although he either hasn’t noticed or isn’t bothered by it. Shouto is very much bothered by it. Each time they slip, he wants to know what would happen if he just. Reached over and nudged them back up.

It’s exhausting, always denying himself the things he wants.

And he wants, god help him. Whatever Bakugou and Midoriya are willing to give him, now. He can leave the consequences to deal with some other time, leave them for some other Shouto who has more self-restraint that he possesses in the current moment. 

Slowly, as to not startle him, Shouto reaches across the table with both hands and touches his fingertips to the delicate frames, adjusting them back until they’re sat properly on Bakugou’s face. He absolutely lingers longer than necessary, pulling his left hand back but letting his right skate down and over the warm plane of his cheek. He’s selfish that way, he’s decided. 

Bakugou stops writing in the middle of a kanji but doesn’t move until Shouto has pulled away entirely and picked up his own pen again, heart racing. 

“Thanks,” he says, so softly that Shouto hardly hears it over the hum of the heater. 

It makes him brave.

“I was overwhelmed,” he starts, with no real plan. “That day, in the library with Midoriya. I wasn’t expecting it, and I panicked.”

“You weren’t expecting it,” Bakugou says flatly, his eyes flicking up to meet Shouto’s.

“Yes. I’m sorry if I made either of you feel...unwanted. That was not what I intended. It was the opposite of what I wanted, actually.”

Bakugou studies him with a level of scrutiny he usually reserves only for quirk exercises and particularly interesting recipe videos. It’s as unnerving as it is thrilling, to be the object of it.

“Wanted. Past tense,” Bakugou says, still kind of tonelessly.

Shouto swallows against his dry mouth. Now or never. “Want,” he says. “Present tense.”

“I hate tenses.”

Something loosens inside of Shouto’s chest. “I know.”

“I don’t hate you.”

“I don’t hate you, either.”

Bakugou tilts his head to one side, considering. “I think we should’ve been more direct with you.”

Shouto exhales on a laugh, and his heart flips over weirdly when the corner of Bakugou’s mouth quirks up, too. “I think I should’ve been more observant,” he says.

Bakugou smiles, an actual, real smile, puts his pen down and braces both hands on the tabletop. He leans across and Shouto thinks his heart might actually stop. What a way to die.

“Come see us next week, yeah? After finals are done,” he says lowly. 

Shouto nods, not about to trust his voice to form actual words right now. Bakugou leans just a bit further and kisses him on the cheek just once, right below his scar, before dropping back and rearranging the blankets over his legs.

“Can you finish working on number seven, now? I’d like to finish this problem set sometime in the next century.”

Shouto laughs. Perhaps the universe doesn’t hate him after all. 

The universe hates him. 

Objectively, the week of finals is not that bad, and time does not pass more slowly than normal. But he has long since stopped being objective when it comes to Midoriya and Bakugou.

He finishes his assignments on time. He sits his exams and finds them not overly difficult. He walks to the English building with Bakugou to turn in their final papers, and listens to him bemoan that Shouto wants to be my fucking boyfriend but won’t even write my goddamn papers for me anymore. Shouto tells him that he only endorses cheating when he doesn’t have seventeen other things due that week, and tries not to let his mind run away with the word boyfriend. 

Bakugou aggressively holds his hand on the way back to their dorm building, and he deems the attempt not very successful. 

Their thermodynamics exam falls on the last day of the week. Bakugou finishes first, because of course he does, probably in record time given the way their instructor gapes at him as he slams his paper down on her desk and strides out of the room. Shouto takes a more respectable amount of time to finish and double check his work before handing in his own exam, and so is surprised to see Bakugou slouched down in one of the chairs in the lobby of the building when he goes to leave. He’s typing something on his phone, one headphone dangling from his ear, but looks up when he senses Shouto’s presence.

“Took you fuckin’ long enough. She couldn’t have made that any easier.”

“I like to be thorough.” 

Bakugou rolls his eyes, and Shouto drops into the chair next to him. He’s tired, but when he turns his head to the side to find Bakugou already staring at him, his exhaustion evaporates in an instant.

He lets Bakugou look. Tries not to betray how nervous it makes him.

“Come over tonight. Let us cook for you.”

Shouto smiles. “Midoriya is a terrible cook.”

“Fine. Let me cook for you, and Deku can sit there and look pretty.” 


Bakugou stands and stretches, and Shouto stares rather openly at the strip of skin revealed where his shirt pulls up. He thinks he’s allowed to do that now. 

Bakugou notices and smirks down at him, holding out a hand. “Let’s go, Candy Cane. I’m starving.”

He’s been to Midoriya’s (and Bakugou’s, by proxy) apartment plenty of times over the years that they’ve all know each other, usually to study or have dinner with Midoriya or attend one of the various events they get conned into hosting by the rest of their friend group. It’s a weird mix of both of their personalities, cluttered but always immaculately clean. There’s books and potted plants stacked on nearly every available surface, and he knows that the sun pours in from the southern windows all day long. 

“Oi, Deku!” Bakugou shouts down the hall as he toes his shoes off in the entryway. Shouto closes the door behind him and does the same, minus the shouting, of course. 

“You’re back!” Midoriya’s disembodied voice calls from behind a closed door somewhere. “How was your exam?”

“Easy as shit,” Bakugou replies, still shouting. “Get out here, I brought you a present.”

Shouto glances down at Bakugou’s empty hands and lack of anything resembling a gift before his brain manages to really catch up with the situation.


Midoriya opens his door, presumably to investigate his gift, and just- absolutely lights up when he sees Shouto standing there in his living room.

“Oh Kacchan, what a perfect gift,” he says, and Bakugou snorts and turns into the kitchen while he bounces down the hall and into Shouto’s arms. 

He’s come to relish in the warmth of Midoriya’s hugs over the years, and he certainly takes his fill now. Lets himself know the solid, broad span of Midoriya’s back under his hands, the tickle of his wayward curls against his cheek. Shouto can feel him smiling into his shoulder, and this is- god, this isn’t real, is it? Surely he hasn’t actually been this lucky. 

“You came,” Midoriya breathes out, pulling back and holding Shouto’s face between both his hands. “I’m so happy.”

“Me too.” He realizes abruptly that he hadn’t gotten around to apologizing properly to Midoriya yet, and tightens his grip on his waist reflexively. “Midoriya, I’m- I’m sorry. For running away. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“No, it was our fault. We had a- a plan, a stupid plan, and- ”

“I fucking heard that, Deku!”

“ -and Kacchan agrees that it was stupid, and that we should’ve just told you how we felt about you. About how we…” He steps further into Shouto’s space, if that’s even possible. “...really like you, Shouto. So much.”

His eyes drift over Shouto’s right shoulder, and Shouto nearly jumps out of his skin as he realizes that Bakugou has snuck up soundlessly behind him. “Right, Kacchan?”

“He’s alright, I guess.”


Shouto can just tell that Bakugou is rolling his eyes. He steps forward and has to stand on his tiptoes to hook his chin over Shouto’s shoulder, hands coming to rest around his waist to help hold his balance.

“He’s perfect,” Bakugou says directly into his ear, and Shouto’s brain promptly short-circuits. 

He comes back online just in time to meet Midoriya halfway to the kiss, gentle and slow and exactly how he’d imagined it a million times over. 

Bakugou makes an impatient little noise in his ear, and Midoriya pulls away from him with a laugh. “Don’t let him fool you, Shouto, he loves when you ignore him.”

“Fuck you.”

“Maybe,” Midoriya says mildly, and Shouto’s head spins. “Indulge him for me?” he continues, cupping Shouto’s jaw gently and turning his head to the side.

Bakugou, to his eternal credit, gets within a millimeter of Shouto’s lips and just - waits there.

But he’s hardly been in the business of denying Bakugou Katsuki anything he wants, and he’s certainly not about to start now. 

Bakugou is weirdly undemanding, letting Shouto turn fully into his arms and deepen the kiss at his leisure. It’s intoxicating, the ease with which he gives up control. Shouto’s peripherally aware of Midoriya coming around and draping himself along his back, pulling the collar of his shirt aside to press kisses to the skin of his shoulder and up his neck, but it’s secondary to the hot glide of Bakugou’s tongue against his.     

It becomes less secondary when Midoriya bites down, his big, scarred hands finding their way up and under Shouto’s shirt. 

Things escalate, after that. 

He learns quickly that Bakugou and Midoriya are not jealous of each other, per say, but they certainly seem to enjoy being in competition for his attention. Shouto, for his part, is more than happy to indulge them both without complaint. 

He follows blindly as Midoriya pries him away from Bakugou’s frankly incredible mouth and begins walking backwards towards the door he’d appeared from earlier. He can sense Bakugou trailing behind them.

“Midoriya, w- ” 

Midoriya stops short, and Shouto nearly walks right into him. Bakugou, obviously distracted by more important matters, actually does collide with Shouto’s back. He seems unbothered though, wrapping calloused hands around Shouto’s waist and resuming his task of marking up Shouto’s neck to an absurd degree.

“Shouto, please.” Midoriya stares up at him, imploring. “Call me by my given name, won’t you?” 

Shouto runs his tongue over his lips. Swollen, as he suspected. “Izuku,” he tries instead, tasting the name on his tongue. It’s nice, melodic and pretty. 

Izuku beams up at him, and Bakugou makes a pained little noise at his shoulder. “Kacchan?” Izuku addresses him. “What can Shouto call you?” 

Shouto doesn't wait for Bakugou's response, just turns out of Izuku’s hold and crowds him up against the wall. Bakugou goes easily but stares him down, a playful kind of challenge in his eyes. Shouto takes a moment to wrack his mind for a memory of anyone he knows using Bakugou’s given name and comes up empty.

“Katsuki,” he says, enunciating all three syllables delicately. He watches the line of Katsuki's throat as he swallows heavily, pupils blown wide.

“Fuck,” Katsuki says, eloquent as always, then proceeds to kiss the life out of Shouto.

Things really escalate, after that. 

Izuku finally succeeds in his very important mission of gathering everyone into his bedroom, and Shouto finds himself with a lapful of very horny and very hard Katsuki. 

He’s not faring much better, if he’s honest.

They’ve all lost various pieces of clothing at some point, and Izuku just has - so many hands. Surely he has more than two? They wrap around him from behind to skate up and over the planes of his chest, lingering on his nipples and in the dips of his abs and coming up to tangle in his hair, tilting him this way and that for Katsuki to more effectively devour with his mouth. 

Katsuki rolls his hips down mercilessly, making Shouto gasp from the friction. He’s hyperaware of every place they’re touching, every place Katsuki’s mouth has bruised his neck, every hard line of Izuku’s body behind his. It’s so much, all at once. He could never possibly have enough. 

Katsuki pulls back and locks eyes with Izuku over his shoulder suddenly. “Deku, please,” he says, and Shouto is distracted from whatever silent conversation they’re conducting over his head by having to process Katsuki saying Izuku’s name and the word please in the same sentence.  

He’s dragged back to reality by Izuku pulling on his hair again, tucking all the white strands behind his ear and turning his head gently to the left.

“You drive him crazy with this, Shouto,” Izuku says, tugging lightly on his earring, the same simple gold hoop he wears every day. “God, if only you knew how many times I’ve heard about it. How many times I caught him staring at you while you toyed with it, not even thinking about it.”

Katsuki leans down and bats Izuku’s hand away, tracing his own fingertips down the shell of his ear. “Can I- ” he starts, tongue darting out to wet his lips. He pulls experimentally on the hoop, dragging his gaze back to Shouto’s face with noticable effort.

“Yeah, you- ” Shouto gets out, haltingly, “whatever you want, Katsuki.”

He is really, really not in the business of denying Katsuki the things he wants. Especially not a mostly-naked one asking if he can suck on his ear, christ.

Katsuki makes a pleased little noise and does exactly that, closing his teeth around the lobe and pulling hard. Shouto keens and squirms, the pain mixing with something else entirely as Katsuki laves over it with his tongue, flicking the hoop back and forth over the sensitive skin. He’s aware that the noise filling the room is probably coming from him, Izuku’s low voice in his other ear with a constant stream of you should see yourself like this, god and so good for us, Shouto and perfect, so fucking perfect.

“Fuck,” Katsuki says, and he sounds about as wrecked as Shouto feels. “Let me blow you, Shouto, christ.”

“Yeah, god, yeah,” he says, because in what lifetime would he ever turn down that offer, and lets Izuku rearrange him so that they’re sitting up against the headboard together, pressed back to chest. 

Katsuki’s mouth should be illegal in at least twenty prefectures, probably. Maybe more. Maybe all of them. It’s too good, he’s too worked up, he’s gonna come immediately without something to distract himself from the sight of Katsuki sinking down on him. 

He twists around blindly, searching for the respite of Izuku’s mouth on his. He takes and takes and takes, sweet and gentle kisses that turn sloppier and more heated the longer they go on. Katsuki digs his nails harshly into his hips and Shouto is forced to break away, the pleasure-pain nearly toppling him over the edge unexpectedly. 

“Fucking pay attention to me, Candy Cane,” he rasps, and accentuates his point by licking a broad stripe all the way up the underside of his cock. 

“I am, god, I am, Katsuki. I’m always looking at you, you have no idea.” He threads a hand through his blond spikes and guides Katsuki back down, because as pretty as he looks while he’s mouthing off uselessly, Shouto kind of feels like he might die if he doesn’t come, like, right now.

Izuku takes over the work of taming Katsuki’s attitude for him, a constant stream of taking it so well, Kacchan and Shouto looks so pretty for you, don’t you think? that seems to satiate his need to be paid attention to at every second. 

Shouto is very grateful for this since he has a number of other things on his mind at the moment. Topping the list is whatever complicated thing Katsuki just did with his tongue, coupled with all the little noises and praises Izuku is making behind him - he tugs on Katsuki’s hair a bit desperately, only to be swatted away and doubled down on.

He comes with startled shout, thumping his head back against Izuku’s shoulder and riding it out in waves. Katsuki works him through it and then some, sucking lightly at his tip until Izuku reaches down and pushes him away with a don’t be cruel, Kacchan. Shouto looks down in time to watch Katsuki lick his lips, eyes dark and staring up at them with something like hunger. 

“Deku,” he says, a little desperately and with a voice that’s absolutely wrecked. I did that, Shouto thinks wildly. 

“I know, baby. C’mere.” 

Katsuki crawls up to them, kissing Shouto first before reaching for Izuku. Shouto extracts himself from all the limbs to make space, but Katsuki catches him around the wrist and says, “Don’t fucking go anywhere.”

“I’m not,” he soothes, getting up on his knees and stroking a cool palm down Katsuki’s back. “I’m not.” Shouto presses his hand down, encouraging him to clamber into Izuku’s lap. 

Izuku gets a hand around both of them then, stretching up to leave marks on Katsuki’s collarbone as he works them over. “You can match with Shouto,” he says, smirking.

“Shut the fuck up,” Katsuki says, with absolute no heat behind it, as Izuku twists his wrist and makes them both moan. He threads one hand into Izuku’s curls, oddly sweet, and reaches for Shouto with the other, dragging him in for a kiss. 

“You’re so- impossible,” Katsuki gets out between kisses. “God, you have no idea how fucking long we’ve wanted you.” 

“I know,” Shouto says. “I wanted you, too,” and Katsuki bows his body over Izuku’s and curses wildly as he comes. Izuku bites his shoulder and follows right behind him with a muffled shout, everything on display for Shouto to see.

They collapse into a pile of sweat and limbs, Katsuki in the middle and Izuku nearly falling off the closest edge. Shouto takes a risk by turning onto his side and throwing a leg over Katsuki’s, smiling when he receives only the mildest of glares in response. He lifts his head a bit, searching over Katsuki’s body for a familiar green head. “You over there somewhere, Izuku?”

“Mhmm,” comes the muffled reply. “What’s for dinner, Kacchan?”

“Fuck off, I’m not cooking dinner.”

“Nap first, then Katsuki can cook us dinner,” Shouto decides, fishing around the bed for a pillow to stuff under his head. 

“I changed my mind, you’re terrible,” Katsuki says, and accepts the bit of pillow Shouto deems to share with him. Izuku’s arm flops over Katsuki’s body from somewhere in the blanket abyss, searching for one of Shouto’s hands. Shouto gives him his cool one and snakes his other arm under Katsuki’s shoulders, to only moderate grumbling.  

Terrible is code for something else in Katsuki-speak, Shouto thinks. He’ll ask Izuku about it when they wake up.