Chapter Text
The thud was louder than he intended.
He wasn't an unusual sight. Oftentimes, Deku-Sensei is seen running through the halls, and towards his destinations. A bad habit he never got over, much like the slapping himself one.
Luckily, there weren't a lot of people around. And he managed to control with greater ease how the door clicked shut.
The heart in his chest was slamming like a jackhammer trying to escape a drum. His dry and cracked lips parted, the skin having stuck together a little, before actually parting. Pant by pant, he let oxygen back into his system.
Dragging a long forceful breath in through his nose, he leaned on the door, resting, grateful for the cool temperatures pressing back. Izuku shrugged out of his suit jacket and launched it onto his chair from where he was standing. The chair was a nice burgundy red, sitting behind his dark, pecan colored desk.
With his heart racing, he fibbed the lock, letting his forehead press on the door.
Izuku reached, picking at the first couple of buttons of his white, rumpled shirt, a crimson pen attached to the pocket, before loosening his green tie, matching the colour of his iridescent, dark viridian eyes. The jacket, his shirt, the tie. His boxers. They'd all been way too restrictive for way too long, now.
An ache to dig his fingers into the wood piled inside each of his capillaries. The tendons in his biceps and forearms itched. Izuku wanted to wrap himself around the door, and swallow it whole within his being.
It was kind of difficult to do that with such a flat, solid surface.
His gums protested the want coiling in his teeth. They knew what lay behind his slipping eyelids.
The attitude emanating out from his exasperated and loud body language. His vibrant shit-talking, he's so fluent in, radiating in the harsh burns of his tongue, and chomps of his teeth, grinding in annoyance. Licks of fire spat when and where he knows he can dish it out. Something about a "sad life" and "using critical thinking." Kacchans voice is hoarse, and there's blood smudged from his nose and lips, to the bottom of his jaw. Made even worse by Kacchan, himself, he can't seem to stop wiping at it. Blood drips profusely down his lips, stringing more every time his lips meet. And his lips met in rapid pace, turning the liquid, mixing more and more with spit, viscous. He doesn't spit it out, and it's like he's trying as little as he can to swallow it. Kacchan just lets it sit in his mouth.
More blood is trailing snail lines of red, all dribbling down, adding contrast to his pale skin. His sweat rolls down his body in a similar fashion.
Kacchans thighs tense, he points an accusatorial jab at the villain with a shout. His calves help his wind up, before leaping, leaving explosions blasting behind him. Little sparkles left glittering in his wake. And they appear before he does. Hardly a warning, for any villain though. More of a threat of imminent doom. A slip before a tumble down a mountain.
His arms, under his frayed suit, all spattered in burns and littered with effects of ash over its entirety, flex. Kacchan's muscles move under the fabric, and he moves so fluidly. He curves his body, his waist turning, revealing his tattered uniform, as he dodges an incoming punch. Using his momentum into the next step from the dodge, he grabs the no-named-villain's wrist, yanking him as katsuki spins around them, and flips them into the dirt. Bending the nodogooders arm behind them, and for finalities sake, Kacchan places a bright vermilion, platformed boot on the villain of the weeks back, right in the middle of their shoulder blades.
Kacchan begins taunting them on whether or not they'd like their bones broken, too, to add insult.
When Kacchan moves, there's a lot of words and thoughts that come to mind to describe his style. But one word frequents izuku's head.
Flexible. Flexibility.
With someone as proficient and skilled as Kacchan, izuku is compelled to study and absorb everything he can.
And what can he say, sometimes, it goes straight to his dick.
Izuku half groans, half gasps out.
He did not run enough to be breaking a sweat, much less this much sweat. When he goes to wipe under his curly bangs, his hand comes back slick. A sound escapes him as his face forms a grimace.
Having needed to remind himself the door is locked five times, and checking it three times, he then felt comfortable enough to go sit in that dark, bark-red rolling chair, with the malleable cushions that squish under his weight and leave imprints before reshaping. He dug, struggling for his phone in his pocket. When he finally got the damn thing unlocked, the video pulled up, having never been closed out of.
In pulse with his thrumming heart beat, a thought ricocheted throughout his ribs.
Kacchan in action.
He paid little mind to the shame that came with having to wipe away his own drool. not that wiping it away ended it's production. Spit pooled under his tongue, refilling soon after being swallowed.
His fingertips were overly sensitive, Izuku realized. Everything he touched sent darts hurtling from his nerves to his nervous system. The air kissed his skin. The chair was a too close hug. Where his clothes touched him the skin prickled with angst.
Izuku felt his neck and behind his ears, pressed a little on his lymph nodes, and gauged he didn't have a fever, and he wasn't ill. Still, the abhorrent warmth that contaminated his flesh boiled like a rumbling pot over cinders and coal.
The slight overstimulation sent tingles down his thighs and he shifted his legs, not knowing if it was paranoid to be concerned with someone barging in or hearing. He was not the quietest. he was also very aware the skill level of anyone in the staff was well over what it took to pick a lock.
He was not supposed to be doing what he was about to. On so many levels.
He knew that.
But, he also knew that when Kacchan came over. After hours, when its dark and izuku remained, working late, even after every other staff member vacated the building, including the facility cleaners. When all the lights were shut off and most of the doors locked.
And izuku knew that, when Kacchan came over five minutes prior to class starting. When there was no time to explain how his tie somehow got worse, and why strands of his hair were left askew.
He knew that, when Kacchan came over, before izuku headed to aid after school curricular.
Izuku knew it when Kacchan came over, mid-day for lunch and had more than just what he brought to eat.
Izuku was well aware of all the rules they were breaking.
But the video began, and all izuku could think about right now was Kacchan.
Kacchans rough and pliant hands all over his skin. His long, more-slender-than-izuku's Fingers twisted and curled deeper, pulling at tangles of green locks. Kacchans smoke soaked gloves, that carried a sort of sweet smell with them, gripping, clutched harshly around his chin. Around his throat. His wrists.
Kacchans strong and capable arms, that have picked him up and slammed him against so many surfaces, the same arms that were being used, right now, as Izuku watched this instance, to slam around and disable evil.
It's all izuku could actually focus on. It was the underlying itch in his cells.
The heat that bellowed from Kacchan's hands must've been absorbed into Izuku's skin, like the sun, because it followed him everywhere.
While Izuku-Sensei was in class, about forty minutes before release, one of his rambunctious students joyfully broke the rules, yelling out pro-hero Kacchan-Sensei's feats of the day.
Deku-Sensei let the kid keep their phone, despite the fact it was against the rules.
Twenty minutes left of class and Izuku caved.
The kids were cleaning and packing up, getting ready to leave, anyway, so, he figured it couldn't hurt.
Since, the video of Kacchan on the news has been stuck in his mind on loop. He just could not get Kacchan out of his head. Not while talking to other staff, the main leaders of the after school groups he was helping manage. Not while he finished paperwork in the staff room. Not while he called parents for the upcoming parents day project.
Kacchan might as well be there, in his blood or something, because Izuku felt him burning inside of him every step of the way.
Relaxing back into the chair, izuku remained tense. He gripped his knees, still reeling. He sat still, for a moment, stuck in thought.
The video came to an end and then started again.
It'd been close to four and a half hours since izuku first saw this video. Four hours. Almost five.
Izuku was pretty good at shoving things down, so until this, he hadn't let himself feel all the things seeing how Kacchan was moving, now made him feel.
A groan spilled like a waterfall from his lips. Starting low in his chest and working its way, reverberating out of his throat. Izuku let his eyes flutter shut, listening to the sounds and syllables Kacchan shouted, threats thrown and caught up to like a sling shot in action. Izukus fingers fell against his hard, cold and boxy belt buckle, causing it to clatter.
All of Kacchan's fights are his most important fights, to izuku, but he liked this fight in particular because of how mouthy Kacchan gets in it. The bad attitude causing an even fouler mouth.
The belt quickly met the floor and the sound of a zip permeated the air. The next sound, he let drag out of him, was a mix of relief and pain as his fingers cradled the ever growing bulge, under his Dynamight, orange and grey, Special Edition- one of a kind, with only two, ever, manufactured, boxers. The fabric was satin and was already sporting a wet spot, that was darkening and continuously bleeding further.
The sight mixed with the resonance of Kacchans voice had Izuku whining high in the back of his throat, the weight of his head came down on the back of the chair. His hair stuck to his skin. He kept making sounds and noises under his breath, and it wasn't the fear of getting him caught keeping him low, but the need to hear Kacchan.
Every movement he tried rose flames of a building fire in his stomach. He shoved his free hand back against the desk, rewarded by more space, and spread his legs. It helped him better arch into his touch.
His fingertips swirled around the tip, his nails vibrating as they moved past every fiber of the weave, his nail beds taking most of the energy. He stopped when the stimulus under his nails became too much. Curling his index finger and thumb around the head, which was pushing out against the fabric, he twisted and cupped around himself, his hips stuttering.
He squeezed his watering eyes shut. A second later he tried relaxing his scrunch, and peaked them open, blinking out tears so he could see. And he forced himself to watch and pay attention.
Short broken cries came in quick successions from his lips. His brows were furrowed in sharp dark arches as if consumed by a constipated focus.
As he watched, izuku cemented every one of Kacchan's moves in his mind. Swearing to himself he'd write down all the observations he made now, later. Izuku committed each second he analyzed to memory.
He watched as Kacchans hands lit up, red hot quickly burning into white-hot, and the ghost of kacchans handprints burning into his hips had izuku shoving his hand into his pubic region, the hair there the same colour as the hair on his head, and armpits. Even his legs were covered in green hairs.
He rocked back into every short-bursted thrust into his hand. A minute of fucking into his hand had him squeezing himself, hard, at the base. He stilled, as if struck by lightning, left panting and gulping air down his throat as he strangled a groan.
Precum swelled and released, languidly sliding down the tip and down izukus knuckles.
It was only a moon ago, so recent in izuku's memories, he could practically feel how Kacchans hot, and wet tongue lapped gingerly, but incessantly at the precome Kacchan had been there to take part in creating. He'd drink from Izuku like he was his only source of hydration.
Another bead quickly fell from the head, gushing out, preceding another. Finally, izuku pulled himself out. The cool air touching the wetness enveloping his dick and causing him to suck a breath in between his teeth.
Izuku caught the phonic "deki" Kacchan spat at the villain when asking what they could even do about ending up the loser of the battle, and izuku began moving in his hand.
His moans got louder as he recalled how Kacchan shouted his name over so many nights. The saccharine scent of Kacchan's sweat under him. Izuku knew exactly where to press into Kacchan to illicit the most and best reactions. He'd scream Izuku's name until he couldn't, either from how raw his throat would get, especially after being used for half the night, or from passing out do to similar instances.
Kacchan would wake up crawling on top of Izuku and slapping him awake right before sinking down on him.
The next moan wrenching out of Izuku was almost gutteral. He was crying for real now, fat, hot tears slid down and off the sides of his cheek, tickling under his chin before dropping. They cooled, surprisingly, against his warm skin.
He missed Kacchans hands. The touches and remnants of Kacchan remained bruised into his skin and were just begging him to renew them.
Moaning and crying, from here, Izuku sounded like a whore.
Unsuspectingly, right outside of Izuku-Sensei's classroom, pressing an ear to the door, the Pro-Hero Great Explosion Murder: Dynamight, Kacchan Bakugo, was painfully erect.