Izuku wakes to the taste of stale champagne and a throbbing behind his eyes. For one blessed, hazy second, he’s convinced the entire night was a stress dream—the club, the kiss, the desperate hands in the Uber, all of it. Then he stretches. The slide of clean sheets against bare skin. The deep, familiar ache between his thighs. His eyes snap open.
The room is cast in the pale blue light of early morning. He’s naked. And beside him, a solid line of heat, Katsuki is asleep on his stomach, one arm flung out over Izuku’s abandoned pillow. He’s naked too, the sharp lines of his shoulders and the dip of his spine disappearing under the duvet. The memory hits Izuku like a physical blow: Katsuki’s mouth between his legs, his own throat stretched wide, the choked, sobbing sounds he’d made. It wasn’t a dream.
Silent panic seizes his lungs. He scrambles out of the bed, his legs tangling in the sheets, and stumbles to his feet. The cold hotel marble floor is a shock against his soles. He doesn’t look back, just beelines for the bathroom, shutting the door with a soft but definitive click. He leans against it, heart hammering against his ribs, and fumbles for the light switch. The harsh fluorescent glare makes him wince.
The shower turns on with a violent shudder of pipes. He steps under the spray before it’s fully warm, the water sluicing over his skin like a punishment. He scrubs at his face, his neck, as if he could wash away the phantom feel of Katsuki’s hands, his mouth, the possessive grip in his hair. It didn’t mean anything. It couldn’t. They were drunk. He was upset about Ochako. Katsuki was just… being Kacchan. A fucked-up, catastrophic version of being Kacchan.
He stays under the water until his skin is pruned and the room is thick with steam. When he finally turns it off, the silence is absolute except for the drip-drip-drip from the showerhead. He towels off mechanically, avoiding his own eyes in the fogged mirror. He wraps the towel around his waist and cracks the door open.
Katsuki is awake. Sitting up against the headboard, the duvet pooled around his waist. His red eyes track Izuku’s movement from the bathroom doorway. He doesn’t speak. The space between them feels charged, brittle.
“Morning,” Izuku says, the word too loud in the quiet room. He busies himself with finding his suitcase, pulling out a pair of sweats and a t-shirt. His hands won’t stop shaking.
“Yeah.” Katsuki’s voice is morning-rough, devoid of its usual edge. He watches Izuku dress with a focus that feels like a physical touch. “You okay?”
“Fine,” Izuku says, too quickly. He yanks the t-shirt over his head. “Just… hungover. Big day. Rehearsal dinner.” He’s babbling. He forces himself to stop, to take a breath. “You should shower. We’re supposed to meet everyone for brunch in an hour.”
Katsuki doesn’t move. “About last night.”
“We were drunk,” Izuku interrupts, the words practiced, desperate. He finally meets Katsuki’s gaze. “It was a mistake. Let’s just… forget it happened. For the plan.”
Katsuki holds his stare for a long, endless moment. Something flashes in his eyes—something raw and hurt—before it shutters closed. His jaw tightens. He gives one sharp, almost imperceptible nod. “Right,” he says, his voice flat. “The plan.” He throws the duvet back and gets out of bed, walking naked and unselfconscious toward the bathroom. He pauses at the door, not looking back. “Don’t worry, Deku. I’m an expert at pretending.”
The bathroom door closes. The lock clicks. Izuku stands alone in the center of the room, the ghost of Katsuki’s heat still clinging to the air, and feels the lie settle into his bones like a terminal cold.
The shower water is a scalding punishment on his shoulders. Katsuki leans his forehead against the cool tile, eyes squeezed shut, and lets the heat try to burn through the cold that’s settled in his bones. The taste is still there, a phantom ghost on his tongue. Salt. Musk. The clean, sharp taste of Izuku’s cum. He swallows, deliberately, letting it linger.
Stupid. He’s so fucking stupid. He knew this would hurt. He signed up for the hurt when he agreed to this twisted favor. But somewhere in the animal part of his brain, the part that remembered Izuku’s thighs shaking around his head and the broken way he’d gasped ‘Kacchan’, he’d let a single, treacherous seed of hope take root. That they’d wake up tangled. That Izuku would open those green eyes and not look panicked. That he’d say something real.
‘It was a mistake. For the plan.’ Katsuki’s jaw aches from how hard he’s clenching it. The plan. Right. The stupid, fragile fiction they built to protect Izuku’s pride. He’s an expert at pretending. He’s had a lifetime of practice pretending he doesn’t love Izuku Midoriya.
He opens his eyes and looks down. Morning wood, thick and heavy jetting out in front of him, flushed and needy. A traitorous, physical echo of a night his mind is supposed to forget. He glares at it, a surge of self-loathing tightening his throat. This isn’t a rom-com. He’s not the grumpy guy who gets the happy ending after one drunk night. He’s the fucking idiot who gave his best friend the best head of his life and got a ‘let’s forget it’ for his trouble.
His hand wraps around his cock, the grip punishing. He doesn’t stroke, not yet. He just holds himself, feeling the frantic pulse under his palm, the heat that rivals the shower spray. He’s still got the taste. He won’t brush his teeth. He won’t drink water. This might be the last piece of Izuku he gets to keep.
The memory crashes over him, sharper than the water: Izuku beneath him, back arched, those freckled thighs spread wide. The way his pussy had clenched around Katsuki’s tongue, the sweet, slick flood of him, the shattered, sobbing cry as he came. The absolute surrender of it. The trust. The lie.
He starts to move his hand, a rough, efficient rhythm. It’s not about pleasure. It’s about exorcism. About chasing the ghost of that feeling out of his blood with a cheaper, emptier version. He bites down on the inside of his cheek, the metallic tang of blood mixing with the memory of Izuku’s taste. His hips jerk into his fist. The tile is cold against his other palm, bracing him.
He thinks of Izuku’s mouth. Desperate and hungry, taking him deep, throat working around him. The choked, wet sounds. The tears on his lashes. The way he’d looked up, eyes blown wide, when Katsuki came down his throat. He pumps faster, the slap of his hand lost in the drum of the shower. His breath comes in ragged gulps of steam.
It’s a bitter, lonely climax. It rushes up his spine and empties him with a force that makes his knees buckle. He comes over his fist and the shower floor, stripes of white disappearing down the drain almost instantly. Gone. Like it never happened. A hollow, aching shudder wracks through him, and for a second he just sags against the wall, spent and empty.
The water runs clear. The taste in his mouth is fading, no matter how he tries to hold onto it. He’s just a naked man in a shower, with a cold heart and a mess he made with his own hand. He turns the water to ice-cold and stands under the brutal spray until his skin is numb and the last phantom warmth of Izuku is finally, truly gone.
The hotel restaurant is all sunlight and the cheerful clatter of silverware. Izuku spots their friends at a long table by the window, a riot of color and noise, and his stomach clenches. Katsuki walks beside him, a solid, silent presence radiating a cold that has nothing to do with the Parisian morning. They haven’t spoken since the bathroom.
“Look who finally decided to join the living!” Mina chirps, waving them over. Her pink curls bounce. “We were about to send a search party. Or, you know, check if the bed broke.”
Eijiro grins, sharp teeth flashing. “Dude, you guys vanished last night. One minute you’re making out like the world’s ending, the next—poof! Ghosted the party.”
Izuku’s face floods with heat. He slides into the empty chair between Ochako and Denki, focusing on the intricate pattern of the tablecloth. “Sorry,” he mumbles. “I wasn’t feeling great. Too much champagne.”
“Uh-huh,” Denki says, wiggling his eyebrows. “Is that what they’re calling it now? ‘Not feeling great’?”
Katsuki takes the last seat, directly across from Izuku. He doesn’t look at anyone, just grabs the carafe of black coffee and fills his cup to the brim. His movements are precise, controlled. “We were tired,” he states, his voice a flat, final brick wall.
Hitoshi sips his own coffee, violet eyes hooded and knowing. “Tired. Right. The kind of tired that requires moaning loudly in your hotel room.”
Ochako giggles, leaning into Himiko’s side. Her round brown eyes are warm, genuinely happy. “It’s okay, you know. We’re all adults. Well, mostly.” She shoots a playful look at Shoto, who’s meticulously dissecting a croissant. “We’re just glad you two are… you know. Good together.”
The words are a well-meaning dagger. Izuku feels them twist. He watches Katsuki’s knuckles whiten around his coffee cup. Good together. A performance. A lie they sold so well it’s now a cage. He forces a laugh, too high. “It was just one night! I mean, we got carried away. The atmosphere.”
“Carried away,” Himiko echoes, her voice a lilting sing-song. She nuzzles Ochako’s neck, her amber eyes fixed on Izuku with unnerving focus. “You looked pretty carried away at the club too. Katsuki’s mouth looked very… distracting.”
Katsuki’s red eyes snap up, finally. They lock onto Himiko, a silent warning. “You talk a lot for someone getting married tomorrow.”
“I’m observant,” she counters, unbothered. “And I know what hungry looks like.”
Touya, draped in his goth finery despite the hour, smirks around a piece of bacon. The silver rings on his fingers catch the light. “Let ‘em have their fun, Blasty. You’re the one who looked like you wanted to eat him alive in that booth. Own it.”
Izuku can’t breathe. The room is too bright, the laughter too loud. Every teasing comment is a spotlight on the raw, shameful truth of the night—the taste, the sounds, the desperate clutch of hands. He stares at his empty plate. Katsuki wanted to eat him alive. He did. And Izuku let him. Wanted him to.
“So,” Eijiro leans forward, his red eyes sparkling with good-natured curiosity. “Give us the deets! Was it a ‘comforting each other after an emotional evening’ thing? Or a ‘fucking against the hotel door the second it closed’ thing?”
“Shitty Hair,” Katsuki growls, the first real crack in the icy facade. It’s a low, dangerous sound.
“What? We’re friends! We support love!”
“It was a mistake,” Izuku blurts out.
The table goes quiet. The words hang there, clumsy and brutal. Ochako’s smile falters. Shoto stops chewing, his heterochromatic eyes flicking between them.
The silence at the table is a physical thing, thick and suffocating. Katsuki doesn’t move. He doesn’t blink. He just stares at the dark surface of his coffee, and inside his head, there’s a single, clean snap. A fracture so deep he feels it in his molars. A mistake. For everyone to hear. He’s been an idiot.
He sets his coffee cup down. The china meets the saucer without a sound. He pushes his chair back, the legs scraping against the tile, and stands. Every eye is on him, but he looks at no one. “Excuse me,” he says, and his voice is calm. Flat. Dead. He turns and walks out of the restaurant.
Eijiro watches him go, the easy grin gone from his face. He gives it a count of thirty, listening to the nervous, fragmented chatter that starts up again at the table. Izuku is stammering, trying to explain, digging the hole deeper. Ochako is trying to soothe. Eijiro catches Mina’s eye and gives a tiny shake of his head—*I got this*—before he gets up and follows the path Katsuki took.
The Parisian morning is too bright. Katsuki is across the street, sitting on a wrought-iron bench in a small, manicured park. He’s not smoking. He’s just sitting, elbows on his knees, staring at the gravel path. His shoulders are a rigid line. Eijiro jogs across the street, the city sounds a distant buzz.
He sits on the bench, leaving a foot of space between them. He doesn’t speak. He leans back, stretching his arms along the bench’s back, and watches a pigeon peck at nothing. The cold of the iron seeps through his clothes.
“It’s fake.”
Katsuki’s voice is rough, scraped raw from the inside. He doesn’t look up.
Eijiro stays quiet, lets the words settle.
Katsuki’s breath comes out in a white cloud. He watches it dissolve. “He panicked. In the fucking tailor’s shop. Said he couldn’t let Round Face think he wasn’t over her. That he needed a date. A boyfriend.” The word is ash in his mouth. “He looked at me and he said ‘Please, Kacchan.’”
Eijiro stays quiet. His red eyes are fixed on the pigeon, but he’s listening with his whole body.
“I said no.” Katsuki’s voice drops, a low, private ruin. “Then he said it was just three days. A performance. Hand-holding. Maybe a fucking… a peck on the cheek. For his pride. For our friendship.” He barks a laugh, hollow and sharp. “And I’m so fucking pathetic I said yes. I drew up rules. I made it a contract. Like that would make it safe.”
“Safe for who?” Eijiro asks, soft.
Katsuki ignores him. The gravel under his shoes is a mosaic of tiny, shattered stones. “He asked if we’d have to kiss. To be convincing. I told him it’d be minimal. Closed-mouth. Brief.” He drags a hand down his face, the heel of his palm grinding against his eye socket. “He thought I was repulsed. By him. By his body. I had to… fuck. I had to tell him it wasn’t that. So I told him about after his surgery. That I was there. Like that proved something.”
“The story you told at the club,” Eijiro says, finally looking at him. “The mouth thing.”
“Yeah.” Katsuki’s jaw works. “I made it up. To sell the lie. To our friends. To him. I painted this whole fucking picture of me taking care of him, of my mouth on him, and I sold it so well I started believing it. I could taste him. In my head. I could feel him cumming on my tongue.” His throat clicks on a dry swallow.
“I kissed him at the club to sell the lie,” Katsuki says, the words like stones dropped into still water. “That was the deal. A fucking peck. Closed-mouth. Brief. But I opened my mouth. And he opened his. And we just… kept kissing. It wasn’t what we agreed.” He finally looks at Eijiro, his crimson eyes stripped bare. “I felt fireworks. All that corny, pathetic shit. And he kept kissing me back. So I didn’t stop.”
Eijiro’s face is solemn, his usual bright energy banked to a quiet, attentive burn. He just nods, a signal to keep going.
“Last night,” Katsuki continues, his gaze drifting back to the gravel. “He asked me to. In the club. He was drunk, and he asked, and I took him back to the room. I went down on him. Made him cum. Twice. He squirted all over my fucking face. Then he sucked my dick until I came down his throat. Then I fucked his mouth and came again.” He lets the graphic truth hang, ugly and beautiful. “I guess that’s the awful mistake he was talking about at brunch. I made the guy squirt twice, but somehow it’s still a mistake.”
There’s a long silence. The pigeon pecks at a stray wrapper.
“You know I already knew, right?” Eijiro says, his voice gentle. “About you being in love with him. I’ve known since, like, first year in high school. It’s kinda obvious, man.”
Katsuki’s shoulders tighten further, a defensive hunch. “Then why the fuck didn’t you say anything?”
“Because it wasn’t my business. And because you’re you. You would’ve blown my head off.” Eijiro shifts on the bench, the iron groaning faintly. “The fake boyfriend thing, though… that’s new. And it’s fucked up, Kats.”
“Tell me something I don’t know,” Katsuki mutters, dragging a hand through his spiky hair.
“What are you gonna do?”
“The job,” Katsuki says immediately, his voice going flat again. “I said I’d be his fucking date for the wedding. I’ll be his date. I’ll hold his hand. I’ll smile at the happy couple. Then I’ll get on a plane and go home. End of contract.”
Eijiro watches him, his red eyes soft with pity Katsuki would kill him for if he had the energy. “And after? You just go back to normal? After… all that?”
“There is no after,” Katsuki states. The finality in his tone is absolute. “He called it a mistake in front of everyone. That’s the answer. That’s the only answer I’m getting. So I’m done.”
He says it, and a part of him—the part that has built its entire existence around the gravitational pull of Izuku Midoriya—simply goes dark. A quiet, internal extinguishing. The hope he didn’t even admit he was nursing is now just ash in his chest.
Eijiro sighs, a heavy, understanding sound. “Okay. Okay, man. So you finish the mission. What do you need from me?”
Katsuki stands up abruptly, the cold air biting through his clothes. He feels empty. Clean, in a horrible way. “Don’t be nice to me. Don’t look at me like that. Just… act normal. Laugh at the dumb jokes. Tease us about being a couple. Sell the lie with me. Two more days.”
“I can do that,” Eijiro says, rising to stand beside him. He doesn’t try to clap him on the shoulder. He just stands there, a solid, silent presence. “For the record? He’s an idiot.”
“Yeah,” Katsuki agrees, his voice hollow. “He is.”
The hotel's revolving door spits Izuku out onto the sidewalk like something indigestible. He’s in yesterday’s rumpled clothes, his green curls a wild halo from frantic fingers, and he doesn’t look left, just bolts across the street toward the park. A bike messenger swerves, the metallic screech of brakes tearing the air, and a shouted curse in French follows him. Izuku stumbles onto the curb, doesn’t acknowledge it, his wide eyes already locked on the two figures by the bench.
Katsuki sees him coming. Sees the panic, the dishevelment, the way his chest heaves. The part of him that’s been trained for a decade to respond to Izuku’s distress flares, a muscle-memory of care. He grinds it to dust under his heel. He doesn’t move.
“Kacchan,” Izuku gasps, skidding to a halt a few feet away. He looks from Katsuki’s impassive face to Eijiro’s carefully neutral one. “I— I went to the room. You weren’t there. I thought—”
“Thought what?” Katsuki’s voice is flat. A closed door.
“I don’t know.” Izuku’s hands flutter at his sides, his telltale chewing at his lower lip already drawing blood. “After… at brunch… I just needed to…” He trails off, his gaze desperate, searching Katsuki’s eyes for the familiar fire, finding only cold ash. “You left.”
“Observant.”
“Don’t do that,” Izuku pleads, his voice cracking. “Don’t shut down. Please. Talk to me.”
Katsuki feels Eijiro shift his weight, a silent signal of exit, but he doesn’t look away from Izuku. This is the job now. The final performance. “We talked. At brunch. You said everything that needed to be said. It was a mistake. We forget it. We move on. That’s the plan, right?”
“That’s not—” Izuku takes a step forward, stops when Katsuki doesn’t retreat. The space between them hums with everything unsaid. “I was flustered. They were all staring, and Ochako was looking at me like she felt sorry for me, and I just… I said the first thing that would make it stop.”
“You said the truth.” The words leave Katsuki’s mouth, clean and surgical. He watches them land, watches Izuku flinch. “Drunk mistake. That’s what it was. That’s what you called it. So we’re on the same page. Good. Makes the next two days easier.”
Izuku’s eyes fill, a sheen of wetness that makes Katsuki’s gut clench. He hates it. Hates that even now, the sight of Izuku’s tears feels like a personal failure.
“The mistake,” Izuku blurts out, the words tripping over each other in their rush to escape, “was calling last night a mistake.” He swipes at his eyes with the back of his hand, a furious, childish gesture. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Kacchan. I was flustered and panicked and I saw Ochako’s face and I just… I said the thing that would make it small. That would make it go away.”
Katsuki doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. The cold ash in his chest stirs, a single ember threatening to reignite.
“But it wasn’t small,” Izuku whispers, his gaze dropping to the gravel between them. His cheeks flush a deep, mortified red. He’s acutely aware of Eijiro standing there, a statue of quiet witness. “It wasn’t a mistake. It felt… it felt really good.” The admission is so soft, so ashamed, it’s barely audible. “I’m so embarrassed to say that right now.”
Eijiro clears his throat, taking a deliberate step backward. “I’m just… gonna go check on Mina. You guys… talk.” He doesn’t wait for a response, just turns and walks with purpose toward the hotel, giving them the illusion of privacy.
The silence he leaves behind is vast and echoing. A pigeon coos from a nearby lamppost.
“Good,” Katsuki says finally, his voice still that flat, closed-door tone. “Glad you enjoyed the drunk fuck. Mission accomplished.”
Izuku shakes his head, a violent jerk that sends tears flying. “It was more than that.” His voice is shredded, raw. “I don’t… I don’t know what it was. But it felt good. And I don’t regret it.” A sob cracks through the admission. “Please, Kacchan. Don’t hate me.”
The ember in Katsuki’s chest ignites into a wildfire, consuming the cold ash in one breath. He watches a tear trace the constellation of freckles on Izuku’s cheek, and the part of him that’s been holding a decades-long breath simply lets go.
He doesn’t decide to move. His body does it for him. Two strides forward and his arms are around Izuku, crushing him against his chest. Izuku makes a small, broken sound and his hands fist in the back of Katsuki’s shirt, holding on like he’s drowning.
“I don’t hate you,” Katsuki grits out, his face buried in wild green curls. He smells hotel shampoo and the salt of Izuku’s skin. “You’re a fucking idiot. But I don’t hate you.”
Izuku clings tighter, his entire body trembling. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“Shut up,” Katsuki murmurs, but there’s no heat in it. His hand slides up to cradle the back of Izuku’s head. He can feel every shaky inhale against his own ribs. The morning sun is warm on his neck. A pigeon struts past their feet, oblivious.
They stand like that for a full minute, maybe two. The world narrows to the points of contact: Katsuki’s palm on Izuku’s skull, Izuku’s forehead pressed to the hollow of Katsuki’s throat, the damp heat of tears soaking through cotton.
When Katsuki finally speaks, his voice is rough gravel. “You might have to suck my dick again for me to forgive you fully, though.”
A wet, startled laugh huffs against his collarbone. Izuku doesn’t let go. The wet laugh against his collarbone stops. Izuku pulls back just enough to look up at him, and Katsuki sees the shift happen in real time—the watery green eyes clear, focus, harden into something terrifyingly determined. Izuku nods once, a sharp jerk of his chin, as if answering a question Katsuki didn’t ask.
“Okay,” Izuku says, his voice still thick but certain. His hand slides down from Katsuki’s back, fingers threading through Katsuki’s. He doesn’t ask. He just turns and pulls, his grip iron-tight, and starts half-jogging back toward the hotel, dragging a stunned Katsuki behind him.
“Deku, what the hell—”
“Come on.”
Izuku doesn’t look back. He weaves through the sparse morning foot traffic, their joined hands a tether Katsuki is too thrown to break. The hotel lobby is a blur of marble and potted plants. The elevator doors close on them, and Izuku immediately turns, pushing Katsuki back against the mirrored wall and kissing him—a hard, messy, closed-mouth press of lips that’s more declaration than passion. Katsuki can taste salt and the metallic tang of Izuku’s bitten lip. The elevator dings for their floor.
Izuku fumbles the key card twice before the lock clicks green. He shoves the door open, pulls Katsuki inside, and kicks it shut. The room is still dim, curtains drawn against the midday sun, smelling of their sleep and stale champagne. Before Katsuki’s eyes can adjust, Izuku is dropping to his knees on the carpet.
“Izuku—”
His name dies in his throat. Izuku’s hands are at his belt, nimble fingers undoing the buckle, the button, the zipper. The cool air of the room hits Katsuki’s stomach, and then Izuku is pulling his pants and boxers down just enough to free his cock. It’s soft, vulnerable in the dim light, and Katsuki’s brain short-circuits. This isn’t drunk desperation. This is morning-lit, clear-eyed intention.
Izuku doesn’t hesitate. He leans forward and licks a broad, flat stripe from base to tip. The sensation is electric, a jolt that makes Katsuki’s thighs tense. Izuku’s tongue is warm, wet, practiced. He wraps a hand around Katsuki’s shaft, pumps him slowly once, twice, and Katsuki feels himself thickening, swelling, blood rushing in a hot tide under Izuku’s palm. His cock springs to full, aching hardness in less than thirty seconds.
“Fuck,” Katsuki breathes, his head tipping back against the door. He looks down. Izuku’s green eyes are locked on his, pupils blown wide. There’s no apology in them now. Just hunger. Izuku opens his mouth, and Katsuki watches, mesmerized, as those freckled cheeks hollow, and Izuku takes him in, down, swallowing him to the root in one smooth, obscene glide.
The heat is unbearable. Perfect. Katsuki feels the head of his cock nudge the back of Izuku’s throat, feels the tight, fluttering swallow around him. Izuku’s nose presses into his pubic bone. He’s deep-throating him like it’s nothing, like he was born to do it, and Katsuki’s hands fly to fist in green curls on pure instinct. He doesn’t push. He just holds on, his knuckles white.
Izuku pulls back, his lips slick and swollen, a string of spit connecting them to Katsuki’s tip. He gasps for air, his chest heaving. “Still need convincing?” His voice is wrecked already, raw from crying and now from taking Katsuki’s girth.
Katsuki can’t form words. He shakes his head, a jerky, helpless motion.
Izuku smiles, a small, fierce thing, and dives back down. This time he sets a rhythm, a relentless, wet slide of his mouth, his tongue tracing the thick vein underneath. The sounds are filthy—wet suction, choked breaths, the soft slap of skin as Izuku’s hand works the base. Katsuki’s hips twitch forward, a shallow thrust he can’t control. Izuku moans around him, the vibration traveling straight up his spine.
“Izu— wait, fuck, I’m not—” Katsuki tries to warn him, the coil in his gut winding too fast, too tight. It’s too much after the emotional whiplash, the confession, the hug. His body is a live wire.
Izuku pulls off, his chin glistening. He strokes Katsuki hard, his thumb swiping over the leaking tip. “Yeah you are,” he says, his voice low and sure. “Cum in my mouth, Kacchan. I want you to.”
He doesn’t wait for permission. He takes Katsuki back down, swallowing him whole, and Katsuki shatters. His orgasm rips through him, blinding white, and he empties himself down Izuku’s throat in thick, pulsing spurts. Izuku drinks it, swallowing around him, milking him with his throat until Katsuki is shaking, oversensitive, his fingers loosening in Izuku’s hair.
Izuku finally pulls off, panting, and rests his forehead against Katsuki’s trembling thigh. Katsuki looks down at the crown of green curls, at the curve of Izuku’s flushed neck, and the reality of what just happened—sober, deliberate, devastating—crashes over him. This wasn’t a performance. This wasn’t for an audience. This was for him.
Izuku lifts his head, green eyes still hazy and wet, a slick string of spit connecting his lower lip to the tip of Katsuki's softening cock. His freckled cheeks are flushed, his chin glistening in the dim afternoon light filtering through the curtains.
“Do you forgive me now, Kacchan?” His voice is wrecked, raw from crying and from swallowing, but there's a fragile, hopeful smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. N ollll no Katsuki stares down at him, his brain still short-circle cuited, the taste of his own release lingering on his tongue. He manages a jerky nod, his hand sliding from Izuku's hair to cup his jaw, thumb brushing over a smear of saliva on his cheek. Holy fuck, Izuku…” The words come out as a hoarse whisper, his crimson eyes wide, pupils blown.
Izuku leans into the touch, turning his head to press a soft kiss to Katsuki's palm. The carpet is rough under his knees, but he doesn't move to stand. “I meant it,” he murmurs against Katsuki's skin. “All of it.” The silence between them is thick with everything unsaid, the weight of a decade of longing pressing down on the small space. Katsuki's hand trembles against Izuku's cheek, and he doesn't pull away when Izuku slowly rises, his legs unsteady, and cups Katsuki's face in both hands, searching his eyes for something—permission, maybe, or the same desperate hope that's starting to bloom in his own chest.