The club air is thick with perfume and sweat, the bass from the stage thumping through the velvet booth seats. Izuku feels it in his teeth. Or maybe that's the champagne. His third flute sits empty on the table, a stray bubble clinging to the rim. Katsuki’s fourth is halfway gone, his thumb tracing the stem, his eyes not on the performer but on the way Izuku’s throat works as he swallows nothing.
"You're drunk," Katsuki says, the words a low gravel.
"M'not," Izuku mumbles, but the denial is soft, his head lolling toward Katsuki's shoulder. His fingers find the wool of Katsuki's blazer. "Just… floaty. The bubbles, Kacchan. They're in my head."
Katsuki’s hand comes up, calloused fingers brushing a stray curl from Izuku’s forehead. The touch lingers, mapping the constellation of freckles there. He’s drunk too. He knows it. The world has narrowed to the heat of Izuku against his side, the sweet-sharp scent of him cutting through the club’s haze. The rules are at the bottom of a champagne glass, shattered.
"We should get water," Katsuki says, but he doesn't move.
Izuku giggles, a soft, breathy sound. "You should kiss me again."
The words hang between them, a dare wrapped in a sigh. Katsuki’s chest goes tight. He looks down. Izuku’s eyes are half-lidded, green glassy with alcohol and something else, something raw and open and aimed entirely at him. It’s not acting. The pretense drowned twenty minutes ago.
"Deku."
"Please?"
It’s the please that unravels him. A quiet, honest wreck of a word. Katsuki’s hand slides from Izuku’s hair to cup his jaw, thumb stroking the flushed skin. He leans in, their breath mingling—champagne and cedar and want. He stops a breath away. "Tell me to stop."
Izuku’s answer is to close the distance.
This kiss isn't like the first. That was a collision. This is a surrender. Izuku’s lips part under his, soft and seeking, and Katsuki groans into his mouth. He tastes the champagne, the sugar, the unique, warm flavor that is just Izuku. Izuku’s hands come up, tangling in the spikes of Katsuki’s hair, pulling him closer, deeper. Katsuki licks into his mouth, claiming, consuming, two decades of starving poured into the slide of his tongue.
Izuku whimpers, the sound swallowed by Katsuki’s mouth. He shifts, knees pressing into Katsuki’s thigh, his whole body arching into the contact. Katsuki’s other arm bands around his waist, hauling him halfway into his lap, the booth’s shadows swallowing them. The music, the crowd, Ochako, the world—it all bleeds into a distant hum. There is only this: Izuku’s weight, Izuku’s taste, Izuku’s needy little sounds vibrating against his tongue.
When they break for air, they’re both panting. Izuku’s lips are slick, swollen, his eyes wide and dark. "Kacchan," he breathes, the name a prayer.
"We have to go," Katsuki rasps, his own voice unrecognizable. His cock is a hard, aching line against his zipper, pressed against Izuku’s hip. He can feel the answering heat radiating through Izuku’s trousers. "Now. Back to the hotel."
Izuku nods, dazed. He doesn't let go of Katsuki’s hair. "Okay."
Katsuki extracts himself, every movement a study in tortured control. He stands, pulling Izuku up with him. Izuku sways, pressing his face into Katsuki’s neck with a soft, drunk sigh. Katsuki’s arm is a steel bar around his waist, holding him upright. He scans the booth. Kirishima is grinning, giving him a thumbs up. Mina is fanning herself dramatically. Ochako watches with a soft, knowing smile that sends a bolt of shame through him—she thinks it’s cute. She has no idea.
"Leaving so soon?" Toga trills, her head tilted, amber eyes gleaming with predatory delight.
"He's tired," Katsuki barks, the lie automatic. He doesn't wait for a reply, just turns, steering Izuku through the press of bodies toward the exit, his hand a brand on Izuku’s hip, their escape a silent, urgent confession.
The cold Paris night air hits them like a slap as they stumble out of the club, but it does nothing to douse the fever under their skin. Katsuki manages to order an Uber, shoves Izuku into the backseat when it arrives, and sliding in after him. The door slams, sealing them in the dark, moving box.
"Kacchan—" Izuku starts, but Katsuki is already on him, one hand fisting in his green curls, the other hauling him across the vinyl seat. Their mouths crash together. It's urgent, sloppy, desperate. Teeth click. Izuku moans into the wet heat, his hands scrambling over Katsuki's shoulders, his back, pulling him closer. Katsuki licks deep, tasting champagne and salt and the dizzying truth of Izuku's tongue. The car lurches around a corner, throwing them together harder. Katsuki can feel the driver's eyes in the rearview. He doesn't give a single fuck.
"Just drunk," Katsuki pants against Izuku's slick, swollen lips, the words a mantra, a lie, a plea. "We're just so fucking drunk."
Yeah," Izuku gasps, chasing his mouth again. "Drunk. So drunk." He grinds his hips up, the hot, wet press of him against Katsuki's thigh through their trousers. The friction is maddening. Katsuki groans, biting at Izuku's lower lip, sucking it into his mouth.
The Uber hits a pothole. Their foreheads bump. They break apart, breathing ragged, staring at each other in the intermittent streetlight. Izuku's pupils are blown black, his lips glistening. He looks ruined. Beautiful. Katsuki wants to ruin him more.
The elevator is worse. A mirrored box of judgment. Katsuki slams the button for their floor, and as the doors slide shut, he pins Izuku against the wall. The kiss here is quieter, deeper, a slow devouring. Izuku whimpers, his hands sliding down to grip Katsuki's ass, pulling their hips flush. Katsuki can feel every inch of Izuku's wetness against his hardness. The elevator dings, climbing. Floor two. They don't stop. Floor three. Katsuki's tongue is in Izuku's mouth, Izuku's fingers are digging into the meat of his ass, and the excuse is ashes on his tongue. Floor four. Izuku rocks against him, a slow, deliberate grind that makes white sparks flash behind Katsuki's eyelids.
The doors open on their floor with a cheerful ping. They break apart, stumbling into the hallway like thieves. Katsuki fumbles the key card from his pocket, his hands shaking. Izuku presses against his back, mouth on the nape of his neck, hot breath on his skin. "Hurry," Izuku whispers, and the word is a live wire down Katsuki's spine.
The lock clicks green. Katsuki shoves the door open, pulls Izuku inside, and kicks it shut. The room is dark, bathed in the blue-gray glow of the city through the window. It doesn't matter. They are on each other in the dark. Hands tearing, pulling, shoving. Buttons ping across the marble floor. Katsuki rips Izuku's silk shirt open, the delicate fabric giving way with a sick, satisfying tear. Izuku makes a choked sound, yanking at Katsuki's belt, getting the buckle open, shoving his trousers and briefs down in one rough push. Katsuki's cock springs free, thick and heavy and painfully hard, the head already slick. He gets Izuku's trousers and boxers down past his thighs, and then they're both stumbling, completely naked, toward the bed.
Just drunk," Katsuki repeats, the lie thinner now, breathless. He pushes Izuku backward onto the mattress. Izuku falls with a soft gasp, his curls fanning out on the duvet, his body pale and freckled in the dim light. The clean lines of his top surgery scars are a silver map Katsuki wants to trace with his tongue. And between his spread thighs—Izuku’s pussy is bare and beautiful.
Katsuki climbs onto the bed, knees sinking into the mattress between Izuku’s spread thighs. He pushes them wider, his hands rough on the soft skin there. Izuku’s pussy is glistening, swollen, utterly soaked. The sight punches the air from Katsuki’s lungs. The scent of him—musky, sweet, purely Izuku—hits Katsuki’s nose and goes straight to his gut, a primal, claiming hunger.
"Kacchan, please—" Izuku begs, his hips lifting off the bed.
Katsuki doesn't make him wait. He leans in, his breath ghosting over the wet, heated flesh, and then his mouth is on him. He licks a broad, flat stripe from his opening all the way up to his clit. Izuku cries out, a sharp, shattered sound. Katsuki groans against him, the taste exploding on his tongue—salt, musk, perfection. He zeros in on Izuku's clit, sucking the tight, swollen bud into his mouth, lashing it with his tongue. Izuku's back arches off the bed, his hands flying to tangle in Katsuki's spiky hair, not guiding, just holding on.
"Fuck, fuck, your mouth," Izuku sobs, his thighs trembling around Katsuki's head. "Right there, don't stop, please don't stop—"
Katsuki doesn't. He drinks him down, slurping at the slickness, fucking him with his tongue, devouring him like a man starved. Because he is. He has been for twenty years. The wet, filthy sounds fill the dark room, syncopated with Izuku's broken moans and the ragged pull of their breathing.
Katsuki moans, the sound vibrating against Izuku's wet flesh, the taste of him—musky, sweet, salt—exploding across his tongue like a truth he’s been starving for. He pulls back for a second, just enough to see, his thumbs spreading Izuku’s slick lips apart. The pink flesh inside is glistening, swollen, his clit a hard, throbbing pearl. Beautiful. Ruined. His.
"Kacchan—" Izuku sobs, his hips lifting off the bed.
Katsuki dives back in, flicking his tongue hard and fast against that swollen bud. He doesn't use his fingers, just his mouth, devouring, sucking the tender flesh into the heat of his mouth, slurping at the flood of wetness. The sounds are obscene, wet, filthy. He drinks him down. It’s the best flavor in the world. It’s home.
"I'm— I'm gonna—" Izuku chokes, his thighs clamping around Katsuki's head, his whole body bowing off the mattress. "Kacchan, I'm gonna squirt, I'm—"
It's too late. The warning dissolves into a shattered scream as Izuku’s cunt clenches, and then a hot, gushing flood hits Katsuki’s tongue, his chin, his cheeks. Izuku squirts, hard, pulsing jets of it, soaking Katsuki’s face. Katsuki doesn't pull away. He groans, sucking harder, swallowing what he can, letting the rest slick his skin. Izuku’s hips jerk uncontrollably, his back arched so sharply it looks like pain, his hands fisted in Katsuki’s hair holding him right there.
The orgasm seems to last forever. Izuku’s cries break into ragged, hiccuping sobs. Katsuki licks him through it, gentler now, lapping at the oversensitive flesh, tasting the aftermath. Izuku’s body goes boneless, collapsing back onto the bed, his chest heaving. Katsuki finally lifts his head. His face is dripping. He looks wrecked. Izuku stares up at him, eyes wide and dazed, tears cutting tracks through the freckles on his temples.
"You… drank it," Izuku whispers, his voice wrecked.
"Yeah," Katsuki rasps, his voice raw. "And I'm not done."
He doesn't give Izuku time to process it. He dives back in, his mouth sealing over Izuku’s wet, swollen flesh again. The taste is stronger now, deeper, mixed with the salt of sweat and his own saliva. It’s an addiction. He licks into him, broad and firm, chasing the trembling aftershocks that still pulse through Izuku’s cunt. He’s ravenous.
"K-Kacchan—" Izuku sobs, his hands fluttering back to Katsuki’s hair, his body trying to arch but lacking the strength. "Too much, it’s—"
Katsuki growls against him, the vibration making Izuku jerk. He doesn’t stop. He sucks his clit back between his lips, lashing it with his tongue, and Izuku’s protest dissolves into a broken moan. This is it. This is all he needs. Oxygen is secondary. Water is irrelevant. His world has narrowed to this heat, this taste, this wet, clenching pressure around his tongue.
He could die here. He wants to. He drinks down the fresh slickness that floods his mouth, swallows, and licks deeper. His nose is buried in Izuku’s curls, the musk overwhelming. His own cock aches, a throbbing, ignored weight between his legs, but it’s a distant complaint. This is the feast. This is the altar.
"Just this," Katsuki mutters against him, his words a hot, wet puff of air. "Just your fucking pussy. Forever."
Izuku whimpers, a high, desperate sound. His thighs, which had fallen open, tense again, trying to close around Katsuki’s head. Katsuki pushes them wider with his shoulders, pinning him open. He’s relentless. He fucks him with his tongue, slow and deep, then fast and shallow, mapping every fold, learning the places that make Izuku’s breath hitch and his hips stutter.
"You’re gonna… you’re gonna make me come again," Izuku gasps, disbelief and awe in his wrecked voice. "I can’t, it’s too soon, I—"
Katsuki answers by sliding two fingers into him, curling them up, and sucking his clit hard into his mouth.
Izuku screams. It’s a raw, tearing sound. His body seizes, back bowing off the bed so violently Katsuki has to hold him down. Another gush of fluid, less torrential but just as hot, spills over Katsuki’s chin, mixing with the mess already there. Izuku’s cunt clenches around his fingers in rapid, fluttering pulses, milking nothing, just convulsing with the shock of a second peak.
Katsuki drinks it. He licks him through the violent tremors, gentling his mouth, soothing the oversensitive flesh with soft, flat strokes until Izuku’s cries soften into ragged, wet sobs. He finally lifts his head. His face is a slick, glistening mess. He’s panting.
Izuku is a ruin. Tears stream freely, his chest heaving, his skin flushed a deep pink from his neck down to his thighs. He looks utterly used. Devoured. His eyes find Katsuki’s, wide and uncomprehending.
"That wasn't fair," Izuku whispers, his voice a raw scrape. The words hang in the humid air between them. Then, with a sudden, shocking strength that cordes the muscles in his thick thighs, he pushes.
Katsuki, caught off guard, lets out a grunt as the world tilts. In a fluid, determined motion, Izuku flips them. Now Izuku straddles Katsuki's hips, his own slick thighs framing Katsuki's, his tear-streaked face set with a focus Katsuki hasn't seen since they were kids facing down a playground bully. He's on top.
"My turn," Izuku says, and it isn't a request. His gaze travels down Katsuki's torso, a silent, worshipful inventory—the clenched abs, the trail of hair leading down. Then his eyes land on Katsuki's cock. It lies heavy and thick against his stomach, fully hard, the foreskin drawn back from the flushed, slick head. Izuku's breath hitches. "Kacchan."
"You don't have to—" Katsuki starts, the protest automatic, born from two decades of protecting this exact vulnerability.
"I know I don't have to," Izuku interrupts, his green eyes lifting, blazing with a challenge that makes Katsuki's chest ache. "You think I can't? Because you're… god, you're huge."
A strangled laugh escapes Katsuki. "I'm aware. So maybe don't—"
Izuku is already moving. He slides down Katsuki's body, his lips brushing a trail over his sternum, his abdomen. Katsuki watches, every muscle locked, as Izuku settles between his spread legs. The first touch isn't to his cock. Izuku leans in, his breath hot, and swipes his tongue, flat and deliberate, over the tight sac of his balls.
Katsuki's head thuds back against the mattress. "Fuck."
Izuku hums, the vibration maddening, and takes one ball into his mouth, sucking gently, then harder. His hand wraps around the base of Katsuki's cock, pumping slowly, the slide effortless from the wetness already there. He switches to the other, lavishing the same attention, licking and sucking until Katsuki is trembling, his hips giving tiny, involuntary lifts.
"Deku," Katsuki warns, his voice ragged.
Izuku releases him with a wet pop. He looks up the line of Katsuki's body, his lips shiny. "You said I couldn't." He says it softly. Then he lowers his head again, and this time, his tongue traces the thick vein on the underside from root to tip. He kisses the leaking head, sucks it into his mouth, and takes the first few inches.
It's hot, wet, perfect. Katsuki groans, his fingers finding Izuku's curls. He doesn't push. He just holds on. Izuku works him slowly, learning the weight, the taste, his tongue swirling. Then he pulls off, takes a shaky breath, and goes deeper.
He gags immediately. A wet, choked sound. He pulls back, eyes watering, and coughs.
"Stop," Katsuki grits out, tugging his hair. "It's too much."
Izuku shakes his head, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He doesn't speak. He just breathes in through his nose, out through his mouth, his eyes locked on Katsuki's cock like it's a summit he's determined to climb. He leans in again. This time, he opens wider, relaxes his jaw, and takes him deeper. The head bumps the back of his throat. He gags again, tears spilling over, but he doesn't retreat. He forces himself down, inch by impossible inch, until his nose is buried in the coarse hair at the base.
Katsuki is swearing, a continuous, broken stream. He can feel the tight, fluttering spasms of Izuku's throat around the head, the impossible heat, the wet struggle. It's the most devastating thing he's ever felt. Izuku holds there for three agonizing seconds, then pulls off with a ragged gasp, saliva and pre-cum stringing from his lips to the tip.
"See?" Izuku rasps, triumph and agony mixing in his wrecked voice. He dives back down, not aiming for depth now, but taking him in slick, hungry pulls, his fist working the base in tandem. The sounds are obscene—wet sucking, choked breaths, Katsuki's own shattered groans. Izuku is relentless, a man possessed, drinking him down like he's been thirsting for this for twenty years.
Katsuki's control snaps. His hips jerk up off the bed, fucking up into that hot, willing mouth. "Gonna cum," he snarls, a final, desperate warning. Izuku's only answer is to hollow his cheeks and suck harder, his eyes squeezed shut in fervent concentration. The orgasm rips through Katsuki, blinding, violent. He shouts, back arching, as he pumps his release down Izuku's throat.
Izuku swallows. Once. Twice. Gagging slightly but refusing to let a drop escape. He milks him through the last pulses, until Katsuki is shuddering and oversensitive, weakly trying to push his head away.
Izuku looks up at him and smirks, his face a glistening, triumphant mess. His hand never stops moving, pumping Katsuki’s oversensitive cock, keeping him hard and throbbing against his will. His green eyes are dark, focused, a little crazed.
“I need more,” Izuku says, his voice wrecked and raspy from the abuse. It isn’t a request.
“You just had me down your fucking throat,” Katsuki gasps, his body still shuddering with aftershocks. His hands are fists in the sheets.
“I said I need more.” Izuku’s other hand comes up to grip the base, a firm, claiming hold. “Fuck my throat, Kacchan. Don’t hold back. Not even a little.”
Katsuki’s breath hitches. The command lands in his gut, hot and heavy. “You’re out of your mind.”
“Fuck it like you would any other wet, willing hole.” Izuku’s gaze doesn’t waver. “Because that’s what it is. For you. Right now.”
And just like that, all of Katsuki’s resistance is gone. It evaporates. The last twenty years of protection, of careful distance, of holding back every violent, possessive impulse—it shatters. A low, broken sound tears from his chest.
His hands come up, not to push Izuku away, but to cradle his head. His thumbs smear the tears and spit on Izuku’s cheeks. It’s a grotesque, tender caress. “You sure?”
“I’ve never been more sure of anything.”
Katsuki doesn’t warn him again. He guides Izuku’s mouth back onto his cock, watching, mesmerized, as those swollen lips stretch around the girth. Izuku takes the first few inches, his throat working, his eyes sliding shut in concentration. Katsuki lets him set the rhythm for a few brutal, wet sucks, feeling the drag of Izuku’s tongue, the tight suction.
Then he snaps.
His hips drive up off the bed, fucking up into that heat. Izuku gags immediately, a wet, choking sound, but his hands fly to Katsuki’s thighs, fingers digging in, holding on. He doesn’t try to pull away. He takes it.
Katsuki sets a ruthless pace, short, punishing thrusts that slide his cock over Izuku’s tongue before spearing deep. He watches his own red, slick length disappear into Izuku’s mouth, over and over. The sounds are obscene—the wet slap of skin, the choked gags, the ragged, desperate breaths Izuku manages through his nose.
“That’s it,” Katsuki growls, his voice raw. “Take it. Just a wet hole. My wet hole.”
Tears stream freely from Izuku’s clenched eyes, mixing with the saliva dripping down his chin. His throat convulses around the head each time Katsuki bottoms out, a tight, fluttering squeeze that makes Katsuki see stars. He can’t think. He can only fuck. He pistons his hips, chasing the blinding, brutal friction, using Izuku’s mouth for his own pleasure, just like he was told to.
Izuku’s hands scramble, then find Katsuki’s, their fingers tangling together on Katsuki’s thighs. A silent plea. Or an anchor. Katsuki holds on, his grip vise-tight, as he fucks up into that searing, willing heat. His orgasm builds again, a coiled spring in his gut, hotter and sharper than the first because it’s fueled by this devastating surrender.
“Gonna cum again,” he snarls, a warning and a promise. “Gonna fill your fucking throat.”
Izuku moans around him, the vibration a direct line to his spine. He sucks harder, desperate, encouraging.
Katsuki comes with a shout that tears his throat raw. He holds Izuku’s head down, hips jerking erratically as he pumps his release deep. Izuku swallows convulsively, gagging but refusing to let go, drinking him down until Katsuki is empty, spent, his body collapsing back onto the mattress like a puppet with cut strings.
He releases Izuku’s head. Izuku pulls off with a ragged, wet gasp, coughing, strings of saliva and cum still connecting his lips to Katsuki’s softening cock. He sways on his knees, his chest heaving, his face a devastated, beautiful ruin.
For a long moment, there is only the sound of their wrecked breathing in the dark room.
Then Izuku crawls forward, collapsing onto Katsuki’s chest. He’s trembling. Katsuki’s arms come up, automatically, to hold him. His skin is slick with sweat, his heart hammering against Katsuki’s. They don’t speak. The truth is too large for words now, sitting in the space between them, in the taste of salt and sex in the air, in the raw ache of their bodies.
The lie sits between them, sticky and warm as the cooling sweat on their skin. Izuku’s face is pressed into the hollow of Katsuki’s throat, his breath a shallow, damp rhythm against the pulse there. He’s still trembling, fine little aftershocks that Katsuki feels in his own bones.
“We’re so drunk,” Izuku mumbles into his skin, the words slurred and thick. It’s a performance. They both know it. The champagne haze burned off somewhere between the club door and the first time Katsuki’s tongue touched him.
“Yeah,” Katsuki grunts. His voice is wrecked, gravel and sand. He stares at the ceiling, at a hairline crack in the plaster he can just make out in the dim light from the window. His hand moves on its own, tracing the knobs of Izuku’s spine. “Wasted.”
It’s the shield they’re building. Brick by pathetic brick. If they were just drunk, then none of this meant anything. The desperate kisses in the elevator, the way Izuku begged for his throat to be used, the devastating fact that Katsuki came twice down his best friend’s throat—all of it could be filed under ‘champagne and poor judgment.’ A story for tomorrow, accompanied by exaggerated groans and promises to never drink again.
They fall asleep like that, tangled and spent, Katsuki’s hand still splayed possessively over the scarred plane of Izuku’s back, Izuku’s face a warm, trusting weight in the hollow of his throat. The tremors subside into the deep, even rhythm of sleep, and Katsuki feels the exact moment Izuku lets go, a soft sigh against his skin that’s more surrender than breath. He should move. He should put space between them, rebuild the wall, but the weight is an anchor he’s craved for a decade, and his own body betrays him, muscles unlocking, dragging him down into the dark with his best friend wrapped around him.
“Kacchan,” Izuku mumbles, the word slurred and thick with sleep, devoid of any performance now. It’s just a fact, a name for the warmth he’s clinging to. Katsuki’s throat tightens. Tomorrow, he’ll have to be the fake boyfriend again. Tomorrow, the lie will be a performance for an audience. But here, in the dark, with Izuku’s heartbeat slow and steady against his own, the only performance is the one he’s staging for himself—the act of pretending this isn’t everything he’s always wanted.
Katsuki closes his eyes. Just for a minute, he doesn’t.