trying out my first sexy thread! what better way to start than with sero?

CW: drug use, masturbation, scars, aged-up characters
college au sero x his own hand (feat. thoughts of deku)

Sero has to smoke the last of his stash without his stoner bud Midoriya, and he's Not Bummed.

Smoke, Sero thought, was a strange creature. A fitting thought for his high, perhaps--pleasantly nonsensical as he sat back against his pillows in bed, sucking on the end of a smoldering, mostly-finished joint.

Each acrid breath stung his throat, made him breathe out before he was ready to let go of the feeling.

Today, he was alone, and he tried not to feel bummed.

Normally, he smoked with Midoriya, who was the only other pothead besides him who made smoking a personality trait, and always brought spare supply.

But Midoriya was working on a project, so he couldn’t hang, and nobody else could, either.

But Sero wasn’t gonna be bummed. After all, he only had a joint or two left, and a couple bowls’ worth of weed. And with that resolve, he puffed away the evening until he was on his last joint, letting Netflix play a random comedy in the background.

He puffed lazily, a bit too much, letting the gentle tug of the smoke crawl through his body like a snake. And inevitably the high hit him like a truck, like it always did.

The floating emptiness inside his body swelled against his ribcage and the walls of his dorm room, plastered with old ‘90s J-rock posters, seemed to bubble outward toward him.

At times like this, the smoke breathed inside him, lived inside him, hollowed out his nerves until his skin grew numb. He held his hand up, examining the valleys of his knuckles, the curves in the minute webbing between his long, bony fingers.

They seemed yards away, despite the fact that he could barely move them closer without brushing the tip of his nose.

He opened his mouth to breathe, lips tingling, but he couldn’t tell if he was taking in any air. Shit.

Maybe that was a lot to smoke on his own, he absently noted, but even those thoughts were tangled up in the fog of his mind.

His heart, independent of his mind, took off, and he knew he had to be breathing, because no matter how his pulse sped up, he could still see clearly.

The room still warped against his sight, room lurching as he squirmed down until he was flat on his back and staring at the ceiling.

The way he floated on the bedsheets, casting about like he were riding a wave in an empty boat, was exhilarating. Comforting. Terrifying.

He could lie there like that for hours, drifting far from the usual sensations that accompanied physical life: soreness, tension, aching thoughts. The only downside was that occasionally, he would drift so far to sea that he scrabbled for purchase on the most basic of sensations.

As his grip on the present slipped, he realized with a rising panic that he was so numb he couldn’t feel his fingers, or his tongue, or his nerves, which usually thrummed in his skin.

His heart beat against the inside of his ribs until the sound clamored in his ears and, in a bid for stability, he pressed a hand to his chest. The touch brought him some relief. He was still there. Still present. Still a tangible existence.

He imagined Midoriya’s airy, pleasant voice, asking if he was okay, bubbling out a stream of laughter when Sero groaned in response.

Sometimes Midoriya would do this for him: press a comforting hand to his skin, reminding him that they were together, content and safe.

There was one time Midoriya had leaned on him a bit harder than a friend should, scarred palms sliding over the bare flesh above the neckline of Sero’s t-shirt in a way that instantly brought Sero back down to earth.

That was just the kind of guy that Midoriya was. Always attentive and kind. Calloused and rough, despite his soft interior.

And no, Sero wasn’t bummed that Midoriya wasn’t here. He had already decided he wouldn’t be.

He wasn’t disappointed that they couldn’t sit there and wax on for hours about stupid shit, and that Midoriya wasn’t around to laugh at his ill-fated experiments, like that time he tried to smoke a bong with the water he used to boil some hot dogs for dinner that night.

He breathed a sigh and flexed his fingers on his chest, massaging in short pulses. The noise from the TV distracted him as he allowed his hand to wander. It took a winding detour along the clothed planes of his stomach as he smoothed down his shirt.

The nerves there awoke and filled him with more of that shimmering, floating rush.

“Mm,” he hummed absently, pressing his fingers into the yielding flesh of his stomach.

The sensation was dulled by his clothing, so he wormed his hand underneath the hem of his shirt and drew lazily shapes across the skin with a fingertip. That felt nice, plugging him back into his consciousness like a live wire.

The shift and rise of each breath, languid against his palm, dragged at his focus.

Was the room hot? It /felt/ hot. So, without much thought, he slipped off his tank top and sighed as the breeze generated by the movement ghosted across his nipples.

They had stiffened without him realizing. He brushed them with his palms to erase the chill and a stout blade of fire plunged into his groin, making him groan.

Shit. That was nice.

So, he did it again, circling the tawny buds with his thumbs until tingles of excitement shivered up his back. He pinched and tugged them between his fingers, a bit too hard, and felt his back arch without his permission.

An exploration of his chest turned into a gentle, mind-numbing journey that reached all the way to the angles of his hips, where he massaged and stroked and ventured just below the waistband of his sweats.

He was no stranger to jacking it a little when he was high. In fact, a baked jack was one of the prime activities on any high person’s itinerary. Hard not to be horny when each sensation was magnified, like he had never actually touched himself until this moment.

That was another downside of being alone, because there was no Midoriya to suffer his flirty jokes, or give him that bitten-lip smile. No shy, freckled face he could lean into, pink lips parted in surprise, that opened to his advance--

He palmed himself through the front of his sweats, trying not to think of Midoriya’s tongue as he did so.
The pressure of Sero palm burned almost as much as the heat of that mouth, which he had so casually discovered one night an unknown number of weeks ago +

when he was too high to care if he seemed like a creep for kissing his casual stoner buddy out of nowhere. His cock hung against his hip and he squeezed it through his pants, paying careful attention to the head, where his underwear dragged coarsely against the slit.

He tugged his pants down to his thighs and reached down to roll his balls in his palm, shuddering at the arc of pleasure that surged through him. One finger traced the sensitive mold of his erection, urging a bead of precome from the tip that he could see peeking from +

beneath the waistband of his underwear. Shit, he was already hard, and as he shimmied his boxers down as well, he almost had the presence of mind to be embarrassed by how swollen and heavy his dick was after just a few touches.

The joint still burned in his hand, heat encroaching on the pads of his forefinger and thumb. The thing was practically dead, so he took a final deep drag off and held the smoke in his lungs as he leaned over to stub out the roach in an ashtray on his bedside table.

As he settled onto his back again, he wrapped one lithe hand around his cock. His mouth fell open on a whine, smoke twisting in the air as he arched into his own grip.
There was virtually no feeling in his hand, but fuck, his cock was on fire.

His palm practically /scalded/ the taut flesh, slicking liquid over the head with the first lazy upstroke.Spine arching, Sero gasped and rolled his hips, chasing more of that delicious warmth. With his fingers too thick and clumsy from his haze, he absently curled them +

into a fist and position his thumb so that each thrust pressed it along the moist slit of his dick.

He craned his neck to look down at himself. He watched his straining cock fuck into his fist, observing the phenomena from such a distance he could hardly believe that it was +

connected to the aching smolder in his stomach. The tip oozed more now, dripping heady arousal, and Sero spit into his palm to grease the wheels a bit more. When his hand returned to his cock, twisting along his shaft with a slick noise, he let out a choked moan of surprise.

“/Oh/, shit,” he murmured, jerking himself a bit faster. His head lolled back and he sucked his bottom lip between too-straight teeth, eyes fluttering shut. The fingers of his free hand rubbed lazy trails over the inside of his thigh, +

rubbing and prodding at his balls and the perineum just behind them. An arc of lightning danced up his spine and he pressed his cheek into the sheets, breathing out a shaky, filthy, “/Fuck/, mmh …”

He could hardly feel his fingers flex, or his wrist twisting. At this point, he was piloting himself mainly on instinct, swept up in his own grasp like it were that of a stranger--one who knew just what he liked. Knew to trace the underside of his glans, +

to pump the head in short bursts, to dig questing fingers underneath his balls until his thighs were shaking and his stomach filled with liquid heat.

A memory of rough skin flashed back to him and his hips stuttered.

He pushed it off to a corner in his mind, but fragments slipped past his feeble resistance and he couldn’t help but remember Midoriya’s stout hands on him, gouged with a thick, calloused scar in the webbing between thumb and forefinger.

He could almost feel the scrape of raised skin against Sero’s shirt, his chest, and then up his neck, on that one night that he had kissed Midoriya and Midoriya melted back into him.

His hands were not like Midoriya’s. Sero’s were warm, wet, unscuffed.

But he could pretend, for just a moment, that these were Midoriya’s fingers, growing sloppy on his cock as his forearm flexed with each movement. Behind the dark curtain of his eyelids, Sero imagined Midoriya’s heat beside him, +

and the tender warmth of those green eyes and their blown-out pupils. wallowing Sero up as much as his fist. Jerking him hard, slow, tight, tough flesh shot through with scars like bands of limestone in a mountainside--

For a few more torturous moments, Sero panted into the bedsheets and fucked into the tight coil of his fist, imagining Midoriya’s mouth falling open at the sight, pink tongue glistening with the blue light of the TV.

And then Sero was struggling onto his stomach, desperately kicking his pants and underwear the rest of the way off. He yanked his pillow underneath him and groaned brokenly at the first thrust against its gentle give.

“/Ahhh/,” he breathed, hissing as he drew his hips back and fucked lazily against the pillow. He leaned on his elbows and canted forward at an unhurried pace, feeling the friction of the pillowcase stoke the pleasure higher inside of him.

That was more like it, more like Midoriya and his powerful, rough-hewn fist.

He didn’t know how long he laid there, rutting against his pillow with lazy strokes, moans muffled in the bedsheets.

Each motion kept him floating in that shimmering pool of weightlessness, arousal scouring out his insides. He ran his along his sides, up over his neck, and as he tugged one nipple between his finger he felt that heat boil over and was coming with violent, shuddering jerks.

His hips pistoned against the pillow in firm and indulgent thrusts until his cock swam in a valley of fabric and come. Only when his ragged breathing made him lightheaded did he force himself to still.

A full minute passed while he struggled to re-spool his thoughts into something coherent.

Flopping over onto his back again, Sero eyed the pillow with a grimace. With a flick of his wrist he turned the clean side face-up. Nobody would know. He could wash it later.

While he came down from the numbing swell of orgasm, he heard his phone vibrate in his pants pocket. He pawed clumsily at his discarded sweats until he retrieved it and checked his messages.

The first notification on the display was a test from Midoriya, which read, /you still smoking?/

Oh. Damn. Was Midoriya done with his project? Shit.

He typed back, /yeah, but most of the good shit is gone. i dont pick up more till tomorrow/

/oh. ok. i guess it is kind of late, too/, Midoriya replied, and Sero’s heart sank. Man, if he had just waited a few more hours, maybe Midoriya would be here right now. Maybe Sero could have a taste of the real thing.

But then, Midoriya was typing, /might be for the best. im getting some later this week, too. my favorite. i’ll bring it next time!!/

Though he was still pissed, Sero couldn’t help the smirk curling at his lips.

Yeah. Next time. Next time, for sure.

/end/