The silence in the hotel room is a live wire. An hour has passed since Izuku’s mouth was on him, since Katsuki came down his throat for the third time, and the air hasn’t settled. It’s thick, charged, a third presence between them as Katsuki lays out clothes on the bed—dark, tailored trousers, a soft linen shirt for Izuku. The rules are ash. The pretense is a joke they’ve stopped telling. What’s left is this: a new, terrifying geography of want, mapped by tongue and cock and swallowed cum, and neither of them knows how to navigate it.
“Just put these on,” Katsuki says, his voice rough. He doesn’t look at Izuku, who’s hovering near the foot of the bed, still in the t-shirt and jeans he’d thrown on after. “The dinner’s in forty minutes.”
“Right. Okay.” Izuku’s voice is small. He fumbles with his belt, the click of the buckle loud in the quiet. Katsuki forces himself to focus on smoothing the shirt’s collar, on the texture of the fabric under his fingers—anything but the sound of Izuku’s zipper lowering. But his peripheral vision is a traitor. He sees the denim peel down freckled thighs, the curve of Izuku’s ass as he bends to push the jeans past his knees.
And there’s nothing underneath. No cotton, no silk, nothing. Just the smooth, freckled skin of his thighs, the shadow between them. The clean lines of his top surgery scars are visible from this angle, a stark contrast to the soft, exposed curve of him. Katsuki’s breath stops. His brain whites out. All the careful control, the act of dressing him like a doll, shatters.
“You’re not wearing anything,” he says, the words flat, final.
Izuku freezes, bent over, jeans around his ankles. “I… I forgot? After last night, everything was…” He trails off, a flush spreading down his neck. It’s not an excuse. It’s an invitation. A fucking provocation.
It’s not fair. The thought is primal, a snarl in Katsuki’s skull. The brat got to suck him off, got to taste him again, got to kneel and take everything Katsuki gave him, and Katsuki hasn’t had his mouth on that pussy since last night, drunk and desperate. He hasn’t had it sober. He needs it sober. He moves before the thought finishes.
He’s on his knees behind Izuku, his hands on those thick thighs, spreading them wider. Izuku gasps, a sharp, shocked sound, but doesn’t straighten up. He braces his hands on the mattress, his back arching. Katsuki doesn’t hesitate. He leans in, his nose brushing the soft skin of Izuku’s inner thigh, and then his tongue is there, a broad, wet stroke through his folds.
“Kacchan—!” Izuku’s voice breaks. He’s already wet. Slick and hot and tasting like clean skin and salt and pure Izuku. Katsuki groans into him, the sound vibrating against his clit. He licks deeper, desperately, mapping him with his tongue—the swollen bud, the tight furl of his entrance, the way his whole body shudders. He hooks an arm around Izuku’s thigh to hold him open, to keep him right there, bent over and offering everything.
“You did this on purpose,” Katsuki mutters against his skin, his words slurred by wet flesh. He doesn’t wait for an answer. He licks into him again, deep, his tongue pushing inside just a little, and Izuku cries out, his hips jerking back. “You wanted this.”
“I… I didn’t think…” Izuku pants, his forehead pressed to the duvet. His hands fist in the fabric. “I just… wanted you to see.”
Katsuki’s vision tunnels. He sucks Izuku’s clit into his mouth, hard, and Izuku sobs, his legs trembling. Katsuki works him with his tongue, relentless, a rhythm that’s already familiar, that he learned last night and is perfecting now. He can feel the tension coiling in Izuku’s thighs, the clench of his muscles. He’s close. Too fucking close.
“Don’t you dare,” Katsuki growls against his pussy, the vibration making Izuku jerk. He pulls back just enough to speak, his mouth slick and shining. “You better not cum yet. I was just starting.”
Izuku whines, a high, desperate sound. His thighs tremble around Katsuki’s head. “Kacchan, I can’t— I’m too close—”
“You can.” Katsuki’s voice is dark, absolute. He doesn’t use his fingers, doesn’t give him anything else to focus on. Just his mouth. He licks a broad, slow stripe from his clit back up to his hole, then back to suck the swollen bud gently, too gently, a maddening counterpoint to the need screaming in Izuku’s veins. “You’ll hold it for me.”
He’s drowning in the taste of him. Salty, musky, pure Izuku. Katsuki laps at his slick like it’s the only thing keeping him alive, slurping up every drop, chasing the source. He tongues his hole, feels the tight clench of muscle, and Izuku sobs, his hips pushing back helplessly. Katsuki lets him, lets him fuck himself on his tongue for a few brutal, wet strokes, then pulls away again, leaving him empty.
“Why?” Izuku pants, forehead grinding into the duvet. His hands are fists, knuckles white. “Why are you— torturing me?”
“Because I want to.” Katsuki noses his inner thigh, breathes him in. His own cock is a hard, aching weight in his trousers, but that’s a secondary fire. This is primary. This is conquest. “Because you decided not to wear any underwear. Because you let me see. So now I get to taste. For as long as I want.”
He seals his mouth over Izuku’s clit again and sucks, hard, and Izuku screams, his back bowing. Katsuki feels the orgasm try to rip through him, feels the clench and the pulse, and he pulls off completely, leaving him shaking on the edge. Izuku cries out in frustrated agony.
“Please,” he begs, the word shredded. “Please, Kacchan, please let me.”
Katsuki ignores him. He spreads Izuku wider, licks into his entrance, drinks the fresh rush of wetness that spills out. He’s methodical now, mapping every fold, every sensitive spot, learning what makes Izuku’s legs jerk and what makes him go still and silent. He’s storing data.
“Squirt for me,” Katsuki growls against his skin, the words vibrating through Izuku’s clit. His mouth is a wet, hot seal. “Right in my mouth. Do it, Izuku. Now.”
He sucks, hard, his whole mouth a vacuum over Izuku’s pussy, tongue flat and pressing, and Izuku shatters. The scream that tears out of him is raw, unfiltered, loud enough to echo off the hotel walls. His body convulses, thighs clamping around Katsuki’s head as a hot, sweet rush floods Katsuki’s mouth. Katsuki drinks it, gulping, his throat working, refusing to let a single drop escape. He groans, the sound muffled against Izuku’s flesh, and the vibration tips Izuku into a second, shuddering wave.
The taste is everything. Salty, musky, uniquely Izuku, and it’s the trigger. Katsuki’s own orgasm punches through him, a brutal, unexpected climax that has him jerking against the rough fabric of his trousers. He comes in his jeans, heat spreading, soaking through, his hips stuttering against nothing as he swallows every last drop Izuku gives him. It’s messy, juvenile, and the most profound thing he’s ever felt.
Izuku collapses forward onto the bed, his body spent and trembling. Katsuki rests his forehead against the back of Izuku’s thigh, his breathing ragged. The silence that follows is different—sated, thick with the smell of sex and sweat and spent want. Katsuki’s jeans are a cold, sticky mess. He doesn’t care.
“They heard that,” Izuku mumbles into the duvet, his voice wrecked. “Everyone on the floor heard that.”
“Probably,” Katsuki says, his voice rough. He pushes himself up on unsteady knees. His own release is a cooling dampness clinging to his skin, a humiliating, perfect evidence. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes never leaving the flushed, trembling curve of Izuku’s ass. “We need to get dressed.”
Izuku doesn’t move. “I can’t feel my legs.”
Katsuki’s palm connects with the curve of Izuku’s ass in a sharp, stinging slap. The sound cracks through the room, and Izuku jolts, a gasp catching in his throat. “Get moving,” Katsuki growls, his voice still rough from having his mouth full. “Or we’ll be late.”
He pushes himself to his feet, ignoring the cold, sticky mess in his trousers. He stalks to the bathroom, grabs a wad of tissues, and unzips his jeans. The sight is humiliating: the dark, damp patch on the front of his boxer briefs, the slick evidence of his own climax. He cleans himself with quick, efficient motions, his jaw tight.
“Did you…” Izuku’s voice is small from the bed. He’s managed to sit up, his green eyes wide. “Did you just… cum untouched? In your jeans?”
Katsuki’s head snaps up, his crimson eyes locking on Izuku’s flushed face. A warning glare, sharp enough to cut. “Shut up,” he bites out, the embarrassment a hot coal in his gut. It’s obvious. It’s pathetic. It’s the truth.
He turns away, stripping off the soiled trousers and briefs. He doesn’t look at Izuku as he pulls on fresh black boxer briefs, then steps into the tailored maroon suit trousers. The fabric is cool and smooth against his skin, a stark contrast to the heat still simmering under the surface. He shrugs into the matching maroon blazer, leaving the shirt beneath it unbuttoned for now.
“Your turn,” he says, his voice deliberately flat. He walks back to the bed where the forest green suit waits. “Arms up.”
Izuku obeys, raising his arms, and Katsuki guides the soft linen shirt over his head. His fingers brush the scars on Izuku’s chest, the touch deliberate, not accidental. He buttons the shirt slowly, from the bottom up, his knuckles grazing the warm skin of Izuku’s stomach with each movement. Izuku’s breath hitches, but he stays silent, his eyes fixed on Katsuki’s hands.
Katsuki finishes the last button at Izuku’s throat, his knuckles brushing the column of his neck. “Pants,” he says, his voice still rough. He steps back, gesturing to the forest green trousers laid out on the bed. “And put on some damn underwear this time.”
Izuku’s lips curve, a slow, deliberate thing. He doesn’t look away from Katsuki as he walks to his suitcase and rummages through a folded stack. He pulls out a pair of panties—maroon silk, a sheer, delicate lace panel at the front. He steps into them, slow, pulling the silk up his legs, over his ass, settling them into place. The color is a perfect, provocative match to Katsuki’s suit. Only then does he step into the trousers, pulling them up over the lacy silk, over his thick thighs.
“You’re a fucking tease,” Katsuki snarls, closing the distance between them in two strides. He doesn’t touch him. He just looms, his crimson eyes burning into Izuku’s green ones. The air crackles. “You think this is funny? Strutting around in fucking lingerie after I just had my mouth on you?”
“I think,” Izuku murmurs, his gaze dropping to Katsuki’s mouth, “you liked it. I think you’re mad because you want to rip them off with your teeth.”
Katsuki’s hand twitches at his side. The truth of it is a live wire under his skin. He wants to pin him to the wall, shred the silk, and fuck him raw right here. He wants to make him scream again. Instead, he forces a breath through his nose. “Get your jacket. We’re late.”
He turns away, a study in controlled violence, and buttons up his shirt with quick, sharp motions, tucking it in, not looking at Izuku as the other man slips on his suit jacket. The silence is a battleground. Katsuki can still taste him. The maroon silk is imprinted on the back of his eyelids.
“Ready,” Izuku says, his voice small again, the bravado fading into nervousness.
Katsuki doesn’t answer. He just yanks the door open and stalks into the hallway, hearing Izuku’s hurried footsteps follow. The elevator ride down is agony. They stand a foot apart. Katsuki stares at the descending numbers, his jaw clenched so tight it aches. He feels Izuku’s eyes on his profile. Feels the heat of his own humiliation and want like a fever.
The lobby is a swirl of their friends, all dressed for the rehearsal dinner. Eijiro spots them first, his spiky red hair bouncing as he waves. “There they are! We were about to send a search party!”
Mina loops her arm through Eijiro’s, her yellow eyes sparkling with mischief. “Took you long enough. Everything okay?” Her gaze flicks between them, too knowing.
“Fine, we made up,” Katsuki bites out, his voice a graveled wall. He can feel Izuku hovering just behind his shoulder, a warm, silent presence. Ochako and Himiko approach, hand-in-hand, a vision in complementary shades of cream and gold.
“You look amazing, guys!” Ochako says, her smile warm and genuine. Her eyes linger on Izuku for a second, a flicker of something soft and nostalgic, before she looks at Katsuki. “Ready to head to the venue? The cars are here.”
“Yeah,” Izuku says, his voice finding a false, bright cheer. “Let’s go.”
Katsuki’s arm slides around Izuku’s waist, his hand splaying possessively over his hip. He pulls him in, tight against his side. The movement is smooth, practiced for their audience, but his grip is all real, a silent claim. He’d seen that soft, nostalgic flicker in Ochako’s brown eyes. He didn’t like it.
“Ready,” Izuku murmurs, and he doesn’t stiffen or pull away. He melts into the hold, his head tilting to rest against Katsuki’s shoulder as they move with the group toward the waiting town cars. The scent of his green curls—shampoo and the faint, lingering musk of sex—hits Katsuki’s nose. It’s a brand.
“Get a room, you two,” Denki cackles, already piling into the first car with Hitoshi, who just rolls his violet eyes.
“They had one. The whole hotel heard it,” Hitoshi deadpans, his voice flat with tired amusement.
Katsuki ignores them, guiding Izuku into the second car. He doesn’t let go. He slides in after him, keeping Izuku tucked into the curve of his arm, their thighs pressed together from hip to knee. The maroon silk is a secret against Izuku’s skin, a secret Katsuki can feel through the layers of linen and wool. Izuku nuzzles closer, his nose brushing the column of Katsuki’s throat. A quiet, contented sigh ghosts over his skin.
Eijiro and Mina slip into the seat across from them. Mina’s yellow eyes are wide with glee. “So. You ‘made up,’ huh?”
“Shut up, Pinky,” Katsuki growls, but there’s no real heat in it. His focus is split: the warm weight of Izuku against him, and the humiliating, perfect memory of coming untouched in his jeans. His thumb strokes idle circles on Izuku’s hip through the suit jacket.
“It’s sweet,” Ochako says from the front passenger seat, half-turning to smile at them. Himiko is already in the driver’s seat, humming as she starts the engine. “You two just… fit.”
Katsuki’s jaw tightens. Fit. The word is a knife. They do fit. His body knows the shape of Izuku’s better than it knows its own. He knows the exact pressure that makes Izuku gasp, the spot behind his ear that makes him shiver. He knows the taste of him. And it’s all a performance built on a lie he told to torture himself. Izuku is just playing his part, nuzzling for the audience, clinging to the human shield Katsuki agreed to be.
“Thanks, Ochako,” Izuku says, his voice soft. His hand comes up to rest over Katsuki’s where it grips his waist. His fingers lace through Katsuki’s. A simple, affectionate gesture. It sends a bolt of pure agony straight through Katsuki’s chest.
The town car pulls up to the fancy restaurant. Katsuki doesn’t let go of Izuku’s waist as they exit, his hand a firm anchor as they follow the group inside.
“Table for the wedding party, right this way!” a server calls, leading them through the buzzing crowd to a long table draped in white linen. Katsuki guides Izuku into a chair, then drops into the one beside him, his thigh immediately pressing against Izuku’s under the table. It’s not for show. He needs the contact, the solid proof of him, after the car ride and the memory of silk and cum.
Ochako stands at the head of the table, tapping her champagne flute with a spoon. The chatter dies down. Himiko is tucked into her side, a sharp-toothed grin on her face. “Hey, everyone,” Ochako says, her warm brown eyes sweeping the table. “Thank you all so, so much for being here. Seriously. It means the world.”
“You’re all our favorite people!” Himiko chirps, her voice a lilting sing-song. She nuzzles Ochako’s cheek. “Even the grumpy ones.” Her amber eyes dart to Katsuki, gleaming.
Ochako laughs, a soft, happy sound. “We’re just… really glad everyone is still so close after all these years. Since high school. It’s rare, you know? To have your people stick.” Her gaze lands on Izuku, and the soft, nostalgic flicker is back. “It makes tomorrow feel even more special.”
Katsuki’s jaw works. His people. Izuku is his person. Has been since they were four. The lie is a barbed wire cage around that truth. He feels Izuku’s hand find his under the table, fingers threading through his, squeezing. A comfort. A complication. Izuku’s thumb strokes the back of his knuckle, a slow, deliberate rhythm.
“Speech, speech!” Denki hollers, already tipsy.
“We’re just saying thanks, dummy,” Hitoshi mutters, elbowing him gently.
Eijiro raises his glass, his red eyes suspiciously shiny. “To the best friends a guy could ask for! And to the brides!”
The toast echoes around the table. Katsuki lifts his glass mechanically, his eyes on Izuku’s profile as he takes a sip. The fairy lights catch the green of his curls, the dusting of freckles over his nose. He’s beautiful. It’s a fact that lives in Katsuki’s bones, a constant, quiet ache. Izuku leans into him, his head resting against Katsuki’s shoulder, and the ache sharpens, sweet and terrible.
Katsuki’s voice is a low rumble against Izuku’s temple. “You okay?”
Izuku hums, a soft, pleasant vibration Katsuki feels through his shoulder. “Yes.” He tilts his head back, his green eyes clear and focused in the honeyed light. “I’m perfect, in fact.”
He turns fully then, and before Katsuki can process the words, Izuku’s lips are on his. It’s not hungry or desperate like in the club. It’s not a performance for the table. It’s sweet. A soft, closed-mouth press that lingers, Izuku’s hand coming up to cradle Katsuki’s jaw, his thumb stroking the sharp line of his cheekbone. It feels like a thank you. It feels like a promise. It feels real, and that fucking destroys him.
“Aww!” Mina coos from across the table, breaking the spell. “See? Perfect!”
Izuku pulls back, a faint blush on his freckled cheeks, but he doesn’t look away from Katsuki. He just smiles, small and private, before turning to face the table again, settling back against Katsuki’s side. Katsuki can’t move. His skin is on fire where Izuku’s lips were. The ghost of that sweetness is a brand over the memory of every filthy, hungry kiss that came before it.
The conversation flows around them—plans for tomorrow’s ceremony, who’s walking with whom, the timing of the photos. Katsuki answers when spoken to, his voice a low, automatic rumble. His attention is split, a silent tally being kept behind his crimson eyes.
Ochako’s gaze drifts to Izuku three times in ten minutes. Not lingering, not obvious. A soft glance while Izuku is laughing at something Denki said. A thoughtful look when Izuku leans forward to grab a bread roll, the line of his throat exposed. A flicker of something wistful when Izuku’s hand finds Katsuki’s knee under the table and squeezes.
“The florist confirmed the peonies for the arbor,” Ochako is saying to Mina, but her brown eyes are on Izuku’s smiling profile for a half-second too long.
And Himiko. Her amber eyes are a laser on Katsuki. Every time he looks up, she’s watching him, that sharp-toothed grin playing on her lips. Not a friendly look. An assessing one. Like she’s fitting pieces of a puzzle together and finding the picture amusing.
“Something on my face, Bride?” Katsuki finally snaps, his patience fraying under the dual surveillance.
Himiko’s grin widens. “Just admiring the view. You clean up nice, Blasty. For a grump.” She nuzzles Ochako’s shoulder. “Your ex has good taste in fake boyfriends, Ocha.”
The table goes quiet for a beat. Izuku’s hand stills on Katsuki’s knee.
Ochako swats Himiko’s arm, her cheeks pink. “Himi, don’t be mean.”
“I’m not!” Himiko chirps, innocent as a knife. “It’s a compliment! Izuku picked a convincing one. Very… dedicated to the role.” Her eyes slide back to Katsuki, gleaming with knowing. “Aren’t you, Katsuki?”
The silence at the table is a physical thing. Katsuki feels it press against his eardrums, a high-pitched whine underneath. Izuku’s hand is a frozen weight on his knee. His own breath is trapped somewhere behind his ribs. Fake boyfriends. The words hang in the air between the string lights, sharp and glittering as broken glass.
Ochako’s laugh is a light, airy thing, a bubble that pops against the sudden chill in the air. She tilts her head, her gaze skipping from Himiko’s sharp grin to Izuku’s pale face like a stone over a pond, not sinking in.
“Dude, not cool,” Eijiro says, his cheerful tone strained. He leans forward, his big shoulders tense. “They’re clearly together. Like, obviously.”
Mina nods, her yellow eyes wide but firm. “Seriously, Toga. You can’t just say stuff like that. Look at them!” She gestures at where Izuku is plastered to Katsuki’s side. “They’ve been glued to each other all night. That’s not fake.”
Katsuki’s brain is a static roar. He can feel every point of contact with Izuku—the line of his thigh, the press of his shoulder, the cold tremor in the hand on his knee. Dedicated to the role. The fucking irony of it is a poison in his throat. He is dedicated. He’s dedicated to the point of self-immolation. He forces air into his lungs, forces his voice to work. It comes out flat, dangerous. “You got a problem with how I treat my boyfriend, you say it to me.”
Izuku finds his voice, a thin, reedy thing. “Himiko, that’s… that’s not funny.” He turns his face into Katsuki’s neck, a gesture that could be read as seeking comfort. Katsuki feels the frantic flutter of his pulse against his skin.
Himiko’s amber eyes don’t leave Katsuki’s face. Her head tilts, birdlike. “No problem, Blasty. Like I said. Convincing.” She takes a slow sip of her champagne, her gaze sliding to Ochako. “Right, Ocha? So convincing it almost seems real.”
Ochako’s round face is a mask of polite confusion, but her brown eyes are doing something complicated—flicking between Izuku’s curled form and Katsuki’s rigid possessiveness. The nostalgic softness is gone, replaced by a bride’s sharp, assessing focus. “I think,” she says slowly, “you’ve had a bit too much champagne, love.” She squeezes Himiko’s hand, but the gesture feels like a warning.
Katsuki’s thumb digs into the meat of Izuku’s hip where his hand still rests. A silent command. Stay still. Play the part. The part where you’re mine. He leans down, his lips brushing the shell of Izuku’s ear. His whisper is for the whole table to hear, a low, intimate growl. “You alright, Izu?”
The childhood nickname, used now, in this defense, is another layer of the lie. Izuku shivers against him. “Yeah, Kacchan,” he murmurs back, the name a quiet anchor. He lifts his head, meeting Ochako’s gaze with a wobbly smile. “Really, it’s okay. She’s just teasing.”
Ochako’s laugh rings out again, a bright, deliberate sound that cuts through the tension like a knife through cake. “Oh, she’s absolutely had too much champagne,” she says, leaning into Himiko and pressing a fond, slightly firm kiss to her temple. “Pay no attention to her. She gets like this when she’s happy—says the most outrageous things.”
Himiko giggles, nuzzling into the kiss, her amber eyes still locked on Katsuki with a spark of pure, unrepentant mischief. “Just saying what everyone’s thinking!” she trills, but she lets Ochako pull her attention away, turning to whisper something in her ear that makes Ochako blush and swat her arm again.
The table exhales, a collective release of held breath. Conversation stutters back to life, a forced, cheerful hum about dessert and the next day’s timeline. But the air is different now. Thicker. Sticky with the unsaid. Katsuki can feel the sideways glances, the subtle reassessments. Eijiro catches his eye, gives a tiny, almost imperceptible shake of his head—a warning, or maybe solidarity. Mina’s smile is a little too bright as she launches into a story about a floral disaster at another wedding.
Katsuki doesn’t participate. His hand is a vise on Izuku’s hip, his thumb still pressing a silent, possessive circle into the silk of his shirt. Izuku is breathing shallowly against his neck, his fingers now curled tight in the fabric of Katsuki’s slacks. *Convincing*, the word echoes in Katsuki’s skull. *Almost seems real*. He wants to put his fist through the wall. He wants to drag Izuku out of this chair, back to their room, and fuck him until neither of them can remember their own names, until the only thing that’s real is the sweat and the cum and the way Izuku’s body opens for him. He does neither. He sits perfectly still, a statue of controlled rage, and watches the brides.
“We should probably call it,” Ochako says eventually, her voice warm but final. She stands, smoothing her dress. “Big day tomorrow. Thank you all, truly. For everything.” Her gaze sweeps the table, lingering for a fraction of a second on Izuku. “I’m so glad you’re all here.”
The goodbyes are a blur of hugs and well-wishes. Katsuki stands, pulling Izuku up with him, keeping him anchored to his side. He nods stiffly at the others, his jaw clenched so tight it aches. When they reach the restaurant doors, the cool night air hitting his face feels like a slap. Izuku stumbles a little on the gravel path, and Katsuki’s arm is around his waist in an instant, holding him upright. They don’t speak. The silence between them is a live wire, humming with everything that just happened and everything that’s still to come.
Katsuki is going to be very wary of the brides tomorrow.