Chapter Text
Katsuki has always been popular.
Bravery and athleticism made boys flock to him. His good looks and standoffishness appealed to the girls.
Adults weren’t hard to please, especially when Katsuki dialed up the charm, bragging about his grades. His tone made them roll their eyes, but they ultimately praised him, congratulating Katsuki for his attention to detail.
In many ways, Izuku was his opposite.
Boring, quiet, and awkward, he was a wallflower. At an early age, Izuku ruined his vision, scanning pages in the middle of the night, unwilling to put anything down until his mother tore books out of his grubby hands.
His apartment complex was three blocks away from Katsuki’s house, which made the clingy bastard impossible to avoid. That didn’t stop Katsuki from trying, however, throwing himself into his extracurriculars.
Sports, sports, and more sports. Mitsuki insisted upon piano lessons, so Katsuki practiced in secret, painfully embarrassed.
Izuku knew, though. Izuku knew and he asked Katsuki why Katsuki lied about it and Katsuki lashed out the way he always did—violently. He stared up at Katsuki from the grass, allergic to averting his gaze.
So goddamn eerie.
Katsuki’s spot on the varsity team was something he earned, shedding blood, sweat, and tears for the right to be the starting quarterback. He couldn’t have done it without Lopez and Miller, who slogged through long hours of conditioning with him, shoving their upperclassmen out of the way for a shot at the field.
Their coach clapped him on the back, told Katsuki that he was going to go places. All the way, if he wanted to. The chances of being scouted at a podunk school like Aldera were slim-to-none, but that didn’t stop Katsuki from strutting around like he owned the place, stalking through the halls with a smirk.
His teammates clamored, singing Katsuki’s praises. Girls clung to his arms, insistently flirtatious, angling for the illustrious position of Homecoming Queen.
And then, there was Izuku.
Watching. Always watching.
Eventually, Katsuki snaps. It happens from time to time. Usually, Izuku apologized, like it was his fault Katsuki had a short-temper and inexplicable hissy-fits.
“The fuck is your problem?” Katsuki says, cornering Izuku in the bathroom. He wasn’t one for cutting class, but the teachers knew better than to ask questions. Generally speaking, Katsuki had a free pass to do whatever he wanted.
Dark, wide eyes blink at him. There’s some part of Izuku that’s tinged with awe, confusion warring with contempt. Sincerely, Izuku isn’t worth Katsuki’s time, but here he was breathing the same air, caging Izuku against a flimsy stall wall with his backpack acting as a cushion, chest heaving.
“I don’t know what you mean, Kacchan.”
Katsuki sees red. The audacity of this bastard.
“Stop staring,” he hisses, pounding his fist against plywood. Izuku doesn’t have the decency to flinch, glasses sliding down on the bridge of his nose. “What are you trying to prove, that you’re better than me? You know how to use your mouth. Say something.”
Izuku inhales. Exhales. There’s a nervous energy to him, but it’s nothing like it was in middle school. Undefined. Nebulous. “Like what?”
In childhood, Izuku was too shy to say that sort of thing. Adolescence has given him a backbone, high on his own supply.
“You sure talk a big game when nobody else is around,” Katsuki sneers, fisting his fingers in Izuku’s hair. “Coward.”
A lifetime ago, Izuku attempted to kiss him. Katsuki broke his nose for the effort, appalled by the concept of Izuku slobbering in his mouth, prank or no.
Katsuki more than half-expects Izuku to stop him when he leans in, seeking revenge.
Alarmingly, Izuku meets him halfway. He doesn’t close his eyes—Katsuki knows because he doesn’t close his either, stunned silent. He bites Izuku’s bottom lip bloody in his haste to escape, floundering when he feels firm forearms flexing around his waist, holding him in place.
“You told me not to talk to you at school,” Izuku mumbles, explaining himself, nonplussed by the writhing.
Katsuki scowls, staring at the bright red bloom. “Only ‘cause you kept talkin’ about dumb shit.”
A relieved sigh rumbles through Izuku’s chest. He buries his face in Katsuki’s neck, mouthing at Katsuki’s collarbone. Katsuki hisses, clawing at him, but resistance doesn’t last long. Izuku is warm, smearing iron on Katsuki’s skin until he pulls away. “I’ll be careful,” he mumbles, making a promise.
Katsuki knees Izuku in the gut for good measure, face hot. He was supposed to emerge superior, but he feels like he lost, cursing under his breath as he falls into his seat.
Reclaiming the high ground is a tactical issue, reviewing the facts in the privacy of his bedroom.
Izuku was unexpectedly strong, committed to a routine Katsuki wasn’t privy to. That power would be a welcome addition to the team if not for Izuku’s aversion to contacts, content to scribble with his nose stuck in the crease of a notebook until the universe imploded.
He makes a habit out of greeting Katsuki, subtle nods and fleeting glances. Katsuki’s posse giggles whenever they catch Izuku at it, mocking him relentlessly.
“Loser’s out of his league.”
“Dweeb doesn’t stand a chance in hell.”
Katsuki agrees with them, of course, but it rankles to hear other people say it. When he bristles, they learn to shut up to keep him happy.
He doesn’t know where to start, so he goes back to the beginning, tapping on Izuku’s shoulder until he turns around. Katsuki makes a crude gesture and Izuku trails him like a lapdog, waiting for the chime. School’s out and there’s no practice, which leaves them free to roam the halls.
They’ve got an hour or two before the staff clears out, babysitting hordes of teenagers pretending to play chess, roleplaying dragons or something. Katsuki wouldn’t know. The only nerd he’s in contact with is the one who’s standing in front of him, impatiently rolling on the balls of his feet, eyes glued to Katsuki’s lips.
“Hidin’ your wound?” Katsuki says, mindlessly ripping off Izuku’s band-aid. Izuku winces, but he remains otherwise unfazed, glossing over the scab.
“I’m fine, Kacchan,” he mumbles, unwilling to enunciate. All of the syllables blur, crashing into each other.
Pisses Katsuki off.
“Did I ask?”
Calm, unblinking, Izuku stares.
Freak.
“I bet you think you’re real clever, huh?” Katsuki says, slotting a leg between Izuku’s thighs. “Thought you pulled a fast one on me.”
Izuku’s breath hitches. He squirms. Victory burns in Katsuki’s chest like smoke, warm and heady. “I didn’t—”
With viper-fast reflexes, Katsuki peels Izuku’s backpack off of his shoulders. Cold and cruel, he mashes their faces together, reveling in the sound Izuku lets out, floundering for a moment until he settles, matching Katsuki beat for beat.
It’s less a kiss than a collision of tongue and teeth, adjustments incremental. By the time Izuku gains his footing, Katsuki loses his, jolting when he feels Izuku shift. He meant to intimidate Izuku, not to make the mouth-breather look at him like Katsuki hung the moon, desperate for more.
Eventually, Izuku coughs. “Um,” he says, attempting to scoot away despite the fact that there’s no space in the stall. Neither of them are particularly compact and there was barely enough room for one person to shit, let alone for two people to wrestle—or whatever it is that they’re doing.
For some godforsaken reason, Katsuki decides to look down. “You’re hard,” he says, snatching Izuku by the jaw.
Izuku squeezes his eyes shut, trying and failing to close his legs. He flings a hand over his crotch, cupping it, red up to his ears.
“Why?”
Izuku breathes, or rather he attempts to, on the verge of hyperventilating. His eyes are wild when he opens them, glossy with unshed tears. That being said, he doesn’t seem scared.
“You’re close and I just…” he rasps, clutching at his chest, pulse thunderous. “Kacchan, can I—can you—please?”
Katsuki snarls. “Speak properly.”
“I want to touch you,” Izuku blurts, so flushed he’s dizzy with it, stiff and getting stiffer.
For a moment, Katsuki goes blank. Irritation wars with exhilaration, his a-ha moment interrupted by the repulsion over Izuku’s overactive cock. Egotistical to a fault, Katsuki seizes the opportunity granted to him, mockery thick on his tongue. It’s rewarding to watch Izuku seize, hips jerking to meet Katsuki’s palm.
“Pathetic,” he says, degrading Izuku when Izuku chases friction, humping him like a dog. It’s doing something for Katsuki, Izuku's simpering, making a mess in his pants, held hostage by arousal.
When Katsuki lets go, Izuku collapses, clinging to the toilet for dear life. His glasses are crooked, trousers stained.
Unwittingly, Katsuki licks his lips.
This is an advantage worth exploiting.
Katsuki takes to their clandestine meetings, dragging Izuku into empty classrooms and corners of the library, occupying Izuku’s stupid, sticky mouth. He finds himself reminding Izuku to shut up as often as Izuku shushes him, moans muted by the books.
It’s bold of Izuku to wait by the bleachers, puzzling over his homework in the cold. Katsuki chastises him when everyone else is gone, glaring when frostbitten fingers land on his hips. “Fat fucking chance,” is the last thing Katsuki says before Izuku manhandles him, bucking into Katsuki’s thighs without a care in the world.
They’re too young for proper equipment and they’re too smart to try anything dry, fooling around with their clothes on. Katsuki thrives off of the feats he achieves, winding Izuku up before he lets him go, relishing in the fact that Izuku is addicted.
There’s a shift in the atmosphere when he sinks to his knees.
“Seriously?” Katsuki grouses, annoyed, staring at the lump in Izuku’s slacks.
“This seems—” he falters, gnawing on his lower lip, where the scab has been reopened so many times it turned into a scar. “Important, doesn’t it?”
First base. Second. The metaphors were endless, allusions to sex without mentioning sex outright. Penetration was a leap, but Katsuki got bored easily and Izuku was quick to adapt.
“Hurry up and unzip your fly,” Katsuki snaps, refusing to examine the situation further. They’re skirting a dangerous line, too consistent to be considered an experiment, too messy to be anything else.
Izuku claps a hand over his mouth, redder than Katsuki has ever seen him before. Katsuki’s teeth scrape against Izuku’s shaft and Izuku shivers, struggling to stay still. There’s saliva on Izuku’s sweaty palms and he looks horrendous, but that’s the beauty of it.
Confounding Izuku, holding Izuku’s heart in his hand. It would be all too easy for Katsuki to crush it. Izuku’s balls, his reputation—everything. He inhales sharply, hollowing his cheeks, hummingbird pulse buzzing in his ears.
“M’gonna come,” Izuku babbles, snotting himself. Nasty ass nerd. Katsuki has only been at it for five minutes. Izuku’s glasses are fogged over and he looks positively perverse, clutching Katsuki’s shoulders like a lifeline. “Kacchan. Kacchan. Kacchan.”
“For fuck’s sake,” Katsuki rasps, pulling off long enough to strangle Izuku’s shaft. “Calm down. Breathe.”
Submissively, he nods. Izuku winds up looking at the ceiling to regain his composure, hiccuping through the sobs, flooding Katsuki’s throat with his spend. Katsuki chokes on it, spitting out Izuku’s seed on the tile.
“Ha,” he says, false bravado on full blast. “I win.”
For once, Izuku doesn’t protest, dazed for the rest of the afternoon.
Spring break arrives and with it comes a break in their routine.
The weather is unseasonably warm, which means the beach is crowded. Everywhere Katsuki looks, his teammates are fooling around, conscripted into an off-season retreat.
“You’ve gotta get a girlfriend,” Lopez says, elbowing Katsuki in the side.
“He has one,” Miller retorts, pointing to his neck, taunting.
Despite the fact that Katsuki examined his reflection three times, he feels the urge to cover nonexistent hickeys. Izuku could be a clingy bastard when he wanted to be, bolder with every engagement. It would only be a matter of time before Katsuki climbed into his lap or Izuku pulled him into it, consequences be damned.
Lopez waggles his eyebrows. “How do you know he isn’t racking up a body count?”
Miller shrugs. “Guess he could be. Who’s right, B?”
Katsuki refuses to deign that with a response, ignoring them so thoroughly that rumors fly. It’s true that he’s doing things with Izuku that he should be doing with a girl. How long would it last, this ridiculous fling? Another month? Two?
Blithely, Katsuki decides to nip the situation in the bud. Two birds, one stone. He had the experience to woo whoever he wanted into his bed and summer vacation was right around the corner.
Plenty of time to cement his relationship with his girlfriend and crown her the Homecoming Queen come fall, touting some vapid, pretty thing on his arm to silence the naysayers.
Crystal satisfies the criteria. She’s smart and personable, aware of her placement on the food chain. Sitting on Katsuki’s thighs gives her clout, elevating her status. She takes it in stride, obnoxious perfume clinging to Katsuki’s clothes.
As for Izuku?
Izuku watches.
Like nothing happened. Like nothing has changed.
Irrationally, Katsuki is furious.
He takes it upon himself to avoid Izuku like the plague, kissing Crystal against the lockers. Katsuki is loud about it, too, so fervent that his teammates wolf-whistle, telling him to keep it in his pants.
It’s an irrelevant callout. No matter how many times Crystal rubs her ass into his crotch, Katsuki’s cock doesn’t twitch. He’s too proud to fold.
Izuku is the pitiful one in this situation, not him.
The cold war continues until Izuku stops haunting his periphery. Either he’s become a more effective stalker or he’s genuinely moved on. Both eventualities grate on Katsuki’s nerves, but he swallows back his fury, committed to another night of needy texts and half-hearted replies.
Then, the unthinkable happens.
Izuku is in his room.
Point in the stalker column.
“Kacchan,” Izuku whispers, inhaling Katsuki’s jockstrap like it’s the world’s finest ambrosia. Mitsuki and Masaru let him in with the complete trust that Izuku needed to borrow something, and yet here he is, touching himself like a total creep. “Kacchan,” he whines, on the verge of crying.
“Sup, loser,” Katsuki says, startling Izuku so thoroughly he nearly gives himself whiplash, head snapping to the side. “This is pretty pathetic, even for you.”
Izuku sniffles, caught.
Katsuki watches him flounder, plucking the fabric out of Izuku’s hands, depositing it on the heap with the rest of his gym clothes. “Go on,” Katsuki says, throwing his bag in the corner, unceremoniously sitting on the edge of the mattress. “Finish the job.”
Izuku scrambles to comply, fumbling with Katsuki’s buttons. He’s clumsy about it, forming a wet patch on Katsuki’s thighs, too eager to concentrate. By the time he hums around Katsuki’s shaft, Katsuki thinks Izuku is going to nut on impact, groaning when Katsuki grinds a heel into his balls.
“You’re sick in the head,” Katsuki muses, nowhere near as upset as he should be.
“Mm,” Izuku agrees, pinning Katsuki flat, rutting into him like the mutt he is.
With vaseline at their disposal, they almost go all the way, knobby fingers scrabbling against Katsuki’s crack. It’s a struggle to keep quiet when Katsuki’s parents are so close, at risk of walking in at any minute. Each creak in the floorboards is a cause to pull up the covers, pausing to drink each other in, sighing when the sounds pass.
Afterwards, Izuku sits up straight, panicked. “Your girlfriend,” he mumbles, pawing at Katsuki’s chest.
“She won’t be a problem,” Katsuki mutters, tugging at Izuku until Izuku is splayed on top of him like a weighted blanket.
He breaks up with her via text, which is disgraceful enough to earn him a very public slap.
For the rest of the week, people treat him like a hero.
When they lock eyes in the hallway, Katsuki already knows how this is going to end.
Izuku’s face ticks him off. Always has. Katsuki pushes a tube into Izuku’s hand, prepared to reap the rewards.
“Make yourself useful,” he says, looping his arms over Izuku’s shoulders.
Dutifully, Izuku obeys, lifting Katsuki by the hips. Together, they align the stars. Izuku crams a third of his cock into Katsuki’s ass—a sincere accomplishment.
“Why are you getting bigger?” Katsuki gripes, swallowing back a howl. “Christ, I hate you so much.”
“M’sorry, Kacchan,” Izuku slurs, a slave to pleasure. Katsuki is sweaty in his lap and too tight for words, bliss in a bulky package. “You feel really good.”
Gravity allows another third to penetrate, forcing Katsuki to hiss through his teeth. He feels like shit. Overwrought, overstimulated. Izuku strokes him through the sensation, petting him, mumbling sweet nothings that verge on becoming derogatory. He’s a freak, but he’s Katsuki’s freak.
Izuku’s post-orgasmic face is disgusting, but Katsuki isn’t any better off, tacky from head to toe. He has to sit still in Izuku’s lap to regain his composure, ill-equipped for balance. He’s satiated, but at what cost?
Calling out of practice is a necessity, but Katsuki refuses to be carried home. He hobbles, well aware of the stares they attract. Doubtlessly, the rumor mill is buzzing, wondering what the hell a dork like Izuku is doing with a stud like Katsuki.
It’s none of their damn business, but Katsuki doesn’t know either.