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ratdesu · 3 years

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pairing | midoriya izuku x bakugou katsuki rating | explicit, 18+ word count | 22.5k status | complete, one-shot (ao3) tags | au (no quirks, college), aged-up characters, baseball player!midoriya, swimmer!bakugou, top midoriya, bottom/power bottom bakugou, getting together, porn with feelings, shameless smut, semi-public sex, oral sex, mutual masturbation, foot job, anal sex

summary

echoes filtered down the white hall as he descended the stairs toward the locker rooms, reverberating from the pool. a whistle, the sound of breaking water. he swiped the towel over his face, paused. the sliver of cerulean catching the sinking sun pouring through the skylights, the red and white lane buoys, the burn of chlorine.

izuku ran a hand through his curls, snagging on a knot. the clock on the wall reminded him how late it was. a minute wouldn't hurt. he worried his lip. just a glimpse.

The thud of the pitching machine, a ball rocketing toward him, a crack against the bat. It flew to the left, caught in the netting as another spat out. He swung again, the stinging connection vibrating up his arms. He huffed, rearing, bat circling.

Izuku's teammates had wrapped up practice, shambling off the field as he stayed behind to hit a few more in the cage. It felt good, the repetitive force of the bat, the sound of the ball meeting wood, the fatigue in his arms and the powerful twist in his hips. It was nice not to think about anything except the next pitch, but with a glance at the clock on the scoreboard and the dipping light of the sun, he stepped back from the plate. He had a pile of readings and a test to study for.

Flipping the switch, the whirring of the machine sputtered to a stop. Shucking his batting gloves and shaking out clammy hands, Izuku stuffed them into his helmet. He collected the scattered balls and packed up, following the path back to the athletics building, a towel slung over his shoulder with a deflated, tired sigh.

Echoes filtered down the white hall as he descended the stairs toward the locker rooms, reverberating from the pool. A whistle, the sound of breaking water. He swiped the towel over his face, paused. The sliver of cerulean catching the sinking sun pouring through the skylights, the red and white lane buoys, the burn of chlorine.

Izuku ran a hand through his curls, snagging on a knot. The clock on the wall reminded him how late it was. A minute wouldn't hurt. He worried his lip. Just a glimpse. Taking the stairs to the stands, he settled into a seat near the back and dumped his equipment in the aisle. Izuku released another sigh.

"Which one is she?" Izuku asked, scanning the line of young women at the starting blocks.

"Lane three."

She was short with long limbs and large eyes which stood out even from a distance as she fiddled with her goggles.

"Oh," Izuku said, squinting, "she looks cute."

Ochako clapped her cheeks. "I know," she groaned. "We met in the lab. She's studying zoology. Frogs, I think. I don't remember, I was distracted by how sweet she is and now I'm afraid to ask again."

"Frogs seems fitting." He couldn't quite put his finger on why, exactly.

"Should I wave? Is that just distracting?" Ochako nibbled her fingertip.

They both jumped as a loud beep sounded through the speakers and the swimmers mounted the blocks. Another to take their marks, a third and they dove. The crowd erupted, echoing through the natatorium, parents and friends and students all cheering for their hopefuls.

Ochako leapt to her feet, cupping her hands over her mouth. "Go, Tsu-chan!"

"C'mon, Tsuyu!" Izuku hollered, swept up in the burst of energy.

Between heats, however, a swim meet was something of a meandering thing.

"Is she going to swim again?" he asked, legs crossed as he looked over Ochako's shoulder at her phone. The morning had crept into afternoon.

"She texted saying she'd be in the '200 medley relay' and the '100 breaststroke.' We saw her twice, so I guess not. Looks like the men's 100 freestyle is up next," she said, reviewing the heat sheet. "You want to head out?"

Izuku glanced at the LED scoreboard for the time. "Yeah, I need to get—oh," he exhaled, like his lungs were a balloon popped beneath stomping feet.

"Oh?" She followed his captivated gaze. "Oh. 'Oh' is right."

Tall, commanding, confident. A frowning vision on the pool deck crafted to cut through water.

"Do you want to stay?" Ochako snorted, quickly covering her mouth.

"For another minute," he mumbled.

"You're gonna have to pick your jaw up off the floor," she said. He straightened and raked through his hair, face hot, clearing his throat.

Izuku anxiously waited for him to step up to the blocks, leg bouncing erratically. Ochako grabbed his thigh and forced him to still, Izuku offering an apology, unable to put into words the thrumming desire. As the fourth and final heat came, the swimmer stood and unzipped his jacket. Izuku swallowed. Where Izuku was thick with muscle, he was lithe. Where Izuku was tanned and spotted, he was pale and sleek. His back rippled as he stretched, a broad wing-span circling, defined shoulders rolling, shaking out sculpted legs wrapped in tight school colors. Izuku dared to glance at the scoreboard.

Lane: four. Name: Bakugou Katsuki. Seed time: 47.31(pb).

The beep sounded and they mounted. Izuku sat up in his seat. The second and he was leaning forward in a mimicry of the swimmer taking his mark. On the third, Izuku stood as he arced into the water. He couldn't see anything with the white water, the honed kicking, the blur of a dark swimsuit, but he was glued to the fourth lane. At fifty meters came the turn, a moment of calm undulating, then an explosion of sound as he surfaced. Long pale arms reaching, slicing, the clock ticking. He pulled ahead, then further. The first touch and the crowd howled. Over in less than a minute. Izuku was silent.

The wave behind the swimmers sloshed, each whipping toward the scoreboard as they came up for air, waiting for times to appear, all heaving with the burst of exertion. The board adjusted. Hanging from the lane buoy, he tore off his goggles, ripped off his swim cap—blonde and wildly so—and scowled at his name in first place. He hauled out of the water, dripping, shrugging a teammate's hand from his shoulder as he snatched a towel and dumped onto the bench, head in his hands.

"Why does he look so upset, didn't he win?" Ochako asked quietly.

Izuku looked at the time. 47.72.

He’d known in some lesser way that disappointment, that frustration. The fear of the pinnacle already come and gone. When Izuku realized baseball was not a career for him (he simply was not imbued with a natural talent that could be honed) there was a sense of mourning knowing he could go no further despite the tallest peak still waiting—blue and hazy—in the distance. He lingered a while on the crest of his limited ability before beginning the downclimb. In its stead, as he was descending from baseball, he was beginning the arduous, winding path of his career in medicine.

Dedication. Single-minded focus. Izuku had known such things at one point, lost in the piles of work and sleepless nights after four years of pre-med.

He wanted to know them again.

A set of swimmers flew down the lanes, powerful arms dividing water. A flip and back toward the blocks. Izuku scanned the deck and benches among the scattered pull buoys, fins, kickboards, dry bags, but didn't see him. He must be in the pool, but it was impossible to tell when they were swimming. Except for the one in the lead. A dead giveaway. As they closed in on the final lap, fingertips reaching for the wall, the teammate timekeepers began rattling off numbers as they touched one-by-one. The swimmers treaded, patting each other fondly across lanes before pulling out of the water, slick and long-lined and breathless.

Izuku's fingers tightened around the arm rests. He didn't need to see the shock of blonde hair to know it was him—could tell by the cut of his shoulders, the tapered waist, lean legs. The bright orange swim briefs.

"Kinda slow on that one, man."

"Fuck off."

Not to mention his horrible mouth.

Izuku had sat in the stands a handful of times, slinking in after his own practice to watch theirs. He'd never seen Bakugou around campus, but had found his headshot on the online roster (stared into pixelated garnet eyes) with his listed major (sports physiology) and graduation date (next semester). He'd read a handful of articles extolling Bakugou's accomplishments in the sport: the one when he achieved his personal best, a manic thrill on his photographed face with his victorious splash frozen; the one detailing the injury he'd suffered which had benched him for an entire season; the one when during his first meet post-recovery he blew the competition out of the water. He was an Olympic hopeful, already scouted for the national team.

Bakugou's ambition was the one he'd fantasized about as a teenager. Izuku wanted to witness it—that point-two. It was so close, but at that level of athleticism, progress hinged on miniscule adjustments. The flexing of a certain muscle, the relaxing of another, a shorter inhale, a millimeter of extra fat for buoyancy. It was addicting, not knowing if an ordinary Wednesday would be the day.

So, he found himself coming back to the pool, wishing for the number two.

Izuku was comfortable—tired and tucked in the back, merely watching, the tidbits he'd scrounged up floating around his head like a screensaver. Sure, he'd had a few pipedreams about one of those teen movie moments where they make out in the pool, leading to X-rated activities on the slippery deck, but that's all they were. Fantasy. He'd come to kind of enjoy the smell of chlorine, the echoes rattling around the metal beams crisscrossing the ceiling, a shadowed chair to slump into as he silently celebrated the infinitesimal improvements, inching closer to the goal. It was easy to want Bakugou to win. He exuded victory from every pore with every catch and kick and breath.

The giant digital clock, however, was a constant reminder of Izuku whittling away the minutes while he had work to do. A lot of work. His double-major in neuroscience and inorganic chemistry was no joke. He barely had time to play mediocre baseball—more of a chore than the sport he once loved.

Izuku crossed his legs as the next set of swimmers mounted the blocks. A whistle blew, they dove, and Izuku's breath caught, going rigid as his ribs tightened like a screw clamp. Between the diving, arching limbs, Bakugou was staring at him. Glaring, really. Sharp enough even from across the pool, the deck, the stands to pierce like a scalpel slipping between skin. His heart thudded once, hard, then maybe skipped a beat.

Izuku had never been noticed before—at least not by Bakugou (he'd waved at Tsuyu a few times). He'd never been the focus of that fierce gaze and it was overwhelming, imbued with all the intensity he'd seen directed at the wall fifty meters down the lane. He hadn't realized how deeply he'd wanted it on him, but now that those fiery eyes were, he wasn't sure what to do. Izuku panicked. Grabbing his bag, he scrambled down the stairs and immediately regretted the clumsy exit as he burst into the hall.

"That wasn't suspicious at all, great job," Izuku mumbled as he sped toward the locker room, sneakers squeaking on the tile. He stopped outside the door with a heaved sigh, scrubbing the heels of his palms into tired eyes, knocking his forehead against the wood. "Such a weirdo."

"Yeah, you fuckin' are."

Izuku gulped back a shriek, spinning around. Bakugou stood behind him and he practically whimpered at the sight, hands instantly itching, burning to close the gap between them. Unblemished pale skin, damp blonde hair. Burning eyes like the ambient glow of a far-off fire. His muscled torso was bare and prickled in goosebumps in the cool hallway, his long legs on display in the tight, tiny swimsuit. His svelte waist, chiseled arms, strong lats where power collected. His dusty pink nipples.

"Eyes up here," he growled. Izuku warily met the narrow glare. "You keep showing up at practice, the fuck you want?"

"What do I want?" Izuku said, hoarse in his parched throat, cheeks burning. How quickly could a person drown themselves?

"Did I fucking stutter? You creep up in the nosebleeds staring like you wanna wear my goddamn skin."

Izuku flushed with embarrassment, shame—did he really look like that? "No, no, sorry, I—just like to watch. I'm sorry for distracting you."

Bakugou scoffed, crossing his arms. "As if I'd let that happen."

Bakugou's voice was deeper without the echoes and it dripped, steaming and sinking like a lava flow into the sea, hissing against the waves kicked up in his gut.

"You're remark—impressive, truly," Izuku said, anxiously dropping his gaze to the floor, unable to bear the heat of the volcanic eyes boring into him.

"I know."

Arrogance was normally an off-putting trait for Izuku, but emanating so naturally from Bakugou it made him want to drop to his knees in blind acceptance. A natural state molded by years of affirmation, of victory, of outshining all others.

"Can't say the same for you, just chasing a ball around like a dog."

Well, he wasn't wrong. Baseball was an easy sport. Sure, practice was involved (as with any coordinated physicality) to refine movements, trajectories, but it was also a lot of standing around—especially out in left field. It was still fun, he'd learned some life-lessons, he deeply appreciated the camaraderie, but he was keeping with it for his medical school application. Athletic extracurriculars looked good—wait, how did Bakugou know he was on the baseball team? Oh. Bat bag.

"Quit muttering," Bakugou said.

"Sorry." Izuku kneaded his earlobe as he looked up from the four-by-six rectangle of tile where he wanted to be buried. He tried not to stare at the curves of Bakugou's chest pressed against his folded arms. "Sometimes when I'm thinking—"

"Does it look like I care? Stop lurking and go to a meet if you wanna watch me so bad."

"That's not—" He cut himself off. Who was he kidding?

Bakugou seethed, stepping into his space. They were about the same height, but he loomed over Izuku. "Which is it? You come to watch me or not?"

"I do," he admitted, face burning. He had a death grip on the strap slung across his chest, gaze glued to the floor and that tantalizing grave.

"Wait for me in here." A pale knuckle tapped on the wooden door Izuku was plastered against.

"What?" he croaked, eyes bugging out of his skull, but Bakugou was already stalking back to the pool (his back, the dip of his spine).

Alone in the white hall Izuku stood as if time had skipped—stuck, a glitch, a blue screen. Bakugou's demand repeated on a loop. There was an undeniable allure in both directions: one with the promise of something new, something he'd been dreaming of, and one with the promise of getting to bed by a reasonable hour. Izuku, ignited, turned on his heel and stumbled into the locker room.

He stuffed his bags into a locker and sat cautiously on a bench, the space humming with a new aura, new potential. He popped up and slunk toward the showers, staring at the open layout. It couldn't be there. He stared at the toilets. Maybe he'd meant a stall, they were private—not that Izuku immediately imagined they would be doing something requiring privacy, but it was a close second. Why else would he be told to wait in an empty room?

Izuku looked at himself in the wall-to-wall mirror over the sinks. He was rumpled and sweaty, his hair a feral burst, face redder than the setting sun and smeared with infield dirt. Maybe he should start taking a shower before he went to the pool to look more presentable—hold on. He glanced at the clock. Five till seven. Swim team ended at seven.

Was he supposed to hide? It'd be at least ten or fifteen minutes before the room was empty again, and Izuku definitely couldn't fit in a locker with his broad shoulders and generous ass (as Ochako called it). Oh, god, was he going to get whaled on by swimmers protective of their star? Maybe Bakugou had rallied them around the common goal of running the gross stalker out of town—well, at least the pool.

He paled, fumbling with his combination lock, missing a turn two times with sweaty hands. What had he been thinking, imagining Bakugou was making a sexual advance? Delusional. Yanking it open he snatched his bags, but as he was bursting through the door to the hall, he collided with a solid chest, nearly cracking their heads together.

"Oi, where the fuck are you going?" Bakugou bit, shaking Izuku off before backing him into the locker room.

"Oh, wait, don't—I mean, I have a lot of work to do," he said, swallowing thick. Bakugou, alone, carried a dry bag, the team jacket unzipped with torso bared, track pants hanging on the flat plain of his hips. It was somehow sexier than the scant swimsuit which hid nothing. "You're early."

"Coach didn't bitch for twenty minutes like usual."

"Where's the rest of the team?"

"We have a separate room off the pool," he said with a raised brow. "You creep often enough to know that." Izuku had never stayed until the end of their practice, losing interest once Bakugou dried off. The hydraulic door was forced closed as he backed Izuku further in, the banal click of the latch somehow final. He smirked. "You scared?"

"What are you—we—going—what do you want?" Izuku was lightheaded, flattened against the lockers.

"You're gonna stand completely still while I suck your cock."

A wheeze exploded out of Izuku like he'd been body slammed. A flood of heat ran through him, filling every crevice of his body. Izuku's toes curled, fingers clenched into fists. A flush bled across his face like he'd been slapped. Maybe it was a delusion. It would be far more believable.

"What if someone comes?" Izuku rasped. Really? That was the first question?

He sneered sharp with pristine canines. "Who gives a shit."

"I haven't—"

"I'm gonna fuckin' leave if you don't say, 'please let me fuck your throat.'"

Izuku choked, cock twitching to life in delight. Bakugou was aggressive, but that was no surprise.

"Please," Izuku said, brimming with both uncertainty and such a strong desire he felt like a crop of hives were bursting open across his skin, "let me—you—your throat." He rarely cursed, stumbling over the omitted expletive.

A sharp grin. "Good enough. Pick a spot, Deku."

"Deku?" he parroted, his already damp forehead upending in confusion. "Why 'deku?'"

"It's your fucking name, moron." Bakugou jabbed his finger at the characters and number printed on the side of the bat bag.

"My name's Izuku."

"Not my fault your mom doesn't love you."

"What's that supposed to mean?" he said, affronted. Izuku had been bullied for having a single parent, his mom disparaged for being late to pick him up as a child while working two, sometimes three, jobs. He didn't take kindly to those who insulted her.

"Who the fuck uses those characters for their kid's name?"

"Who reads it like that?" Izuku replied, not quite glaring, but certainly hardened—in more places than one.

He straightened off the lockers like he hadn't been cowering against them. Bakugou had a few centimeters on him, but Izuku had at least twenty pounds of muscle to work with. However, his form didn't seem to intimidate Bakugou in the least.

Probably because he'd just begged for a blow job.

Red eyes narrowed. "You're fuckin' annoying, huh?"

"You're the one reading it weirdly," he muttered, worrying his lower lip to stop from pouting. He was stubborn in his own right, despite his clammy palms and burgeoning hard-on.

"Who cares?" Bakugou hissed. "Fucking—I'm trying to suck your dick."

"Can I ask why?" Izuku was genuinely confused and shocked and a little offended, though that was fading—obviously Bakugou didn't know anything about his mom and his name could, technically, be read that way. Who was he to assume how Bakugou's brain processed language?

Bakugou snarled. "No, you can't. Get in the goddamn corner before I change my mind," he snapped, pointing to another set of lockers deeper into the room.

Despite the cocktail of feelings, Izuku was still a young man and there existed a tier of priorities. If the person he'd been lusting after suddenly demanded to give him head, he'd be hard-pressed to deny. He could and maybe should, but he'd be lying if he said he hadn't imagined a scenario eerily similar to the one playing out as he shuffled to the appointed spot. Izuku stood awkwardly in the junction of navy lockers, dropping his bags like a weight, modest hands trying to hide the swelling in his sweats. Flushed and nervous, gaze stuck on the floor again, indignation long forgotten at the prospect unfolding before him.

Bakugou's feet came into his line of sight, pink and pale in black slides beaded with water.

"Oi, look at me, nerd." Izuku dragged his eyes up and his heart thumped—why was Bakugou allowed to wake up every day looking like Izuku's personal wet dream and think nothing of it? "If you touch me, I'm leaving."

A frown pulled at the corners of his lips. "What? Why can't I touch?"

"I swear to—because I said so, you mouthy motherfucker," he snapped, sneering. Bakugou's thumb gripped Izuku’s chin before smearing over his torn up lower lip. He peeled it down, revealing bottom teeth, pink gums, the slick, soft inside mound. The scorn dissolved stoically, red dwarf eyes following the path of his digit. "I've been watching you watch me, but you're so oblivious—"

"You noticed me? Really?" Izuku asked, breathless, wanting to suck the probing finger into his mouth.

Bakugou rammed his thumb against his lips, mashing them together, silencing him. "Fuck's sake, can you keep quiet for one shitty second?"

He nodded like a scolded child and Bakugou's suddenly soft hand traced the curve of his jaw, his neck, settling on Izuku's collarbone. A smirk at the sharp intake of breath, the pounding of his heart in the hollow of his throat where that curious thumb rested.

"Let's see what you're working with," Bakugou said lowly, stepping fully into Izuku's space, legs slotting, smacking self-conscious hands away. He pressed his hip into Izuku's fully hard dick, his thigh propping his erection like a support beam keeping up a leaning house. Bakugou crawled down his chest, thumbs finding his nipples like dowsing rods before digging into the dip of his navel and landing on the elastic waist. "You sensitive or something?" he muttered, gaze dropping to the growing damp spot on the obvious tent.

"I—I guess so," Izuku mumbled back. "I've never done—I mean, I—"

Bakugou looked up, that eyebrow arched again. "You have all this cock and don't know what to do with it?"

He'd had sex once, sort of, in his first year at university. He'd come immediately with barely a warning in the poor girl's mouth. She left promptly after spitting it back in his drink, which he proceeded to flush down the toilet of the bar bathroom where he stood dazed before leaving early with a thin excuse of a headache. After that, his interest dwindled, his workload increased, and the prospect fell by the wayside.

So, no, Izuku didn't really know what to do with "all this cock" besides figuring out how his own hands made him feel good. He figured instinct would fill in the gap between his virile imagination and the physical act when the time came. And, oh, had he been imagining. Bakugou beneath him, above him, on his knees, from behind, long legs over his shoulders, the arch of his back spread beneath Izuku's hands. He'd never been so captivated.

Izuku flushed bright red.

"I'm just busy with classes and baseball, so I don't really—"

"Don't need your fuckin' life story," Bakugou said with an unearned exasperation. "You ever been sucked off?"

He shook his head, wrapping his arms around his burning face. He glowed red from his ears down his neck, eyes clenched, waiting for the cruel laughter. But it never came. Instead, Bakugou unclasped his arms from around his head, blazing face bared.

"I told you to look at me," he said, and Izuku shyly met the gaze simmering like hot coals. A slow smirk. "I'm gonna ruin you, huh?" It wasn't a question.

Izuku whimpered through a shudder, the noise firing out of his chest like a bullet. A darkly thrilled look overcame Bakugou at the sound and he aligned them both fully flush. A rough roll of his hips against Izuku had him gasping, cool hands around his waist.

"You seriously haven't been touched before," Bakugou mumbled, watching intently as Izuku's legs quivered.

"Sorry—" he husked.

"Don't apologize for bullshit."

White fingers slipped beneath his shirt and Izuku shook like a bag of ice had been dumped over him. They were sweeping, exploratory, chilled in comparison to Izuku's pooling heat. The scent of chlorine and plain soap wafted from Bakugou, damp hair smelling like mint. He squeezed Izuku's waist, kneading his obliques, and his cock twitched, elated at another's touch. Bakugou shifted his thigh and Izuku groaned softly. He moved to touch, but Izuku curled his wanting hands into frustrated fists, letting them hang at his sides.

"What a good listener," he taunted, a sharp curl of his lips. He yanked Izuku's shirt up and held the hem against his mouth. Izuku opened to accept, teeth latching. "You're stacked for a baseball player." Bakugou's slanted eyes roved over skin misted with needy sweat.

"Winter weight training," Izuku mumbled, gasping around the cotton as Bakugou dipped and took a nipple into his mouth. He slurred out a moan, eyes drooping.

"Don't nut before I even touch your dick, virgin," Bakugou said around his pectoral, tongue lapping in wet stripes like Izuku was a popsicle in the grubby hands of a kid at the beach. "You reek. Shower first next time."

Next time?!

A next time would hinge on Izuku not dropping dead from this encounter and he wasn't sure he could manage that, what with the way his heart was pounding in his throat and his legs were shaking. Izuku stuttered through another gasp and all thoughts vacated as Bakugou lowered to his knees in front of him. He banged a maddeningly empty fist against the locker. Bakugou flashed a cutting smile with bared teeth, cheeks crinkling, canines gleaming. It disappeared as quickly as it had come, and he palmed Izuku's straining hard-on through his sweats, the wet spot spreading.

"Please," he groaned, drool soaking thin cotton.

"Please what?" Bakugou asked, hand teasing.

Izuku ground his teeth, swallowing thickly, toes flexing and curling in his shoes. "Please let me f-uck your throat."

"Good job, marble mouth." Bakugou pulled down sweats and briefs in one go, Izuku's cock freed. Red eyes flared. "You've never put this in anything?" he snarked, cupping the underside of Izuku's length. He bucked into the barely-there touch.

Long fingers wrapped around his wet tip, collecting a dribble of precum, and slid down and up in an achingly slow beat that had Izuku's eyes fluttering closed. A breathy moan. A flush bolted through his veins leaving him damp and heated, a heaviness growing in his belly.

"Look at me." The hand clenched his crown before gliding down. "How many times you gonna make me say it."

Izuku shook from his haze and obediently stared at Bakugou between his legs. He was glaring up at him, hand stilled at the base of Izuku's red dick. The color nearly matched his eyes. Without fanfare Bakugou's mouth opened, tongue presenting like a landing strip, and he took Izuku's leaking head inside.

"Oh my god," Izuku sputtered, hoarse. God, it was hot, surrounding, slippery. Izuku moaned—a deep, guttural noise. His skull clanged against the lockers, rattling metal and brain, and his hips drove hard, trying to bury himself deeper.

Bakugou bobbed over his length, cheeks hollowing as his tongue lapped at the thick vein, swirled around the glans. His lips dragged lewdly, cheekbones high and pink. Warm, slick mouth, cool, slick hand. Izuku throbbed and moaned, head lolling. The sound alone was nearly enough to make Izuku come—wet, heaving, suction. The building heat, tightening, clenching. He wasn't going to last long.

Izuku didn't know what to do with his hands. He planted them against the lockers, but they just slid and offered no leverage. He tried running through his own hair, mimicking what it might feel like to rake through blonde, but his curls offered no comparison. He eventually crossed his arms like a temperamental child and pinched the inside of his biceps, carving blunt crescents into his own skin when he wanted to map a new sky onto Bakugou.

The mouth abruptly disappeared to spit a messy glob onto his cock, a bubbly mix of precum and saliva, the cold air prickling as the smooth hand pumped. Bakugou dug his free hand into Izuku's ass cheek, cupping at the seam of thigh and glute.

"Fuck my mouth," Bakugou said, graveled. His eyes were dark, pupils blown as he stared ravenously at Izuku's dripping dick, swallowing before quickly taking Izuku inside again.

Izuku moaned low, rumbling against his ribs, eyes accidentally closing. He was content to sit on the hot tongue, but Bakugou kept going, sucking him deeper. His tip brushed the closed back of Bakugou's throat and he gasped at the sensation. Then it opened and down he went.

"Oh—god," he groaned, racked with a shudder shaking the marrow of his bones. "Feels so—incred—ngh—" he babbled, gasping. Izuku wasn't sure how he was standing. The backs of his eyes pricked.

The hands on his ass pinched and he jolted, accidently thrusting hard enough to make Bakugou gag around him and pull back to suck in a breath.

"Sorry, I'm sorry, sorry," he whispered frantically, arms still crossed like he was being prepared for burial, which might be appropriate in a few moments.

A light slap on his cheek, Bakugou glaring up at him, nostrils flaring. Move. Izuku obeyed. He rolled his hips in a reserved manner, chin on his chest. His eyes stung, welling. God, he was going to cry. He clenched them closed hoping to stave off embarrassment. His gut coiled with want, heat boiling.

His hips pulsed as he slid deeper and a strangled groan from Bakugou had him gaping at the ceiling, the vibration shooting through him. Bakugou nosed at his curls as the last sliver of Izuku disappeared. He desperately wanted to cradle the back of the blonde head, guide himself, but instead he just dug into his own arms. Owlish, Izuku devoured the sight of every inch of his length lost in that searing, stretched mouth wishing his teary gaze might make up for the lack of touch. It didn't.

Bakugou bobbed and squeezed Izuku's ass. Izuku followed the wordless directions, panting, openly drooling, shirt soaked from sweat and spit. He jerked as the fingers imbedded like claws. It lit a flare in Izuku and he snapped his hips, earning a broken, garbled noise from Bakugou, tip catching the soft palate, a harsh, encouraging knead on his ass cheek.

The room faded, tunneling onto Bakugou between his legs—red ears, sweat beading, eyebrows knit in concentration. Izuku rocked, the engulfing, constricting mouth whipping up a frenzy, his bucking a staccato as it approached a messy crescendo.

He slurred something unintelligible, strained, the damp shirt muffling his whispered plea. Sweat dripped—or tears, maybe both—along his jawline, hips moving at the dictated speed. Bakugou ignored him, spit bubbling, hand twisting over his root, swallowing around Izuku's cock as his tongue curled like a petal. Izuku's legs turned to putty trying to prop himself upright. He gasped through an inhale, teeth clicking as the swell rose inside his gut.

"Coming, m'gonna—" he gasped, abdomen tensing, hollowing.

The mouth didn't leave on his warning, instead taking him deeper, curving downward into Bakugou's fluttering throat and holding him there. Izuku whimpered, tears catching on the bow of his cringing lips.

"Wait—no, no, coming," he moaned, teeth grinding. He tried to pull back, but Bakugou's hands tightened painfully, keeping him planted. That click of understanding sent him over the edge. "Oh—" he choked.

Dazed green eyes rolled back as his hips bucked and the first stream painted the inside of Bakugou. Izuku moaned, arms wrapped around his sweaty, tear-streaked face, thighs squeezing. Another burst from his throbbing cock, Bakugou dutifully drinking, slowly releasing Izuku, his tip tickling the ridged roof, the slightest brush of clumsy teeth, a gag. Bakugou laved sweetly, fingers circling, milking.

Izuku peered between his biceps, slouching. Bakugou was flushed, eyes closed like he was thoroughly enjoying himself as he urged a final ribbon from Izuku with a shudder and a whimper. Swollen lips revealed his polished head, a cum-stained tongue flicking his slit. A flood of spit and spend on panting breath.

"Oh my god," he said, voice cracking, tears dripping. Ruined, as promised.

Red eyes opened, meeting his, and Izuku groaned, lightheaded and tingling. Fingers released his softening cock as Bakugou pulled away. Izuku heaved, limply slumping into a puddle on the floor.

Bakugou slunk over him, hiding Izuku's bedraggled body from the dull fluorescents, setting himself aglow with a dingy halo. A hand threaded through damp curls, urging him to meet Bakugou's fervent gaze, his other eagerly revealing his own straining cock. It was long and pink, leaking with a swollen tip. Izuku swallowed at the sight, shirt still hooked on his teeth.

Ragged breaths puffed over Izuku's face. His bent knees knocked open to accommodate Bakugou, who slid between them like a puzzle piece clicking into place, stroking himself. Izuku slipped fully to the floor staring bleary and blown-out at Bakugou who snarled at him, nose flaring, high cheeks ruddy. His lips were bruised, glossy. Izuku wanted to kiss him, taste himself.

Izuku presented his bared stomach with tensed abs and a grating, animalistic growl tumbled from Bakugou's raw throat, pale hand moving faster, a thumb pressing harshly against his weeping crown. He didn't give a warning, a word, barely a moan—just a shudder and a hiss—as he released over Izuku's slick stomach. Izuku, however, keened as hot splatters coated humid skin, Bakugou panting overhead with face hidden between tense shoulders. He slowed, swiping the slit as a lingering drop pearled, smearing it into Izuku's hip.

"Fuck," Bakugou rasped.

Bakugou sat back on his heels with a heavy breath and ran his clean hand through his hair, peeling away from Izuku. He stood, adjusting his slides, tucking himself back into his track pants with a grimace and a click of his tongue. Even in the harsh light he was stunning—flushed and damp. Lined with Izuku's cum. He blushed at the thought, the knowledge of a piece of himself being carried inside Bakugou for the night.

"You can leave five minutes after me," Bakugou murmured, voice low and rocky. He planted a sandal on Izuku's spread thigh, pressing it open, Izuku's wet cock lying heavy in the dip of his hip. A look of admiration at a job well done. "Don't wash off until you're home."

Izuku only nodded, releasing his shirt and tugging it down, picking himself up to sit in the corner with pants around his ankles, earning a dangerous smirk in return. He faintly heard a faucet run, the pull of a paper towel, the opening and closing of the door.

He didn't know how long he sat in catatonic disbelief, but by the time he scraped off the floor with a numb ass and put himself together—sticky dick clinging to briefs, sticky stomach clinging to shirt—Izuku balked at the time. He glanced at the sink, lip in his teeth. He washed his hands quickly, guiltily, and shambled from the locker room, the sports building, and toward the station.

The train ride was excruciating—as if everyone knew the mess striped beneath his clothes—but once Izuku stumbled onto the street, he barely remembered a second of it. His brain was in survival mode, taking in the present and quickly discarding the seconds as they passed.

What in the hell had just happened.

He stood in the middle of the empty road between the beams of streetlights, the night singing around him. Then he ran, bags thumping against his back, a grin splitting his cheeks.

He was achingly hard again by the time he barreled into his tiny, school-subsidized apartment, backpack clutched in front of his hips, the door hurriedly locked with shaking fingers. After he showered (coming beneath a spray of scalding water, staring through the fogged mirror at the red crescents imprinted in his ass), Izuku sat steaming and damp at his desk, feeling like barely set gelatin.

He opened a text—a valiant effort—but the words might as well have been printed in another language, sleepy eyes staring blank, rereading passages two, three times, notebook empty, head filled only with the tail-eating loop of the locker room. He gave up after an unproductive hour, finally accepting his head was too fried to retain anything. His first class was late, he could study in the morning.

Falling face-first into bed, Izuku dreamt of white skin cutting through turquoise water.

.....

Izuku had not been intentionally avoiding the pool.

Midterms were descending and every night saw him scurrying home or to the library after practice without dawdling. He'd just not had the time, but hoped the absence was not interpreted as fear or dislike or regret. He hadn't regretted a thing, except not calling Bakugou's name when he came, as he'd been doing at home. Once he even dared mutter the syllables Ka-tsu-ki with a vibrant blush, curling in on himself at his desk, tissues catching his climax.

He'd been skittish and on edge for the last two weeks, what with sleepless cramming, attempts at retaining friendships with study dates turning into lamentations on respective academic decisions, and the breaking of the seal on his sex life. The sense memories of the locker room were enough to knock him into the next world and any residual mortification (semi-public, crying, begging, et al.) was quickly forgotten—the priority tier reared its head, dithering and warping it into a surge of longing. The pulse of excitement, the newness, the wide-open landscape of possibility. The temptation of "next time" had the gravitational pull of a black hole.

Izuku had panicked briefly, spilling his guts to Ochako in hushed whispers at the library, his fear of approaching Bakugou again, the fear of being that virgin who grows a warped emotional attachment to the first person to touch them, the fear of being relegated back to the stands when he'd been gifted with a view up-close.

"Ask him out."

She'd made it sound so simple. The thought hadn't crossed Izuku's mind, as if Bakugou was a monolith standing tall on his own, but that wasn't true of anyone.

It was seven o'clock on a Friday night and Izuku sat a tightly wound ball of nerves in the stands as the swim team wrapped up their practice with a talk from the coaches—a tired looking man and a dark-haired woman in glasses—going over the meet on Saturday. He'd made an effort to finish the bulk of his work throughout the week, allowing the slight reprieve and a chance to seek out the one who'd been filling his conscious thought as much as unconscious. His leg bounced impatiently, short nails pinching his lip. Bakugou had seen him, a dark look speared across the pool, pinning him to the seat. He would wait. The gaze demanded it.

The teams split and flooded into their locker rooms. Long minutes passed before they trickled back out. When he'd counted all but one of the swimmers having left the men's room, he stepped down to the emptied deck. The pool stilled, wispy reflections cast against the white walls. Lingering outside, it was quiet. Peeking around the corner, luring Izuku like a fly to honey, he was swallowed in a blue world. The tile was a collage of baby and steel and cobalt, sprinkled with white like the sun catching the surface of the water. A steady dripping. A grotto. A pocket of air. Izuku slipped inside.

Bakugou appeared leaning on a locker with crossed arms, a hip cocked.

"Hi," Izuku said. "I—" He cleared his throat, a tilt of his head. "Good job today. Your hundred free is getting close."

"Don't talk about my times." His voice was deeper than Izuku remembered, than what his brain had conjured up in the dark of his room.

He smiled, rickety. "You're just, in the water—stunning—good, I mean, far better than good. And you offered help to your teammate with his stroke." Granted, the help had been in the form of berating, but he'd improved by the next practice heat. "Swimming isn't nearly as individual as I'd thought—"

"Can't having him fucking up the relay," Bakugou said, blandly shedding his swimsuit at the dryer. He stared unwaveringly at Izuku as he held down the lid, Izuku red as a poppy and greedily drinking in the lean, bared body. He didn't think he could ever forget the angles and supple shapes, but his imagination really did no justice to the easy, innate confidence. "If you're looking to get your dick sucked again, you're outta luck. I don't do that shit before a meet."

Izuku blushed darker. "I—no." He cleared his scratchy throat again, averting his eyes as if modesty suddenly mattered. "I was actually wondering if you wanted to get coffee sometime, or go on a walk. With me, any time you're free. My plate is pretty full, too—double-major and all—but I'll make my schedule flexible."

He raised an eyebrow as the dryer whirled to a stop, thoroughly unimpressed. "No."

"Oh." Crestfallen. Izuku could think of no less than twenty reasons why he wanted to have coffee with Bakugou, prepared to bend backward to get a date set up. "That's okay, I didn't—"

"Get lost, I need to shave down," Bakugou said as he shook out his suit and returned to the locker, collecting a caddy and a towel.

The narrow waist, the faint curve of his hips, the dents in the sides of his ass, strong thighs, carved calves. He didn't want to leave. He didn't want this to be the whimpering end. If Bakugou only wanted one thing, then Izuku would offer all he had.

"Can I do it?"

Izuku wanted to sink to the bottom of the pool.

Bakugou looked surprised for a moment, red eyes widening. Then it was gone.

"Fuckin' pervert," he muttered, stalking toward the showers as he shot a glare over his shoulder. An invitation.

Izuku shucked his shoes and darted around the corner, nearly slipping on the glassy floor in bare feet as he followed. The blue tile continued its patterning, running up the walls and overhead like being in the barrel of a wave.

"Get undressed."

"Is that necessary?"

"Fine by me if you wanna get all your shit wet," Bakugou said, truly uncaring as he kicked two stools into the center of the room. He filled a plastic container from the showerhead and dropped onto the seat, lining the razor and the can of shaving cream on the folded towel. "Sit down or get out."

Izuku decided to remain dressed, perched on the stool like it were made of glass, swallowing the excess spit created in anticipation of something long and pink that would not be in his mouth being in his mouth. Bakugou unceremoniously dumped his foot into Izuku's lap.

"Legs first. Shave with the hair. If you cut me, I'll kick your teeth in."

"Okay," he mumbled with something akin to reverence at the pale, damp limb resting on his knees.

Bakugou was allowing him to touch.

He sucked in a breath and shook the can, spraying a glob into his palm, a burst of mint, a spurt of stray flecks from the harsh press of the nozzle. Izuku cupped the sculpted calf, trembling hand smearing the foam from ankle to knee, daubing in broad sweeps.

"Quit shaking."

"I'll try." He glanced furtively up at Bakugou, but his gaze didn't make it, stuck in the lines of his chest. He squeezed the thick tendon on the heel, the foam bulging through his fingers.

"You fuckin' better. This is also way too much, you're gonna have to buy me another can."

So bossy. "I will."

Bakugou snorted, pressing his foot into Izuku's stomach, toes curling in his shirt. Izuku glanced at it, the pink tips and short nails, the curve of the high arch. He wanted to trace it with his tongue—wait, shit, did he have a foot thing?

He burned red and washed his hands of the excess foam in the water, picking up the blade. It was metal, not the chintzy plastic, and without a speck of rust. The head was heavy, the edge of the razor peeking from the guard.

"Nick me and I'll crush that big dick."

Okay, that was a spark of fear, not arousal, so at least he could cross one thing off the list.

Placing the blade at the curve of his knee, Izuku let the weight of it dictate pressure, dragging gingerly down the ridge of the tibia. Dark blonde hair curled in the foam and he swirled it clean in the container. The pale stripe of smooth, slick skin revealed from the admittedly thick layer. God, he wanted to lick it. He swallowed with a click.

Izuku fell into a rhythm, captivated by his own unveiling of Bakugou's skin. His tongue darted out in concentration like he was restoring a painting, illuminating detail long lost. Despite the enveloping fog of lust, he continued diligently, obediently, but he felt winded, like when he fell on his back from the monkey bars as a kid.

It was suffocatingly quiet in the damp room.

"How—" Izuku mumbled, glancing up. "How long have you been swimming?"

He already knew the answer. He'd found and watched an interview with a local news station when Bakugou was fifteen, panting, drenched, having just won and scowling at the microphone shoved in his face.

"All my life." The foot pressed curled and flexed as Izuku flicked the excess water from the blade, but he froze when the ankle brushed against his very obvious, very hard cock he was very much ignoring. "This all it takes for you?" Bakugou said.

"Don't," he whispered, chewing his lip.

He smirked. "Don't? You look like you're about to come in your pants."

"Because I am. I have to take the train home—last time was a nightmare, so embarrassing," Izuku mumbled, flushing deeper. "I thought everyone could tell."

Bakugou laughed, throwing his head back as he barked. "You actually did it? What a good boy." Well, Izuku was somewhat reluctantly discovering all sorts of things about himself. The diminutive had sounded far too nice based on the massive throb in his cock that made his ass clench. Bakugou's grin was quick, devious. "If you're just gonna jack off when you're done, you better hurry up. You got a long way to go and it doesn't look like you'll last much longer."

The blade hovered over the last patch of hair. Izuku looked up with worry. "A long way?"

"You think I only shave my legs?" he said, snorting. Izuku's gaze unabashedly went to Bakugou's bared groin. He didn't think his shaking hands could handle the precious landscaping. "Not there. Get on with it."

Izuku managed to finish one lower leg without bursting. He did the other with a bolder touch, fingers kneading, searching for the unknown limit Bakugou had set as he scraped the razor down the sleek calf, delicately following the knob of the ankle, the lateral ligament, the flesh of the patella. Izuku ran over anatomy trying to keep himself calm. It wasn't working.

The showers were humid by default, but Izuku felt like ice cream dropped onto asphalt in the cicada-plagued depths of summer. His head was hot, his body overheating. His cock ached for a touch, a mouth, that tongue, his throat. Sweat beaded on his brow, clinging to curls.

The thighs went similarly, choking back hungry groans as he followed the powerful lines of the quads from hip to knee, eyes lidded and hazed and brimming.

He wondered if Bakugou knew how badly—desperately—he wanted, but he supposed anyone with at least one functioning sense would be able to: see his flushed face, smell his desire like a musky shroud, taste the sweat, feel his heated skin, hear his pitiful noises begging wordless. He glanced at the haughty face, the pointed gaze, the smirk as their eyes met. Bakugou absolutely knew what he did to Izuku and had no qualms lording it over him…and Izuku liked it.

By the time thighs were shaved smooth and glinting, Izuku was hunched between Bakugou's creamy, minty legs, his own spread wide in an attempt to alleviate the heat in his gut, his balls. The edging friction of his soaked sweats was agony, teasing, but not the palest comparison to what he wanted. Bakugou was half-hard, cock just beginning to stand. The embodiment of temptation. So close, but he couldn't touch. Didn't have the permission. How he desired to swallow it and bring it fully to life, to see it rosy and throbbing again, to know what he tasted like—musk and chlorine and bitter, chemical menthol.

"You gonna come?" There was no condescension.

"I might," Izuku said ragged, not caring how he sounded. He'd probably erupt if Bakugou did something as thoughtless as wetting his lips. "It hurts."

Bakugou smirked. "Hurry up and I'll give you something nice." He tapped his navel. "Here next."

Another squirt of foam and Izuku's shaky palm resisted the impulse to slap it against the pale stomach, a stinging handprint revealed by the blade. Instead, he soothed it lovingly down the trail of hair. Izuku pressed lightly on the mound of Bakugou's pelvis, saw the twitch of Bakugou's filling cock in response, his own answering the call. If he dared look in his sweats, he was sure his dick would be some heinous violet color.

Izuku placed the razor above the belly button. "Tell me when to stop," he stammered, carefully outlining the divot where he wanted to sink his tongue, fill it with spit, cum, sweat.

Maybe he was dying and this was a fever dream his brain was firing off to keep him pliant and calm and happy in some backhanded way, he mused. However, the foot found its way back into his lap, slithering between his cock and his thigh, toes curling into heathered cotton. Izuku sucked in a shrill breath, razor stilling. Not a dream.

"I didn't say stop," Bakugou said, twisting his toes into Izuku's stomach. Izuku forcibly tensed his hand to stop its shaking, the blade picking up its trail, a shuddering exhale. Another slow inch, coming closer to the base of the rising cock. Another press of his toes, this time against Izuku's straining tip, plucking at the wet spot. "Taking your sweet goddamn time. I can feel myself aging."

"You t-old me not to cut you, so I don't want to," he rasped, breathing labored, hand hovering. His eyes drooped. His face felt like he'd be lying out in the sun all day, fried to a crisp.

"Want your 'something nice?'"

"Please," Izuku groaned, earnest and eager and uncaring what that something was—he'd accept anything.

"Put that down."

Izuku stopped from hurling the razor across the room, instead placing the evil thing nicely back on the towel. No sooner then it left sweaty fingers did Bakugou's foot press Izuku's cock cruelly against his own stomach.

"Fu—god, yes, yes," he wheezed. Izuku hunched over Bakugou's leg, temple smearing against his knee as he moaned unhinged. "C-an I touch?"

"Legs only, no mouth. Not a mark on me."

Izuku gripped Bakugou's foot, removing it just enough to jerk his sweats down to free his dick before sliding his bare, burning length over the arch, between the mounds, tip catching the toes. Izuku gasped.

"You like feet, too, you fuckin' creep?"

"Not until now," he groaned, bucking as dribbling precum slicked the pink sole. He wasn't going to last, again, his threshold for stimulation far behind him. He could feel it coming like an early warning siren howling into the darkening clouds, the spiraling wind.

"You dream about fucking me?"

Izuku choked. "Yeah," he whispered, hips thrusting blindly, hands changing between wringing the heel and coddling the instep.

"Tell me about it."

Izuku delved into his vault, shaking off whatever inhibitions kept him chained in place.

"Wanna make you come on my fingers first," he groaned, clenching Bakugou's slippery foot, "before I give you my cock, want you to fu—ah—yourself, however you like. On your knees, ass up, on top of me, legs over my shoulders—don't care, whatever you want, anything, wanna give it to you."

"Look at me," Bakugou hissed. Izuku cracked his eyes open to the sight of Bakugou stroking himself, his cock urged full and hard, a bright, dappled blush traveling from cheek to chest. Pink and white and blonde on a backdrop of flickering blue. "Keep talking."

"I wanna taste you, all of you—know how you feel in my hand, on my tongue," Izuku moaned, shameless, hips snapping, dick sliding over the tender arch. "Eat you out till you can't see straight, god, I want you on my face—ngh—close, m'close," he gasped. "I'll beg you for it, cry for it, doesn't matter—take whatever you give me."

"Fuck—" Bakugou growled, hand jerking faster, abdomen clenching. "Come on me."

Izuku, with head full of blood and images of his tongue inside Bakugou, didn't quite comprehend the demand. "What?"

"Come. On. Me."

"Really?" he said like he was being gifted a divine quest. The storm thrashed, a tidal wave, the siren blaring as the dam threatened to break.

"I swear to—yes, you cow-eyed jackass," Bakugou fumed, teeth bared, fingers smearing the precum from his slit down his length.

It took only two or three thrusts, relief granted, keen to follow direction.

Izuku let out a noise like he was, in fact, dying. Releasing, squeezing Bakugou's toes over the tip of his cock, he came with a jerk of his hips, entire body locked, molars clenching. Cum spurted, hot and thick as he slid against the obscene foot in his own spend, moaning long and low, eyes half-mast, knees dropping to the floor. Heaving like he'd just done a sprint set, cheeks wet, lips bitten. Izuku's bones liquified and he slumped, petting the pale, sticky foot, silently thanking it (perhaps worshipping it) as his erection throbbed. Tears welled.

"You're a crier, huh?" Bakugou muttered, head dropping over his shoulder, a visible clench in his ridged abdomen. "Fuck—" A vein pulsed in the flushed column of his neck. Izuku wanted to bite it.

Bakugou pumped in a smooth rhythm, watching Izuku come down. Glazed, dazed green observed the hand in turn. If nothing else, Izuku was a quick study, taking in every flick of the thumb, pinch of the base, twist of the wrist that Bakugou liked—hopefully for use later.

"Let me—" Izuku started in a battered voice, gripping Bakugou's ankles, running up the calves in time with his strokes.

"No," he snapped, hips twitching. The flush deepened, spotty and gleaming.

Izuku's tired eyes dropped down between spread long legs, behind the smooth sac, tightening, the clenching cleft of Bakugou's ass. Another sudden flood bubbled in his gut. He wanted to pry it apart and taste, fill the empty hole, caged by pale, shaven thighs—

"God, your fucking mumbling—shit—coming, coming."

Izuku sucked on his teeth, panting hard through his nose, staring spellbound as Bakugou peaked with a low moan, tensing from shoulder to toe, a hiss as his head fell back, free arm supporting as he arched off the stool. Legs and ass tight, knees knocked open. His release streaked across his defined stomach as he shuddered out a sigh, the wavering sound like a siren call enticing Izuku back toward the rocks. Another stream and Izuku's mouth watered, his core throbbing with a swell, heart thudding. He groaned as Bakugou settled with slow, loose strokes, milking himself. Dark red bored into Izuku's glossy green. A shift in the tectonic plates of his core.

A rogue wave sucking him under.

"M'gonna come," Izuku moaned, bracing on Bakugou's knees, curled, shaking. He scrunched his eyes, tears beading. "Wait—"

"Again?" Bakugou rasped, sharpening. "Sit up, show me."

Izuku gasped, straightening as best he could, hips going rigid, thrusting into empty air when he wanted to bury himself between smooth legs. He gripped behind Bakugou's slippery knees and yanked him closer, the stool scraping loudly, abdomen hollowing, pulsing, softening cock throbbing hard. He whined high, teeth chittering as a second orgasm jolted through him like a nail hammered into the top of his skull, every nerve ending bursting. Tears joined beading sweat down damp cheeks, face scorched, chest heaving, muscles feathering. He groaned, broken, as he slumped onto his heels. Nothing had come out, untouched.

"Fuck, you came dry—goddammit. Sexy fucking—" Bakugou bit, snarling. He wound his legs around Izuku and drew him into his stomach. Izuku didn't really hear him, hiccupping, a soft sob as he fell into Bakugou's sticky belly, grinding his forehead into ribs.

Completely out of his body, floating, tingling, a dying summer sparkler. His hands mindlessly ran up and down Bakugou's slick, soft thighs encasing him, the stripes of foam lubricating, hips weakly pulsing, riding out the descent. He'd never made himself come twice, but the blissed-out high was better than any single peak he'd ever had—even the one Bakugou had swallowed.

He finally opened his eyes to Bakugou's flushed face looking down at him. He kept his teeth clamped to contain his needy tongue, everything he couldn't have laid like a feast in front of him. A hand captured Izuku's curls in an almost soothing manner.

"You know my name?" Bakugou asked, sounding spent.

"Of course," Izuku mumbled, cheek smeared, fingers running through his hair.

"Use it next time."

.....

On their third meeting, Izuku asked—begged—again, to touch.

Clutching at the royal blue swimsuit, he kneaded Bakugou's ass, rutting his bared cock against the smooth synthetic like a dog in heat, frotting against the straining erection barely contained in the briefs, peeking over the hem. Bakugou had allowed over-the-clothes touching. It was an improvement. It also narrowed the playing field to a very specific section of the mostly nude body.

Izuku's mouth ached, desperate. The quiet panting and low moans Izuku elicited were driving him up the tiled wall of the showers. He buried his head in the strong shoulder. Chlorine. Soap. Mint. Trifecta.

"Please," he swallowed thick, "K-Katsuki," stumbling over the first utterance, "let me touch you, your skin."

"Don't put your mouth on me and no marks I can't cover. I'm not wearing a one piece."

Izuku instantly fell to his knees like a parishioner before his god made manifest, roughly yanking the suit over sculpted thighs, lifting Katsuki's feet like a reverent holy man to get it all the way off. He draped it kindly on the floor like a relic and turned to Katsuki's revealed, leaking cock. To know he could affect Katsuki even a fraction as deeply as he was affected made Izuku's chest swell, his dick throb. He pressed his tongue into the roof of his palate, looking up pleadingly.

"Go ahead," Katsuki said, heady. A husk, as if he'd been waiting and wanting as intensely as Izuku had been waiting and wanting—though Izuku didn't think it possible.

Shaking fingers brushed against the hot length. The faintest hitch in Katsuki's breathing.

With forehead pressed into Katsuki's pelvis, hot breath panting over the white thigh, hand pumping clumsy over the hard, rosy length, the slick sound tickled his ear. His eyes pricked with the tears quickly becoming a mainstay, his other hand furiously pulling at his own weeping cock.

"I need—" he rasped, craning to peer at Katsuki towering over him.

Katsuki pinched his cheek and he winced, but tilted into the hand which spread open across his temple, into his curls. A tug, just tight enough to sting.

"No."

Izuku came on Katsuki's hairless shin and Katsuki across his freckled, burning cheeks.

.....

By the sixth, Izuku felt like he was starving.

"Ka—" he choked, ramming his cock between slick thighs clamped together, hips slapping against the pert ass, open mouth panting wet across shoulder blades, tongue wanting to touch, teeth aching to bite. The sound was vulgar—sloppy, wet, frantic. "Please, let me—please."

"Can't mess up my hips before a meet, Deku."

He nearly sobbed.

.....

Katsuki allowed him to open his mouth. Izuku left a bruised collage on the swell of his pale ass.

.....

Izuku gave head for the first time. It was crude and inexperienced, Katsuki thrusting into his mouth from his perch above Izuku as he swallowed around Izuku with finesse. When his tongue wandered too far, however, a scrape of teeth along his cock in warning had him whimpering, slinking back down.

He was to be content with what was granted, content with the peak he was resting on and not desiring the one in the distance, still blue, still hazy.

.....

Izuku sat at a table in the library, fingers steepled, a thousand-yard stare tiredly dissolving through the rows of shelves. Midterms had been aced across his courses, his anxious tossing and turning waiting on results to be posted finally calmed. His sleepless nights at home and long nights in the library and weekends in the lab had all paid off. Finals now approached.

With his double-major, he had a fifth year before beginning the process of applying to medical schools. It was a relief to have it staved off, but it loomed on the horizon. Another distance to close. He was thoroughly exhausted, but his hard work would get him where he wanted to be—he knew it would.

At the same time, he had never been so dissatisfied and he wasn't sure if he'd ever have his fill. Every spare space in his head was filled with Katsuki, but their liaisons weren't the source of distress. It was what he felt was missing.

"You look like shit," Shinsou said, slumping into the chair across from him. "Pull an all-nighter?"

If he could consider making himself come until he passed out an all-nighter, then absolutely.

"Sort of," he sighed, cheek in his palm. "What would you do if you wanted to get closer to someone, but they were reluctant?"

"Starting off with the heavy-hitters today," he sniffed, opening his bag. "Were you rejected?"

"No, not technically, I guess. We—well, we have sex," he admitted in a whisper, blushing like he'd just dunked his head in boiling water as Shinsou's lazy eyes blew wide at the revelation from his shy, once-virginal friend, "but, they don't really like to talk. About anything. They tease me, too."

He raised an eyebrow. "Tease you? Are we in first grade? Get rid of them if they act like that."

"No, not—I mean, like," Izuku dropped into a deeper tone, "sexually."

"Oh," he muttered, scratching his chin. "Is it consensual?" A nod. "Do you like it?"

Izuku picked at his lip, a shrug. "No. Well, maybe. I want more. Something more."

Shinsou stared at him. "Sounds like you should be having this conversation with your partner. You're dealing critical hits over here."

"Sorry." He flushed, cracking his forehead against the table, wanting to chuck himself out the window.

"I'm just messing with you," Shinsou snorted, "but you should just talk to them about whatever...arrangement you have set up."

Izuku sat up, spinning a pen between his fingers. They definitely didn't have an arrangement. He had been showing up to the pool frequently—once or twice a week compared to the every-now-and-then schedule before Katsuki first cornered him—and that meant more of everything he wanted, but it wasn't enough.

The long stretches of absence were like an itch he couldn't scratch, and when the gap was closed with a passionate encounter the itch was soothed for a few hours, a day, before returning with fervor, becoming more irritated with each resurgence. But the gap itself was like a rubber band. It never got smaller. It was stretched and then snapped together, but it always returned to its original circumference.

He liked Katsuki's brash, abrasive personality, his drive, his rude mouth, his successes as he inched closer to usurping that coveted time. He loved the way he looked in the water—sleek and white and swift. He especially liked that Katsuki's golden pursuit had reignited Izuku's own passion. The drudgery of schoolwork had eased and a renewed dedication to his future field had possessed him.

Izuku also liked his commandeering of their interactions, all too willing to submit to his whims. He liked the absolute embarrassing mess Katsuki made out of him. Izuku's list of desires was shrinking with the allowances being granted, but several glaring items remained—and they had little to do with sex.

However, uncertainty plagued him like a malevolent entity. Izuku couldn't imagine Katsuki letting him come all over his feet or suck on his inner thighs till they bruised or hump him like a depraved animal if he didn't want it. But did he need it—him—like Izuku did? Was an ember sparked inside of Katsuki that might be fanned to match the fire raging through Izuku’s wildlands? Izuku had no experiences to compare, and that fear of his captivation being the product of Katsuki simply being his first lingered. He didn't think it true, but the disparity in their willingness to be open was glaring.

He knew hardly more about Katsuki than he did when he was lurking unknown in the stands. A few scraps: his swim and dryland workout schedule, the fact he called his mother "old hag" (Izuku had been appalled, but apparently it was a warped term of endearment, which made him think all his trite names for Izuku might be similar), his strictly managed eating habits (not what he ate or liked to eat, just that they existed).

In this vacuum, Izuku had memorized how Katsuki touched himself—the patterns, the noises, the look in his eyes, the glint of teeth—because he had nothing else to cling to. The dearth of connection beyond the physical filled him with a deep, sad yearning and the crux was approaching, the turning or breaking point.

Desire was unease. Discomfort. An acknowledgement of space. It prompted action, it needed a solution—a path—for longing was an issue of distance, and in theory, all distances could be closed.

.....

He gasped, hands threaded through blonde, cupping hot ears as a burning mouth bobbed over him. Endeared, hazy eyes stared at Katsuki's enraptured, blissful face. Izuku would have never guessed he loved sucking cock so much. He came with his name on his lips, Katsuki swallowing.

"Kacchan," he cooed, sinking to the floor, opening his arms and legs.

"Kacchan? Really?" he snorted, rasping as he swiped the spit and cum from his red mouth.

He settled into the space Izuku made for him, back to chest, and allowed Izuku to mold him, to drape pale thighs over tanned, spreading Katsuki for wandering, tender hands. Izuku adored the rare change in pace from their desperate rutting, when the reins were handed over and he was allowed to lavish attention. He'd long ago picked up on Katsuki's need for Izuku to finish first, and he cherished the times when Katsuki let him touch, to bring him to his peak while Izuku basked in airy, dappled afterglow.

Izuku nuzzled behind Katsuki's ear, a faint kiss on the transparent shell. He'd finally thought of something simple, non-committal, but something that would express interest beyond the enclosed walls of the shower room, their small blue world.

"Do you want to come to a game?" he mumbled into the slope of Katsuki's shoulder, gently stroking, reveling in the shiver, the pulse beneath his ministrations.

Katsuki moaned low and short behind his ribs, a hum, dropping his head back onto Izuku's shoulder. "Fuckin' hate baseball."

"You don't have to stay the entire time." He knew not to leave a mark in so obvious a spot as the curve of his nape, so he licked a long line over the muscle instead.

"Make me come and maybe I'll think about it."

.....

Cicadas sang in the stagnant heat, the air wobbling in the beating sun. The sky was high and deep and azure, the clouds white and tall and crisp. A storm was in the forecast, and thick, muggy air told of its coming.

They were winning by a thin margin, just pulled into the lead with their last at bat, keeping the other team at bay with three up and three down. It was the bottom of the fourth

Izuku knocked his cleats, stepping up to the plate. His uniform clung to the sweat dripping down his spine. The first pitch down the center and he swung hard and missed big. He sniffed, one foot out of the box, adjusting his helmet as his teammates cheered him on, reading the series of signs from the third-base coach. Reentering the box, he lifted his bat and from the peripheral Izuku saw him.

Wild blonde hair in the stands above their dugout. His breath caught.

Unconsciously, Izuku leaned toward him and over the plate like a compass needle to North, bat drooping. He didn't see the wind up, forgot about it. A blinding burst knocked the wind out of him as he stumbled from the batting box, clutching his side. The pitch had nailed him in the ribs.

"Strike two!" He supposed that was a fair call, seeing as he deliberately moved into it. "You good, kid?" the umpire asked.

"Yeah," he wheezed.

"Walk it off, Midoriya!" Iida called from on-deck.

From the dugout, Shinsou gave him a thumbs-up that was somehow both condescending and encouraging. He grimaced, straightening with a huff, and the crowd gave the obligatory round of polite clapping. He stretched overhead to knock the kink out and glanced into the stands. There Katsuki was, sitting with a look on his face like he was watching paint dry.

"Embarrassing," he muttered, sniffing, pursing his lips to keep the smile from his face, returning to the plate.

On the next pitch he hit a double, the ball rocketing through the shortstop gap and deep into left field, sliding into second base. He managed to steal third with Iida in the box, and when the captain whaled a grounder into right field he slid again into home, tacking on another run. He winced at the series of high-fives, ribs protesting, but he looked up into the stands.

Izuku finally smiled big and true, a shy wave, and Katsuki scowled as he stepped down to the bench with a bright laugh, bursting and light.

.....

Thunder rumbled in the belly of the darkening sky. The clouds had swept in as they were packing up the dugout, opening in a torrent as the teams and the stadium ran for cover from the stinging rain. Izuku slipped away from his teammates with a promise of meeting later for a celebratory dinner.

He found him at the pool, soaked as Izuku was, dripping on the deck in bare feet, shoes slung on his fingers, staring up through the watery skylights. The pelting rain sounded like hail against the glass, richoceting through the crossbeams. He turned when he heard Izuku approach. Izuku hurried to fill and surround himself with Katsuki.

"Don't run on the deck—" Katsuki let out an oof as Izuku grabbed and wrapped him in a tight embrace. "The fuck," he muttered, standing, accepting, but not reciprocating.

Izuku burrowed into his shoulder, breathing in the smell of ozone, sweat, the faint lingering mint against damp skin, wet cotton.

"I'm glad you came."

A pause. A grunt in his curls.

He pulled Katsuki into the locker room, dropping his bag, throwing off his hat. Katsuki quickly pinned him to the shower wall, rough hands in his hair as Izuku hiked Katsuki's hips to his, grinding together lazily through saturated clothes. The mouth on his neck nipped, a hot tongue. Izuku's head lolled, eyes already clouded staring at a red ear, a pink cheek. More evenly flushed than the ruddy, hive-like blush Katsuki usually sported.

"Did you wear sunscreen? You're red." He grunted as Izuku rubbed the tip of an ear between gentle fingers. "I have aloe in my bag," he offered, despite wanting to salve the light burn with his tongue, feel the radiating heat spread through his mouth.

"Don't want it." Katsuki's hands dropped to his ribs, pressing hard, searching for what was under the rumpled uniform. "You saw me and got beamed by that pitch."

"You're stunning." Izuku bit back a wince as the mean prodding found it.

His compliment was ignored as per usual.

Katsuki tore the shirt over his head, curls ruffled. White hands on his chest. Fingertips teased the ovular contusion. "It's gonna look like shit."

Izuku did not care. He could be wheezing with a punctured lung and all he'd be able to feel was Katsuki's hands on him. Admittedly, he'd not be able to for long, but it probably wasn't the worst way to spend his last moments. His mom would be sad without him—wait, way off track.

"Did you like it? The game."

"No," he snorted, nibbling on Izuku's earlobe. Katsuki wrapped around his waist to grab at his backside, kneading, tongue dipping into his ear. "But I loved watching your ass run around in these ugly fucking pants," he muttered.

Izuku laughed breathless and blushed. Katsuki paused, looking over Izuku's shoulder at his handfuls. They traced the junction of glute and hamstring and found what they were looking for. Katsuki pulled at the thick elastic of Izuku’s jockstrap through his pants and snapped it. Izuku shivered, a clench, a groan. Frantically, he yanked at Izuku's belt, whipping it off, and fumbled with the button and fly of his uniform. He'd never seen Katsuki so eager, letting himself be manhandled as his pants were wrenched down his thighs.

"Let me take the cup out," Katsuki breathed, another hard snap on the band around his hips, red eyes flaring.

Izuku kicked off his pants, uncaring as they landed in a pool of water by the drain, craving the relief the removal of hard plastic would provide. He stood in the jockstrap in front of Katsuki whose stare all but consumed him. The showers were muted, illuminated only by the glow of half the lights from the locker room. The middling depths where the sun began to weaken.

"Fuck," Katsuki whispered, brimming. Long, blunt fingers palmed the plastic. Izuku inhaled sharply, feeding off Katsuki's arousal. "I can feel how hot you are." They dipped inside the pouch and pulled the cup out, tossing it aside with a clatter as he stared at Izuku's dick filling the mesh, a wet spot leaking. "You wanna fuck me?"

A roll of thunder boomed, the hush of muffled rain.

"What?"

Katsuki grabbed him from the underside, stroking up, and Izuku shuddered, sinking into the touch. "Do you want to put your fat cock in me?"

"Yes. Please."

He didn't think he could have spoken any faster.

"Sit."

He didn't think he could have dropped to the floor any faster.

Propped against the damp tile, Izuku watched Katsuki shuck his shirt and slip out of his track pants. Izuku's hands fisted on his splayed thighs, cock twitching, engorged and standing, straining against the strap. The sculpted lines and rippling indentations, the taut waist. The pale skin flushed a charming rose, a thin sheen of humid sweat, the light sunburn on his cheeks and ears and the back of his neck, blue veins, red eyes. The briefs came off, his half-filled cock bobbing. Izuku chewed on his cheek, the rest of his blood rushing down.

"Like the show?" Katsuki snorted, coming to stand over him. A condom and a packet of lube dropped at Izuku’s side. Had Katsuki planned on this? Izuku burned bright as a hand cupped his jaw and turned his face up to Katsuki's. "Suddenly shy? You're not muttering about how you want to eat me out."

He pressed a chaste kiss to the inner thigh straddling him, a timid hand curling around an ankle, rubbing little circles. He nuzzled the powerful quad, engulfed in a lulling wave of heat. "You're beautiful," he murmured, closing his eyes.

He clicked his tongue. "Stop saying that shit."

"What if—" I don't want to, like you, want to know you, want you to like me, too. He bit his tongue.

Katsuki crouched and sat in Izuku's lap, hands carding gruff through his curls. "You know what to do?" The soft bevel to his voice had Izuku's heart thrashing.

Izuku nodded, blushing deeper. He shivered, impatient hands gripping Katsuki's neat waist, rolling his hips. Instead of chastising for touching without asking, Katsuki ground down to meet him, sliding over Izuku's contained cock, the friction sending a jolt from head to toe. His arms wrapped around Izuku's shoulders, one on the back of his neck, the other braced against the tile, their sweat slicking between them as Katsuki dipped up and down, back and forth. It was a shockingly slow, sweet, gentle foreshadowing.

"Kacchan, you feel so good," Izuku husked, thumbs kneading the taut hips gyrating on top of him. He didn't miss the shiver rippling through Katsuki, the blooming flush, the sudden filling out of Katsuki's erection. Their nipples brushed and he moaned low.

"Take your cock out."

Izuku obeyed, raising his hips to shimmy the jockstrap down his thighs, just enough to free himself. Katsuki licked his lips, lining up the cleft of his ass with Izuku's hard length and slid over it in a slow pulse of his hips. Izuku groaned, fingers tight, mouth parting.

"Your body's perfect, so fucking sensitive," Katsuki breathed.

Izuku paused, opening hazy eyes, a dip in his heat like diving too far in the sea and leaving behind the warmth of the surface. The light weakened, the blue sank deeper. Twilight. His hands went slack. He looked up at Katsuki.

"What?" Katsuki said, slowing his own languid grinding before coming to a stop.

"Do you like anything else?" Izuku asked quietly, unsure if he wanted to hear the answer, if he was ready to hear it.

There was a horrid pause. A void. Another roll of thunder.

"You think I like your weird fuckin' personality?" Katsuki finally said, uncharacteristically soft.

He wasn't ready, based on the visceral clenching of his heart.

"Well, I was sort of hoping…" Izuku trailed off weakly. Don't cry, don't cry, don't cry. His chin wrinkled as he gnawed on his lip.

"Don't be stupid," Katsuki muttered. "You wanna fuck me, right? I'm tapering, so you can go as hard as you want. Bet you're pent up, waiting like such a good—"

"I don't think this is working." He somehow kept the crack from his voice.

Katsuki was quiet. Izuku didn't know these silences, the distance between them laid plain. Katsuki was shutting down, pulling away from the needy, desperate, stupid Deku and his feelings.

"I—" Izuku breathed deeply, gathering courage. "I like you, and I want to get to know you. I want to take you on a date. More than one." Katsuki scoffed and Izuku didn't wait for him to say more. He didn't want to hear it. Couldn't. "That's okay, really, I just—I can't do this. Not like this."

"Are you blaming me?" Katsuki bristled, tensing on top of him. "I didn't just introduce feelings into our fucking."

"No!" Izuku quickly sat up, hands back on Katsuki's waist, gripping as if he were to hold on tight enough, it might change the impending outcome they were barreling toward. The blatant wording of their relationship made his throat close. "No, I'm not, I'm just—" A wobbly smile. "I don't want to just have sex with you—I mean, it's great, really—"

"Don't fucking patronize me,” he snarled, slapping his hands off.

Katsuki's walls were going up, but Izuku continued, his own walls crumbling to rubble. "I want more and it's just—it's starting to hurt. If you don't want this—the same, I mean—then it's probably best if we…end this." He finished quietly, perhaps pitifully, but at least he'd put words to his feelings and made them known to the one who held him like a fragile egg in a palm. Tears welled.

Fury was a shallow adjective for the incinerating expression. Izuku tried to brace himself as Katsuki ripped out of his clutching hands, up from his lap, and tugged on his clothes haphazard. He glared down at Izuku like he'd taken something precious, irreplaceable. But Izuku knew he was.

Replaceable, that is.

"What a waste of my fucking time." Katsuki's voice was harsh, dark, quiet. A terrible echo in the empty showers.

The fist shattered the little egg, wings crushed before they had a chance to spread.

.....

"You know him?" Kirishima asked, nodding toward the lurker up in the stands.

"No," Katsuki said, running a towel over his head, rolling his shoulders.

The guy had been coming off-and-on for a few weeks. Always quiet, in the back, obviously staring. At him.

"I asked around and Tsu-chan does, sorta. He's friends with her girl. She could probably introduce you—"

"Shut the fuck up."

"C'mon, man. It'd be creepy if he seemed at all aggressive, but he just sits there like a rag doll and watches you—well, actually, maybe that's worse." Kirishima grinned. "Did you follow my suggestion?"

"If you don't shut your fucking mouth, I'm gonna do it for you," he seethed as Kirishima cackled.

Kirishima had suggested he get laid. Katsuki had been snapping at nothing and wound tighter than usual. Entirely stuck in his progress, his time not budging. A dreaded plateau. Everything about his stroke was pristine, his kick powerful, his breathing timed, but in some way he was lacking. It was infuriating. Aizawa had been honing his dive down to the centimeter, his turn down to the millisecond, but his time was stagnant. Even if he'd managed to see four tenths, it didn't hold consistent.

The sharky redhead thought a good fuck would calm him down—like he was a kid throwing a tantrum in the candy aisle, satiated only by the shiny red lollipop. Katsuki had promptly told him what he thought of the idea.

However, he wasn't oblivious to the lidded green eyes and the heat they held.

He hadn't had sex in two years and some change, not since his rotator injury and arduous recovery, not since he threw all he had into getting back to where he'd been. He'd missed his first chance at the Olympic team. He wouldn't miss it again. There was no room for distraction.

It was unfortunate, however, that the past few times he'd masturbated, Katsuki had visualized the creep—when he fingered himself in the bath, when he cursed into his pillow as he fucked a new forest-green dildo, when he came in the empty locker room shower. It was fine. Better. He didn't need to fumble with someone or teach them how he liked it when he could do it on his own more efficiently. He couldn't divert from the path when he was mere shavings of a second from a time that would push him into the running for gold.

As usual, a week or two passed before he came back.

Kirishima clicked the stopwatch. "Kinda slow on that one, man."

"Fuck off," he heaved, lifting onto the deck. An arm slung over his shoulders.

"Your lucky charm is here."

Katsuki generally didn't pay attention to him (despite coming multiple times imagining tanned hands on him, in him), but he couldn't stop the snap of his head as he zeroed in on the spot he always occupied. Katsuki instantly regretted it. He bolted out of his chair like he'd been caught red-handed and flew down the steps.

Shoving Kirishima's arm off, Katsuki darted into the hallway in pursuit. Why the fuck was he following him and his ugly red shoes? It had been a knee-jerk reaction, but it certainly got interesting when he opened his mumbling mouth and called Katsuki "remarkable" and "impressive" while blushing and ogling his chest.

Kirishima could be right—not that he'd ever tell him, he'd never hear the end of it. A quickie with someone so clearly into him might be all he needed to get out of his rut.

So Katsuki told him to wait.

Deku being inexperienced was like pointing out rain falls down. It came as no surprise. But Katsuki immediately retracted his placation of not wanting to coach someone on how best to touch him. Granted, he didn't allow Deku to touch—he couldn't show up to the deck covered in desperate bites and sloppy suck marks, which Deku seemed eager to plant.

The guy he fucked himself thinking about was pliant, submissive. Deku was even better. Watery green eyes looked at him like Katsuki had created the sky and Katsuki flared within that gaze.

Much to his annoyance, he did feel calmer as he stalked out of the locker room with a sore jaw.

Even more to his annoyance, at the following practice as he hung from the buoy heaving from the sprint, he demanded Kirishima repeat the numbers. He'd heard correctly. An entire tenth shaved off. He rested and went again. The same time with a few hundredths variable. A third for good measure, and the same result. The plateau was conquered.

For the next few weeks, Deku didn't show his face. It pissed him off inexplicably, but Katsuki supposed he'd gotten what he wanted. Perhaps they both had.

It didn't stop Katsuki from punching his name into the school's sports site. Deku came up immediately. A shy smile between freckled cheeks, a dimple, big eyes, squared jaw and tan skin and dark curls and fucking baseball. An outfielder, too. Pre-med with a double-major, projected graduation of a year after Katsuki. No wonder he radiated exhaustion. Midterms were coming. The absence made sense.

He clicked his tongue and pulled up the schedule. There was a home game that weekend. Katsuki didn't give a shit about baseball. It was boring. It was long. Was he really going to sit through nine innings to look at Deku's huge ass and beefy arms in tight pinstripes?

He slumped into a chair in the stadium, hands stuffed in his pockets, a ball cap tugged over his face.

Yeah, apparently he was doing just that.

Katsuki chose a seat near left field so he could openly stare and the view didn't disappoint. The uniform was indeed tight, hugging the curve of the lush ass he wanted to sink his fingers into as Deku stuffed his cock into him. He spread his legs at the thought, sprawled open as if it might lure the oblivious idiot. It didn't work.

Chin dumped in his palm, he sneered at the field as the teams switched places at the top of whatever forsaken inning they were in, the sun beating overhead, Deku jogging back to his dugout to get ready to bat.

"What the fuck," he muttered darkly.

He'd been completely, entirely, wholly ignored. Not even a glance in his general direction. Were the stands packed for some indescribable reason? Sure, but Katsuki wasn't used to going unnoticed. It was fucking irritating. He was tempted to chuck the bag of sunflower seeds he'd bought at Deku's fat ass running away from him. He didn't like knowing Deku wasn't innately drawn to him. Katsuki stayed for the rest of the game out of spite, unseen for all of it.

He'd tried to corner Deku afterwards, but the team stuck together like they were connected at the hip, and as Katsuki watched them leave in a gaggle—Deku peeling off toward the library—he let the notion go. He didn't have the time or luxury to follow him around campus, but that left Katsuki high and dry when he wanted to be on his back and wet. He angrily jerked off that night thinking of the way Deku's broad back wound up as he hurled a ball from left field to second base, a white flash impossible to follow, only seeing it once it collided against a pocket of soft leather in a sharp smack. It was better this way, he reminded himself.

Then Deku came back to the pool, slumped in his usual spot. Katsuki nailed him to the seat with a glare.

Alone in the locker room, the tree trunk asked him out. Katsuki wanted to slam his own hand in the suit dryer and break all his fingers for even considering it before outright rejecting him. No distractions. Feelings would fade. Gold stayed minted.

When Deku asked to shave him, however, Katsuki did everything in his power to keep his dick down—a true feat of self-control—as he stood dumbstruck. Fucking would be fine, he allowed. A stress reliever. He didn't care the freak was into his feet, but he definitely cared when he came dry and socked away the memory of a fucked-out Deku wrecking himself merely watching Katsuki get off.

After Deku stumbled out of the locker room wearing Katsuki's extra pair of track pants (his own still wet and sticky, his ass about to burst out of Katsuki's which had been generously lent with the secret hope he wouldn't wash them before returning), he finished shaving down and tugged on his dick in the corner of the shower with his fingers in his hole, cum splattered into the drain, flushed forehead grinding against the tile. He wanted Deku to touch him—big, shaky hands delicately shaving him like he were made of porcelain didn't turn Katsuki on. Watching Deku barely keep himself leashed did. He wanted bruises and disgusting, needy marks bitten into him and a cock filling him up. Katsuki was denying them both.

With the following encounters, he granted incremental allowances. Having the thick, muscled, intelligent Deku worship his body, seeing him cry and beg to touch, desperately desiring—it all bolstered Katsuki's ego in ways he could not put to words. But it showed. The numbers continued their steady decline.

He liked Deku watching him—only him—ignorant to the rest of the world, entirely focused, wholly absorbed. Everything reduced to their blue shower room, to skin, to the sounds Deku made with Katsuki's name on his tongue.

A meet (47.56). Katsuki knew Deku was in the stands, could feel the two holes bored into his back, so he waited in the locker room after the chairs and deck and parking lot had emptied. Deku came to him like a dog that had run away from home and Katsuki allowed him to open his greedy mouth, a hot tongue and mumbled, heady praise bitten into his skin.

He stared at his ass in the mirror. It was imprinted with teeth, overlapped suck marks, a bruised set of fingerprints. He preened, palming the curve of his glute, digging a nail into a particularly deep set of incisors, flinching. Deku had gone lower than allowed, his inner thighs equally marked (but Katsuki hadn't stopped him, hard as a diamond). Remembering the brush of wild curls against his sensitive skin, the look in hazy green eyes, the flush blooming beneath freckles. Katsuki rammed his legs into the jammers to hide the postmodern painting mouthed onto him even though he wanted to string himself up on display.

The sun was setting by the last practice heat, the drills done, the negative splits met and logged, a stupid number of flip turns until up was down and down became up. The whistle blew and they launched.

Katsuki had been swimming for as long as he could remember—pictures of him as an infant cradled against his mother's chest in a pool, kicking fanatically with a barbell in tiny hands, floating in a life vest with his father in the ocean, standing on the tallest podium at his first meet. Being in water was incomparable to anything else in his life. It sloughed off all things clinging. No stroke or kick or breath mattered except the one he was taking or holding. Nothing existed beyond the walls of the pool, beyond the buoys of his lane. The black line leading him, guiding him, the water supporting, resisting, rushing. It was where he felt at home, the world sinking.

He touched and came up for air, heaving. The world came back like a fist. 47.30.

The time rang in his ears, Aizawa twirling the stopwatch with a proud look as the team leapt and dove and cannon-balled into the pool in celebration. Katsuki looked to the stands, but Deku wasn't there that evening.

It wasn't enough. That number, for the first time, wasn't enough.

But he couldn't acknowledge what he wanted was not a medal, a trophy, a time.

It was a few days before Deku showed up again and Katsuki dragged him into the showers after practice. He let Deku suck him off and that inexperienced, affectionate, eager mouth had Katsuki coming like he was the virgin. As he rolled from over top of Deku who lay panting on his towel, dazed and blissful and full of adoration, Katsuki wanted to tell him. Wanted to tell him what he hadn't been there to witness, how he'd felt the empty seat like an itch behind his ribs, how he'd wanted to see green eyes go wide with pride.

Watch me. Only me.

It wasn't good. He knew. Still, Katsuki let Deku come to him.

Lying back against a soft, firm chest, legs splayed open over tanned, freckled thighs, a warm hand working him over. He also wouldn't admit he'd been fond of the gentle fucking, that it was more relaxing and soothing and comfortable than anything he'd ever known on land. That his jagged edges were being sanded by tender hands. Locked between strong thighs, Deku asked him to attend a game. It was the closest thing to a date since he'd asked him out to coffee. Katsuki didn't know what compelled him to actually show up (well, he knew, but it was that thing he wasn't acknowledging, so, no, he didn't).

He was bored out of his mind in the stands, jolting from a glazed stupor every time a ball cracked against a bat or glove. The moron got hit with a blazing pitch and Katsuki didn't immediately recognize the emotion he felt as concern. His foot tapped at the sight of that big, stupid grin on Deku's red face just for him, teeth gnawing the inside of his cheek.

An unexpected embrace with the rain clattering loud against glass overhead had him blushing like a schoolgirl, thankful his face was hidden in Deku's sweaty curls.

Then Deku had to open his fucking mouth, spewing shit that wasn't his name rattling on a broken moan or that childish nickname nestled in a soft mumble. He didn't want feelings. He didn't want a distraction. He didn't want it acknowledged. The physical boundaries had been breaking down for weeks, but there was never a spoken one to cut if off at the bud. Katsuki had allowed it—the feelings—to grow unhindered like a weed in both of them. Deku was just more eager to bloom.

It'd come to Deku holding back tears as Katsuki spat something cruel and untrue, as Katsuki stormed out, drenched as he barreled into his shared apartment (spooking Kirishima and Kaminari), fuming as he submerged in a steaming bath, restlessly tossing in bed as he stared at the ceiling, masturbating to the echoing of: I like you, I like you, I like you. He came hard, blinding, surprising, more than once.

"Fucking crying," he muttered to himself, arm flung over tightly closed eyes.

That confession was a curse.

His time got worse, a full tenth tacked stubbornly back on in every practice heat for an entire week, that four plaguing him when he'd so eagerly clutched to the three, when he desperately desired a two.

He couldn't compare Deku's wants to wanting a specific sequence of numbers, but Katsuki had never pursued anything except unequivocal, unshakeable victory in his sport. To want something else—someone else—meant he was divided, his attention split. He couldn't take a fork that might not meet up again with the main path. To Katsuki, love was focus. It was ambition and dedication and surety. He loved swimming. He didn't think he could love anything else—at least not as fiercely. Which would lead to a rift. Time divided instead of devoted.

It was simpler. So why did it feel wrong. Why did "I like you" and barely contained tears and a bright smile and fucking freckles with big, green eyes—why wouldn't they leave him alone? Why was he still looking to the stands, to that dark corner now unoccupied? Why was he waiting, alone, in the locker room after practice with a messy collision of want and regret and loneliness hovering over him like a dark cloud. Why was he sleeping with a pillow trapped in his arms like he was choking the life out of it, biting until his teeth ground through the filling. Why was his time shit again.

Katsuki sat at the bottom of the pool, hovering over the black line, twelve feet of pressure bearing as he stared down the lane from the deep end. A bubble leaked from his nose. His lungs burned. His heart thudded in his ears. The sound of heavy water like a hum, the grit of the concrete against his toes. He looked up—the backstroke flags wobbling, the skylights rippling and glowing a smelted coral. Gently pushing off, he let himself float to the surface. A deep inhale as he softly breached, lungs expanding. He hung from the ledge, stretching his calves against the wall.

The hair had grown back.

A pat on his hand. "You trying to drown yourself?"

"Can you two fuck off," he muttered, glaring over the lip of the pool.

Mina and Kirishima squatted on the deck.

"What's up with you? You've been out of it for like, a week now," Mina said. He didn't need that pointed out to him. "Plus, you're snapping at everyone—worse than usual," she continued. "You gotta stop. Half the first years are walking on eggshells around you, and it might get back to the Olympic coaches. They're not gonna put up with that shit attitude problem."

"Wanna talk about him?" Kirishima asked.

"Him?" Katsuki growled.

"Look, man, boning in the locker room every other day is not exactly discreet," Kirishima said. "Whatever happened is clearly affecting you. Did you break up?"

Katsuki sank till his mouth bobbed at the surface. "We weren't together," he muttered into the water, glaring at the lane buoy.

"Seriously? I thought that's why you've been going to Midoriya's games," Mina said.

"How'd you know about that?" he snapped. "And why do you know his name, you nosy—"

"Hey, be nice," Kirishima said.

Mina rolled her eyes. "Tsu-chan said she saw you in the stands last week. Said you stare more intensely than he does," she snorted. "I've never seen you interested in anyone, and sure as hell not in baseball, so how about you just pull your head outta your stubborn ass—"

"Okay, thank you, Mina," Kirishima squawked as he played peacekeeper. He turned back to Katsuki who hung off the wall like a depressurized oarfish. "Why don't you just talk to him? I know that's not really your strong suit—"

"What kinda fucked up pep talk is this?"

"—but he obviously did something positive for you."

"Yeah," she scoffed, "dicking you down."

"In what fucking world?!" Katsuki screeched, lunging for Mina who laughed as she shuffled away from the water.

"Don't lie," she howled. "Though I bet Midoriya's never actually been on top."

"This is way off script," Kirishima muttered as Katsuki hauled himself onto the deck to grapple with Mina. "Maybe just consider reaching out?"

"No," he wheezed from Mina's chokehold. "I don't care about him."

"Oh," Mina cooed. "Your flailing like a dying whale this week proved otherwise."

"Flailing?" Katsuki had never been anything but the manifestation of grace in the water. "Oi, get off me—fuck's sake."

"Not until you admit it."

"There's nothing to admit," he snarled, trying to slither from the iron grip. It was not the first time he'd been subjected to Mina's brutish affection.

She clicked her tongue. "So stubborn." She released her hold, but cupped Katsuki's cheeks as he stared up unamused from her lap. "If you can't be true with yourself, then what's the point of anything else? Your longest relationship will always be with your own heart—and it sure as hell isn't made of gold."

Katsuki sat up, brushing her hands off. "He's just a distraction."

"Some distractions are good," she said. "You were stuck, he got you unstuck. I'm not saying your efforts are irrelevant, you work harder than anyone and it shows, but shaking up your worldview doesn't mean it's gonna shatter. It doesn't mean you're relying on him, but it'd be okay to. For some things." Mina flicked his cheek.

Kirishima laced his hands. "You don't have to give up one for the other."

Give up.

Katsuki had never given up on anything. He looked at the clock.

.....

Blue was the color of desire.

The desire to be known and to know. Longing, distances that could not be bridged, places unreachable. Blue was always distant: the dome of the sky, the trenches of the sea, the far-off mountain ridges. Infinity. The divine mantle. Go too deep and it turns black. Run too shallow and it turns clear. Get too close and it disappears. Yet it colored the essence of the world. Pale skin skimming through azurite and lapis lazuli, faceted, refracting. A wavelength for so long there was no name for.

Black and white, red, yellow and green, finally blue. The last color to be named in language. The power of naming, of recognizing, of making known. Could a nameless color be seen? Yes, but it would be called by something else, something true but not quite right. Could the nameless be possessed? There hadn't been a name for them. They weren't strangers, they weren't acquaintences, friends, lovers. He'd tried to give it a name and was left alone in the blue world.

Rejection was imbalance, not distance. Love was distance. He could not be separated from that which he didn't love, and he hadn't loved him—hadn't had the chance.

When he slept, he'd been dreaming in blues. Not the turquoise of coastal tides, not the enclosed cerulean shape of a pool, not the mimicry of mosaiced tile, but of depths, expansive and silent. Hovering in the mesopelagic. The clear surface too far, the dark bottom farther. Stasis. Submerged in desire he could not solve. In distance he could not close. In love he could neither deny nor name.

.....

Izuku held the backspace down, deleting the poorly worded the correlation he'd just drawn. He scrubbed his eyes, tired of looking at screens. Holed up in the lab most of the week, he'd been gathering data to make headway on his term paper, but had crawled to the library to sit in blissful silence. He chewed on his pen cap, flipping through his research. The past week he'd stuck close to his team, his room, the lab, his favorite table at the library. He'd avoided the pool on purpose.

Long nights. Blue dreams. Blurry eyes. He was mourning the loss of something he never had, but also something he did. His first. It would always be him. Always a peak in the distance, a peak he'd never seen in the full spectrum of color—it would always be blue—and it was now at his back. He could look over his shoulder as long as he wanted, but it would eventually grow faint and disappear if he let it.

He'd recover. He knew it wouldn't last, the melancholy, the unfulfilled feeling like a stone on his chest. Izuku had been truthful and it was the best thing he could've been.

He sighed, ticking his pen against graphed paper.

"Oi, nerd."

Izuku jolted as the leg of his chair was kicked, whipping around to the deep voice that had been keeping him from fitful sleep.

"Kacc—Bakugou, what—?" Weepy tears immediately threatened to well, but he blinked them back. Shock and awe choked him.

A week had seemed like years, like some incomprehensible unit stretching back to the beginning of the universe. It had seemed so long because there hadn't been any hope for a next time. They'd had their last, as Izuku understood it.

"Bakugou?" Katsuki muttered, scoffing. "Fine, Midoriya. Come with me."

"Oh," I'll go anywhere with you, "I—I can't right now, I'm in the middle of this paper."

"How long till you finish?"

Izuku glanced at his watch. "Two hours, maybe."

Katsuki sunk into the seat across from him, arms crossed, Izuku staring wide-eyed. "The fuck you lookin' at, get to work."

"I don't think—I can't. You're—" he mumbled. "Why?" The question was quiet, barely spoken, still afraid.

"Do you not want me here?" he asked bluntly.

Izuku hesitated. He thought of all the times he'd imagined just sitting with Katsuki, comfortable, together. Of the times when they had sat together, coming down, melding. Physically, if nothing else. Of how nice Katsuki had felt in his arms, how nice he'd felt in Katsuki's.

"Not if it's out of pity."

"There's nothing pitiable about you," Katsuki said like a known fact, slanted eyes narrowing. "I'm not leaving unless you tell me to get lost."

Izuku mouthed the air, but swallowed the string of unintelligible garbling threatening to burst forth. Of course he wouldn't tell him to leave. Instead, he just cleared his throat, finger tapping, chewing on his lip. He nodded, returning to his work—well, trying. Every few minutes his eyes would dart to Katsuki who was quietly reading a paperback folded over on itself, a pen underlining and scribbling notes in the margins. His surprisingly calm presence stopped Izuku's leg from jittering. The faint smell of chlorine, nondescript soap, mint shampoo.

He wondered how the week had been for Katsuki. If his time had improved. If he'd had days as hard as Izuku, struck with despondency (he knew he hadn't cried). Something must be bothering him, but Izuku wouldn't get his hopes up. He was going to put his foot down if Katsuki asked to reignite their tryst. Izuku had to put himself first sometimes. It was okay. Ochako had reiterated that for him over teary instant noodles at two in the morning.

Their eyes met once or twice, Izuku ducking, wiggling his nose to adjust his glasses, and the quiet continued. The clock ticked.

A soft snort. "Mumbling."

Izuku straightened. "Sorry."

"S'fine." Red eyes didn't lift from the book.

It was…good. Sitting together. Better than he'd imagined, absorbed in their respective work. Izuku went over the allotted time, what with the object of his desire, affection, anguish sitting across from him, but he reached a stopping point nearer eleven than ten. The library was emptied with a few lingering students in quiet corners.

"I'm done," he whispered, tucking his glasses into their pouch for emphasis. Katsuki looked up. "What did you want to talk about?"

"Take me out to dinner," Katsuki said like he was talking about the weather.

Izuku heard a dial tone. "Huh?"

He clicked his tongue, snapping the book closed. Izuku didn't miss the light blush smattered across his cheeks. "Take me on a date, jackass."

"Really?" His heart leapt into his throat, pounding in his ears. Forget putting himself first, this was all he'd ever wanted from Katsuki and he was willing to risk getting hurt again for it. A clammy sweat broke out on his palms with a rush of nerves. "Do you want to go now?" Izuku asked, closing his laptop a little too eagerly.

"I don't eat past eight," he said.

"Oh, okay. When are you free?"

"Fuck, give me your phone." He held out his hand expectantly and Izuku scrambled through his bag. Katsuki raised an eyebrow at the broccoli charm hanging from the case, jabbing in his number and a message to himself.

"Ochako gave it to me—my hair and eyes and all."

"You look more like a strawberry," he said blandly, passing the phone back.

"Why's that?" Izuku asked mindlessly, staring at the number, tempted to change the name. Maybe add an emoji. A gold medal.

"You're always bright red when you're with me. Look like you're about to burst a blood vessel half the time."

Izuku flushed, living up to his new relation, face in his hands. "I guess that's true," he mumbled. He chewed on the next question, steadying his voice. "What made you change your mind?" He peered through his fingers, but gasped sharp.

Hands on his calves, running up to his thighs. Izuku nearly ejected himself from the chair, banging his shin as he scooted back. Katsuki was on his knees, glaring threateningly from beneath the table.

"The fuck is wrong with you."

"What're you doing?" he whispered, looking furtively down the aisles they were tucked between.

"Don't be a fucking moron. Come here." Pale hands shot out and grabbed the chair, pulling Izuku back to the table where Katsuki nestled wonderfully between his open legs.

Fingers unbuttoned his jeans, tugged down his zipper, but Izuku grabbed them. "Wait, wait, not here, please," Izuku whispered. He'd never be able to work peacefully in the library again. Katsuki tilted his head onto his thigh with such a coquettish look, overflowing, a whimper punched out of him. "God, you're gorgeous."

The compliment was ignored, still, again, hopefully not always. Katsuki slipped out from the table.

"You live alone?" he asked. Izuku nodded. "It better be clean."

Izuku did a quick mental run of his apartment. There was a dish or two in the sink, but his clothes were in the washer and he'd changed his bedding a few days ago, the trash was taken out. His desk was in disarray, but that was always the case and he'd long ago given up on keeping it tidy.

"Are you sure?" Izuku asked, wanting to kick himself for giving leeway for second-guessing. But he needed to know. "I…I like you."

Katsuki stared at him for a moment then looked away with a sneer, a patchy blush. "Yeah."

Izuku jettisoned to the surface, the sun gleaming off the water like a cluster of stars, breathing deep and salty and stinging, but breathing clearer than he had in months. Like he'd never taken a breath before. Acceptance. He was being accepted.

Izuku shoved his work into his bag, uncaring, hurriedly zipping his pants with a burning face, and they left the library toward the station. He'd pull ahead, look behind, then wait for Katsuki's stalking to catch up. He was vibrating like the cicadas crying in the plum trees, like a dog finally going on its evening walk.

"Can I hold your hand?" he asked as they stood waiting on the platform, Izuku impatiently looking down the tracks every ten seconds, hoping to see two headlights barreling toward them.

"Are you five? Fuck outta here," Katsuki growled, ramming his fists into the pockets of his jeans.

On the train, Katsuki sat with legs sprawled, glaring at Izuku who sat across the aisle. He grinned, giddy, and Katsuki scowled. His deepening blush gave him away. His blush didn't lie. That much Izuku knew. They walked astride to his apartment at a quick clip, Izuku picking up speed and Katsuki finally matching until they were sprinting down the dim street.

"Oi!" Katsuki barked, arms pumping, a grin like a sickle slashed between his cheeks.

Izuku bounded up the stairs two at a time, Katsuki falling behind in the narrow stairwell. As he fumbled with the door, Katsuki grabbed his ass, leaning flush against Izuku's back, and he cursed the deadbolt. A successful click and they fell inside. Playful pinches and nips and soothing palms and tongues, shirts shed like exoskeletons, shoes tossed in the doorway, the smell of mint and plain soap, sweat, laundry detergent, chlorine, the cloying summer air, the basil plant from his mom. He managed to switch on the single kitchen light, a bright flood flickering for a moment.

"Are you okay with this? Do you want to go to dinner first?" Izuku asked as Katsuki sucked at his jaw, head tipped back.

"You got horrible timing," he mumbled, lips trailing over his cheek, into his ear. "And m'not the virgin here. If you wanna wait, I'll blow you." A tug on his earlobe between sharp teeth. "Let you finger me like that slutty wet dream you had."

Izuku flushed, shivering as Katsuki pried away to look at him. Complimentary. "I don't want to wait." Not anymore, not for anything.

Katsuki grinned—that same, devilish look he'd given the first time he'd lowered to his knees in front of Izuku. "I hate pretending to be patient," he said, backing Izuku toward the bed, tweaking his nipples. It was a one-room apartment, easy to navigate. "It's fuckin' hot in here."

"I can turn the air conditioner on," Izuku offered, breath hitching, running in broad strokes over the plains of Katsuki's back. His legs hit the mattress and he dropped onto it, pulling at Katsuki's jeans (why of all days did he have to wear something with a button and zipper?).

"I don't mind getting sweaty." Katsuki smirked down at him, raking a hand through dark curls. Izuku's clumsy undressing stilled, looking up. A finger traced his jawline, bumping over the knot in his throat as the smirk softened. "Come watch me swim."

Breath left him. Green eyes pricked hot at what was essentially, for Katsuki, a confession. He wanted Izuku around, to be there, to watch him, support him, and Katsuki trusted him to show up.

"I will."

"Get it together, waterworks." A light pinch on his cheek.

"I'm not crying. Yet," he snorted, pressing his face into Katsuki's stomach, nuzzling the peach fuzz that had grown back, catching the muttered, "gross." The hand in his hair curled around the back of his head, tugging lightly to get him to crane his neck.

"What do you want?"

"Whatever you do."

"Yeah, I know, but I'm asking. Not really into the foot shit, but I can work with it—"

"Please, stop, oh my god," Izuku muttered, cheeks burning. "That was unexpected, I don't fantasize about your feet—I mean, they're nice, I like how pink they are." Katsuki tugged on his hair again, a little harder. "I just—nothing fancy, I just want to be with you." He pressed a dry, chaste kiss against the ridged plain of Katsuski's abdomen.

Katsuki sneered, bristling, a splotchy blush blooming down his chest. "Disgusting. Sappy, creepy, idiot, berry-looking, baseball-playing, motherfucking nerd with your stupid freckles. Fine. Take your goddamn pants off."

Izuku laughed brightly at Katsuki's bizarre affection, flushed and teary, falling onto his back as he shuffled out of his jeans and briefs, Katsuki kicking his own into the corner. Izuku vaguely hoped Katsuki hadn't noticed his own track pants draped over Izuku's desk chair. He'd meant to wash and return them, really, but their faded mingled scents made him dissolve into a puddle.

Katsuki crawled on top of Izuku, the packet of lube and the condom foil back in play.

"If you really wanna know," Izuku said as Katsuki settled, knees braced on either side of him, hands planted on either side of his head. Izuku ran his palms over bared thighs. "I can run through my list with you."

"You have a list? Are you fuckin' with me?" he said, rubbing the tip of Izuku's ear.

He licked his lips. "Well, it's just mental, but yeah."

"What else is on it, pervert?"

Izuku flushed, spreading his hands over ribbed flanks. "Not much, but there's one thing I'd really like, if it's okay," he mumbled, shyly.

"Spit it out," he grunted, unimpressed.

"Can you kiss me?"

Katsuki sat up, perched on Izuku's waist, and Izuku couldn't help the spark of fear. Don't go.

"That's it?" he said. Izuku nodded, relief washing over him. "You ever been kissed?" He shook his head. "Guess I'll ruin that for you, too."

Izuku had been expecting some sort of gnashing clash of teeth and tongue as Katsuki swooped in, but he received a soft press of lips against his own, and he turned into soup. He tilted into the kiss, eyes fluttering closed as their mouths moved together. Izuku was inelegant—too much pressure, not enough, an accidental showing of teeth—but Katsuki just corrected him, letting him learn how to breathe.

Tongue came next and Izuku groaned, all too willingly opening his mouth for Katsuki to lick into. He cupped Katsuki's jaw as he lowered on top of Izuku, arms bolstering his head, aligned from chest to hip. The comforting weight pushed Izuku deeper into the bed. A smooth roll of bared, heated skin, hardening lengths pressed between stomachs.

"Ka—" he panted against Katsuki's cheek as he broke away. "Can I touch?"

"Yeah."

Free range.

Izuku surged and captured Katsuki in another kiss, more needy, grinding against him. Izuku's hands roved unhindered, mapping every inch he'd not felt—triceps, biceps, shoulder blades, clavicle, nipples, navel—ending up on his muscled ass, kneading it, a shy finger teasing the cleft. Their erections rubbed—hot but dry—precum beginning to pearl.

"Yeah, okay—fucking desperate," Katsuki muttered, panting, Izuku's mouth latching to his cheek, neck, sucking at the crook of Katsuki's jaw, beneath his ear, determined to leave a visible trace. Katsuki grabbed the lube, tearing it open. "Hand."

Izuku offered one and whined as Katsuki sat up, trying to follow, but shut down into a shuddering puddle as he took two of Izuku's fingers into his mouth, mimicking the way he gave head. Their eyes locked. His cock twitched. Izuku hooked around Katsuki's curling tongue, slipping over teeth before Katsuki pulled them out. Lube drizzled over the slippery digits, Katsuki twining their hands in a slick mess as he rocked against Izuku's hips, ass sliding against his dick.

"You wanted to hold my hand," he muttered.

"Kacchan," Izuku moaned, clasping his fingers with Katsuki's. "You're so sweet."

Katsuki glared and pinched Izuku's nipple hard, twisting, earning a yelp. "You and your fuckin' mouth." Katsuki snatched both of Izuku's hands and planted them on his ass. "Open me up, fucker."

Izuku's breathed heavy through his quivering smile, fingers slipping between his cheeks, sliding once, twice up and down the cleft before pressing against the tight ring. Lips parted as he tested the tension, the slick, and he groaned, free hand curling to pry Katsuki's ass open. Katsuki hummed overhead, hips dully thrusting back onto his hand. He hung over Izuku, shoulders outlined with a hazy light, blonde alchemized to mercury. The dark hues of a city night flooded through the balcony doors, the gauzy curtains, the singing cicadas, crickets, the buzz of the kitchen light dividing the single room diagonal between ochre and indigo. The heat between them growing, deepening.

Izuku teased, smearing the lube, his spit, before pushing one digit inside, then shoving up to the third knuckle. Katsuki clenched, another hum, but relaxed, still rocking. He dropped to his elbows, nipping at Izuku's nose, fingers winding through his curls. Izuku panted, swallowing thickly, gaze locked with red eyes turned abyssal.

"Another," he murmured against Izuku's lips, moving serpentine hips. Izuku quickly obliged this sensual, calm, incredibly sexy Kacchan so easily lighting the kindling in his core.

The inside of Katsuki was hot and tight and silky, becoming slippery as he pumped, scissoring. A quiet moan, a puff of hot breath against his cheek. A third joined once Katsuki softened, thrusting, twisting, stretching. The sound grew wet. Izuku's face bled hot and damp, hips thrusting into empty air, aching to know the interior. He bent his fingers, knowing exactly where to find what he was looking for.

"Shit." Katsuki's voice rumbling in his ear made Izuku's cock throb. He tapped and rubbed the sensitive bulb and Katsuki arched, thighs spreading to sink deeper onto his fingers. "Fucking med student."

He ground down on his hand, dick slipping sticky against Izuku's stomach, plastered with precum, shiny and pink. Izuku pressed hard on his prostate, fanning, flattening his fingers to rub wide and even, matching Katsuki's thrusting. A noise strikingly like a whine rattled out of Katsuki's throat. A moan.

"You like that? Fucking yourself on my fingers?" Izuku muttered, wetting his lips. He wasn't sure where that had come from, glancing up with uncertainty, but Katsuki was staring down at him, lidded and heavy, hips rolling, clenching.

"Deku," he said low. A warning? A demand? A plea?

Izuku burned at the sound of Katsuki's name for him. He shoved all three into the knuckle, scraping his prostate, earning a full-body tensing.

"I wanna eat out your wet, tight ass, Kacchan," he panted, "fuck you with my tongue—god, the sounds you're making—so soft and warm. Bending over on the deck in that godforsaken swimsuit, knowing I was watching." Katsuki bucked and moaned as Izuku shoved deep. "You sure you wanna come on my fingers instead of this cock you love to choke on? The way you give head, Kacchan—sloppy and dripping just like this hole I'm gonna split open—"

"Fucking hell, stop," Katsuki groaned, grinding on Izuku's fingers, swollen tip weeping. Izuku pressed down hard on the bundle, kneading it, and Katsuki's hips jerked. "Get out," he said, breathy, biting Izuku's lower lip, tugging. "I wanna come on your cock. Your big dumb dick I've been fucking myself for months thinking about."

Izuku groaned, landing a too-short kiss in the corner of Katsuki's mouth, and obeyed, pulling out with a final wide spread of his fingers and a wet noise, squeezing Katsuki's cheeks. "Sorry, if that was—if you didn't like it," he mumbled, on fire, shaking.

Katsuki, flushed and sweating, raised an eyebrow. "Does it look like I didn't like it?" He smeared a thumb over Izuku's slick lips. Simmering eyes, heated cheeks, pulsing hips. "Wanna fuck you," he husked, pushing Izuku's fringe from his damp forehead.

Izuku shivered, easily slipping into submission. "Please, please. Yes."

Regretfully, Katsuki sat up and the heat between them scattered into the stuffy room lit like a dawning sky. The rest of the lube coated his sleeved cock, Katsuki pumping briefly, impatiently, before positioning himself, and then he began to lower, guiding Izuku inside. His head popped past the ring with a simultaneous groan.

"Oh, god—oh my god," Izuku moaned, tingling. Tight. It was tight. His moan turned into a fractured whine. Katsuki breathed deep and Izuku felt the release around his cock as he relaxed, as he slid down another inch. A burst of heat in his gut had Izuku groaning, gripping at Katsuki's waist, legs tensing. "Wait, no, no, no, stop, don't move, I'll come."

"Fucking virgin," Katsuki grit as Izuku throbbed halfway inside of him. Katsuki's thighs shook with the effort of hovering as Izuku tried to collect himself, his palms planted firmly against Izuku's ribs. "Oi, you're right—" he cut himself off with a moan as his hips bucked impulsively. "Fuck—shit—let me down."

"Does it hurt?" Izuku rasped, worry spiking despite barely having kept himself from coming again at the feeling of Katsuki grinding on top of him.

"No, moron, your dick is right on my—gonna—" he gasped, head falling forward. "M'not fuckin' coming before—fuck."

Katsuki didn't wait for permission. He dropped onto Izuku's cock like a weight, taking him in. Another set of groans, one as his eyes rolled back into his skull, the other in relief as the pressure eased.

"Shit," Katsuki rasped, a breathless laugh morphing into a moan.

"Kacchan," he whimpered, eyes clouding, hands scrabbling over Katsuki's hips and waist to try to keep him in place. "Please wait." The tight, encompassing vice molded to his length like clay around an armature.

"Fine," he snapped, "it's fine, just relax. Not like you’re the one taking a dick up their ass. If you come, you come, quit fucking worrying."

"I want you to feel good, too."

Katsuki's tight grip melted, hands soothing over Izuku's heaving ribs, his chest, thumbing a nipple, half-mast eyes staring. "Almost made me come on your fingers just like you dreamt about, fucking my spot like a goddamn professional. And who knew you had such a nasty mouth—hardly even stuttered."

Izuku gave a wobbly smile, slowly stepping back from the edge. "Can't cross that off the list yet."

Katsuki snorted. "You ready?"

That was slightly ominous, but Izuku nodded. A few experimental strokes, shallow at first, more grinding than anything, trying to find a rhythm. Then Katsuki lifted up—slow, so slow. Izuku accidentally held his breath watching his length appear from the velvety heat, wet and red and throbbing and as Katsuki came down, Izuku thrust.

"F-uck—" Katsuki's eyes went wide, a shaky breath.

"God," Izuku gasped, seeing stars. "Incredible."

Izuku stared teary-eyed up at Katsuki moving on top of him. He was spotted with his uneven blush, sweat misting on his focused face, teeth grit, hooded eyes. A noise was pulled out of him whenever Izuku's cockhead brushed his prostate, the thrusts becoming deeper, harder, Katsuki setting the pace. Izuku merely moved his hips to match, the bed creaking, heavy breathing. The comforter clung to his back, heels dug into the mattress.

Katsuki groaned, broken, head dropping between his shoulders, clenching at Izuku's ribs where there was sure to be two hand-shaped bruises. "Fuck me harder, shit—s'good—harder. Make me come," he rasped.

Izuku whined, obeying. He snapped his hips, given some iota of control, gripping Katsuki's ass as he pounded up into him. He spread his cheeks and earned a groan and a loose clench around his cock. Izuku heaved, chest burning, face enflamed, sweat pooling—it was hot in his room without the air on—and was torn between watching the place where they connected and Katsuki's lax expression as Izuku gave a series of shallow thrusts against his sweet spot. Quick learner.

Katsuki panted, content to hover as Izuku fucked into him, wet, skin slapping against skin, content to let Izuku lead. Izuku groaned and braced his legs, sitting up, wrapping his arms around Katsuki's waist and bringing their rutting to a stop. Katsuki snarled, though it wasn't so menacing with a blissed-out fog surrounding him.

"The fuck's the problem—"

Izuku flipped their positions, without permission, and Katsuki landed with a huff on his back, Izuku still buried inside. He pushed Katsuki's knees up to his armpits and thrust hard. Red eyes rolled back, a groan flayed from his ribs, his gut, toes curling. Izuku's hips pistoned, burying himself in the tight heat.

"Fuck, there," Katsuki moaned, tugging his own cock, "right there—shit, you feel good."

"You're perfect, Kacchan, perfect," he husked, speeding up his stuttering pace. His whole body felt heavy, made of lead. "M'close," Izuku said, breathless, head buzzing, stomach tensing. He grabbed Katsuki's thighs, holding them firm against his chest as he drove deeper, damp curls drooping. He breathed through grit teeth, hips snapping, eyes knit closed. "So incredible, gonna come—gonna—"

"Fuck me like you like me." Katsuki tightened, hand pumping.

"I do like you. I like you, I wanna know you, everything," he whispered, nearly sobbed, rhythm breaking. His gut clenched, cock throbbing hard.

"Then look at me, Izuku."

Izuku cracked an eye open and he didn't stand a chance. The sound of his name. The softness in Katsuki's face—smoothed, pink, warm, slick, a slight upturn in his brow akin to submission, embers in his eyes, all swallowed in the sinking blue of night in his room, together. Together.

Izuku gasped brokenly, a shudder racking from head to toe, and he went fucking blind as he came, white hot, tight, buried in Katsuki as deep as he could plant himself. The aftershocks jolted, spasming through his hips, mouth gaping, chest heaving. He sucked hard on the calf draped over his shoulder. Katsuki kept him like a vice, stroking wildly, a moan as he throbbed from the inside.

"Sexy—fuck, keep fucking me," Katsuki whispered, ragged, fingers pinching his glans.

Izuku followed the demand as best he could, sensitive, coming, every clench around him like a bursting firework. He moaned low, vision blurred through a veil of tears. He dragged shallow, pulsing against Katsuki's prostate.

"Yes, shit, faster." Izuku obliged with a whimper, blinking hard to clear his sight, needing to see Katsuki beneath him, flushed and wet and inside of him. Katsuki tightened, arching off the bed, hand pumping in time with Izuku's quick thrusts. "Oh, fuck, fuck, Deku," he groaned loud. Katsuki bucked, head thrown back, neck bared as he came. His legs wrapped around Izuku's neck, locking at the ankles, yanking him close.

Izuku willingly huddled over Katsuki, watching adoringly as he milked himself, releasing over his stomach and chest, pulsing around Izuku's twitching, spent cock.

He couldn't help himself. Izuku dipped and laved a hot stripe over the flushed column of his presented neck, latching at the curve, sucking hard. Katsuki moaned low, back unbending, lolling to give him space to work. Izuku thrust slow, tender, riding out their descents. Katsuki's legs sagged, unwinding. He bit lightly and pulled away to admire his long-coveted mark. Katsuki, red dithering to pink dithering to slick white, panting, blown-out eyes gazing at Izuku who rolled into him like a lazy tide. Izuku freed Katsuki's thighs and they went limp, dotted with bruised fingerprints. He clenched around Izuku's softening dick, earning a little noise.

"Katsuki," he mumbled, bleary-eyed, hazy, so, so hot. He tried to catch his breath, heart in this throat, feeling like he'd just sprinted around the bases, woozy and flushed. "Why'd you change your mind?"

"Are you seriously asking me that right now?" Katsuki muttered without tooth, exhausted, glaring weakly. He glistened in the low light, but didn't pull away, didn't remove himself from Izuku’s lap.

"Sorry—"

"Shut up." Red eyes sunk to the corners, glaring at the wall, his untidy desk. "I looked for you," he said, quiet and low. "I broke my record and I looked for you in the stands."

"You did?" he gasped. "When?"

Katsuki still didn't look at him, sweat dripping down his cheekbones. "Before I went to your game."

"That long? That's amazing—you did it—I mean, of course you did, of course. I wish you'd told me, but that's okay—I'm so mad I missed it. Have you been consistent? There's a meet coming up—"

"Stop, fuck. Just," he scowled, "watch me."

Izuku grinned. "I'll make a banner for you. Maybe break out Ochako's gold glitter."

That got him. Red eyes flashing. "I'll fucking kill you if I see that." Izuku laughed as he kicked Izuku's ass with his heel. "Get outta me."

Izuku reluctantly pulled out with a hiss, a flood of lube and sweat, wishing he could stay rooted inside of Katsuki for the rest of his life. He tied the condom off, eyes dragging down Katsuki's body. He swiped a thumb over his hole winking around the imprinted relief of Izuku's shape. Pressing two inside, soft and warm and giving. He hooked, instantly finding Katsuki's spot, earning a jolt and a toe curl.

"You think I'm sexy?" Izuku mumbled.

Katsuki glared. "Was fucking you into your bed not enough of a hint?"

Izuku glanced up. "Can I use my mouth?"

"Yeah," he breathed. "Just give me a minute."

Izuku again dipped down over Katsuki, hovering, smiling. A kiss. Turned deep. Turned to hands and grinding and breathing into each other, a mouth between thighs, a hot tongue inside, a second round, slow, Izuku gasping, crying a little, Katsuki groaning his given name again. Heaving and curled around each other, sticky and sweaty. Summer.

"What kind of food do you like?" Izuku asked, propping up on an elbow, cheek in his palm. Steamy, red as a strawberry, satiated.

"Don't fuckin' care," Katsuki grumbled, shifting onto his back.

"I want to choose something good for dinner."

"Spicy. Stop talking."

"Really? Wouldn't that upset your stomach—"

Katsuki slapped a hand over Izuku's mouth, pinching his cheeks together. "I'm trying to bask in this fucking orgasm and you're making me want to limp home with my broken goddamn hips. I don't want to hear another sound outta you unless you're moaning my name, got it?" Izuku nodded, blushing, and the hand released. Katsuki huffed, flopping back into the pillows with a graveled sigh.

"I like you, Kacchan."

"The fuck did I just say?" He glared tiredly out of the corner of his eyes. "Fuckin' heard you the first time," he muttered.

"Can we add a caveat where I'm allowed to tell you whenever I want?"

"A caveat—" he snorted. "Fine. Whatever."

"I like you." Silence. "I like you."

Katsuki shot up with a scowl, grappling with Izuku who laughed airily, winding their legs together, their palms fighting for control. "Look, you foot-fucker," he snapped, "if you're trying to get me to say it, I'll say it when I want to, so just shut your shitty mouth."

"You seemed to like my mouth, though."

Katsuki hissed and rolled on top of him. Izuku beamed, wrangling a reluctant Katsuki into a knotted embrace, a bite on his bicep ("Kacchan!") followed by a defeated sigh as Izuku's extra musculature finally came in handy. Izuku cupped Katsuki's jaw, tipping his scowling face toward him. He pressed a light kiss in the corner of the sneer.

"Hey, guess what."

"I swear to god—"

"I like you." Another peck. "Oh, I got you a can of shaving cream.”

#bnha #bnha fic #bnha fanfiction #dkbk #bkdk #midoriya x bakugou #izuku x katsuki #izuku x bakugou #midoriya izuku x bakugou katsuki #ao3 #bnha bkdk #deku x kacchan #dekubaku #idk wtf else to tag this lol

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