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call-me-strega · 5 months

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Dc x Dp Prompt #20: Wishes of a Secret Romantic

Jason doesn’t really advertise it but he’s a romantic at heart. He craves having his own cliche romance with someone who will actually care about him. Sometimes he indulges in his fantasies by reading romance novels or setting up at-home dinner dates that he takes himself on. He often finds himself sighing and wishing he had someone to relate to, that would give him unconditional care and enjoy going on romantic dates with him.

~~~

Desiree doesn’t quite know how she ended up supervising this beautiful mess but she’s not complaining. If anything she has some sweet gossip to share at girls night and a story for Ghost Writer to obsess over.

~~~ It starts like this:

Ever since Frostbite had taken to teaching the young ghost boy lessons on the Realms Culture and Ghost Biology he’d made great strides in his diplomatic and medical skills. His fighting skills were already impressive but were refined under the tutelage of the warriors of Far Frozen. Personally, she thinks he is grooming the Boy to join the Council of Ancients which have taken a more active role in governance now that Pariah has been defeated for a second time.

The boy has been going around and creating treaties with his enemies in which he finds them another outlet for their obsessions. He has already worked out deals with the likes of Technus, Amorpho, and oddly enough a joint deal between Penelope Spectra and Walker.

Technus was allowed to indulge in his technological creation so long as he was supervised by the Pharoah boy or doing on of the preapproved tasks of mischief, such as causing mild inconvenience to the bastards in white.

He had set up Amorpho with a “Cosplay TikTok” on which he was able to show off his different forms and get recognition for them. He’d amassed a large following thespians and costume artists who greatly admired him.

Due to his position on the Council, the Boy managed to get Spectra and Walker to agree to take part in the new justice system the Council had been setting up. Walker could run his prison so long as he abided by the rules and scentence lengths set by the Council. And Spectra was free to torment those whom the council deemed the worthy of the worst punishments. Many ghosts had grievances against living and non-living menaces, last she heard, there was a whole list for Spectra to go down. Currently, she was in another universe tormenting a man named Eobard Thawne, who went by a ridiculous name called the Reverse Flash. Once she had her fill of torment, they would be taken to Walker’s prison.

The Ghostling continued to do this with many of his former adversaries until he came knocking at the door to her lair. She was well aware of what the GhostBoy would want, and was curious as to what he could offer her.

She granted him the grace of her presence and was charmed by his earnest nature. He genuinely wanted to know her story and obsessions so that he could find the best way to help her. She revealed to him it was not Desire as many people assumed but Fulfillment. She wanted to people to attain their desires in place of how she had been unable too. But there are consequences to wish granting so there’s only so much the Boy could do.

The ghostling had been unbelievable smug when he wished that her wishes wouldn’t have catastrophically negative outcomes. When she granted and skeptically tested this wish she found it had worked. The boy grew even more smug.

Of course balance had to be maintained so her power became not weaker per say, just more indirect. During their trial run, Desiree was granting the wish young boy had wished for a large cookie. Instead of instantly summoning a 50 foot tall cookie as she would have previously done, she simply caused his mother to have the desire to bake cookies and then had two of them fuse together in the oven creating one larger cookie.

A bit more round about than she prefers but it got the job done.

The two brokered a deal that would allow Desiree to travel into the mortal realm and grant the wishes she desired to, so long as the wouldn’t cause catastrophically negative outcomes in the future. Young Phantom had even gone as far as to direct her to the so-called Make-A-Wish foundation in which she could find many deserving children to fulfill the wishes of.

~~~

One night Desiree had been flying through the mortal realm to visit a friend, a city spirit she hadn’t seen in ages. As she flew over the city a strong sense of longing and desire resonated with her core. Where there was desire there was someone with a wish. Invisible, she flew down to the source of these feelings to investigate.

She ended up out side the window of a building that held longer traces of death and her friend’s magic. She peered through to see a young man putting the finishing touches on a lavish dinner. She observed as he created a beautiful meal with an air of melancholy before pouring himself a glass of wine and turning on his television to watch mediocre romantic comedies. Intrigued by this young man, Desiree decided to lurk and observe for a while, perhaps he would soon reveal the wish his heart yearned for?

Jason sighed into his Osso Bucco as another romantic comedy began to play. Man he really was bumming himself out wasn’t he. He shook his head and took a sip of his wine. He winced slightly as some cringey kids’ movie called How to Build A Better Boy appeared on screen. How had that even gotten in his queue? However, his laziness won out and he made no move to change it, resigning himself to a hour and a half or so of second-hand embarrassment and semi-decent acting.

As he watched the best friend girl make a virtual boyfriend based on her friend, the main girl’s, preferences and huffed to himself. Oh if only things could be that easy. He hummed to himself adding on his own thoughts to the teen girl’s rambling list.

“ If only, sister. I’d wish for a sensitive and sweet guy too. Someone who wouldn’t mind death jokes, or my odd hours. Someone who I could just relax and nerd out with. Someone who’d go on romantic dates with me so I wouldn’t have to sit here eating this nice dinner on my own. Yeah, I’d wish for my perfect guy too.”

Suddenly, a chill washed over Jason and his hair stood on edge. He whipped his head around in search for an intruder only to see nothing there. He scanned the apartment suspiciously before his eyes landed on an open window. He sighed, reassured it was just a draft and turned back to the movie.

Desiree was touched by the earnest desires of the young man who was touched by both death and her friend’s magic. It almost reminded her of her own desires for romance while she was still living. Perhaps she would stick around to see how this wish played out for the young man~?

Miles away, something sparked in Danny Fenton, helping him make his final decision on which of the colleges that accepted him he should attend.

#long post #dc x dp #dead on main #jason todd #danny phantom #danny fenton #desiree #jason todd is a romantic #romantic jason todd #jason todd deserves to be happy #accidental matchmaking #desiree and lady gotham are friends #desiree grants jason’s wish #desiree doesn’t know it yet but she’s low key gonna become jason’s personal fairy godmother #desiree is fond of jason #aha aha what if I made lady gotham and desiree jason’s moms #jk jk... unless?#Strega’s dc x dp prompt

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astxrwar · 11 months

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ties that bind [3/8]

SUMMARY: Quentin Beck-- your old college biology professor-- is still a bastard. Apparently, you’re kind of in to that.

RATING: Explicit

WORD COUNT: 7k+

CONTENT WARNINGS: extremely under-negotiated kink, character-typical behavior (negging, being manipulative and an asshole, etc), me bestowing upon reader!character my own shameless oral fixation/pathological lack of a gag reflex, gratuitous sex, overstimulation, me pretending that condoms are optional (they are not irl!) the most FUBAR relationship ever etc.

PART 1 | PART 2 | [PART 3] | PART 4

In the spirit of Thanksgiving, there are many things that you are immeasurably grateful for in the aftermath.

One of the most immediate ones– which might have been surprising in the moment, if there were any parts of your brain capable of engaging in conscious thought at the time– is Beck’s ability to be completely unmoved by anything . The knock on the door had made your blood run cold, sent a shock of nervous adrenaline lancing through your body that had cut clean through the not-unpleasant haze of whatever the fuck you had been feeling before that–

Beyond cursing under his breath, his eyes flashing dark with some unidentifiable emotion, Beck didn’t react– didn’t panic– at all. He had fixed you with a pointed stare and pressed a finger to his lips– be quiet – and then, apparently otherwise unfazed, he had reached for his belt from the desk and began working it back through the loops of his dress pants.

The knocking– a student, presumably, because it was office hours, after all– stopped after a few minutes, and then there was silence, and when that silence had dragged on for what you deemed to be an appropriately safe amount of time, you slipped out the door of his office, not looking back once. Beck didn’t say anything to you, and didn’t make any attempt to stop you from leaving – your brain had been buzzing, overstimulated and racing with frantic, scattered thoughts that you couldn’t hold onto long enough to complete before they would disappear from you and others would take their place, and because of that none of it had actually felt real then. It would have, probably, if you’d been forced to focus on him again for even a moment– but he didn’t say a word, and so you didn’t have to, and you were glad for that, too.

You don’t remember getting back home, only that you must have. It had been a Friday, another thing you’re grateful for, because looking at yourself in the mirror of your apartment bathroom after having mechanically directed yourself through the process of a too-hot shower, there was a rapidly-darkening bruise at the base of your throat, another right over your jugular– something you knew, instinctively, in a distant and far-away part of your brain, would be there for a while. The sight of it triggered a twinge of something, like an echo, the flutter of your slightly-uneven pulse quickening in response– but it was still too recent to really register, then, still felt like a fantasy, or some strange hallucination existing in the realm somewhere between a dream and a nightmare.

It’s not until probably about eleven at night that everything slots into place and the memory fully realizes itself, integrates into the collection of all the other facts and realities that you know to be true. You’re laying sprawled out on your bed, motionless, staring up at the slowly-turning blades of the ceiling fan in the dark; these moments trickle back in reverse-order, in broad strokes, mostly. And maybe it’s because it’s late and you’re tired and you’re not thinking straight or really thinking much at all, but also maybe for other reasons that you refuse to acknowledge or elaborate on– but the very first thing you recall in its’ entirety, in brilliant, blinding detail, is what he’d said to you, his mouth low over your ear and his breath coming fast and hot–

Come on, honey. It plays back in your head, the edge to it, biting and cruel, not really urging you on as much as just telling you, like he knew that he was going to make you cum and he knew that there was nothing you could do to stop him if you’d even wanted to–

The surge of heat that flushes through you at the memory is so immediate and overpowering that it shocks you to your core. Your breath catches and then escapes in a totally involuntary, inarticulate sound, and you cover your mouth with your hand and screw your eyes shut as tight as you can— because after that it’s like the floodgates have opened or the dam has been breached and whatever wall you’d constructed between yourself and what had happened is gone, destroyed, swept away in the rush of everything you’d repressed rearing up to the forefront of your mind again, drowning out any other thought in a sea of white noise.

The mess of emotions that surges up with it is thorny and unfathomable and entirely too complicated for you to even begin to extricate, but you can recognize immediate, surface sensations, and wanting is one of them, the strongest one, probably, followed by fury and frustration and shame, none of which, you realize– alone or together– even come close to the intensity of your desire. Which is fucking embarrassing, honestly, what the fuck had he done to you? What the fuck had you let him do? And more importantly why and how do you already know with such a crushing and steadfast and terrible certainty that you’d let him do it again?

Your mind brings to the forefront, completely unbidden, the thought of what Beck might be doing, right now– you wonder if he’s thinking about it, like you are, but your instinct tells you that he’s probably not. He’s probably doing whatever the fuck it is he normally does at this time, collected and generally unfazed; you imagine that if he had any idea of you, the state you’re in, he’d smile one of those infuriatingly condescending smiles like every other time he’s managed to burrow his way under your skin, and your cheeks and your chest burn with an all-too-familiar embarrassment.

It’s not fair.

There’s an ache between your thighs again, a need, pulsing and trembling and wearing incessantly on the foundations of your fucking psyche, and you really, really, really want nothing more than to ignore it, to just roll over and go to sleep and not give him another inch of your resolve or the fucking satisfaction, but–

But the look he had fixed on you, before he kissed you, it plays behind your eyes; the feeling when he did kiss you, finally, how it had sated that frustration inside in a way that the confrontation hadn’t, better than anything else ever had to a degree that it was fucking frightening.

You don’t push the thoughts away.

So. Yeah. You’re grateful for a lot of stuff, in the immediate aftermath. Most of all, you’re grateful that it’s Thanksgiving break– that there are a whole ten days before you have to see Beck again, if only because it’s reason enough to justify that touching yourself to the thought of him later that night isn’t going to just make this whole thing that much fucking worse.

Ten days, it turns out, is not actually long enough for any of what you’re feeling to fade.

Come Monday morning you’re so high-strung that your anxiety is palpable– you drop your backpack on the floor twice just trying to hang it on the hooks on the wall outside of the lab, which is apparently out of character enough to warrant a concerned Hey, everything all right? from Dr. Banner, which absolutely does not help. Somehow, you manage to spin something about underestimating what a ten-day-break from XL coffees does to a person’s overall tolerance for caffeine, a spur-of-the-moment excuse that you’re quite proud of, especially considering it gets a laugh out of both him and your fellow grad students.

You don’t actually see him at all that day. There are moments where you can almost completely forget about it, absorbed in lab busywork or chatting with labmates or grading assignments for Dr. Banner’s undergraduate microbiology class, but then there are also the moments where you’re alone and unoccupied and the thoughts are unavoidable, that same turmoil of emotions leeching up to the surface like a fresh bruise that you just can’t stop yourself from pressing down on.

Tuesday, too, is much of the same, and then Wednesday and Thursday after that; you’d have thought it would get easier with time, but it actually doesn’t– the longer it’s been since that day the fuzzier and more distant the memory, sure, but that frustration starts to build again in its’ absence. It’s kind of ironic, in a grating, infuriating way, the fact that you’re pissed off this time– for the first time– because he’s avoiding you, instead of the opposite. But it’s also so just like him– of course he’s unaffected, immune to this, and of course you aren’t, and of course he doesn’t give a shit. None of this is new, not really, it’s just different.

On Friday you end up having to stay late because one of your labmates fucks up a chemical extraction procedure that you were meant to be handling for the undergrads, meaning somebody has to remain in the lab for an extra three hours to run the dry ice bath and then transfer and separate the extract– it can’t be the person who actually fucked up, because they have work, apparently. But it could be you, of course, with nothing better to do, and you readily volunteer, because doing something is actually leagues better than sitting at home and wallowing in your myriad of unresolved issues– anger, mostly, but also other less appropriate things that you don’t want to think about.

So.

It’s five-thirty when the extraction is finally finished. You’ve run through the motions of locking up, putting all of the supplies back in their respective places, shutting off the overhead lights, kicking the door jamb out from where it’s wedged, the door itself having already been locked when Dr. Banner left at three. It’s November– December, now, actually– and so it’s dark and near-freezing outside by the time you’re done; the other end of the chemistry building is nearest to the parking lot, and so you decide that, in the interest of retaining feeling in your fingers, you’ll go down through the building and exit on the other side, thereby limiting the amount of time you actually have to spend out in the cold. 10/10, all-around solid plan.

Except Beck’s office is on this end of the building. You know that, and the knowledge prickles somewhere at the base of your spine as you sling your backpack over your shoulder and head in that direction, but you also know that it’s late, and that he doesn’t really ever try to hang around past four– much less past four on a Friday– so you’re comfortably certain he’ll have already gone.

(You’re wrong, because of course you are.)

You’d been thinking about what you were going to make for dinner, staring down at the faded tiling pattern on the floor and not really paying attention, until the sound of a door closing echoes down the hallway. You glance up, instinctively, drawn towards the noise, and–

Oh, fuck.

You see him before he sees you, and your brain kind of– short-circuits , freezes and stalls and shuts down like a glitchy computer. He’s turned with his back facing you, probably locking up. If you were thinking more clearly, maybe you would have turned back before he finished, but you don’t, can’t, frozen to the spot and unblinking.

Beck turns from the door, stowing the key ring in his pants pocket, and when he sees you his expression shifts from a kind of neutral ambivalence to one of those too-knowing smiles that had always struck you as just a little bit wrong in ways you hadn’t been able to figure out, not until he’d pinned you against his desk and–

You swallow, screw your eyes shut tight for a moment, and try your best to rid your mind of the thought.

“Hey,” Beck calls out to you, “Heard you might be here late, honey.”

His tone is deceptively mild, conversational, but even so the nickname still kindles that heat again, brings all those thoughts you were trying so hard to suppress flooding right back to the surface, the echo of come on, honey that had played back endlessly any time you’d so much as closed your eyes ringing in your ears, somehow even louder than your thundering heartbeat. It takes an embarrassingly long second before the rest of what he’d said starts to filter in, drowned out at first by the immediate surge of heat that had flooded you; he knew you were here, you realize, and he’d probably been waiting for you. Waiting to get you alone.

Three weeks ago that thought would have made you furious. Now, though–

“Yeah,” you say, still moving towards him– towards the door, fuck; even the way you phrase the thought in the privacy of your own head feels like you’ve betrayed yourself. You’re aiming for nonchalance in your reply but you miss that mark terribly, breathless with anticipation and unable to fight off the impulse to shiver. “Somebody fucked up an extraction that we needed to have ready for Monday, so I said I would stay—Dr. Banner’s gone to New York City for a conference, or I would have just come in over the weekend.”

You’re talking a lot, you realize, the words tumbling out of your mouth with a far greater ease than you’re used to when it comes to him; you know he’s able to tell, that he’s aware of the difference, he must be. But he doesn’t react or respond to it at all, just watches you, eyes dark and warm and expression infuriatingly unreadable.

“You’re a good student, to help out like that,” he says, after a long, unbearable pause, “Bruce is lucky to have you.”

A part of you has trouble comprehending the sentence as complete, still waiting for the other shoe to drop; the inevitable backhanded insult you’ve learned to expect whenever he says something even remotely positive, but it doesn’t come. That’s-- actually worse, somehow.

Beck tips his head towards the door. “Leaving? I’ll walk with you.”

That hum that had started in your body at the sight of him, the one that felt like it reached every part of you, even down to your bones; it ramps up higher. “Yeah, okay.”

He doesn’t smile, but his mouth quirks up at the corners, like he wants to.

You walk in silence, your heart in your throat, a rush of energy flooding through your body, suffusing your cheeks with warmth and filling your ears with the thunderous echo of your pulse and driving a reflexive, arrhythmic twitch in your fingers that you try to hide in the bulky sleeves of your coat. This is probably the longest amount of time you’ve spent in each other’s company without him trying to upset you on purpose or you barely restraining yourself from ending up at his throat since– the last time. The thought of it– what had happened the last time, even as abstract and ill-defined as the notion was– still makes things worse, heightens your awareness of the space between your bodies; closer than you ever would have allowed him to be, before all of this. Still not close enough.

Beck trails to a stop at the end of the hall where the staircase to the upper floors sits across from the double doors that lead to the parking lot outside, having ended up a few steps ahead of you. You mean to just keep going; the door is within your line of sight, barely ten feet away, but it’s like as soon as you’re faced with having to move past him your feet are rooted to the ground, frozen, immobilized.

He’s staring at you again. You fold your arms over your chest, glad for the shapeless mass of your oversized winter coat that hides your reflexive, miniscule shiver.

“Ah–Y’know what, I forgot, there’s some things I need to grab for my lab,” he says after a moment, as if it had only just occurred to him, jerking his head towards the door to the supply closet that’s tucked underneath the adjacent staircase and offering you an apologetic grimace that feels— exaggerated. Pre-planned. Performative. “This’ll probably take a minute. I wouldn’t want to keep you.”

You have a response already half-formulated in the pause that follows before he adds, somehow still casual, “Unless you think you could stay a little longer and help me out.”

The implication isn’t even really an implication at all, evident in the way that he’s looking at you, obvious and unrepentant, and the tremble that it elicits from somewhere near the base of your spine, that knot of anticipation in your belly twisting and turning and coiling tighter– you already want it, him, and you’re certain he must be able to tell, the way your pupils, which are probably dilated already, must blow out even wider, like planets, like deep, endless oceans of black–

“It’s late, though, and I’m sure there’s other things you’d rather be doing.” That edge is back, mocking, sly, manipulative like he’s trying to trick the words out of you– no, actually, nothing. He turns to the door underneath the staircase and reaches for the key ring he’d shoved in his pocket earlier; you’re jealous, somewhere deep down, at how steady his hands are, firm and methodical, as he flips through a set of near-identical keys until he finds the one to the closet.The click of the lock is nearly drowned out by the sound of your own pulse thundering inside your head, every inch as unsteady and as volatile as you feel.

The door swings outwards on creaking hinges. Beck fixes you with this look; like he’s already won, just by virtue of the fact that you haven’t moved. Maybe he’s right. He’s always been capable of deciphering exactly what you were feeling at any given moment in time, regardless of whether or not you wanted him to, always been better at getting you to rise to his bullshit than you ever were at getting him to rise to yours. He knows you, knows what you’ll do oftentimes much sooner than even you do. And maybe that shouldn’t be so surprising— he’s a tenured professor, he taught you for four years, and he’s got nearly two decades on you. He was always going to be better at this.

Whatever. You don’t really care if you’re proving him right. You’re tired of fighting it, and you were never all that good at it anyway.

The inside of the supply closet is dim and dusty and cluttered and probably covered in cobwebs, but you don’t care. He’s touching you before the door has even closed all the way, stripping your coat from your shoulders and pulling you towards him by the waist, the press of his hand wide and firm and so fucking warm even through the fabric of your sweater; and fuck yes, god, even that, that one point of contact, it soothes that burning restless ache that had built inside of you for the past two weeks better than any of your own attempts at doing so ever did—

You’re the one who closes that last sliver of space, this time– and it should probably be surprising, how eager you are to do it, to drag him down by his shirt collar and push yourself up on your toes and kiss him, that nameless thing inside that’s followed you for the last two fucking weeks finally going quiet. He makes this noise against your mouth in the very first few moments, a rough and low and surprised sound, like he’s taken aback for a second. But it’s only a second, and then your back collides with the sharp plastic edges of the overstuffed rows of shelving that line the walls of the room hard enough that it forces the breath right out of your lungs, and in the moments where that gasp has your mouth opened up he licks into it, his tongue curling over your teeth and sliding against your own and wringing out a sound from you that you don’t even really try to stop this time.

Beck hasn’t even taken his coat off, you realize dimly. It doesn’t fucking matter. His thigh is pressed up between your legs, the pressure obliging the warmth there, and you can feel his cock already hard against the jut of your hip– you wonder, hazy and far-away, if he was hard before this, before you’d even kissed him, if he had been thinking about it the whole time he was walking you to the door. He works a hand up under your sweater, and you lean into it– rough, large, warm, god, he must just run hot, because you can feel him even in the spaces where your bodies aren’t touching, his presence, like the air around you is made a few degrees warmer for it.

When that hand under your sweater smooths down your abdomen to thumb over the button of your jeans there’s this frantic swell of panic at the immediate and overwhelming flush of heat that accompanies it, the trembling pulse between your legs— he hasn’t even touched you yet. He’s going to take you apart, again, and it’s not even going to be fucking hard. You want him to, shivering at the thought, but it’s your pride that stops you– for all that bullshit about being done fighting him, you’re not, really.

A four-year habit is hard to break. Go figure.

It doesn’t take all that much force to push him the grand total of two feet backwards until his back is to the opposite row of shelves in the closet; he lets you, or more accurately, he doesn’t resist, if only because you don’t think he’s expecting it. With the door closed the little room is dark, the shape of him just a darker outline against a field of murky, shapeless gray, the only light the sliver of it from outside that spills out at your feet. It works out, though, because you can see everything that clutters the floor– old paint cans and ancient long-retired confocal microscopes and unlabeled industrial-sized plastic buckets of god-knows-what– and you can see right where there’s the space for you to kneel.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Beck says when you do; the question is clearly rhetorical, amused and a little patronizing, like he thinks you’re out of your depth again. You hate that it gets to you, but it does, brings that familiar annoyance searing back, bright and vicious and spiteful in the pit of your stomach. It’s the way that he’s looking at you that really does it– like he thinks that this is beyond you, or maybe just that he thinks he’s somehow uniquely fucking special, impossible to satisfy, and all of that– every possibility, every interpretation– it all pisses you off.

“You’re such an asshole,” you reply, irritated, stubbornness ticking at the muscle of your jaw. “Do you want me to or not?”

Beck laughs at that, loud and sharp and something that might have even been pleased. He reaches to run his fingers through your hair and pulls, just a little, the pinpricks of pain rippling across your scalp as he forces your head back so that you’re looking at him, really looking at him, not just sneaking glances like you had been before. He has one of those bared-teeth smiles, something that base and instinctive part of you interprets as a challenge, even though it doesn’t really feel like it’s meant to be one. It feels like it’s meant to be a warning, maybe. Or a threat.

“Go ahead, honey,” he says, grinning wider.

Beck doesn’t react at all when your hands find his belt, his breathing steady and his expression even and his posture annoyingly fucking relaxed; doesn’t move to help you with it, either, satisfied to just watch as you work it open and tug his jeans and his boxers down his thighs. He’s still unaffected even when your palm slides over the hard outline of his dick through his boxer briefs, and, god, if that doesn’t just piss you off more– the way that he’s just so effortlessly immune to this, the same way he’s always been immune to any of your retaliatory attempts to incite him. The painfully obvious way that you’re not; the way the sight of his cock, hard, twitching lazily, makes this unbearable warmth pool somewhere inside of you, your breath catching somewhere, hesitating enough that you know he must notice. No, you– you’re whatever the complete opposite of immune is. Vulnerable. Hyperreactive. Exposed.

Except–

When you reach out to touch him, several things happen at once; the muscles in his thighs twitch and his posture stiffens and his breathing goes still, all just for a fraction of a second before he’s relaxed again. That tension is gone so quickly that you might have thought you’d imagined it, if it didn’t happen again when you lick a long wet stripe all the way up from the base of his cock and then again when you curl your tongue in a slow circle around the tip–

Maybe, you think, maybe he’s not really immune to any of it. Maybe he just hides it better.

It becomes more obvious when you put your mouth on him, not even really halfway; in the near-dark of the room you can see the shadow of him as he drags his hand down the lower half of his face, can hear, as wound-up and hyper-aware you are, the trembling breath as it leaves him, hitching when your tongue presses up against the underside of his cock as you pull back and move down again, further each time–

“Fuck,” Beck groans under his breath, the sound rough and low. “Oh, fuck, honey.”

Yes, you think, the rush of satisfaction so immediate that it takes you by surprise; whatever flicker of shame that inspires in you is ridiculously easy to silence. Beck makes another noise, wordless and low, pretense of invulnerability abandoned-- his other hand has wrapped around one of the supporting beams of the shelf, like he’s trying to steady himself, and when you finally reach all the way down to the base and stay there, just for a moment, unmoving, his grip tightens around it so hard that the flimsy plastic cracks in his fist. Your answering laugh when you pull back is more of a hum than anything, muffled by him, cheeky and pleased– but that ruins it, whatever small amount of control he’d granted to you, something bordering on growl vibrating out of him that you would probably call touchy if you were able to speak, and then his other hand fists in your hair and he pulls, hard, drags your head back down until his cock is buried in your throat and your nose is pressed right up against his stomach.

It shouldn’t make you feel the way it does— your tongue pressed flat against the base of his dick, your mouth flooding with saliva and your throat working around him and his hand on the back of your head, holding you there, the tremble that shudders through the solid muscles of his abdomen so close you can feel it — but your body is betraying you, again, again, just like before, your thighs pressing together with your hand squeezed between them, and even the insignificant pressure of your own palm through your jeans is enough that you wouldn’t have been able to stop yourself from making some embarrassing involuntary sound if it wasn’t for him, the way he’s compressing your fucking voice box–

There’s the snap of plastic again, that same beam from earlier; he needs to let go of it, you think, the thought fuzzy as he pulls his cock out and saliva trails down your chin and then fuzzier still as he rocks it back in again, or he’s going to break it clean in half.

He moves like that for a while and you just let him, or worse, you fucking enjoy it; until eventually the pressure of his hand at the base of your skull lessens and his grip goes slack and you can move again, your tongue curling up around the tip of his cock and then pressing firm to the underside of it when you take him back into your mouth–

“God, honey, you’re such— such a terminal fucking overachiever, aren’t you,” Beck says, that edge in his voice, biting and mean, and you would roll your eyes at him if you could trust yourself enough to even open them, terrified that whatever way he must be looking at you right now would simply cause you to evaporate on the spot. The words alone are rough and cruel and dripping with condescension, but there’s still, contained within them, that begrudging admission that it’s good, that compliment hidden inside an insult or maybe the other way around, and it pleases you in a way that you know it really shouldn’t. He makes another sound, slurred and inarticulate, fist tightening in your hair— that control, it’s slipping through his fingers, that immaculate and insufferable level of self-constraint shattered and crumbling, and you’re dizzy with the thought of it; that you might be able to finally do something–even just once– that might actually get to him.

It doesn’t take long, after that. He wavers between letting you move, as willing and embarrassingly fucking eager as you are to do it, and moving for you, hand firm on the back of your head as he fucks your open, waiting mouth. You can tell when he starts to get close, passes the point of being able to fight it off just by slowing down, the muscles in his thighs twitching and his breathing turning rough and irregular, hitching and catching and forced out of his chest–

“Fuck,” He grits out, his palm suddenly flat against your forehead, pushing you back, away, muscles gone rigid and still. “Don’t.”

“Why,” you reply, breathless, aiming for something like teasing or taunting but ending up so shot through with desire that it doesn’t matter what you were even trying for anyways.

He doesn’t even warrant that with a response, just looks at you, eyes dark and pupils blown out so wide that you can’t even tell where the sliver of his irises even begins– he looks at you like you must be fucking stupid, like the answer is obvious, and—

You shiver.

Yeah. It is, actually, obvious.

He drags you up from the ground by the collar, pulls so hard that you stumble to your feet, off-balance, and nearly come crashing into him. He only looks at you— at your mouth, swollen and bruised and spit-slick and red— for a moment, and then he kisses you again and you melt for it without so much as a single fucking thought.

Beck forces you back against the other set of shelves; it’s not hard, with only about four feet of space spanning the whole room and with you swaying and unsteady and caught up in chasing his tongue as it roves through your mouth, for him to push you until the hard plastic corners are digging into your spine and the backs of your thighs again. He doesn’t let you touch him, grabs your wrist and pins it to the edge of the highest shelf up above your head when you try, fingers squeezing so hard that it hurts a little bit– that sends a sharp thrill of self-satisfaction flickering through you, the thought that he can’t take it, that you got him that close–and then he tears at the button of your jeans, the zipper, yanks them and your underwear only halfway down your thighs, just far enough to be able to–

The noise you make when he touches you is drawn from you so abruptly that you can’t soften it or even really try to make it sound less desperate; not that it would matter anyways, with the way that your body arches up, into him, how wet you know you already are despite having spent the last fifteen fucking minutes with his dick in your mouth and without him even really touching you at all–

“You fucking liked that– you were getting off on it, weren’t you, honey,” His mouth breaks from yours just to say it, like he knows what you’re thinking or maybe just like he’d been thinking the same thing, not even really asking as much as just stating a fucking fact, that stupid smug smile spreading wide across his face again.

“Fuck you,” you manage to reply, not even really succeeding in saying it with any amount of vitriol, voice breaking at the last syllable; all he has to do is touch you again and everything inside of you goes hot and white and blank , your free hand flying out to grab a fistful of his shirt, so tight that your knuckles are drawn and bloodless, squirming uselessly against the solid unyielding hold he has on your other wrist as he works two fingers inside of you and curls them and finds some horribly sensitive something that you hadn’t even known was there, rubs the rough pad of his thumb against your clit as he works them deeper and no, no, fuck, it’s not fair–

He doesn’t make you come like that, even though it probably would have been so easy, and maybe later tonight or tomorrow or sometime next week you’ll remember to be ashamed of how absurdly fucking easy it always is for him to get anything from you, even this, but right now you can’t bring yourself to care. He fucks you open on his fingers until you’re whining and rocking back against him and begging for it in all but actual words, and as soon as the muscles in your abdomen start to tense and the pitch of your moans shifts up higher he stops short and tells you to turn around. You don’t bother to suppress the sound that elicits from you, petulant, frustrated and wavering, but you still do what he says; when he tells you to bend, to put your hands out flat on the shelf, you do that, too, without even really thinking about it. There’s something in the back of your mind that’s absolutely indignant at your immediate compliance– add it to the fucking long list of things you’ll think about later– but it falls silent as soon as he takes the space behind you.

His hand skims your hip and you take in a shaky, shuddering breath– you can’t see him, what he’s doing, and everything in your body is still wound so tight, the combination driving such a vicious surge of anticipation that it feels for a second like you’re going to come apart at the seams, or that you might have already and just failed to notice.

Beck notches the head of his dick right between your thighs, presses forward a little, urges you up on your toes until he’s aligned just right– there, right there, you think, trembling, yes, fuck, come on, please— and then he leans over you, his arms caging yours, his much bigger hands covering your smaller ones so completely, pushing them harder into the gridded plastic lattice of the shelf. You can feel his breath against your neck, warm, the heat of his body bleeding right through his clothes, soothing the prickle of goosebumps that had spread across the exposed skin of your lower back where the edge of your sweater has ridden up, bunched around your waist. It’s cold, here, much colder than it had been in the hall– presumably because there’s no heat to the storage closet, because why would there be– and that just makes it better, honestly, how much larger he is, how fucking warm.

Please, you want to say, only remembering your pride at the last second, but then he moves closer and pushes into you anyways like he already knows what you want, and that’s fucking gone, too.

This time— balanced up on your toes, your hands braced against the shelf, the latticed plastic surface biting into your palms and his hands over them, keeping them there, your legs only spread as wide as the jeans pulled half down your thighs will even allow— you know it will take even less to break you than it did the day in his office. Beck is barely moving, short shallow motions as he works you open, but even still he’s already nudging something sensitive and electric inside of you that has your head dropping down against your outstretched arms, against his, too, where they overlay your own. It’s the angle, probably, you manage to think, flushed and shivery and barely breathing; or maybe it’s just him, and he’s just too good at this. He finally bottoms out and the noise you make– stretched out and filled up and satisfied, that stupid needy thing inside of you gone completely fucking silent at last-– is so unlike you that for a second you don’t even really register it as your own, even muffled as it is by the fabric of his shirt where your face is pressed to the inside of his arm. There’s a twitch in your fingers, like you’re searching for something to hold onto, and Beck obliges that with a mocking chuckle that rumbles out low in his chest and vibrates against your back– he threads his fingers through yours, his palms over the tops of your hands. There you go, honey, he murmurs against your neck, saccharine, patronizing, like you’re this poor pathetic helpless thing, and any other time you probably would have hated him for it. Maybe you still do, even now, and maybe that just makes it even better.

There is something– probably something significant– that is just deeply wrong with you both, you realize, and then he starts to fuck you in earnest and the thought vanishes.

This isn’t anything like the last time– every inch of you goes soft and pliant like you’re melting beneath him, not fighting it or fighting him or even trying to. Every time he rocks into you it wrings out this desperate hiccupping keen that might have just been the same continuous sound, stretched out, fading and then brought back to life again before it can ever really end. He releases one of your hands to reach down to touch you, the rough pads of his fingers dragging across your clit, and that involuntary noise he’s pulling out of you pitches up higher in response, taking on this breathless shivering quality that you recognize– you’re still fucking wound up from before, vibrating with it.

You realize far far too late that he fucking did this to you on purpose, made sure to keep you from touching him, make sure to get you close before he’d even started. The thought of him fucking you past your rapidly-approaching orgasm triggers something panicky and nervous inside of you; anticipation and apprehension and the sinking realization that you had missed something like you always do, and he had gotten the better of you, again. But there’s nothing you can do about it, really, not now, its’ approach inevitable no matter how hard you try to force your breathing to steady or your muscles to relax–

You know he must be able to feel it, just like last time, the way that you tighten around his cock, the shivering pulse of your muscles and the tremble that runs the length of your whole body. He still hasn’t stopped touching you, and he hasn’t stopped moving, either, the shelf and all its’ contents shaking with the rhythm of it, and you can’t silence the sounds or even try to mute them, the wordless inarticulate whine that pitches up higher each time his cock sinks back inside—

“Be quiet,” he pants against your shoulder. His hand– the one that had still been covering yours and pressing it harder against the latticed surface of the shelf– it moves up to your throat and then higher still, curling around your jaw, and you should remember to be embarrassed about how quick you are to just let him when he pushes his fingers into your mouth, should be fucking ashamed the way your tongue roves around them, instinctive, obedient, but you can’t think , can barely even remember to breathe. It’s somehow even worse, more overwhelming, now that he’s not bracing his weight on the shelf, the bulk of it resting against you, makes it so that his cock reaches somewhere even deeper inside, his other hand still splayed flat below your stomach, his fingers still against your clit, firm, not really even moving, the friction generated just from the force of him fucking you enough to make something drop out of the pit of your stomach like you’re free-falling because you know with a startling and crystal-clear certainty that you’re going to— that he’s going to make you— again—

Beck must know it too (of course he does, of course) because he presses the fingers in your mouth further in and down firm against your tongue to quiet the noise that breaks out of you when you come for a second time, something that probably would have been closer to a sob than anything, but stifled as it is it just comes out as another incoherent sound. You’re shivering, muscles in your calves and your thighs strung taut, sore and burning like they might give out under you, and when he starts to really touch you again you almost bite down on his fingers, hypersensitive and overstimulated and unable to even move to escape it, with the shelf in front of you and the weight of him pressed to your back–

Maybe he makes you come again, or maybe he doesn’t— it doesn’t really matter, anyways, the usually-clear delineation between your orgasm and the build to it has been erased, your body so high-strung you can’t even tell the difference anymore. It all just bleeds together, like trying to stay standing and upright in the ocean, in water that’s chest-deep, knocked down by a wave and only barely able to regain your footing before there’s another, and another, and another, rhythmic and relentless and entirely without respite. Beck chuckles, breathless, the sound low and mocking and warm against the shell of your ear, laughing at you, at the state of you, presumably, and it just drives that tide even higher, until you can’t keep your head above water even in the spaces between the waves.

You should have expected this, you think, with whatever part of your brain that’s still even capable of it— just like any other time you’d ever tried to get the better of him. He always pays you back tenfold.

It could be forever or it could be ten seconds before his own breathing starts to catch and turn ragged, you wouldn’t be able to tell the difference anyway, each of his thrusts making something bloom hot and bright across the backs of your eyelids, closed as they are– actual physical evidence of your brain short-circuiting, of everything falling apart; your thoughts, your sense of time, your tenuous, tattered hold on fucking reality. He moves both hands to your waist to pull you back against him, pace growing rougher, more erratic, and without his fingers in your mouth to mute the sound you have to bury your face in the crook of your arm to stifle it as best you can, fingers twitching uselessly, catching in the grids of the shelf and curling there even though it makes the tendons burn, holding tight like you’re trying to anchor yourself to it, to something , anything at all—

“God, fuck, yes,” Beck groans into the crook of your neck, one arm wrapped all the way around your waist and holding you there, flush against him, finishing so fucking deep inside that you think you can feel it in every inch of you, the steady, slowing pulse of his cock, the warmth of it, his trembling, indistinguishable from your own.

It takes a while for everything to settle, after that; for his breathing to steady and for your body to stop shaking and your brain to return to some approximation of functioning . You notice the details in pieces; the crisscrossed marks on your palms and forearms, bitten into the skin there from the latticed grid of the shelf, the ache in the muscles and tendons in your thighs and your calves , the feeling more pleasant than painful.

Eventually, Beck pulls out and his weight shifts away and a shiver runs right through you at the immediate chill of the air in the space he had occupied, the absence of that warmth; you try to straighten up, to stand, but make the fundamental mistake of letting go of the shelf before thinking to check if your numb, trembling legs can even support your weight–

The warmth is back, and you don’t fall. “Careful, honey,” he says, mocking, mouth pressed against your hair, steadying you in his arms; you don’t even have to look at him to know that he’s grinning wide again.

“You be careful, asshole, you’re gonna stain my sweater,” you reply, unthinking, only fuzzily aware of how it’s slid back down from where it was rucked up around your waist and the solid pressure of his dick against the small of your back, still mostly hard.

He huffs out a laugh.

“Oh, right , of course, my mistake. I’ll be sure to just let you fall next time,” he replies, languid and amused and still a little breathless— and something inside of you trembles, somehow, even fucked-out and shivery and already sated as you are, going a little more lightheaded just at the thought.

Next time.

You don’t even bother to argue or to even act affronted at the presumption, the ability to even shape the words, much less deliver them convincingly, beyond anything you’re capable of right then.

His grip tightens around you for a split second before he lets go, and you’re sure that, like everything, Beck must have noticed that, too.

#quentin beck x reader #ties that bind tag #mysterio x reader #jake gyllenhaal x reader #not actually i have a deep aversion to rpf but i want Attention and apparently ppl tag actors now

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homo-rashi · 5 months

Text

Lost Connection (omorashi Soulbound A.U)

Fandom: 僕のヒーローアカデミア | Boku no Hero Academia | My Hero Academia (Anime & Manga)

Chapter 1: Binding Light

Word Count: 7,891 (Ongoing)

Summery:

Bakugo and Midoriya get hit by a quirk that binds them to one another physical and mentally. Not being about to be more than a meter away from his Childhood best friends, turned Rival. Bakugou learns alot about himself, and the world he thought he had figured out.

An Omorashi filled story of two idiots learning how to navigate the world sharing their every thought, feeling and emotion!

Read it on Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/55597111

Quirk related accidents in a world where 90% of the population has a quirk is nothing new. Whether it's a kid with a new quirk who has yet to grasp how to control it, or a quirk that oftentimes overpowers its users due to intense emotions, it happens.

So when Bakugo Katsuki is on a mock-patrol with Izuku Midoriya, or Deku, as he prefers to refer to the nerd, and gets blinded by a flash of light coming from the woman they just saved from two aggressive men, he isn’t surprised.

Katsuki kept up his professional appearance and dealt with the police while the nerd calmed the woman down and helped her over to the paramedic who arrived on scene to make sure no harm came to her, standard hero stuff. The woman was too distraught to explain what her quirk was when Katsuki was initially hit with the blast, but he felt normal so he left her with Deku, not thinking much of it.

“Oh my–I’m so sorry!” Another flash of light from the back of the ambulance caught Katsuki’s attention, He waved off the officer who was just asking him question in circles at this point to go over and investigate what the hell is going on,

“It’s okay! I’m Fine, see!” Katsuki walks in to Deku standing beside the woman, trying and seemingly failing to comforter her,

“Oi, What is your quirk and why do you have such little control over it?” Katsuki cuts in, needing answers,

“Kacchan—” Deku takes a step forward towards Katsuki but the woman cuts him off,

“I-I have control over my quirk, but once I a-activate it once, it's hard to not complete the connection.”

“Connection?” Deku’s attention falls from Katsuki back to the woman. He can see the familiar sparkle in the nerd eye at the idea of getting to learn about a quirk. Katsuki can already imagine the mumble filled walk back to school he is going to succumb to.

“My quick is called Link-click, I can connect two people's emotions, feelings and senses and well, physical bodies pretty much.” The woman explains, seeming more calmed now than before, Katsuki thinks for a moment, the realization hitting him suddenly that his arm mildly aches and there is slight stabbing pain coming from above his left eyebrows. Sure enough, he looks over at Deku and the bastard has a small, bleeding but above his left brow.

“You connected me to this fuckin’ nerd?” Katsuki asks the woman,

“Not on purpose! I s-sware.”

“Well no shit—” Deku cuts Katsuki off,

“Do you know if the effects of your quirk are reversible?” Deku cuts Katsuki off, He huffs in annoyance and crosses his arms over his chest, trying to ignore the mild ache in them.

“Uhm, no…It's not reversible—But it wears off eventually.”

“Eventually—”

“Kacchan, Calm down—”

“Define Eventually, Bit-”

“Kacchan!”

“M-my quirk isn't very useful, so I’ve only ever used it a handful of times. One time it lasted a week, the other times, a month…or two…” The woman avoids making eye contact with Katsuki, who is visibly fuming at this point.

“You–Come.” Katsuki grabs Deku by the arm, losing his grip slightly when he feels the pressure of his own grasp on his arm as well,

“Kacchan, Wait! We have to stay until the scene is cleared–” Deku protests, but Katsuki keeps pulling him down the street.

“We talked to the cops and the bitch is fine.”

“Kacchan! You can’t call civilians the b-word, that's not very hero-like.” Deku activated his quirk, grounding his heels into the cement. Katsuki gets pulled to an abrupt stop.

“You’re a third year hero student and you can’t even say Bitch? Tsk.” Katsuki sucks his teeth and continues on, with or without stupid Deku. He has to get to U.A before Aizawa-sensei leaves for the day and only pray his erasure can break this stupid connection.

Katsuki only manages to get a few feet away from abruptly stopping, but not of his own free will. The ground suddenly felt like a treadmill under his feet, his steps taking him no farther.

“What the fuck?” Katsuki takes a step backward, finding he actually is able to move. He turns to look at Deku who has that same sparkle in his eyes.

“I think you’re like, physically tethered to me…” He says under his breath, Katsuki can already see the cogs turning in his head.

“Try running the other way, dipshit.” Katsuki offers up and sure enough, Deku manages to get a few feet away before he stops, legs moving but no longer creating distance between the two of them.

“I’d say that like what, one and a half meters…maybe two?” Deku says, thinking out loud.

“No fuckin way i’m stuck being this close to you for god knows how long.” Katsuki walks back over to Deku, closing the short distance between them and grabs his arm again, Deku goes oddly quiet and follows Katsuki without a fight this time. The get about halfway back to the school before either one of them speaks,

“W-what are you afraid of?” Deku asks, stirring Katsuki from his concentration from just getting home.

“Hah?” Katsuki asks, not looking toward the green-haired nerd.

“When you realized we were going to be stuck together, I felt it. You were scared, or more like—” Deku hesitates, “terrified.”

“I’m not fuckin’ afraid of anything.” Katsuki says, clenching his jaw, picking up his pace slightly.

“I know what I felt, Kacchan.” Deku says, with that all-knowing tone that Katsuki has always hated. But he doesn’t respond, or argue because everytime he has heard that familiar tone in Deku’s voice in the past, the nerd has always been right, as much as Katsuki would never admit.

__________________________________________

“Well?” Aizawa says, letting his hair fall from its hovering state, eyes falling back to their relaxed position, the glowing red fading back to dark brown.

“N-nope we are still connected.” Deku says, with a shakiness to his voice that wasn't there an hour ago.

“How the fuck can you tell? Here-” Katsuki reaches out and flicks Deku in the forehead, and sure enough, the similar stinging feeling is mirrored on his own.

“Fuck, Ouch!” He grabs his forehead and rubs it for a moment, but it does nothing to ease the stinging. He grabs Deku’s hand and forces the nerd to rub his own forehead, and sure enough Katsuki can feel the pain subsiding. Both there attention it drawn back to their teacher who lets out a long sigh,

“Look, If I can't erase it then you two are gonna have to wait out the effect of the quirk, and from what you told me it seems like we might have to arrange some things.” Aizawa say, Katsuki looks between him and Deku, hating that this is his reality.

“You said you can’t be more than a few meters away from each other, so we will have to move a spare bed into one of your dorms–”

“Like hell I'm sleeping in Deku’s room, creepy ass All-might posters staring down at me.” Katsuki scoffs,

“You are also excused from patrol as well as any physical hero-training until this quirk wears off.” Aizawa says, Katsuki goes to speak up, complain about missing, for a far as they know, a month of Hero training, but he is interrupted by Deku gasping–

Both Aizawa and Katsuki turn their attention to the boy, who is now standing, legs crossed awkwardly in the middle of Aizawa’s office.

“Problem Child, do you need to use the restroom?” Aizawa asks, slowly, clearly shocked by the display in front of him

“Y-yes…sensei.” Deku says, but his word see so, unsure, Katsuki scoffs,

“Tsk–Can’t even tell if you need to piss? I swear I remember Auntie Inko potty training you, but I guess I’m remembering wrong–”

“Bakugo, Please take Midoriya to the restroom, I’ll meet you at your dorms once I'm finished here and help make those arrangements.” Aizawa cuts Katsuki off.

“Fine.” Katsuki rolls his eyes and grabs Deku by the arm again, not waiting to risk having him fall behind enough that Katsuki is stopped in his tracks again. It feels fucking weird and he would like to avoid it.

“Kaachan, wait! Not so fast!” Deku protests, “I have to g-go!” Katsuki stops and looks at Deku, the nerd actually has a hand shoved between his legs like a child. An unfamiliar sight actually, considering as kids, Deku was rarely the one caught in a ‘potty emergency’ out of the two of them.

“Jesus Christ! Why the fuck didn’t you go before now? We are supposed to be on patrol. What would you do if you had to fight some asshole villain like this?”

“I did go! right before we heard the girl who connected us scream, remember? that's why we stopped at Family Mart in the first place!” Deku says, although his words are rushed and more frantic. Katsuki can almost feel a jitter in his stomach, almost like nerves…

“Oh shit, you’re freaking out…” Katsuki realizes he is feeling Deku’s emotions, like the nerd felt his earlier, The anxious feeling simmering just below the surface makes Katsuki angry and uncomfortable.

“Of fu–freaking course I am! I’m gonna pee my pants!” Deku shouts. He actually shouts and–

“Did you almost just…say Fuck? You, Deku, the perfect, polite ray of fucking sunshine?” Katsuki doesn’t even try to hold back the smirk that crawl across his face.

“No! I mean—I-I think that was your anger–ah–” Deku wiggles in place for a moment before Katsuki feels his arm being grabbed, “We can figure that out later, after we get to the b-bathroom.”

Katsuki lets himself be dragged, trying to stifle his laughs at the way Deku is waddling and walking down the hall. The bathroom comes into view and Katsuki feels Deku pick up the pace.

“I’ll wait here. I’m not fucking listening to you take a piss.” Katsuki plants his feet outside the door, Deku has one hand on the door, and the other between his legs. He hesitates for a moment looking between Katsuki and the door and disappears out of sight.

A few seconds later and the door rapidly swings open, “Kaachan, I can’t reach!” Deku is stepping from foot to foot in the doorway, “You have to come in here.” Deku grabs his arm, the familiar lighting from his quirk flashing around him, Katsuki gets pulled into the bathroom before he can protest.

“Wait! Abso-fucking-ltly not. I’m not your babysitter taking you to go potty, Deku and I don’t want to see your dick!” Katsuki grinds his heels into the ground to avoid going any further into the bathroom.

“Kacchan--come on, just move closer to the urinals…I’m not asking you to go into the stall with me! A-And you don’t have to…look! ” Deku begs, a blush spreading across his cheeks at the last part. Katsuki averts his eyes immediately, looking over at the row of urinals, reasoning the nerd has a point. The urinals are the one acceptable place to stand next to someone with their dick out.

“tsk- Fine, just because I don’t wanna have to deal with you smelling like piss while you’re connected to me.” Katsuki takes two large steps over towards the urinals and averts his eyes.

He hears the frantic steps of Deku once he is in front of the urinal followed by the sound of a zipper being yanked down with enough force Katsuki would bet money the nerd broke it.

Katsuki expects the next sound to be nerd finally getting what he clearly needed so fucking badly, but the room goes silent.

“hgggnn-“

“Whats fucking wrong now?!” Katsuki asks, still averting his eyes,

“I can’t go!” Deku squeaks back,

“Hah? Why not?” Katsuki tries to keep his anger at bay, knowing the idiot will be able to feel it. Not wanting to give him the satisfaction of knowing he can evoke such…strong emotions from him.

“I don’t know! I still feel like the pee is right at the tip about to come out, like- I have to go, but nothing is coming out.” Deku explains. Katsuki could live without so much detail about the Nerds bladder. “Maybe it's—“ Deku pauses,

“What? Spit it out. I don’t wanna spend all afternoon in the fucking shitter, Deku.” Katsuki taps his foot impatiently.

“Maybe it's because y-your here…” Deku says and Katsuki’s foot abruptly stops tapping.

He thinks about the logistics of…that. Deku can’t be…shy? around him? They have known each other since they were brats. Hell, Katsuki can vaguely remember Auntie Inko changing the nerd's diaper right in front of him, as the old hag did to him.

Not to mention, the two were no strangers to using nature as their restroom as kids. The thought process being it was better than running home just to pee and risk either of their moms making them stay in since they were already home.

Sure…Katsuki knows things between them have changed since they were kids. For better or for worse, Mostly worse from Katsuki participation in their ‘friendship’ if you can even call it that but, being so…afraid? Is Deku so afraid of him that he can’t relax enough to take a damn piss.

“H-hey calm down-“ Katsuki jumps out of his train of thought with a hand on his shoulder, “I can feel you worrying, I-I’m fine…” Katsuki takes a moment to look Deku over, his hand that isn’t on his shoulder is between his legs, pants back up and zipper springily in-tact.

“Sure you are.” Katsuki scoffs, but wastes no time getting the hell out of there, He heads over to the sink and pauses, gesturing for Deku to hurry the fuck up.

“uh- I don’t think I can—“ Deku wiggles a little on the spot, “the water might—”

“Nasty ass, Fine, But you’re washing your hands after we figure out a way for you to piss…” Water? An idea pops into Katsuki’s head.

He doesn’t bother grabbing Deku’s arm on the way out, instead choosing to match whatever pace the nerd can manage to walk, or more so waddle out of the bathroom, the school and to the dorms.

__________________________________________

Katsuki manages to get the Nerd up to their floor before any of the annoying extras have a chance to corner them and ask them anything. He really only has the patience (and barely that) to handle Deku right now.

Katsuki on instinct heads to his room. He opens the door and hesitantly lets Deku inside. Usually, nobody is allowed inside of his room, but he is making an exception due to the circumstance and the fact that stepping foot in Deku’s room sounds far worse than letting the Nerd inside his at the moment.

“um, K-kacchan, I still have to…go-” Deku says, worry evident in his voice, as well as in Katsuki’s stomach. He could feel Deku’s worry getting stronger and stronger the closer they got to his room.

“Calm down, Idiot. I’m just getting some clothes.”

“C-clothes?” Deku asks, Katsuki looks up at the teen, standing as far away as the quirk permits him, still in the doorway.

“Yes? We just finished patrol, I gotta shower.” Katsuki rolls his eyes, hoping he doesn’t have to spell out exactly why he is choosing to shower right now of all times.

“B-but—“ Deku whimpers and Katsuki has to physically stop himself from turning around and blasting Deku out the door, quirk be damned.

“Yes. you have to fuckin’ piss! And the shower stalls are side by side—“ Katsuki says, slowly, as if talking to a baby or a fucking dog. The room is silent for a moment,

“heh-“ Katsuki looks up from his underwear drawers to see a small smirk on Deku’s face, one that doesn’t at all match the potty dance he is currently doing.

“What’s so fuckin’ funny?” Katsuki snatches up a pair of boxers and some black sweatpants.

“Kaachan just admitted he pees in the shower.” Deku teases. Katsuki's eyes widen only slightly before he composes himself.

He didn’t even think twice about that little fact. It’s so…normal for him to just piss in the showers. Especially because the showers are in a whole other room than the toilets in the communal space, it’s just easier.

In fact, Katsuki can’t remember the last time he has actually used the restrooms in the dorms. His days are usually consistent enough that he has never found the need to break his current routine.

He always showers first thing in the morning because his sweat is fucking explosive and not using his quirk all night makes him extra sweaty. He never stops to take a piss first, always just opting to go in the shower.

Then he eats breakfast and whatever, avoids people in the common room and goes to class. He never asks to go during class, today being the one time he actually has stepped foot inside the bathroom located in the actual school building.

He finds it easy enough to wait until he has to get changed for Hero training after regular classes are over. He changes into his gym or sometimes hero costume and pisses in the gym bathroom.

Then, because he is sweaty after he goes back to the dorms, showers and usually pisses one last time, because he stays hydrated while using his quirk and then goes to sleep.

Of course there have been times when he was not at school and had to pee, like during mock-patrol or on the off chance he went somewhere with Kirishima, But, generally, he likes to avoid public restrooms, or more so, having people know he needs to pee.

“So fucking what, your about to piss in the god damn shower weather you like it or not.” Katsuki grabs his clothes, turning to look at Deku- “You wanna go get clothes?”

“Uhhh-” Deku looks at Katsuki then at the door, then back again and few times, Katsuki can feel his uncertainty, like an afterthought in the back of his mind, ‘weird’

“If you can’t fuckin wait long enough to go to your room like, three doors down you can borrow these.” Katsuki grabs his oldest pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt and tosses it at Deku,

“What ab-”

“I’m not lending you boxers, so shut the fuck up and lets go.” Katsuki turns and walks out his door, Deku follows close behind him.

Katsuki thanks god himself (all-might) for the way the shower stalls are set up in the communal area. There is only a thin tile wall separating the stalls. Meaning, in the case two people are connected by a quirk that doesn’t let them get more than a meter apart, they can still at least shower alone.

“I’m getting undressed inside the stall, do whatever you want just make sure to fuckin piss.” Katsuki slides the curtain shut, waiting no time, throwing his hero costume off and tossing it outside onto one of the benches to deal with after.

He turns on the hot water and settles under the spray, feeling finally a little less high strung from patrol. The water runs over his body and down his legs. He rubs his hands on his shoulders and down to his abdomen just enjoying the warmth and the steam.

His, or rather Deku’s sore arms start to feel less tense and Katsuki figures the Nerd must have finally stepped under the warm water in his shower stall as well.

“Kaachannnnn! I still can’t go!” He heard Deku’s whiney voice echo through the, thankfully, vacant bathroom.

“Tough shit, try harder.” Katsuki yells back, relaxing into his shower routine. He watches his hair first and rinses it out, then conditioner because he doesn’t fuck with threat 5-in-1 shit Kirishim and Sero sware by.

Before he washes his body, Katsuki spreads his legs ever so slightly and relaxes completely, draining his bladder from the last half of the day. It's always an amazing feeling to finally be empty–

“Oh–” Katsuki hears Deku squeak but ignore it, closing his eyes and continuing to empty his bladder, “Kaachan…Are you peeing right now?”

And his eyes fly open, his stream stopping before it ended, “What the actual fuck Deku! What’s it to you?!” He shouts, or rather screams because, why? Why does he have to be stuck with a boundaryless ass weirdo like Deku.

“Oh my god….” Deku seemingly ignored his question, “Do it again.” if Katsuki wasn't naked he would break through the wall and strangle Deku right now,

“As if. I don’t need to go anymore.” Katsuki reaches for his body wash, deciding if Deku is going to be a creep he can’t let his guard down.

“Yes you do, I can feel it.” Katsuki arm freezes mid-are,

“What?”

“I knew I didn’t need to pee! It was you! I was feeling your bladder capacity…But–Kaachan! Why didn’t you tell me you had to go as well?” Katsuki takes a second to gather himself, submitting this once to humor the nerd, considering this is about the quirk he is also being affected by.

“So…You knew I was peeing because…”

“Because I don’t really have to go anymore, but I didn’t pee…You did.” Katsuki processes that information for a second. It makes sense if he can feel the chronic ache from Deku breaking his arms so many times in their first year, it isn’t too crazy to fathom Deku can feel pain elsewhere…But Katsuki barley would say he was desperate to take a damn piss, if anything, it’s early. He wouldn't be taking his night shower, and in turn pissing for like, four more hours…

“Deku…Do your arms hurt?” Katsuki asks, testing his theory,

“Um- no, Not particularly.” Deku says, Katsuki sense no dishonesty in his answer,

“Fuck. It’s because you're used to it.” Katsuki groans, leaning forward and letting the water run over his face,

“Do your arms hurt?” Deku asks back, he can tell without looking at him that his eyes are sparkling.

“Yes, because i’m not fucking used to feeling like ive broken my arms a hundred times, just like you, apparently, aren’t used to not pissing a hundred times a day.” Katsuki sucks his teeth, realizing how much more annoying this quirk is.

“I-I pee a reasonable amount of times a day.” Deku argues but Katsuki is done thinking about this.

“Just shut up and wash your balls.” Katsuki grabs his body wash,

“W-wait…Can you please finish going?” Katsuki doesn’t say anything, “It might not feel l-like alot if left for you b-but….i have smallbladderokay.”

Katsuki almost misses that last part, clearly, the Nerd is actually ashamed about something, or atleast embarrassed a little.

“Fine.” Katsuki offers, he prepares himself to go once again, but is hesitant because he now knows the nerd will be able to tell whenever he goes. He will feel relief.

Katsuki shakes his head and buckles down. He lets loose, only a stream of clear pee trails down his legs and into the drain, not lasting more than fifteen seconds.

“T-thanks Kaachan.” Katsuki cheese flush with embarrassment.

__________________________________________

“I already told you, it's not happening.” Katsuki said, looking back at Deku, walking down the hallway towards his (their) dorm room, towels still draped over each of their shoulders.

“B-but, It would only take five minutes, Kaachan!” Deku protested, “you really want me sleeping next to you going commando.” Katsuki stopped in his tracks,

“You will be sleeping across the room in a separate bed, facing away from me and keeping your dumbass mouth shut. I want to forget you’re even there.” Katsuki explained. His nighttime routine is his one and only time to relax and unwind. Deku being there is throwing him off. The least the nerd can do is make this as comfortable as possible for him, all things considered.

“What about my toothbrush? And my school stuff?” Deku pushed, “I need to go back to my dorm, just once.” To katsuki it almost seemed like Deku was one step away from getting down on his knees and begging…Katsuki isn’t sure how that makes him feel.

“Fine but afte—”

“Problem children.” Katsuki’s dorm comes into view, Aizawa is standing outside of it, a large box accompanying him.

“Sensei!” Deku picked up his pace to greet the tired looking man, in turn, making Katsuki have to walk a little faster. The two quickly help Aizawa get the box into the room and unpack it.

“The fuck is this?” Katsuki looks down at the lump of cloth on his floor.

“Language—it's a futon, or Midoriya bed for the duration of his stay in your dorm.” Aizawa explains,

“Oh…so traditional. Todoroki would be enthused….” Deku starts mumbling about Half and Half while Katsuki grabs the floor bed and drags it on the opposite side of the room as his bed.

“Oi, come over here.” Katsuki calls for Deku, He obliges. Katsku walks over to his bed and lays down, not feeling pulled back or tethered and comfortable with the distance between them, he relaxes slightly.

“Now, for some rules.” Aizawa moves to lean against the door frame, “With this quirk you share not only emotions and a physical connection, but pain receptors as well. I will not have you, Bakugo, inflicting any pain on yourself in order to harm Midoriya. Same goes the opposite way as well.”

Katsuki scoffs, “as if I’d hurt myself just to hurt him, he isn’t worth it.”

“Furthermore,” Aizawa gives Bakugo that look. That look that for some reason always makes his chest tight, the same look All-might has given him before, but less painful. “I got you each a pair of these from my personal stash–” Aizawa pulls out two pairs of corded ear plugs.

“If anything, they are to be used for personal conversations that need to take place, since you two can’t very well have privacy at the moment. I hope you will respect each other's wishes when requesting privacy.” Katsuki takes the ear plugs, discarding them on his bedside table.

“Sensei—” The nerds hand shoots up, “I-um, My thing with hounddog sensei…” Katsuki look over at Deku, eyes bouncing awkwardly around his room, the nervous feeling twiddling in his gut again,

“Hm,” Aziawa pauses, clearly thinking, “It’s up to you if you want to continue under these circumstances, I would highly suggest it, considering…I’ll leave you two too figure that out on your own—” Aizawa turns to leave, pausing before he close the door,

“No…funny business.” Aizawa murmurs, closing the door. Katsuki immediately looks over at Deku, squinting his eyes in skepticism.

“Why do you have a thing with the school security?” He asks,

“Ah…it’s nothing you need to worry about Kaachan.” Deku says, in an almost dismissive tone.

“The fuck thats supposed to mean?” Katsuki puts up an angry front, really feeling annoyed at the fact that anything about Deku could still be considered a secret between the two of them. Because for god sake, Katsuki knows about One for All, nothing can be as big of a secret as that.

“Just leave it, please?” Deku sits down on his futon, eyes looking around the room once again.

“Tsk.” Katsuki takes the towel from his shoulder and drapes it off the back of his rolling chair, grabbing a pair of slippers from inside his wardrobe. Thankfully, he can move around his room without issues when Deku is sitting on his Futon. One of the only pros of how small the damn dorms are at this rich ass school.

“Let’s go eat, nerd.” Katsuki grabs another pair of slippers from his closet and chucks them in his general direction.

__________________________________________

“Are you fuckin’ allergic to anything?” Katsuki asks as he opens the fridge, a few people are studying, or otherwise lounging in the common room, but thank fuck its none of the more loud-mouthed extras.

Tokoyami is sitting at the table, eating what appears to be a bowl of cereal, while Kota and Sato are sitting watching some nature documentary on the T.V.

“Uh, j-just shellfish…Why?” Deku asks, taking a seat at the island on one of the stools. Katsuki hopes he can reach the entirety of the kitchen from where Deku is seated.

“I don’t know how much this quirk works, so I don’t want you going into shock or some shit cause I ate something.” Katsuki explains, looking at the ingredient on the back of the instant curry he bought a few days ago.

“Oh, Good idea! I’ll have to make sure not to eat any Peanuts.” Deku says, smiling. Katsuki has to look away to hide the nameless expression on his face. Why did the Nerd have to remember his minor peanut allergy? Why did he not know Deku can’t have shellfish? Katsuki has been cooking for their entire shitty class since their first year, and he is certain he has made something with shrimp, crab for sure….

Katsuki makes their curry, dividing it up into two bowls, spicing his serving to his liking, Deku’s, not so much. He remembers from the few times the nerd was over at his house when they were kids, that he doesn’t handle spicy foods very well. His loss.

“Oi, Nerd, wait–” Katsuki halts Deku with a smirk before he takes his first bite, Katsuki takes a large spoonful of his curry and eats it, watching Deku carefully.

“W-what?” Deku asks, looking between his curry and Katsuki,

“Pfh, Nothing. I just wanted to see if you could taste what I eat.” Katsuki assumed not, but with this damn quirk you can never be too sure.

“I already knew that because I got shampoo in my mouth in the shower and you didn’t say anything.” Deku takes a bite of his curry, “Oh wow! This is delicious! Thank you Kaachan!” Katsuki smirks and turns away, his full attention going to eating.

Katsuki stays planted in his seat the entire time they eat, casually catching a glimpse of Deku getting up and going into the kitchen for a few seconds every couple minutes. It's only after the fourth time it happens that Katsuki looks up and watches Deku fill up a cup of water and drink it at the sink.

“You drink a shit ton.” Katsuki comments,

“I don’t usually, I mean, I stay hydrated but I just feel like I have a thirst that I can’t quench…” the air between them goes silent once again. Katsuki finishes his curry first, opting to do the dishes while Deku finishes, considering he can't go anywhere without him at the moment.

“Kaachan, can you get me another glass of water?” Deku asks, pushing his bowl away. Katsuki rolls his eyes but fishes out two glasses from the cabinet, filling one with water and the other with milk for himself. As much as he loves spicy food, he still likes to neutralize his insides with milk after intaking such high levels of spice.

Katsuki takes a few stips of his milk between cleaning Deku’s bowl and putting away leftovers for any extra that don’t want to cook for themselves,

“Kaachan, do you normally not drink anything with your meals?” Deku asks out of the blue,

“Hah? I mean, No, It’s bad for digestion.” Katsuki answers honestly, turning around to wipe the counter down where they ate, Deku is memering to himself again, Katsuki only catches the tail end of what he is saying,

“If I'm thirsty when Kaachan is thirsty but he can't tell, does that mean the weaker of the two senses is overpowered by the other? Is it the same for emotions? What about distance? Could I travel farther away from Kaachan because I'm stronger?”

“What the fuck did you just say?” Katsuki ditches the damp cloth on the counter, palms immediately crackling with anger,

“I–The water, I was thirty because you were–” Deku goes to explain but Katsuki doesn’t care about there stupid connected sense,

“Like hell you actually think you are stronger than me!” Katsuki walks over and takes a fist full of Deku’s shirt, or well, his shirt. He doesn’t let off any more explosions unless he wants to ruin his own thing because of Deku.

“Kaachan…My quirk is basically super strength…” Deku says, hesitantly.

“I could beat your ass anyday, three times over.” Katsuki shoves Deku in the chest, he stumbles off his barstool slightly, Katsuki ignores the mild thrum on his own chest from the blow.

“I–We, I know you're strong, but in terms of lifting weight, If we use our quirks, I have the advantage.” Deku explains, but Katsuki won't hear it. Even if he knows the Nerd has a point…He has All-mights quirk for crying out loud, of course he can bench more than Katsuki himself, he has an explosive quirk, it does nothing to enhance him physically. He would never admit that to Deku, under his dead body.

“I’m going to bed.” Katsuki abruptly takes off from the kitchen, But is halted in his tracks just outside the kitchen. Katsuki’s heartbeat quickens.

“Deku, hurry up.” He doesn't look back, He tries to take another step forward, but he can’t. He scrunches his eyes close, trying to will his breathing to slow down, sinking…sewage…his throat closing, breathing ragged and slugedy.

“It’s only seven…I was supposed to study with Todoroki and Lida tonight.” Katsuki barely hears Deku’s shity voice through his panic. Why is he panicking again? Oh, right He can’t move.

Muzzles, Quirk canceling handcuffs. Wood, forcing his back straight. T.V camera’s flashing around him, everyone ignoring his screams, Aizawa, Present Mic, All-might—

“Hey–” Katsuki jumps out of his panic, finding his feet able to move again. He looks around only to meet Deku’s worried eyes, “What's wrong?” Deku asks him, in an honest to god earnest tone.

“Bed.” Katsuki answers as a response. Suddenly exhausted. He hasn't….freaked out because (hell if he would admit to ever having a panic attack) in a long time. Since second year. The sludge villain attack was at this point, the least horrific encounter with villains he has faced. He thought he was over that. And the way the teachers handled things at the sports festival in his first year have been rectified, or well, at least they never bound and gagged him on national T.V again…

“O-okay, but um—I was hoping we could stop by my dorm-”

“We can get your shitty toothbrush tomorrow.” Katsuki says, feeling like he is dragging his feet. Lucky said feet are moving so the nerd is actually listening to him for once.

Deku doesn’t say a word to him the entire elevator ride up, not when Katsuki stops by his room to grab his own tooth brush before heading into the bathroom. The nerd only speaks up once Katsuki is finished with his skincare and dental hygiene (even if he is dead tired he can't have ugly ass skin and yellow teeth)

“C-can I use the restroom before we go to sleep?” Deku asks, quietly. Katsuki looks between Deku and the row of stalls. He doesn’t have to go at all, and since they are connected Katsuki would feel if Deku had to go,

“Tsk. Hold it.” Katsuki walks toward the door and doesn’t get stopped in his tracks. He goes back to his dorm, kicking off his slippers and falling into bed. He hears Deku do the same, and the unfamiliar ruffle of the futon in the last thing he hears before he shucks his hearing aids onto his bedside table and promptly passes out.

__________________________________________

Izuku’s eyes burst open, his immediate surroundings unfamiliar, but one thing's for sure he isn't underground, he isn’t chasing down Kai Chiasaki. Eri is safe and—

“Ahh–mpph-” Izuku slams a hand over his mouth to stifle his shock of realizing where he is and feeling it… His, or, oh god no…Kaachan’s sweatpants he is wearing are cold and wet and sticking to his thighs in a familiar yet long forgotten way.

“No, no no–please, why didn’t I insist on going before I fell asleep?” Izuku looks down at his lap, cold piss slowly making his presence known by the itchiness creeping up on him. Izuku slumps down in defeat. Who is he kidding, even if he did pee before bed, like he doesn’t every night, this was still a possibility.

Izuku looks around the room, Kaachan is still dead asleep in his bed, thankfully. Izuku takes a moment to center himself and assess the damage, something he hasn't had to do since his first year at U.A.

The first thing that makes his breathing pick up is the fact that this is the first time he has wet a Futon. A mattress? He is a pro at cleaning mattresses at this point in his life (much to his dismay) but this? It's basically a giant thick blanket…But Izuku isn't sure it can go in the wash, nor if it would even fit in the communal washing machines on the common floor.

His instinct is to grab his phone and call one of the few people who know about his nighttime issues…All-might, Aizawa-sensei or Lida. He has never had to call them about this before, they just know because of different circumstances. All-might knows because initially, Izuku thought it was maybe a side effect of taking such a strong quirk, but now with having a handle on his quirk and the issues still persisting, they both ruled that out.

Aizawa-sensei had to know because of the training camp they attended their second year. It was only fair that Izuku gave his teacher a warning that the accommodation beds the school was paying for, probably wouldn’t come away from this without being soiled. Aizawa referred him to Hounddog for therapy when they returned to U.A the next week.

Hounddog also knows everything…But Izuku would never call him for this sort of thing, not being as close to him as All-might or Aizawa, or rather he is close to him in a therapist way and not this kind of way.

Hounddog was the one who suggested Izuku start wearing protection to bed in his early months of his second year. They had been working on his nightmares, the source of his bed wetting, but they were seeing no progress and the dog hero just wanted Izuku to be comfortable. It became a normal thing in Izuku’s routine.

Iida found out by accident…Izuku got careless, or rather, comfortable with him…issues. It was just normal to him at this point. So when Iida knocked on his door asking if he could borrow his graphing calculator late one night, Izuku let him in and told him it was in the drawer of his desk.

He didn’t specify what drawer and Iida opened the larger drawer on the base of his desk rather than the small one under the face of the desk. The large drawer that Izuku stores his protection in, for lack of a better place to put it. (He often left his wardrobe open because of the mirror inside the door so they would have been in plain sight if he kept them there)

Iida was of course very understanding once Izuku calmed down and was able to explain why he had a desk drawer full of All-might themed diapers. The engine hero never told anyone, to Izuku’s knowledge, and has even been great at helping Izuku make excuses on why he often declines sleepover requests from their other friends.

Izuku trusts all of these people, and he would love to be able to call any of them right now, even if so they could just calm him down and talk him through what to do…But his phone is in his room, along with the protection he kept trying to figure out how to subtitle get from his dorm without Katsuku knowing, or seeing or being suspicious at all.

Because if there is one person in the world Izuku doesn’t want to know about this particular issue of his, It's Kaachan.

Whether the blonde will ever admit it, the two of them are equals, more or less now. Atleast, way more similarly matched compared to when they were kids, after one of them manifested a quirk and the other…didn’t.

Kacchan is strong, but so is Izuku. Kacchan has an amazing quirk, so does Izuku now. They have both fought villains, some ending in victory, others not. They have faced death of one's dear, of civilians, or friends, family… But only one of them seems to be struggling with, well, all of it.

Izuku knows damn well Kacchan doesn’t have weekly therapy sessions with Houndog (even if he thinks he would benefit from them) But that's the difference, Kacchan would benefit from Therapy, sure! It would help him with his anger and constant foul language, but Izuku. It’s different.

He was barely functioning outside of class before Aizawa got him the help he needed. He was putting on a false facade for everyone, while going back to his dorm and suffering in silence. Whether it be from nightmares, flashbacks or other PTSD symptoms. He was debilitatingly stuck in a constant state of fear, while also, forcing himself to move forward, fight villains, Basically encounter the very thing that was causing him stress and anxiety in the first place…

Anxiety…Izuku swore he felt a the familiar bone chilling, gut wrenching feeling from Kaachan earlier in the kitchen, but such emotions live so deep inside of them, it's hard to tell if it really was a feeling as a result of the quirk, or i just being so close to the explosive boy for so long brough up his old feelings from childhood….

Izuku looks over at the sleeping boy's face and it's peaceful, not a single wrinkle or worry line evident as he rests. It's hard to imagine him falling deep into a nightmare that feels so real you lose control of your bladder.

So yeah, Izuku really didn’t want Kaachan to know ... .but in the situation he has found himself in he sees no other option than to go to his childhood friend.

“K-Kaachan.” Izuku shout whispered into the cold night air of the room. Nothing… “Kaachan, hey—” Izuku shouts again, the blonde doesn’t even stir.

He stands up, ignoring the cold dribble of pee that runs down his legs from the change in gravity and quietly, walks over to Kacchan’s bed. Izuku hovers his hand above his friend's shoulder, stalling because he is really signing himself up to be made fun of, probably cussed at and most likely, ridiculed for the rest of his time at U.A.

“Kaacha—wah–”

“Fuck off!” Katsuki jumped up from his bed, startled away by someone grabbing him. He flung his sheets of in an instant, sparky flying off his hands, ready to attack whoever the fuck it is. Blood kink girl? Crusty ass lip fuckers, the giant ass lizard—Deku?

Katsuki looked down at Deku, seeing his mouth moving but not hearing anything but a faint grumble of mushed together words,

“Hold the fuck on and shut up—” Katsuki leaned over and grabbed his hearing aids, popping them in and immediately being assults with a reched sob—wait what?

“I didn’t mean to! I-I’m s-s-s-o sorry Kaachann! P-please don’t—I’ll clean it up! Please—Hck—” Wait…Clean what up? Hah?

Katsuki takes in the scene in front of him. Deku is sitting on the floor by his bed, tears streaming down his face. Katsuki takes a step forward towards the nerd, only stopping when his sock becomes wet and warm and—oh.

“I-w-wanted to wake you up so you c-coul–hck–”

“S’fine, Nerd…Get up.” Katsuki reaches his hand out toward Deku. He can’t just let him sit in a puddle of his own piss all night, blubbering like a baby. “You have to shower and I need to get a towel or some shit for the floor.” Katsuki pulls Deku up, albeit slowly, the Nerds legs are shaking.

“I–Didn’t mean too—” Deku says, whipping his eyes,

“Well I would hope you didn’t purposely piss on my floor.” Katsuki huffs, but Deku starts crying again, loudly.

“Shhhh, You wanna wake up the whole floor? it’s not big deal…I should have told you not to wake me up…fuckin’ can’t hear shit when im sleeping, stupid hearing aids and all that.” Katsuki normally has a very good idea of what's happening in his surroundings, but even he will admit, not being able to hear is his biggest weakness.

“I—the futon.” Deku lowers his head. Katsuki looks between Deku and his floor bed, now noticing that the floor isn't the only place that houses a large wet spot…

“You wet the bed?” Katsuki asks, Deku nods, but doesn’t look up at him.

“Fuck’n hell…And then you…again? Really?” Katsuki can’t fathom having an accident, let alone two in the span of one night.

“You’re the o-one who didn’t let me go b-before we went to bed.” Deku looks up at him through his curly green bangs,

“Tsk, You knew this was gonna happen?” Katsuki turns away, ready to head towards the door,

“I—” Deku pauses, Katsuki looks back at him. “Will you make fun of me?” Katsuki has to think about the question for a second…His gut instinct is to say yes, of course. This is easy ammo…they are seventeen, almost eighteen, a few months away from being pro-heros. Wetting the bed, or even just pissing your pants is not normal, But—

Katsuki has been there. Not in the last ten years, but, as a kid he wasn’t one of always walk away from his and Deku’s playdates with dry pants and Deku never made fun of him for it, if anything he was always helpful…So,

“No, this…fuck, was out of your controll, stupid nerd.” Katsuki has to cut the nerd some slack. This situation is mortifying, he would bet Deku’s worst nightmare consisted of something akin to this exact scenario.

“I need to go to my dorm…it’s…”

“Just spit it out, it smells like piss in here, and that's not me making fun of you.”

“Ihavetogetmyprotectionfrommydormorelsethiswillhappenagain!” Deku mutters, all in one breath…

“pro—Diapers? You wear Diapers!?” Katsu`ki asks, thinking he must have misheard Deku…Deku doesn’t–He never—as a kid, that was Katsuki. Deku was the one always drilling, taking breaks and staying hydrated and maintaining his health by not holding it until he was dancing in line for the restroom..

“You said you wouldn’t make fun of me.” Deku says, arms crossed over his chest,

“I’m not! It's just—-Are you…sick?” Katsuki hates to admit he would kick himself if the nerd was close to kicking the bucket and he didn’t realize.

“N-not physically, no.” Deku answers, calmly. And Ah. It all clicks.

“Nightmares?” Katsuki starts walking towards the door, sliding his slippers on once again. He looks back just in time to see Deku silently nod. “Shit sucks…” Katsuki says, opening the door to follow Deku out to the showers.

#bnha omo #my hero academia piss #fanfic #fictomo #omorashi #piss kink #mha piss #bakugo katsuki #omo fic #mha #a03 #author

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