Archive of Our Own

The door clicks softly shut just as Izuku finishes plating the Mapo Tofu. It wasn’t a long day, but it was lonely. Anytime Kacchan goes for drinks after his hero shift, the evening drags on. 

Izuku slides the pans into the sink, wiping remnants of sauce on his apron. One glance at the clock reads fifteen after eight. Sure, it’s only fifteen minutes, but Kacchan is never late.

Distinct shuffling filters into the small space.

Shoes slipping off.
His bookbag dropping on the hook.
The long-awaited sigh of relief.

“Kacchan, dinner’s—” He tugs the apron over his head, turning and immediately forgetting the rest of his sentence. 

Kacchan is there, all hard lines and sharp eyes, with a new addition on his head.

A hat.

“What the hell are you looking at me like that for?”

Suddenly, Izuku doesn’t remember a single word. But then he realizes he’s just staring at Kacchan, and his eyes are probably ten times bigger, and—oh no—he shifts, turning to the counter to hide the growing bulge in his pants.

Izuku clears his throat. “When did you get a hat?”

Wood scrapes over the tiled floor, the chair creaking as Kacchan plops down.

“Shut up, Deku,” he grumbles.

The spicy aroma fills the space as Izuku slides a bowl across with chopsticks. He tries to ignore it. He goes through the motions of preparing his own portion, of taking his spot across the table, of clapping his hands and bowing his thanks, but the hat stays firmly on Kacchan’s head, and Izuku can’t help but press him again.

“You didn’t have that this morning.”

“What’s it to you, anyway? Keeping track of all my clothing. Don’t be fucking weird.” Kacchan plucks a piece of tofu and pops it into his mouth. “Deku, this tastes different.”

“I made it how you always do.”

It’s true. Izuku had scoured over the worn-out index card to make sure each step was followed precisely. 

Kacchan chews, his crimson gaze peeking out just enough under the brim of the hat. “You got the peppercorns from the store on the corner and not from our regular grocer, didn’t you?”

“It’s the same brand.”

It’s a weak excuse, but really, how different can peppercorns be? Granted, this is just Kacchan’s defense mechanism. A way to keep Izuku from asking more questions about his appearance. Izuku is a pro at this tactic. He can handle whatever sparks Kacchan explodes his way; it only makes him more desperate.

“No, the corner store leaves theirs out longer. Our regular grocer is constantly rotating their supply. Those are fresher. Stupid—fucking—” Kacchan mumbles. “Kirishima…”

One piece of the puzzle clicks. Izuku spears a tofu cube and tilts his head. 

“Did something happen at drinks?”

Every other week, Izuku cooked Kacchan’s favorite meal for dinner so he could meet his friend to catch up. Sometimes it was at a bar, or like tonight, at Kirishima’s home. Usually, he was in a better mood. 

“Yeah, Kiri is a fucking idiot.” His jaw flexes as his fingers grip the chopsticks harder. 

Izuku scoots forward, one foot tapping the top of Kacchan’s boot until it slips up his shin. “Specifics, Kacchan.”

Kacchan lifts his eyes, narrowing and practically glowing with irritation. Izuku doesn’t back down, holding his stare. This isn’t the first stand-off they’ve had, and it certainly won’t be their last. 

Seconds pass like hours, until finally,  Kacchan sighs in defeat. Delicately, he places the chopsticks to balance just right on his bowl before gripping the hat’s brim and pulling it off. 

Izuku nearly topples his own pair, the tips knocking on the table. “Kacchan—” 

“Deku, I know it’s fucking dumb.” His palm glides effortlessly over the freshly buzzed  strands. “Kiri was already drunk when I got there, damn idiot.”

“Did he just—”

Izuku can’t look away. His fingers itch with the need to feel it. 

“No—damnit—I said something about the summer heat and my thick hair and—hell, he just started clipping my hair off!” He shoves away from the table, the chair nearly toppling over as he stands. The bowls rattle from the force, and Izuku almost whines when Kacchan turns away. 

That’s the last thing he wants. 

Don’t hide from me. 

“That’s why I was late,” Kacchan confesses, his shoulders slumping. ”I had to go to the barber to fix it.”

Izuku stands, walking slowly toward him. Kacchan’s rambling, recounting the sequence of events with arms flailing in every direction until he turns unexpectedly.

Face-to-face like this, Izuku’s captivated; s; the buzzcut accentuates every angle of his cheekbones, the height, their fullness.

The scars from their many battles run closer to his hairline than Izuku knew. Those scarlet eyes glint brighter now, no longer shielded by his blond strands. Those same strands Izuku loves running his fingers through. 

I wonder what this might feel like…

Izuku is close enough to make out the laugh lines Kacchan would swear don’t exist around his mouth. He takes a chance, reaching forward only for Kacchan to smack his hand away. 

“What the hell, Deku?”

Izuku doesn’t answer. He just reaches up again. Kacchan stiffens, narrowed eyes following each movement until Izuku’s fingers thread along his scalp. Kacchan makes a noise between a moan and a sigh. 

It's…

So.
Fucking.
Soft.

He does it again, and this time Kacchan melts into the touch. Izuku doesn’t want to stop, letting his hand fall to his nape. He tugs Kacchan closer, not falling for his unbothered glare as the black cotton stretches over his chest with each breath. 

They’ve never really known how to be normal with one another. Two opposite ends of the spectrum continuously colliding to stay in each other’s orbit, to make each other whole.

“Kacchan…” he whispers as strong, steady hands cup his face. “I like it.”

A pressure on his chest pushes; Izuku doesn’t fight it, letting Kacchan walk him backward until his spine hits the table’s edge, hands still resting on Kacchan’s rapidly beating heart. 

Their kiss begins soft, a welcoming home that’s second-nature, but quickly becomes more frantic with need. Izuku’s fingers remain close to Kacchan’s head, taking every opportunity to feel him. 

“Izuku—“ Kacchan pleads between kisses, hands roaming down his waist. “Don’t lie to me.”

Kacchan drops down, immediately tugging at Izuku’s belt. Something about bringing the number three hero to his knees sends Izuku into a freeze state. Every thought runs out the window, leaving him empty-headed and slack-jawed as he stares down.  

“Izuku, baby—” Kacchan pulls him free, tongue dragging up the underside of his cock. “I asked you a question.”

Two seconds ago, this man was ready to explode the entire apartment building from embarrassment and anger. Now his mouth is stuffed full, and—and—

Kacchan sucks him into the back of his throat, and Izuku’s vision goes black from pleasure. His fingers run back and forth obsessively over his buzzcut, the velvet texture sending pleasurable jolts up his fingertips and through his veins. 

“Christ, Kacchan, I—“

His tongue laps over his head, tasting every last drop before groaning. Izuku’s knees buckle, one hand gripping the table’s edge for support. 

Kacchan pulls off with a ‘pop’, eyes glazed over, and drool dripping down his chin. 

“Did you?”

“You can’t be—” Izuku pants. “Serious.” Kacchan raises a brow, hands cemented to Izuku’s thighs. “No, I didn’t lie. I love it. ”

Kacchan smirks, a mischievous glint Izuku is more than familiar with, before swallowing him back down. His tongue does wicked things, pulling every whimper and debaucherous noise from Izuku’s lips. 

One finger slides over his balls and between his legs, gathering precum and spit before circling his hole. Izuku arches as one finger glides in. It only encourages Kacchan, his efforts nearly doubling. 

“How are you still so fucking tight?” he asks, adding a second finger, while his lips nip Izuku’s inner thigh. 

“Kacchan—” It’s a plea to whatever deity can hear him. Izuku doesn’t even know what he’s begging for; it’s not as if he wants a reprieve. Kacchan stops, dragging his tongue straight up and over his head before standing. 

He steps back, Izuku almost buckling under the sudden loss. Did he say the wrong thing? Maybe he shouldn’t have pushed. But then again, Kacchan needs to know he likes it. Otherwise, he’ll lash out more and get self-conscious. 

“Did you hear me?”

Kacchan glances at the table, quickly moving the bowls to the counter while Izuku just stands there, no pants on, and his shirt brushing his sensitive skin. This cannot be happening.

“Kacchan—are you—”

“Shut up.” Kacchan tugs off his shirt. Izuku barely has time to notice the precum stains dotting the front before it joins his own jeans on the floor.  His pants and Izuku’s shirt quickly follow.

“But—“

“I said, shut up.” Kacchan runs his palms down Izuku’s chest, fingers connecting the freckles that speckle all the way down to his stomach. His tongue follows, tracing the outline of his nipple as his hands scoop under Izuku to lift him onto the table. 

“Fuck,“ Izuku groans as Kacchan pushes him flat, his back flush with the wooden surface. 

“Yeah? You feel so good,” Kacchan groans, one finger teasing his hole while his other hand wraps around his cock. Izuku gasps as Kacchan’s thumb rubs over the slit. It glistens with spit and desire, begging for more attention. “Love having you spread for me.” 

“Oh my god—” Izuku blushes, never getting over the things that come out of Kacchan’s mouth. He was certain that eventually he’d become immune to it, but every time it just strikes him harder. 

Kacchan’s hands find the back of Izuku’s knees, tugging him closer to the edge. Something glides between his legs, and it’s warm and— when did he get lube out? He doesn’t even care to ask if he’s honest, because Kacchan starts slow, eyes burning with a feral need the deeper he goes. 

One thing Izuku will never get over is how good Kacchan feels. It’s unbelievable. When he pulls out and pushes back in almost immediately, Izuku whines, fingers grappling for anything to hold onto. Normally, he would tug at his strands, but now he’s met with nothing, his fingers scratching over Kacchan’s scalp. 

“What is it?” Kacchan asks, before swallowing Izuku’s cries. 

The kiss is rewarding for each punishing thrust. The table rattles, legs squeaking as they move faster, desperate to the point of no return. 

“Nothing—” Izuku gasps, head tilting to the side while Kacchan sucks a new bruise onto his neck. “Fuck—nothing to grip—”

Kacchan chuckles, pulling back and lifting Izuku’s leg to balance on his shoulder as he goes deeper. Izuku’s eyes roll back, nails dragging down the scars on Kacchan’s chest. 

“Gripping me just fine, baby.”

There it is again.
Who talks like that? 

“Kacchan, how do you always—oh—oh—“ 

The slap of skin echoes through the kitchen, bouncing off every surface until it's just a litany of moans and whimpers. 

Kacchan wraps his free hand around Izuku’s cock, matching each thrust. Sweat drips down their abdomens, their lust shifting into something raw and vulnerable. Kacchan leans closer, eyes searching Izuku before his lips turn downward. 

“Do you still love me?”

It’s about this damn buzzcut, Izuku knows it. For all the vitriol and rage Kacchan emits daily, he’s really just another person begging for acceptance. But not just anyone’s acceptance.

Izuku’s. 

He glances up. Kacchan is watching as Izuku tries and fails to hide every furrow of his brow and lip bite. His hand pushes Izuku's leg, knee almost to his shoulder, and Izuku’s eyes roll back further. He’s right on the edge.

If this is what Kacchan needs, Izuku can provide.  

“Yes, Kacchan–” Izuku reaffirms, one hand wrapping around the back of his neck. 

“Even with the buzzcut?” 

Kacchan’s eyes glisten with unshed tears, the fear nearly doing him in as he hits a particular spot. Izuku moans. Kacchan takes the opportunity to kiss over his collarbone. 

“Yes, Kacchan.” He tugs his face closer, nipping Kacchan’s bottom lip. 

Hope explodes, his smile spreading wide before his lips brush Izuku’s. 

“Promise?”

Izuku grips him harder, lips dragging over Kacchan’s cheekbones as sweat and need glisten over their chests. He can’t hold on any longer; the sheer amount of ecstasy coursing through his veins is enough to take out an entire city.

“Yes, Kacchan—” He writhes, lips finding Kacchan in a sloppy kiss. There’s nothing gentle about this, and Kacchan gasps against his mouth.

“Fuck, Izuku!”

“Katsuki,” he whines, hips stuttering as they both let go. Come drips down his shaft to the crease of his hips as more sticks to his thighs. 

Kacchan slumps forward, ear to Izuku’s chest and hums along with his heartbeat. Soft pants are heard between the two, and Izuku focuses on Kacchan’s finger tracing his chest, connecting each freckle.

“We—we didn’t finish dinner”, Izuku finally whispers. 

Kacchan grins, planting kisses over his ribs and chest until he reaches his ear. 

“I’ve had my fill.”

Heat floods Izuku’s cheeks and down his neck right into his heart. “Katsuki!”

“You’re so easy to rile up,” Kacchan nips his earlobe, the vibrations of his laugh tingling through Izuku’s chest. 

He kisses Kacchan again, slow and thoughtful, fingers rubbing the edges of the buzzcut for reassurance. 

Once they’re breathless and spent, Kacchan whispers one last time. 

“Promise?” 

Izuku loses himself in the caress of velvety blond fuzz.  “Promise.”