Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

It’s not your run-of-the-mill meet cute.

In fact, their first meeting is anything but cute. It’s violent, loud, and unconventional. Katsuki’s smitten, off the bat. 

At the corner of 5th and Kanihara Street, there’s a new café. It’s a narrow, two-story building squished between wannabe scrapers of five-stories or more, with distressed brick and wrought-iron framed windows. On the roof, there are wicker pergolas with climbing greenery and full, lush planter-boxes. It doesn’t have to emulate that vintage vibe that’s all the hubbub these days, as those bricks were slopped together seventy-something years ago. It’s stood the test of time, gentrification, and a handful of duplicitous litigations. Now, it’s home to a café—the Bold&Brave. 

It’s a clever name. Bold, coffee. Brave, come get your brew here, Pro-Heroes!

The Bold&Brave has been operational for over a month, and despite it being less than a fifteen minute’s walk from his Agency, Katsuki’s not yet been. Katsuki isn’t really a café guy, he’s more the ‘cheapest roast at the market’ guy. He sets the timer on his outdated Mr. Coffee for five a.m., dumps half the pot into a thermos, and screws the lid atop the piping drink—no additions. He’s a simple man with even simpler tastes, some of which earns him some justifiable criticism from his peers. Cheap, black coffee is apparently a war crime he wasn’t forewarned about, up there with the likes of genocide and enslavement. 

Still, he won’t be swayed from his routines. 

Until the incident. 

At the corner of 5th and Kanihara Street, there’s a firefight. Noon on a Wednesday, an amorphous villain made of wriggling rubber, towering many feet over the average height of a man, goes on a rampage. It isn’t acting alone in this disorder, as up to five other villains are mentioned in frantic calls from bystanders. They’re presumed to be a group, and while the overgrown bouncy-ball serves as a formidable distraction, his companions have gone on a looting spree of nearby shops and stalls. Ground Zero is one of ten other heroes on scene, but alas—

Icy-Hot, that motherfucker, is already manning the frontlines against the primary villain. Katsuki prefers to be the one taking down the big fish, but he has enough common sense to know when his hands would make too many to a pot. Todoroki is doing well enough on his own, but three other heroes are backing him up [Mt. Lady, Red Riot, and Uraravity]. The bouncy-ball is formidable, but not that formidable. In any case, there’s more to be done. Two of the remaining five villains have already been captured, their C-grade quirks folding like looseleaf before the talents of Pro-Hero combatants. 

Katsuki will be damned to arrive on scene and accomplish nothing. He whips around, straining his ears for the telltale sounds of criminal activity: shattering glass, cries for help, corny we’re totally getting away with this laughter. Twenty paces from his position, there are several citizens fleeing a storefront. It’s the café, Bold&Brave. Inside, he can see the muddled shape of a dissident making threatening gestures. 

‘Good enough, it’s fucking something ,’ he thinks. 

Explosions hot from his palms, he blasts himself across the street. From what he can tell, there are only two people within—the villain and whoever mans the counter. They look to be...arguing? Well, someone’s taking their job a little too seriously. He ought to hurry, lest that barista incur the wrath of whatever lame quirk this villain wields. Katsuki bursts through the shop’s front door, the ‘welcome’ bell clattering with the hasty entry. 

“Oi! Stop right there, bast—!”

Katsuki’s a hardened Pro-Hero, a do-gooder, an ass-kicker. He’s number three in the rankings, he’s the best of the goddamn best. In his five-year career, and at U.A. before that, he’s witnessed and taken part in some of the nuttiest, most inconceivable scenarios: battles, plots, city-level decimations, the deaths of mentors and cherished companions. He’s not one to be taken off guard lightly, nor have his jaw hanging with shock. But, the scene before him now...

Bakugo Katsuki is floored . 

Katsuki isn’t left with the chance to defeat the villain, nor save the barista, nor do anything at all. Because, an espresso maker is sailing through the air, heaved from the barista’s arms after he’d performed a rotating motion like a shot-put player. It crashes into the unwitting bastard. It’s a large, heavy-ass machine, because the villain accordions beneath it like Wile E. Coyote beneath an anvil. He’s...unconscious. The barista huffs, brushing his palms down the front of his apron to clean them of the grounds and drippings that’d spilled from the machine. 

Katsuki blinks down at the criminal, then up at the barista. 

Jesus Christ, he’s...hot. 

Cute? Sexy? Katsuki suspects they’re close in age despite his stature and youthful face. His hair is an attractive mess of sable curls, and his eyes [the greenest green to ‘evergreen’—it’s a good pun] are supermassive enough to swallow up souls and celestial bodies alike. Freckles sprinkle him like a reverse-sky, dark pinpricks on a pale backdrop. 

He’s fucking something, that’s for sure, and that’s just running off of pure aesthetic—if he were to take into account the crushing a villain with an espresso maker, well, he’s off the charts, tipping the scale to the bowels of Hades. It’s one of the most attractive displays Katsuki’s seen in all his life, and to be so casual about it? Who the fuck is this guy? There’s a searing need whispering through the midline of his brain, he needs to know. He needs to...introduce himself, get a number, fuck—! Something! 

He opens his mouth to drop a very cool, very ‘mystique’ line, something like ‘so, when do you get off?’ 

“Oh, hey.” The barista beats him to it, and he says it like he’s only just realizing Katsuki was in the building. 

“Can you get this guy out of here? It’s bad for business, you know.” 

...huh? 

Is he being...dismissed? Bakugo Katsuki, the number three Pro-Hero: Ground Zero [christened ‘Sexiest Hero of the Year’ by Vogue Japan]? It can’t be, no. This barista just...hasn’t gotten a good look at him yet, that’s all. He doesn’t realize whose presence he’s in, a presence that warrants a little basking . Katsuki opens his mouth, but he can’t think of a single thing to say. His voice starts to croak out, but he’s interrupted yet again. The bell above the door tinkles. 

“Ground Zero! Is everything okay here? There were reports of a—oh!” 

It’s Uraraka, and she’s cut herself off at the sight of the boy behind the counter. She grins, glistening and wide. “Izuku-kun, hey!”

“Ochaco-chan, it’s good to see you!” He greets her, and Katsuki almost has to squint—he’s brightened to an unnatural degree, as if he’s the main character and the director of his movie wants you to know it. Katsuki knows his name, if nothing else. Then, Ochaco spots the limp body beneath the espresso maker. 

“Oh, my!”

She rushes over, tapping the equipment and hovering it above the body. 

“Oh, Ochaco-chan, could you float that my way, please?” Izuku points to the empty space on the counter. “It might be broken, but—”

“Sure! Bakugo, can you detain this guy, please?” 

...what the fuck is going on? 

—

He stares down blankly at one of many reports, the tip of his pen hovering over the paper. His brain has leaked out of his ears, left in a puddle on the sidewalk somewhere, for all the use it serves him now. 

Midoriya Izuku, that’s his name. 

It’s the only tidbit of information Katsuki came away with, and that wasn’t even from his own mouth. He didn’t introduce himself, he didn’t get a number. He didn’t do anything more than what Uraraka asked him to do, which was clear the café of the criminal’s unconscious body. She was in animated conversation with the barista, Izuku, all the while. Katsuki was the extra, a background character to their chirpy reunion. He left the café, defeated, white-knuckling the villain’s deadweight. They never exchanged a single word, beyond the initial ones Izuku first spoke to him. It’s been…a long time since he’s suffered such a devastating, crushing blow to his pride.

It’s been two days since the incident, and he’s still reeling from it. He’s acting out of character, and he isn’t sure how to rectify it. His dating experience is abysmal at best, and he’s never really had to go out of his way to attract attention. Effort, that’s it. He’s never had to make an effort , and he’s never been interested enough to try. Katsuki grunts into his knuckles, squeezing the life out of the pen without meaning to. 

It snaps in his fist, and there are casualties in the resulting explosion of ink—his uniform, face, and untouched stack of reports. 

“Fuck!” He barks, shooting to his feet. 

Some minutes later, hunched over the counter in the bathroom and furiously scrubbing the ink splatter from his hairline, Katsuki pulls himself together. He’s a Pro-Hero, goddamnit! He won’t be dismissed, he won’t be cowed, and he possesses more than enough confidence in himself to actively pursue something he wants. Midoriya Izuku doesn’t know it yet, but there’s a storm coming for him. 

Over the weekend, Katsuki does some research.

Midoriya Izuku isn’t excessively active on social media, but he’s active enough for Katsuki to create a solid profile of him. His time is primarily spent between work and a number of hobbies: gymnastics [good fucking God], cooking, and charity work . He volunteers at an animal shelter every other Saturday, as well as works with ‘Don’t Mind the Disaster’—a non-profit who assembles after villain attacks to aid with home and business repair and relocating affected families. 

His only family is his mother, Inko. He has a large circle of friends, even more acquaintances than that. What’s worse, a lot of them are Pro-Heroes. Katsuki can guess he’s met most of them through the café and the non-profit, but he’s disgruntled to see the overly-friendly snapshots of his coworkers and competition slung around Izuku’s shoulders like a tacky, faux fur. Todoroki, Uraraka, Mirio, Asui, and [Jesus Christ], he’s chummy with Aizawa and All Might, too? Katsuki’s beginning to think he’s the only Pro-Hero in the country that’s never met this kid before now.

His likes include: Katsudon, journaling, sloppy dogs, and sweets. He seems to like just about anything and everything, but these were the more noteworthy, recurring things to appear in his feeds. As far as dislikes, there isn’t much to be unearthed in the realm of specifics. Pulp, rain in the winter, and discourtesy.  

He’s...extremely photogenic. Specifically, the photos captured of him in the gymnasium he frequents. It takes a herculean effort not to rub one out to the sight of his ass plumped under the strain of a technically perfect scorpion pose, and Katsuki’s name isn’t Hercules. 

—

[ATTEMPT #1]

The Monday following the incident, Katsuki decides to strike while the iron’s hot. 

His standard routine has him arriving at the office by seven, give or take any overnight emergencies. He departs for patrol by eight, and today, he’ll be stopping off for an exorbitantly priced coffee at Bold&Brave. On the way, Katsuki rehearses the lines to the script he’d produced in his nervousness. Some openers had to be scrapped, such as:

‘Remember last week, when you shattered that villain’s spine with an espresso maker? I’ve jerked off to that, like, five times.’

‘Bakugo. Bakugo Katsuki. The pleasure’s all mine.’

‘So, do you own a leotard, or...?’

No, no, he’ll keep it classy. Good posture, relaxed shoulders, an easy smile that’s just a little hungry. He’ll ask what Izuku recommends, and while waiting for his drink to be made, he’ll lean against the counter and casually inquire: “Did you have any plans this evening?” 

The kids call it rizz. 

As the shop comes into view, he clears his throat of a sudden thickness and rolls the stiffness from his neck. His stomach tickles with emasculating nerves and his palms begin to sweat—he drags them up and down the outside of his thighs to prevent accidental ignition. He’s twenty-three, not thirteen, fuck. 

Stepping to the front door, he doesn’t hesitate in pulling it open. He’d look like a man with ill intentions should he idle or pace the sidewalk. The bell overhead shimmers a familiar greeting, and the pungence of Arabica and sugared pastries washes into his nares. It’s not an unpleasant smell, but it only makes him nauseous. He sucks a discreet breath through his teeth. It’s showtime—

“Ah, I’m sorry! Izuku-kun has Mondays off.”

—

[ATTEMPT #2]

Monday night, there was villainy afoot in his district, which led to the intentional arson of a residential neighborhood, which then led to an overnight double. Katsuki didn’t get off until Tuesday morning at six, the sun a mocking spotlight cresting the rooftops.

He showers, changes, and catches an hour’s nap in the on-site dormitory. He snaps out of the cot with intention when his alarm sounds at eight. His eyes might be bloodshot, but his chest thrums with determination. A heroes’ schedule is always hectic, unpredictable, and makes for a poor work-life balance, but he won’t be deterred. He’ll stop by Bold&Brave, charm the pants off Izuku, and then sleep the remainder of the day away in peace. If anything, the exhaustion offsets the nerves. 

This time, on the walk over, he’s feeling unstoppable. Catching himself in the glass of passing reflections, he looks as good as he feels. That is, until he arrives a few paces from the storefront. It might not be bleeding out onto the street, but there’s a line that stretches from the counter to the door. “What the fuck...” He groans, lifting his face towards the heavens in case there’s a deity willing to answer him.

He won’t be stopped. 

Biting back a lifetime’s worth of bad temperament, he pulls the door ajar and slides in behind the last patron in waiting. Katsuki decides to look on the bright side. Since he’s having to wait, he can openly observe Izuku as he works. It’s not creepy, as long as he’s subtle about it [he’s not as subtle as he thinks]. Despite the line, Izuku seems to be in his element. He twists between his coworkers like endowed with a sixth sense, back and forth from the register, the kitchen, the machines, and the drink counter. His tone doesn’t lose an ounce of cheer, his smile doesn’t falter from its megawattage, and his eyes shine in a way that suggests his disposition is a genuine one. Katsuki catches himself also trying to break into a smile, like it’s contagious. 

The line is moving quickly, and Katsuki begins to debate the ethics of trying to flirt when he’s clearly swamped. Alas, he’s not left to debate it for long, as he never makes it to the counter. A young woman in a receptionist’s uniform [white button-up, pencil skirt, laminated placard, dead eyes] is tottering towards the door with an armful of foreshadowing. She’s balancing two carriers loaded with drinks, a paper bag heavy with bagels, and her clutch. Her tongue pokes from the corner of her lips as she performs this circus act, and her eyes flicker between her surroundings and the drinks she’s struggling not to tilt. 

It happens in slow motion, as all tragedies do. Two spots ahead of him, there’s a couple waiting in the line. They’re tee-hee-ing and ha-ha-ing, roughhousing like they’re about to fuck on the café floor. Final Destination-style, the man goes to dig his elbow in her ribs. She lurches back, shrieking with the kind of laughter that has no place in public at eight in the goddamn morning. She shoves into the slow-moving receptionist, who proceeds to launch her drinks like live grenades. Standing directly in the splash zone, Katsuki can do nothing but watch the projectiles sail through the air.

They’re all iced drinks, at least. 

He proceeds to be doused in an entire bullpen’s worth of overly-sweetened brew, ice, and whipped cream. It’s arguably his darkest hour. 

“Holy shi—! I mean, oh my God! I’m so, so, so sorry, sir! Oh my God, I’m so fuc—I mean, I’m so sorry! Oh my—”

“It’s. Cool.” He grits.

It’s not cool, actually. It’s so uncool, Katsuki contemplates blasting himself in the face to be rid of the curse placed upon him by some villainous witch. There’s simply no other explanation. His luck has never been so downright horrendous. Once again, he leaves Bold&Brave in a state of utter defeat, too many pitying stares burning into his back. If Izuku’s is one of them, he dare not look back to find out. 

—

[ATTEMPT #3]

Thus far, it’s the most progress he makes.

Katsuki takes a week to emotionally recover from ‘mochageddon’, as he dubbed it. He convinces himself a week is enough time for the staff of Bold&Brave to forget the face of the man who was doused in the middle of their store. At the very least, it’s enough time for him to convincingly pretend it wasn’t him. He was wearing a cap at the time, so there’s plausible deniability on his side.

This time, Katsuki does more thorough homework. Izuku works Tuesday through Friday. Tuesday and Wednesday, seven in the morning to three in the afternoon. Thursday and Friday, three in the afternoon to ten at night. The shop is busiest between eight and eleven in the morning, then five to six in the evening. He will avoid these times at all fucking costs. Thursday after his shift, he makes his next attempt. It’s seven in the evening, and Katsuki opts to loiter on the opposite side of the street before just waltzing in. It’s not weird. It makes sense to do some reconnaissance beforehand at this point. Clearly, he fucked someone over in a past life and he’s just now paying for it. Otherwise, it wouldn’t be so fucking hard to get a word in with this kid. Never let it be said that Bakugo Katsuki isn’t of the stubborn, ‘never say die’ breed. 

Izuku is working, and the café is deserted. 

Pulling his shoulders back, he crosses the street. He’d taken care to dress in flattering attire, spritzed himself in the cologne he reserved for press conferences, and ran his hands through his hair ten times over for that deliberate bedhead look that women seem to like. Izuku’s not a woman, but it’s neither here nor there. The bell tinkles overhead as he passes through the door, and it sends a shiver of paranoia down his spine. 

“Welcome in!” 

It’s the first time Izuku’s greeted him, personally, in such a way. It punches warmth through his chest, and he bites the inside of his cheek to ground himself. Be cool, you stupid bastard. Shoving his hands in the pockets of his jacket, he quirks a heavy-lidded smile. “Hey.”

He approaches the counter, and there’s no divine intervention to stop him this time. No flaming meteors crash through the ceiling, though Katsuki almost glances up to be sure. Izuku abandons the machine he’s wiping to come behind the register, and it’s the first time he’s gotten this close. Somehow, Katsuki can smell him through the potent, perpetual perfume of espresso that sticks in the air of every coffeehouse. He smells like the woods, like a new, green growth in tender, sun-warmed soil. He smells so good, Katsuki’s suddenly become a fucking poet over it. 

“What can I get you?” 

“Uh...”

Oh, right. He’s supposed to order something. 

Clearing his throat, he says: “Surprise me.” 

Izuku blinks up at him, taken aback. Then, he smiles a cheshire-like thing. “Sure! Can I get a name?” 

Now, Katsuki is taken aback, and before he can stop it, the question tumbles from his mouth: “You don’t...know who I am?” 

The ensuing silence could’ve lasted for days for how long and painful it was. They stare at each other, and it’s almost as if they’re both struggling to climb into the other’s wavelength. From the way Izuku’s squinting up at him, Katsuki suspects that if his tone were even a little impolite or haughty, Izuku would have responded sharply. Instead, he laughs. 

Katsuki startles, because my God, what a laugh. Katsuki has preferences, but ‘favorites’ are for children. Except, he’s just discovered his favorite sound, and if it weren't completely unhinged, he’d record it and play it on a loop in his headphones. It spills a fizzy heat in his gut, spreading through the outermost reaches of his body: fingers, toes, and the point of his nose. He’s fucking buzzing with it. 

“I know who you are.” Izuku huffs. “But, I wouldn’t presume to know how you like to be called. That’d be rude.” 

Katsuki scoffs and turns his face away, and he prays the burn in his face won’t be as noticeable. “Tch, Katsuki.” 

“Okay, Katsuki-san! Give me a moment, I’ll have it right out for you.” He claps his hands together and sports an impish look, and Katsuki wonders if he should be wary of what sort of drink Izuku will bring him. 

Instead of standing by the counter like an impatient prick, he parks himself at a little two-seater by the window. The sun is almost a memory, the last of the day casting bruises off the glass and concrete across the street. The café is lit ambiently with warm, honey-toned lowlights, and an upbeat piano piece trills at a comfortable volume from somewhere above. If he strains, he can hear Izuku humming along offbeat. He watches him bumble around behind the counter from the corner of his eye, and he’s plagued by questions and concerns. 

Is Izuku into men? If so, is he single? 

There was no indication on any of his profiles that he’s attached, and while it’s possible he’s choosing to keep a relationship off the web, he posts just about everything else in his life. 

If he’s into men and single, is Katsuki his type?

He’s everyone’s type. Moving on.

Does he remember Katsuki from the initial incident, or is he just some faceless Hero in Izuku’s memory? Does he recognize him as the poor bastard from last week, who took an impromptu coffee-shower in the middle of a breakfast rush? He doesn’t act like a typical fan, for knowing who Katsuki is. Is he just desensitized to the idolization of Pro-Heroes because he’s associated with so many of them? He seems to know many of them personally, as more than just their regular barista. 

Why the fuck is that?

His leg starts to bounce, a physical manifestation of his anxiety. Fortunately, the object of his newfound obsession rounds the corner with his ‘surprise’ order. He sets a large, ceramic mug and a small plate in front of him. “Here you go. I won’t tell you what the drink is unless you like it.” He laughs. 

Katsuki’s mouth dries up so fast, he almost can’t unstick his tongue from the roof of it in time to reply. Be cool, for the love of fucking God. He leans back in the chair, half-smiling. “What if I hate it?” 

Izuku looks around the empty shop pointedly. “Well, it looks like you're my top priority, so I can’t let you leave until you’re satisfied. We’ll go through a hundred drinks if we have to.” 

Oh, fuck. He’s in danger, because the idea of Izuku trapping him here ‘until he’s satisfied’ just shot a bolt of lightning straight to his cock. “That sounds expensive.” He breathes, and it’s way too gritty of a tone to pass off in casual conversation. Izuku either doesn’t pick up on it or is politely ignoring it. He grins. 

“This one is on the house, Katsuki-san, so make sure you tell me what you think.” 

On the house? Is it a sign? Is Izuku green-flagging him or just being nice? Shit.  

Izuku leaves him to his crisis, and Katsuki looks down at the fare he’d brought him. There’s a layer of foam atop, what he assumes, is espresso. In the foam, Izuku had created a pattern—the cutesy face of a bear stares up at him, unblinking. He almost, almost feels guilty for drinking it, and if he weren’t the only soul in the room [likely to be caught], he’d snap a picture of it. On the plate, there’s a small, yellow square. The bottom half looks to be a crust, while the top is a slice of canary-colored custard dusted with powdered sugar. 

His first pull of the drink proves to be beyond expectation. It’s an espresso with a mild, velvety hint of chocolate, and the harshness of the strong brew is mellowed out by the frothed milk. It isn’t a sweet drink by any means. The yellow square turns out to be a lemon bar, and neither is that excessively cloying. It’s creamy, tangy, just enough sweetness to offset a citrus’ bite. Katsuki glances over at the counter, and Izuku is busy pulling the day’s uneaten pastries from the display case. The drink and pastry both suit his tastes so well, it’s strange to think this is the first time they’ve met. 

Once finished, he brings the empty dishes to the counter. This is it, now’s the time. They’ve breathed the same air for upwards of twenty minutes, and those initial jitters have settled. He finally feels like himself, and he can act with that trademark confidence. His phone will be one contact heavier by the time he leaves. He gently deposits the plate and mug on the counter, and Izuku dutifully totters over to collect them. Katsuki rips his eyes upward, as he may or may not have been admiring the cinch of the apron’s straps around his lithe waist. 

“So? What’d you think?”

Katsuki turns the ‘charm dial’ to max. He rests his forearms on the counter, leaning forward with intention. He’s encroached too deep into Izuku’s space for it to be considered casual, but not so close as to have him backpedaling in discomfort. “Best fuckin’ thing I’ve ever put in my mouth.” He hums, and the ‘so far’ stamps the air between them like a brand. Obviously, should Izuku grant him the privilege, that bar will ascend to unreachable heights. 

Finally, Izuku reacts. He gives a tiny flinch, and his face pinkens beneath the smear of freckles bridging his nose. He bites back an eager sound and pushes forward. “I know it’s on the house, but I feel like I owe you.” 

Izuku scrutinizes him, folding his arms across his chest. “Oh? It’s your lucky day, there’s a tip jar.” He jerks his thumb over his shoulder, and sure enough, a glass jar brimming with cash sits by the register. 

Katsuki clicks his tongue. “Hm, a few bucks just doesn’t seem like enough. I mean, that coffee probably changed my life. I’m a better man than I was thirty minutes ago.” 

Izuku smothers a stilted laugh behind his palm, as if that’ll keep Katsuki from hearing it. “Maybe you’re just saying that so I don’t have to make ninety-nine more drinks.”  

“Cross my heart, hope to die.” Katsuki draws an ‘x’ over his breast. “There was something else I had in mind, actually.”

Izuku’s brows lift into his hair. “Oh?”

Here it is, the moment he’s been clawing towards. It’s taken him two weeks and three defeats, as well as a healthy dose of humiliation. Things are going better than he could’ve hoped, and Izuku seems at least somewhat responsive to his blatant flirting. The kid’s interested, if only just a little. Katsuki can work with that. He turns up the smolder. 

“Can I take you out?”

He drops the line as smooth as a dripping of melted chocolate. 

Izuku flusters. Then, he looks sheepish. His lips wobble into an embarrassed smile and he tucks a hand into the hair curling his neck. “Ah, I’m sorry, Katsuki-san, I don’t date Pro-Heroes.”

In the back of his brain, a record scratches. 

I don’t date Pro-Heroes...

I don’t date...

I don’t...

Somewhere, a child’s scoop of ice cream falls from their cone, splattering on the pavement, a pedestrian waiting at a crosswalk is splashed up to their knees by a passing car, and an infant who begins to cry for no apparent reason. Katsuki joins their ranks as the unluckiest, most miserable bastard who ever lived. 

Chapter Text

“Oi, Round-face!”

Uraraka jumps back from her phone. “What the shit, Bakugo?”

Fortunately, Katsuki didn’t have to travel far to find her. It adds up to about ten steps between their desks. He steals a chair from one of the sidekicks [whose name he couldn’t recall even with a gun snuggled to his temple] and saddles up beside her, swinging his boots on to the corner of her desk. He takes care not to muse her papers; he’s not a complete dick. 

“You know that coffee shop on 5th?” 

“Bold&Brave?”

“That’s the one.” Katsuki snaps his fingers as if he couldn’t recall the name, as if he hadn’t been ripping his hair out over it for days. 

“What about it?” She huffs, glaring at where he’s made a foot-stool out of her workspace. 

“You know that barista, Midoriya?” 

She lights up. “Izuku-kun, of course.”

“Is he seeing anyone?” 

Realization dawns on her face, and she slides a mocking look at him. “Let me guess—” 

“I’d rather you fucking not.”

“—you asked him out, and he shot you down.”

Katsuki grits his teeth. He’s doing his best to downplay it, but he needs answers. Uraraka seems to know the kid pretty well, to the point where she’s pictured on his Instagram out of uniform. He thought maybe Izuku was dating someone, and the Pro-Hero thing was just an excuse. He struggles to keep a plain face. 

“Something like that might’ve happened.” He coughs. 

Uraraka giggles, and fuck, Katsuki’s never hit a woman before—

“Oh my God, did you go see Recovery Girl?”

“Wha—? She’s fucking retired—”

“Your poor ego must be shattered!”

Katsuki digs his thumb and forefinger into his eyes, praying for that sort of saintly patience that skipped over him when he was developing in the womb. “For the love of fuck, Uraraka, just...tell me what you know? Please?”

Uraraka claps her hands over her mouth. “Wow.” She breathes. “This is...serious, huh?”

“As a goddamn heart attack.” 

She leans back in her own chair and crosses her legs neatly at the knee. “Well, I’m not sure what to tell you, honestly. I’ve known Izuku-kun for about two years, and he’s been asked out by a lot of Pro-Heroes, but he always turns them down. He’s not dating anyone either. He hasn’t dated in all the time I’ve known him, actually. You know, Todoroki-kun asked him out once, too.”

Katsuki scowls, then fixes her under a gaze narrowed with suspicion. “Oi, did you ask him out?”

Uraraka squeaks, whipping her face away. It’s of no matter, as a damning blush travels down her throat. Katsuki groans and drops his head back into the cushion. If he isn’t seeing anyone now, nor in recent history, there’s something amiss. He’s too perfect to be unattached. The morally upright thing to do would be to respect Izuku’s boundaries, probably. But, something that lives in his marrow and cells can’t accept it. He likes the kid too much, and if there’s a line to be drawn in the sand, he’ll find it eventually—but not today, tomorrow, or next week. Hopefully, not ever.

Uraraka notes the tenacity in his face with a lifted brow. “So, what’s your plan? You shouldn’t be an asshole about it, Bakugo, seriously. Izuku-kun’s probably too good for you.” 

Katsuki flips her off and leaves without a parting word.

—

[PHASE #1]

Become a regular. 

Before pushing buttons and boundaries, he should familiarize Izuku with his presence. He sticks with Thursdays and Fridays in the evening, as long as his schedule allows it. For the first few weeks, it does. When he makes his next appearance after the initial rejection, Izuku brightens at the sight of him coming through the door—as if he didn’t shoot him down like a Clydesdale with a broken leg. 

Katsuki absolutely reads into it. 

“Katsuki-san! Welcome back,” he chirps. 

Katsuki approaches the register and drops a folded bill in the tip jar. It’s a twenty, because he’s generous, not because he’s desperate to rack up brownie points. 

“How’s business?” He asks for the sake of making conversation that isn’t sexually charged. 

“Mm, now that you’re here, we’re really popping off.” 

The café is empty, sans the two of them. 

“Do you usually work by yourself at this time?”

Izuku leans his elbows on the counter, and Katsuki convinces himself it’s because he wants to narrow the distance between them. “Usually. The owner of the shop stays until six, then I close up by myself at ten. We’re not exactly swamped past seven, y’know.” 

“Well, I’m more than happy to keep you company.” Katsuki grins, and it’s probably more salacious than he means it to be.

Izuku swings his eyes in a roll, and Katsuki swears there’s nothing this kid could do that he wouldn’t find cute [fuckable]. “Do you even know my name, Katsuki-san?”

“As a matter of fact, I do. Remember a few weeks ago, when that villain came in here to rob you?” 

Izuku blinks. “...yeah?” 

“I was here too, dumbass.”

“...you were?”

Katsuki scowls. “Fuck’s sake, yes. You were too busy dicking around with Uraraka, so I heard her say your name.” 

“Was it love at first sight?” Izuku laughs.

Katsuki nearly bites his tongue in half to keep from flat-out admitting it. Instead, he says: “Wouldn’t you like to find out, Izuku?”  

Izuku makes a noise that might’ve been a squeak, were it not stifled behind a hasty cough. He looks away, but his face tints with an unmistakable flush, the rounds of his cheeks like peaches. Katsuki wants to sink his teeth into them. “Katsuki-san, were you going to order something, or did you just come here to embarrass me?”

“Both, actually.”

“Did you want the same drink I made for you last time?” 

Izuku busies himself behind the counter, doggedly ignoring the holes Katsuki burns through his back. His small, round ears glow with pink, and it spreads down the nape of his neck like the beginnings of a rash. Izuku is into him, Katsuki would put fucking money on it. 

He knows next to nothing about the operations of a café, but Izuku makes drinks like each one is a special piece going off to auction. He stamps the rich grounds into a flat, smooth surface in the portafilter like a painter leaves their signature at the bottom of a canvas, like his initials will imbue in the taste. As the espresso drips, there’s the faint squeal of the wand frothing cold milk into foam beneath the experienced twist of his hands. He swirls a taste of dark syrup around the walls of a mug, then adds the fresh, tart shots to mix. Finally, his chef-d'oeuvre, the dollop of foam that he sketches through with espresso. Katsuki watches with rapt fascination, and it seems it’s easier for Izuku to ignore him while so focused. 

He places the drink on the counter, and it’s only then Katsuki realizes he’s not hardly moved a muscle since the process began. “This is a mocha, by the way.”

“Why’d you make it for me?”

Izuku looks thoughtful. “Well, everyone likes chocolate, or they don’t mind it, at least. It was just a guess, but I thought you’d prefer something less sweet. Do you actually like it, or were you just being nice last time?” 

“I like it when you make it.”

Izuku twitches and says, unsteady: “That’ll be $7.44, Katsuki-san.”

Katsuki maintains this routine for the next three weeks. He brings a book that he pretends to read, and he loiters at a table for an average of thirty minutes. Sometimes they’re the only two people in the shop, other times there’s a sprinkling of extra patrons or Izuku has a coworker. He flirts heavily upon entering and leaving, and Izuku’s beginning to crumble. He makes progress in two areas:

[1] He convinces Izuku to drop the honorifics from his name. 

[2] When they’re alone, Izuku will sit across from him at the two-seater. Sometimes they’ll talk, other times Izuku will bury his nose in a build-up of homework while Katsuki pretends to read. He’s tried to actually read, but the words on the page are uninteresting and nonsensical with Izuku separated by less than a foot’s worth of table. His earthen scent is a cloud to wrap Katsuki’s head, and his face scrunches up with focus. 

He learns more about him from his own mouth than an Instagram feed could ever divulge. He’s majoring in business, but initially wanted to pursue a veterinarian degree. He decided against it after some soul-searching and volunteers at a shelter to satiate that particular desire [Katsuki knows this much, of course, but nods along like it’s new information]. He struggles with his accounting courses the most. He’s been working at the café since it recently opened and has a close, personal tie with the owner—though he wouldn’t elaborate. His experience as a barista, however, spans two years. Ironically, he doesn’t care much for coffee. 

Most importantly, he’s kind. Katsuki feels it in every easygoing interaction, tender expression, and soft-spoken word. Izuku is painfully, genuinely kind. He doesn’t have a bad thing to say about anyone, and everyone is given second, third, and fourth chances. He isn’t always cheerful, but he’s never short on kindness. To experience this in a person, it’s surreal. 

Now that Izuku’s gotten comfortable with him, at least as a regular, it’s time to push. 

[PHASE #2]

Charity work. 

Katsuki signs up with DMTD [‘Don’t Mind the Disaster’], because what better excuse to accidentally bump into Izuku outside the bounds of Bold&Brave. He’s a Pro-Hero, and he can claim it was mandated by his agency if his presence is outright questioned. With the nation existing in a state of relative peace, most efforts by the non-profit are of a small scale: repairing storefronts, moving furniture for families who need to vacate their damaged homes, and clearing debris from the streets. 

When those in his innermost circle catch wind of his sudden passion for volunteering, he’s inevitably confronted. 

It’s late on a Friday evening, and he and Kirishima are hosing down and changing clothes in their agency’s locker room. That afternoon, a prolonged confrontation had left a thoroughfare in Shibuya in a state of disrepair—the villain’s quirk was of the sludge variety, and Katsuki got a little carried away with his own. He might be off from the agency tomorrow, but he’ll be putting boots to the ground with DMTD. He’s got it on good authority that a certain barista will be present for the restoration efforts. It’s totally, completely, fucking perfect. It makes sense for his agency to mandate his presence, as he’s part of the reason the neighborhood is as wrecked as it is. 

He’ll casually run into Izuku: “Woah, didn’t expect to see you here! Small world, eh?” 

He’ll lift a lot of heavy things, hit a well-timed flex or two. It’s the dead of summer, so he’s sure to sweat. If Izuku weren’t attracted to him before, it’s Katsuki’s mission to live in his dreams for the foreseeable future, leaving him sticky and mortified those following mornings. His face must give something of his intentions away, because Kirishima eyeballs him curiously. 

“Yo, Bakugo.”

“Hah?” 

“Why are you smiling like that, man? It’s creepy.” 

Katsuki cuts a glare at him. “Am I not allowed to fuckin’ smile now?” 

Kirishima shrugs. “I mean, it’s usually, you know...when you’re beating the shit out of someone. Shouldn’t you be like, pissed?”

“Why? Did you do something to piss me off?”

“No, but you’re volunteering tomorrow, right? Didn’t they put you up to it?” He jerks his thumb towards the ceiling, indicating their overlords in the agency. 

Katsuki scoffs. “I signed up.” 

Kirishima gapes at him, eyes wide enough to pop from their sockets. He sputters: “y-you feelin’ okay, man?”  

Katsuki lets some silence pass for dramatic effect. He yanks his jeans around his waist, pushing the button through the split in the fabric with his thumb. His waistband dampens from where he’d failed to dry his stomach, rivulets chasing each other down those hard lines. Dragging the towel through wet, chronically jagged shocks of hair, he spares Kirishima a slick smile. 

“Never better, thanks for fuckin’ asking.”

His good mood, however, evaporates like water on hot cement come Saturday. 

The group assigned by DMTD is set to meet at the site at six a.m., and newcomers make contact with the attending lead for instruction and assignment. There are thirty people total, and Katsuki is thoroughly disgruntled to find he isn’t the only Pro-Hero present. There’s one other, and it’s the last face he wants to see at goddamn dawn on a Saturday. He almost creates more work for himself, tightening his fist to keep from blasting a hole through an izakaya’s side wall, at the sight of that gaudy, two-toned head. 

The hiss slides through his teeth: “Motherfucker...” 

“Ground Zero, welcome!”

The lead comes to him, strangely. He’s a squat man with thinning, white hair that whistles in the breeze. He’s about two heads shorter than Katsuki, and there’s humor in having to bury his chin in his chest just to make eye-contact. Katsuki works hard to smudge the scowl from his face, as he’s here for one reason—a reason he’s yet to spot in the crowd. 

“Thanks for having me.”  

“No, no, thank you for coming! We’re always grateful for an extra pair of hands, especially when it’s a distinguished Hero like yourself. So, if you don’t mind, I’d like to assign you to the group that’s...” 

Katsuki is saddled in with the big, bulky bastards who lift heavy shit—no surprises there. Todoroki, to his disgust, is also placed in this group. He’ll be rubbing elbows with the prick for at least five hours, motherfuck—!

“Hah! I’m so sorry, Tanaka-san! I know I’m late!” 

If not for a strong sense of restraint, Katsuki would’ve broken his neck looking back. Instead, it’s probably just sprained. Izuku’s arrived, and he’s folded over in front of their lead. His hands grip wrinkles into the knees of his pants, and his back jumps with labored breaths. He must’ve run part of the way. Looking at him now, finally, Katsuki realizes something terrible. This plan might backfire on him in a spectacular way, because while the intent was to capture Izuku’s attention [if only cultivating a physical attraction], the kid has never looked more fuckable. 

His jeans are criminally tight, attractive rips at the knee, and his T-shirt is just short enough to expose a strip of midriff. Worst of all, the most damning of all, his hair is bunched back from his face in the straining grip of a thin band—tendrils of it spill out from the up-do around his ears and temples. Katsuki almost cries. 

“So, that’s why you’re here.” 

Katsuki closes his eyes, pushes a deep breath through his nose, and counts to three. Then, he turns to Todoroki with a taut, gritted smile. “Did anyone fucking ask you, Icy-Hot?” 

Todoroki lifts a neat brow. “He doesn’t date Pro-Heroes.”

“Or, maybe, he just doesn’t want to date a complete bitch, like you.” 

Todoroki smirks a tiny, malicious thing, and Katsuki can already tell it’ll take an act of God to keep him from smashing a fist across his jaw. “Well, looks like we’re a pair of bitches then.” 

“Excuse the fuc—”

Izuku, his personal miracle: “Katsuki! What are you doing here?” 

He’s cropped up behind them, unaware that he’d just saved this block from more undue devastation. Katsuki takes another calming breath through his nose, forcibly melts the tension from his shoulders, and turns. He feigns surprise like his Oscar nomination rides on it. “Izuku?” 

Todoroki’s dry, unimpressed stare goes ignored. 

“Todoroki-san, hey! You’re here today, too?”

‘Todoroki -san, ha! Take that, you two-faced cunt.’

Katsuki turns fully and slides himself like a barrier between the two, eliminating Todoroki from Izuku’s line of sight. He makes it look casual and thoughtless. He jams his hands in his pockets and angles his chest in a way that invades the outskirts of his personal space. To his delight, Izuku doesn’t withdraw. “Ah, I broke too many things here yesterday, so I’m back to fix ‘em. What are you doing here?” 

“Mm, well, I didn’t break anything. I volunteer with this group whenever I have time. I’ll pretend this isn’t a PR stunt for you.” 

“I’m crushed, how could you say that? You think that low of me, huh? I’ll have to work harder to fix your image of me.” He grins, carnivorous, pushing the boundaries of Izuku’s bubble. 

Izuku blinks big eyes at him, rearing back with a pretty tint to his face. Katsuki momentarily forgets where they are, what they’re doing, and why he should give a shit about any of that in the first place. His breath catches in his chest, and it burns where it’s trapped. His hands, like weapons, have unsheathed from his pockets. He isn’t sure what he’ll do with them, but it's nothing savory, certainly. Izuku looks caught in a trance, or he’s too frightened to move—like a prey animal desperate to avoid detection. Unfortunately, Katsuki isn’t such a shortsighted predator. 

“Gah, fuck!”

The collar of his shirt is snatched around his throat, as Todoroki yanks him by a fistful of it from the back. “It’s time to work, Bakugo.” 

Katsuki would never, ever admit it, but Todoroki probably just spared him an indecency charge. As they’re forced to part ways, Izuku seems to release a breath he hadn’t meant to hold. 

Their group labors tirelessly until noon, and Katsuki’s impressed with the results produced in that relatively short time. He’s ashamed to admit he’s never given much thought to the painstaking efforts of people like these in the wake of their battles. The members present are experienced, organized, and well-prepared, and Katsuki feels like the only fish fumbling on the pier. Two commercial, roll-off dumpsters line opposite ends of the street, and Katsuki’s team is the frontline, heaving and ho-ing larger chunks of rubble into the containers and out of the way. Then, a group comes behind them to sweep up the glass and gravel. 

Once the debris is cleared, tradesmen set to repairing the roads, sidewalks, and storefronts. Tanaka floats back and forth with a cooler, handing out refreshments, which becomes a detriment as the sun climbs to its zenith and bakes waves off the unbroken asphalt. He ends up working so hard, he forgets to look good while doing it. His fears prove true. This venture serves more to deepen his own obsession than convince Izuku of anything, and if the kid pays him any mind, Katsuki hasn’t noticed. Instead, Katsuki catches himself constantly tracking him from his periphery. Izuku’s a floater. He assists with sweeping up the rubbish, moving tools between those who need them, and apprenticing under the tradesmen. 

He’s fucking pissed to note—

He’s not the only one. Izuku has many eyes on him, because the majority of their workforce is men. Of course, you’d have to be blind not to look, but Katsuki’s not above accidentally blinding someone. While he’d appreciated his ensemble earlier, now he’s wishing the brat had opted for a potato sack instead. Those pants might as well be painted on, his ass is all but splitting the seam, and he could probably trace out each individual muscle fiber in those well-developed legs from across the fucking street. His tight stomach twisting with movement puts a pound of butterflies in Katsuki’s, and who is he smiling at like that, fuck—

“You’re going to set him on fire if you keep staring like that.” 

“Shut the fuck up, Half’n’half.” 

—

[PHASE #3]

Physical contact.

So, ‘phase two’ may or may not have been a bust. He can’t be sure if it had the desired effect. While implementing the second phase, he’ll begin the third phase in conjunction with it. If he were even slightly more delusional, he’d rub his palms together and mutter something like: “it’s all coming together.”

When he makes his weekly [biweekly, if he has time] visit to the café, he finds any and every opportunity to put a casual hand on Izuku. Sitting at their usual two-seater, he’s taken to stretching his legs out beneath it. He’ll rest his ankle against Izuku’s, nudging up against his calf. At first, Izuku stiffens and looks at anything but him [lit up like Christmas], but—he doesn’t pull away. The more frequently he does it, the less Izuku reacts, and after the fourth time of twining their legs beneath the table, he doesn’t hitch his words or miss a stroke of his pen where he scratches out his notes. 

He’s used to it. 

Katsuki acclimates him in other, little ways. 

They bump into each other [Katsuki would testify it’s not premeditated] at the grocery store, and he slings a familiar arm around his swanlike neck. “What’s for dinner?” He cracks down at him. 

Izuku jumps. “Ka—! Katsuki, geez.” He sticks an elbow into his side, but again, he doesn’t pull away. To Katsuki’s bone-melting delight, he relaxes into him once he realizes who’s approached him in the middle of the produce section. He tells himself this isn’t unethical at all. 

These small touches accumulate: a hand warming in the dip of his back, fingers encircling his thin wrist, and when he’s feeling really, really bold, brushing a snatch of hair back from his freckled face. Izuku, to his credit, takes it all in stride, but Katsuki can tell he feels a certain way about the continued contact. He might not react like a mongoose in a viper’s nest, stricken with fear, but he isn’t immune to it either. His throat stains roseate, blood creeping through his cheeks. His breath comes a fraction faster, and whether he realizes it or not, he leans into it. 

It’s all Katsuki can do to not latch his hands to the underside of those tight thighs, drop him on the counter, and suck his soul out of his mouth. He refrains with a willpower that frays to its snapping point by the day. Now, all that’s left to do is dig the reason out of him. Izuku likes him enough to project sunshine from his smile when Katsuki comes through the door. He likes him enough to tolerate his presence, his casual touch, and his dogged flirting—even outside the walls of Bold&Brave. He’s physically attracted to him, without a shadow of a doubt. 

So, why? 

Why won’t he date a Pro-Hero?

—

Midoriya Izuku ends his shift at ten on Fridays.

His apartment isn’t nearby, regrettably. He takes the train, and he arrives at his complex after another thirty minutes. By the time he makes it to his door, fiddling with his keys until he finds the right one, it’s 10:45 p.m. 

Once in the width of his foyer, he digs his knuckles into his eyes, attempting to rub the day’s exhaustion from them. His sneakers make a sloppy pile by the door, and his tote is left to dangle on the hook. He reaches his arms above his head, wringing the tension from his back. It’s been a long day, or—a long, long few months, and he feels every minute of it sticking like barnacles to his joints. His feet drag across the floor, and the slide of his socks make a reluctant sound. Coming to his bedroom door, he stares at it, dreadful. He’ll have to go in there. It’s where he sleeps, after all. 

Groaning from the back of his throat, he pushes into his room. 

He looks around, and Bakugo Katsuki looks back at him. 

In the form of posters, figurines, and collectibles. It’s nowhere near the shrine he’d erected to All Might in his youth, but it’s a little excessive for a man of twenty-two years old. He’s a bit of an otaku, sue him.  

He drops his face in the cup of his hands, groaning louder. “Ugh, God.” 

Ground Zero became his favorite Pro-Hero not long after the man’s debut, and yes, he developed a bit of a crush. He has many friends and acquaintances in the industry, so some might find it odd that they’ve never run into each other before—except it’s not, because Izuku’s always gone out of his way to avoid him. If there was an event he was scheduled to participate in, Izuku would be too busy to accept another Hero’s plus-one. If Izuku spotted him on patrol, he’d flip around and take a different street. When he was younger, he would’ve killed for the chance to meet All Might—but he was six years old, and he didn’t fantasize about All Might blowing his back out. 

Now, he’s a healthy grown-up with a [probably] healthy infatuation. He was wholeheartedly counting on it staying in the realm of harmless fantasy, a silly crush that he’d inevitably get over. He’ll get over it, and he’ll continue to admire Ground Zero for his brash brand of heroism. Except, the man in question has made it his steadfast mission to insert himself in Izuku’s space very, very regularly, and [Izuku hopes] he has no idea what a cruelty it is. 

Izuku has his reasons for keeping himself romantically uninvolved with Pro-Heroes, and in his mind, they’re good reasons that he won’t be easily swayed from. He thought he’d be safe to foster this little crush in the peace and quiet of his own life. Izuku fights tooth and nail to keep a straight face when Katsuki comes around [which is happening with concerning frequency, as of late—the unscrupulous bastard carried his grocery basket for him last week], but he knows his mask is imperfect. He’s not an idiot; he knows what Katsuki’s trying to do. 

He’s buttering him up! 

No one has ever tried so hard after Izuku doles out his polite rejection, and he can’t bring himself to make Katsuki cease and desist. He likes it too much. Every touch puts a tickling heat in his lower stomach. Every smoldering, heavy-lidded glance makes his throat tighten. It’s flattering, for one, but that’s also Bakugo Katsuki, flirting with him. Izuku whimpers, crashing into his bed. He rolls onto his back and gathers a plush toy in his hands. Lifting it above his face, he pouts. It’s a collector’s edition Ground Zero plushie, and he won’t be made to feel bad about owning it. 

“What are we gonna do, Kacchan?”

Chapter Text

He holds his breath. 

Tink-tink-tink!

The gilded bell above the door tinkles, an ominous noise to herald his latest bane. Booted feet clunk across the threshold, and the man they’re attached to has every right in the world to all that confidence he oozes from every pore and follicle. Neat, fitted jeans encase his lean, strong legs, and the sleeves of a dark T-shirt strain around the developed muscle in his arms. He always smiles with many teeth, and while it isn’t unfriendly, it doesn’t bring any measure of comfort. He always smiles like he’s hungry, ravenous , and there’s finally, finally a satisfying meal sat in front of him. 

It’s terrifying.

“Long time no see.” Katsuki tends to drop a casual line like this, and it’s the easiest part of their interaction. 

Izuku squeezes his hands together beneath the counter to wring the tremble from them. He smiles back, and the exasperation in it isn’t just for show. He’s exhausted. Katsuki is wearing him down, and surely, they both know it. Izuku does a little more than tolerate his continued efforts—he looks forward to it. Katsuki is making him question himself, shearing down the creed he’s clung to for years. 

“The usual?” 

He needs a vacation. 

—

Izuku did, in fact, take that vacation, and Katsuki was made aware of this exactly one week later.

It’d been a particularly long, grueling week for him, and he was unable to make it into the café on Thursday due to a charity event he was required to participate in [monkey suit and all]. Getting to see Izuku on Friday evening, as he was also unable to coordinate any ‘coincidental’ run-ins with him, kept his mood afloat. He’s like a kid on Christmas, every week. Soon, he’ll be unwrapping him just like a present, he can feel it in his bones, damnit.

So, imagine his shock and displeasure when passing through the door of the shop and seeing not-Izuku behind the counter. It’s a young girl he vaguely recognizes from previous visits. At the sound of a bell, she turns to give the standard greeting, smiling blithely. 

“Wel—!”

That smile promptly drops at the sight of him. She tenses up like he’s come to personally escort her on to the next life. She flicks her eyes to and fro, and her hands hover awkwardly in front of her. She’s realizing, probably at the same time Katsuki is, that she’s his bearer of bad news. 

Clearing her throat, she stutters: “Uh, w-welcome in, sir…? Bakugo-san.” She bows slightly at the waist, and Katsuki scowls hard enough to earn a premature wrinkle. His publicist would shit a brick. He’s just as unsure of what to say as she is, as it would be rude to flat-out ask where Izuku is, but those are the only words that populate in his mind. Sensing his hesitancy, and thinly-veiled irritation, she blurts:

“I’m so sorry, Midoriya-kun’s not here! He’s using his vacation days!” 

She says it like she’s selling someone out, snitching to preserve her own life. The words barely make sense to him. His brain can’t compute this disruption to his routine, his plan. 

“Do you know where he is?”

They’re of a mutual understanding. She knows why he’s here, what he’s after, and it sure as fuck isn’t coffee—made by anyone but Izuku. Clearly, she isn’t above throwing her coworker to the wolves, and Katsuki won’t feel guilty over taking advantage of that. He’ll wring her out of any information she might possess, twisting cruelly with both hands if needed. 

“I’m…not sure, I swear. He’s been off since yesterday, and he’s taken the next two weeks. He said he needed to catch up on some assignments…? I don’t know, I swear!” She’s practically weepin g . 

“Did you...want the usual?” She offers weakly. 

Because Katsuki’s not an animal, he accepts the coffee from her. 

It tastes like shit.

Now, he’s at a crossroads. The dilemma appears before him like an exam question: “Katsuki has just learned of the target’s absence from his life for the foreseeable future, thus impeding his progress in sweeping said target off of his feet and into the sheets, per se. What is the most appropriate response in this situation?

1. Go full stalker by procuring his phone number and address in an abuse of authority.
2. Stage another ‘coincidental’ meeting in public, which runs the risk of becoming less believable every time it happens.
3. Wait him out, as he’ll have to come back to work eventually. 
4. Give up, because maybe he’s actually not interested, and Katsuki’s ego is too massive for him to have realized this. 

Well, ‘d’ is out—ridiculous, really. Of all the other options, ‘c’ is probably the most ethical [and least creepy]. But, two entire weeks? That’s like, a hundred years. He decides to mull over his options, lest he act too rashly. No matter how much Izuku likes him, it’s still possible to push too hard, frighten him off. He’s taken care not to press the issue of a date in all the time they’ve spent together, only aiming to familiarize Izuku with his regular presence and allow him to grow comfortable with it. He flirts, of course, but he hasn’t asked him out a second time —yet. 

That night, in the pitch of his room, his phone hovers over his face. He neglected to drop the brightness, so it’s like the rapture burning out his corneas. He can’t say how it happened, but his thumbs have carried him onto Izuku’s feed. They’ve a mind of their own, really. Izuku tends to post regularly, which Katsuki is grateful for. He doesn’t feel quite as disconnected from his life, despite not seeing him in person. As his coworker claimed, he’s still within city limits and keeping to his routines. The only thing he’s taken a vacation from is Bold&Brave. He’s attending his classes, reporting to the shelter on Saturdays, and—

Katsuki jackknifes in the bed. “Fuck...”

He’s still as flexible as a goddamn bungee. 

Yesterday, Izuku assisted in teaching an intermediate class at the gymnasium. Not only are there many, many pictures—there are videos . Katsuki swipes through at a snail’s pace of one picture per minute, burning the content into his brain. His untameable hair is back in that straining bun, and while his shorts are loose-fitting, they can’t be more than a three-inch inseam. His T-shirt is long and baggy, but the material puddles around his throat as he flips and tumbles the length of the floor. He’s teaching a group of mixed-gender teenagers, it seems, and the way he’s smiling at them—pride, immeasurable joy at their victories, fondness over their failures.

Katsuki stuffs his knuckles between his teeth and groans, because the combination of infatuation [probably love, but he can’t admit that yet—they’ve not even been on a date!] and blood-boiling lust is lethal. There’s a two-minute clip of Izuku demonstrating a simple routine on the balance beam for the girls to emulate, and he folds across the length of it like a swan. His legs slice through the air, landing neatly behind him. Before he’s realized it, the video has cycled through three times. His breath is heavy in his chest, difficult to push out, and his cock is beginning to chafe where it’s trapped beneath his waistband. 

With the thought of ‘only God can judge me’, he bunches his shirt up from the hem and pins it between his molars. His free hand, the one not death-gripping his phone towards a future of hairline fractures, finds purchase around that throbbing protrusion. It’s hot to the touch, full of half his body’s blood volume. He swipes haphazardly with his thumb, and dear God, it’s a stretching clip. 

Katsuki drops his head to the pillow, pinching his eyes shut against the presence of something sinister and molten that flushes through him. He wonders how far he could push those trim legs back and apart. Then, he imagines it—vividly. He imagines handfuls of warm, hard thighs splitting to an illogical degree as he pushes on them, and he imagines what kind of sound Izuku will make at the stretch. Shit, the kid can probably tuck his ankles behind his ears, and that’s a thought that has Katsuki whimpering into a mouthful of shirt. 

Izuku is so expressive, and he flusters at the littlest touch, comment, and narrowed proximity. Katsuki’s hand moves feverishly in the net of his shorts as he imagines exactly how expressive he’d be when he’s filled up, fucked out, and riding the highs and lows of an orgasm—his abdominals clench with the effort. His skin would tint fifty different shades of pink, his eyes glittering with moisture that won’t be stopped from wetting his cheeks. He’ll probably barely be able to get a word out, or even remember what words are until Katsuki demands them from him. Katsuki wants those graceful contortions on his screen to become his reality, more than anything, and he wants to corrupt them with Izuku’s mindless pleasure. 

Is that so much to ask?

In his imagination, he distorts Izuku’s sweet, trilling voice. 

‘Nngh, I c-can’t anymore—! Ah!’ 

‘Please, please, right there, don’t stop—!’ 

‘Katsuki, please!’ 

“Hah, fuck—nngh!” He explodes in the shell of his fist with a guttural sound, and his body goes rigid with it. The miniature star that was coalescing in his lower gut goes supernova, and its fragments spread to the far corners of his nervous system. He shudders like in withdrawal, blinking away the spots from his vision. Once halfway sane, he spits the hem of his shirt from his mouth and looks warily at the mess he’s made of his stomach. God, is he actually thirteen? 

The following day, Katsuki is desperate enough to enact option ‘a’—as seen above. Izuku is the type to thoughtlessly leave breadcrumbs of his life all over the internet, which for Katsuki’s intentions and purposes now is helpful. Once they’re engaged to be wed in the not-so-distant future, he’ll need to sit him down and have a lengthy, solemn discussion about proper cybersecurity protocols. His LinkedIn profile was painfully easy to find, and to Katsuki’s vague horror, his resume is a trove of damning information: phone number, email, home address, Christ. 

He procures this information around noon, and the rest of his Sunday is spent sweating bullets over it. He inputs Izuku’s number into a new message box half a dozen times, but what the fuck would he even say? How would he explain having his number in the first place? Even asking another Hero for it feels like crossing a line. 

‘Got ur number from Uraraka, don’t ask her about it tho’

‘I miss u’

‘R u in love with me yet??’

‘Pls come back to work before I kms’

His address, as well, is not within Katsuki’s patrol zone. He’s so hungry for interaction, but he’s at a total loss on how to proceed. Izuku’s laid out a boundary between them, and while Katsuki’s been needling at it with some success, he’s terrified to accidentally destroy the trust he’s worked so hard to build up. This torrential downpour of worry manifests in his subconscious, and after a full day’s indecision, he has a terrible nightmare. 

Twisting in his sheets, damp and clammy like a mackerel in a net:

Tink-tink-tink—!

He crosses the threshold of what his mind alleges is Bold&Brave, though it’s a hodgepodge of his apartment, the office, and the familiar storefront. Something is amiss, and his senses tingle with it. Izuku is behind the counter, but his back is turned. Still, Katsuki brightens at the sight of that mess of curls peeking over the dessert window. 

“Izuku, hey! Back already? Did you miss me too much?” He laughs, approaching the register. 

There’s a long pause, and Izuku neither moves nor speaks. It’s that feeling again—something is terribly, horribly wrong. Katsuki can’t even see his face, his expression, and his gut churns with anxiety that crawls his esophagus like lines of ants. Finally, there’s a sound. It’s the crinkling of paper, and a weak sniffle. When Izuku does turn, Katsuki’s heart drops out of his ass. He’s actively crying, sobbing, even. In his shaking hands, there’s a piece of paper. 

“Katsuki, how...how could you?” 

The contents on the paper are illegible, as they tend to be in the realm of a dream, but Katsuki instinctively knows what it is. It’s a print-out of his LinkedIn profile. Katsuki flounders, throwing his hands up. “Wait, no, I—!”

Then, out of thin air, he produces Katsuki’s phone from beneath the counter—with Izuku’s feed pulled to the screen. “How many times have you beaten off to this?!” He hiccups tearfully. 

“Not...that many, I swear!” 

“They were babies! How could you?!”

Katsuki looks at the screen, and sure enough, what he remembered to be a class of teenagers is suddenly a gaggle of plump, doughy babies no older than one year. In the video that plays, these superhuman infants are performing Olympic-worthy floor routines. Katsuki gapes. 

“I-I...I didn’t jerk off to the babies, Izuku! You’ve gotta believe me!”  

Izuku chucks the phone at him, and Katsuki just barely manages to catch it in his nervous, fumbling grip. He comes around the counter, undoing the knot in his apron at the small of his back. He pulls it over his head and lets the cotton drop to the floor between them. “I’m sorry, Katsuki, but I...I never want to see you again. I’ve decided to give Pro-Heroes a chance, but after this? I can’t even look at you anymore.” 

Katsuki gapes. “Izuku, wait! It’s not what it looks like, I swear to—!”

He’s already headed towards the entrance, and to Katsuki’s abject horror, they’re no longer alone. Todoroki waits by the door, and it isn’t just him. No, no, there’s a goddamn line of Pro-Heroes hooking down the block. They’re all Heroes Izuku’s either acquainted with, or Katsuki hates. Suddenly, they’re all as naked as the day they were ejected into this world, sans Katsuki. All Might, standing outside the café’s window, pumps his arm in a flex. He cackles at his naked reflection. 

“Come, Young Midoriya! We’ve planned a spectacular orgy!”

Katsuki wakes with a start, a short scream raw from his throat, and his heart nearly tearing a hole through his chest. 

Needless to say, he deletes the history of Izuku’s LinkedIn profile from his devices and trashes option ‘a’ entirely. 

—

Unbeknownst to Katsuki, Izuku is also wrestling with a mighty indecision. 

There’s a droning hum in his ear, and on any given day, it’d be an engaging lecture. He enjoys this course [‘Leadership, Ethics, and Corporate Accountability’] and the professor who commands it, but today, it sits like static in his head. He sighs under his breath for the umpteenth time, irritated with himself, and rests his cheek in the curve of his hand. The late afternoon sun is like a fuzzy peach beneath a shapeless, satin curtain of clouds. It’s veiled enough for Izuku to stare at it directly without needing to squint, and he does so thoughtless of any potential damage.

Strangely, he’s feeling...guilty.

He feels guilty for his sudden leave of absence from work—he’s running away. He’s burdening his coworkers, his boss, all because there isn’t a decisive bone in his body. Technically, his and Kaccha —Katsuki, Bakugo Katsuki, Ground Zero’s relationship starts and ends at barista and regular. They’ve made no special commitments to one another, but Katsuki’s continued visits aren’t because he’s in love with the coffee. That is, not to say he’s in love with anyone —anything else. Izuku scrubs at the heat in his face and wills his heart to slow from its hummingbird beat. 

Izuku’s beginning to feel very, very stupid. He believed his reasons were good ones for the longest time, but now they seem flimsy and sheer. If he’s honest with himself, he could admit there’s a thin layer of trauma wrapped around it. He can’t bear the thought of repeating past mistakes, becoming the centerpiece of someone else’s pain. But, that was a long time ago, and Katsuki is strong. He’s the number three Pro-Hero, and the only thing tacking him to that position is popularity politics.  

Izuku’s been asked out by several noteworthy, talented Heroes since the initial incident, and there was no lingering regret or second thought after turning them down. Shoto is arguably just as strong as Katsuki, but he never pressed after Izuku’s rejection and Izuku never wanted him to. Katsuki’s persistence is as damning as it is simply because it’s coming from him, and Izuku has to wonder—is he cheating himself? Is he depriving himself of, at the very least, an epic date? Or mind-blowing, spine-shattering sex? He’s not the type to dabble with flings, however. He’s more the type to catch feelings within thirty minutes or less. 

With Katsuki, the foundation for those feelings already exists. Izuku reminds himself he’s an adult. Surely, he can handle the heartbreak should Katsuki hit it and quit it, and the man can probably hit it. He’d have to be waterboarded before admitting just how much he’s fantasized about it. It became especially bad after bumping into him at the clean-up site while volunteering. At that time, he was wearing a laid-back version of his costume, sans the gauntlets, grenades, and mask. Since they worked separately, Izuku couldn’t keep his eyes from floating over. Katsuki was golden, damp, and magnificent in the labor he performed beneath nature’s blistering, UV spotlight. He’s packed with muscle, and every fiber and tendon seemed to bulge with use. 

Izuku had nearly driven a nail through the back of his hand upon glancing over and catching Katsuki mid break. His head was tipped back, guzzling the soul out of a bottle of water, and the hem of his shirt was caught in a clenched fist—hiked up over his stomach to catch the sweat pooling in his collar bones. The way his throat jumped with every swallow, the way his abdominals rippled and shined with perspiration, it zapped a bolt of something straight to his belly. Izuku took a mental snapshot without meaning to, and that image floats to the forefront of his mind with a hazardous frequency. That night, he had to flip his posters over and tuck Kacchan in the closet, otherwise it felt like the object of his desire was holding vigil over him ruining the sheets. 

The sudden rustle of papers piling into bags and chairs scraping the floor jars him from his inappropriate reverie. This course is his last one of the day, and he’s both grateful and dreadful to be left to his own devices. He contemplates avoiding his own apartment altogether in lieu of having dinner with his mother. They usually do so at least once a week, and though it’s only been two days since their last meal, he could use the company [distraction]. Departing from the lecture hall, he shoots her a quick text for confirmation. She responds immediately and asks that he drop by the market for a few things.

He’s happy to do so, but it’s a trip that ultimately puts him in the biggest, most humiliating bind of his life. On the way to his preferred grocery store, there’s a shop similar to Animate [though not nearly as large or infamous]—a merchandiser specializing in anime, manga, video games, and of course, Pro-Hero collectibles. Normally, with a destination in mind, he’d bypass it with ease.  This evening, however, there’s a bright advert in the window that baits him like a sad, horny fish. Izuku claps his hands over his mouth, his eyes brightening and widening with excitement. 

Last year, some of the more conventionally attractive Pro-Heroes had been roped into  individual, risque catalogs for the holidays. It’s closer to classy boudoir than anything remotely pornagraphic, and it was done in the name of charity. While the proceeds indeed went to charity, as far as the public knows, it was also a massive publicity stunt and boosted many Heroes in the rankings solely on the merits of popularity. They were pre-ordered at record-breaking speeds, and none were available come time for the release. Izuku had been too slow to catch one on the pre-order. 

Now, there’s a reprint, and this particular store is boasting a limited stock. His feet carry him through the automatic part in the sliding doors before he can think once, let alone twice. His eyes track across the shelves with robotic, pinpoint precision as he beelines through the aisles, and once they land on the display table, his breath punches from his chest. It’s close to empty, only a few thin stacks remaining.

He barely stops himself from running those last few paces. Frantically, he flips through them: Hawks, Shoto, Lemillion, Uravity, Midnight [Izuku can’t believe there’s any left], Creati. He’s beginning to feel disappointment slick down the back of his throat, but—

There it is. Ground Zero, one left! 

Izuku snatches it up like it’s his own child in a burning cradle. He devours the cover with his eyes, then flips it around to scan the previews on the back. 

“Wah...” He whimpers. 

If he took half a millisecond to think about it, he’d realize the absurdity of what he’s doing. Here he is, close to tears over a catalog, when the real deal is one ‘yes’ away. In moments like these, he has little more than two brain cells that he rubs together, desperately trying to spark up a thought. He’s far too excited to remember that Bakugo Katsuki exists in his personal reality and has expressed an active interest in dating him. It’s all peanuts compared to the holy grail of collectibles he clutches to his chest. Throughout walking to the register, swiping his card, and taking the plastic bag from the kind merchant, he can’t wipe the smile from his face. 

Upon returning to the street, he almost wants to find a nook to crouch in, dinner be damned. Those two brain cells, however, have produced smoke. Inko is waiting for him. He carries on the next few blocks to the market, and all the while the bag he white-knuckles feels like it’s melting a hole through the outside of his thigh. Izuku tries to refocus his mental efforts on the list Inko provided him for tonight’s meal. It’s going well enough that he’s able to stow away his excitement in a box in the back of his mind [to be later unleashed in the privacy of his home], until he bumps nose-first into the last person on Earth he’d want to see right now.

It actually is a coincidence this time, not that Izuku would know any differently about that. 

Katsuki patrols this zone. 

Of course he does. Izuku knows this—he knows it, for God’s sake. 

He’s not alone either, to Izuku’s bountiful horror. Red Riot is with him. 

“Izuku?” 

“Midoriya! Long time no see, man!”

Izuku darts his gaze towards the street. Should he just...jump into traffic...? 

“He—y—!” His voice cracks on a terrible, shrill pitch. He clears his throat and tries again, though it’s no less squeaky. “Hello.” 

Katsuki squints down at him, sensing something awry. 

“Oh, you went to K-House?! I love that place! What’d you get!?” Kirishima asks good-naturedly.

“Nothing!” Izuku blurts instinctively. “I mean, um—just...a game. I’ve been waiting for it to come out...for...ever...” He trails off. Izuku is many things, but a good liar has never, ever been one of them. While Katsuki seems to be looking through him like he’s a spotless window, Kirishima continues:

“Oh, really? I didn’t know you liked to game, Midoriya! Which one?”

Izuku looks at Kirishima blankly, hopelessly. He’s avoiding Katsuki’s scalding, carmine stare like he’s Medusa and the contact will kill him. Katsuki throws an elbow at his partner. “Oi, fuck off for a minute, man.” 

Kirishima blinks at him, but he’s apparently more adept at taking Katsuki’s hints than anyone else’s. He glances down at the band on his wrist. “It’s almost quittin’ time anyway, so I’ll meet you back at the agency. Later, Midoriya!” He grins with lots of teeth and swings his hand in a jaunty wave.

“Later...” Izuku returns weakly. 

Now, they’re alone. 

Katsuki smirks down at him, leering as he’s wont to do as of late. “Well, you heard the man. It’s almost quittin’ time. Where are you headed?” 

Izuku shifts on his feet. “Ah, just...the grocery store. I’m having dinner with my mom.” 

“Lucky lady.” Katsuki murmurs, and Izuku fights off a flush with sword and shield. “So, what’d you get?”

“Wha—?”

“From K-House.” 

Izuku flinches, and he barely stops himself from shoving the bag behind his back. “Oh, um, it really is—ah, well...it’s just...a collectible?” 

“Then, you’ll let me carry it for you on the way to the store.” 

“No!” Izuku squeaks, and this time he does shove it behind himself. “It’s...delicate.” He tries, desperate for Katsuki to buy the excuse. 

Katsuki lifts a prominent brow, absolutely not buying it. “Sure, sure. Lead the way then.” 

“Lead...?”

“To the store.”

“You...really don’t need to—”

“What if someone tries to snatch you up, huh?”

Izuku refrains from mentioning that the only one who's been trying to snatch him up lately is Katsuki himself. Resigned, Izuku allows himself to be escorted down the sidewalk. He’s relieved to find the conversation flowing naturally and easily between them, as it always seems to. Katsuki doesn’t hammer him about his absence from the café, only asking in the context of how he’s spent his time off and if it’s been a pleasant break. Though, the proximity isn’t any easier on him. Katsuki runs hot, and walking next to him is like cuddling next to a radiator. This close, his familiar scent overwhelms his olfactory system. It’s difficult to describe, and there’s a hint of fruitiness to it. Apparently, nitroglycerin can sometimes smell like bananas. 

Izuku wishes he could knit that fragrance into a blanket and sleep with it. During their walk, Katsuki’s eyes are periodically heavy on him, and they seem to lose some distance between each other with every step. It’s so surreal, so overpowering, Izuku forgets all about the incriminating evidence he totes. 

“Ungh!” 

That is, until a fellow pedestrian in a hurry shoves into him as they begin to hit those dense crowds. It happens in slow motion, as all tragedies do. He drops his bag, and he isn’t lucky enough for there to be no spillage. Katsuki barks after the inconsiderate ambler: “Oi, what were you’re fucking going!” 

Izuku is neither fast enough to snatch up the bag, nor clever enough to divert Katsuki’s attention in time. He’s gone full deer-in-the-headlights. Katsuki, of course, notices that the ‘delicate collectible’ has bit the dust. “Ah, shit, you dropped your—”

In bending down to pick it up, Izuku watching on panicked and helpless, he pauses. Half of the catalog has lurched from the bag, and it’s immediately obvious exactly what it is. Katsuki, of all people, would recognize his own racy memorabilia. Izuku isn’t sure what to do: “The object of your hero-worship turned walking-wet-dream has just discovered the borderline porn [feat. said object] you purchased less than thirty minutes ago. They say they’re into you, but you’re not sure if you’re ready to get back in the saddle just yet. Now, however, they’re absolutely going to hang this over your head like a noose. What is the most appropriate response in this situation?”

1. Run away.
2. Cry.
3. Fake a deadly arrhythmia, even though you can’t act your way out of a wet, paper bag.
4. Deny it.

Katsuki scoops up both the bag and catalog from the cement, finally straightening to his full height. His head is lowered as he stares at it, and Izuki thinks he’s a second away from hyperventilating. He can’t say how many thousands, millions of seconds pass them by, but it’s enough time for his entire life to replay behind his eyes, because surely this is the end of it. It’s enough time for him to have a million thoughts, until there’s nothing more to think and a toneless hum buzzes between his ears. The flow of time only resumes when Katsuki lifts his face.

He’s grinning wide and sharp, and his eyes burn with manic delight. “Now, what do we have here? Did you buy this?”  

Izuku panics. He rips the catalog from Katsuki’s hands and shoves it back into the bag. Clutching it to his chest, he screws his eyes shut and fumbles out: “This isn’t—it’s not—it’s not what you think!”

There’s a pregnant pause, but Izuku can’t bring himself to open his eyes. He can’t help it, however, as warm breath curls across his jaw. His eyes fly open, and Katsuki’s right there . Bent slightly at the waist, he’s brought their faces within kissing distance, and that lidded gaze is a brand on the side of his face. 

“Don’t you wanna know...what I think?”

Izuku’s gone mute. 

Katsuki pulls back, and now he’s the one who can’t seem to lose his grin. He slings a heavy arm around Izuku’s throat, tucking him against his side. 

“Let’s talk.” 

—

They have their long overdue conversation back where it all began: Bold&Brave. 

Despite being on vacation, Izuku’s treated like the shift lead when he walks through the door. He’s greeted cheerfully by the staff on hand, but when Katsuki trots in behind him looking like the cat that ate the canary, there’s unmistakable tension in the air. Instead of sitting at their usual two-seater, Izuku leads him towards the back. They take a narrow corridor, bypassing the kitchen and storerooms, until coming upon a side door. Beyond it, there’s a long staircase. Katsuki holds any questions or comments about their destination, as he can tell, Izuku’s barely keeping it together.

The kid is humiliated, and Katsuki really is a terrible person, because he’s eating it the fuck up. He’s practically vibrating with excitement. 

The staircase leads them onto the building’s roof, which if you’ll remember, supports a garden that’s visible from the street. Izuku explains that it’s a community garden, and many of their regulars have designated sections for germinating whatever herb, flower, or vegetable they fancy. The café also has its own large section towards the back, and the vegetation yielded is worked into the savory sections of their simple menu. There’s a cozy sitting area beneath the pergola, which some patrons take advantage of during the spring and summer months. 

This is where they sit, and even now, Izuku can’t look him in the eye. Katsuki shucks out of the more overbearing parts of his uniform and drops into the low, cushioned wicker. Izuku perches on the edge of his own like it’ll break. 

“So,” Katsuki starts, kindly ignoring Izuku’s startled flinch. “—why won’t you date a Hero?” 

It must not have been the question he was expecting, as Izuku’s face opens with surprise. He laughs, embarrassed. “Oh, well, a few years ago, I...did, for a bit.”

“Hah?! Who? Is it someone I know?”

He recoils from the onslaught of barked questions. He clears his throat, continuing: “I’d...rather not say. It was a long time ago. Because of me, it...ended horribly.” 

Katsuki scoffs. “Because of you? I doubt that.” 

Izuku wrings his hands together, and Katsuki suffers a stab of guilt at his blase interjection. Clearly, whatever happened, Izuku’s torn up over it even now. 

“I’m quirkless, as you know. The person I dated, we were friends in middle school. Obviously, with his quirk, he enrolled into an academy with a good heroics department. We kept in contact during that time, but naturally, when you don’t see someone as often, there was a bit of distance between us. We reunited after graduating, and one thing...sort of led to another. We ended up dating for about six months.”

It all sounds like rudimentary stuff, and Katsuki can’t fathom how their breakup would’ve been Izuku’s fault. He’s likely being too hard on himself, too forgiving of others. Whoever this bastard is, he’s poisoned Izuku against all Pro-Heroes, cockblocking from the past. 

“So, well, something happened.” He sucks in a large, rattling breath and proceeds to explain the source of his long-held reservations. 

The two were out together, presumably on a date, when conflict broke between a handful of villains some streets over. Izuku’s boyfriend [ugh], being a Pro-Hero, leapt into action despite being off duty [and barely a sidekick, or even an adult, at the time]. It’s a Hero’s responsibility to step up, after all. Izuku, against his advice, followed him to the scene—partly out of a desire to see his partner in action, partly out of concern for his safety. It became apparent to the villains that Izuku was associated with this nobody-Hero who was impeding them, and it turned into a hostage situation. Because of this, Izuku’s boyfriend was put in a position to take the abuse himself, lest Izuku suffer it. 

It ended badly.

Izuku looks at him, grim. “I don’t want to be...anyone’s weakness, or a liability. I don’t want to be the reason anyone is in pain or needs physical therapy, Katsuki. It might sound stupid to you, but that’s it. I was an idiot, I got in the way, and because someone cared about me, they got very, very hurt.” 

Katsuki digests this information. Despite what Izuku might think of him, Katsuki doesn’t find it to be petty reasoning, nor does he take it lightly. Izuku is generally a selfless person, and it must’ve torn him apart to feel like the source of someone else’s pain and hardship—especially someone he cared deeply for. Initially, it makes a lot more sense than Katsuki wants it to. Even so, Bakugo Katsuki’s not some pussy, third-rate, B-class bitch of a Hero, like whoever he’d dated before. He tries to find a kind, sensitive way to say as much. 

“Izuku,” He starts. To stamp the gravity of his words into the space between them, he leaves the wicker chair and settles on his padded knees, inserting himself between Izuku’s legs—not so close as to insinuate anything more than a need for serious conversation, however. Izuku allows the intimate change in position with little more than a hitched breath and round eyes. He rests the cups of his hands on Izuku’s calves, gripping them lightly. 

“Do you like me?” 

Izuku darkens with color, but he’s brave enough to maintain eye-contact. “...yes.” 

“Do you think I’m weak?” 

“I—no, of course not! That’s—” He starts to huff, but Katsuki continues.

“Great, because I’m fucking not, and guess what? You’re not either. When we first met, you threw an espresso maker at a guy, and I was just the clean-up crew. You handled that shit all by yourself, and it was the hottest thing I’ve literally ever seen.” 

Izuku’s face twists with disgruntlement. “I mean, he was about to wreck the shop! What was I supposed to do?” 

“ Exactly! You’re badass, and I’m badass. You can handle yourself, and if there’s ever a time you can’t, you can bet your ass I’ll handle it for you. Can’t you have a little faith in me? Besides, I know you’re into me.” He grins, snapping his eyes pointedly towards the plastic, K-House bag. 

Izuku buries his face in his hands. “Shut up, I’m—” 

“You totally are.”

He viciously scrapes his hands up and down the length of his face, and Katsuki knows he’s trying to physically scrub the flush from his skin. ‘So fucking cute, holy shit.’ 

“Yes, yes! I’m into you, okay?! It’s embarrassing, so can you just—!”

Now that their exchange has become less solemn, Katsuki pushes deeper between his legs. Boldly, he supplants his grip around Izuku’s hips, spreading a few fingers beneath the hem of his shirt. His thumbs find purchase at that soft place beneath the point of his hip bones. Izuku stiffens with this newfound contact and snaps large, bright eyes onto his. They’re close enough to cycle one another’s breath. 

“Why is it embarrassing? Izuku, I’m so fucking into you, it’s actually killing me. I’m going to ask again, okay?” 

Izuku says nothing, does nothing. He’s holding his breath, Katsuki can tell.

“Can I take you out?” 

—

[1M Later: Final Boss] 

Due to the catalog, Izuku was left with no choice but to come clean in regards to his fanboy tendencies. 

When he shared this part of himself with Katsuki, he did so with a sense of resignation, as if it would be the world’s biggest turn off, fully expecting him to lose interest over it. Contrarily, Katsuki basked in a warm, liquid feeling in his chest, like ice cream dripping the sides of a cone under the beating sun. When he’s least expecting it, Izuku springs an entirely new reason to fall in love with him. Seeing his bedroom for the first time, however, was a novelty. Bakugo Katsuki looks around the room, and Bakugo Katsuki looks back at him. 

He whistles. “Jesus Christ, Izuku.” 

Izuku groans miserably behind him. “I wanted to take it all down! You just—you said you wanted to see, so don’t be an ass about it!”

Katsuki barks a laugh as he fully enters the space, Izuku trailing in after him. “Why the hell would I let you do that? You’ve gotta be obsessed with me too, or it’s not fair.” 

Izuku grumbles: “I just...thought you were cool, geez.” 

Katsuki smirks down at him. “Just cool? Is that it?” 

Izuku turns his face away, refusing to answer, and Katsuki laughs again. He’s so cute, it hurts. He continues his exploration of the room, until his eyes land on the cotton, blonde head of a plushie poking out from Izuku’s comforter. He plucks it from the bedspread. It’s...a tiny, stuffed version of himself in costume. It’s handcrafted, with a lot of detail that’s usually lacking from the mass-produced plushies to line market stalls and fill up claw machines. Izuku, strangely, brightens at the sight of it. 

He was completely mortified a moment ago, but now he’s glowing. He holds his hand out for Katsuki to deposit the toy into it, which he does without argument. 

“Ah, this is Kacchan! My mom’s friend handmakes plushies like this, so my mom had her make it for my birthday last year. Isn’t he cute?” 

Katsuki’s brows shoot towards his hairline. “Kacchan...?”

Izuku squeaks, the nickname having thoughtlessly slipped out. “Oh! Er, it’s just what I call him. Sorry, I know it’s embarrassing.” 

It isn’t, and it’s not the reason behind Katsuki’s sudden annoyance. There’s no logic behind feeling jealous over an inanimate object, least of all a stuffed version of himself, and yet—here he is, seeing green. Izuku’s beaming down at the little doll like it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to him, like the very man it’s emulating isn’t less than a foot away. It even has a nickname, one that Izuku’s never even asked to call him. Before he can say or do something irrational, Katsuki brushes it off. 

In the following weeks, as their relationship progresses into spending almost every waking minute of their free time together, ‘Kacchan’ becomes an issue. Izuku’s obsessed with the stupid, cotton-filled cunt. When watching TV, Kacchan is nestled up in his lap. While sleeping, Katsuki plastered to his back, Kacchan is tucked to Izuku’s chest. When they fuck, Izuku has to make sure Kacchan is out of sight. He can’t just throw it away, Izuku would never forgive him. It was handcrafted, for his birthday. 

No, no, he just needs to put the little bastard in his place. There’s only room for one Bakugo Katsuki in Izuku’s life, and he won’t be edged out by a fucking doll. Two months into their relationship, Katsuki takes a stand. It’s a Sunday evening, and they’d spent the entirety of the day together. They’ve come down off satiation from the meal Katsuki made earlier [katsudon, Izuku’s favorite, just to drive home how much better he is—] and relocated to the bedroom for a healthy bout of extracurriculars. Earlier, Katsuki had moved the toy out of sight so Izuku would believe his purity remains intact. 

It’s not the case. 

While rifling around for the lubricant in the bedside drawer, Katsuki pulls the doll out as well. He sets it up beside the lamp, partially out of Izuku’s line of sight. Returning to the bed, on top of Izuku where he alone belongs, he peppers a tickling line of kisses from clavicle to hip bone, intermittently catching the skin between his teeth. Breathless giggles soon morph into breathless noises of another variety, and Izuku urges him to make haste. He’s beyond happy to do so, and before long, an aria of coition bounces around the room: slick skin meeting with force, Izuku’s nonsensical babble, and Katsuki’s filthy commentary he can never seem to refrain from. 

Izuku is sufficiently delirious, dangerously close to orgasm, and Katsuki seizes this moment. He stops the battering motion of his hips entirely, and Izuku flinches in the trap of his arms. “Katsuki, please—!” He gasps, pushing back against him. His cock is seated to capacity, and despite his wriggling, Izuku can’t achieve the friction he desires. Katsuki stuffs down a malicious smile. 

“Izuku.” He murmurs. 

“Wha—?”

“Call me Kacchan instead.” 

Izuku blinks fuzzy, wet eyes up at him, his hair a comely mess across his brow. “You...w-want me to call you that...?”

“Yeah, I’m not gonna move until you do.” 

Izuku whimpers, and it makes little sense for him to argue it. He gives up the moniker quickly. “K-Kacchan, please move—ah! Nngh! I’m—!”

Katsuki spares a victorious look at the stupid toy, as if it’ll be making some sort of horrified, heartbroken expression at being replaced. It doesn’t, of course, but they both know it. He’s the fucking winner.

Chapter Text

The inside of a gymnasium smells much different than the commercial weightlifting rooms Katsuki’s familiar with. The briny bite of sweat is still present, but instead of a heavily-perfumed cleanser slopped across the floor, it’s chalk dust and rubber. The ceiling seems miles overhead, so it’s not quite as stuffy—there’s room to breathe your own, personal air. He’d liken it to the massive rooms Pro-Heroes might train or spar in, but the vibe isn’t so life-or-death in this place. While its occupants are focused and determined, their athleticism isn’t being honed for the sake of crime-fighting. There’s an elegance to it that’s novel to him. 

At the request of the head coach, Izuku had picked up one class a week as an assistant. It’s a Thursday evening, and due to minor injury on a recent job [a cracked clavicle is like a splinter in his book], Katsuki was prescribed a week off and some opiates he’s been refusing to take. Recovery Girl is out of the country until Monday. He’s been using that extra time to ferry Izuku around to wherever he’s needed, and as he’s got nothing better to do in the meantime, Izuku offered him to sit in on the class. He probably should’ve declined, but he can’t let such an opportunity pass him by. While Izuku might have an idea of how much Katsuki likes to watch his flexibility in action, he’ll never, ever know the extent of it. Though they’ve been actively dating for a few months, the depth of his chronic, raging hard-on for the kid hasn’t waned, not even a little. 

They’re both such busy people, and there are days where physical intimacy isn’t possible between their schedules. If Izuku knew just how many times Katsuki’s beat one out [quick and dirty while pressed to the cold tile of the agency’s shower stall or leaned up against his apartment’s front door because he couldn’t be bothered to make it to his bed] to just the idea of him twisting around on a beam or a mat, he would’ve been banned from the gymnasium for life. He might even recommend Katsuki to therapy for a latent nymphomania diagnosis, but it’s not necessarily sex he’s crazy about—it’s Izuku, and sex with Izuku. There might be a diagnosis for that, too. 

So, here he sits, watching with rapt attention as Izuku leads a class of teenagers under the bone-wash of the commercial-grade fluorescence. It’s a little funny. Even the kids are into him, and they’re brazen about it. It’s like watching a replay of his own overt antics in the café. Some of them ask for extra help with their form, even when it’s technically perfect to an untrained eye like his. He knows what good form looks like through Izuku. It’s another mixed-gender class, which to Katsuki’s knowledge, is uncommon, as men and women perform very different techniques in the realm of gymnastics. Due to Izuku’s physique, he’s able to adequately perform and demonstrate a lot of both, so this class is a type of first-come-first-serve open-house to any who are interested in signing up for regular, weekly attendance. 

Katsuki knows exactly why Izuku was asked to do this. He’s a honeypot, and all the horny kids with a crush will be more inclined to pay a monthly stipend to the gym [or beg their nonethewiser parents to do so] after taking his introductory course. Were Katsuki one of these brats, he would be Japan’s next gold-medalist if it meant scoring something with Izuku. 

Unfortunately, he’s off the market, forever. The next Simone Biles could be milling around here, but Izuku’s gaze will always drift back to him, just as it is now. He’s looking over, and once their eyes meet, he grins, bashful at having been caught. Katsuki tries to return a wholesome expression, but his insides are like the hot, heavy metal of a car’s sputtering undercarriage. He should’ve waited outside, in the name of preserving his sanity. 

He dressed as inconspicuously as possible without looking like the next unabomber sketch: a ball cap, a face mask pulled beneath his jaw, a dark hoodie, and plain jeans. Nothing orange, explosive, or obvious. He didn’t want to derail the course with his flagrant presence, so he sits a good few paces from the herd of attending parents. Katsuki’s never met the head coach, but it’s clear to see he maintains a strong professional relationship, bordering on paternalism, with Izuku. He’s an older man of the no-nonsense variety, and Katsuki suspects he did a long stint in some sort of authoritarian field: police, fire, military, etcetera. Toting a clipboard with the student’s information, he meanders over to where Katsuki sits apart 

Good-naturedly, he asks: “Which one’s your’s?”

Katsuki glances up at him from beneath the brim of his hat. This man already knows who he is, why he’s here, and exactly which one is his. Katsuki humors him. He points towards the group forming a loose circle in the middle of the mat. Specifically, the instructor who looks barely any older than the adolescents he’s instructing. “It’d be that one, actually.” 

The coach [Han, Katsuki managed to recall in the nick of time] snorts. “I was wondering when you’d show your face around here, Ground Zero.” 

Katsuki smirks up at him. “Oh, ho. Does he talk about me?”

“When you’ve known him long enough, Midoriya can’t keep a secret for shit. I had to guess who he was seeing, and my guess was actually a joke. Then, he got all big-eyed and says, ‘wah, how’d you know?!’” 

His impression of Izuku is actually spot on, though Katsuki refrains from saying as much. He laughs quietly, still mindful of drawing too much attention. “Good guess, Han-san.” 

“That’s ‘Coach Han’ to you, boy. By the way he’d been acting, I could tell it wasn’t some schmuck off the street. Or, so I thought, until he admitted it was you. My real guess was one of those idols that’s all the rage.” 

Despite the utter dryness of his tone and the stern line of his brow, Katsuki can tell he’s joking. Or, half-joking, at least. “Ah, sorry to disappoint, Jiji, but I managed to grab him up before some show-pony could do it.”

Han smirks down at him. “You make it sound like ‘one, two, three’, but I heard you had a hard go of it.” 

Katsuki huffs. “I’d do it a million times over if I had to.” 

“Glad to hear it. Keep him safe, treat him well, that’s all I give a shit about.”

“Rest easy then, Jiji.”

On the floor, Izuku is giving a demonstration for the kids to follow. It’s a relatively simple skill, the ‘backbend kickover’, though it requires substantial flexibility and trust in one’s own ability. Izuku performs this move three times. First, he folds through each step with a clear, concise explanation. As if he were doing a backflip, he drops his palms to the mat, falling backwards from standing and creating an arched bridge of his body. Then, one leg lifts into a neat line that points towards the ceiling. With the sole still pressed to the mat, he pushes off into a clean flip. The second time, he does this brief routine all in one motion. The third time, he does it with more flare, multiple times over without pause. 

Katsuki hisses through his teeth, nails digging into the meat of his palm. He worries he’ll need to bring a discreet fist down on his insatiable dick, because it’s threatening to make a very noticeable imprint in the front of his jeans. Behind him, Coach Han clears his throat. “Oi, boy.” 

“Hah?”

“If you blow one in my gymnasium, I’ll castrate you myself.” 

Some of the kids are able to complete the move on their first try, while some require assistance from their instructor. Katsuki suspects a few of them are faking their ineptitude just so Izuku can touch them, a guiding palm in the lower back as they fall and hands bracketing a thigh in helping them complete the flip. There’s fifteen minutes left to this hour-long course, and the most tedious portion of all is upon him—stretching. Katsuki’s mouth dries up like his tongue is caught in a squeezing fist, wringing it out. 

Izuku leads the group in a series of simple stretches. He splits his legs wide, far exceeding an angle of ninety degrees. Bending forward, he touches his chest to the mat and wraps small hands around his toes. The gentle slope of his back descends into the roundest, perkiest, most grabbable ass Katsuki’s ever had the privilege of experiencing [in every sense of the word]. He’s lucky to be alive in the same time period as that ass, but more so, the boy it’s attached to. As his blood pounds hot beneath his skin at the sight of Izuku bending and folding, Katsuki wonders if it’s acceptable [morally, religiously, socially—shit, legally, even] to like someone so much, to want someone like he wants Izuku.

The class wraps up with no premature ejaculation on his part, by way of divine intervention, and Izuku confers with Han as the students say their adieus and file out with their parents. Han claps Izuku on the shoulder and seems to be imparting some words of encouragement, perhaps trying to reel him in as a full-time assistant. He cuts a sharp look at Katsuki over Izuku’s head before departing in the direction of his office. Katsuki gets to his feet, and Izuku is bounding towards him before he can begin his approach. 

“Kacchan! What’d you think?” 

Well, he’s left with a few options. He makes the educated guess that Izuku’s asking after his prowess as an instructor, nothing more or less than that. Izuku’s ability to give comprehensive instruction, however, is the last thing on his mind. He probably shouldn’t be honest, as that would just make him sound like a brainless, horny animal. Katsuki settles on something in the middle:

“You really taught the shit out of those brats, Deku, and your ass has never looked better.” 

In light of his successful robbery of the nickname from ‘little Kacchan’ [as the doll is now dubbed], he endeavored to christen Izuku with one, too—something only he can call him, something between the two of them that no one else has access to. When he’d brought this up to Izuku one evening, his partner’s face twisted up in thought. He laughed, sudden and self-deprecating: “When I was younger, there were a few kids that called me ‘Deku’, like, useless, you know?”

Within seconds of processing the recollection, Katsuki announced matter-of-factly: “That’s not what it means.”

“…it doesn’t?”

“No, it means ‘someone who’s better than everyone at everything all the time’ and I’ll beat anyone’s ass into the ground if I hear it used differently.” 

Thus, Deku and Kacchan were born.

Izuku flushes, attempting to take his crude language in stride. “You really think so? Not about my ass, about teaching the kids. I hope at least a few of them enjoyed it enough to sign up!” 

Katsuki stuffs his hands in his pockets to contain them. “I’ve no doubt you’ll have plenty of sign-ups, but they’re sure to be disappointed when they walk in to see Jiji’s ugly mug instead of you.” 

Izuku huffs, dismissive. “That’s ridiculous, Coach Han is much more experienced than I am. He’s an excellent teacher, too.”

That isn’t what he meant, but again, Katsuki bites it back. Han had left the key with Izuku to lock up, meaning they’re alone in the building now. It’s approaching eight in the evening, so the office staff have long since packed it in. There was no need for clean-up, as a crew will be coming by in the morning to sanitize the mats and equipment for the coming week. It’s just the two of them, alone, in the gymnasium. Katsuki takes a discreet glance around the corners of the ceiling for cameras. Surely, this is a trap. He’s being set-up, and Han’s crouched outside the building sharpening a scalpel in which to remove his testicles. 

But, how much of a fuck does he give about that, really? 

Izuku’s in front of him, flush from a light exercise, beaming with pride in himself. His big eyes glitz like peridots in a clean, clear riverbed, and his hair sticks to his face and neck where he’d perspired. Katsuki’s drunk on love, high on desire. He’s stricken by a sick thought. “Oi, Deku.”

“Hm?” 

Katsuki nudges his tongue between his teeth, pinning it there for a second. “Would you...demonstrate something for me? Like, a routine?” 

Izuku purses his lips. “What sort of routine?” 

“Whatever you want, I just—like it. I like watching you.”

Despite the breathless quality of his voice, the predatory slide of his gaze, Izuku’s yet to sense anything untoward. As long as they’ve been together, Katsuki marvels at his shortsightedness. Perhaps it’s because Izuku, himself, is a wholesome person, he anticipates that kind of nature from those around him. While Katsuki does feel equal measures of pride and awe at Izuku’s brand of athleticism, he also wrestles with the inhuman desire to ruin him, to rip his shorts down and fix him to the mat with a wide, clamped grip at his nape.  

Izuku hums his agreement. “Yeah, sure!” 

He crosses the springy mat again, and once he makes it to the corner of the opposite side, he looks contemplative. “Uh, okay, so this is just...a simple floor exercise? It’s not very impressive, but—!” He calls out, shrugging helplessly. 

Izuku swans his arms into the air, before dropping them to the side. He takes a short, powerful running start. His ‘simple, unimpressive’ exercise consists of a series of back handsprings, the building momentum sending him upwards of eight feet on the last hurrah. His legs slice the air like a helicopter’s rotors, and he sticks the landing with both feet steady and balanced. He looks over with a bright grin, red in the face, and Katsuki’s dick screams against the zipper of his jeans. He rips the hat and mask from his head and face respectively, and they’re left abandoned on the floor. Izuku squeaks at his sudden, domineering approach, as realization has finally dawned on him. 

“K-Kacchan, wait—!”

Katsuki snags him from the ground by the back of his thighs, seating their groins together. He supplants his hands just beneath the swell of his ass, kneading that firm flesh in a widespread grip. Izuku’s reticence is swallowed up, as Katsuki takes his mouth in a hard, antagonistic kiss. He can do little more than cling with the last bit of feeling he has in his arms and legs. Katsuki’s tongue is a stopper to keep breath and noise at bay, and if he tries to withdraw, he’s pursued—suffering punitive bites. His head is spinning with the lack of oxygen, the lack of blood in his brain [as it migrates south], and it comes as a shock when his ass lands atop something hard. 

Katsuki had carried them across the mat and dropped him onto the pommel horse. Izuku fists the material of Katsuki’s sweatshirt in damp, shaking hands. He draws breath too quickly.

He starts to bargain: “Kacchan, we can’t, not...not here—”

Katsuki chuckles without mirth. The pads of his fingers dig ruthlessly into that sensitive spot as he spreads the mounds of his ass through his shorts. He deliberately grinds his stomach against the treacherous hardness in the front of Izuku’s shorts.

“What are you talking about, Deku, you’re already this wound up. You think you can leave it like this?” 

Izuku flinches at the dual attention, and a terse sound rattles from his throat. “It’s...it’s because you kissed me like that—nngh, Kacchan, don’t—!” 

snick—! 

Izuku startles at the familiar sound. Before he can find the source with his eyes [already gone soft and fuzzy at the corners], there’s the telltale drip of it down his lower back—cold, oily, and undeniably lubricant. Katsuki shoves his hand completely down the back of his shorts, and the slick sensation becomes an uncomfortable smear. Izuku chokes on a high sound as Katsuki’s long, thick fingers sink into him. Now, he’s more sitting on Katsuki’s palm than the pommel, and a toe-curling shiver crawls up his spine and into his scalp. They’d done it just this morning [A.M.A.], so his insides are pliant enough for Katsuki to manhandle him without risk of damage. 

Before he can catch up to two, there are three, and Katsuki curls them in a way that puts explosions behind his eyes. His back bows like a tether with too much tension.

“Hah! Angh! D-Don’t, I’m—!”

“Fuck, Deku, try’na snap my fingers off?” 

“Kacchan, pl—please!” He whimpers, smothering his face against Katsuki’s thumping chest. 

Suddenly, they’re gone, and Izuku’s left to mourn the phantom of his orgasm. It’s like dying, floating up to the outskirts of Heaven, but then—an EMT slams 3000-volts into your heart and drags you back into a busted-up body on the side of the freeway. He shudders against Katsuki, curling into him as a reptile seeks warmth beneath a heat-lamp. 

“I’m sorry, baby, that was cruel, huh?” Katsuki’s murmur drags against his temple, his calloused hands stroking up his back, and he doesn’t sound sorry at all. “I’ll make it up to you, don’t worry,” he promises, and Izuku’s stomach tightens at the tone. 

His warmth and support vanishes momentarily, and Izuku’s reptilian hindbrain keens at the loss. Katsuki tears out of his hoodie, leaving himself bare-chested, and lowers onto one knee in front of him. He catches his shorts by the waistband and hikes the soiled material down the length of his legs. Izuku doesn’t have the presence of mind to be embarrassed over the sudden exposure, nor to worry over getting caught. Bakugo Katsuki is ravishing the insides of his thighs with micro-massages and suctioning kisses, the kind that Izuku will be able to count in the morning. Izuku melts back into the pommel, having halfway slid off of it. 

Katsuki hikes one of his legs over the hard, broad shelf of his shoulder, and Izuku’s left to precariously balance himself on the ball of his opposite foot. His eyes blow open as his cock is taken by pressure, constriction, and moisture. Katsuki’s fingers, slippery from earlier, drive into him at the same time, and he screams into the back of his wrist. Desperate tears race each other into his hairline. 

“‘s too much, nngh—! Not at the same—hah! Ah! K-Ka—!” He can’t get a word out, he can’t breathe. 

The threads in his lower belly are snapping, and heat spreads through him like a deathbed fever. Katsuki’s working him over from both ends, and in their short time together, he’s become a master of his craft. He takes Izuku into the back of his throat, swallowing around him, and shoves his fingers as deeply as they’ll go without engaging his entire hand, crooking them just right. Izuku doubles over as his orgasm hits like a speeding car. His thighs tighten to vices around Katsuki’s ears, and the muscles in his stomach jump spasmodically. 

He grabs at those blanched tufts like he means to leave bald-spots. His scream is a borderline silent one, as he couldn’t find the breath to make a real sound. 

To his horror, Katsuki doesn’t allow their momentum to slow, not even for a second. Izuku’s innards are still a clenching mess, his body still riddled with dopamine, when Katsuki flips him onto his stomach across the pommel. 

He gasps, frantic: “wait, wait, I’m—!” 

Katsuki couldn’t wait, even if their lives literally depended on it. The gymnasium could catch fire, a villain could come through the wall and declare Ground Zero their nemesis—marked for death. Coach Han could be sneaking up behind him with a scalpel in hand. He presses himself against Izuku and slams forward with undue force, melting their bodies together. He hisses a ragged, guttural sound, and his abdominals flutter in effort not to bust immediately. Izuku goes rigid across the pommel. The muscle in his back and legs seize with tension, and a bitten-off scream escapes him, bouncing off the metal girders in the vast room. Katsuki notes with no small amount of glee that he’s just cum a second time, deduced from the pearlescent fluid that runs between his legs. 

“Hah, you were made for this, Deku, fuck.”    

He experiments with a shallow thrust, and Izuku squeezes around him like a too-small sleeve. The loose T-shirt Izuku wears gets pushed up to hang at his armpits. Katsuki greedily takes in the sight of his back, smoothing his palms up and down the milky expanse of it. 

“Izuku—” The boy in question flinches at his given name, which has become less and less commonplace between them. “—you’re perfect, you know that? I fucking can’t get enough of you, you make me crazy.” 

He breathes these blandishments in between the notches of his spine as a shaman would impart a prayer into a string of beads, all the while rocking forward to a point of totality. Each slow, tedious crush of his hips puts a blitz of sensation on Izuku’s tender prostate. He’s crying, and something inside of him feels bad, whereas something else makes Katsuki wonder if he’s actually a bad person—because he gets harder, bigger at the sound of it, at the way Izuku’s slight body trembles with it. His mantras come darker as he accelerates the pace of their coupling. 

For a while now, Izuku has likened sex with Katsuki to—the weather. It varies day to day, and while it can be predicted, it’s never something one doesn’t appreciate. Warm, sunny days are always to be enjoyed, no matter how many one’s experienced. Sometimes there are clouds to give shade, other times the heat scorches the ground without obstruction. There are gentle showers that tickle your face, and there are turbulent storms that shake the windows in their pane. Katsuki is a lot like that, and just like sunny afternoons and pounding downpours, he doesn’t tire of any of it. His large hands have practically left dents all over him for how often they grab, hold, love, and bruise. Now, those hands are fixtures at his hips, pinning his lower body to the pommel’s curvature. 

His mouth moves across his back, shoulders, and throat in a lazy, unhurried survey of his erogenous zones. Katsuki knows them well by now, but he takes care to hit each one. His eyes swing back to their whites as one such zone, his ear, is given particular attention. The shell of his ear is gently ground to inflammation between the flats of his teeth, and his tongue takes to burning stripes on the patch of skin behind it. This never fails to turn him into jelly, and he jerks wildly between Katsuki and the pommel. For now, Katsuki fucks him softly, but that doesn’t last—Izuku would go mad if it did. The harder it comes, the more of his mind he loses. The filthier the words Katsuki murmurs in his ear, the tighter that knot in his belly becomes.

“Hah, so pretty, Deku, so pretty like this, so fuckin’ pretty…”

The twisted praise is barely discernible through the natural gravel of his voice, deepened with the act. It puts popping bubbles in his brain, because it’s exactly the sort of thing Izuku wants to hear, in exactly that tone—crumbling, desperately hungry. Katsuki’s mumbling might come across as mindless, but it’s the opposite. Izuku can tell, he’s trying so hard to put the depth of his feelings into words, but his tone always delivers it more than the salacious commentary itself. 

Before he can wrap his head around the change of pace, Katsuki is crushing into him with speed, power, and precision. The pommel shakes where it’s bracketed to the floor, and Izuku spares half a second’s worry that they’ll dislodge it. That worry evaporates against the battering his insides endure, the distention of his stomach as Katsuki plugs himself to capacity over and over. The fullness is a difficult thing to adapt to, but he only realizes the addiction he’s cultivated once it’s gone. 

“Nngh—! Harder, please—ah!”

Harder might mean actually crippling him, but it’s the type of experience that seems to transcend their humanity, their flesh—despite it being nothing but. Izuku feels like a hot, writhing star that’s constantly on the precipice of exploding, threatening to spread himself into a memory to be observed from millions of years away. The only thing that grounds him to his sense of self is Katsuki, who reminds him he’s just a person intertwined with another person. It’s bittersweet, in a way. 

Speaking of, position changes—those always rip him right back to reality, reminding him just how fragile and human he is. Katsuki lifts him away from the pommel, away from the floor completely. His back fits tight to Katsuki’s chest, and arms come around his ribs like steel supports. He’s impaled, dangling, like a dead animal on a harpoon. The pressure in his stomach is unlike anything he’s ever experienced, beyond description. It’s terrible, frightening, and electrifying all at the same time. He squirms, attempting to touch his toes to the floor, but it just lodges Katsuki’s cock deeper, somehow. He gags on a scream. 

“K-Kacchan, put me down—!” He sobs. 

“Deku, look—“ Katsuki’s low, laughing voice tingles down the side of his throat. “—you can see it. It’s like you're pregnant.” 

Izuku chances a glance downwards, and sure enough, there’s the slightest bulge in his stomach. Humiliation washes through him, settling heavy in his face and chest. He makes a reedy, miserable sound behind his teeth, as he can do nothing more than twitch apart in the trap of Katsuki’s arms. Then, there’s an unexpected, tiny movement:

“Heuk—! No, don’t…do tha—ah!”

Katsuki bounces him forward, and it’s not by much—but it’s enough. He rolls his hips in a slow grind, occasionally jerking with sharp, significant force. Izuku is so tightly-strung, he’s afraid he’ll snap a tendon. To compound on this newfound torture, Katsuki resumes those ministrations on his ear, sucking purple into the skin behind it. Something’s happening. It’s brewing, bubbling over, and it spreads outward from his lower stomach—he’s numb, liquified, and hypersensitive. It isn’t normal, it’s not as simple as your average, run-of-the-mill orgasm. It’s...a higher level that he’s not ready for. His vision blurs with panicked tears. His heart pounds to a beat of ‘escape, escape, escape!’

He tries to twist away, digging his nails into Katsuki’s forearm, gasping: “Stop, stop, please—! I’m…I feel weird, I don’t like it!” 

He cries out with relief when his feet touch the floor, Katsuki having lowered him, but it’s short lived. Izuku shrieks as his right leg is caught by the underside of his knee. He tumbles forward, slapping his palms to the pommel to keep from planting his face into it. Balanced precariously on the ball of one foot, his other leg is held tight and drawn back. Katsuki’s other hand comes around to flatten against his belly, and it’s damp with sweat. Izuku wonders at the likelihood of him accidentally blasting a hole through his midsection. That fruity, banana scent puts cotton in his head. Katsuki is sliding out, and Izuku starts to think it’s over. He’d managed to avoid whatever that not-a-normal-orgasm was going to be, as whatever it was, it would be too shameful to bear. He could just tell, despite never experiencing it before.

“Hngh—?!” Izuku hiccups a shocked noise.

Katsuki slams into him, sandwiching him between the hard press of his palm at his stomach and the unyielding wall of his body. That terrifying sensation returns, sentient heat punched through him. In this balancing act, he can do nothing but feel it. Katsuki has made an unsightly, undignified mess of him again: sobbing, drooling, run-through with tremors. He can’t think, speak, or function beyond simply enduring. What he does hear from himself, it’s almost inhuman. The way he’s been contorted is bordering on uncomfortable, and the strength is bleeding from his limbs. It’s building again, and Izuku whips his head back in a panic. 

He finds the energy to beg between heaving gasps: “Stop, stop, don’t—! I’m, hah, I—there’s something...strange, please!”

Katsuki seems to have a better understanding of what’s happening to his own body than he does: “‘s okay, Deku, let it out, you’re...doin’ such a good job—hah, fuck, just like that—”

As if to force it from him, to make it a reality, Katsuki recertifies his grip around his knee, moving his opposite hand to clamp around his bicep. They’ve moved closer to the pommel, and the hard edge of it digs into his diaphragm as Katsuki fucks the lucidity from him. Izuku chokes on his panic. Building, building, building— so much pressure, steam screaming in a kettle. He can’t hold it. He involuntarily clenches down on Katsuki’s cock, and his back bows to a point of breaking. Raw, shredded, he screams from the back of his throat. It’s a sharp boomerang off the gymnasium’s plated walls. He’s never felt anything like it in his life. 

It’s an orgasm of some kind, but it wrecks him from head to toe. There’s no muscle that doesn’t twitch or tremble. His brain floods with all those chemicals that convince a person they’ve met God or paid visit to his domain, and there’s no room for anything close to a thought. Untouched, he erupts violently, but it’s not—

Izuku has no idea what it is, but there’s a lot of it. It’s not viscous or faintly white like the typical byproduct of an orgasm. It’s...thin, clear, watery, and there’s so much of it. Behind him, Katsuki watches his undoing with wide, hungry eyes. His mouth has fallen open, as he’s in a state of total awe. Izuku looks...otherworldly. He looks like the most sultry, pale, twisted being put to marble in the Classical period. His face is partially obscured, but what Katsuki catches of his profile will live in the back of his mind for the rest of his life. Shocks of dark curls stick to him, sticky with sweat and tears. Fine brows are pinched over eyes squeezed tight, lashes damp and stark against his cheekbones. His entire body is ripe with a flush. 

Katsuki knows he’s grabbing too hard, bruises will manifest by the time they’re home, but his own orgasm hits him harder than A.F.O. ever could. Izuku’s insides are gripping him so tightly, it’d probably peel the skin off his dick if he tried to withdraw now. 

“ Fuck, fuck, Izuku, shit—!” 

It takes him a solid minute to start coming down, and he finally releases Izuku’s leg of its suspension when he does. Carefully, he extricates himself from that holy warmth. He misses it immediately. Izuku starts to stumble forward, and Katsuki catches him with an arm slung fast at his waist. 

“Deku, hey, are you—”

Oh, fuck. He’s crying. Like, actually crying. His back shudders with it. Katsuki turns him around, but he stubbornly keeps his face tucked to his chest, expression hidden behind his hair. 

He struggles not to raise his voice: “Hey, hey, Deku!” 

“K-Kacchan, I—” He whimpers, pressing the butts of his palms to his eyes. “Why didn’t you stop?! I—”

Katsuki realizes what the issue is. He takes Izuku’s jaw between his palms, swiping his thumbs across the puffy skin beneath his eyes, encouraging him to lift his face. Izuku does, but the embarrassment makes him shift his gaze away—anywhere but Katsuki. 

“No, no, Deku, it’s not what you think, I swear.” 

“I...I didn’t mean to, I—I tried to tell you to stop, but—!”

“Izuku! I’m trying to tell you, it’s not what you think. It’s a normal reaction during sex like this, you were just really, really stimulated, that’s all, okay? Didn’t it feel good?” 

“I was...scared. I thought...” He trails off, chewing bruises into his bottom lip. 

Katsuki holds a sigh in his throat, because it’s his fault for pushing Izuku too far, especially in a place like this one. They’re not in the privacy and safety of their home, they’re technically in public—a place where Izuku works. Katsuki pulls him into his chest. 

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have...done that. Please kick my ass for this when we get home, okay? I’m going to clean everything up, too, so just hang tight. Let me grab the extra clothes.”

Izuku blinks up at him. “You...brought extra clothes?”

“Oh, uh...I mean, yeah?” He clears his throat. “In case you wanted to change after...class, from sweating, you know. Teaching. The kids.” 

—

Katsuki did not return to the gymnasium for three solid months.

It took him that entire week after the incident to convince Izuku to return for his open-house class. As far as he was aware, Han never indicated anything to Izuku about their afterhours debauchery. If he knew, he kept it to himself, though Katsuki didn’t spot any security cameras inside the gym. Once Izuku settled into the realization that their tomfoolery was a secret between them and no consequences were coming, the incident seemed to blow over.

However, upon arriving to pick Izuku up from a class after those aforementioned three months, Katsuki barely makes it a foot through the door. Coach Han was waiting for him by the main entrance, as Izuku must’ve spilled the beans about being picked up. He claps a heavy hand to Katsuki’s shoulder, nearly sending him out of his skin. Katsuki chokes down a decidedly un-manly yelp. 

“Ground Zero, it’s great to see you again.”