for no creatures under god as are we

His throat hurts. It's dry like old bones and every attempt at swallowing brings forth the feeling of needles, small and plentiful to the point of being uncountable, digging into the sensitive flesh lining the inside of his neck. The dryness extends to the rest of his mouth, too, roughening his tongue and leaving his palette sore. A quiet smack resounds whenever his tongue separates from the roof of his mouth.

Thirst. That's the feeling. Its twin, hunger, as well. These days, the feelings were inseparable. They came in tandem and were satiated by the same thing. The trace amounts of blood that circulated through him nearly a week ago were long gone. Shoto’s hollow veins ache with want for it. His body is heavy, sluggish, and weak. No greater consequence can come to his undying form than a further state of weakness bordering on paralysis. Knowing that compels him to push the limits of this “end” rather than satisfying the need in his belly. Hellish malaise sounded more tolerable than wetting his tongue. His teeth itch with the thought of puncturing flesh. Shoto withdraws further into his seat; into himself.

It is harder to resist the urge than it should be. It embarrasses him, how often the thought of breaking the vow he’s sworn to himself comes. He is a young vampire, and the volatility and bloodlust of fledglings is always higher than their elders. He is also hungry, and starving animals are always dangerous. They will resist no opportunity for food. Shoto knows this. He has seen the way dogs fight for scraps in the countryside, and he knows he’s no better. He can no longer be trusted around people.

So he takes measures to prevent his encounters with them. He cannot roam in the daylight regardless, but he takes caution to walk the paths less taken at night when he has to go out. He’s abandoned his family’s sprawling estate for a small house at the very edge of the village, where he resides alone. He starts rejecting offers of company from those he once could have called friends. The isolation hurts more than it had, once. Having a taste of closeness makes the loss of it particularly bitter. But Shoto will not succumb to the desperate voice in his veins begging him to feed, and he spent much of his human life alone, anyway. He will get used to it again. He has forever to do so.

A rattle at the door brings him out of his thoughts. Sluggishly, Shoto's head moves to look toward it. The slowness with which he notices the disturbance and the effort it takes to respond to it bothers him. His entire body feels heavy and frigid and his head feels like it's stuffed with damp cotton. He is exhausted and trembling. He is hungry. But he refuses to give in. He refuses. Scenting a human on the other side of the door makes him nervous. There is a risk that instinct will overcome him and he will maul the poor soul standing at his door, gorging himself on their remains. The thought makes his stomach turn. Shoto swallows back around his sandpaper-raw tongue and proceeds toward the door. His nostrils flare on sight when he opens it. The broad figure that now stands before him is unmistakable; the closest to him, of his former friends.

"Midoriya," he says, eyes widening just slightly. His voice is quiet and rough with strain. There is a pause before he adds, "You shouldn't be here." Shoto is keenly aware of his fangs pressing against the inside of his lip. He is more aware of the scent of Izuku's blood--sweet, rich, warm, tempting. Running hot through his veins, carried by his steadily thrumming pulse, his thudding heart. Saliva builds in Shoto's mouth. He swallows it back quickly and clenches the doorknob tighter, starting to push the door closed, emphasizing, "You need to go. I'm not safe for you to be around." as he does.

Izuku is a paitent man. He really is. Unfortunately, Shoto Todoroki is trying that patience.

Izuku can't imagine what he's going through right now. The transformation of your body to an unfamiliar one, the changes that come with that, the fear, the realization that the only way to substian yourself was to feed off of others-- Izuku can only imagine. When Shoto pulled away, slipped out of town, leaving his estate and into a tiny house away from everyone else, Izuku gave him space. He waited. He tried to let him adjust. He sent letters which went unanswered. Their friends went to check on Shoto and reported that they were turned away at the door. Izuku tried twice as well to the same results. Every time, Shoto looked worse and worse.

He's starving himself.

The realization made Izuku's stomach turn over itself. He couldn't wait for Shoto to come to his own conclusion. He knew Shoto couldn't die, not anymore. He's been researching, tearing through every piece of literature on vampires he could get his hands on. But starvation was still starvation. It was painful and miserable even if it wasn't fatal, and Shoto could not truly think Izuku would rather let him sit and stew in an unholy degree of isolation and agony rather than give him what he needs.

Izuku doesn't know what, exactly, has Shoto so scared, so convicned he cannot interact with those he loves, but Izuku will get to the bottom of that after he makes sure Shoto gets something to eat. And this time when he marches through the village during the late evening, mouth set in a grim line, he comes prepared and determinated not to be turned away. He has a bag full of medical supplies (and a few things for Shoto), he ate an iron-rich dinner and drank lots of water, and he has enough stubbornness to fill a cart.

When Shoto opens the door, he's a miserable sight. Shoto has always been pale and lean, but now he's all but colorless, and his face is gaunt from starvation. The sight hurts Izuku's heart. What hurts more is Shoto's immediate insistence that he's dangerous, that Izuku shouldn't be close to him. He's not dangerous. Not to Izuku. Shoto has always had the capacity to be dangerous and deadly but not, never, to Izuku.

Izuku sticks his foot in the door before it can close on him and catches it with his arm, muscling his way halfway inside. "Shoto," He breathes. It's the first time he's used Shotos first  name out loud in the history of their friendship, but it comes out in his desperation to soothe his friends pain, and to his benefit, for it takes Shoto so off guard it gives Izuku the opportunity to bully the rest of the way inside and shut the door behind him.

"You need to eat." He says, eyes burning with worry and determination. "I know you won't hurt me. It's okay. I'm not just going to let you sit here and starve." He reaches out, touching Shoto's cheek gently, fingers feather light. "This doesn't change anything. I'm still your friend. Let me help you, please. I hate knowing you're just out here all alone and hurting. I can take it. Please."

Shoto should have known better than to expect Midoriya to roll over and accept his demand for isolation. He has been lucky so far that Midoriya has respectfully kept his distance, as opposed to the others that have come determined to check on him. Of everyone that Shoto worries about hurting, he sits near the top of the list. His stubbornness and drive to help will see him killed one day. Shoto is terrified he's going to be the one to kill him.

All the terror gets knocked out of his body with the sound of his name. Shoto blinks hard at Midoriya and takes a lame step back when he muscles his way against the door. There is no blood in him to pound through his veins and what remains of his heart is too weak to feign beats, but something in his body reacts to that. Never before has Midoriya used his first name; never has Shoto used his. As close as they are, there remains that polite respect between them. To have it suddenly stripped away, to have his name exhaled with emphasis and closeness and worry, makes Shoto's dead chest do flips. He is too stunned by this to stop Midoriya from barging fully through the door, so he takes a second step back instead to put more space between them.

A quick glance over leads his eyes immediately to the parcel of medical supplies tucked under Midoriya's arm. He did not come ill-prepared. Rarely did he. Second, his eyes travel to Midoriya's pulse points: his wrists, his throat. With the strength of his preternatural sight, he can see the throb beneath pale skin, the way blue veins dance and pulse against each other, the particles of red being carried alongst them. The smell of it is so thick in his nose that it nearly coats his tongue, almost enough to sate him without needing to feed at all. The fingers on Shoto's left hand twitch out, like he intends to reach out and grip Midoriya by the shoulders, before curling into a tightly wound fist. His mouth opens in the shape of a firm no, but Midoriya beats him to talking. The surety he speaks with, the absolute confidence no harm will come to him, could make Shoto laugh had he more energy--or if he were prone to laughing to begin with. Instead, he just blinks slowly before his features pinch into a moderate, exhausted grimace.

It is hard to argue with the way Midoriya says his name again. It's even harder to argue with the hand that reaches for him, brushing over his cheek with a touch so gentle it nearly makes his knees melt. Shoto tilts his head into the warmth, pursuing the touch as it glides down his jawline. His nose presses against the heel of Midoriya's palm through the path of its retreat. He is so close to his wrist. Shoto's teeth ache in his gums. A fine tremor starts to spread through his body. It takes a great effort (or perhaps not great at all, as his body is exhausted and worn down at the moment) not to wrest Midoriya to the floor and empty him there, gorging himself to sickness on his closest friend.

A more pronounced shudder takes Shoto. His half-lidded eyes open fully and he blinks down at Midoriya. There's a great, profound sadness and regret in his gaze. "No," he croaks, reaching up to grab Midoriya's wrist and lower it to his side. "I can't let you do that. I could kill you." Shoto swallows down his sandpaper-rough tongue. There is just enough infernal strength left in his body to spin Midoriya back toward the door, though he doesn't give him a push. "You need to go. Now." The tremble in his limbs is worsening. His jaw shivers against its set. His nails itch with the want to grip, to hold Midoriya in place against him. Shoto takes a wary step back. "I'll be alright," Shoto insists. "I can survive. I don't need to feed on people." Convincing Midoriya to leave him alone may well be an exercise in futility, especially by this foregone point. He is well aware of that. But the alternative makes all his loathing, disgust, and fear bubble preemptively up the back of his throat. "Go," he repeats emphatically, turning away on his heel, "before we both regret tonight."

Standing inside his home, able to look up at him fully, seeing him in the full light streaming in through the window instead of the shadow of a doorway; it all makes it so painfully, agonizingly obvious how malnourished Shoto is. Swaying on his feet, all the strength drained out of him, slow-moving where he is normally all quick reflex and agility... it's an awful sight. He watches Shoto twitch, struggle against his own needs and nature, and Izuku's stomach does flips. He hates this. He can't stand this. No, he won't stand for this. No matter how hard Shoto tries to shut him out, Izuku is not. Leaving. This. Room. Not until he knows Shoto will be okay.

Shoto can hate him for pressing the boundaries Izuku is usually so careful to mind, or injure him, or anything-- it doesn't matter. Well, it does. Izuku doesn't want Shoto to hate him. But he loves Shoto far too much to watch this undying death play out without interference. Shoto's endured enough misery in his life. Izuku won't stand to see more play out, especially not when he could prevent it. He's helpless to so many things, has fought tooth and nail to change the inevitable so many times, but this is something he can do, an easy way to provide help. Maybe it won't be pleasant for either of them, but it's something Izuku can do, and so do it he will. Shoto is his closest friend, and one of his favorite people in the world. He hates seeing him hurt, and he hates being without him.

Izuku's selfish and he knows that, but maybe it's the emptiness in his life where Shoto Todoroki stood only a mere month ago that motivates him as much as any sense of altruism. Finding himself walking down the path to the Todoroki mansion on pure instinct, buzzing with thoughts he's desperate to share, only to remember Shoto isn't there anymore; or writing down paragraphs about a cat he encountered on his walk Shoto would've adored because Shoto wasn't there to hear about it; or simply sitting alone at dinner, wishing he could spend it with Shoto, could hear his voice or the slight crinkle in the corners of his eyes that indicated a smile... it hurt. Izuku misses him so much. Even now, he misses him, even when they're right in front of each other, because Shoto is still so very far away.

For a moment, he believes, or maybe hopes, that Shoto has acquiesced. His head tilts towards Izuku's hand on his cheek, eyes fluttering halfway, nose pressing into Izuku's palm. When he presses closer, Izuku firms his grip, thumb brushing over a high cheekbone. His skin is so freezing cold now, absent of blood and warmth, but it is still unmistakably Shoto. He tilts his wrist up a little, a silent offering, watching the shaking start across the line of Shoto's body with a painful twist in his chest. He feels so desperate to alleviate the pain that's carved in every line of Shoto's body right now that he almost starts begging.

But he should've known better than to think it would be that easy, for however stubborn Izuku Midoriya is, Shoto could match him blow for blow. (And isn't that true in most every aspect of their relationship?) The sadness that haunts Shoto's gaze makes Izuku's eyes sting. Izuku's spun around to face the door, and he inhales sharp. Regret this? Izuku can't imagine that. No, he isn't regretting anything, and he isn't changing his mind. Seconds after he's spun about and he hears Shoto step away from him, he's about facing to turn right back to him, expression only re-set in stubborn determination.

"You will not." Izuku says, voice sharp with his distress. Something desperate presses against the walls of his restraint until they snap, and Izuku moves forward. Predictably, Shoto moves away from him, but Izuku does not relent, backing Shoto up until they reach the couch. As they go, he says, "You need to eat. You can't avoid it forever and I won't let you avoid it forever." Two strong hands reach up to newly-frail shoulders and with a firm push, Shoto's rear hits the cushions, and Izuku is quick to follow where Shoto cannot escape him. His knees hit either side of Shoto's thighs as he crosses boundaries never approached by the two of them to sit himself right in Shoto's lap, hands remaining planted on Shoto's shoulder and glaring down at him.

"Shoto Todoroki, there is no one in the world I trust more than you." Izuku says, refusing to break eye contact even for a second, so focused he doesn't even have the wherewithal to be embarrassed about the position he's planted them in. "You will not kill me. You will stop when I need you to. I know you will, because just because you've changed doesn't stop you from being you. I know you, and I know you won't hurt me. I need you to trust yourself too. I don't want you surviving on nothing but air, wasting away in here for however long you think you can manage. I want you to be okay, I want you to be healthy and happy and I want my best friend back, Shoto."

Izuku exhales harshly, and then the lines of his face soften back into something familiar and gentle, and so does the grip on Shoto's shoulders. The mistiness returns to his eyes as the intensity fades, and he swallows hard. He moves one hand down to gingerly take long, cold fingers, curling over them carefully. "I'm not afraid of you. I never could be." He lifts that hand up, placing it on his own cheek as he keeps making eye contact. Pressing his cheek into Shoto's palm tilts his neck the opposite way, offering the most vulnerable part of him up in invitation. "I trust you." He reiterates, calm, quiet and certain. "It'll be okay. I promise."

Shoto's shoulders tense just enough to make them rise. Shoes shuffle and his floorboards creak with the sound of Midoriya turning back around. Knowing this would happen doesn't help to make him any less displeased. He looks back over his shoulder at the distraught insistence and is unhappy, but unsurprised, to find he's being advanced on. Keeping pace, Shoto takes a step back for every one made closer to them, keeping the distance between them even. If he lets Midoriya get close again--lets him touch again... he does not know what will happen. He doesn't know what he'll do. He knows it will be gruesome, and it will never leave his mind. The urge to devour throbs through his veins.

He is so focused on the simple efforts of walking and listening that Shoto doesn't notice he's been forced toward the couch until it presses against the backs of his knees, nearly forcing him to buckle. But before the pressure can make him fold, he's being forced down: big hands placed on either side of his frame, pushing him onto the seats as if he has all the weight and fight of a newborn kitten.

Being forcibly positioned is enough to make Shoto's head reel, but there's hardly time to process that before Midoriya is climbing on top of him.

Broad thighs (ones that Shoto feels a sudden desire to hold onto after looking them over) frame his own much thinner legs, caging him in. Midoriya's weight settles just enough into his lap for him to feel it, though mostly it rests in his knees, sinking into the cushions close to Shoto's hips. Shoto doesn't know what to do with his hands all of a sudden, so his arms stay locked dutifully to his sides. Midoriya's hands remain resting--pressing--down on his shoulders.

It's all too much for Shoto. The drool summoned to his mouth from the smell of Midoriya's blood has entirely gone, leaving his palate and tongue uncomfortably dry. He doesn't know what to do with his body, with his eyes. Briefly, his gaze roams across Midoriya's body, taking in this new perspective of him, but the pressure on his shoulders and continued speech encourage him to look back up. It's better that he does, anyway. He doesn't want to get caught staring too long at just how well-muscled Midoriya's legs are, how filled out his chest. Wandering eyes lead to distracting thoughts like wondering how the plane of chest into stomach would feel under his hand; wondering whether the muscles would twitch and flex at his icy touch. Shoto swallows hard before he meets Midoriya's eyes again.

He doesn't cow to the intensity he finds when he looks up. Shoto has seen that look on his friend's face before, in moments comparable to this one--or not comparable at all, really. There was never any crawling into laps involved. But at any rate: Midoriya talks, and if anything would, that would be the thing to make Shoto squirm. He is so focused now on keeping his body perfectly still to avoid pressing any incidental, unwanted contact, so he does not fidget, but his muscles tremble beneath his skin with the urge to. He wants to writhe his way out from under Midoriya. Suddenly he can't stand the sharp stare, the insistence that he is good and safe. It's all so overwhelming. It'd be easier to parse were they still standing, still opposite each other, but this close--warm, warm weight pressing down on him, trading breath, the thunder of Midoriya's heartbeat loud and close in his ears--digesting the speech is a struggle. Shoto can't think of much else other than Midoriya. For once, he's nearly forgotten his morals.

The grip on him softens. Shoto blinks and refocuses his blurring eyes. The glare on him smooths into a warmer look, a sadder look. Tears press up into the corner of Midoriya's eyes. Shoto's chest constricts and his own gaze wanders away again. He hates knowing he's the cause of these terrible emotions in his closest friend. He hates that the only way to quell the tremor that hits Midoriya's lip as he pleads is to give into his vilest instincts. Shoto screws his eyes shut until warm, warm, warm fingers coil around his own. Then the bridge of his nose creases and his eyes screw up a little tighter before relaxing. His gaze follows their knitted hands as Midoriya guides them to his cheek, placing Shoto's palm there. Absently, Shoto smooths his thumb over the crest of Midoriya's freckled cheek, the same gesture performed on him a few moments ago.

His heart doesn't race at the exposure of collar, jugular, carotid. His hands flex, though, both the one resting against Midoriya's cheek and the one still dutifully bound to the side of his thigh. "Midoriya..." he breathes. There is so much hesitance and uncertainty in his voice. It brims in his eyes, too, as he meets that damp, too-trusting gaze. Shoto's throat bobs as he swallows back his tongue again. He leans forward and presses his forehead against the bobbing curve of Midoriya's veins. His pulse thrums through Shoto's skin and into his marrow. Even without tasting him, he is addicting. Shoto thinks he could live off of just this--contact, the feeling of blazing warmth pressed to his icy skin, the scent and the sound and the allure--

Shoto shifts, rising as much off the couch as he can given the large frame keeping him in place. He runs his thumb over Izuku's cheek again before detangling their fingers. Then both his hands fall to Izuku's hips, his grip awkward and uncertain as he braces. A distant voice tells him he should not be touching Izuku like this, but he quickly banishes it with the private declaration that Izuku himself has taken them well past that concern. Shoto's head tilts so he can rest his cheek against the pulse point instead and he looks up to catch the corners of Izuku's eyes. Those damn eyes, which have always compelled him to do terrible, foolish things.

"Thank you," he says quietly, "for trusting me." He does not add the thought that Izuku shouldn't. It doesn't matter what he thinks; not anymore. Izuku has absolute confidence in him, is certain he won't go farther than need takes him, and--dammit. Like his eyes, Izuku's belief has been a driving force for Shoto to change since the earliest days of their friendship. He turns his head again and his lips brush over Izuku's jugular. His breath is cold against the hot, hot skin. "I'll be careful." He isn't sure whether he's making a promise or assuring himself. He doesn't let himself think any further before his mouth falls open and the points of his elongated canines press into skin.

The flesh gives easily, like taking a freshly-sharpened blade to paper. Shoto's fangs sink in until they're stopped by the rest of his flatter teeth pressing against Izuku's neck, barring his forward progress. As soon as the divets are made, blood wells up; it cannot escape, not with teeth plugging the holes it aims to fill, but Shoto can feel its hot pressure rising. The shaking that never quite went away worsens all throughout his body and Shoto hasnt even gotten a taste yet. He remains fixed there for a second, listening to the way Izuku's breath catches in his throat, all the little noises he makes; feeling the way his veins and arteries spasm against the intrusive force, the way his lungs fight not to overfill or hyperventilate. His body gets taut, a natural reaction to fear, but he doesn't retreat. Shoto grip on Izuku's hips has grown tight almost to the point of discomfort. Feeling the way Izuku quivers against him makes him feel possessed, and suddenly, all pretense is gone.

Shoto pulls off just enough to free his teeth from the plunges they've created. When he does, all the blood he'd been blocking the path of rushes out. He doesn't go far enough to give it the chance to stain Izuku's skin: immediately, his mouth is back in place over the wounds he created, taking in all the red that runs out. Izuku's blood is rich, laden with the taste of fat and far more iron than he expected. Izuku tastes like cattle. Then on the back of his tongue, with the aftertaste of his first swallow, sweetness blooms; velvet chocolate. Somewhere in the back of Shoto's mind, he has enough wherewithal to feel a mixture of fond emotions toward Izuku's readiness, but his hunger bullies it out quickly. He arches further off the couch until he's nearly pressing their chests together. He suckles at the leaking wounds with desperation, drawing as much blood into his mouth as he can. All but the barest whispers of sense have gone from him, eclipsed by his ravenous need.

Shoto's tongue swept out of his mouth, drawing up an escaped line of blood that threatened to spill down over Izuku's collarbone before prodding at the holes he'd left, encouraging more blood to greet him. He needed more. He needed so much more. He would never stop needing. He needed to take Izuku utterly. His hands flex again, nails digging in through Izuku's breeches to prod at skin. Warmth and color slowly start to come back to Shoto's face the longer he pulls from the wound. His strength rearises too, as does his speed, and it's instantly that he puts both preternatural gifts to work. One hand leaves Izuku's hips, replacing itself between his shoulder blades instead. One minute, they are seated on the couch, Shoto curling into the life source he threatens to bleed dry; then, in Izuku's eyes, they are suddenly on the floor without moving at all. The movement is simply too fast for his eyes or his body to keep up with as Shoto wrestles him forward and brings them both toppling to the ground. It is his turn to be untoward, to lose all sense of inhibition to his heady, foolish brain, to clamber atop Izuku and hold him riveted against the floorboards as he drinks, and drinks, and drinks.

Izuku's heartbeat is loud in his ears. Watching Shoto tremble beneath him is making his chest squeeze tightly. Every muscle in Shoto's body is tense. Izuku can feel it beneath his fingers, chilled skin pressing against his palms and wound tight. Shoto looks so scared. Izuku's next inhale is sharp from the pressure invading his lungs.  In the heartbeats following his pleading, Izuku is silent, and the whole world seems to go silent too. Nothing exists for a moment except for this, except for Shoto beneath him, looking up at him with those intense eyes.

Izuku didn't notice it at first, too preoccupied, but Shoto's eyes have changed from the last time Izuku saw them. The hue is the same, but the intensity has changed. Shoto's blue eye is clearer and sharper than any flake of snow, the stormy gray the same shade as the snow-capped mountains visible from the distance in their village. They've always been enchanting, Shoto's eyes, but they're breathtaking now, and they hold Izuku captive for a few seconds that last a lifetime.

Shoto's hand is ice cold against his cheek. Izuku watches Shoto's expression crease, and then slowly relax again. Shoto's thumb brushes over his cheek, and some of the tension, pressure easing, and Izuku exhales as he tucks his face closer to the sensation. He feels Shoto's hand flex beneath his, and Izuku twists his fingers a little tighter around it to give a reassuring squeeze, hoping to ease the tension felt even in the rigid involuntary twitches.

Izuku's heart skips a beat when Shoto speaks again, that soft, deep voice whispering his last name like a prayer. Izuku's always loved the way Shoto says his name. Even with the formal last name, Shoto says it like he's promising something, like Izuku is something to treasure. It's always done something to Izuku's heart. Shoto's always been like that, twisting Izuku's insides up without batting an eye. Being near him is both an addicting thrill and a comforting ease the likes of which Izuku didn't think he'd ever experience. Shoto's expression is lined with doubt and fear, and Izuku tries to project as much certainty as he can in response even with his damp eyes. His thumb brushes over the back of Shoto's knuckles.

Then, Shoto moves forward, and instead of pushing Izuku off of him, he just rests his forehead in the crook of Izuku's neck. The tension releases further, and Izuku lets out a slow, soft sigh. His free hand moves up. There's no pressure when he slips his fingers through long, straight strands, just a gentle, reverent touch, and Izuku's body relaxes significantly even as he stays propped up on his own weight above Shoto's lap. The cold of Shoto's skin makes him shiver, but it feels nice. Affection floods him. Izuku shuts his eyes for a few seconds, drinking it in, drinking Shoto in, all the ways he's changed and all the ways he's exactly the same; and feeling Shoto pressed in like this, despite it not being something they've ever done before, Izuku is hit with an overwhelming sense of relief, a profound rightness, a sensation of-- Oh. There he is. There's my boy.

Izuku's eyes blink back open as Shoto pulls back, the hand in his hair falling away, and he gives Shoto a wobbly little smile. He hums softly, eyes slipping back to halfway open as Shoto traces over his cheek, the chill left in the wake of the pad of Shoto's thumb a welcome sensation against the heat rushing red into Izuku's skin. When Shoto's hand pulls from his, Izuku lowers both his hands to rest much more gingerly on Shoto's shoulders again. Again, the cold rushes through him at Shoto's hands on his hips, the sensation intimate and unlike something Izuku has experienced before, and for the first time Izuku actually has enough mind to process the intensity of their position. His face heats further, but he dismisses any rising nerves over their closeness with a vengeance. Now isn't the time to worry about something like that, not when Shoto's in front of him, hungry, frightened and uncertain.

Izuku meets Shoto's gaze as best he can as Shoto presses his cheek against him, lost in a beautiful storm, and his eyes soften completely at Shoto's whispered words of thanks. It makes Izuku melt, and he parts his lips to say something, but nothing comes to mind. Especially when words are wiped from his mind as cold lips and cold breath is pressed against the sensitive skin of his neck, making goosebumps rise to the flesh. Izuku's next inhale shudders a little, but it's not from fear. It's simply the result of the intensity of their intimacy, the fact that no one has ever been so close to the most vulnerable part of him. It's a lot, but it's far from bad. When Shoto's lips part a little, Izuku catches a glimpse of sharp little canines, and he shivers a little. Those teeth could easily rip his throat right out, especially with Izuku pliant and unresisting, but Izuku knows they'll be gentle. Izuku knows he's safe.

"I know you will be." Izuku promises in a hoarse little whisper, a final reassurance.

Then, Izuku makes a choked, sharp gasp of a noise, breath getting caught in his throat as he inhales sharply through his nose. "Ah-!" It hurts, sharp pain radiating from the spot where Shoto's teeth meet his flesh. Heat rushes to the injury, builds and builds and is sharply contrasted by freezing cold breath and the icy lips pressed to his skin. (Somewhere, in the back of his mind, Izuku has enough thought left to blush anew over the idea of a kiss.) His body winds tight, hands tightening instinctively over Shoto's thin shoulders in an attempt to ground himself, body shifting and squirming as he instinctively responds to the sensation. But he's careful, so careful, not to make a motion that feels like pulling away. Rather, he holds on tighter, one hand winding to fully hold onto Shoto's shoulders, curling into the back of his shirt for stability.

Some part of him, one of the uglier, stranger parts that he tends to bite down, flourishes, knowing he's giving Shoto what he needs, that he's providing something to Shoto, that in some way he's *worth* something right now. He tells that part of himself that he's always worth something in Shoto's eyes, no matter how little worth he can find in himself, but it still squirms in delight over being useful, being needed; providing life to Shoto, being made his and Shoto's his in return. The heavy, cold weight on his hips that tighten just shy of pain, the fingers that press into his flesh beneath his clothes, only adds to the feeling of belonging and mine and right. He shuts the door on the spiraling thoughts before they could frighten him any further, before they were allowed to take root and have weight in his mind, and they're washed away in the next second anyway.

A soft, breathy whimper leaves Izuku when Shoto's teeth leave his flesh, fingers spasming in Shoto's clothes. It hurts again on the exit, ache turning sharp for a moment before settling once more. The sensation of being drank from is a strange one, feeling that heat be pulled out of his skin and flooded into Shoto. He feels when Shoto sinks into it, feels when he loses himself to the need and the relief, and Izuku sinks into him in turn with another little choked, "Mmn..." As his eyes flutter. He feels overwhelmed, skin hot and tingling. The pain is being combatted with a rush of heady warmth, distracting and all consuming. Izuku's weight finally settles fully against Shoto, his free hand moving up to tangle once more in Shoto's hair, the grip tighter this time, an attempt at giving himself something to hold onto. As Shoto presses up into him, Izuku presses down, until it's hard to tell where one begins and the other ends, cold and heat mixing.

Izuku can't help the way he whimpers again (and somewhere in his cloudy mind he remembers to be embarrassed at his reactions to this)  at the sensation of Shoto licking his skin, feeling cold, traces up in its wake as it laps away the heat of the trickled down blood. Izuku's breathing is quick, overwhelmed with sensation and a new kind of need he didn't even know was possible to experience. Shoto clings to him, nails pressing against his skin, and Izuku clings tighter in response, fingers twisting a little tighter in Shoto's hair. He doesn't know when he squeezed his eyes shut, but when he flickers them open again, he can see the way there's color in Shoto's cheeks again, and the sight makes him give a dizzy, breathless smile between gasps for air.

Izuku barely had time to register the hand between his shoulder blades before they're suddenly moving, sending his light head spinning from the rapid motion that goes too fast for his eyes to comprehend. He makes a noise that's halfway between a grunt and a gasp, resulting in just a strangled squeak when his back hits the floorboards. His hands spasm for a moment before tightening their grip, like he's terrified of losing Shoto despite Shoto certainly not going anywhere.

It's fascinating and overwhelming and a little terrifying; terrifying like the way he felt when he picked up a sword for the first time or when Katsuki talked him into going cliff diving, terrifying in a way that makes his stomach swoop and his heartrate pick up only to follow it with giddy, almost delirious bubbles of excitement and thrill. And Shoto holds him down and drinks from him and for a moment Izuku just *lets* him, so wrapped up in sensation he loses all sense of sense or self. It's so much, so intense and overwhelming, and Izuku forgets to think, forgets to even catch his breath, he just lets himself be taken, taken, taken.

Finally though, black edges on the corners of Izuku's vision, and that's enough of a fearful shock to knock some sense back into his spinning head. He parts suddenly dry lips, chokes in air and tugs at Shoto's hair in a bid for attention, gently at first and then with a little more urgency. "S-Sho," He gasps out, a warning and entreaty, struggling to find his words admist his spinning, dizzy mind.