Izuku scarcely noticed, focused on Shouta's iron grip on his wrist, right on the edge of painful. For a hazy, heated moment, it felt like that hand was the only thing keeping him upright, and Izuku swallowed hard, looking up at Shouta. Shouta was staring back at him, gaze dark and intense. His hand slid from Izuku's waist to his hip, gripping tightly, thumb digging hard into the hollow there. Like his wrist, the grasp was too-hard and almost painful, and the soft whine it wrenched from him was entirely involuntary. Shouta didn't move, didn't speak, holding Izuku with strong hands that were making him a little crazy, and Izuku wanted-well. He wanted.