Work Text:
It happens on a Saturday night, at an izakaya downtown.
Work gatherings are never Katsuki’s thing, but he guesses this is all part of managing a team. Making sure they bond in a recreational setting or some shit. At least, that’s what Deku had told him.
Here in their private room, the lights are dim, playing shadows across everybody’s faces. Scattering the long table are plates of yakitori, and glasses upon glasses of highballs, gold-amber under fluorescents. From the main bar outside, Katsuki can pick up muffled noises.
Katsuki would like to think he’s a seasoned drinker but the truth is, he’s mellowed out over the years. Become a hero long enough and you’ll trade drinking sessions for sleepless nights. You’ll lose your tolerance. He eyes his younger colleagues who are still loud and raucous, drinking up a storm. Uraraka is laughing for some reason unbeknownst to him, and Kaminari is belting out a pop song at the top of his lungs. His voice is an insult to Utada Hikaru, really, and Katsuki has half a mind to turn off his hearing aids. Beside him, Eijirou looks like he’s half a wink from falling asleep. Jirou is still going strong and Shouto, he’s…
Maybe it’s the alcohol speaking, but Shouto looks like a sin. Dress shirt dishevelled, collar unbuttoned, revealing the lines of his neck, his clavicle. He’s flushed up to his cheeks in the most gorgeous, rosy hue. Despite it, his eyes are still cognizant. For a brief moment, they meet gazes, and Shouto raises his brow. Katsuki looks away, tipping back his glass if only to make it look like he wasn’t consciously staring. Ethyl courses through his veins, pooling warmth in his blood. It hazes his vision, painting the world a little more ethereal.
It’s dangerous. Here, in the soft glow and amber lights, amidst the clinks of glasses and bitter whiskey, Katsuki can’t help but succumb to it.
As the night draws, they end up playing truth or dare. Kaminari’s suggestion, of course, because he comes up with the stupidest games. The food is finished, their ties are loosened. The atmosphere is bubbly and languid. But Katsuki feels this tightness beneath his sternum. This tension. Though he’s not drunk, the alcohol seems like the catalyst for it, urging its swelling under his breastbone.
It’s taking everything out of him to keep it down.
Jirou admits to overhearing Deku and Eyebags going at it in the janitor’s closet. Despite himself, Katsuki barks out a laugh. Oh, he’s so going to lord it over Deku the next time they meet. Uraraka is dared to do a lap dance which she finishes with ease, rolling up against a sputtering Eijirou, and everyone bursts into giggles. When it’s Shouto’s turn, he chooses dare.
“I dare you to pour whiskey from your mouth into someone else’s,” suggests Uraraka with a wicked smile. Something flares up in Katsuki, burning without volition. He tightens his fingers around the glass, willing tiny explosions back where they threaten to burst from his skin.
Shouto is unfazed. “Any volunteers?”
Eijirou subtly nudges Katsuki, which he ignores. “You’re the closest to him,” he whispers.
Yes, and that’s exactly why it’s so wrong.
“I could do it,” says Kaminari. Shouto takes a large sip from his glass, moving to stand above Kaminari, who has his head tilted back, mouth open. Their faces are so close. Their lips are so close. Katsuki’s chest seizes. Acid burbles at the back of his throat, bitter and corrosive, as he watches Shouto part his lips, amber liquid dribbling from his mouth into Kaminari’s. Time seems to drag in slow motion. It’s one of the longest moments Katsuki’s ever experienced in his life.
He feels angry. Possessive. And eventually guilty, because Shouto doesn’t belong to him.
Maybe it’s the jealousy, festering in his ribs, arising bigger every time he tries to press it down. Maybe it’s the whiskey, leaving him buzzed enough to peel off his layers, defenses grinding to dust. Because when Katsuki’s turn comes up and Jirou dares him to kiss the prettiest person in the room, he doesn’t hesitate to stumble towards Shouto’s seat at the table.
At the proximity, Shouto’s eyes widen just a fraction, and Katsuki’s heart shudders. The oohs and ahhs from their colleagues drown out into the single sound of stuttered breaths billowing from Shouto’s lips.
“What,” says Shouto, so quiet it almost couldn’t be heard. Katsuki is running on pure adrenaline at this point, despite Eijirou’s concerned glances, and a voice at the back of his head screaming that this is a fucking terrible idea.
“This okay with you?”
“I’m good,” answers Shouto, voice tinged with something Katsuki doesn’t have the willpower to decode because in a split second, their lips are colliding.
Shouto tastes smoky like grilled meat, bitter like whiskey, sweet like honey. Salty like skin. Katsuki bites down on his lip—soft, swollen-plush—and catches a flicker of tongue in his mouth. Wet and alive, it makes his heart skip a beat, electricity crackling on his skin. Makes him feel like he could hold his breath forever.
“Shou,” he exhales into Shouto’s mouth. Like a spell breaker, the nickname gives both of them pause. Reflexively, they break away from each other, and Katsuki is crashed with the realisation of just how badly he’s fucked up.
In the time they’ve known each other, Katsuki has called him that twice. Both instances were an accident, slipping from his mouth candid, impulsive. They’d brushed it off.
Katsuki hopes that like those times before, Shouto could wipe this cleanly from his memory. Even though he knows he couldn’t. The texture of Shouto’s lips will haunt him forever.
“Well that was hot,” chimes Kaminari, shattering the glass-like atmosphere.
“Uh huh. Get a room you guys!” adds Uraraka, cackling. Katsuki falls back into his seat, and Eijirou catches him by the small of his back. There’s a blush creeping onto his cheeks but he’ll blame it on the alcohol, thank you very much, even if he feels completely sober right now.
The game continues for a few more rounds before they call it a night. Katsuki doesn’t even pay attention. He feels like his soul has left his body, the taste of Shouto’s lips still lingering on his tongue. Call him Bella Swan at this moment because he’s unconditionally and irrevocably fucked.
Anxiety crawls on his skin, scraping at his insides. To make things worse, he and Shouto are the last ones left at the entrance. Everyone else’s taxis had arrived and left first. Katsuki feels jumpy, like he’s one second away from blowing something up. Shouto casts him with an indiscernible look.
Past midnight, the streets are deathly quiet, silence punctuated only by the sounds of the occasional passer-by, their shallow breathing. City lights tint the atmosphere bluish. There’s a metre of distance between them and even that is sparked with electricity. A magnetic pull that calls for Katsuki to close it.
Shouto turns to him, tilts his head.
“You think I’m pretty?”
“Fuck off,” is what Katsuki says intelligently. Shouto simply shrugs. “Figured you’d say something like that.”
His voice, deadpan, sets Katsuki off and he elbows at Shouto’s side to push him off the pavement. Shouto dodges him successfully.
Katsuki doesn’t want any of this to change—this careless, honest way that they tease and banter. Words are clawing up his throat even before he knows it.
“You could just pretend the kiss never happened.”
Shouto visibly stills. There’s a slight furrow in his brows, indecipherable to the naked eye, but Katsuki has watched him enough to discern it.
“Okay then,” answers Shouto, “if that’s what you want.”
Katsuki despises the sound of that. It grazes below his skin, teething around his flesh, eating him from the inside out. His first instinct is to argue because that isn’t what he wants. Because he would die to touch Shouto again, if he knew for sure they could work out. But everything about them just seems so impossible and besides, he was the one who’d suggested forgetting about it in the first place.
Shouto’s taxi arrives before he could muster up a coherent reply. As Shouto slides into the vehicle, Katsuki manages to croak out, “Text me when you’re home.”
Shouto nods once and Katsuki watches the car ride off into the distance.
There’s a heaviness in his chest. He has no idea how to expel it.
≡
Katsuki can think of three reasons why he shouldn’t be fucking with Todoroki Shouto.
One, there has to be a line in the rule book that states it’s borderline illegal to sleep with your colleague, especially someone your junior. Nevermind that Deku is sucking Shinshou off in the broom cupboard despite being his boss. Katsuki doesn’t want to tell Deku anything, he’s sure he would be an enabler.
Two, they may have started out rough, but Katsuki and Shouto are genuinely close now. In private, Katsuki can even admit he’s one of his best friends. No matter how beautiful Shouto is, he isn’t someone Katsuki can bring home for a one-night stand, to be forgotten about the next day.
Which brings him to three, the most annoying one out of all—Katsuki’s feelings run deep. Deeper than sex, at the very least. There’s something about Shouto that makes him feel all jittery. Warm. Katsuki loves his idiosyncrasies, his wisecracks. Loves how they bicker, unabashed, honest. Loves how Shouto isn’t afraid to be real with him.
As Japan’s number two hero, Katsuki always has eyes on him. Leeching off his glory, picking on his faults. But Shouto makes him feel seen. Dissecting all of his traits that hide beneath a glamorous, explosive facade. And wouldn’t fucking him change things? This thing between them that feels as delicate as it feels strong.
But maybe the more important question is, would sex be enough? To encompass this tension constantly simmering under epidermis. Potent, tangible.
On the night that Katsuki returns home from the izakaya, he has the most unfortunate dream. Granted, it’s not like Shouto hasn’t appeared in his dreams before—nebulous visions of hands on pale skin, mouths open, thighs spread. Hazy and ephemeral. But this time, it’s a thousand times more vivid. Perhaps, the visual and feeling of Shouto’s lips have ingrained so deeply into Katsuki’s subconscious that he’s managed to conjure it this intensely.
In the dream, they’re crammed in some dingy toilet cubicle and Katsuki has his hands everywhere on Shouto—thighs, waist, ass, neck. The air is hot, fireworks going off beneath his skin where their lips crash. They rut their hips against each other and the friction feels so real, edging him into delirium.
He wakes up with the most painful boner he’s ever had in his life.
For a long while, he just sits on his bed, waiting for his dreams to dissipate behind his eyelids. But they remain there, warm and technicoloured. Katsuki’s so hard that it hurts.
Just this once, he tells himself. Just this fucking once.
Katsuki shimmies out of his underwear, letting his erection spring free. Thumbs at the beads of pre-come on the tip, smearing it over the length. When he closes his eyes, Shouto is already there. Katsuki imagines it’s Shouto’s pale, slender fingers that are currently curled around his cock. Imagines they’re pumping him slow and teasing, the light in heterochromatic eyes almost mischievous, sending a thrill running down Katsuki’s spine.
Just this once he calls out Shouto’s name, in the confines of his room. “Shou. Shou.”
Uttering these words aloud brings him close to his reveries. Closer than he’ll ever be in real life. “Pick up the pace, Shou. Don’t fucking tease me.” Base to head, the Shouto in his vision strokes faster, harder, aligning with Katsuki’s rhythm. Katsuki doesn’t yield to his muscle memory, doesn’t replicate the exact pressure that’ll get him off the way he knows best, all to make it seem like it’s Shouto’s hand wrapped around his hardness, and not his blistered own.
Even through the erratic pulses, the unsteady climb to his peak, the thought of Shouto brings him over the edge. Katsuki, he imagines Shouto crying, in that deep, quiet voice of his. So pretty, like the rest of him. Katsuki comes with a jolt, bursting white onto his thighs.
“Fuck,” he curses when he realises who he’d just jacked off to.
Which, to be honest, isn’t his first time. But that’s between him and god.
Katsuki gets out of bed to clean himself up, and can only hope the high of his orgasm is enough to expunge this weight in his chest.
≡
Just this once was a lie. An absolute sham.
No matter how hard he tries, he can’t erase the image of Shouto—parted lips and flicking tongue—out of his head. It’s always there, like something embedded into his brain. A memory that goes straight to his dick.
Through the week, Katsuki gets himself off to a hundred different visions of Shouto. Shouto, on the sheets that Katsuki falls asleep in. Pretty mouth wrapped around his cock, looking up at him through his lashes. Shouto, against the wall-length window in Katsuki’s apartment, thick thighs draped around his waist as Katsuki fucks into him—slow and tender at first, building up into a relentless speed the more they beg. Shouto, bent over Katsuki’s office table, ass perked up, spread open for him.
Katsuki forgets what chasing a high feels like without him in the picture.
Everytime he comes down from it, he feels dirty. Guilty. Lonely in his yearning. It’s hard to meet eyes with Shouto at work, when the night before Katsuki was rutting into the mattress with his name on his tongue. Shou, Shou, Shou.
So Katsuki does what he does best—avoid him.
He’s not stupid or blatant about it. At least he thinks he’s subtle, using manager perks to change the patrolling schedules. Making all his shifts clash with Shouto’s so they won’t bump into each other. Deku ambles to his side of the table, eyeing the screen curiously.
“What are you doing Kacchan?”
“Mind your damn business.”
Immune to Katsuki’s crudeness, Deku peers over his shoulder like the absolute busybody that he is.
“You’re changing Todoroki’s shifts.”
Katsuki elbows at Deku’s stomach, affronted, only to meet brick muscle. Deku smirks down at him.
“No I’m not. Round Face said she had something up so I’m just changing everyone’s schedules in mind of that.”
“Really. And this isn’t because of that little truth or dare game you guys played last week?”
Katsuki has to bite back on a groan from slipping out.
“That was nothing.”
“Kacchan, I know you like the back of my hand. You’re being obvious.”
“Fuck off, Deku.”
“It’s okay, you know?” says Deku, placing a hand on Katsuki’s shoulder. Katsuki tries to shake him off but his grip is too strong, damn it. One for All things. “Todoroki-kun is such a good guy. And you are too, Kacchan. The both of you deserve each other.”
Deku’s words make him feel all funny inside, like someone had sunk their hands into his flesh, twisting his guts, rearranging his organs.
He exhales a sigh, knocking his head back against Deku’s torso. His skull hurts from the impact, but he’d rather die than admit it.
“I know you like the back of my hand,” counters Katsuki, “and if you say one more word, I will not shut up about you and Eyebags getting it on in the fucking janitor’s closet—”
“Oookay. It’s time to see myself out,” lilts Deku, inching away from Katsuki’s table with a mock salute.
“Seriously, Deku? The janitor’s closet?”
“Have a nice day Kacchan! Toodles!”
That afternoon, Katsuki leaves for a solo patrol that extends into the late hours of the night. Sure, it’s eventful: he stops a high school thief whom he lets go of after giving an earful; apprehends two quirk-boosted robbers who left a mountain of rubble outside the bank downtown; and chases a villain with a speed quirk across the entire city. By the time Katsuki reaches the office to finish up his paperwork, he feels thoroughly spent.
The floor is dark and quiet. Most of his colleagues have already gone home, save one, a single splice of light that streams from the corner booth. Shouto’s booth. Katsuki’s heart stutters. He lets himself pad down to Shouto’s table as quietly as he can. What he sees makes his heart wrench. Draped over a stack of paperwork is Shouto’s sleeping form, planes and ridges of his face tinted blue by the overhead lights, breathy snores billowing from his lips. What the fuck is he doing here so late, is what Katsuki wants to ask. And a week before, he would. He’d nudge him awake and yell at him to go back home and take better care of himself. But Katsuki can’t. He’s already taken so much effort to avoid him, and this would set him back.
They haven’t spoken all week. Just the knowledge of it, accompanied by the image of Shouto sleeping on the table, aches in his bones. Feels like a gaping emptiness in his chest. Katsuki misses him so much.
He goes to his room and changes out of his hero gear. Retrieves a blanket from his cupboard and makes tea in an insulated flask so it’ll keep warm. Walks back to Shouto’s booth and then, gently cloaks the blanket over his slumbering frame, leaving the flask on the desk.
Stares at him for just a beat longer.
Swathed in wool, Shouto appears even softer than Katsuki’s dreams. Katsuki’s fingers tingle, aching to touch. Not even in a sensuous way which would make things a whole lot more bearable. No, Katsuki wants to reach out his hand, tuck loose hairs behind the shell of Shouto’s ear. Cup his cheek, stain it red. Feel the press of his jaw on his palm, chase its edges with a kiss. That part of him that wants to hold Shouto—gently, affectionately—is what hurts the most.
Katsuki balls his hands into fists, digging nails into calloused palms like it could claw out this longing in his chest. Resolutely, he turns back for his office. His exhaustion is bone-deep, eyelids heavy—this is way past his bedtime on most days after all—but he could finish some work before heading home. It won’t take him more than half an hour.
…is what he would like to believe, because the next moment Katsuki opens his eyes it’s to the sound of footsteps nearing his table. The clock on the wall reads 3am, four hours since when he’d attempted doing his paperwork.
A soft clearing of throat beckons his bleary eyes to look up. Standing there is Shouto, awake, blanket around his shoulders. Katsuki’s heart instantly trips over itself.
“It’s late,” says Shouto.
“And yet you’re here,” replies Katsuki as though he isn’t crumbling inside just from hearing Shouto’s voice.
“I fell asleep doing work.”
“Now would be a good time for you to go home,” says Katsuki. “I should leave too.”
His voice comes out curt, tense. Katsuki doesn’t mean it. It’s just—there are so many emotions bubbling to the surface, threatening to spill from his seams. He needs to get away, before he says too much. Before his heart shows on his sleeve and he meets the inevitable demise of their friendship.
There’s a long stretch of silence and Katsuki wonders if he should start packing up his things. He could rush the paperwork tomorrow, no big deal. Flight instincts clamber up his spine, directing him to make a move. But the furrow in Shouto’s brows—the same one Katsuki had seen when he told him to pretend the kiss never happened—reappears, making him look angry, almost. It stops Katsuki in his tracks.
“You’re avoiding me,” says Shouto.
Katsuki flinches. Yes, he is, but hearing it from Shouto solidifies the act, the unease in his veins.
“No I’m not,” he retorts. It sounds way too defensive for his own liking.
“We didn’t even have one patrol together. All our shifts clash. When you see me in the office you look like a ghost,” explains Shouto, laying out the facts.
“It’s just a matter of schedules. Get over yourself,” gripes Katsuki, fists trembling. He hides his hands under the desk so Shouto wouldn’t see them.
“I thought we were past this. I thought we were friends.”
Friends. It’s supposed to be a good word. So why does it feel like a sore spot?
“Think however you want,” says Katsuki, desperate to flee the room. Before his heart lurches from his chest in plain sight for Shouto to examine.
“It’s just— I— Nevermind.”
The sheer frustration in Shouto’s voice makes Katsuki halt. He’s heard it before, when Shouto had struggled to bring a point across, to form words out of his thoughts. Katsuki’s chest twinges because it was something he’d understood—he’d sucked at words too. And yet he’s put Shouto in this position. Gingerly raising his head, he finally meets Shouto’s eyes.
Heterochromatic irises are glossed over with a sheen of tears. The world comes to a standstill, condensing into the single ache nestled between Katsuki’s ribs, because Shouto is crying. He’d just made him cry.
Flare guns go off in his head. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“Spit it out, Icy Hot.”
“Big talk for someone who went out of his way just to not speak with me.”
Katsuki digs his nails into his scalp, vexed, guilty. “Look, we can talk about this, okay? Just tell me what’s wrong.”
So I can fix it.
Shouto wipes his eyes before the tears can fall. Takes a long, shuddery breath. Katsuki gives him time to collect his thoughts. This is something he can be patient about. He hates it when people press him to speak.
When Shouto opens his mouth, Katsuki is ready for the inevitable doom. The I know you’re in love with me and that’s why we can’t be friends anymore. Instead, what comes out is, “Did you hate the kiss that much? Did you regret it so badly that you decided never to talk to me again?”
Katsuki’s heart stops. Of course, of course Shouto would think something as blasphemous as this. As if Katsuki wouldn’t die to touch his skin. As if he hasn’t spent the past week—the past months, really—grappling with his desires. For him.
“You’re fucking unbelievable,” says Katsuki.
“What?”
That tightness beneath his chest unfurls, emotions rapidly rising to the surface. Katsuki can’t rein the words back anymore.
“Did I hate it? Did I fucking regret it? Have you thought that maybe I loved it? That I loved it too much, that I’m fucking crazy about you and I feel like throwing my heart up every time we so much as stand in the same room.”
Katsuki shivers with adrenaline, the confession. He feels so hot all over his skin. Age-old fears scream at him to look away from Shouto’s gaze, but his pride won’t allow him.
Shouto’s eyes are blown wide, mouth agape.
“You’re crazy about me?”
“And I’m the one who’s deaf? You heard me.”
“Bakugou,” and Katsuki quivers at how serious he sounds, “do you like me?”
“Yes, dumbass. Yes, that’s what I’m crazy about you means—”
Katsuki doesn’t manage to finish his sentence. All at once, Shouto is lunging forward, collapsing the distance between them. Capturing their mouths in a kiss, the blanket draped around his shoulder slipping to the ground. Katsuki’s mind blanks for a moment before he registers that somehow he didn’t fuck this up, and Shouto is kissing him, which means. Which means he likes him back.
The kiss is even better than the time at the izakaya. Rough, fervent, explosive. It’s teeth biting down on lip to coax their mouths open. It’s tongues circling the rounded edges of their jaws, hot and slippery. It’s rapid breaths and overworked lungs and all of Katsuki’s fantasies fortified into a single culmination.
“I like you too,” admits Shouto when they extricate themselves from each other, panting, “in case you didn’t know.”
“Yeah no shit Sherlock,” says Katsuki but he’s grinning wildly, heart bursting from his chest. Giddy with happiness. He tugs on Shouto’s collar, pulling their bodies flush. “Now, c’mere.”
Open mouths meet again, heated, desperate. Katsuki can taste the jasmine he’d brewed, intermingled with the underlying sweetness of Shouto’s tongue. He craves it like his lungs crave for oxygen.
“Shou,” the name slips out of his mouth unthinkingly—fueled by the past week of calling it out to his empty room—and this time, he’s too out of it to care. Shouto smiles at him so fondly it almost hurts to look at.
“Could you keep calling me that?
“What, you like it?”
“It makes me tingle. Down to my toes.”
Katsuki looks down at Shouto’s slippered feet. Shouto wrinkles his toes to make a point.
“Fucking weirdo,” he laughs, thoroughly endeared. “Then you call me Katsuki too.”
“Okay Katsuki.”
Katsuki’s given name reverbs around the space of Shouto’s mouth, curled up like something precious in the loll of his tongue. It’s a sound that makes his cock instantly twitch in response.
Shouto straddles Katsuki on the chair, rolling them backwards to the side of the room. Katsuki can feel Shouto’s hardness, too, and the friction makes him hitch his breath.
This is starting to look too much like one of Katsuki’s wet dreams.
“Can I do something for you?” asks Shouto. Katsuki shivers at the richness in his voice, sultry as red wine.
“In here?”
Shouto shrugs like it’s not a big deal. “There’s no one else in the office. Everyone’s gone home and Kirishima will only come back from his night shift three hours from now.”
Compelling argument, but still. Katsuki is supposed to be a professional.
“I’m your superior,” reminds Katsuki though he already feels like this is a losing battle, “and we’re in my office.”
“Isn’t it hotter like this?” lilts Shouto. He says it like he’s saying the earth is round, the sky is blue. The bluntness of it travels straight to Katsuki’s cock, all the blood in his brain gushing down south.
“We don’t have to do it if you don’t want to.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” carps Katsuki, because you know, communication, “It’s taking everything out of me not to jump you.”
He doesn’t know if it’s the trick of the light, or if the corner of Shouto’s lip is truly raised into a smirk. Against Shouto’s palm is Katsuki’s staccato heartbeat, thrumming ba-dum, ba-dum.
“If you like it, then… let me. Let me make you feel good, Katsuki.”
Okay, that’s just playing dirty. How could he say no to that? When there’s this gleam in Shouto’s eyes that makes his irises appear iridescent. When Shouto is saying so openly that he wants to make Katsuki feel good.
Just this once, Katsuki tells himself again. Though, between you and I, this conviction is naive at best and a lie at worst. Office sex is high up on his fantasy list after all.
“Okay.”
Shouto stands up, trailing his hands down Katsuki’s chest, torso, hips, thighs. Blister-burned skin ripples with shudders, even despite the layer of clothes between them. Delicate fingers reach his belt, unbuckling it with ease, opening his buttons. Pants sag loose, revealing the grey of his underwear, the outlines of his hardness.
“Fuck,” curses Katsuki under his breath as Shouto kneels, palming his clothed erection, the damp spot on his underwear. He feels like a livewire, brimming with electricity, every sensation amplified a thousand times more intense than his dreams.
Shouto presses a kiss onto his crotch and Katsuki thinks he might die.
“Don’t fucking tease.”
“I want to take my time with you,” breathes Shouto, yanking off Katsuki’s underwear by the hem with his teeth. Shouto grabs the base of his cock, tentative, and for a second both of them are holding their breaths. And then, he’s taking Katsuki in his mouth, lips puckered around the head. Katsuki swears he sees stars behind his eyes.
Every inch of his length is covered by Shouto—hand at the base, mouth at the head, tongue slick across the span, feeling out his underside veins. It’s so much, the pressure, the suction. Lewd, squelching noises fill the room, egging on his arousal. Most of all, Shouto’s eyes, looking up at Katsuki from where he’s positioned around his cock, irises glazed over. Katsuki has to card his fingers through dual-toned hair just to take off some of that edge.
With his other hand, Shouto pulls down his joggers, letting his erection free. Strokes in tandem with his bobbing mouth. Katsuki feels delirious at the thought that Shouto is turned on enough from sucking him off to start touching himself. His own hands prickle, aching to touch Shouto too.
Shouto hollows his mouth, taking Katsuki even deeper. When Katsuki’s cock grazes against the rim of his throat, Shouto gags a little, and the vibration it incites makes him throw his head back in intense pleasure.
“Come up here,” he commands, breaths ragged, “don’t wanna come yet. Wanna touch you.”
Shouto obliges, releasing Katsuki’s erection with a pop, throwing his legs around his waist on the chair. The moment their cocks slide together, dark and wet, they both let out a moan so loud it echoes across the walls. Katsuki takes a moment to register his surroundings—the mahogany desk piled high with paperwork, the cupboard where he keeps his belongings and supplies, the shelf stacked with his awards and plaques. Just yesterday he was sitting on this chair, typing away at his computer. Now, in this same office he does his work at, he has Shouto on his hips, their cocks rubbing against each other, and it’s so fucking hot he thinks he might faint.
Shouto tracks the slope of Katsuki’s neck with his hands, the bordered edges of his clavicle. They come away wet with perspiration. Katsuki kisses him again, grunting into his mouth. Chasing the friction like his life depended on it.
“I’m close,” exhales Shouto.
“Fuck, me too. God, I—”
Katsuki convulses, surrenders. Shouto is quick to follow after, gripping hard around Katsuki’s shoulders as he comes.
Sated, they both sit there for a while, sticky with come and sweat. Katsuki spends the afterglow coming to terms with what they just did. Yes, they both know they like each other. They fucking boned in his office. Now what? Katsuki still has so many things he hasn’t said. So many emotions that haven’t morphed into their shapes, into words and actions. He didn’t even tell Shouto how pretty he is. That he wasn’t just the prettiest person in the room, he’s the prettiest person Katsuki knows.
There’s that constriction in his chest again, when he realises he doesn’t want this to be a fleeting occurrence. All the more so because Shouto reciprocates, Katsuki wants to do things right. He’s in this for the long haul.
“Would you go on a date with me?” he blurts out.
Shouto lets surprise paint over his features, brows raised and lips upturned.
“Are you sure about this?”
“Have I ever said something I didn’t mean?”
“Okay,” answers Shouto, “I’ll go on a date with you.”
“We both have offs this Thursday. How about that?”
The smile on his face slowly eases from wonder to fondness.
“Thursday sounds good.”
≡
When Katsuki decides on something, he pulls out all the stops. Doesn’t do anything half-assed. Which means by the time Thursday comes around he doesn’t settle for overpriced restaurants whose food he cannot trust. Instead, he invites Shouto to his apartment with the promise of a home cooked meal.
Making soba noodles from scratch isn’t an easy feat. Buckwheat flour crumbles easily, and the dough constantly changes in texture, subject to the humidity of the room. When it gets dry, he adds water in small increments, afraid it’ll become too sticky. By the time he’s worked the mixture, it’s way past the time he set for himself to finish cooking, and Shouto is already at his door.
Katsuki feels a little pissy at his delayed plans, grumbling under his breath as Shouto pads after him into the kitchen. The taller man is dressed in loose pants and a terracotta hoodie that matches the red in his hair. He looks really soft. Heat blooms on Katsuki’s cheeks. He decides to glare at the offending dough on his board.
“Are you making soba?” asks Shouto, voice a cross between amazed and incredulous.
“What the fuck does it look like I’m doing?”
“You remember,” answers Shouto simply, a placid smile bracketing the curve of his mouth. Of course Katsuki remembers, zaru soba is Shouto’s favourite food.
Curiously, Shouto peers over his shoulder at the folded dough. It burns where his chin lightly grazes Katsuki’s sleeveless skin.
“Can I try cutting it?”
Katsuki snorts. It’s company-wide knowledge that Shouto is absolutely useless in the kitchen. Case in point, he’d almost burned down the office pantry from boiling water. Heating it up with his quirk would have been less of a hazard, really. Deku almost had a heart attack.
“Do your worst.”
With clumsy fingers, Shouto slices the dough in an uneven motion. The strand of noodle comes out straggly, looking like the most ridiculous thing Katsuki’s ever seen. He laughs so hard his stomach hurts.
“It looks fucking stupid.”
“You look stupid.”
“Oh yeah?” taunts Katsuki, backing Shouto up against the counter, “That’s why you were hot on your knees for me last week, huh?”
Shouto doesn’t cower, puffing his chest out. Towering over Katsuki, which feels like an attack at their height difference. Eyes bright with challenge, despite his cheeks that have burst into flames.
“Says the one who kissed me because he thought I was pretty.”
Pinned under his intense gaze, Katsuki is tongue-tied. He doesn’t say anything. He’ll deal with the unsaid words later.
Katsuki ends up throwing the ugly noodle into the pot anyway. It’s edible, and they both get a good laugh out of it. Besides, not that he would admit it aloud, it was an effort from Shouto after all, something made with his precious hands.
There’s a tension in the air, sparking it with its current. Reminiscent from the one before at the izakaya, except this time it’s more subdued, alleviated by their roaming hands and open mouths that night in Katsuki’s office. Lightly tugging at Katsuki’s heartstrings with its pressure, as they banter over dinner. Shouto thinks that mint chocolate should be illegal, and Katsuki has never been more offended on behalf of his favourite ice cream flavour. It devolves into a full-on debate about food—tempura versus kushikatsu, soba versus ramen, whether pineapples belong on pizza. When the bowls are polished, Shouto thanks him for the meal and tells him it was delicious. The tips of Katsuki’s ears burn red.
Eventually they land on Katsuki’s couch, surfing through Netflix for something to watch. Sitting beside instead of across from each other, the tension expands in their proximity, amalgamating with the heat of their bodies.
Shouto has a palm splayed onto the patch of sofa between them, facing up. Open, then curling closed, a hesitant invitation. Katsuki may have his eyes on the screen, but he’s looking down in his periphery, at Shouto’s undecided fingers. Heart flickering in his chest, he takes them in his own, weaving them together. The opening credits of the movie ebb in favour of static in his ears.
Shouto relaxes, lightly swinging their meshed hands.
“What are you, a kid?” sneers Katsuki.
Shouto hums, not minding his weightless jab at all.
“I’m just really enjoying myself tonight,” he admits. The honesty in his voice palpates the tension, forcing Katsuki to face the gravity of his feelings head-on. Something he hasn’t yet expressed.
Words were never his best suit but he’s already promised himself that he would try, so he does.
“Look. I suck at saying what I feel but I’m enjoying myself too. I— I think so much of you even if I can’t put it into words. It’d be fucking awesome if we could make this, like, a regular thing though. I don’t know.”
His palms are clammy, beading with perspiration, the telltale scent of nitroglycerin filling the air. Shouto squeezes his hand, a silent gesture to mean he doesn’t mind.
“You could show me,” he breathes out, quiet and tense, “you were always better with actions anyway.”
The kiss is inevitable. Just as frantic, just as rough, but this time it’s marked by something deeper. Give and take, in small accessions, tearing at each other’s walls with fast hands, fast mouths. Slow hearts.
Movie forgotten, they stumble into Katsuki’s bedroom in various states of undress. For a moment, it hits him that they’re really going to do it, on this bed where he’s dreamed of Shouto in every shape and form. Always just him, pretty boy.
“What do you want?” asks Katsuki, his voice like something processed in the grinder, a snarl ripped through teeth.
“I want to ride you,” answers Shouto, just the right amount of shy, the right amount of confident, that Katsuki’s cock begins throbbing against his underpants. He smacks a kiss onto his lips to consent.
Shouto seats himself at the edge of the bed, legs propped up, while Katsuki takes his position against the headboard. With the bottle of lube from Katsuki’s drawer—cherry-flavoured, for which Shouto raises an eyebrow at—he works himself open. Rim and muscle in full sight, wet and glistening, as he slides one digit in, then two, then three. Back heaving with his movements, noises streaming from his mouth tapered off into teasing silence. All the while, Katsuki keeps his eyes on him, stroking his cock to fullness, mouth salivating with want. When he notes the full-bodied shiver that runs through Shouto’s frame, Katsuki grabs a condom and pulls it on, slathering it with cold lube. Shouto arcs over his laid form, and whispers a reverent, “I’m ready.”
Knelt down and bracketing Katsuki’s sides, Shouto looks like a dream, the expanse of his chest and torso in full view. This isn’t something Katsuki’s seen for the first time—the muscled planes of his stomach and dark cherries of his nipples he’s had glimpses of in the locker room—but there’s something about the way he looks, hovering above Katsuki’s cock, that makes him shiver to his toes. Something so delicious about this view taken in from where Katsuki lies supine. He cups the base of his erection, holding it up for Shouto. Teasing, circling the rim with his tip. Shouto bends just a little lower to touch, and Katsuki brings up his other hand to track the line of muscle running along Shouto’s flexed quad.
It’s the little things that drive Katsuki crazy—the slight tremble in Shouto’s thigh beneath his palm, cherry-swollen lips parted ever so slightly, like he’s still holding back, teetering on the precipice of pleasure. Katsuki wants him to let everything go, to know how pretty he is.
“So fucking pretty,” he tells him just that, the words finally spilling out of his chest, free and true. Katsuki prods the head at the lip, dragging it across bare skin in slow motion. “You like that, Shou?” Shou, because he told Katsuki how much he loves hearing that.
“Fuck, yeah I do,” admits Shouto in a quiet voice, grinding his ass against the tip. Katsuki’s toes curl at the slight graze, and he’s desperate for more, for everything—touch, scent, taste, sound. Wants to linger in this desperation a little while longer, to lengthen the chase, watch Shouto unravel, slow and gradual. Wants him to feel good.
When Shouto finally positions himself at the head, they both hitch a breath. Katsuki angles himself upward to kiss the hollow of Shouto’s throat.
“Easy there, Shou,” he breathes. There’s a stray wisp of fringe falling over Shouto’s eye, and Katsuki brings his hand up to tuck it behind the ear. The turquoise in his iris never fails to mesmerise. Shouto sinks down, and Katsuki watches as his cock gets swallowed up, inch by inch, disappearing into sensitive flesh. “That’s it. That’s it.”
When he’s bottomed out, Shouto whimpers. It’s the prettiest sound Katsuki’s ever heard and he wants to bottle it up in a jar, devour it into his mouth. “Come here,” he beckons. Shouto folds his back over, Katsuki tilts up to meet him halfway. Colliding their mouths; palms splaying over ass cheeks, giving them a small squeeze, just the right amount of pressure to hue the skin red. Little noises erupt from the base of Shouto’s throat and Katsuki keeps stealing them from his mouth, biting down on Shouto’s lower lip, sliding their tongues together.
It’s when Shouto begins squirming around his erection that Katsuki breaks away, breathless. He thinks he’ll never get over this visual of Shouto on top of him, completely filling his cock. The salt and moisture that still lingers on his tongue. The tightness, the heat.
“Can you move for me?” asks Katsuki. His voice comes out guttural, like it’s been scraped raw at the edges. Shouto responds to his intensity, fervently nodding his head. “Ah— Is this okay?”
“Are you kidding me? This feels more than fucking okay,” growls Katsuki. Shouto turns his head to the side and Katsuki decides he doesn’t want any of that, wants their eyes to meet the whole while. He cups Shouto’s cheek, twisting him so their gazes meet. “Wanna look at you. Want you to look at me.”
“Oh, you wanna look at me?” prompts Shouto, the corner of his lip raised upward, a little teasing.
“Could look at you all day to be honest. So fucking gorgeous it pisses me the hell off.”
“That’s what you think about?” continues Shouto, slowly rocking up and down Katsuki’s cock, the movement drawn-out, unhurried. Sharp cries of pleasure fill the air in unison.
“Yeah. Thinking about you, strolling into my office looking like a wet dream. With that stupid mouth of yours. Always wanted to ruin it.”
Shouto picks up pace, sounds of their slapping skins echoing around the room. The jiggle in his ass as he fucks down onto Katsuki’s cock drives Katsuki absolutely crazy. He palms the curvature with one hand, feeling it bounce against his skin.
“You’ve had wet dreams of me?”
“You don’t even know. Jacked off so many times to the thought of fucking you like this. On the bed, in the office, in the locker room—”
“You could do that to me whenever.”
“Really?” taunts Katsuki, his grin turning wry.
“Yeah— Ah— I’ve had dreams about you too.”
“Tell me. Tell me everything.”
Heterochromatic irises are glazed over with… something, something that makes Katsuki feel like he’s being ripped open, heart pinned up for examination.
“Everyone thinks you’re an asshole. I did, too. And then I— I see the way you take up extra shifts so others won’t need to. You remember every hero, sidekick, employee, even if you make up nicknames for all of them. You leave tea on my desk when you think I don’t see you.”
Katsuki forgets how to breathe. How could those words tumble out of his mouth so easily? How could he just say all of that?
“You’re always so sure of what you’re doing. A lot of people think they’re the best but not many can truly say that they are— Fuck— You’re not all talk, Katsuki. You work so hard and see so much and care so much. It’s what makes you hot. Stupid hot. I want to be taken by someone like that.”
Someone like you.
“Who allowed you, hah?” Katsuki chokes out. Syrupy warmth races through his blood, as he inserts a thumb through Shouto’s parted lips, pressing against his jaw. Wet, slick. “Who allowed your fucking mouth and the way you say things with no volition? Always so honest, so observant. Always speaking to me like I’m a human, an equal. Fuck. What am I gonna do with you, Shou?”
“You could fuck me harder,” pants Shouto, canines lightly grazing Katsuki’s thumb. The edge of desperation to his voice makes him sound like he’s coming apart at the seams. Katsuki fucking loves it.
“You want hard? I’ll give you hard.”
Calloused fingers grip around the sides of pale waist, then Katsuki is bucking his hips, meeting Shouto halfway. Fucking up into him, rapid but measured. And Shouto unravels completely, moaning so loud the sound of it reverberates in Katsuki’s bones. He’s really letting everything go. Katsuki grits his teeth, washed over with relentless waves of pleasure. Sweat builds up in his palms as he chases the heat pooling in his gut.
“So fucking tight,” he grunts, “so fucking good for me.”
Shouto throws his head back, flushed. Every inch of his skin blooms red and god, he’s beautiful. Katsuki can’t believe he has him on his bed now, that he’s repressed this burning desire for so long. He shifts his hips, curling deeper into Shouto’s heat.
“Right there. Yes. Fuck, right there.”
Katsuki doesn’t need to be told twice. He rams into that sweet spot, bringing his hand up to twist Shouto’s nipple, amping up the sensitivity. Shouto shudders, mewls. The expression on his face is so blissed out, fucked out. Katsuki wants to keep this image of him forever, have it burned into the back of his eyelids.
“God, Katsuki— I’m gonna—”
“Let it go,” he commands, “touch yourself.”
Shouto is desperate to oblige, curling slender fingers around his cock, pumping in rhythm with Katsuki’s thrusts, his own rocking. Everything’s so warm and wet.
“Come for me, Shou. Come for me.”
And Shouto finally tips over the edge, spurting come onto Katsuki’s stomach, painting it white. His eyes are rolled over, mouth hanging agape. Where Shouto’s orgasm is clenched around his cock, Katsuki fucks up into the immense tightness. It makes Shouto fall over his torso, sensitive. Quivering from head to toe, shallowly riding out Katsuki’s chase. It’s like an orchestra, Katsuki thinks, pleasure accumulating in steady increments, building up into a crescendo. Heat bursts in his groin and then he’s coming, vision blinding white. Convulsions ripple through his body, fire spreading to every nerve. A string of expletives escapes his lips—fuck, fuck, fuck—and Shouto kisses him fiercely, ravaging the words into his mouth.
In the post-coital high, they tangle their limbs over the bed, harsh breathing faded out into steady exhales. Katsuki combs his fingers through Shouto’s hair, giddy with the wind knocked out of his lungs.
“I think you’ve shown me enough,” says Shouto. Katsuki feels the curve of his smile, pressed against the juncture connecting his neck and shoulder. Resplendent warmth courses through his veins.
“You think?”
Shouto nods. “You’re not so bad.” Then, as an afterthought, “Mint chocolate still sucks though. And soba is definitely better than ramen.”
Katsuki digs an elbow into his ribs, that ticklish patch of skin. “Idiot.”
“And yet you like me.”
His breath stills.
“Yeah, I do.”
Shouto seems pleased with the answer, fitting snugly into the crook of his neck, eyes just a millimetre’s breadth from shutting close. And it’s this moment, steeped with afterglow, the closeness and heat of their skins pressed flush against each other, that Katsuki is struck with how badly he doesn’t want this to end. Wants to set it in stone—home cooked dinners and movies abandoned for bedtime escapades—for the many days to come. Easy banter, boneless laughter, and fucking office blowjobs. Shouto, in his entirety.
“Stay the night?” he asks.
Stay the night means don’t leave. It means I want you to be here in the morning, and all the days after. It means let’s take this as far as we can go. This thing between us that fills me with warmth, tottering between plain affection and something that’s akin to love.
“Okay.”