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Katsuki stares at him blankly, positively flabbergasted.
Izuku takes his silence as carte blanche to argue the point. “They’re incredibly discreet and they have stellar reviews. There’s a hero-only entrance and Hatsume has given me the go-ahead to test her new disguise tech. I promise I’ve thought this through.”
Instinctively, Katsuki brings a hand to his face, pinching the bridge of his nose to fend off a headache. “Eight hours?”
The shameless bastard has the gall to fidget, acting shy all of the sudden. “I figured it was the most you would let me get away with, assuming you'd want to go on patrol the next day.”
Izuku assumed correctly, but Katsuki has no interest in giving him the satisfaction of an easy victory. As always, he’s ornery, demanding details, pictures, and a list of fees. Izuku refuses to cough up a price, determined to pay the tab on his own, but it’s a hollow argument. It quickly becomes obvious that Izuku has the upper hand, beaming like he won the lottery.
They agree on a date and the deed is done. Just like that, Katsuki has been roped into Izuku’s stupid fucking sex marathon.
He meditates on the prospect of what they’re doing. “Seriously, eight hours?” Even Izuku, with his monstrous stamina, wouldn’t be able to keep it up. Presumably, they would supplement with food, water, and rest—or relaxation, at the very least.
Idly, Katsuki does the math. Judging by Izuku’s refractory period, he could safely bust a nut once or twice an hour. Eight runs seemed excessive, but assuming Izuku fucked him in bursts with long breaks in between, it wouldn’t be impossible. Katsuki, on the other hand, took longer to rebound, leaving him ripe for overstimulation.
Whatever. Mental preparation would only get him so far. He cleans the hell out of his ass and he drinks plenty of water, anticipating dehydration.
Hatsume’s toy works like a charm, rendering them unrecognizable.
Katsuki is used to avoidance. He had plenty of fans, but they knew better than to approach him carelessly, aware of his propensity to snap when he was in uniform. They stood a better chance of copping an autograph when he was in plainclothes, but the timid ones had to be goaded into talking, blushing like schoolgirls despite his shitty attitude.
Izuku, on the other hand, smiles easily and waves like his life depends on it, even when they’re out on dates. He’s charming and beloved as fuck, which makes Katsuki preen as much as it makes him bristle. He takes his frustration out in the bedroom, riding Izuku raw with a possessive glint in his eyes.
Everyone else got Hero Deku. It was Katsuki’s honor to have Izuku-the-man, a wolf in sheep’s clothing who allowed Katsuki to have his way for all of ten minutes before he snapped, fucking Katsuki into the mattress with enough ferocity to make Katsuki groan, lightheaded with arousal.
Deep down, he hopes that’s what this is about: Izuku hitting his limit, spread thin between hobby missions and educating the youth. Their time together isn’t scant—most weeks, they met up on Tuesday, Thursday, and Sunday regardless of their busy schedules—but they crammed work, spars, and cheesy All Might reruns in between intimate exchanges, so Katsuki got where Izuku was coming from.
Katsuki doesn’t mean to lick his lips or grin menacingly; it’s a hazard that comes with his resting bitch face. He doesn’t realize he’s doing it until Izuku begs him to behave, amused despite himself.
Izuku presents his registration, disengaging Hatsume’s gadget to confirm his ID. As promised, the attendant’s reaction is muted, speaking to them sotto voce. They’re guided to their suite in complete silence, settling in.
There’s no time to lose, so they enter the bathroom together. Katsuki half-expects Izuku to pin him against the tile, but it’s a perfunctory rinse. “Maybe later,” Izuku teases, less than oblivious to the way Katsuki’s eyes trace beads of water rolling down his spine.
Katsuki pats himself down with a towel, holding out his hand for the blow-dryer as soon as Izuku is finished. With their mouths minty fresh, a collision is inevitable. The careless kiss becomes filthy in no time at all, fingers tangled in each other’s hair.
The damp ends of Izuku’s curls serve as anchors, plotting points for Katsuki’s nails. He would sooner die than admit it, but he likes it when Izuku smells like shit, sour at the end of a long day. It’s disgusting, but it’s instinctive, rutting into Izuku until Izuku’s eyes roll back, accepting anything Katsuki is willing to give him with slow, sleepy grunts.
Today, Izuku isn’t tired—far from it. He’s bright-eyed and bushy tailed, inching towards the bed. He bypasses Katsuki’s cock to scrub at Katsuki’s taint like the godless tease he is, rocking against Katsuki’s thigh like a bitch in heat. He’s always been a handsy bastard, sucking at every inch of exposed skin he could reach. Today is no different.
Katsuki hisses against the onslaught. “You tryin’ to gnaw my fuckin’ earlobes off?”
Izuku huffs a laugh. “Nice try, jerk. I know you love it.”
Of course Katsuki loves it. Like he would let any other horny loser with a death wish stick it up his ass.
For all that it starts swiftly, the pace grinds to a halt when Izuku inhales. He grounds himself, savoring the moment. “Kacchan, you’re so pretty,” he mumbles, three fingers deep, breath humid against Katsuki’s chin. Izuku is close to drooling and Katsuki knows it, working hard to suppress the urge.
Katsuki finally knows which game they’re playing. Izuku is trying to get Katsuki to ejaculate before he sticks it in, prolonging his own pleasure. It wasn’t unusual for Izuku to do things like that, seeing as how he was a self-proclaimed Katsuki connoisseur, but Izuku was especially fond of what he liked to call a strung-out Kacchan, snarly but subdued, less likely to clamp around an intrusion in the wake of recent orgasm.
He has never played nice and he has no intention of starting now. Katsuki snatches Izuku’s wrist, dragging him out. He laces his fingers together on the small of Izuku’s back and arches his own, crashing into Izuku’s cock with the grace of a swan, smooth, slick, and well-practiced. “Really makin’ the most of your eight hours, huh?”
Izuku groans, nostrils flared. “I should’ve known you were gonna be difficult.”
It’s Katsuki’s turn to smirk, using Izuku’s words against him. “You like me difficult.”
Izuku twists a nipple. Katsuki hisses. His lips rasp against Katsuki’s skin when he speaks. “I don’t like it—I love it. I wouldn’t want you any other way.”
Involuntarily, Katsuki shudders. The worst thing about sleeping with Izuku is the way the sappy nerd weaponizes honesty, fisting Katsuki’s cock in lieu of fingering him open. Katsuki has always been sensitive to stimulation and so it is with minimal delay that Izuku gets his wish, forcing Katsuki to clap a hand over his mouth or risk moaning like a two-bit whore.
As expected, Izuku glides inside while Katsuki is reeling, taking advantage of his distraction. Katsuki gives up on keeping quiet in order to wrestle his way into Izuku’s lap, nearly knocking him into the headboard. Izuku has the audacity to giggle, supporting Katsuki when he starts to list, struggling to stay focused when all his body wants to do is collapse, basking in the rush of orgasmic endorphins.
“Relax, Kacchan,” Izuku murmurs, thumbing at Katsuki’s waist. “I’ve got you.”
Izuku’s strength is nothing to sneeze at, nor is his cock, a formidable eight inches. Katsuki gritted his teeth through their fumbling first time, inadequately stretched to take it. Now, he finds himself snorting. Maybe eight is his lucky number.
He closes his eyes. It’s impossible not to meet Izuku halfway, leaning into his thrusts, arms draped over Izuku’s shoulders. Every flex sinks into Katsuki’s core, cock lodged so deep Katsuki can practically taste it. Distantly, he hears Izuku muttering about something—the hue of Katsuki’s skin, the flush creeping up the back of his neck, his powerful flexors, glutes, and all of his scars, each one more captivating than the last, lavishing him with praise.
Clamping to shut Izuku up is inevitable. “We didn’t come here to talk. We came here to fuck. Get on with it.”
Izuku rolls his eyes. “Why are you so allergic to compliments?”
“Don’t need people to tell me what I already know.”
That doesn’t stop Izuku. Never has, never will. He maneuvers Katsuki out of his lap, pounding Katsuki’s ass like his life depends on it. “Fine. I’ll tell you something nobody else will. You’re a really nice person beneath your bravado. You’re quick to lash out because you take things personally—your feelings run deep. You’re sensitive. You want people to praise you, but only when you actually feel like you’ve earned their praise. It’s hard work, isn’t it? Being such a good boy.”
Katsuki swallows thickly. As much as he longs to refute Izuku’s claim, he’s too busy getting his hair pulled, struggling to breathe. It hurts in the best way, torture inside and out. Izuku is going to be the death of him. “Stop talking,” he slurs, vision blurry. Obediently, Izuku stalls. “Just—fuck. S’hard for me, you know that.”
Izuku hums.
He inhales. Exhales. Shakily, Katsuki reaches for a pillow, burying his face in it. He pushes himself onto his elbows. “Alright.”
“What’s alright? Use your words, Kacchan.”
Katsuki clicks his tongue, annoyingly aroused by Izuku’s teacher voice. It is with the utmost exasperation that he grants Izuku permission to do whatever the hell it is he wants to do, even if that includes dirty-talking him into purgatory whilst fucking him blind.
Izuku skims a hand up Katsuki’s spine, careful with his cadence. He comes without pulling out, cuddling like the freak he is with his spunk lodged in Katsuki’s guts. He gropes mindlessly, tracing circles in Katsuki’s skin, sweet nothings interspersed with misty-eyed retellings of Katsuki’s exploits. Far from the headlines about the people he rescued and the villains he beat are the anecdotes about returning shoes and helping old ladies shop for shawls, overlooked by the general public.
At some point, Katsuki elbows himself free, desperate to glare Izuku into submission. It doesn’t work. Izuku doesn’t flinch anymore, too amused to do anything other than gaze at Katsuki fondly, tucking stray hairs behind his ear. “Seriously, where are you getting your information?”
Izuku pecks the tip of his nose. “You really should read your mail.”
He grimaces. Admittedly, it is his least favorite chore.
The second hour slips away in a fog of heavy petting initiated by Katsuki, making good on the promise of shower sex by the third. By the time Izuku peers over the covers, all but begging to stick his tongue in Katsuki’s ass, Katsuki is tired, eyelids drooping. “Do whatever you want,” he mutters, quite literally falling asleep, unperturbed by Izuku’s worshipful slurps, dreams echoing the reality of being used.
He’s not sure whether he’s dreaming or not when he conjures up the rather pornographic image of Izuku sucking on his limp cock, thighs splayed for ease of access. It becomes obvious that it’s fact, not fiction, when Izuku crams a toy inside, pen scraping against paper to take notes. Blearily, Katsuki demands to know which screw Izuku knocked loose in his formative years, but Izuku hits him with a look.
“If anyone was responsible for knocking my screws loose, it would be you.”
Katsuki wholeheartedly denies that. He didn’t turn Izuku into an obsessive asshole. Izuku has been neurotic since the day he was born.
“Between you and All Might, I had a lot to take in.”
Cheeky fuck.
He kicks his partner. Yanks the silicone out of his hole. Squeezes Izuku’s balls. “You’ve had your fun. Hurry up.”
Katsuki is a man of action, not words. Offering Izuku his body is easy—they’re nauseatingly compatible. Every bruise, every scratch, every wince, every gripe. They meet each other at the precipice, sharing highs and lows.
He gets stuck staring at the ceiling with thirty minutes to spare, numb from the waist down. “I think you broke my coccyx.”
Panicked, Izuku hurries to check. Katsuki smacks at Izuku’s chest, entreating him to lie down, too sore to struggle. Izuku pouts, curling around Katsuki protectively. “That wasn’t funny.”
“You just spent the entire day fucking my brains out. I’m entitled to a bad joke or two.”
A noise of agreement drifts through his ears. Here, at the very end, Izuku stifles a yawn. Katsuki taunts him, reminding Izuku that this was his idea. “You had fun, didn’t you?”
Unable to tolerate Izuku’s puppy eyes when he is at serious risk of being carried out of this damn building, Katsuki ruffles Izuku’s hair, content to share comfortable silence.
The wipe-down is cursory, tossing on clean, loose clothes before they reengage the disguise tech. Predictably, Izuku kneels to let Katsuki climb on his back. “It was either this or my arms and I knew you’d hate that, so suck it up.”
A different concierge walks them out, sunset hues spilling through the door. The walk home is slow, a rhythmic cadence that makes it easy for Katsuki to drift off. He wakes up at his place, not Izuku’s.
The only reason Izuku hasn’t moved in is because he doesn’t have the heart to leave Inko alone, even if his commute is terrible, but there’s a dresser filled with his things. Their relationship is hardly a secret from their parents, all three of whom teased them about being the most confusing childhood sweethearts on the face of the planet.
Katsuki accepts his post-marathon massage with a huff, deeming it unnecessary, but he groans as Izuku works the knots out of his spine. Izuku splutters when Katsuki climbs on top of him, too spent to get hard without popping a blood vessel, crashing before Katsuki makes it to his legs.
Katsuki isn’t at his best in the morning, but it’s a mercifully peaceful day on patrol. Nobody is brave enough to call Katsuki out on the fact that he’s chugging caffeine and popping pain pills, doing whatever he can not to limp.
Aizawa remarks on Izuku’s mood. Keep up the good work, Bakugo, he texts.
Nosy old man. For better or worse, Katsuki is surrounded by them.
One day, if he’s lucky, he and Izuku will join their ranks.