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Kacchan says don’t make him ride the train back home, so Izuku doesn’t make him ride the train back home.
’Cause he’s gonna yak his guts out if he has to see everything go by sideways, Kacchan says, sighing a fine white mist in the dark. Chilly, but Izuku isn’t chilly. Kacchan’s arm is a hot band around his ribs; his palm starfishes between his shoulder blades. Most starfishes can vomit their stomachs out to swaddle their prey before gulping it down.
Shouldn’t think about throwing up. The sidewalk swims, a million kilometers away at the end of Izuku’s nose.
That’s weird and gross, Kacchan says. Scowls. (Adorable.) Kacchan’s ears and nose are turning pink. His hand is so warm—weird, gross, nerd shit, yeah, yeah, yeah. Sometimes Kacchan says stuff to say other stuff and a billion-million years of having known him means Izuku can get what stuff he means in the first place.
When Kacchan says something is weird and gross, though, he usually means it’s weird and gross.
“I’d let you,” Izuku starts, and stops. Inertia sloshes his brain up against the front of his skull.
Kacchan squeezes him. “What.”
It’s starting to snow. Little flecks spit down from the black vacuum of sky and melt on contact, drooling down Izuku’s hot cheeks. “Wait, wait, wait, it’s snowing...”
“Snows,” Kacchan mutters, “all the damn time. ’S winter. Duh.”
Well, yeah.
“Walk.” Kacchan jabs the heel of his palm into Izuku’s spine. Sometimes Kacchan says stuff in a tone sounding like he’s talking to a puppy who’s peed on the floor, and it’s…and it’s really…
Izuku swallows air and snowflakes. “Hm?”
“Walk, dumbshit.”
Kacchan’s hand pushes into him again. Shouldn’t think about how warm he is. Shouldn’t think about his voice or his long, gracile fingers or the chill sticking its fingers into Izuku’s coat collar won’t feel like a chill anymore.
He steals a glance to Kacchan’s neck peeking out between his sharp jaw and the lark’s head of his scarf. Bad idea. Earlier at dinner Kirishima and Kaminari took turns tugging Kacchan back and forth by his scarf, cackling. Over here, Kaccha-a-an. Like that dumb dance move where you pretend your head is sliding side to side inside the neck of your shirt. That was only a couple beers in; Izuku wasn’t drunk enough yet to do something stupid like tell them to get their gross hands off Kacchan’s beautiful neck.
“Wait,” he murmurs, blinking down at Kacchan’s fingers around his arm. When did Kacchan’s fingers go around his arm? “Wait, wait, this isn’t the way to your place.”
Kacchan shrugs, blasé. “Yours is closer.”
When Izuku stops this time it sends Kacchan reeling a step ahead, slipping off the sleeve of his coat and swearing. “Mine? Sorry, sorry—my place?”
“Yeah,” Kacchan says, “moron. ’Cause it’s closer.”
“But that’s…”
“Closer.” He gropes for Izuku’s arm again, eyeing him over the popped collar of his peacoat. Elegant Kacchan on his arm. So much implication in those words: on his arm. Perfect elegant Kacchan swaddled in peacoat and neat little scarf, glowing in the chill, says, “Loosen the hell up. Stupid. Walk.”
Uh huh.
As Kacchan yanks him along, his hand somehow scalding through layers of coat and windbreaker and sweater and shirt, Izuku follows.
In the dark apartment, nothing can see the flush scalding Izuku’s face. The walls can’t hear the rabbit thrum of his heart; his TV, his dumb hero posters, don’t know about the ice of sweat on his palms. His lower back. None of it has to know how his stomach is squirming, that it has nothing to do with alcohol.
Kacchan, though. Perfect, gimlet-eyed, still-a-little-drunk Kacchan. In Izuku’s apartment. Kacchan in Izuku’s apartment, saying he’s tired, wants to sleep. With him, only he doesn’t say the with-him part.
So much implication. You don’t sleep with someone else to sleep for real.
The bed doesn’t care how stiffly Izuku slides between the covers, if his sweater is still on. The bed—his bed!—doesn’t feel Kacchan’s weight settling on the mattress.
“Was gonna say.” Oh, hell, he can’t laugh or he’ll seem drunker than he is. “Was gonna say, like...i-if you were gonna eat me like a starfish, I’d let you—pfff. Sorry.”
“Huh? How’s a starfish eat?”
“Some of them can throw up their stomach and wrap it around the prey. The fish or whatever. Then they swallow it, the fish and the stomach, together.” In the dark apartment, Kacchan’s eyes are just tiny glints of windowpane reflection. Can’t even see their color. Izuku’s mouth is dry but he swallows anyway. “But that’s weird. Right?”
Kacchan’s cackle sounds like a chainsaw bucking. “Huh? You got some kinda…some kinda fetish for that or something?”
“What?”
“’Zzat what you’re into?”
“What? No. What? ’S not…’s not, like, erotic.” Now his laugh sounds dredged-up. Premature. Stupid, stupid. “That’s weird.”
“Wouldn’t give a shit if it was,” Kacchan rasps. So close, suddenly, his voice drowns out the susurrus of the heater. “People are into weirder crap than that.”
“It’s not, though.”
“For real?”
“Yeah. I’d be happy if it meant you’d stay healthy and strong.”
Something cold flinches against his jaw—the tip of Kacchan’s nose. Hot breath on Izuku’s neck. His skin seizes tight, vacuum-sealed.
“Kiss,” Kacchan demands, gritty with sleep.
In the space between one heartbeat and the next, Izuku’s pulse swoops between his thighs.
Oh, hell.
“Whuh?”
“Kiss,” Kacchan says, a scalding mist over Izuku’s throat, “moron.” He squirms nearer and his knee hikes up over Izuku’s legs, the top of his thigh so close, if he just twitched, if his heart beat hard enough he’d be able to feel—
“You’re drunk,” Izuku squeaks.
“You too,” Kacchan points out. “Not like you’re takin’ advantage of me. Damn. We do kissing all the time.”
Not all the time, Izuku says—tries to say, because Kacchan snatches his face in one hand, squishing his cheeks into one another, and kisses him hard. Wet. Kacchan’s mouth tastes like beer, or maybe that’s Izuku’s mouth. Kacchan smells like Kacchan. His palm is cool with sweat.
Smack, he pulls away. Sounds wet too. “See? Just kissing.”
Just, he says.
Just kissing and every thud of Izuku’s pulse jerks his dick up off the inside of his hip, buffered by jeans he never shed.
“Too,” Kacchan breathes, half awake, “too nice. ’S what’s your problem, is…is you’re too goddamn nice.” Nice, he says.
With Kacchan draped over him, with the last dregs of all nine beers from dinner sloshing in the bowl of his skull, Izuku watches the ceiling. The ceiling doesn't care if he's nice. The ceiling doesn't care about his dick or Kacchan's kisses or anything at all.
It’s on the morning news how this morning someone’s Quirk went haywire downtown and laminated a sixth of the prefecture in ice. Hawks is on the news telling everyone to stay inside and keep warm, except infrastructure professionals and heroes with heat-based Quirks; apparently it’ll be a day at least before trains and cars start working again. Most of Musutafu is compromised, Kijimi, Ruusan, and Akiba wards all frozen solid. Nobody’s going to be able to get anywhere unless they can fly and nobody’s going to be able to get outside unless they can thaw their doors enough to open. Kacchan says this is all such bullshit.
Hasn’t put on a shirt since he got up this morning. Hasn’t even put on pants. Right there on Izuku’s couch, in Izuku’s apartment next to his All Might throw pillow and blanket and all the other stuff he calls stupid eyesore otaku wastes of Izuku’s salary, Kacchan is all legs and shoulders and loose coils of muscle. Bar his nondescript black boxer briefs.
Live from his home office, Hawks is in his civvy clothes. Winking. Saying, if anyone was looking for an excuse to cozy up to someone special this New Year’s, here’s an opportunity on a gilded platter.
“Todoroki-kun’ll help for sure,” Izuku murmurs, riffling through the cupboard for caffeine-free tea. His spice rack won’t see him sweating; the curry cubes don’t know his heartrate is vibrating in his eyeballs. “And Endeavor. Maybe the Microwave Hero: Radarange? Maybe the Glacial Hero: Frostflight for…?”
“Should get your ass in HQ,” Kacchan grumbles from the living room. “Bet nobody’s thought of them.” He rounds a lazy scowl on Izuku, his head tipped back on the top of the couch cushions so his Adam’s apple juts out of his graceful neck. “Radarange? Seriously?”
Izuku squirms with the electric kettle. “’Cause of the microwave Quirk, though?”
“Why’s the Internet even still working? This is such bullshit.” Kacchan clicks the TV off and groans, long and loud. “Shoulda called me in! Fucking Radarange?”
After he gets bored of griping Kacchan horse-kicks the kotatsu out of the way and makes the living room his personal gym, a knotted pair of Izuku’s wired earbuds trailing down his bare chest as he does sit-ups. Thighs splayed around the soft, sleepy swell of him in his underwear, muscle of his stomach crunching tight on every curl upward, his hands behind his head and baring short smooth pale underarm hair. Eyes closed.
With the earbuds in, he can’t hear Izuku gripping his National Museum of Heroics souvenir cup so hard the plastic creaks.
Shouldn’t think the word hard.
Kacchan hikes his arms high above his head to stretch, hair flopping away from his forehead as he peers upside-down at Izuku. One torn-out earbud fizzes electronic metal. “Water.”
“Huh?”
“Water,” Kacchan grunts. “Numbnuts.” The splash of scar tissue across Kacchan’s sternum yawns wide. His cute dusky nipples are soft, flat to the sticky glow of his skin. Izuku’s cup groans dangerously.
Kacchan gets the most normal, least hero-branded bottle in Izuku’s collection: the glass konbini one that came filled with oolong and never got recycled. Water spills out the side of his mouth, licks along the thick tendon in his flushed neck, down to the sweat salt on his clavicle, and it’s really…
With the earbuds in, he can’t hear the crack of Izuku’s souvenir cup splitting straight down the graphic of Edgeshot’s super cool ninja crouch. Or the snap of the bathroom door being kicked shut. His bathroom mirror doesn’t know his mouth is cracked open, dumb, his fingers twitching and white on the lip of the sink as all the breath comes out of him in a shudder. His reflection can’t feel his gaze drilling holes in it.
It is, objectively, not a terrible face: baby-full and pied with flush, but fine. Mostly eyes the wet color of swamps. Half torn open by scar and otherwise totally, completely unremarkable to look at. Most of him is like that: unremarkable to look at. Visual soporific. So what.
It’s the extremely unsubtle swell in the front of his pants that’s ugly.
Even uglier once the pants are shucked and kicked to the corner, seesawing stupidly under its own weight. Pink and tipped with a doleful pearl of pre. A fat, greedy, twitching bloodleech suctioned to his skin, pulsing mindlessly with every beat of his overwrought heart.
“Go away," Izuku hisses, and smacks it. Even that makes it jump. Hell.
It does not go away. Touch, it begs, drooling a gross hank of pre that snaps and goes splat on the tile. Touch touch touch it. A hand would do great—someone else’s hand, smooth instead of scarred. One finger, even. The top of a thigh. A warm mouth, wet and tonguing up the tight achy spot under the swollen head, a slick hole, him bucking into mind-wiping sloppy friction again and again and again until he lurched and emptied himself in the clenched fist of someone’s body, someone stroking his sweaty hair, someone’s low rasp in his ear: Got you, Izuku, fucking give it to me—
Shouldn’t think about it. He takes a cold shower instead.
Kacchan is waiting outside when Izuku opens the door, shirtless and scowling. Sweat sticks his hair sleek to his temples. “Ain’t those clothes dirty? Nasty bastard.”
If the clothes are dirty doesn’t matter. After an hour of stamping his sweat into Izuku’s living room rug Kacchan’s face is dewy pink; his pectorals, his abs, are full from exertion. A fat vein winds its lazy way across his shoulder and slinks into his armpit. If Izuku buried his face there and inhaled he’d smell hot and briny, overripe, and it’d be really…
His mouth flops, useless.
“You gonna move?” One fine, pale brow disappears under Kacchan’s bangs. He points past Izuku. “I gotta shower.”
“Uh-huh,” Izuku says, and moves. Kacchan’s shoulder brushes his, a zing of heat; the lock snicks shut behind him. Slate noise: and scene.
So what.
Still a day or so before the city becomes walkable again, the Internet says, much less drivable. Todoroki-kun is on the news saying everyone should remain calm. Everyone is working very hard to thaw everything out. Hawks is on the news saying, if anyone was in need of a few days to unwind, well, grab that vacation while it’s dangling in front of them.
Vacation. Unwind. Izuku's foot is falling asleep from crossing his legs to keep the angry, aching bulge in his pants somewhat hidden and it’s been falling asleep for maybe a quarter hour. Went down for a bit with the chill from the shower and popped right back up after Kacchan went in for his. Sure, he’s unwinding.
Out of the bathroom, hair flat and dark and a towel around his waist, perfect gleaming Kacchan raps on the living room wall. “I’m gonna wear some of your shit.” Water beads on the delicate branch of his clavicle.
Sure. He is unwinding. Vacations are for unwinding, and unloading, and unbuttoning, and loosening up, and…
Izuku grits out: “Uh-huh.”
He shuts his phone off and closes his eyes at the ceiling. Inside his eyelids, nothing knows he even exists.
Kacchan has made himself at home in Izuku’s apartment the same way he does everything else: perfectly. Dishwasher emptied, bed made for the first time in weeks, even the weird shrieking sound in the kitchen sink miraculously gone, Kacchan ducks inside the kitchen cabinet and says, “Gonna make dinner.”
Izuku drops his laundry hamper halfway to the bedroom. “I’ll help!”
“Fuck you will,” Kacchan says, straightening to point to the TV. “Put some shit on. All Might or something.”
While Izuku futzes with the DVD binder Kacchan click-click-clicks on the stove, grumbling about canola oil and how all the stuff in the fridge is shitty sucky boring. So what. He says don’t put on the Silver Age mockumentary, so Izuku doesn’t put on the Silver Age mockumentary. Kacchan says it’s a diarrhea shitstain of disrespect on All Might’s filmographic legacy.
True; the actor is a full three centimeters shorter than real-life All Might. Despicable.
All Might on, getting grumbled at, Kacchan chopping onion in the kitchen: this is probably what it feels like to cohabitate.
Izuku perches on the edge of the couch with the All Might throw pillow surreptitiously in his lap. The All Might throw pillow won’t feel him poking it.
Living with Kacchan. Kacchan, all the time, just…there. Twenty-four hours a day, three hundred sixty-five days a year, Kacchan and he would be cohabitating even when they weren’t existing in the same room. So much implication in that word: cohabitating.
“How are you a grown-ass man,” Kacchan mutters from inside a cabinet, “and you don’t have sriracha.”
Kacchan making dinner, Kacchan in a pair of Izuku’s sweatpants too short for his legs and too big for his narrow hips. Things nobody else would get to see. Kacchan’s fine blond hair and Izuku’s dark snarls clogging the same shower drain. Earlier, probably, he used Izuku’s shampoo.
Stovelight glints off the faint sheen of hair on Kacchan’s forearms as he nudges shriveling onion across the pan. Izuku shivers. Probably he smells like Izuku’s cheap bar soap, powdery over the sweet-sharpness of his Quirk and his skin.
In the apartment they’d share, everything would smell like Kacchan: the pillows and the comforter and the couch, the All Might throw blanket that’s pilling from being tumble-dried, the dirty laundry and Kacchan himself, of course, lush and animal…
Shouldn’t think about how Kacchan smells. About his dirty laundry.
Squeezing white dents into his own knees, Izuku makes himself a turtle shell around All Might’s grinning plush head. All Might, he is so, so sorry for his hard-on.
“When we can get the hell outta here,” Kacchan calls over the hiss of frying chicken, “you’re buying me real dinner. Not some scrounged-up bullshit.”
Sure.
“Got a thing of rice in there that’s a Petri dish for botulism. You’re inventing kinds of food poisoning nobody even knows about yet, moron.”
Sure, Kacchan. He’s sorry for the old food in the fridge; it’s just he can’t bear to throw something away until it starts to really look bad. “Sorry.”
Dinner is good because everything Kacchan makes is good, even the shitty sucky stuff from Izuku’s fridge. Perfect cordon bleu Kacchan looks up through his long eyelashes and the steam hazing from his bowl of stirfry and says, “You got dishes duty.”
Dishes duty means Izuku gets at least fifteen minutes of hiding his hips behind the counter, so he has no problem with it. At least fifteen minutes of doing something other than thinking about things he shouldn’t. Fifteen minutes of something before going to bed.
Kacchan says to put on another All Might DVD, so Izuku puts on another All Might DVD. Another All Might DVD is another hour. Twenty-four All Might DVDs a day, three hundred sixty-five days a year, and sixteen of those hours spent doing anything but going to bed.
Actually going to bed is a skydive without the parachute of being drunk. Izuku spends at least half an hour in the bathroom beforehand, brushing his teeth and spitting foam and brushing again. Hair looking like a skullcap of dark fire from scraping his fingers through it. Sweating through his sleep tee, hands and feet cold-numb, every inhale a minty sting.
And hard, tucked up in the drawstring cinch of his sleep shorts.
So what.
Because most of Kacchan’s life is devoted to administering cruel and unusual Deku-punishment, he has taken liberty of borrowing a pair of sweats and the stupid tee shirt saying BLACK TIE. Crouched on the floor, he stacks his chest over his thighs and stretches his arms out in front of him like a cat awake from a nap.
“What’re you doing?”
“Yoga,” he says to the rug. Twists his back, splaying one arm out under the other, and narrows his eyes at Izuku’s feet. “Good for sleep.” Perfect feline Kacchan’s borrowed shirt is rucking up over his ribs; the sweats bare half his calves, lean and glimmering with translucent hair.
Too big in the waist and too short in the leg. Shouldn’t think about it. Izuku trains his gaze up through his brows until his eyes unfocus.
Sleep lasts what feels like a blink before the world snaps back open: dark except moonlight, stuffy from the heater. From the second body in the bed. Kacchan is on his side, turned away with one leg kicked up and the coverlet pooling around his hips.
Blinking back into life, Izuku hikes himself up on his elbows and flinches at the rasp of fabric against his sore dick.
At least he’s not hard. Fully.
With Kacchan so close, trying to sleep feels like cupping water in his hands. Right there a finger’s length away Kacchan’s sacrum dips coyly in between his waistband and the hem of Izuku’s tee shirt. Kacchan’s ribs expanding on an inhale, sinking on exhale, the fine fuzz of hair at the nape of his long neck and the top bolt of his spine. His cute narrow ass, a barely-there swell in the borrowed sweatpants. Touching the same fabric Izuku’s ass has touched.
Flopping onto his belly doesn’t help: he’s quarter-mast already and friction only thickens him more, a rough jolt of a tease. In the apartment they’d share twenty-four hours a day three hundred sixty-five days a year, Kacchan would be next to him every time he did this. Asleep and unawares. Wouldn’t catch him if he timed it right. Wouldn’t have to see him dumbed down with pleasure, headshot by arousal, shrunk to a brainless, wet-eyed animal every time his hips kicked the jut of his hard cock ju-u-ust right into the mattress…
No point in trying not to now. He’ll be quiet. So what.
His belly wrung taut, Izuku blows a shuddering exhale down the gaping neck of his shirt. Friction and muggy bedroom air suck sweat from his chest. His bandsawing jaw. Every second of those twenty-four hours would be a year under Kacchan’s metallic-hot eyes, every year a Sisyphean crawl next to the body Izuku has watched shoot up and fill out and—shit—develop, from the scrawny kid who used to slam Izuku’s cheek into the school lockers to a real goddamn hero, gorgeous like a panther, like an atom bomb, if an atom bomb had stand-alone pecs. Legs for lean, lissome days.
Gasping hot down his own neck, scrabbling for a handhold in the sheet, Izuku ruts himself raw against the inside of his shorts. Every night of those three hundred sixty-five days living with the cute rift between Kacchan’s brows, the delicate bones of his feet in house slippers, an apron cinching his tiny waist even tinier as he swept the floor with tendons slicing through the thick muscle of his forearms from how hard he dug the broom into the hardwood, these things nobody else got to see, every night Izuku would have to tuck himself into bed next to all one hundred eighty sleeping centimeters of him and do this.
Feels good. Shit, it feels really really good.
Hurts, but it doesn’t. Just friction made less friction by how bad he’s leaking, a sticky smooth glide. Fabric can’t see him; his pillow doesn’t know he’s drooling into it, the world just fuzz past the window and his fluttering eyelids. His bed won’t feel his waistband riding down from how hard he’s fucking it. None of it has to know he’s weird and gross and tearing up from how goddamn good it feels to get some pressure on the raw nerves of his dick, his nuts, one big swollen bruise of ache.
Izuku tosses his head to the side, gasping noiselessly, airlessly, so fucking close he can taste it, and—
In the inky blue moonlight, Kacchan’s eyes are twin black holes. Kacchan’s open eyes.
Izuku’s lungs flatten.
Awake and overturned, Kacchan’s gaze drips lazily down Izuku’s face, his fistful of the fitted sheet and his rucked-up tee, down to where his cockhead spits another desperate string of pre between his hip and the mattress. One translucent eyebrow lifts.
“Well, don’t stop now,” he says. “Damn.”
Kacchan says to stop saying he’s sorry, so Izuku buries his next apology in the pillow.
"I'm weird and gross," he sobs, only muffled by pillow it sounds like Wah wee wah woh. "Sorry. Sorry, Kacchan, I'm..."
Kacchan says to stop crying. Izuku does not stop crying.
Just more weird, gross, nerd shit. He cries all the time and he’s hard more often than he’s not and his apartment is too small and covered in stupid eyesore hero otaku wastes of his salary and through the wrinkles in the pillow Kacchan’s perfect adorable face is twisted in the most handsome scowl ever and…
"Izuku," Kacchan hisses.
He scrunches the pillow away from one eye, sniffling. "What?"
“You’re so fuckin’ embarrassing. You seriously think I give a shit that—what? You have a dick? It works normal?”
No, no, no, not normal.
“It’s hard!” Kacchan spits. “Idiot! Dicks get hard! That’s normal!”
“You’re mad at me,” Izuku moans. “You’re mad at me and it’s still hard, Kacchan, that’s not normal! That’s weird gross nerd shit!”
Kacchan puffs out a sigh. His red eyes look black in the dark. “Who the hell said I was mad at you?”
In the dark smother of pillow, nobody has to see Izuku’s sheepish shrug. Nobody except Kacchan.
“Yeah,” Kacchan says. “Be serious. Nobody’s mad at you, so quit crying and look at me.”
Izuku quits crying. Mostly.
Sliding his hand across the mattress to where Izuku’s shirt bares his stomach, Kacchan swallows. “You’re hard.”
He is. So what.
“Looks like it hurts,” Kacchan says. His fingertips brush featherlight along Izuku’s ribs. “You gonna do anything about it?”
Flush sears Izuku’s face, his neck. Air chokes him out. His trapped dick tries to twitch and doesn’t manage much more than a dull throb, his chin wobbles yes, and Kacchan sees all of it.
“So do it.”
No point in trying not to, so he does.
“Been hard all day,” he gasps, biting a whine into the pillowcase as Kacchan gropes down his belly to his bouncing hips. “Shhh-shit, Kacchan, all day, mm.”
“Thought you were jerking off in the shower.” Kacchan’s palm slides against Izuku’s pelvic bone, fingers bracing the base of his cock in his sweaty pubic hair. Hot, hot. Glowing hot.
Izuku scrubs a flaming cheek into the pillow. His harsh grind slows to a nudge, sweetened by the sticky-wet spot on the sheet. “Wasn’t. Ah. Don’t usually…”
“You don’t jerk off?” Kacchan’s fingers squirm down to the tight clench of his balls and Izuku has to force himself still, to gulp a lungful of stuffy pillow air, to keep from unloading what he’s been holding in since Kacchan zipped his windbreaker for him before they boarded the train for dinner yesterday. Kacchan says, “Shit, Izuku.”
“Just like this,” he grates out, dizzy. “Just… ’S weirder if I use my hands. F-feels gross.”
“Gross?”
“Like…” Izuku’s chin hits his chest at the sudden cinch of Kacchan’s fingers around him; he snaps his tongue between his teeth to keep from groaning. “Oh. Oh, shit. Like—it’s not my fault if I don’t touch it.”
Kacchan strokes him slow, just once. Just one red-hot twist from root to wet tip. “Touch this? Touch your cock?”
Cock, what a dirty word, cock. Heat floods Izuku’s belly. “Yeah. Yeah.”
“You like it when I touch it?” Kacchan murmurs. “Feels like you like it. Fuck. Like I can feel your heartbeat in this thing.” He’s so close, his voice mists over Izuku’s burning face. “You’re real pent up, huh?”
“Mm.” Probably.
Fucking his fist back down hard, Kacchan lurches in and swallows Izuku’s moan. His palm is smooth, smoother with sweat and pre, his grip tight enough to make Izuku shudder and his eyes snap shut, his mouth tacky and spearmint-cool as he feeds Izuku his tongue. And this time he doesn’t stop: Izuku claws Kacchan closer, bucking into his hand, mouthing over perfect Kacchan’s perfect lower lip as his perfect fist jacks him hard and fast and so good he might cry. Or die. Or scream, or bleed his brain out his nose, or come, oh, shit, he’s gonna fucking—
And Kacchan wrings that perfect tight grip right off the head, snapping his teeth shut around Izuku’s harsh, bereaved groan.
“Kacchan, why’d—”
Kacchan cuts him off: “You wanna fuck me?”
His tongue squirms, thick and weak. “Fuck…?”
“Yeah.” Kacchan flops away, rustles in his jacket. Reappears. Something in his hand.
“Eyedrops?”
“No,” Kacchan says. “What the hell? Lube, jackass.”
Lube means sex. Fucking. Fucking means fucking, means sticking the weird gross thing between his legs inside Kacchan. For real.
What comes out of Izuku’s mouth is: “Wait, what do you have that for? Do you just—you carry that around? For sex? Wait, you had that when we were at dinner? With our friends? Did you think—you wanted to—with me? When we were at dinner—?”
“Shut up, holy shit.” Kacchan grabs his jaw to make it sag open, his tongue lolling out, useless. “Izuku. You fucking me. Yes or no?”
Uh huh. Uh huh. Izuku’s heart thuds.
Yeah, he nods, his voice fritzed. One billion times yeah.
Kacchan straddles him easily, his long, limber, solid weight over Izuku’s lap. Hard to see, but the front of his borrowed sweats pushes out in a tent: Kacchan is hard. Kacchan likes this. Him. Kacchan likes…?
“Gonna open my ass up,” he says, waggling the bottle, “and then you’re gonna stick it in and make me come. Got it?”
Izuku pants. “Yeah. Yeah, I got it. Oh my…”
Sweats kicked off, the lower hem of his shirt snipped between his teeth, Kacchan globs lube on his fingers and reaches behind himself with his brows cinched tight. Heat glows infrared from between his legs; Izuku’s hands flutter uselessly around Kacchan’s hips as he wobbles on his knees, fingers squishing inside himself. Hell. Must be stroking some good spot: his tight stomach is trembling, his cock flinching gently with every jump of the muscle in his forearm. Dusky, cut, and gorgeous.
He gropes for Izuku’s twitching hand and pulls it to his hip. “Quit—oh fuck—quit holding out on me, nerd. Stupid. Ah.”
“Do you—?” Swallowing hard, Izuku palms across Kacchan’s iliac crest to the firm swell of his ass, the sweet crease where it meets his thigh. “O-often?”
“You mean my ass?” Kacchan’s free hand slides up Izuku’s arm to his chest, squeezes. “Yeah. Don’t have any weird shit going on about getting myself off. Mm, fuck. Unlike some people.”
“But have you, um. With anyone else?”
He scowls, arm stilling. “No. The hell? Who else?”
“Oh. Oh, okay, good.”
“Only ever been with your dumb ass.” Kacchan slips his fingers out of himself with a soft, sucking sound and wipes his hand on Izuku’s belly. His brows lift. “Oh, you like that.”
“I didn’t even say anything!”
In the dark apartment, Kacchan’s grin is a jagged pale slice. “Didn’t have to. Felt you twitching, you nasty asshole.” He reaches back again to brush his knuckles up the underside of Izuku’s dick, kicking eagerly into air; a thready noise wobbles out of Izuku. Kacchan says, “Only ever gonna get fucked by you, Izuku. That get you hot? That you’re the first person to wet his dick in me?”
“Yes,” Izuku gasps. “Yes, yeah, Kacchan, please, can I…?”
Another tease of his hand, just the backs of his fingers slipping off the drooling tip, and Kacchan’s smile widens. “Nah, you gotta say it right. Say can I fuck you.”
His eyelids flutter. “Can I—oh, shit. Kacchan.”
“Say it.”
"Can I, um. May I fuck you? Please?"
"Asshole." Kacchan's eyes flash. "Yeah, you may."
His hands braced on Izuku’s collarbone, Kacchan sinks down on him so slowly Izuku can’t keep a moan from leaking out between his teeth. Oh, hell, he's so tight—tighter than anything on the first push in and then just smooth give all around, silky and febrile. Perfect. Most words have evacuated other than perfect.
“Oh, shit,” Kacchan gasps. “Oh fuck. Izuku. You're huge, what the shit…”
His mouth barely works. “Sorry,” he slurs. “Or thank you?”
Kacchan says to stop saying sorry, so Izuku fucks up into him until he can’t say much of anything at all.
Nothing else knows what Kacchan sounds like when he’s taking dick: tight wheeze on the instroke, groaning on the out, his breath coming chopped-up through his nose with his teeth set hard in his lip when Izuku grinds over the swell of his prostate. The bed can’t see how bad his legs are shaking. Nothing else knows how soft Kacchan is inside, how hot, Izuku’s vision fizzling in the sleeper hold of his hole and his thighs and his hands; nothing else in the world gets to feel this.
Kacchan can feel the lopsided trip of his pulse. His trembling stomach. Kacchan is riding back on that weird gross thing between Izuku’s legs so hard his ass makes a would-be embarrassing sound every time it meets Izuku’s hips, and flushing all the way down his chest from it.
Pitching forward, Kacchan fists a hand in Izuku’s hair and fumbles for his mouth. His borrowed tee rucks up over his chest; Izuku peels it off to palm his heaving chest, sucking maybe too hard on the tip of Kacchan’s tongue as it slides over his lower lip. The BLACK TIE shirt can’t feel Kacchan crumpling it in his fist, can’t see his lashes fluttering, can’t hear the choked noise he twists away to bury in it after Izuku hugs his waist so hard his spine pops. Just Izuku. Just Izuku.
“Gonna come,” Kacchan pants, stuffing a hand between their bodies to stroke himself and half-laughing half-coughing when Izuku paws it away. “Fine, okay, holy shit, do it yourse—oh, fuck yeah.”
Barely twenty seconds of a handjob and Kacchan jackknifes up, hissing as he comes over Izuku’s fist. Orgasm makes him twitch like he’s walked into an electric fence, his ass clenched so hard Izuku whines and lurches up to bury his face in Kacchan’s chest; Kacchan holds himself up the perfect height on his wobbly knees and goes lax. Just a puddle of person. Barely another twenty seconds of driving into him hard and fast, of mouthing stupidly at the swell of one pectoral and sucking numbing-sweet sweat from Kacchan’s skin, and Izuku locks up and wrings himself dry inside the searing clutch of Kacchan’s body until it hurts to move any more.
After he’s done being sweaty Kacchan peels himself off Izuku’s stomach and says, “Holy hell, you come a lot.”
Sorry, Izuku mouths to the ceiling. Kacchan smacks a dry kiss between his eyebrows, thumbs it off, and says to stop saying he’s sorry.
So Izuku falls asleep and says nothing.
Morning: Kacchan makes sencha for Izuku, something minty (caffeine-free!) for himself, and slouches at the kotatsu with his chin on his folded arms. The wrinkled BLACK TIE tee dips loose under his throat. He glances up and his mouth quirks: gotcha.
“Use a coaster,” he says. “Gonna fuck up your table without. Steam and shit.”
Izuku curls his sock feet under the futon, sliding an acrylic cutout of Uravity’s planet logo under his mug. “Mm.”
Hawks is on the news saying the streets should be safe for foot traffic by afternoon today. Special thanks go out to the A/C Hero: Shouto and the Microwave Hero: Radarange. Rolling his eyes, Kacchan plucks Izuku’s phone out of his hand and tosses it to the couch.
“So,” he says. “Gonna tell me about what you want now? ’Cause I fuckin’ hated it when you made some bullshit up and decided I’d believe it.”
“Sorry. Yeah.”
“Makes me feel like shit,” he says, “and it makes you feel like shit. Nobody wins.”
“Yeah,” Izuku mumbles into his mug.
"You’re weird," Kacchan says. "You're gross. You jerk off like an insane person." Holding Izuku’s eye, he takes a long, rude slurp of his tea. “And I like you. That what you wanted to hear?”
“Why couldn’t you have just said that?”
“’Cause I didn’t know you jerk off like an insane person! Moron. ’Cause you didn’t tell me you spend half the day with a rager and can’t touch it, or whatever.”
“Okay,” Izuku says, “okay, fine. Okay. I get, um—well, you know.” Hiding in his mug, he says, “Really easy. Sorry.”
“Don’t gotta say sorry.”
“Sorry. And I don’t really like touching it. I dunno.” He shrugs, peering at the reflection of his own wobbling eye in his tea. “Um. I liked it when you did, though.”
“Why couldn’t you have just said that,” Kacchan says flatly.
It really sucks when Kacchan is so rational.
“There’s an apron,” Izuku wrestles out. “That Mom gave me. Forever ago.”
His eyes narrowed, Kacchan’s mouth twists.
“And. Um. I think it’d be really…really cute. If you wore it.”
Kacchan grunts. Under the kotatsu, his sock foot slides up Izuku’s thigh like a homing missile and presses down. Oh, he absolutely knows. “Cute, huh.”
“Yeah?”
“So goddamn obvious.”
Izuku swallows, rocking up against Kacchan’s touch. “That’s good, though. Right? You like when I’m obvious.”
“’S better.” Grinning, Kacchan hikes himself up on the kotatsu and leans in. “You want me to wear your stupid apron? I’ll wear your stupid apron.”
“I want you to cohabitate with me,” Izuku blurts. By way of agreement, perfect obvious Kacchan hauls him in by the collar to gnaw his smile into Izuku's lower lip.