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➪ 𝙼𝙰𝚂𝚃𝙴𝚁𝙻𝙸𝚂𝚃; what are currently up and posted.
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⊹ ࣪ ˖ A Vision Trick ─ Peter Parker.
Breakups suck, and Peter Parker knows it better than anyone. So he throws himself into being Spider-Man, hoping the mask will help him forget. It almost works…until every girl he rescues starts looking exactly like the one he’s trying to get over.
୨ৎ ──── yearning. 3k. ex gf!reader. imagine whatever peter you want, but ned shows up for the sake of the plot. haunting the narrative. english isn't my first language. main masterlist.
Peter Parker had been dumped exactly nineteen days, six hours, and, if the blinking green numbers on the microwave could be trusted, thirteen minutes ago.
He knew this because he had always been the kind of person who counted things he couldn’t fix. Minutes. Seconds. Heartbeats. The number of times he’d reached for his phone only to remember there wouldn’t be a new message waiting for him. The number of mornings he’d opened his eyes and, for one blissful second, forgotten that everything had changed. The number of times he’d walked past your favorite coffee shop on purpose, pretending he wasn’t secretly hoping to catch a glimpse of you through the window. The number of nights he’d replayed the breakup in his head, wondering if there had been a sentence he should’ve said differently, a joke he shouldn’t have made, a sign he’d somehow missed.
Nineteen days wasn’t long enough to stop loving someone. It was just long enough for the silence they left behind to become unbearable.
It was torture.
The apartment now was quiet in the familiar way it always was on weekday mornings. Peter sat slouched at the kitchen table in an old sweatshirt and plaid pajama pants, absently pushing a spoon through a bowl of cereal that had long since lost every bit of crunch it once had. The milk had turned lukewarm, the cereal floating in swollen little pieces he barely noticed as he shoveled another spoonful into his mouth without tasting it. His eyes stayed fixed on the cracked kitchen wall across from him, as though if he stared hard enough he could somehow disappear into it. Sleep still clung to him despite having been awake for over an hour.
“…Peter?” May’s voice reached him softly, careful enough not to startle him.
He blinked several times before slowly turning his head, as though surfacing from underwater. Aunt May stood beside the counter with both hands wrapped around a chipped coffee mug. She watched him with quiet concern etched into every line of her face, the kind only someone who had raised him could wear. She didn’t need spider-sense to know when something was wrong.
“Hm?” he mumbled, the sound barely louder than the clink of his spoon against the bowl.
“I asked if you could stop by the store after class. We’re almost out of bread.”
“Oh.” His eyes drifted back to the cereal, studying it with exaggerated concentration. “Yeah. Sure.”
She didn’t answer immediately.
Instead, she took another slow sip of coffee, continuing to watch him over the rim of her mug.
“You know,” she said after a moment, “it’s okay to be sad after a breakup.”
Peter’s response came almost too quickly.
“I’m not sad.”
May’s gaze shifted toward the bowl in front of him.
“You’ve eaten cereal for dinner four nights this week.”
Peter looked down defensively.
“Cereal is…” He shrugged one shoulder. “…versatile.”
“You’ve barely left your room except for class.”
“I’ve been studying.”
May sighed, it was the kind of sigh that came from years of loving that boy through every impossible situation he managed to stumble into. It was the sigh of someone who had watched him glue his fingers together trying to repair an old radio, come home bruised with increasingly creative excuses, spend entire weekends taking apart broken appliances just to see if he could put them back together, and smile through pain because he never wanted anyone else to carry it with him. Peter had always believed he could fix everything if he just tried hard enough.
Unfortunately, broken hearts didn’t come with instruction manuals.
“You’re heartbroken,” she said gently.
Peter opened his mouth to argue out of habit, but nothing came.
The silence answered for him.
“I’m fine,” he said anyway, though this time the words lacked every ounce of conviction they’d had before.
“Mm-hmm.”
“I’m serious.”
She set her coffee on the counter before walking over, pulling out the chair beside him instead of standing across the room. Without saying another word, she reached over and rested her hand over his. Peter stared at their hands for a long moment, feeling the lump rise in his throat before he quickly looked away toward the window.
“I know you’re trying very hard to convince yourself you’re okay again,” she said quietly. “And maybe one day you will be.”
Peter swallowed hard.
“But you don’t have to rush it. You don’t have to pretend for my sake. You’re allowed to miss someone and cry because they left.” Her thumb rubbed gently across the back of his hand. “None of that makes you weak, Peter. It just means you loved someone.”
The words settled heavily between them.
For once, Peter Parker couldn’t think of anything clever to say. No self-deprecating joke to dissolve the tension. No awkward laugh to disguise the ache pressing painfully against his ribs. He simply lowered his head, blinking a little harder than necessary as he stared into the bowl of soggy cereal in front of him, the spoon resting motionless in the milk. He couldn’t even remember the last bite he’d actually tasted. Somewhere between the breakup and now, eating had become something his body did automatically while his mind wandered somewhere it had no business returning to. Every silence eventually found its way back to you.
In that moment, he wished he had the mask on.
Because being the hero was easy.
Spider-Man never had the luxury of overthinking. He just reacted. He leaped before fear had the chance to settle in, caught people before they hit the pavement, stopped speeding cars, pulled strangers from burning buildings, and threw himself into danger without stopping to wonder whether he was enough. People looked up when Spider-Man arrived. They smiled, cheered, thanked him, and took blurry pictures of him swinging across the skyline. Under the mask, there were no awkward pauses, no heartbreaks waiting in the quiet moments, no empty side of the bed in his thoughts. There was only the next emergency, the next person to save, and the next problem that needed solving.
Sadly, in that kitchen, he wasn’t Spider-Man.
He was just Peter Parker, a twenty-year-old college student sitting in wrinkled pajamas with a bowl of ruined cereal growing warm in front of him, wondering how saving an entire city somehow felt infinitely easier than surviving nineteen days without the girl he still loved.
So he made a decision.
If being Peter Parker hurt this much…then he’d simply be Peter Parker as little as possible.
Fortunately, New York rarely allowed Spider-Man a night off. The city was demanding, as though it had collectively agreed to keep him busy enough that he wouldn’t have time to think. He started putting the suit on earlier and taking it off later. Patrols before class became routine and patrols after class stretched long past midnight. Sometimes he didn’t climb back through his bedroom window until two in the morning, only to catch three hours of sleep before doing it all over again. His laundry basket slowly filled with sweat-soaked hoodies tossed carelessly onto the floor while the Spider-Man suit hung drying by the window, almost becoming more familiar than his own clothes. Every bruise, every pulled muscle, every rooftop crossed at full speed felt preferable to sitting alone with his thoughts. Because as long as he was swinging between skyscrapers with the wind roaring in his ears, there wasn’t much room left in his head for memories of your laugh, your perfume lingering on borrowed sweaters, or the way your fingers used to absentmindedly reach for his hand.
It was a perfect system.
Or at least, it was.
Until Tuesday.
The scream sliced through the evening air so suddenly that Peter changed direction before he’d consciously registered it. His web released instinctively, sending him arcing over the rooftops toward the narrow alley below. Neon signs painted streaks of blue and pink across the damp pavement while overflowing dumpsters cast long shadows against the brick walls.
“Please!”
Spider-Man looked down.
A young woman stood backed into a dead end, one hand clutching her purse tightly against her chest while two men slowly closed the distance between them. Her breathing came in short gasps while her shoulders trembling as she searched desperately for somewhere to run.
“Oh, come on,” Spider-Man sighed beneath the mask, already letting himself fall from the rooftop. “Can’t you guys commit crimes during business hours?”
He landed neatly between them, knees bending to absorb the impact before straightening with practiced ease. The sudden arrival sent a puff of dust skittering across the pavement, and both muggers stumbled back a step.
“Hi!” he greeted brightly, lifting one hand in an unnecessarily cheerful wave.
The men stared.
“You know,” he continued conversationally, pointing accusingly between them, “I was actually on my way home. I had leftover pizza waiting for me. We had plans.”
One of the men lunged first.
Peter sidestepped without effort.
The second swung.
A web shot from Peter’s wrist with a familiar thwip, gluing his hands together before another strand wrapped around his ankles. The first mugger barely managed another punch before Spider-Man ducked beneath it, swept his legs out from under him, and pinned him against the brick wall with three quick webs.
Thirty-seven seconds, that was all it took.
Both men hung cocooned against the alley wall, grumbling muffled complaints through layers of webbing.
“There we go,” Spider-Man said, dusting imaginary dirt from his gloves with exaggerated satisfaction. “Everybody wins. Well…statistically speaking, not everybody.”
He turned toward the young woman, his usual easy smile hidden beneath the mask.
“You okay?”
She slowly looked up at him and Peter’s breath caught.
Oh.
It wasn’t you. Not even close.
Her hair was different. Shorter. Her nose curved differently, her face was rounder, and she was several inches shorter than you had ever been. Objectively, she looked nothing like you.
And yet, there was something in the way she smiled through the adrenaline. Something about the softness in her eyes as relief replaced fear. The tiny wrinkle beside her mouth when she whispered thank you.
It hit him so suddenly his stomach dropped.
For one impossible heartbeat, she looked exactly like you.
“…Spider-Man?”
Peter blinked hard behind the mask.
“Sorry.”
She tilted her head, confusion replacing the fear.
“You kind of froze.”
“Nope,” he answered much too quickly. “Didn’t freeze.”
She waited.
“I’m actually…very anti-freeze.”
Silence.
“…What?”
“What?” Peter echoed automatically before mentally groaning. Smooth, Parker.
The woman gave him a bewildered little smile.
“Thank you.”
He forced himself to nod.
“You’re welcome.”
Before she could say anything else, Peter fired a web toward the nearest rooftop. The line caught with a familiar snap, and he launched himself into the night much faster than he usually would have, disappearing above the skyline before she could even finish watching him leave.
The wind rushed past his face as Manhattan blurred beneath him, but it wasn’t enough.
Because for the first time since putting on the mask, he realized something that made his chest feel impossibly heavy.
***
It happened again two days later.
Then again the following week.
First it was a college student stranded on the rooftop of a parking garage after the access door jammed shut. She laughed nervously the second Spider-Man pulled her back over the ledge, brushing windblown strands of hair behind her ear with trembling fingers. For one impossible heartbeat, the sound landed somewhere deep in Peter’s chest. Then there was a tourist in Times Square who twisted her ankle trying to dodge a speeding cyclist. She thanked him with a shy smile that lingered just a little too long, and suddenly he was remembering how you used to smile at him whenever he rambled about quantum physics. A few days later, a woman had her purse snatched outside a subway station. Peter caught the thief within seconds, swinging back down with the bag tucked beneath one arm. She reached for it, relief washing over her features, and for the briefest moment the afternoon sun caught her hair just right.
His heart stopped.
Every single time, for one impossible second, they looked exactly like you.
Not literally. They never had the same face, the same voice, or the same eyes. One was taller, another had freckles, another wore glasses, another spoke with an accent you’d never had. If Peter had been forced to compare them side by side, he would’ve admitted they shared almost nothing in common.
But somehow, his mind kept stitching together tiny pieces that weren’t there.
The curve of a smile.
The warmth behind someone’s eyes.
A laugh carried by the wind.
The absentminded way someone tucked loose hair behind an ear.
His brain filled in every blank until, for one cruel, fleeting heartbeat, he believed it was you standing in front of him.
It was becoming ridiculous.
“So.”
Ned didn’t look up immediately. He was sitting cross-legged on Peter’s bedroom floor, carefully attaching the final pieces to an enormous LEGO Death Star that had occupied nearly every available surface for the past three weeks. Tiny gray bricks surrounded him in organized little piles while the instruction booklet rested open across his knees.
“So?” he answered absentmindedly.
Peter sat at his desk, spinning slowly in his chair.
“Do you think…” He hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck before finally forcing the words out. “…my brain’s broken?”
That got Ned’s attention.
He lowered the instruction booklet just enough to peer over the top of it.
“That’s a loaded question.”
Peter sighed.
“I keep seeing her.”
Ned’s face immediately softened.
“Peter—”
“No, not actually seeing her.”
“Oh.”
“I mean…” Peter stood up and began pacing the room, running both hands through his already messy curls. “Every girl I rescue kind of…” He stopped beside his desk, opening his wallet almost unconsciously. Tucked behind his student ID was a slightly worn photograph of you, smiling at the camera with your head tilted toward him just outside Midtown. He stared at it for a second before gesturing helplessly with the wallet. “…becomes her.”
Ned frowned.
“Like hallucinations?”
“No.”
“Face blindness?”
“No.”
“Ghost?”
Peter looked at him in complete disbelief.
“What? It was worth asking.”
“No, Ned,” Peter groaned, letting himself fall backward onto the bed with enough force to make the mattress squeak. He threw an arm dramatically over his eyes. “She’s not haunting Manhattan.”
“So…what’s happening?”
Peter let out a long, frustrated sigh.
“I don’t know.” His voice came out quieter this time. “I’ll rescue someone, and for one second…” He searched for words that made sense. “It’s like my brain decides it’s her. Then I blink, and it isn’t. But for that one second…” He swallowed. “…I actually believe it.”
The room fell quiet.
The only sound was the soft click of LEGO pieces snapping together as Ned stared thoughtfully at the half-finished Death Star.
Finally, he spoke. “I don’t think you’re seeing her.”
Peter moved his arm just enough to look over at him.
“I think…” Ned set another brick into place before meeting Peter’s eyes. “…you’re looking for her in everyone you save.”
“…Oh.”
“Yeah.”
Ned gave him an apologetic smile.
“That’s rough, buddy.”
Without even sitting up, Peter grabbed the nearest pillow and threw it across the room.
After that conversation, he convinced himself it would stop.
Eventually.
Because that was what everyone said happened after heartbreak, wasn’t it? Feelings faded. People moved on. Memories became less sharp until they stopped hurting every time they surfaced. One day he’d wake up and realize he hadn’t thought about you at all. He’d laugh about how dramatic he’d been, thank the universe for getting him through it, and finally let himself fall in love with someone else...right?
Three weeks later, Spider-Man landed silently on the narrow fire escape outside a third-floor apartment after the unmistakable sound of someone screaming cut through the evening air. Rain from earlier still clung to the rusted metal beneath his boots, making it creak softly under his weight as he crouched beside the open window. Inside, the apartment was dimly lit, illuminated only by the yellow glow of an old kitchen light. A man’s voice echoed through the small space, loud enough to rattle the picture frames hanging crookedly on the walls. Something shattered followed by another frightened cry that made Peter move before he’d consciously decided to.
One quick step.
A web anchored to the ceiling.
Then he was already inside.
“Okay!”
The room froze.
The man standing in the middle of the living room turned so abruptly that his raised fist dropped to his side. Broken glass glittered across the hardwood floor, and an overturned chair lay near the kitchen table. Spider-Man straightened with both hands raised in mock surrender, looking between everyone in the room.
“Yep. Knew that was coming.”
The fight lasted less than half a minute.
One punch, a dodge, and a web wrapped neatly around the man’s wrists before another pinned his ankles together, sending him stumbling face-first onto the carpet with a string of colorful complaints muffled against the floor. Outside, police sirens grew louder with every passing second, bouncing off the surrounding buildings as flashing blue and red lights reflected faintly through the apartment windows. Someone in the building had already called them.
Peter dusted his hands together.
“There we g—”
“…Peter?”
Everything inside him stopped, his heartbeat, breathing and even the familiar stream of sarcastic remarks that usually arrived before he had the chance to think.
No. No. Not again.
Slowly, almost afraid of what he’d find, he turned toward the kitchen doorway.
A young woman stood there, frozen in place. She wore an oversized cream-colored sweater with streaks of dried paint scattered across one sleeve and faint smudges of blue and ochre dusting her fingertips, as though she’d been interrupted halfway through a canvas. Loose strands of hair had escaped whatever hurried bun she’d attempted that morning, framing a face Peter had spent weeks trying to forget.
Those eyes.
For one desperate, exhausted heartbeat, Peter almost convinced himself this was another cruel trick his heartbreak had invented.
Another stranger. Another coincidence. Another ghost wearing your smile.
Then you tilted your head ever so slightly, studying him with the same curious expression you’d worn every time you caught him overthinking.
“You know my name.”
Spider-Man forgot how to breathe.
Because this time, you weren’t another girl who happened to remind him of the one he couldn’t forget.
You were her.
Pro hero dkbk 💪
Based on this lovely thread by @/shikkestu on Twitter
Catch Up To You.
༉‧₊˚. summary: after years of tension and pining, the confession of feelings between bakugou and izuku cause way more than either could have bargained for
༉‧₊˚. warnings: all of them. smut, mdni, 18+, oral (m receiving), mlm, pinning, tension, angst, p in a, anal sex, praising, degrading, soft dom!izuku, switch!katsuki, use of pet names, use of dom/sub dynamic, filthy smut, making out, class 1-A shipping them, overstimulation, throat sex, bucking int throat, unprotected sex, feelings involved in intimacy
༉‧₊˚. w/c: 5.2k~
The bar was loud, the kind of place where conversations had to be shouted and laughter was a physical force. Seven years out of U.A. and the class 1-A reunions had evolved from awkward professional meet-and-greets to this: a chaotic, joyous mess of adult heroes trying to reclaim a sliver of their youth. Katsuki Bakugou, pro-hero Ground Zero, was slumped at a corner table, nursing a beer that was mostly foam, and watching the room with the kind of intense focus he usually reserved for a collapsing building.
He wasn't looking at the spectacle of Kaminari trying (and failing) to serenade Jirou, or at Kirishima's booming laugh as he recounted a rescue story to a rapt Sero and Mina. He was watching Izuku Midoriya.
Deku.
He was always watching Deku.
Izuku was leaning against the bar, a soft smile on his face as Uraraka animatedly described something, her hands flying through the air. He was listening, really listening, his head tilted in that way he had, green eyes bright and focused. He'd filled out, of course. They all had. The hero work had carved muscle onto his frame, broadened his shoulders, and there was a new scar cutting through his eyebrow, a silver line that only made his eyes seem more vivid. He was wearing a simple dark green henley that clung in all the right places, and Katsuki felt a familiar, bitter heat crawl up his neck.
It had been like this for years. This constant, low-grade fever. A background radiation of want that had been present since their last year at U.A., when the explsive rivalry had finally, irrevocably shifted into something else. Something complicated and tender and terrifying. They'd danced around it then, a clumsy, painful waltz of near-confessions and missed opportunities. Katsuki had thought, stupidly, that becoming pros would change it. That the distance, the separate lives, would let it cool and fade.
It hadn't. It had just festered.
He'd seen Izuku on patrol, bloodied and smiling, offering a thumbs-up to news cameras. He'd seen his name climb the hero rankings, a steady, inexorable rise that mirrored Katsuki's own. They were equals now, in every way that mattered. And that equality had only sharpened the edges of Katsuki's feelings, turning them from a dull ache into a constant, piercing point of pressure right behind his ribs.
"Staring again, Kacchan."
Katsuki didn't startle, but he did flinch, turning his glare on Eijirou Kirishima, who slid into the seat opposite him with an infuriatingly knowing grin.
"The fuck you talkin about, Shitty Hair?" Katsuki grumbled, taking a deliberate swig of his beer.
Kirishima just chuckled, resting his chin on his hand. "Deku. You've been staring at him for the last ten minutes. Your face is doing that thing."
"What thing?"
"The 'I want to either fight him or fuck him, and I'm not sure which' thing," Kirishima said, completely unbothered by the way Katsuki's palms sparked with small, harmless pops. "Dude, it's been years. Just talk to him."
"Mind your own damn business."
"It is my business! I'm your best friend, and my best friend has been pining like a Victorian maiden for the better part of a decade. It's painful to watch." Kirishima's expression softened. "He looks at you too, you know. When he thinks you're not looking."
Katsuki's heart gave a painful lurch. "Liar."
"I'm not. Ask Mina. Ask...literally anyone in this room with eyes!! It's a whole… thing. The unresolved sexual tension is so thick you could cut it with a knife." He gestured around the room. "We're all just waiting for you two to get your shit together."
Before Katsuki could form a suitably explosive retort, a shadow fell over their table. He looked up, and his breath hitched.
It was Izuku.
"Hey, Kacchan. Kirishima-kun." Izuku's smile was a little strained, his eyes finding Katsuki's for a split second before darting away. "Mind if I join you? Ochako's trying to get me to do karaoke."
"Please do," Kirishima said brightly, patting the empty seat next to Katsuki. "Save us from Kaminari's rendition of Lights by Ellie Goulding."
Izuku slid into the booth, and Katsuki was instantly, painfully aware of him. The warmth of his arm, the faint scent of his laundry detergent mixed with something uniquely Izuku, the way his knee brushed against Katsuki's under the table. It was electric. It was agony.
"I don't think my singing voice is hero-worthy," Izuku said with a small laugh, turning to Katsuki. "Remember that one time in the dorms?"
Katsuki did. He remembered everything. He remembered Izuku, red-faced and earnest, belting out some cheesy anime theme song off-key. He remembered the way Katsuki had yelled at him to shut up, all while fighting the completely inappropriate urge to smile.
"I remember you sounded like withered Miku," Katsuki managed, the words coming out rougher than he intended.
Izuku's smile faltered just a little. "Right. Well, some things don't change."
The words hung in the air between them, heavy with unspoken meaning. Kirishima, bless him, seemed to snese the shift in atmosphere. "Well! I'm gonna go see if I can convince Mina to do a duet. You two… talk." He gave Katsuki a pointed look before escaping.
Silence descended. It wasn't comfortable. It was thick with everything they weren't saying.
"How's… uh… how's work?" Izuku asked, picking at the label on his beer bottle. "Saw the news about that warehouse fire. You were amazing."
"Was just doing my job," Katsuki said, staring into his own bottle. "You too. That hostage situation last week. That was… smart. The way you used the water main."
"Your idea," Izuku said softly. "You mentioned it in a briefing last month. I just… remembered."
Katsuki's throat felt tight. He remembered. He remembered every strategy they'd ever bounced off each other, every late-night study session, every time Izuku had looked at him with that infuriating mix of awe and challenge. He felt the words bubbling up, the ones he'd been choking on for years. I miss you. I think about you all the time. I'm sorry for everything. I want—
Instead, he just grunted. "Whatever."
Izuku sighed, a quiet, weary sound. "Why is this so hard, Kacchan?"
The question was so direct, so raw, that it caught Katsuki completely off guard. He looked up, finally meeting Izuku's gaze. The green eyes were wide, vulnerable, and filled with a bone-deep exhaustion that mirrored Katsuki's own.
"What're you talking about?" Katsuki deflected, his voice low.
"This. Us." Izuku gestured vaguely between them. "We're not… we're not kids anymore. We're not rivals, not really. We're colleagues. We're… friends, I think. But it's like there's this wall. And I don't know how to climb it, and I don't think you know either."
Katsuki's heart was hammering against his ribs, a frantic, trapped bird. He couldn't do this here. Not in this loud bar, with their friends just a few feet away. He felt exposed, flayed open.
"Shut up, Deku," he bit out, the words a reflexive defense mechanism.
Izuku flinched, just like he always did at the old nickname, but this time there was something else in his expression. A flicker of… resolve. He wasn't backing down.
"No," he said, his voice quiet but firm. "I'm not going to shut up. I'm tired of shutting up. I'm tired of pretending that seeing you doesn't make my whole day, and that not seeing you doesn't make it worse. I'm tired of wondering what you're thinking when you look at me like that."
Katsuki felt a surge of panic. This was it. The precipice. He could push back, send up a wall of explosions and vitriol, and they could retreat to their respective corners for another few years. Or he could… jump.
He stood up so abruptly his beer bottle tipped over, spilling the last dregs onto the sticky table. "We're leaving."
"What? Kacchan, what—"
"You wanted to talk? We'll talk." He grabbed Izuku's arm, his grip firm but not bruising, and started pulling him through the crowd. He tossed a few bills on the bar, a silent payment for their drinks. He ignored the curious looks from their classmates, Kirishima's triumphant thumbs-up, and the knot of dread and anticipation tightening in his gut.
The cool night air was a shock after the stuffy bar. Katsuki didn't let go of Izuku's arm, just kept walking, his long strides forcing Izuku into a half-jog to keep up. He didn't know where he was going, just that he needed to move, to burn off the nervous energy crackling under his skin. He led them down a side street, away from the bright lights and the noise, until the sounds of the city faded into a distant hum. They stopped in the shadow of a quiet, residential apartment building, the kind with well-tended window boxes and a soft glow from streetlamps.
Katsuki finally let go, dropping Izuku's arm as if it had burned him. He turned to face him, running a hand through his hair, his breathing ragged. He felt like he'd just run a marathon.
"Alright," Katsuki said, his voice rough. "Talk."
Izuku was breathing heavily too, his cheeks flushed from the walk and the chill in the air. He looked at Katsuki, his expression a mixture of fear and determination. The vulnerability from the bar was still there, but now it was forged with a new steel.
"I don't know where to start," Izuku admitted, his voice barely a whisper. "It feels like I've been wanting to say this for a lifetime."
"Then start at the beginning," Katsuki challenged, crossing his arms. It was a defensive posture, but he held his ground.
"The beginning," Izuku repeated, a bitter, humorless laugh escaping him. "The beginning was you, Kacchan. It's always been you. Following you, wanting to be you, wanting to beat you. And then… then it changed. I don't know when, exactly. Maybe it was gradual. Maybe it was during the war, when I thought I'd lost you for good. All I know is that one day I looked at you and the rivalry wasn't the most important thing anymore. You were."
Katsuki's breath hitched. He couldn't look away from the earnestness in Izuku's eyes, the way he laid his soul bare on a random street corner. It was terrifying. It was everything he'd secretly wanted to hear.
"I hated it," Izuku continued, his voice gaining strength. "I hated how much I needed you to be okay. I hated how my eyes would search for you first in a crowd. I hated how a single word from you could make or break my day. Because you were Kacchan, and I was Deku, and we were supposed to be… different. We weren't supposed to be this."
"This what?" Katsuki's voice was a gravelly whisper.
"This," Izuku said, taking a small, hesitant step forward. He raised a hand, his fingers trembling slightly, and gently brushed them against the sleeve of Katsuki's jacket. The touch was feather-light, but it sent a jolt through Katsuki's entire system. "This feeling. Like I'm incomplete without you. Like all the pieces of my life are slightly out of alignment until you're there."
Katsuki closed his eyes. He couldn't take it. The confession was too pure, too perfect, and it was shredding what little composure he had left. All the years of buried feelings, of jealousy and admiration and want, came rushing to the surface. He thought of the way Izuku's smile could light up a room, the way his determination was a constant, unwavering flame, the way he saw the good in everyone, even in Katsuki. He thought of the mightmres he'd had after the war, of Izuku's broken body, and the overwhelming, soul-crushing relief when he'd finally woken up.
When he opened his eyes, the world was blurry. He blinked, and a single, hot tear traced a path down his cheek. He wiped it away angrily, as if it were a betrayal.
"Fuck, Deku," he breathed, the words cracking. "You don't get it. You can't just… say that shit."
"Why not?" Izuku's hand was still on his sleeve, his touch now a steadying presence. "Because it's true. And I think… I think you feel it too."
The accusation hung in the air. Katsuki was cornered. There was no more running, no more deflecting. He looked at Izuku—at his scarred hands, his determined jaw, his hopeful, terrified eyes—and the dam finally broke.
"Of course I fucking feel it," Katsuki burst out, his voice raw with emotion. "Are you an idiot? I've felt it for years! It's been driving me insane! It's this… this noise in my head, all the time. When you're not there, I'm wondering where you are and if you're safe. When you are there, I'm… I'm just… aware. Of everything. The way you move, the way you talk, the stupid way you chew on your pen when you're thinking. It's like you're wired into my goddamn nervous system, and I don't know how to shut it off!"
He was pacing now, his movements agitated, his hands gesticulating wildly. "I tried to hate it. I tried to go back to how it was before, when it was simple. When you were just the nerd I had to beat. But I can't. Because you're not just that anymore. You're… you're the best hero I know. You're the most stubborn, most infuriating, most incredible person I've ever met. And it makes me want to… I don't know. It makes me want to blow something up. It makes me want to…"
He stopped, turning to face Izuku, his chest heaving. The words were there, right on the tip of his tongue. The three words he'd never been able to say to anyone, let alone to Izuku Midoriya.
Izuku was watching him, his own eyes shining with unshed tears. A slow, understanding smile was spreading across his face. He closed the remaining distance between them.
"It makes you want to what, Kacchan?" he prompted gently.
Katsuki looked at him, at the man who had been his rival, his goal, his shadow, and his light. He thought of all the time they had wasted. All the years of circling each other, of wanting and not having. He was so tired of it.
He reached out, his hand cupping the back of Izuku's neck, his fingers tangling in the soft curls at his nape. He pulled him closer, until their foreheads were resting against each other. Their breath mingled in the cold air, a shared, intimate space.
"It makes me want to do this," Katsuki whispered, and then he closed the final, agonizing inch and kissed him. (holy frottage)
It wasn't a gentle, tentative kiss. It was a collision. Seven years of pent-up frustration, longing, and unspoken love exploded in a single, desperate press of lips. It was messy and clumsy at first, all teeth and desperate urgency. Katsuki poured everything into it—his apologies, his admiration, his raw, unfiltered need. Izuku met him with equal force, his hands coming up to grip the front of Katsuki's jacket, pulling him impossibly closer, as if he could absorb him into his own body.
The kiss deepened, the frantic energy softening into something more profound, more searching. Katsuki's lips parted, and Izuku's tongue met his, a slow, deliberate exploration that sent shivers down Katsuki's spine. It wasn't a fight for dominance; it was a meeting, a joining. It tasted of beer anddesperation and finally, finally, home.
Katsuki's hand slid from Izuku's neck to his jaw, his thumb stroking the scarred skin there. Izuku made a soft noise, a sigh of pure contentment, and melted against him. The tension that had been coiling in Katsuki's gut for years began to unwind, replaced by a warm, spreading heat that had nothing to do with anger and everything to do with want.
He broke the kiss, resting his forehead against Izuku's again, both of them breathing heavily. The world around them had faded away. There was only the sound of their breathing, the warmth of their bodies, and the streetlamp casting them in a soft, golden glow.
"Kacchan," Izuku breathed, his voice thick with emotion.
"Don't-," Katsuki said, his voice hoarse. "don't call me that... Not right now."
"What should I call you?"
"Katsuki."
The name felt foreign and sacred on Izuku's tongue. He said it again, testing it. "Katsuki."
Katsuki shuddered. He captured Izuku's lips again, a softer, slower kiss this time. It was a confirmation, a promise. When he pulled back, he looked into Izuku's eyes, which were dark with desire and something deeper, something that looked suspiciously like love.
"My place is five minutes from here," Katsuki said, his voice a low, urgent rumble. It wasn't a question. It was a statement of intent.
Izuku's response was a simple, decisive nod. "Okay."
They didn't speak on the walk back. They didn't need to. Katsuki kept his hand on the small of Izuku's back, a possessive, grounding touch. Izuku walked close beside him, their shoulders brushing. The city lights blurred around them, the journey a silent, charged prelude. Every step felt like it was building the tension higher, winding the spring tighter. The five minutes felt like an eternity and a second all at once.
Katsuki's apartment was exactly what Izuku would have expected: clean, minimalist, and functional. Dark furniture, stark walls, no unnecessary clutter. It was a space that reflected Katsuki's personality—all sharp edges and controlled intensity. But as Katsuki locked the door
behind them, the tension that had been building for a decade finally snapped. The lock clicked with a finality that echoed in the quiet apartment, and the sound seemed to break the last of Katsuki's restraint.
He turned, and in one fluid motion, he had Izuku pinned against the door. It wasn't violent, it was… inevitable. Katsuki's hands were braced on either side of Izuku's head, his body a solid line of heat against him. He looked down at him, his red eyes blazing with an intensity that stole the air from Izuku's lungs.
"Last chance to back out, Deku," Katsuki growled, but the threat was hollow. His voice was thick with want, and the way he was looking at Izuku's lips made it clear there was no turning back.
Izuku's response was to slide his hands up Katsuki's chest, his fingers tracing the firm muscle through his shirt. He leaned in, his lips brushing against Katsuki's ear. "Don't call me Deku," he whispered, his voice low and confident. "And I'm not going anywhere."
That was all it took.
Katsuki crushed his mouth to Izuku's, a hungry, desperate kiss that was all teeth and tongue. It was a kiss of claiming, of finally taking what he had wanted for so long. Izuku met him with equal fervor, his hands tangling in Katsuki's hair, pulling him closer. He arched into him, a silent demand for more, and Katsuki obliged, pressing his thigh between Izuku's legs, grinding against him in a slow, deliberate rhythm that tore a gasp from Izuku's throat.
"Bedroom. Now," Izuku managed to get out between kisses, his voice breathy and commanding.
Katsuki didn't need to be told twice. He pulled back, grabbed Izuku's hand, and practically dragged him towards the only other door in the apartment. His bedroom was as spartan as the living room—a large bed with a simple black duvet, a dresser, a nightstand. But none of that mattered. All that mattered was the bed, and the man he was about to put in it.
He spun Izuku around, pushing him towards the bed. Izuku fell back onto the mattress with a soft thud, looking up at Katsuki with an expression that was pure, unadulterated hunger. It was a look Katsuki had never seen on him before, and it sent a jolt of pure, unadulterated lust straight to his groin.
Katsuki followed him down, covering Izuku's body with his own. He braced his weight on his forearms, caging him in. He looked down at him, at the flush on his cheeks, the rapid rise and fall of his chest, the way his green eyes were dark and heavy-lidded with desire. He looked wrecked already, and they'd barely started.
"Katsuki," Izuku breathed, reaching up to cup his face. "Please."
The plea was Katsuki's undoing. He leaned down and captured his lips again, a slower, deeper kiss this time. He wanted to savor this, to memorize the taste of him, the feel of him. His hands roamed over Izuku's body, tracing the lines of his muscles through his clothes, feeling the heat radiating from his skin. He could feel the frantic beat of Izuku's heart, a rhythm that matched his own.
Izuku's hands were not idle. They slid down Katsuki's back, gripping his ass, pulling him down harder against him. The friction was delicious, a sweet torture that had Katsuki rocking his hips, seeking more. He could feel Izuku's hardness against his own, a perfect, intoxicating pressure.
"Too many clothes," Izuku muttered against his lips, his hands fumbling with the hem of Katsuki's shirt.
Katsuki sat up, straddling Izuku's hips, and ripped his own shirt over his head. Izuku's eyes widened, his gaze hungry as he took in the sight of Katsuki's bare chest—all sculpted muscle and scars, a roadmap of their shared history. He reached up, his fingers tracing the jagged line of a scar across Katsuki's ribs.
"I remember this one," Izuku said softly, his touch gentle.
Katsuki shivered, his body reacting to the light caress. "Now's not the time for a trip down memory lane, Izuku," he said, his voice rough. He leaned down, his lips brushing against Izuku's ear. "I want you naked. Now."
"Damn, ok." the command sent a thrill through Izuku. He sat up, allowing Katsuki to pull his own shirt over his head. Katsuki's breath hitched as he got his first proper look at Izuku's bare torso. He was just as sculpted as Katsuki, his body a testament to years of brutal training and countless battles. His skin was a canvas of scars, old and new, and Katsuki wanted to kiss every single one.
He started with the one on his shoulder, a puckered scar from a villain's quirk. He leaned down and pressed his lips to it, a soft, reverent kiss. Izuku sighed, his head falling back, exposing the long line of his throat. Katsuki took advantage, his mouth trailing a path of open-mouthed kisses down his neck, his teeth scraping against his pulse point.
"Katsuki," Izuku gasped, his hands fisting in the sheets.
"Like that?" Katsuki murmured against his skin.
"Yes. Don't stop."
Katsuki had no intention of stopping. He continued his downward exploration, his lips and tongue mapping every scar, every plane of muscle. He paid special attention to the jagged, circular scar on Izuku's right arm, the one that mirrored his own. He kissed it, a silent acknowledgment of their shared sacrifice, of the bond that went deeper than either of them had ever admitted.
Izuku was writhing beneath him, his body arching into every touch. "Katsuki, please," he begged, his voice strained. "I need… I need more."
Katsuki could feel his own control fraying. He wanted to give Izuku everything he was asking for, but he also wanted to draw this out, to make it last. He wanted to see Izuku completely undone, to be the one to break him apart and put him back together.
He moved lower, his mouth tracing the line of Izuku's hipbone, his fingers hooking into the waistband of his jeans. He looked up at Izuku, meeting his gaze. Izuku's eyes were dark, his lips parted, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated need.
"Is this okay?" Katsuki asked, his voice a low rumble.
Izuku's response was a frantic nod. "Yes. God, yes."
Katsuki didn't hesitate. He made quick work of Izuku's jeans and boxers, pulling them down and tossing them aside. He then quickly shed his own, until they were both naked, bathed in the soft glow of the city lights filtering through the window.
Katsuki took a moment to just look at him. Izuku, spread out on his bed, all muscle and scars and raw, unguarded desire. He was beautiful. More beautiful than Katsuki had ever allowed himself to imagine.
"Katsuki," Izuku said, his voice a soft, pleading whisper. "Come here."
Katsuki crawled back up the bed, covering Izuku's body with his own. The feeling of their naked skin pressed together was almost overwhelming. It was a thousand times better than he had ever imagined. It was right.
He captured Izuku's lips in a deep, passionate kiss, his tongue exploring his mouth, his hands roaming over his body. He could feel the tension coiling in Izuku's body, the desperate need for release. He could feel it in himself too, a primal, demanding ache.
He broke the kiss, his lips trailing down Izuku's body, until he was settled between his legs. He looked up at Izuku, his eyes questioning.
"Please," Izuku breathed, his legs falling open in a silent invitation.
Katsuki didn't need any more encouragement. He leaned down and took Izuku into his mouth.
The sound Izuku made was a choked gasp, his hips bucking off the bed. Katsuki held him down, his hands gripping his thighs, as he began to move, his mouth and tongue working in a steady, insistent rhythm. He could feel Izuku's hands in his hair, his fingers tightening, his breath coming in ragged pants.
"Katsuki… Katsuki… o-oh goddd," Izuku chanted, his voice a broken, desperate prayer.
Katsuki could feel Izuku's control unraveling, could feel him getting closer and closer to the edge. He increased his pace, his mouth working him with a single-minded intensity, until Izuku cried out, his body convulsing as he came, his release hot and bitter on Katsuki's tongue.
"oh my- fuck- did so well Kats" he panted out, gently releasing his grip on the blondes sparky hair.
Katsuki swallowed, his tongue lapping up every last drop, until Izuku was limp and boneless beneath him. He crawled back up the bed, pulling Izuku into his arms. Izuku was breathing heavily, his body trembling with the aftershocks of his orgasm.
"Katsuki-," he murmured, his voice muffled against Katsuki's chest.
"Shh," Katsuki said, his hand stroking Izuku's hair. "Just breathe."
He held him, letting him come back to himself, his own body a tight coil of unspent need. He could feel the frantic beat of Izuku's heart against his chest, a steady, reassuring rhythm that grounded him. He pressed a soft kiss to the top of Izuku's head, inhaling the scent of his sweat and his shampoo, a combination that was intoxicatingly familiar and completely new.
After a few moments, Izuku stirred, lifting his head to look at Katsuki. His eyes were heavy-lidded, his face flushed, and a slow, satisfied smile was spreading across his lips. It was a look Katsuki had never seen before, and it made his heart do a strange, painful flip.
"That was…" Izuku began, his voice husky.
"Shut up," Katsuki said, but there was no heat in it. He leaned down and captured Izuku's lips in a soft, lingering kiss. He could taste himself on Izuku's tongue, a reminder of what he had just done, of how completely Izuku had surrendered to him.
Izuku's hand slid down Katsuki's stomach, his fingers tracing the line of hair that disappeared below his navel. Katsuki tensed, a jolt of electricity shooting through him. He was still painfully hard, a fact that Izuku was clearly aware of.
"Your turn," Izuku murmured against his lips, his voice low and commanding. He flipped them over with a surprising burst of strength, until Katsuki was the one on his back, looking up at Izuku.
The change in position sent a thrill through Katsuki. He was used to being in control, to being the one on top. But there was something about the way Izuku was looking at him now, a predatory gleam in his green eyes, that was incredibly arousing.
"Relax, Katsuki," Izuku said, his hands braced on either side of Katsuki's head. "Let me take care of you."
Katsuki's first instinct was to fight, to reassert his dominance, but he suppressed it. He wanted this. He wanted to see what Izuku would do. He wanted to let go.
Izuku leaned down and captured his lips in a deep, possessive kiss. It was a kiss that was full of promise, a silent declaration of intent. His hands roamed over Katsuki's body, his touch firm and confident. He mapped every inch of his skin, his fingers tracing the lines of his muscles, his mouth following in their wake.
He paid special attention to Katsuki's scars, just as Katsuki had done for him. He kissed the one on his collarbone, the one on his side, the one on his thigh. Each touch was a reverent act, a silent acknowledgment of their shared past, of the bond that had been forged in fire and blood.
Katsuki was writhing beneath him, his body arching into every touch. He felt like he was coming apart, like he was being unraveled piece by piece. He had never felt so exposed, so vulnerable, and yet, he had never felt so safe.
"Please, Izuku," he begged, his voice a strained whisper. He didn't know what he was begging for, only that he needed more.
Izuku smiled, a slow, knowing smile. "Patience, Katsuki," he murmured, his lips brushing against Katsuki's ear. "I'm going to make you feel so good."
He moved lower, his mouth trailing a path of fire down Katsuki's chest, his stomach, until he was settled between his legs. He looked up at Katsuki, his eyes dark with desire.
"Is this okay?" he asked, his voice a low rumble.
Katsuki's response was a frantic nod. "Yes. God, yes."
Izuku didn't hesitate. He leaned down and took Katsuki into his mouth.
The feeling was overwhelming, a white-hot surge of pleasure that shot through Katsuki's entire body. He cried out, his hips bucking off the bed. Izuku held him down, his hands gripping his thighs, as he began to move, his mouth and tongue working in a steady, insistent rhythm.
It was different from what Katsuki had done to him. It was slower, more deliberate, more… controlled. Izuku was in charge, and he was determined to draw this out, to make Katsuki beg.
"Fuck, Izuku," Katsuki gasped, his hands fisting in the sheets. "Don't stop."
Izuku didn't. He increased his pace, his mouth working him with a single-minded intensity, until Katsuki was a writhing, whimpering mess beneath him. He could feel the pressure building, the familiar, tightening coil of pleasure that threatened to consume him.
"Izuku… I'm… I'm close," he managed to get out, his voice strained.
Izuku pulled back, a wicked glint in his eyes. "Not yet," he said, his voice a low, commanding growl.
Katsuki cried out in frustration, a sound of pure, unadulterated need. "What the fuck, Izuku?"
"I told you," Izuku said, his hand wrapping around Katsuki's cock, his thumb stroking the sensitive head. "I'm going to make you feel so good."
He leaned down and took Katsuki into his mouth again, his movements faster, more demanding. Katsuki's mind went blank, his body overwhelmed by sensation. He could feel the pleasure building, a tidal wave of ecstasy that was about to crash over him.
"Izuku… please," he begged, his voice a broken, desperate prayer.
Izuku took him deeper, his throat constricting around him, and that was all it took. Katsuki cried out, his body convulsing as he came, his release hot and bitter on Izuku's tongue.
Izuku swallowed, his tongue lapping up every last drop, until Katsuki was limp and boneless beneath him. He crawled back up the bed, pulling Katsuki into his arms.
Katsuki was breathing heavily, his body trembling with the aftershocks of his orgasm. He felt boneless, spent, and completely, utterly sated. He had never felt anything like it.
Izuku held him, his hand stroking his hair, his lips pressed against his forehead. They lay there in silence for a long time, the only sound the steady beat of their hearts, the soft glow of the city lights filtering through the window.
"Katsuki," Izuku said, his voice a soft, hesitant whisper.
"Hmm?" Katsuki murmured, his eyes closed.
"I love you."
The words were so simple, so direct, and yet they held the weight of a lifetime. Katsuki's eyes flew open, and he looked at Izuku, his heart pounding in his chest. He could see the vulnerability in Izuku's eyes, the fear of rejection, the hope.
He knew he should say it back. He wanted to say it back. But the words were stuck in his throat, choked by years of pride and insecurity. So instead, he did the only thing he could. He leaned in and captured Izuku's lips in a deep, passionate kiss, a kiss that was full of all the things he couldn't say.
When he pulled back, he looked at Izuku, his red eyes blazing with an intensity that stole the air from Izuku's lungs. "I know," he said, his voice a low, rough rumble.
It wasn't an "I love you," but it was close. It was an acknowledgment, an acceptance. It was enough.
Izuku smiled, a slow, genuine smile that reached his eyes. "Okay," he said, his voice soft.
He snuggled closer, his head resting on Katsuki's chest, his arm draped over his waist. Katsuki held him, his hand stroking his hair, his body relaxing into the mattress. He felt a sense of peace settle over him, a feeling he hadn't experienced in years. It was like a missing piece of his soul had finally clicked into place.
He closed his eyes, his breathing slowing, his mind drifting. He was aware of Izuku's weight on him, of the steady beat of his heart, of the soft glow of the city lights. It was perfect.
He was asleep in minutes, a rare, genuine smile on his face. For the first time in a long time, he wasn't dreaming of battles or villains or the ghosts of his past. He was dreaming of green eyes and a crooked smile, of a future that he could finally, blessedly, catch up to.
༉‧₊˚. A/N: this might be one of my favorite fics ive EVER written. bkdk is sooooo close to my heart
comments and reblogs are always appreciated!!
masterlist
Mike flirting and Will getting flustered
Will flirting and Mike getting flustered
Guess it was just evil byler all along
are you kidding me
This scene has been living rent free in my head 🧍🏻
I’m sorry but the comments are taking me tf out I can’t-
gay mfs do ANYTHING but say "i love you" 😭
Katsuki was like "Baby, what do you mean you'll lose OFA completely? What about our dream?" While sobbing right next to Izuku's hospital bed and basically confessing to him that he was already thinking of spending the rest of their lives together.
He's so ridiculously in love with Izuku... A true yearner who's not gonna give up on his dream of a forever with the love of his life.
It feels really good to draw him.
The recipe:
PUMPKIN PUDDING PIE w/ ORANGE ZEST & CARDAMOM WHIPPED CREAM
(makes ~3 pies)
2½ cups sugar
15oz can pumpkin puree
2 eggs
½ tsp baking soda
2 cups flour
2 tsp baking powder
½ tsp ground cinnamon
¼ tsp vanilla
pinch of salt
2½ cups milk
4 TBSP butter (melted)
1 orange
1 tsp powdered sugar
1 cup heavy cream
2 TBSP powdered sugar
1 tsp cardamom
pinch nutmeg
pumpkin pudding pie w/ orange zest
preheat the oven to 325°F
prepare the pie crust (that's another recipe's job—either find a scratch recipe or buy a pre-made dough or graham cracker crust)
blend 2 ½ cups sugar, pumpkin puree, eggs, and baking soda in a large mixing bowl (if using a mixer, blend with a paddle attachment)
add the flour, baking powder, cinnamon, vanilla, and salt; blend until well mixed
add the milk and melted butter, whisk until well mixed (if using a mixer, blend with the whisk attachment)
pour your batter into the crust, filling right up to the edge (the mix will be more liquid than solid, but it will rise/solidify in the oven)
bake at 325°F for 55 minutes
remove from the oven and let it cool
top with sifted powdered sugar
zest an orange over the top of the pie (microplane if possible but regular zester is fine; have found that the most aesthetically pleasing version is to peel the orange and then finely dice the peel but that's a hassle!)
whipped cream
put your metal mixing bowl and whisk in the freezer for at least 15 minutes
whisk powdered sugar, cardamom, and nutmeg together in bowl
add heavy cream; whisk until stiff peaks start forming
serve on a cooled pie :)
Patreon Practices August
You can now purchase my brush set on my Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/c/ramonn90 Along with access to my process videos, files, and art insights.
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Also! You can now pre-order my book Life in Every Sketch on the 3DTotal shop
Hi, my name is RamonN90. I'm an illustrator and concept artist who loves bringing original characters to life in casual, everyday moments.
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