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This isn’t something either of them talk about.
Shouto knows he’s hard to read - hell, hard to like sometimes, when he’s meandering his own mind or exhausted from a day’s work where he puts others’ comfort and safety above his own.
He wouldn’t change it. Doesn’t mean it’s easy. Being a comfort to people is hard when your words stick like glue in your mouth. The right ones, anyway. He doesn’t understand how some people always have the right words.
Shinsou has them, though. Easy words, smart words. People say he acts like he knows everything but Shouto doesn’t know what that’s supposed to look like. As far as he can tell, in the great majority and maze of human interaction and emotion and words, Shinsou does know.
Innate talents aside, it still takes them a while to go to this point. To get to what Shouto really fucking wants in a life of everyday servitude.
Shinsou’s lap is firm and warm and dependable beneath Shouto’s bare stomach, laid out naked to Shinsou’s fully clothed body. Shouto likes it this way, too - the assurance that what this is doesn’t go past what it is.
A release for him and him alone. A small, selfish part of him that Shinsou once said is way too small in the first place.
You should want for more, you know. People would give it to you. I’d give it to you.
Shouto doesn’t know. How to ask or want or loudly need for anything.
The first hearty smack of full palm to ass dislodges the tension in Shouto’s shoulders, knocks it out of place to where he doesn’t know what to do with it - where to put it or where it goes. The second, harder slap - and the sound of Shinsou’s hand cutting through the air clenches at Shouto’s heart - the second slap shocks a gasp from Shouto’s mouth, the strain he was holding spilling out onto the couch cushion as he buries his face in his arms.
“Good,” Shinsou murmurs from above, his voice cast in comforting shadow and cool calm as he rubs and kneads at the hot flare of Shouto’s skin. “That’s a start.”
“Just do it,” Shouto says, knowing Shinsou is just about the only person who doesn’t mind when he says what he means.
The slap slams through Shouto’s system, a fiery flare to one asscheek and abruptly the next, a shock and spark kindling deep in the base of Shouto’s cock. The latter is a lesser thing to him - the way he instinctively grinds hips up against the side of Shinsou’s thigh and and shudders out a breath. The greater payoff tis the smoke that slowly fills his addled brain and the flat of Shinsou’s palm as he paints a comforting trail from ass to spine to shoulders in firm, long petting motions.
Kindness, warmth, care. Foreign and drugging, they are addictive emotions that splay open the tightly knit scars in him and numb all the ugly, macerated muscle beneath. And Shinsou’s long, beautiful hands are deliberate and delicious in how they administer this delirium.
Steady, steady smacks of clear, flat sound color the air Shouto attempts to inhale as each spike of pain rises from his flanks, his jiggling asscheeks, the thin, delicate skin from the back of his thighs. The bulge against his stomach is a heady knowledge, but goes unheeded as Shouto digs nails into the cushions and struggles to rut his flooding cock up against Shinsou’s leg.
A strong hand steadies him at the waist, holds him in place as the sharp swish of Shinsou’s advance through the air briefly signals the brutal destruction of skin on skin. The pain is fucking euphoric, a strike of lightning through the veins, a wildfire from flesh outwards. Shouto doesn’t recognize his own voice now, the cry and the brief, locked-off sob as he buries his face into the couch and raises his ass up high to make room for his swollen, leaking dick.
The onslaught continues, a harsh breath and sob for each staccato slap, a numbing sweep of anti-sensation flooding through Shouto’s guts and brain and mouth until he’s a singular bunch of writhing nerves simply screaming for respite and release.
And Shouto could swear Shinsou does know every damn thing that was ever important to him because he cups his palm around the burning curve of his ass, caresses the backs of stinging thighs, reaches between them from behind, takes Shouto’s high, tight balls in his hold and lightly pulls.
Shouto bites the fucking cushion with hoarse, muffled scream as he comes apart over Shinsou’s lap, cock untouched, thighs quaking as Shinsou murmurs and coos encouragements. The collapse comes as hard as the orgasm as Shouto thunders back to earth with a grounding fingers carding through his hair.
Head still far from his body, floating on clouds, Shouto hums, content. Faintly he feels Shinsou lean forward, curved lips planting kisses along the cradle of his lower back. In his sedated haze, Shouto imagines Shinsou’s Quirk isn’t the other thing, but to plant flowers wherever he touches, because Shouto can swear he feels his skin bloom.
“Food?” Shinsou murmurs, a single finger trailing down one of Shouto’s sensitive thighs to make him shiver.
Shouto’s lips twitch in the haven of his arms.
“You always know what I want.”