The plane’s engine is a low, constant hum that vibrates up through Katsuki’s seat and into his teeth. He stares out the window at the endless blue, but his reflection is a ghost over the clouds—blond spikes, a permanent scowl. Next to him, Izuku is a contained explosion of fidgets. He’s chewed his lower lip raw, his fingers picking at the hem of the airline blanket for the fifteenth time since takeoff.
“So,” Katsuki says, the word cutting through the white noise. He doesn’t look away from the window. “What’s the story?”
“Huh?” Izuku’s hands freeze. “What story?”
“Our story, dipshit.” Katsuki turns his head, and his crimson eyes pin Izuku to his seat. “How the fuck did we get together? Everyone at this shitty wedding is gonna ask. Your ex is definitely gonna ask. What are we telling them?”
Izuku’s face goes blank. His mouth opens, then closes. The nervous light in his green eyes flickers, replaced by a slow-dawning horror. “I… didn’t think about that.”
Katsuki blinks. The admission hangs between them, stupid and unbelievable. A flight attendant passes with a cart, the clatter of bottles momentarily drowning out the hum. “You didn’t think about it,” Katsuki repeats, his voice flat. “You concocted this whole elaborate fucking scheme to pretend we’re dating for four days, and you didn’t think about the most basic fucking question people ask a couple?”
“I was panicking about the suit! And the asking you part! And the—the logistics!” Izuku’s words tumble out in a frantic mumble, his hands sketching shapes in the air. “I didn’t think we’d need a whole… origin story!”
“An origin story.” Katsuki barks a laugh, sharp and humorless. He runs a hand through his hair, the spikes resisting. “Un-fucking-believable. You’re a goddamn idiot.” The insult is familiar, warm almost, but underneath it is a real, grinding disbelief. This is the fragile foundation of his torture. Izuku didn’t think. Izuku never thinks about what this does to him.
“Well, we’re thinking about it now!” Izuku says, defensive. He grabs his champagne flute from the tray table—a complimentary upgrade Katsuki insisted on—and takes a gulp. “Okay. Um. We’ve been friends forever. So it would have to be something… recent. Something that changed.”
Katsuki watches him think. Sees the freckles across his nose, the way his brow furrows. He wants to reach over and smooth the tension away with his thumb. He keeps his hands fisted on his thighs. “It can’t be some sappy bullshit,” Katsuki grunts. “No ‘I always secretly loved you’ crap. That’s too obvious.”
“Right! Right, not obvious.” Izuku nods, earnest. He sets the glass down. “So… what if it was an accident? Like, we got really drunk one night after… after I broke up with Ochako. And we hooked up. And it was weird, but then we couldn’t stop?”
The suggestion lands in Katsuki’s gut like a stone. Drunk. An accident. Something they couldn’t stop. It’s so close to the truth of his own fantasies it steals his breath for a second. He schools his face into a mask of critical disdain. “Too messy. Makes us look like a pair of idiots with no impulse control. Which, granted.”
Izuku pouts. “You think of something, then, Mr. Fashion Genius.”
Katsuki looks back out the window. The sky is bleeding into orange at the horizon. He thinks about the rules he set. Hand-holding. Brief, closed-mouth kisses. A performance. He needs a story that justifies that. Something that feels real enough to sell, but safe enough for him to survive telling it. “It was after your top surgery,” he says, the words coming out rougher than he intended.
Izuku goes very still beside him.
Katsuki pushes on, his voice dropping, just for them. “You were recovering. I was… helping. Bringing your shitty All Might movies over, making sure you didn’t rip your stitches trying to reach for something.” He remembers those weeks with painful clarity. The quiet apartment. The smell of antiseptic and Izuku’s sleepy warmth. The vulnerable trust in Izuku’s eyes. “One night, you were in pain. The meds weren’t cutting it. You were just… lying there, trying not to cry. And I sat next to you on that shitty couch.” He swallows.
"I held your hand," Katsuki says, his voice a low rasp against the engine's hum. "But that's not the story. The story is… I went down on you." The words hang in the recycled air, brutal and naked. He doesn't look at Izuku. He watches his own reflection in the darkening window. "You were hurting. I wanted to make you feel something else. So I did."
Izuku makes a sound. A tiny, punched-out exhale. His fingers curl into the blanket on his lap.
Katsuki pushes on, the fantasy he'd lived in for months in that quiet apartment now spilling into the cabin like a secret hemorrhage. "I got you off. With my mouth. Ate your pussy." The vulgarity is sharp, deliberate. A weapon he turns on himself. "I used my tongue. Licked you open. Slow, then fast. Circled your clit until you shook."
He swallows, his own mouth flooding with the ghost of the taste. "I fucked you with my tongue. Deep. You got so wet it was dripping down your thighs. Slick and hot. And you stopped crying. You just… let go."
He closes his eyes, seeing it. "You came so hard you squirted. All over my chin, my mouth. I didn't stop. I kept my mouth right there and drank you down and made you cum again. And again. Your back was arching off that shitty couch. You were grabbing my hair, pulling so hard it hurt."
He can smell the memory—antiseptic and sweat and the clean, musky salt of it. His own cock twitches, heavy and traitorous, against the seam of his jeans. "For a little while, I took the pain away. I replaced it with that. Just the feeling. Over and over until you couldn't think about the pain anymore.”
The silence stretches, thick enough to choke on. Katsuki risks a glance. Izuku is staring straight ahead, his face crimson, his throat working. The freckles stand out like dark stars on flushed skin. His lips are parted, glistening from where he’s bit them with his teeth.
"Kacchan," Izuku whispers. It's not a protest. It's a breath. A revelation.
"That's the story," Katsuki says, forcing his tone flat, final. He shifts in his seat, trying to alleviate the desperate ache in his groin. The denim is too tight. "We got close during your recovery. One thing led to another. It was… tender. Private. Makes the hand-holding make sense. Makes us look like a real fucking couple."
Izuku’s breath is still caught in his throat, a trapped, hot thing. The image Katsuki painted is burning behind his eyelids—the feel of a mouth, a tongue, the dizzying, wet release. He doesn’t question its invention. He’s too busy feeling his own body scream in response, a slick, aching heat flooding his cunt, soaking through his boxer briefs. The airline blanket is a pathetic shield.
“I need the restroom,” Izuku blurts, his voice strained.
“I need the fucking bathroom,” Katsuki grates out at the same instant, already unbuckling his seatbelt with a violent click.
They stare at each other for a fractured second—both flushed, both breathing too fast. Then they’re moving, a clumsy scramble into the narrow aisle. Katsuki shoves past, heading for the lavatory at the front. Izuku stumbles in the opposite direction, toward the back, his thighs slick and clenched tight with every step.
The rear bathroom is a closet of recycled air and chemical lemon. Izuku locks the door, his back hitting it. His hands are shaking. He fumbles with his jeans, shoving them and his briefs down to his knees. The cold plastic of the sink edge bites into his ass. He spreads his thighs and looks down.
His cunt is swollen, glistening. His clit is a hard, desperate peak. He touches himself and a broken sound escapes his lips. Two fingers slide inside easily, soaked. He imagines it’s Katsuki’s tongue. Not a fantasy anymore—a memory now, solid and real because Kacchan said it. He fucks himself with his fingers, the wet sound loud in the tiny space, his other hand circling his clit. He pictures Katsuki’s mouth, the scowl he’d wear, the intense focus in those red eyes. He wishes it was Katsuki’s mouth. He wishes it so badly his hips jerk off the sink.
At the front of the plane, Katsuki braces a forearm against the mirror, his other hand wrapped around his cock. It’s thick, uncut, flushed dark and leaking. He jerks himself in hard, punishing strokes. He can’t get the taste out of his head—the ghost of salt and musk, the fantasy taste of Izuku’s cum. He sees Izuku on that couch, back arched, freckles stark against flushed skin, begging. He pictures his own mouth between those thick thighs, drinking him down. His hips piston into his fist. The precum makes the slide vicious, perfect.
Izuku’s orgasm crashes into him, sudden and violent. His cunt clenches around his fingers, a pulse, then a gush of wet heat that splatters against the cabinet below. He bites his own wrist to muffle the cry, tears pricking his eyes. Kacchan, Kacchan, Kacchan.
Katsuki comes with a choked grunt, spurting stripes of white across the pristine sink. His vision sparks. He rests his forehead against the cool mirror, breath fogging the glass, body shuddering through the aftershocks. Deku. Izu. Fuck.
They return to their seats within a minute of each other, the plane’s hum unchanged. Neither looks at the other. Katsuki drops into his window seat, the ache in his groin replaced by a hollow, guilty throb. Izuku sits stiffly, the evidence of his climax a cool, damp patch seeping through his jeans. The silence between them is a live wire.
“So,” Izuku whispers finally, staring at the seatback in front of him. “We tell them the recovery story.”
“Yeah,” Katsuki says, his voice scraped raw. He doesn’t trust himself to say more.
The flight attendant announces their initial descent into Paris. The cabin lights brighten. Izuku risks a glance at Katsuki’s profile—the sharp jaw, the tense set of his mouth. A need, deeper and more terrifying than the one he just fingered away, curls tight in his chest.
The Uber ride is a blur of Parisian gray and Katsuki’s silent, radiating tension. Izuku chatters nervously about the architecture, the weather, anything to fill the space still vibrating with the memory of his own fingers and the wet sound in the bathroom. Katsuki grunts once. That’s it. The car stops at a classic Haussmann building with a discreet hotel awning.
The lobby is all marble and hushed tones. They check in under Izuku’s name, the clerk smiling politely. “Ah, for the wedding party. We have you in room 407. Enjoy your stay.” The elevator mirrors show two men not looking at each other. Izuku’s jeans still feel damp. Katsuki’s jaw is a hard line.
Izuku fumbles with the keycard. The green light flashes. He pushes the door open, heaving his suitcase over the threshold. “Home sweet home for the next few days, I guess!” His voice is too bright.
Katsuki follows, dragging his own bag, his eyes doing a swift, tactical sweep of the space—armoire, desk, window with a decent view of a rooftop. Then they land on the bed. He freezes. “What the fuck?!”
It’s a queen. A single, plush, unmistakably solitary queen bed, made up with crisp white linens and a throw pillow that looks like a cruel joke.
Izuku turns, his smile faltering. “What?”
Katsuki jabs a finger at the bed, then turns the glare on Izuku. “You. You made the reservation.”
“I— yeah, I booked the room,” Izuku says, his words starting to trip over each other. “The website said double occupancy! I didn’t think—”
“You didn’t think.” Katsuki’s voice is low, dangerous. He drops his bag with a thud. “Of course you didn’t. You didn’t think about the story, you didn’t think about the bed. What the hell did you think ‘double occupancy’ meant, huh? Two separate fucking continents?”
“I thought it meant two people!” Izuku’s defensiveness is a thin shield over his panic. “I just clicked the option for the wedding block! It was a package!”
“A package with one bed.” Katsuki stalks to the foot of it, staring down at the duvet as if it’s a threat. His mind is a riot. The fantasy from the plane—Izuku on a couch, under his mouth—collides violently with the image of Izuku in this bed, under these sheets, a foot away from him all night. The hollow throb in his gut returns, hotter. “We can’t sleep in this.”
“Why not?” The question leaves Izuku’s mouth before he can stop it. He sees Katsuki’s shoulders tense. “I mean— we’re supposed to be boyfriends. Boyfriends share beds. What would Ochako think if we asked for two singles?”
Katsuki turns slowly. The look on his face is unreadable, a mask of sheer, furious control. “What they think isn’t the problem. The problem is this.” He gestures between them, then at the bed. “The rules.”
“The rules are for show,” Izuku whispers, the truth of it dawning on him, terrifying and bright. “This… this is part of the show.”
“This isn’t hand-holding, Deku.” Katsuki’s childhood nickname for him is a blade. “This is eight hours. In the dark.”
The silence stretches. Izuku’s heart is hammering against his ribs—a generic beat, but it’s the truth of his body right now, a frantic drum. He can still smell the ghost of airplane lavatory lemon, and underneath it, the musk of his own arousal. The damp patch on his jeans feels like a brand. He made this mess. He brought them here. To this room. To this bed.
“I’ll take the floor,” Katsuki says finally, the words gritted out like a concession of defeat.
“Don’t be stupid,” Izuku says, the teacher-voice slipping out. “The floor is marble. You’ll wreck your back. We’re adults. We can share a bed platonically.” The word tastes like ash. Nothing about the energy in this room is platonic. It’s saturated with the memory of his own choked-off cry, with the image Katsuki painted with his tongue.
Katsuki lets out a sharp, humorless laugh. He walks to the window, his back to Izuku, and braces his hands on the sill. The afternoon light cuts across his shoulders. “Platonically,” he echoes, the word a curse.
Izuku watches the rigid line of his spine. The need he felt on the plane—deeper, more terrifying—coils tighter, a live wire in his chest. This is the threshold. Not a kiss. Not a touch. A bed. A decision. He hears himself speak, his voice quieter now. “It’s just a bed, Kacchan.”
Katsuki doesn’t turn around. His reflection in the window is pale, his eyes dark pools. “Yeah,” he says, the fight gone from his voice, replaced by a raw exhaustion that’s worse. “It’s just a bed.”
Katsuki’s hands finally uncurl from the windowsill. The fight leaves his shoulders in a slow, visible drain. He turns, not looking at Izuku, and stalks toward his suitcase. “We need sleep,” he says, the words flat. “The party’s tomorrow. Can’t have you looking like a kicked puppy in front of the happy couple.”
Izuku watches him pop the latches on his bag. The movement is efficient, military. “Right,” Izuku says, his own voice sounding thin. He moves to his own suitcase, the wheels scraping on marble. The simple act of unzipping it feels like a surrender to the reality of the room, the bed, the night ahead.
“I’ll shower first,” Katsuki announces, pulling out a pair of black sweatpants and a tight gray tank. He doesn’t wait for an answer, just moves past Izuku into the bathroom and shuts the door. The lock clicks, a definitive sound.
Izuku is left alone with the rumble of the pipes, the soft hiss of the shower starting. He sinks onto the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. He stares at his own hands. They still smell faintly of airplane soap and his own cum. He brought Kacchan here. To this. He can’t untangle the knot in his stomach—part guilt, part that terrifying, coiling need that had tightened when Kacchan said ‘platonically’ like it was a curse.
He changes quickly while the shower runs, swapping his damp jeans for soft pajama pants and a worn t-shirt. He folds his clothes with too much care, avoiding the sight of the bed. When the bathroom door opens, a cloud of steam and the scent of Katsuki’s cedar body wash rolls out.
Katsuki emerges, hair damp and spikier than usual, the tank top clinging to the planes of his chest. His eyes sweep over Izuku, then away, as he moves to his side of the bed. He doesn’t ask which side. He just takes the left, farthest from the door, and pulls back the duvet with a sharp jerk.
“Your turn,” he says, not looking at him.
Izuku nods, a useless gesture Katsuki isn’t seeing, and escapes into the bathroom. The air is thick, humid, smelling like Katsuki. He braces his hands on the sink. His reflection is wide-eyed, freckles stark. He brushes his teeth, the mint a shock. He thinks of Katsuki’s mouth forming those graphic, devastating words on the plane. He spits, rinses, tries not to think.
When he comes out, the main light is off. Only a soft lamp on Katsuki’s nightstand is on, casting the room in deep shadow. Katsuki is already in bed, lying on his back, one arm thrown over his eyes. The line of his body is rigid, a silhouette under the sheet.
Izuku pads to the other side. The mattress seems vast and impossibly small at the same time. He slides under the covers, the sheets cool against his skin. He lies on his back, staring at the dark ceiling. The space between them is a canyon. He can feel the heat radiating from Katsuki’s body.
“You good?” Katsuki’s voice is a low rasp in the dark.
“Yeah,” Izuku whispers. “You?”
A beat of silence. “Peachy.”
“I’m sorry,” Izuku whispers into the dark, the words aimed at the ceiling. “For the room. For not thinking about the story. For… all of it.”
Katsuki’s arm is still over his eyes. “Shut up. It’s not a big deal.”
“It is. I’m making you do all this weird stuff. Sleep in a bed with me.”
“Weird stuff,” Katsuki echoes, the ghost of a laugh in it. “Go to sleep, Deku. We’ve got a party to fake-smile through tomorrow.”
The silence that follows is different. Lighter, but somehow heavier. Izuku’s breathing evens out within minutes, a soft, steady rhythm that fills the canyon between them. Exhaustion wins.
Katsuki lies rigid, cataloging the sounds of the hotel: the faint hum of the mini-fridge, a distant elevator chime, the rustle of sheets every time Izuku shifts. He counts his own breaths. He counts Izuku’s. He does not sleep.
An hour in, the warmth shifts. Izuku turns on his side, facing Katsuki. The mattress dips. Katsuki holds perfectly still, every muscle locked. He waits for the movement to stop. It doesn’t. Izuku shuffles closer, a slow, sleepy migration, until his forehead brushes Katsuki’s bicep.
Katsuki stops breathing.
Izuku makes a soft, contented noise in his throat. His hand comes up, fingers curling into the fabric of Katsuki’s tank top. Then, with a final sigh, he presses his face into the hollow of Katsuki’s neck, his nose a cool point against Katsuki’s pulse. His entire body aligns itself along Katsuki’s side, a line of heat from shoulder to thigh.
Katsuki is a statue. His heart is a frantic, trapped thing behind his ribs. Izuku’s breath is warm and damp against his skin. His curls smell like hotel shampoo and something indefinably, inherently Izuku. The weight of him is perfect. It’s devastating.
His body betrays him before his mind can muster a defense. His rigid arm, the one thrown over his eyes, slowly lowers. It hovers in the air for a suspended second. Then, with a surrender that feels like freefall, his hand finds the curve of Izuku’s spine. He rests it there, palm flat against the worn cotton of Izuku’s t-shirt. He can feel the knobs of his vertebrae, the lean muscle of his back.
Izuku nuzzles deeper, his lips brushing Katsuki’s collarbone. A sleepy, unintentional kiss. Katsuki’s fingers tighten, pressing him closer. A silent, guilty answer.
This is the real performance. Not the hand-holding. Not the story. This. Lying perfectly still in the dark, holding the one thing he’s wanted for a decade, while that same thing sleeps, trusting and oblivious, using him as a pillow. Katsuki stares into the shadows, Izuku’s warmth seeping into him, marking him. He finally falls asleep, comforted by this weight he’s always wanted against him.
Katsuki is so, so fucked.