Chapter 1: Liquid Courage, Burning Desire
Katsuki slammed his glass down on the sticky table. Cheap whiskey sloshed over the rim, joining a constellation of other spills. The red leather booth was tight, forcing their knees together beneath the low table—a point of contact that felt like a live wire.
“Say that again,” he growled, his voice low and rough. The izakaya hummed around them, a blur of chatter and clinking plates, but in their booth, the world had narrowed to the two-foot gap of tension. “I fucking dare you.”
Izuku didn’t flinch. He just stared into his own glass of beer, the foam long gone flat. His fingers traced a water ring on the wood. “I said it doesn’t have to be a competition anymore, Kacchan. We’re not kids on a playground.”
“Everything’s a competition.” Katsuki leaned forward, the scent of spirits sharp on his breath. “That’s how you get better. That’s how you win. Or did they hand you that number three ranking out of pity?”
A flicker then, in Izuku’s eyes—not anger, but a deep, weary hurt. It vanished as quickly as it came, replaced by that infuriating, gentle resolve. “They handed it to me because I saved a twelve-story apartment building from collapsing on live television. You watched it.”
“I was there, you dumbass. I evacuated the east wing.” Katsuki snatched his glass back, took a burning gulp. The whiskey did nothing to dull the static in his veins. “Your point?”
“My point is…” Izuku finally looked up. The dim, colorful izakaya lights caught in his green hair, glinted off the faint freckles across his cheeks. He’d filled out since UA, shoulders broader, but his eyes were the same: too big, too seeing. “We’re supposed to be partners on this joint agency thing. Not enemies. Can you… can you try for five minutes to not see me as something to beat?”
The word ‘partners’ hung in the air, thick and wrong. It implied an equality Katsuki still, on some primal level, refused to grant. Yet the agency paperwork was signed. The world expected it. Deku—no, Izuku—expected it.
Katsuki’s laugh was short, harsh. “Try? You want me to try? I don’t try, I do. And what I do is win. You wanna partner up? Fine. Keep up. Don’t get in my way.”
“That’s not partnership. That’s just you running ahead and me cleaning up the aftermath.” Izuku’s voice dropped, barely audible over a burst of laughter from a nearby table. “Like always.”
Something snapped. The carefully maintained dam of professionalism, of public decorum, cracked under the pressure of too many years, too many unsaid things. Katsuki’s palm smacked the table, making the empty plates jump. “You want to dig that up now? After all this time? You got what you wanted, didn’t you? You’re the golden boy. The sympathetic one. The one All Might chose.”
The name, thrown between them like a grenade. Izuku went very still.
“It’s not about that,” Izuku whispered, his own hands curling into fists on his knees. “It was never about that for me. It was about being worthy. Being… being close to you.”
The admission, quiet and stark, sucked the air from the booth.
Katsuki stared. The noise of the izakaya faded into a dull roar. He saw the tremor in Izuku’s lower lip, the slight sheen in his eyes that wasn’t from the alcohol. A strange, hollow feeling opened up in his chest. He was used to anger, to fiery outbursts. This quiet, devastating truth was a language he didn’t speak.
“Close to me?” Katsuki echoed, the edge gone from his voice, replaced by pure, unvarnished confusion. “Why the hell would you want that? I was a bastard to you.”
“I know.” A single, shaky breath. “But you were also you. The strongest person I knew. The one who never looked away. Even when it was just to tell me how worthless I was… you saw me. You were the first one who really saw me.”
Katsuki couldn’t breathe. The tight booth felt like a compression chamber. He needed to deflect, to explode, to do anything but sit here and feel the weight of those words. “That’s pathetic,” he muttered, but it lacked heat. It sounded hollow, even to him.
“Maybe,” Izuku said. He wasn’t crying. He was just… open. A raw nerve. “But it’s the truth. And this… this constant fighting. It’s exhausting, Kacchan. I’m tired.”
Before Katsuki could form a retort—and what could he possibly say?—Izuku moved. His hand came across the table, not in aggression, but with a hesitant certainty. His fingers, calloused and warm, closed around Katsuki’s wrist, right over his pounding pulse.
The contact was electric.
It wasn’t a combat grip. It was an anchor. Izuku’s thumb pressed softly against the inner skin of his wrist, a point of shocking intimacy. Katsuki’s whole arm froze. He could feel every ridge of Izuku’s fingerprints, the steady, gentle pressure. He could feel his own heartbeat hammering against that touch.
The air shifted. The hostile crackle between them melted, transmuted into something else entirely. Something thicker, heavier, and far more dangerous. Katsuki’s eyes locked onto Izuku’s. The green was dark, unwavering, filled with a terrifying earnestness.
“What are you doing?” Katsuki’s voice was a ragged thing, stripped of all its usual force.
“I don’t know,” Izuku admitted, his own breath quickening. His gaze flickered down to Katsuki’s mouth, then back up. “I just… I’m tired of pretending this is only about rivalry.”
Katsuki should have yanked his arm back. Should have called him a delusional freak, knocked over the table, stormed out. That’s what the script demanded. That’s what the past dictated.
He didn’t move.
He stayed perfectly, utterly still, imprisoned by that simple touch and the universe of meaning behind it. The sounds of the izakaya—the music, the laughter—came rushing back, but distorted, as if heard through water. All he was acutely aware of was the heat of Izuku’s hand, the rapid flutter under his own skin, and the silent, screaming question now hanging in the space between their faces.
Izuku’s fingers tightened, just for a second. A question, a plea.
Katsuki’s free hand, resting on his thigh, clenched into a fist so tight his knuckles ached white. The world tilted on its axis, balanced on a single point of contact on his wrist.
Outside, neon signs painted the wet streets in garish colors. Inside, in the warm, confined dark of the booth, everything was suddenly, irrevocably different.
Inside, in the warm, confined dark of the booth, everything was suddenly, irrevocably different.
Izuku’s eyes widened, as if he’d just heard his own words echo back and realized their monumental weight. A hot, violent blush flooded his face, staining his neck and ears a ruddy crimson beneath his freckles. The gentle pressure on Katsuki’s wrist vanished as if scalded.
“S-sorry, I didn’t— That was—” he stammered, the words tripping over themselves in a panic. He tried to pull his hand back, to retreat into the safety of the worn leather seat, to shove the genie back into the bottle.
He didn’t get the chance.
Katsuki’s hand moved faster. His own fingers, stronger and rough, snapped closed over Izuku’s wrist before it could escape. It wasn’t a gentle grip. It was possessive. Final.
“Don’t,” Katsuki growled, the word low and guttural.
He didn’t just hold the wrist. He pulled. Hard.
Izuku, caught completely off balance, let out a sharp, choked gasp as he was yanked forward. He stumbled awkwardly across the small space, knees knocking against the table leg, sending an empty bottle clattering to the floor. He half-fell into Katsuki’s space, their faces now inches apart, his body bent at an awkward angle over the table.
Katsuki could feel the frantic rabbit-pulse beneath his thumb, could see every pale green fleck in Izuku’s wide, startled eyes. The scent of cheap beer and Izuku’s own clean, nervous sweat filled his head.
“You don’t know what you’re dealing with,” Katsuki breathed, the threat in his voice layered over something else, something raw and hungry. His other hand came up, not to push, but to fist roughly in the front of Izuku’s shirt, crumpling the fabric.
Izuku blinked, his breathing ragged. He didn’t struggle. He just hovered there, suspended in Katsuki’s grip, the shock slowly melting from his expression. Something else solidified in its place. A defiance. A dare. His lips, slightly parted, quivered once before settling into a firm line.
He tilted his head, just a fraction. His gaze, now clouded with a challenge as old as their childhood, locked onto Katsuki’s.
“Don’t I?”
The words were quiet, but they hit Katsuki with the force of a sucker punch. All the history, every battle, every sneer and saved moment, every scar and victory—it condensed into this single, charged point of contact.
Katsuki’s control shattered.
With a snarl that was more surrender than anger, he twisted his grip on Izuku’s shirt and yanked him the final, decisive distance. There was no finesse. Their mouths crashed together, a violent, clumsy meeting of teeth and heat. It was less a kiss and more a claim, a battle fought with lips and tongue.
Izuku made a muffled sound against his mouth—a gasp, a groan—and then his hands were flying up, not to push Katsuki away, but to grab at his shoulders, his jacket, hauling himself closer. The table dug painfully into Izuku’s thighs but he ignored it, surging into the kiss with a desperate, pent-up fervor that matched Katsuki’s own.
Katsuki’s tongue pushed past Izuku’s lips, tasting the lingering flat beer and something uniquely, infuriatingly Izuku. His hands left their grips on wrist and shirt, moving instead to frame Izuku’s face, holding him there, angling his head to deepen the brutal kiss. His thumbs dug into the sharp lines of Izuku’s jaw.
Izuku met his ferocity with a wild, untamed hunger of his own. His fingers tangled in Katsuki’s spiky hair, pulling, demanding. Their breaths became ragged, shared gasps in the enclosed space. The world outside the booth ceased to exist. There was only this: the slick, hot friction of their mouths, the painful grip of hands, the overwhelming, suffocating rightness of it.
Katsuki broke the kiss only to drag his mouth down the line of Izuku’s jaw, his teeth scraping against the stubbled skin. “Fuck,” he muttered into his neck, the curse a prayer. “Fuck, Deku.”
“Shut up,” Izuku gasped, arching into the contact, his head falling back to expose his throat. “Just… don’t talk.”
Katsuki obliged, his mouth finding the frantic hammer of Izuku’s pulse and sucking hard, marking the skin. Izuku’s hips jerked involuntarily, grinding against the edge of the table. The friction drew a ragged, broken sound from Katsuki’s chest.
His hands slid down, over the hard planes of Izuku’s chest, down the defined taper of his waist, coming to rest on his hips. He dug his fingers into the denim, feeling the solid muscle beneath. He wanted to touch skin, to feel the heat and sweat and proof of him. Now.
He pushed Izuku back, just enough to break the intoxicating contact. Izuku’s eyes flew open, dazed and desperate. “Wha—?”
“Get up,” Katsuki ordered, his voice wrecked. “We’re leaving.”
“The bill—”
“Fuck the bill.” Katsuki was already shoving him toward the end of the booth, throwing a stack of crumpled yen notes onto the table without looking. He needed out. He needed walls, a door, a lock. He needed more.
They stumbled out of the izakaya into the cool, damp night air, a tangle of limbs and hurried, aggressive touches. The walk to Katsuki’s apartment was a blur of stolen, biting kisses in alley shadows, of groping hands under jackets, of hissed curses and breathless pants.
Inside his apartment, the door barely slammed shut before Katsuki had Izuku pinned against it. The impact shook the frame. He ravaged Izuku’s mouth again, one hand caging him against the wood, the other frantically working at the button of his jeans.
Izuku fought back, just as fierce, just as frantic. He shoved Katsuki’s leather jacket off his shoulders, hands clawing at the shirt beneath, popping buttons. They scattered on the floor like tiny, discarded promises of patience.
“Bedroom,” Izuku managed to rasp against his mouth. “Now, Kacchan. Now.”
They didn’t make it to the bedroom.
They stumbled, a joined and raging entity, into the living room and collapsed onto the low, wide couch. Fabric ripped. A seam on Izuku’s shirt gave way with a harsh tear. Katsuki didn’t care. He lowered his weight onto him, the full, hard press of his body pinning Izuku into the cushions.
The feel of it—Izuku beneath him, solid and real and yielding and fighting all at once—unlocked something feral in Katsuki’s blood. He’d dreamed of this, in the dark, secret corners of his mind he never acknowledged. He’d hungered for it with a shameful, gnawing ache.
His mouth left Izuku’s to trail wet, open-mouthed kisses down his throat, over his collarbone, sucking a nipple into his mouth through the torn fabric. Izuku cried out, back arching off the couch, his hands fisting in Katsuki’s hair.
“Fuck, Kacchan, please—”
“Please what?” Katsuki growled, looking up, his lips swollen and wet. “Use your words, nerd.”
Izuku’s eyes were dark, pupils blown wide with need. He stared up at him, panting, and for a second, the old defiance flashed. Then it crumpled into pure, wanton want. “Touch me. I need… I need you to touch me.”
Katsuki’s own jeans were painfully tight. He shoved them down just enough, freeing his cock, thick and already leaking. He spat into his palm, a crude, efficient gesture, and wrapped his hand around himself, giving a rough, slow stroke as he watched Izuku watch him.
Izuku’s breath hitched. He shoved his own jeans and briefs down past his thighs, his own erection springing free, flushed and eager. The sight sent a jolt of possessive heat straight through Katsuki’s core.
He didn’t wait. He didn’t prepare. He leaned forward, aligning their bodies, and used his wet hand to slick his own length before pressing the blunt head of his cock against Izuku’s entrance.
Izuku’s legs came up, bracketing Katsuki’s hips, his heels digging into the backs of Katsuki’s thighs. “Do it,” he whispered, his voice trembling but sure. “I don’t care. Just fucking do it.”
Katsuki pushed in.
It was too tight, too dry, a burning, stretching ache for them both. Izuku’s face contorted, a sharp cry tearing from his throat, his nails digging into Katsuki’s biceps. Katsuki froze, sweat dripping from his brow onto Izuku’s chest, his own body screaming at the intense, clenching pressure.
“Stop?” he grated out, the word agony.
“No,” Izuku gasped, shaking his head wildly against the cushion. “Don’t you dare stop. Move.”
Katsuki obeyed. He withdrew an inch and thrust back in, deeper this time, forcing his way past the tight, resisting ring of muscle. A ragged moan was torn from Izuku, a sound of pain transforming seamlessly into pleasure. Katsuki set a punishing rhythm, each snap of his hips driving them both deeper into the couch, the old frame creaking in protest.
It was raw. It was brutal. It was perfect. The slick, hot clasp of Izuku’s body, the choked, filthy sounds he made with every thrust, the way his legs tightened around him, pulling him in deeper—it drowned out every thought, every memory, every shred of doubt. There was only this primal, driving need to consume and be consumed.
Katsuki’s mouth found Izuku’s again, swallowing his moans. He could taste salt, could feel Izuku’s tears wet on his own cheeks, couldn’t tell who they belonged to. His hand slid between them, wrapping around Izuku’s cock, stroking him in time with his thrusts, his grip tight and unforgiving.
“Come on,” Katsuki panted against his ear, his thrusts becoming erratic, his own climax coiling tight and unbearable in his gut. “Let go. Show me.”
Izuku’s body went rigid. A broken, sobbing cry ripped through him as he came, hot stripes painting his stomach and Katsuki’s hand. The intense, rhythmic clenching of his body pushed Katsuki over the edge. He buried himself to the hilt with a final, deep thrust, a raw shout erupting from his throat as he emptied himself inside Izuku, his vision whiting out at the edges.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their shattered breathing, the humid smell of sex and sweat in the air, and the heavy, complete weight of Katsuki collapsed on top of him.
Slowly, the world seeped back in. The feel of the rough couch fabric against his cheek. The aching protest of his muscles. The sticky warmth between their bodies.
Katsuki didn’t move. He kept his face buried in the crook of Izuku’s neck, listening to the frantic, slowing beat of his heart.
Izuku’s hand came up, tentative, and settled in Katsuki’s damp hair. His fingers carded through the spikes, gently disentangling them.
Neither spoke.
The silence wasn’t comfortable. It was vast and fragile, holding within it everything that had just been destroyed and everything that had just begun.