Chapter Text
One week. Seven damn days. One hundred and sixty-eight hours. Ten thousand eight hundred minutes of... abstinence.
It hasn't been because we've been busy. Not because we have an argue. Not even because there are villains blowing up half city or emergencies non-stop.
But because since Izuku mentioned that he wanted more "delicacy," I haven't been able to touch him without feeling like I have dynamite in my hands.
The irony is not lost on me. I'm a human bomb. Literal. And now he ask me to be delicate?
It's not that I don't understand it. I know he wants something softer, more emotional. That it is not all gritted our teeth and charging as if we were fighting a battle. I understand. But knowing that doesn't mean I can do that.
I have no idea how one is supposed to be delicate without looking insecure, without looking weak, without ceasing to be... me. It's my essence, that's who I am.
And so the week has passed.
We share bed, we have breakfast together, we train, we work, we give each other looks that last longer than normal. But I don't touch him. Not when I want to. And that, in my case, is almost always.
He notices it. I know this because Midoriya is one of those who realizes everything, even the things I don't say. He looks at me with those green eyes of a confused puppy and doesn't ask me, but I know he asks himself. Doesn't he want to anymore? Did I say something wrong? Are he angry?
No. It's not that. I just don't want to fail him.
And I don't know how to do this without exploding inside.
One of those days, in the midst of the charged silence, Izuku blurted out of nowhere:
“What if we don't go out today?”
I watched him from the couch, where I had thrown myself after a double morning training session. He had disheveled hair, an old T-shirt and mismatched socks. He looked like a teenager on Sunday, but still... damn, he was handsome. I was annoyed by how handsome he was without trying.
“Not going where?”
“Nowhere. To stay here and do something... relaxed.”
I frowned.
“Relaxed how?"”
I smiled.
“Afternoon of video games. You against me. Total war.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“Do you want me to humiliate you? In your own living room?”
“What I want is for us to have some fun.” He shrugged. “And if you beat me, you'll be able to show off.”
“I don't need to beat you to show off.” I snorted, but sat down. “What do we bet?”
And that's how it began.
First it was a simple fight in a fighting game. Then races. Then another fighting game with ridiculous characters. Laughter, insults, cushions thrown into the air. And finally, the ultimate bet:
“If you lose this round,” I said, my eyes alight with the impending victory, “you wash the dishes naked.”
Izuku laughed.
“That's not fair.”
“Then don't accept the bet.” I smiled sideways, confidently.
“I accept.”
He lost.
And he complied.
After showering, I watched him walk to the kitchen with a ridiculous towel tied around his waist, humming nervously as he washed dishes. He didn't dare turn around too much, just in case I looked at him —I was looking at him, of course—. The atmosphere became intimate and laughter gave way to an electrical tension. He knew he was perfect like this, with the steam rising, the drops running down his back, the perfect ass peeking out of the edge of the towel...
And I, like an idiot, just watched it.
I didn't go close. I didn't touch him.
Not because I didn't want to. But because I was afraid. Fear of touching him wrong.
Afterwards, we went to bed without talking about it. He stuck a little more than usual next to me. He hugged me. He kissed my back. But he didn't try anything. He didn't force anything.
As if he knew he was waiting for me to take the plunge.
But I didn't give it to him.
Now it's Saturday. Tomorrow is the next session. And I'm faced with a damn blank sheet of paper.
"Describe what your ideal night would be like. Be honest. No filters." That's what the therapist said.
I thought that after the sexual questions of the last time there could be nothing more uncomfortable.
I was wrong.
I don't even know where to start. What do you mean by "ideal night"? What level of pretentiousness are we talking about? Do there have to be candles? Music? Talk about feelings? Is that part of the pack?
I run a hand through my hair and snort. I have the pencil in the other one, but it doesn't go down to paper.
The temptation to say, "We arrive, kiss, and then rip off our clothes like two desperate bastards" is real. But I know that is not what the therapist is looking for. Nor what Izuku is looking for.
And, unfortunately, it's not what I want right now either.
Because I've spent the whole week thinking about how to look at him. How to touch him without looking clumsy. How not to screw it up.
And I don't want to do it just for the sake of it. I don't want to do it with him again just to check if he still likes me. I want him to feel loved. I want him to have no doubts.
Damn, I want to do it right.
So I start writing.
Slow. Doubting. With rage. With shame.
A word. Then another.
A pair of studs. A couple of grunts. And at the end, a full sheet.
I'm not going to read it. I don't want to go over it. If I do, I'm sure I'll break it in two and make an excuse like "the neighbor's dog ate it".
I fold it in half. I put it in my backpack. And I leave it there.
Ready. I guess.
Tomorrow we'll see what the hell Izuku thinks of all this...
The therapist's room always has the same damn temperature. Neither hot nor cold. Neutral. Impeccable. As if it was designed so that you would feel absolutely nothing, which, considering today's topic, was a brutal irony.
My legs are apart, my body thrown back in the armchair, as if I didn't care about anything. But in my hands I hold a badly folded piece of paper, one of those torn reluctantly from an old notebook. Scribbled in pencil, with some stronger pressure marks than normal. As if the words had been pushed, not written.
In front of me, Izuku had a page-size cardboard, written in black pen, straight line, clean handwriting. As if it were a primary school task done with dedication. That irritated me. Or maybe I was nervous. Whatever.
The therapist crossed her legs, with a faint, professional smile.
“Thank you both for taking the time to write this.” She paused briefly. And she looked at me for a second longer than usual, saying nothing, but just enough for me to feel it. As if she hadn't been sure I would do it. “Let's start with Katsuki, if you agree.”
“Why not.” I snorted, as if I were being forced to take part in a ridiculous exam. But I don't protest. Not like the first time I came to therapy.
I unfold the paper with tense fingers. The sheet creaks, almost as if it also resists being read.
I didn't look up once. My eyes fixed on the paper. My words, quick at first, then slower, more vivid. As if, when reading, things take shape inside me too.
“My ideal night doesn't have a fucking name.” I begin, without hesitation.
Izuku opened his eyes slightly. The therapist did not react, not even to the rudeness.
“It's not a candlelight appointment. It's not a stupid walk in a park. It's not one of those cheesy that comes out in dramas that you do watch, even if you say no.”
A slight clearing of the throat escaped from Izuku, unintentionally.
“It's coming home after a shitty day. Both alive. Tired. Broken a little, but whole.”
The room became strangely quiet. As if even the sound of the air conditioning decided to turn off for a moment.
“It's that you shower first. Because I like it when you go out with wet hair and you put on that old t-shirt that I wear sometimes, the one with the neck stretched out.”
I swallow hard and squeeze the edges of the paper with my thumbs. But I continue.
“It's that I cook, without saying anything. That you play low music while I do it, some of those quiet playlists that you tell me relax, but that I only like because they play when you are there. It's dinner without having to talk much. Just looking at me, with that face that puts pause on everything else.”
Izuku is not breathing. Or at least, it is not noticeable.
“And then… I do not know. Maybe we're on the couch, you reading something and me on your lap. You better in mine. More comfortable. Easier. And if there is sex, fine. But there doesn't have to be. Sometimes I just want to touch your back and feel your breath.”
There, the therapist raised an eyebrow. Not out of judgment, but as if so much… humanity were not expected, so much careful image, of someone like me.
“If there's sex, yes, I like it hard. I like it fast. I like that you moan like the world is ending. But I also like it when you're on top of me, slow, like you're not in a hurry. I like it when you caress my face like I'm not a ticking time bomb.”
The last sentence came out with a lower, but firmer thread.
“My ideal night is the one when you fall asleep first. Because it means you feel safe with me. And if you hug me in my sleep, all the better. Because then I don't have to ask for it.”
When I finished, there was no silence. There was a kind of space. A restrained pause, as if even the air needed to be digested.
I fold the paper awkwardly. I don't look at anyone. I just lay the sheet on my knees, as if burning my fingers.
The therapist leans forward a little, with a friendly smile but no exaggeration.
“Thank you, Bakugo. That was... very clear. Very honest. You've made an effort, and it shows.”
She said nothing more. She didn't applaud me. Nor did she look at me like a child who has just learned to ride a bike without falling. She only validated what I had done: an act of vulnerability, without unnecessary sweetness.
And the worst thing is that I liked that feeling.
Deku still said nothing. I turned to look at him. He had those eyes open, bright, but without tears. As if he didn't know if he wanted to smile, hide or cry.
“What do you think, Midoriya?” The therapist asked him.
Izuku looked down for a moment. Then he lifted his gaze up to me, as if he had trouble finding an expression that didn't look like... ridiculous.
“I... I thought you'd write any nonsense.” he admitted with a trembling smile. “Something like "we lie in bed, fuck and that's it".”
I snorted at his answer.
“I was about to, fuck.”
“Yes. But you didn't.” Izuku looked at me again, more serious this time. “What you wrote was... more than I expected. Not because I don't think you feel those things, but because I didn't know you could say them like that.”
“Don't look at me like I've saved a damn cat from a tree.” I growled, turning my face to the side.
“I don't. Just...” Izuku interrupted himself. Then he sighed. “You surprised me. For the better.”
The silence returned, but now it was warmer. Less uncomfortable.
“And you, Izuku?” The therapist interjected. “Are you ready to share yours?”
Izuku nodded, and twirled the cardboard between his fingers, as if to buy time for the excitement rising in his throat. It was so straight, so white, and so perfectly written, that it irritated me.
I know what's there. Not the exact words, of course. But I know what he was going to say. Or so I thought.
He made a little noise with his throat before starting. His voice cleared as if he were about to read his doctoral thesis, not a letter about how he would like to fuck with me. That's great.
“My ideal night doesn't have to be perfect.” he begins, in that soft tone he uses when talking to civilians or stray cats.
I shift in my seat, uncomfortable. Not because of what he says, but because of how he says it. Because I know that, whatever comes, it's going to hurt a little. But not in that way that I can hit back.
“It doesn't have to be in a special place or with an itinerary. I just want you to be there. That you are present. With me.”
I clenched my jaw. He was reading it slowly. As if words had to sink into the ground before they reach us.
“I'd like us to get home after a long day, not talking about reports or injuries or alarms. Just you and me, without the suits, without the weight of being heroes.”
It is true that I talk a lot about technical things, about patrols, about arrests. It makes me angry when I try to fill the silence and the only thing I can do is talk about work. As if I didn't know how to say anything else.
“I would like you to look at me as you look at me when you think I don't see you. That look that lasts a second, but makes me feel that you are still surprised that we are together.”
I swallow hard. He looks at me. All the fucking time he looks at me. I didn't know that he noticed it too.
“On my ideal night, you're the one who makes the first move. Not because I don't want to, but because you want to. Because it is born to you. Hold my hand, hug me from behind while I wash the dishes. Laugh a little more. That you tell me, even once, that you love me without having to be in a limit situation.”
I didn't look up. I look at my knees. I focus on the vibrations of his voice. "I love you without having to be in a borderline situation." I'm not cut out to say those things. They only come out when I feel like I'm going to die. Or when he's crying. As if I really needed a fucking tragedy to say an "I love you".
“I love it when you desire me, but I'd also like you to make love to me. Slow. As you look into my eyes. Touching me like there's no hurry.”
My chest shrinks. I don't know how to make love. I know how to fuck. I know how to devour. How to grab him by the waist and make him unable to walk the next day. But slowly... look into the eyes... what if I break there?
“I'd like us to talk during sex. Don't run away from what you feel. And if something bothers you or worries you, you say so. Even if you spit it out in anger.”
I didn't know that he noticed my silence so much. I thought he just wanted moans, gasps. Not... this.
“But most importantly, on my ideal night, you're not someone else. It's still you: stubborn, intense, with poorly managed emotions. But you let me in a little more... literal and... figuratively.”
There he paused. As if he regretted the final joke. But he doesn't laugh. No one does.
I wipe my palms on my legs. They don't sweat, but they feel heavy.
Izuku lowers the cardboard. He doesn't look at me right away. His ears are red, his fingers are trembling, and his eyes are fixed on the edge of the table as if he wanted to disappear into it.
The therapist smiles. Not that commercial smile that some doctors wear. This is another one. One more... human.
“Thank you, Izuku. You have expressed very clearly what you want. And you have done it with affection, not with reproach. That's the most important thing.”
Izuku nods. Hardly.
I... I don't say anything at first. I don't know what to say.
But the therapist looks at me. She is waiting for me.
“I don't know if I can give you all that.” I blurt out at the end, scratching the back of my neck. “Not because I don't want to. It's just... I don't know how.”
Izuku finally looks at me. And he doesn't have a disappointed face. He has the face of someone who has been waiting for that answer for a long time. As if the simple fact that I try is already a step.
“But... I can try.” I add, forcing my throat to work.
There is a silence. And this time, it's not awkward.
The therapist nods, satisfied.
“That's what it means to work in a relationship. Not to change who you are, but to open up enough to integrate the desires of the other without losing yourself.”
Of course. Nice phrase. But I'm stuck in something else.
She began to talk about "sex as an escape". She said that sometimes we use sex to avoid talking. To close gaps that we do not know how to fill with words. That there is desire, yes, but also anxiety, and that it mixes. That grabs us by the waist and pushes us to confuse connection with emotional discharge.
Then she mentioned something about dedicating quality time to each other, going on a trip together, to a spa, a guided tour in a nearby town... That reminded me that we have to ask for days off work for that thing I have planned.
Anyway, my attention was diverted. I was listening to her, technically. But I'm not really paying attention to her.
Because under the desk, without saying anything, I stretch out my hand and look for Izuku's fingers.
His fingers find me halfway. He intertwine it without looking at me.
We don't say anything to each other. We don't have to.
Because while she talks about emotional repression and psychological escapes, I'm just thinking about tonight.
On getting home. That he enters first, with that loose shirt that is almost mine. To hold his hand in the kitchen. To kiss him without urgency. In doing so... slowly. Delicate.
As if I knew how...
I don't know if tonight is going to be shit or not. But I'm trying not to.
I knew it since we returned from therapy. Izuku looked at me strangely all the way. Not with sorrow, nor with hope. With something more tender, more fucked up to decipher. Like he's waiting for me to do... which I don't know how to do.
And here I am. Standing in front of him, in the kitchen. I see him with his back against the counter, that fucking old shirt that is too big hanging down as if it had no weight.
“Do you want to...?” I start, not knowing exactly what the fuck I'm asking.
“Dinner?” he asks, with a little smile.
I refuse. My face burns. I hate myself for it.
“No.” I growled. “That later.”
He laughs. He laughs softly, as if he doesn't want to break the silence that surrounds us. And take a step towards me. He touches my chest with his fingers, soft. I feel like a damn time bomb.
“Do you want to go to the bedroom?” he says, lowering his voice.
I nod. Because if I open my mouth now, I'll ruin everything.
We are in the room. The light is dim. I didn't turn on the main one, just the one on my bedside table. I like how it shades his body. I've always liked his body. His back. His neck. His mouth. All of him. But today I can't devour him as usual.
Today I have to do something else.
I take a deep breath.
I approach him. Slow. Like I'm approaching a wounded animal that could run away if I move too fast. Is this how this is done? That slow?
I brush the edge of his T-shirt with my fingers.
“May I...?” I murmured.
Izuku nods, surprised. And that breaks me a little bit. Are he really surprised that I ask?
I grip the hem carefully. I don't tear it up. I don't pull it out. I lift him slowly, running my fingers over his stomach, over his chest. I feel how he trembles.
“You're trembling.” I say, almost in a whisper.
“I'm... nervous.” he admits, lowering his gaze.
He tells me so. The one who always wants to talk, the one who always knows what to say. He tells me he's nervous. Which, in a way, gives me permission to be so too.
I take off his shirt. I ran it through his head. He raises his arms, obediently. He doesn't say anything when I put it down on the back of the chair. Normally I would throw it on the floor. Today is not just any day.
My hands go to his shoulders. The skin is warm. I am too, but I don't move more than necessary. I kiss him there, on the bone. Then I go down, leaving more kisses.
On the neck. On the collarbone. On the chest. I don't bite. I don't mark. Just kiss.
He strokes my hair. His breath trembles. I'm doing well, I guess.
“Kacchan.” he says, and looks down at me with that look of his, as if I were something sacred and dangerous at the same time.
I don't answer. I can't talk right now. But I continue on my way. I kiss his abdomen. Slow. For once I stop to savor it, not to eat it.
And I kneel. Yes. I kneel on the floor. And he is startled.
I unbutton his pants as calmly as I can afford. I see how he bites his lip. His eyes are wide open. He did not expect it. Nor me.
It's not that I've never given him a blowjob before, of course I've sucked his dick before. But it's usually something I reserve for special moments, on his birthday, on our anniversary, or if I have ever drunk more than I should.
“Are you going to...?” he asks.
I nod. I finished pulling down his underpants. I observe him from below. I get excited when I see his erection, which forces me to bite my lower lip so as not to attack like an animal in heat.
I take his member in my hand. I give it a soft kiss before opening my mouth. His hips tense and I hear him gasp. I'm doing this. I. Katsuki Bakugo. A fucker with an unstoppable rhythm, explosive, selfish at times. I'm on my knees. With him in my mouth. Smooth. Slow. Delicate. Looking at him from time to time, just to check if I'm doing the way he wants. To see if he looks at me too.
And yes. He looks at me.
“God...” he gasps.
My tongue slides down the base before slowly ascending, licking and sucking every inch until I reaches the tip. There I stop, my mouth closed around his glans, sucking gently. My hand working to the rhythm of my mouth.
When I'm done, I don't make him cum. I don't want this to end. Not so fast.
I take him to bed. I undress myself in silence. Not as a show. Just... I take off my clothes, one garment after another. I feel weird. Vulnerable. But he looks at me like I'm something beautiful.
I put him to bed. I lie down next to him.
“Do you want to...?” I ask, again. Always asking. I don't even recognize myself.
He nods. And he kisses me. A long and warm kiss. One of those kisses that break you into a thousand pieces and then rebuild you again.
This time I prepare everything. I use lubricant. I stroke his cock while inserting a couple of fingers. And, most surprising, I am talking to him.
“Like this...? Is it ok...?” I ask hoarsely.
“Yes... that's fine.” he replies between sighs.
“Tell me if I do something wrong.” I say, without thinking.
He looks at me.
“You're doing great, Kacchan. Don't stop.”
And I don't. I'm staying.
I kneel on the bed. I watch my erection throbbing in my hand as I line up with his entrance. I move slowly at first. Very slowly. It's hard for me. My whole body screams at me to increase the pace, to take it hard, to make him mine with all my anger, with all my love, with everything I don't know how to say. But no. Not this time.
“Look at me.” he says, and I do.
We looked at each other. Body against body. His legs on my shoulders. His chest rising and falling. His eyes shining.
“You're holding back a lot.” he says, and strokes my abdomen. “It's okay if it's you too.”
I close my eyes for a second. I take a deep breath. And yes. I let it out a bit. The pace accelerates. He moans. He clings to me. He tells me my name, not the hero's, nor my nickname. Mine.
“Ahh… Katsuki...”
I listen to him as if it were a prayer.
In the end, I can't help it. I get lost. Push harder. Faster. I press him against me as if he will fall apart if I don't have him around.
I masturbate his penis in the meantime. He moans louder. Me too. Our bodies no longer move delicately, but they are together. We are together.
When we're done, I collapse on top of him, but I turn quickly so I don't crush him. I stand by his side, breathing like an animal.
He laughs softly.
“Was that your attempt to make love?”
“Shut up.” I reply, covering my face with my arm.
He snuggles up against my chest.
“It was... nice.” he says, and sounds sincere. “I enjoyed it a lot, really.”
I don't know what to answer. So I just kiss him on the hair.
I don't tell him that I love him.
Not today.
But I do caress his back with my fingertips. And I stay like that, touching his breath. Waiting for him to fall asleep first.
Only then do I allow myself to close my eyes.