Work Text:
He hasn’t quite pinned down this person he becomes sometimes, the unseen source of it, gone one moment and stealing up his senses the next. Sometimes it feels like Kacchan is his only outlet, the catalyst and recipient for all his unexplainable impulses.
Kacchan allows himself to be cornered in their kitchen, crowded up there against the granite counter. Izuku twists his fingers in his apron, and presses in so close, he pins a yielding weight and upholds it with nothing but the forward motion of his desire.
It’s a testament to how quick and consuming these moments come about, that Kacchan does nothing to fight against his hold. No sense standing straight against the strength of a tide. Izuku takes up a proximity that will allow him to taste the flutter of Kacchan’s pulse, and higher, well-loved skin under teeth and tongue and quick breaths, taken through Kacchan’s nose and parted lips.
“What –” Kacchan starts, and only once. There’s a forgotten tasting spoon held in hand that finds the counter again, poorly supported in trembling fingers. Izuku chases the rest of his words from that mouth with his own, a need to consume quieter, more helpless sounds risen so intensely within him, any other focus drowns out.
“I missed you,” Izuku offers, the simplest explanation. To feel a body wrought with hard-won lines grow softened under touch quells that thing with edges in him. Kacchan grows lax under insistent hands, long lashes fluttering shut as he turns into pressed kisses. His satisfaction, that willingness, an utter lack of protest for any and all Izuku’s whims, is a taste of satiety.
…
Many times, they do little more than kiss. It isn’t so much that Izuku reaps his contentedness from watching Kacchan want much more than he gives, but moreso that he gains endless other forms of satisfaction just this way, Kacchan’s skin under his hands, something near-sound-but-not-quite in his mouth. Kacchan’s lips part like he’s hungry for him, these nights, and Izuku walks himself back from something like starved by way of taking.
The muscles in Kacchan’s stomach tense, then relax under wandering hands. There’s a flush pooling heavy and warm in the height of his cheeks. “You’re pretty like this,” Izuku whispers, and lidded scarlet eyes grow incrementally wider.
Subtle, a potential miss for anyone who watches just a little bit less. No one would know how gracefully Kacchan has grown to accept Izuku’s declarations like this, because Kacchan of this nature is a sight meant for Izuku’s eyes and his alone. Other mouths don’t have the pleasure to know the feel of Kacchan’s own, other hands will never know how willingly he’s learned to chase soft touch. Izuku has only ever known a want to have Kacchan as the holder for the feelings he keeps in closed hand. That Kacchan could be so receptive for them, breathe out so satisfyingly in acceptance, arch just that bit further into waiting hands, a voice that wishes to confess. Izuku’s desires are safest kept in this well-loved body.
…
Kacchan returns given affection with his own in the same manner that some others might have said thank you. In the same way Izuku is attuned to everything Kacchan does, it is consumingly effective. Kacchan has always had a way of making himself heard to Izuku, all his actions translated into something Izuku can feel.
Izuku never has to question whether it lacks anything self-serving. Kacchan closes his eyes under the pet of Izuku’s hand, and it makes it okay to take pleasure from him, knowing he gathers his own in the act. He doesn’t mind so much all the taking, when he’s giving just as much in return.
Between breaths, Kacchan parts his lips, and slides Izuku carefully over his tongue. Cheek pressed warm against the length of Izuku’s inner thigh, he watches closely, a searching quality to his gaze that Izuku has grown far less shy under through dedicated practice. His mouth flushes warmth under Izuku’s skin, a complication to Izuku’s own vision and focus.
He always feels that unsteadying need to tell Kacchan exactly how it feels. As he scratches ever-so-softly up the nape of his neck, palm opened up to cradle the weight of his skull, Izuku is distinctly reminded that it’s something Kacchan longs for.
Izuku doesn’t urge it, but Kacchan takes him in deeper, lashes fluttering as he swallows. The muscles in Izuku’s stomach draw up, breath tugged from the pit of him as heat builds sharp, and settles to make home in his body. “That’s good,” Izuku whispers, pulled to helplessness, to honesty. Kacchan splays a hand where the tension curls in disconnected waves, and relaxes only further still under his hand. He swallows carefully again, and sound leaves Izuku in a low, harsh breath. “Oh. Beautiful, yeah, that’s –”
His voice fails, over open enjoyment. Kacchan never learned to conceal himself from Izuku, and here is the last place he’d bother to start. It’s difficult for Izuku to feel he needs to tamper his wants and words when Kacchan is nothing but absorbent, to all his indulgent touches and helpless, saccharine words. That pretty face melts smoothly into something thoughtless, eyes emptying, and Izuku rubs a thumb over the height of his cheek and marvels how much he loves this.
“You like it, lovely?” Izuku breathes, tipped by a burning desire to confirm. “So pretty, look at you, you’re so good at this.”
Truth and truth and welcoming. Izuku forgets inhibition, with Kacchan on the receiving end and so wonderfully willing. His clawing needs never too much, never unwanted. Kacchan’s answer comes in his action, his body an image of contentedness, never just willing but wanting, just as much.