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As far as quirk accidents go, it’s probably the best one to ever happen to them. Izuku can recall far worse even in the past year, because they’re magnets for trouble, and even if it’s never quite so dire as their comparative history, ridiculous inconveniences tend to just follow them.
Temporary farsightedness. Vertigo for forty-eight whole hours. Broken tastebuds for about three weeks, that one nearly killed them on account of them nearly killing each other.
If Izuku had to take his pick, he’d choose the emotional bond any day.
The hairs on his left thigh are still sticky from the encounter. He scrubs at them gingerly, as to not lose any. If he were to give any feedback on the experience, he thinks, he might’ve liked to skip getting gooped for the effect.
But it’s alright. Maybe a few years ago, Izuku would have realized the implications, grown immediately ill, and dropped dead. Back before confessions like pulled teeth, and the immediate relief to follow like they’d started to rot.
Kacchan can know his feelings now. It’s not a death sentence. So all things considered, Izuku is fine.
There are worse things.
(And actually, it’s been sort’ve — nice. In the aftermath, sitting passenger, his knuckles under Kacchan’s thumb over the gearshift, feeling the bubbled affection rise in his stomach mix with his own: Izuku would be hard-pressed to try and claim he wasn’t almost grateful.)
Even now, he can sort’ve feel it in the depth of his stomach. That easy contentedness, Kacchan working through another chapter of his book as Izuku works the worst of that quirk’s coating off his skin. His post-mission rinse had been far more effective than Izuku’s, who took the worst of it.
Satisfied with the best of his efforts, Izuku cranks the handle of the shower and lets the water trickle off. It’s actually very soothing to get himself clean before bed with Kacchan, as it always is. There’s a warmed feeling stirring somewhere in his chest and stomach, and as he towels himself off, he wonders if Kacchan can feel it.
Another warmth, there like an echo. It’s more of a lick of heat than Izuku is used to feeling, something that catches.
He sort’ve feels it whole-body.
It’s hard not to be almost giddy. Izuku slides on his briefs, and loose sleep shorts. He catches his own eyes in the fogged-up mirror as he works the knot, and sees the clouded reflection of himself, flush worked deep under his freckles from the heat of the water and happiness, the shine in his eyes lit up loud under a shared ease.
Kacchan is happy too. Izuku thinks that might be the best part.
He skips the moisturizer, save his face. Kacchan might scold him if he finds out, but Izuku’s had enough substances on his body for one night — he’d like his skin to breathe a bit. The faded white t-shirt he throws on sort’ve clings to his shoulders, chest and stomach, and he knows he could’ve dried a bit better.
It’s all secondary. He wants to crawl into Kacchan’s arms.
“Did you drown in there,” Kacchan calls, and Izuku bites down a smile. He doesn’t know if Kacchan can feel his amusement, but the unknowing is sort’ve fun in its own right – which emotions the bond deems important. Which he can make out.
“I’m coming,” Izuku calls back, softer. He works the handle on the door, and wishes he could bottle the feeling of being so light. Being with Kacchan is always safe, but there’s a feedback loop of trust-calm-comfort he’s bathing in a little bit, and Izuku wants to save it for other moments. It’s meant to be temporary, but if it always feels this good, he almost doesn’t want it to be.
His intentions are to deliver his clothes to the laundry basket, make his way to Kacchan in their bed, and sink into the feeling of being loved until sleep claims him. It’s late, and Izuku is already fighting a yawn by the time he steps through the doorway. But he’s feeling so good, and clean, and maybe a little soft around the edges, and he’s sure he must still be glowing as he emerges from the bathroom and Kacchan catches sight of him.
He can feel the moment he does. All Kacchan’s emotions are a little bit sharper than his, less blooming, and more flaring. There’s an interest that sparks in the pit of his gut, fanning outwards into a dizzying heat. Izuku freezes there in his tracks, because there’s a terrible fondness that overtakes him, something deeply appreciative, and it wipes all thoughts from his head straight clean.
He hasn’t done anything at all. Izuku drops fabric into the hamper to his right, and his fingers are faintly trembling. He’s flushing deeper. Kacchan watches him from their bed, back against the headboard, book in hand forgotten, and oh.
His face is so measured, eyes so intent.
He likes what he sees, and Izuku can physically feel it.
Izuku twists his fingers into the hem of his t-shirt, and slowly, carefully finds his gaze.
He knows Kacchan finds him attractive. He has the memories to prove it, and a spare set of sheets.
Feeling it is different.
Izuku doesn’t mean to preen under it, but he knows that’s exactly what he’s doing.
“Kacchan…” he says softly, and Katsuki’s lashes flutter.
He’s only watching. Looking. What he’s imagining, Izuku doesn’t know, but his arms curl in tighter to his sides, and he flexes socked toes into the soft carpet. There’s a heat between his legs that makes him shift where he stands, only the invisible friction of interest to soothe building sensations.
Kacchan zeroes in on it, like an arrow honed in on a target. He shuts his book with one hand, page forgotten. “Hey,” he murmurs, and the sound of his voice is warm water.
Izuku’s mouth is a little dry, but it hardly registers. He swallows, and traces his eyes along the pull of Katsuki’s mouth.
“Hi,” he whispers back.
Kacchan’s eyes shine.
Sometimes, in these moments, Kacchan will talk to him. They’ve come a long way for him to be able to part his mouth along sweet words, to voice his wants in the form of temptations. It’s been a careful exercise for both of them, these expressions of full honesty, but Izuku knows the addiction of reaction just as well.
It’s been good, he thinks. Leaving embarrassment behind.
“Feel good, sweetheart?” Kacchan asks. It’s like honey in his mouth, and he can ask, because he knows. “All clean?”
Ah.
A slow, rolling wave of heat floods sticky and addicting down Izuku’s scalp, tracing his spine. Kacchan exhales with it, a heavy breath through his nose, head tipped back to brush the headboard. His demeanor is all warm, and lazy, and his body language reads so sure, Izuku wants more than anything to sink down into it, dip his hands in the formed atmosphere and drink.
“Fuck, you do feel good,” Kacchan mutters, face growing slack. He rubs over the curve of his mouth, like a soft seek of composure. He looks so good in his loose sweats and cut-up tank top and air-dried, tousled hair, and Izuku’s hands ache with remembered sensation of that warm body under them.
“Yeah,” Izuku whispers, wavering. That gaze is so centered, so wanting, it almost feels like Kacchan is touching him.
He wants Kacchan to touch him. Wants him to look.
Kacchan stares. Izuku holds his breath, and slowly, he hooks his thumbnail behind his teeth, open consideration.
Boldly, his eyes flicker the length of Izuku’s faintly trembling form. That heat converges in Izuku’s core, sharp, lingering. He thinks Kacchan can feel it.
He can feel he feels it.
Scattered metal and flesh dig into the thigh of Katsuki’s sweats. Izuku has the sudden, uncontrollable urge to display himself for a little more watching — he feels good, and Kacchan feels he feels good, and he wants to show him a little more, just how good it is, all for the man in their bed.
It’s making the world hazy. He’s still holding the hem of his shirt. Kacchan likes his body so much the want throbs in his stomach, attraction his and not compounding into something making him feel lightheaded, near drunk.
The few times they’ve watched the other get off, it was almost unbearably sexy. Izuku feels just as much like a show as he did then, the echoes of Kacchan getting off on the sight of him tangled up in his own nerve endings.
He thinks Kacchan might be thinking about it, too.
Kacchan’s contemplation reaches its conclusion, and Izuku is already with him. “How about you show me a little,” Kacchan prompts, decisive and melted-sweet. That voice a guiding light, it washes over Izuku, and his shoulders droop. He’s already moving for him. “Lift it — yeah, there you go.”
Cotton between his fingers, Izuku’s raised his arms to bare his torso. His body on display, like it could bare evidence of his wants. Kacchan swallows around a curse and watches steady, his gaze so intense, his arousal so loud, Izuku feels touched and there are no hands on him yet.
Kacchan’s teeth press into the pad of his thumb. His knee parts, opening a space Izuku wants suddenly and desperately to fill. He holds himself so solidly in their bed, like he’s getting everything he wants because it’s his birth-given right. “Yeah, like that,” he rasps, then, “Little higher, baby.”
A pit forms so fast in Izuku’s stomach, his eyes flutter. He can hear his own breathing, and he chews into his lower lip to quiet it.
He’s not showing Kacchan anything he hasn’t seen before, but it’s different, oh, it’s so different. Kacchan’s desire is far more familiar in action, in motion and contact. Izuku lifts his shirt a little higher for him, like he’s presenting a freshly-rewarded prize. Like he’s a prize.
Want rolls through him, with teeth in its intensity. Thighs squeezing in reflex, the shared anticipation is a drug.
Izuku feels so light, he’s halfway to floating.
He wants to touch himself. He wants Kacchan to tell him to.
Kacchan’s hand shifts, and he rolls his head casually into his hand, onto his knuckles. There’s something hungry clawing into the pit of Izuku’s stomach, and he’s losing track of what’s coming from Kacchan, and himself.
Leg sliding down the length of the mattress, Kacchan’s posture opens up.
Izuku feels rooted to the floor. That relaxation in the face of his exposure makes him feel shy.
He tucks his face into soft cotton.
Kacchan hums, and the vibration jolts him. He’s so handsome, something in Izuku’s chest draws up tight and squeezes. Sharp features, long blond lashes. Izuku’s breath is coming so fast now, he can feel the erratic rise and fall of his chest, his stomach.
Kacchan watches.
“Come here,” he says quietly. “Let me look.”
He’s already looking. The command unsticks Izuku’s feet from the floor anyway, and he shifts forward on wobbling legs, full effort to carry the length of him.
Face hot, Izuku stops half an arm’s length distance from Kacchan in their bed, knees bumping up against the frame. Kacchan stares all the while, left hand brushing idly over the fabric of his sweats.
Izuku wants him to touch. He wants touched.
“Kacchan…” he whispers, voice saturated with his longing. Katsuki’s eyes leave his stomach, his chest only briefly. They flicker up to trace his face, his mouth — muffled behind his shirt.
His knuckles drop from his jaw, to plant his hand on the mattress. Kacchan breathes out slow through his nose, and his satisfaction is palpable in the line of his body, the wire of the bond.
He shifts his weight to lean into the space Izuku makes, and the intent-want-realization is abruptly, wholly dizzying.
Izuku gasps in the seconds before the contact. Warm breath floods the nerves of tender, thin skin. Kacchan’s lips part, and brush just below his navel. The kiss is so careful and warm, Izuku’s whole body shakes where he stands.
The wet heat of his tongue folllows. Then a bite. Kacchan nips into the skin of his stomach, and it jumps.
Izuku can feel the ease it brings him, the satisfaction. Izuku clenches his shirt in his hands so hard his fingers hurt, and his thoughts start to move through water.
Kacchan fits his fingers against the small of his back, just above his hip. He’s pulled in closer, and Izuku’s knees tremble, body wavering where it stands.
An idle thumb toys at the waistband of his shorts, barely-there pressure. “These next?” Kacchan murmurs, like he’s coaxing him. Like maybe Izuku’s not-quite-supposed-to.
His fingers fumble for the drawstring, unthinking, and pull.
The garment is so ill-fitting, it slips down Izuku’s thighs at the moment of release. His abandoned t-shirt pools once again around his stomach, and Kacchan lifts it again, urging Izuku to free it from his shoulders.
He does, with shaking fingers.
Kacchan knows this body. He’s seen it from battle to bed. Izuku with his shirt off isn’t rare, but Kacchan still looks. Traces a path over his hip, to his side, and feels the muscle along his back.
The touch burns. It feels like relief.
He’s so wet, his last barrier clings to him. Kacchan drinks it in like a lifesource, face flushed, eyes wild and dangerous.
“Look at you,” he says quietly. His hand drops to Izuku’s waist, and around to his front.
Izuku’s stomach squeezes.
Kacchan pulls cotton taut under his fingers. Inspects the mess Izuku’s made of himself, and sighs. He’s so close, Izuku can feel his breath.
“Look how excited you are.” Izuku’s breath hitches hard in his chest, and he squeezes his eyes shut. “You like this.”
He doesn’t say it like he’s asking. Kacchan has all the evidence under his hand, and now woven through his body. Kacchan pulls the cotton tighter, and Izuku throbs under the friction, so sensitive that even Kacchan’s slow, steady breaths feel like touches.
He nods anyway. Kacchan watches him up through his lashes.
Red, intense eyes. They feel hot on his skin. Fighting the urge to card his fingers through tousled blond hair, Izuku curls his fingers into his palms.
His body is so wired. He thinks he’s close. Kacchan’s pupils are blowing out so wide, crimson is no more than a rim. The muscles in his stomach shudder violently, and the sense of gratification is so palpable in the link between them, Izuku could just die.
“Kacchan,” he mumbles thoughtlessly, jumbled, a prayer. “Kacchan, please.”
Kacchan does not avert his gaze. His hands shift to curl around the expanse of Izuku’s hips. Time slows to a crawl, each moment a suspension of infinite moments, mutual desire and pleasure and adoration melding into a solid, tangible thing in the space between them. Kacchan leans in slow, so steady and intent, the whimper tears from Izuku’s lips even before the contact.
Tongue first, all blinding wet heat, Katsuki kisses over the swell of his cock like he might his mouth.
Izuku nearly buckles. His mind whites so badly, his vision cuts out and blurs.
It’s so hot. His nerve endings heat to blistering. He makes a noise like he’d been wounded. He thinks he’ll come, and then he really does, the tremoring beginnings of orgasm wracking his frame just as Kacchan’s lips meet in that kiss. It lingers, and as the pleasure starts its violent wash down Izuku’s thighs, he pulls back.
Izuku sobs. He scrubs a hand into his mouth, and his eyes well with a frantic desperation. Kacchan’s desire is so intense, so rattlingly consuming, and he feels every inch of it rake into his nerve endings, hurtling him towards a release cut abruptly, terribly short.
Salt spills over his bottom lashes, clumping them sticky, and falls. Izuku grips into his own jaw so hard it shifts. Distantly, he thinks he may have broken the skin of his calloused palm, and he feels and watches Kacchan’s realization that he’s ruined Izuku’s orgasm in real time.
He stills. His whole posture freezes, and he blinks up at him like he’s never seen him before. “Hahh, fuck,” Kacchan rasps, fingers digging into the flesh of his hips. Wide eyes, parted mouth, he’s painfully beautiful. “Are you serious?”
Izuku squeezes his eyes shut. He’s breathing so fast his head spins, wobbling on his feet. Kacchan shifts his hand, rubbing into his desperately twitching cock, and the relief is so sharp and immediate, another broken sound spills past his lips.
Kacchan swallows. Izuku’s hips jolt helplessly into his hands, and the shocked arousal nearly melts his spine.
When he leans in to kiss him again, Izuku cries.
“Kacchan —” he whimpers.
“Shh, fuck, you’re okay,” Katsuki soothes. A strong arm locks around Izuku’s hips, and his kisses are slow, gentle. Izuku’s toes curl, and he breathes.
“It’s intense,” he says, small, and Kacchan makes a low noise.
“You’re telling me.”
Katsuki kisses his lower belly, his hip, the crook of his thigh, and lets Izuku steady himself on him, fingers tucked under the collar of his shirt.
Lingering pleasure rolls sticky down his thighs. Kacchan’s desire is still a knot in his stomach, and it feels like getting off and not. Like he’s still in the middle of it.
“Honestly?” he says, and Izuku looks at him, chewing into his lip. The butterflies are still rampant in his stomach, under that possessive touch, the low gaze. “I was hoping it’d be hot.”
Izuku swallows. His skin pricks with heat. “Really?”
Katsuki tugs, and Izuku follows, planting a knee on the bed. Letting Katsuki slot a thigh between his own.
He hitches Izuku’s hips higher, and Izuku gasps through his nose. “Thought about it.”
Izuku slips a hand into his hair, shifts against the warm, solid body beneath him. The kiss is slow, and when Katsuki traces fingers up his back, Izuku parts for tongue.
“You were thinking of me,” Izuku mumbles.
“Always am,” Kacchan bites into his lower lip, and fits a hand at the nape of his neck. “Not news.”
Izuku would laugh, but the tension is still heavy. Arousal still stirs in the pit of his belly, and intent is radiating off Kacchan in waves.
“You feel good,” Izuku says quietly, and Katsuki’s eyes lower. He hums approval, and the shiver wracks Izuku’s whole body.
“Don’t move,” Kacchan tells him. “Let me look at you.”