Chapter Text

He wets his lips, leaning toward the mic. “H-hi, guys.” His voice creaks, tremulous with nerves. He tries to take a deep breath to recenter, considers maybe trying another take of that, but the thought fizzles as he fondles his nuts, eyes lidding. The gray pop-filter stares back at him without judgment. “I’ve been, um. Edging for about two hours, now… S-so I’m feeling less insecure and. And thought I’d record.”

His skin is greasy with lube and sweat and pre-cum. He can smell himself, musky in the humid darkness of his tiny bedroom.

“I, um. I know I sound, er. S-stupid,” he continues. “People say I’ve got a girly voice or that I sound like a wimp or… Um. Yeah. Well, I just.” He stops, playing with his balls again for a few moments, letting the sensation wind through his hips. “I’m kind of a motormouth; I can’t really help it. A-and I thought: Hey. You feel like crap about yourself and your body and…and all that, so why not try recording? And while I know recording myself, um, jerking off doesn’t sound like a good self-esteem booster, it’s just. Um.”

He strokes his cock slowly, from root to tip, biting back a groan. “It’s hot,” he finishes. “T-to me. So ’m gonna try it. Dunno if I’ll ever post it online or what, just…” Another stroke. “Huhhh, just, um. Just gonna feel myself for a little longer and go from there.”

He thumbs at the thin stretch of his foreskin rolled under the crown, the syrupy-hot sting of sensitivity swelling his nerves. A shudder wracks his body as he presses harder, a broken whine dripping through the trap of his clenched teeth.

He lets go with a gasp, the bloated head slapping against his stomach before sagging under its own weight and canting slightly to the right, leaving a smear of pre-cum along the hair trailing down his abdomen. A weak moan escapes as he looks to the pop filter, then past it at the soft glow of his laptop. Evidence of his pleasure stares back at him in the wavelengths of the recording software.

Hot, he thinks, thoughts slow and sticky. Then: The microphone won’t pick that up.

“Hot,” he breathes, reaching down to run his fingers over the flexing muscles of his stomach. His abs aren’t visible unless he’s dehydrated and actively flexing; he’s always found his body looks kind of lumpy and generally unappealing on a regular day. His skin is hypersensitive right now, though, clammy and sweet under the pads of his fingers.

His eyes lid at the recognition, sliding both palms down from his chest, feeling the bumps of his ribs, the jut of his diaphragm, the soft give of his stomach, the trembling tendons of his splayed thighs. As they slip inward, rubbing against the thicker hair of his inner legs and back up, his breath becomes more labored, cock bobbing as he cups his swollen balls in both hands, holding them against the thrumming wire of his body.

“Sorry,” he says, when he comes back to himself a little. “Um. Was just running my hands down my, um. My body.” It feels deeply stupid to say out loud. His veins are singing, though, so he tries to push on. “I’m cupping my…t-testicles, right now. With both of my hands. It feels…” He takes a slow, shaky breath, eyes slipping closed. “My hands are hot. Really hot and…drier than I, um. Thought they’d be.” He flexes them slightly, feeling the give of his nutsack. The pressure isn’t threatening; he’s in his own hands right now. “Safe,” he murmurs, thumbs sliding to the juncture between his cock and balls. “M-my hands are so big, they…”

He lifts his right hand to his mouth and spits a long line of drool. As it slips through his fingers, he lowers it to grip his cock, pumping it quickly a few times. The wetness reactivates some of the lube, his palm growing sloppy. He squeezes his nuts again slightly and his voice cracks with his moan. “Ohhh my gosh, wow. W-wow.”

His eyes lift to the microphone again, tracing the pop filter. “S-sorry.” He swallows. “Just. Been a while since I, um. S-since I had time to do this kinda stuff and. And I’m pretty sensitive and it’s been two hours, I’m so fuckin’ sensitive now, it’s—” Without thought, his hand resumes stroking his cock, his hips lurching slightly to fuck up with each downstroke. “Ohhh my gosh, my cock is—! It’s j-just. Just. S-so hard, holy shit, I…”

He doesn’t know what he says after that. He’s babbling, definitely. Probably stupid shit, as always. He knows he’s talking because drool is dribbling past his open, wagging mouth in a long line, splattering on his jerking wrist.

He tears his other hand away from his balls, scooping the spit off his arm. He grips his cock with both fists and fucks the tight channel with animalistic abandon.

“Gonna cum!” he pants, voice hitched and breathy. “Over t-two hours and I’m gonna cum, finally gonna cum, finally gonna blow my load, holy shit, it feels so good, so so so good—”

He curls over his hands, keening as he twitches, thick spurts of cum coating the towel twisted between his knees. His eyes cross slightly, sweaty hair sticking to his forehead as his hips tremble, canting into his desperate grip as the last dredges slip out, clinging to his urethra.

“A-ah…” He pants, unlatching one hand as he leans down to wipe his wet mouth and chin on his bicep. He swallows. “Guh.”

His other hand cleans the cum from his cock with little sympathy for the oversensitive flinching of his thighs. His cock aches in that way it always does after a long edging session—tissue-deep and so, so good. The aftermath almost makes him as horny as the build-up, honestly. Half-mast and deflating between his legs, he watches his cock sag with a weak groan. “Fuck, that was a lot…”

He sniffles, wiping his face again on his other bicep, coming down a little more now. When he looks up, he finds the pop filter staring at him, unmoved as before. The blush fading from his chest flares back to life, his face hot. “R-right! Right, um.”

He stumbles off of his bed, hobbling to the microphone and computer set up on his desk. “Uh.” He stares at the wavelengths. “Th-thank you for listening.” His hair flops against his sweaty forehead with his quick bow. “Whoever you are, I hope you have a nice day. Um. G-goodbye.” He quickly reaches out to stop the recording.

A despairing groan escapes his chest. “I’m such a loser.”

“Midoriya,” Gang Orca barks from across the hallway. “I want those accident reports tonight.”

Izuku perks up in his chair. “Y-yes, sir!” He’s already more than half way through the reports anyways and it’s only five, so he’ll easily have them done by seven.

Kacchan snorts at the next desk over. “You’re such a pushover.”

He frowns.

Satisfied by making his opinion known, Kacchan retreats back to his cubicle.

Izuku returns to his forms on his computer, consulting the physical folder sitting to his left. 10006748-01845…

A chair groans against the floor. “You’re seriously staying late for this shit?”

“Hm?” He lifts his head, Kacchan looming over him. “Yeah, it’s not a problem.”

Kacchan makes a nasty face. “You really have nothing better to do with yourself?”

Izuku blinks. “Wha? I mean… Not really, no.”

“He’s hobbyless!” He turns to find Kaminari leaning over his desk divider. “You don’t go anywhere outside of work, do you, Midoriya-kun?”

Izuku lowers his head, drumming his fingers on his desk. Please leave me alone, he thinks pathetically.

“Goes straight home after work everyday,” he continues. “Poor ol’ Midoriya Izuku. All he does is work, work out, eat, and sleep. No time for fun for this guy!”

“You should go out with us, Midoriya!” he hears Kirishima say, another voice above the wall of his desk. “We’re all getting together to celebrate Ashido’s promotion.”

“Um. Th-that’s okay,” he mumbles.

Kacchan, still standing behind him, lets out an irritated sound.

“Come on, man! It’s karaoke.”

Kaminari laughs. “Oh man, you’ve got to come, Midoriya-kun! Remember the last time you sang at karaoke?”

He cringes.

Kaminari makes a high-pitched, warbling sound. “La-la-la!”

Kirishima laughs.

“Thought you were gonna break glass! You were like a baby bird. It was so funny! You gotta come.”

“I have work,” Izuku says sharply.

They quiet.

“B-but, um. Thank you for the offer.”

“Whatever,” Kacchan says, after a moment. “Later, losers.”

“Aw, don’t be like that,” Kirishima calls after him. “You’re supposed to go with us tonight! Hey! Bakugou, wait up!”

The two dash after Kacchan. Izuku listens to their footsteps fade. Once they do, he slowly counts to twenty. Then he counts again. Then he returns to work.

He slips off his shoes with a groan at nine, not bothering to turn on a light switch. He sheds his coat, hanging it, and unbuttons his pants as he walks to the bathroom, fishing himself out of his boxers to piss and wash his hands, kicking off his jeans past the doorway as he tucks himself back into the soft cotton of his underwear.

One step from the bathroom is his bedroom, which he enters and closes the door behind him, locking it out of habit. Five more steps and he’s sitting heavily at his desk, waking up his computer as he yawns into his palm. Doing accident reports always takes a ton out of him. He excels at repetitive tasks—he probably would have been a good accountant in another life—but the tight deadlines on these huge stacks of reports always frustrates him a bit.

The bright light of his laptop bathes the tiny space of his bedroom. He has to squint for a moment, waiting for his eyes to adjust. When they do, he finds a mess of squiggly lines in a program called Audacity.

He stares dumbly at the screen.

The recording, right. He’d recorded himself at the end of an edging session.

Wait, what? He’d recorded— What the hell is wrong with him?!

He sighs, rubbing his face. He can’t even properly feign surprise or disgust.

Might as well see what the damage is.

He leans over his desk, plugging in a pair of headphones. When he hits play on the audio, nothing happens for a moment.

Then his stupid, girly voice loudly plays to the whole room, moaning brokenly.

“Stop, stop, stop!” he cries, slapping at the keyboard, searching for the pause button. After a painful second, he locates it and clicks.

Silence settles into the room, his heart pounding. He reaches to the side, finding the headphones only half-plugged in. Fucking hell…

He stands up, looking to the door with a bitten lip. There’s no point in being embarrassed; he lives alone. Nobody heard that besides him.

Nobody will ever have to hear that, besides him.

He glances back at the computer, at the file. TEST_1.aud stares staunchly back, the microphone and pop filter he’d shamefully purchased three months ago for this exact purpose sharing its gaze.

The file is over ten minutes long. What the hell.

He purses his lips, eyes darting to the pop filter, his fingers drumming nervously on his bare thighs, catching on the frayed edges of his boxers.

His phone blares to life.

He jolts, head swiveling in search of it. His jeans, crumpled just inside the door from where they’d landed when he’d kicked them off, vibrate.

He dives, fishing it from the fabric. Nobody ever calls him, so this has to be something really major. When he catches sight of the caller ID, a stone of worry sinks in his stomach.

“Kacchan?” He presses the phone to his ear. “Are you okay? What’s—?”

“So you’re finally out of work, huh?”

“I— Yeah, I’m at home. But I can come in if—”

“Shut up,” Kacchan sneers.

Izuku tucks his arms in, head lowering. There’s no point in shrinking like this; he is alone. He lives alone.

“Think I left my jacket at your place, the other night.”

“O-oh. Um… Lemme check.”

“How long does it take to check? You live in a damn shoebox of an apartment.”

“I’m in my room right now.” He clears his throat, opening his door and peeking out. Again: No reason to do this. He lives alone.

“Tch. Don’t need to hear about whatever the hell you get up to in your gross fucking bed.”

His chest shrivels at the words, skin hot and prickly with shame. “Kacchan, don’t say stuff like that please.”

He hears a scoff. “My jacket, Deku.”

Izuku shuffles into the main space of his apartment, checking the sofa and the cupboard before heading to the genkan.

“Your apartment takes four fucking steps to cross, what the hell is taking you so long?”

“I’m being thorough,” he mumbles half-heartedly. “Um. Yeah, it’s on my coat rack.”

“You didn’t think to check there first?”

He hadn’t thought Kacchan would forget his damn jacket on the coat rack of all places. “Sorry, Kacchan.”

“Whatever. Bring it to work with you tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? Kacchan, I was thinking about maybe taking tomorrow off—”

“You don’t take days off,” Kacchan replies. “Bring my jacket.”

The line dies. Izuku pulls the phone away with a sigh, slipping it into his pocket. That was the first time Kacchan’s called him Deku off-duty in a while. The realization stings.

He stands in the silent, small center of his apartment, eyes stuck somewhere near his drying dishes in his kitchenette.

Pushover Deku. Loser Deku. He never truly outgrew that boy he used to be, he thinks bitterly. Even Kacchan can see that, can see that he’s still that same deku-no-bou he always was.

Straight-laced, workaholic Izuku heads back to his bedroom, closing and locking the door behind him. His computer watches him, bright screen cutting through the darkness.

He sits at his desk and logs into the empty SmutSound account he made five months ago.

Kacchan is right. Izuku doesn’t take days off. He hasn’t taken a day off in eight weeks; the last time he did, it was his mother’s birthday. He has no reason to take a day off otherwise.

He leaves the jacket at Kacchan’s desk, folded over his chair, and heads to the locker room to change into his uniform for patrol. Todoroki nods to him as he gathers up his clothes and slinks off to a toilet stall to undress.

Kacchan is waiting for him when he exits, armed folded in impatience. He does not thank Izuku for returning his jacket. This is normal. Without a word, he puts his civvies away and follows Kacchan out for their patrol.

“H-how was Ashido’s party?” he asks as they approach the front doors.

Kacchan grunts.

“Was karaoke fun?”

“Was fine,” Kacchan replies.

Alright then. Great talk.

“Deku!” a reporter calls from the sidewalk, just outside of the agency. Probably poaching heroes as they come and go. Ugh. He offers her a wave and a smile. “Do you have anything to say about your rescue stats from last quarter?”

Ah. For fuck’s sake. “I can only do my best!” he tells her, still grinning. “Thank you for your support.”

As they turn the corner, his smile drops. “I was six under my best,” he grouses. “Was a slow season for me anyways, ’s not like it’s a contest or anything.” Anymore. Rankings are gone, officially. That’s horseshit, though; he knows it.

“They all say shit all the time,” Kacchan replies. “Who’s even above you, stats-wise?”

“Suneater and Wash.”

Kacchan snorts. “That’s it? Seriously?”

“For rescues, yeah.”

“Fuckin’ hell, these dogshit reporters…”

“Honestly,” he says, “it’s a good thing when there’s less activity. I wish people understood that.”

“Tch. Good luck with that.”

They settle into a slightly more comfortable silence after that.

Not actually comfortable, though. Izuku and Kacchan haven’t had a comfortable moment between them for a long time. He wishes he could pinpoint how this started, but whenever he tries to track the progress of their friendship lately, he finds himself stuck.

He can’t say for sure if they ever really had any comfort between them.

Kacchan’s hand swings a scant few centimeters away from Izuku’s. Touchable. Holdable.

It must be wish fulfillment, he thinks. That’s why he feels this aching gap between him and Kacchan. It’s same gap he feels between himself and everything else in the world, anyways.

Anon

Not bad for a first audio! You sound cute. •v•

Anon

You sounded pretty nervous but otherwise the sound quality was really good! Love the part where I could hear you spitting all over your dick. HOT!

Anon

He was nervous at first but once he got going he was FILTHY wwwww Fun and hot to listen to

Izuku stares at the comments, frowning.

These are all…very nice comments.

His cock twitches in his shorts. He reaches down absently, grinding the heel of his palm against it, hips twitching into the pressure as he continues to scroll.

Anon

Love your squeaky voice! So CUTE!

Anon

I know! I want a boy to rail me and sound like that!

Every comment is incredibly nice.

He hums, rocking into his palm, chair squeaking.

Anon

Holy shit please tell me you’re gay or at least bi because that was so fucking hot

Anon

Love when his voice cracked. Was so genuine and sexy.

He takes his hand away to better use his keyboard, checking his listen statistics. 378 already? Really? Wow…

His cock, offended by the neglect, pulses against the fabric of his shorts. He ignores it, knees rubbing together before spreading wide while he prods around his account, curious. Seven comments for a first post with less than 400 plays? That seems like a lot of feedback.

He ruts absently, feet bracing against the floor to give better leverage to rub against his underwear. His eyes lid at the feeling as he clicks back to his notifications, re-reading the comments. Cute, he reads, then re-reads, cock grinding against his briefs, a wet spot leaking through to his shorts.

He reaches down again, cupping his cock and letting his hips roll into his hand. It’s an especially gentle, deep arousal radiating from his cock, prickling his nerves with a gooey, disorienting haze. This’ll be a good one, he thinks. A slow, sensual rutting over the course of a few hours that’ll crest into a bone-shaking orgasm, letting him sleep like the dead until tomorrow. A pleased hum vibrates out from his chest as his eyes slip closed, sinking into the sensations.

EEE-EEE EEE-EEE EEE-EEE

His pager and phone shriek in tandem. Izuku scrambles for the phone, unlocking it. “Orange alert,” the operator says without prompting. “Need dispatch in Naboo Ward. You have ETA of six minutes to scene. Will you accept the coordinates?”

“Y-yes,” he stammers. Orange alert is a rescue and recovery situation, usually building collapse. No active combat.

“Thank you for your service.” The line dies.

He pulls away with a faint groan, standing away from his desk and shucking off his shorts, stumbling to his closet to grab his emergency uniform. It’s an older model, worn from use, but it’ll work fine for an orange alert.

As he slips his legs into it, he scowls down at his still-hard cock, shoving it up and to the side, pressed between his hipbone and the band of his underwear. Should be subtle once he clips on his utility belt. Whatever.

He’s very familiar with being interrupted during an jerk-off session by an emergency work call. He’s no stranger to blue balls. It isn’t how he got his start in edging, but it certainly accelerated his adeptness and preference for it over the years of professional hero work.

Worst time was when he was supposed to have the day off; he’d jerked off for four hours before falling asleep still hard, that time. Woke up in a jumbled haze to the blare of a red alert, his cock still sticky and stuck in his onahole, hips fidgeting against the mattress, his mouth dry with dehydration. The hell is wrong with you? Kacchan had snarled at him when he’d managed to get to the site twenty minutes later. You look like shit.

That had been six months ago. In comparison, this is barely a blip. Izuku fastens his face mask to his hood, feeling the familiar weight of the metal settling against his collarbones, and straightens his spine. It always takes a moment to shift into Deku (a moment longer when he’s hard and leaking against his hip), but he gets there after a few more seconds.

He closes his bedroom door behind him, slipping into his sneakers and grabbing his keys. There’s a licensed dispatch zone at the roof of his apartment building that he’s allowed to use to leave on alerts. It was a bit of a pain to set up—the landlord hadn’t been crazy about the concept—but it’s a lot more convenient than the old dispatch zone he had to go to, which was a train ride away. Riding on the train in uniform is always so fucking awkward, so it’s a relief not to have to do that anymore.

Especially because he’s usually hard when he does.

He clamors up the steps to the roof, footfalls heavy even without his enforced metal soles (those are in his locker), flinging the metal door open and breaking into fresh air. After spending an hour in his musty, humid room, the chill almost stings.

He takes a few bracing breaths, eyes slipping closed. His cock twitches in time with his heart, slowly beginning to soften. He squats low before leaping, letting Float carry him over the fence and then the rest of the buildings. He squints down at them as he continues to fly higher, checking his pager for the coordinates and doing some quick mental math. Operator said six minutes. He can make it four.

The air is brisk, soaking through his lungs and chilling his core, numbing. He exhales slowly, flexing his fingers and watching the world pass below him, small and distant.

Everything always feels better when it’s far away.

 “Good work, Deku,” Tokoyami says, Dark Shadow nodding behind him. “We couldn’t have evacuated without you.”

Izuku nods, wiping blood from his temple on his shoulder. No concussion, thankfully, but that chunk of collapsing drywall had really disoriented him for a terrifying moment. He’d been right about the alert; it was a collapsing apartment complex. His combined speed and strength grant him great versatility in these situations, considering he can support entire floors of a building alone and react to events in literal split seconds, anticipating danger before it even arrives.

They’d mostly needed him to stand in as a human support beam for the collapsing right side, which he had performed as required. Fourteen-story building. It toed the upper line of his maximum weight capacity with One For All at 80%. He hated to expend higher percentages without reason, hated what it did to him. His bones had creaked under the strain, the familiar, awful electric hum of his quirk zapping his muscles like a damn cattle prod.

He feels like he had the absolute shit kicked out of him. Worse. His body is rubbery and aches in sharp, worrying twinges along his arms and legs and spine. He can only walk in a short shuffle, his arms hanging dead.

He hurts. He hurts bad.

“Did everyone get out?” he rasps, sniffling. His heart sits heavy, like someone has grabbed it and has started squeezing the life from it. He sighs, trying to release the pressure.

Tokoyami nods. “Yes. No deaths, two casualties. Minor abrasions for one and a sprain on the other, it seems.”

There’s that, at least. Some great work from the heroes called to this crisis, all around, then. Good. “Okay. Thanks, Tsukuyomi.”

“Of course.”

He staggers toward the street bench behind Tokoyami, sitting heavily. A pained groan escapes him. He curls forward, head hanging between his splayed knees, legs trembling without control. I’m going to vomit, he realizes. No concussion, but I’m going to vomit. Fuck, it hurts so bad. Fuck. Fuck.

“The hell, Deku got called in on this?” he hears over the blood in his head. Kacchan.

“Apparently,” he hears Dark Shadow reply. “Man, they call this guy in for everything, don’t they?”

“Izuku.” Kacchan’s voice is louder, angled at him.

He unhinges his jaw, panting. His mouth is thick with mucus and saliva. The sidewalk wavers between his bright red sneakers.

“Oi! Izuku. Don’t fuckin’ ignore me.”

“Kacchan,” he croaks. “Hi.”

“The hell were you thinking, taking this call?”

He sways between his legs, breathing unsteadily. He can feel it at the back of his tongue, sour and bracing. “K’chan, g’t ’way.”

Kacchan’s shoes step into view, closer. “You know you got a shift in four hours, idiot?”

Four hours, really? But that means he’d held that building up for… For six hours.

Six hours. Wow.

His abdomen spasms, sharp bile erupting from behind his teeth and splattering all over the pavement.

And Kacchan’s legs.

“Sorry,” Izuku heaves before grimacing and puking again, chunks of undigested fish and specks of rice dropping right on poor Kacchan. “S-sorry, sor— Uck!” He vomits again, insides flexing and contracting, tears stinging his eyes.

He drifts for a few spare seconds, desperately trying to separate himself from his body. It doesn’t work. He’d used up all his dissociation holding up a fucking building. He is unfortunately physically present, settled deep into his own bones. Another clench, another heave. His mouth reeks, sticky and bitter. A wet sob escapes as he raises a trembling arm, carding his fingers through his matted hair in a pathetic attempt to self-soothe.

After another burning string of bile jettisons from his lips, he hears Kacchan say, “Fucking hell, that’s disgusting.”

“’M sorry,” he whimpers, knocking his sweaty, bloody head against the inside of his left knee with a weak whine. His stumbling fingers curl against his damp skull. His body hurts. He hates it so fucking much, hates the pain, hates hurting like this.

“Did medical check him?”

“I’m not sure,” he hears Tokoyami reply.

“The hell? You didn’t fucking—?” A bitten off growl. Through bleary eyes, Izuku watches Kacchan’s boots stomp away, flinging bits of vomit. “Medical! Oi! Get the hell over here! Yeah, you, dipshit! Medical!”

He cries out when a hand wrenches him up, twisting his head back and forth. “Fuckin’ look at me, shithead.”

He opens his eyes, tracking Kacchan’s fingers as they sail past his face. “Don’t have a concussion,” he mumbles, sniffling back bile leaking from his nose. It burns. His gloved hand, still entangled in his hair, weakly curls, trying to provide a modicum of comfort.

“Medical’ll be the judge of that.” Kacchan leans down, tugging his eyelid up to examine his pupil dilation. They respond accordingly as he shines his phone light at his face. Izuku does not have a concussion.

He consciously slows his breathing, focusing on the gentle slide of his own fingers against his scalp. In, one-two-three-four. Hold, one-two-three-four. Out, one-two-three-four. Hold…

Someone from medical approaches, clearly trying to figure out a way to get Kacchan to move so he can do his job. “No concussion,” Izuku reiterates, sucking in a shaky breath. In, one-two…“Coordination is fine, nerves are just shot. I—” He untangles his hand from his hair reluctantly, showing fine motor control as he taps each finger against his thumb several times. “Dissociation during event, but no memory loss. No unusual mood disturbance. No ringing, no dizziness…”

“You just fucking puked,” Kacchan snarls, “all over me, you piece of shit. You have a concussion.”

Medical finally inches in, scrutinizing him as Kacchan’s phone continues to shine at his eyes. “Turn off the phone light, please.” When Kacchan does with a sigh, he nods. “Pupil contraction is normal.”

“That’s—”

“Where are you?” the medical staff asks Izuku.

“Naboo Ward,” he replies, fingers creeping back to his nape, slowly fiddling with his hair. He rattles of the date before the staff can request it; he’s done these assessments many times. “I don’t know the exact time, but I think it’s around 2:45am or so.”

Medical nods. They run through numbers after that, repeating words, saying the months backwards. Each success seems to leave Kacchan only more incensed.

“I can’t do balance,” Izuku admits, still curled over himself on the bench. “My muscles are… I-I dunno. Happens when I overuse my quirk. Think it might have to do with electrical impulses?”

“That’s fine,” medical staff says, stepping away. “You sound cognizant.”

“He was fucking puking and freaking out!” Kacchan yells. “He was—!”

“Other things can cause that,” the staff replies, holding up his hands. “It’s not a concussion, most likely. I need to go.”

“Most likely,” Kacchan scoffs, shooting a hateful glare at Izuku.

He shrinks as it narrows, curling tighter, imagining his body disappearing just like he always wanted.

“Where’s your apartment key?”

“Huh?”

“I’m taking you back to your apartment,” Kacchan says. “I’m gonna use your shower to wash this shit off of me. Then I’ll watch you sleep to make sure you don’t fucking die from your own stupidity.”

“Front chest pocket,” he replies because there is no point in refusing Kacchan. Kacchan takes; Izuku gives. This has always been them.

Kacchan sighs, unzipping his front pocket and pulling out his keys. His fingers linger inside the pocket for a moment, squirmy, thick worms separated from Izuku’s skin by a single, thinner layer of fabric. He pulls away, pocketing the keys. “Okay, let’s go.”

Izuku sits on the bench.

Another sigh. “Grab my arm, come on.”

His free arm flops into Kacchan’s grip, letting him drag him back to unsteady feet.

He continues to stroke his own head with his other hand as they walk the empty streets, eyes slipping closed once they settle onto an equally vacant late-night train. Kacchan’s smooth hand holds his shoulder, forcing him upright. His hair curls along his own fingers, frizzy and unkempt and matted with drywall and insulation and sweat and blood. There there, he thinks. You’re okay. I’ve got you. You’re safe now. Nobody’s going to hurt you.

His throat thickens, eyes stinging. He swallows it down.

Kacchan’s body is a presence beside him, as solid and compassionate as bedrock.

Izuku wakes on his couch, eyes sticky. His whole body pulses, nerves twitching in a painful, twisting way that indicates overuse of One For All.

Kacchan hangs over him like a gargoyle, crouched on the arm of the couch.

“You apartment smells like something died in it,” he says, not giving Izuku a chance to say anything. “Opened your windows to air out the dump.”

Izuku sits up slowly, spine twinging with pain, arms trembling under his weight. His two living room windows are, indeed, open. The air is frigid. “K’chan.”

“Didn’t go in your room or anything, so no need to freak out at me about that shit again.”

He sways, falling against the back of his couch, head lolling. “K’chan.”

“Yes, nerd. I’m right here.”

“Time?”

A sigh. “Six.”

His brain clicks to life. Shit. Shit, he has work. He pushes himself off of the couch, limbs uncoordinated and jittery as he stumbles a few steps.

Kacchan is on him, hands hovering just away from his arms. “Shit, watch it, asshole.”

“Sorry,” he slurs, rubbing his face. “Gotta shower ’n shave ’n stuff. Work…”

“Izuku,” Kacchan says, “you ain’t going in like this.”

“Gotta.” He braces himself against the couch and shuffles around it, reaching out to steady himself against the wall as he slides toward the bathroom. “Got… Got to consult on my research into Kamino Ward. Don’t have patrol until n-noon.” That leaves him some time to recover. They don’t really care about his opinions on the drug trade in Kamino, even if they are using his spreadsheets.

“You can’t—”

“I don’t have a…a concussion,” he says. “Kacchan. I know what was going on; it wasn’t a concussion.”

“Then what was it?”

“It’s—” He groans. “N-not your business, Kacchan.”

“That’s what you think? Not my fuckin’ business?”

“No,” he says, frustration swelling in his chest. “It’s not. Wasn’t a concussion, okay?”

Kacchan sneers at him.

Izuku maintains his own stern face in response. It was a textbook panic attack; he’s had them almost his whole life. He was lucky it didn’t even last that long. Sometimes they last hours. They are absolutely not Kacchan’s business.

He slips into his tiny bathroom, closing the door behind him. He locks it. He tests the handle, teeth grinding, and only lets go after it fails to turn three times.

He falls against his bed, mattress punching the air from his ribs.

The day was a shit show, all around. And made worse because Kacchan leered after him like some self-appointed guardian devil. It was dreadful, especially when Kacchan threw a juvenile fit over not having clearance for the Kamino Ward meeting, as if Izuku needed a fucking handler to go to a debriefing about his own gathered intelligence. It was just so… Kacchan has a special way of making him feel like an incompetent fuck-up on a good day.

This was not a good day.

Izuku settles his phone on his bare chest, pulling up socials out of some weird, ingrained habit that he never had a reason to develop. Uraraka and Iida’s smiling faces greet him, the caption informing him that they are still on sabbatical together in Singapore. Which is nice. Good for them. They haven’t texted him once, but they had time to post to socials. He supposes that’s more economical, anyways, rather than individually messaging people with updates. Yeah. Fair enough.

He exits the app, rubbing the tender bridge of his nose.

Kacchan’s fucking fault, again. He admires and respects Kacchan an enormous amount, but it’s days like today that his ever-infinite faith in Kacchan wavers just a bit. Because Kacchan can be a massive prick sometimes, and a somehow even more gargantuan one to Izuku especially. He’d insisted on pairing up for patrol even though Izuku was supposed to go down to the docks, which meant that no, suddenly he was thrown onto Kacchan’s bullshit schedule in—yup—Naboo, while poor Jirou had to take his shift. She’d been gracious about it, but it shouldn’t have had to happen.

Oh, and then Kacchan hit him in the face with a board of wood during debris clean-up from that damn apartment complex.

Asshole.

Izuku shifts, readjusting his head against his pillow, and pulls up his web browser, navigating to his SmutSound account. The password is a random string of numbers and characters generated by his computer, but he types it in easily. Memorizing stuff like that has always come as second nature to him.

He scrolls through the comments on the audio track, re-reading the nice things people wrote. He’s still shocked he even has comments, considering it was his first post, but he doesn’t feel like questioning it at this time. Instead he reads the word cute over and over, other hand absently sliding down his stomach and carding through his pubes before petting his soft cock. It plumps slightly under the attention, stiffening a bit more as he gnaws on his lip, reading cute.

Cute cute cute cute.

CUTE!

He whimpers, taking himself in hand. His balls are heavy between his spreadthighs, jiggling as he starts stroking his chubbing cock, squeezing the still-squishy length, feeling it harden in his grip. “C-cute,” he whispers, hips twitching under his tight hold. It’s such a juvenile word, one that maybe someone would have applied to him, growing up, if they’d ever liked him.

No one had ever liked him, though.

Cute.

His head falls against his pillow with a sigh, dry palm continuing to squeeze his cock as it grows harder, filling out his fist. He squeezes rhythmically, humming between clenched teeth as he thinks about the word. Cute. Says it silently this time, feeling the weight and shape and shift of his mouth, his wet tongue. Tastes the syllables. Kawaii. His breath stutters as his hips lurch, trying to bully his hand into providing more stimulation.

“Cute,” he breathes, pressing the right side of his face against his pillow. “Cute. I-I. I’m…cute.”

It’s not true, but a desperate longing pangs through his chest at the idea of it. Cute. Midoriya Izuku. Deku. Cute.

He rolls onto his side, nuzzling his pillow with an open mouth, smearing drool over the cotton cover. Bleary eyes stare sightlessly ahead, catching the gray face of the pop filter in front of the mic he still hasn’t moved from beside his bed.

“I’m cute!” he sobs, frotting the head of his cock against his comforter. Tears sting his eyes as he curls tighter on his side, hitching his left leg up to allow his hips to press deeper into the bed. His head shakes, his fingers curling into the blanket. “Cute! I’m cute!”

His balls are tight against his body, the sweet threat of orgasm already licking at the underside of his skin. He lets go with a pained gasp, fisting his hand into the sheets with a whine. The pop filter, stoic, watches over him. He pants, holding its gaze, flushed chest heaving. He swallows a few times. “Guh.” Tries to gather himself enough to think beyond the next five minutes.

When he does that, though, he just thinks about cumming. And cute.

Would they think this is cute, too? Him rutting against his bed after a hard day at work, crying with his dumb voice? Would that… Would that be cute to someone?

He throbs at the thought.

Arms trembling, he crawls off of his bed, heavy cock bobbing between his legs as he clamors for his computer, opening the recording software with shaking fingers. His breath is a staccato in the hollow of his body, sweet and hot, curling past his lungs. “Ohmygosh,” he whimpers, making sure the audio hook-up is correct before hitting record.

He falls back on his bed, on the right side of the pop filter. “Was just feeling myself up,” he says breathily, sucking in gulps of warm, sticky air. “D-do you really think I’m cute?” His fingers crawl down, cradling his cock and balls, skin hot and velvety under his scarred, calloused palms. “M-mm. I. Guh. I wish I were cute, I like the thought, I… Nobody’s ever…” He whimpers, squeezing his cock. “G-gotta get lube, wasn’t using lube before, was just feeling, wasn’t…”

He rolls onto his side, cock and balls slapping against his thighs as he rummages through his nightstand, pulling out his bottle of lube. He pops the cap, pouring way too much onto his cupped hand, squelching between his fingers. “Fuck,” he whines as he shoves his hand onto his cock. Lube splatters across his thighs and trickles down his ballsack. He humps against his hand, mouth opening stupidly at the sweet slide. “A-ah, it’s so slick. Shit.”

He slides further up his bed, returning to his prior position, curled on his side, hips quickly fucking his fist. “F-feels good,” he says, voice rattling with the hurried motion of his body. “Goo-od. I w-wanna be—” He whimpers, pressing his temple into the pillow. “Ohhh I wanna be! W-wannnnna be cute. W-wish s-somebody thought I was…”

He fucks his hand wildly for a moment, brain fizzing, strung out on the sensation after being denied earlier. “W-was jerking off before I got a call at work,” he pants. “Was so worked up, r-reading you call me c-cu— Cu…” His voice cracks pathetically as he rolls onto his stomach, fucking his hand as he pounds his other fist against the bed with a sob. “A-ah! Ahhhh f-fu-fuuuuck, fuck!”

It takes a moment to regain control over his body, slowing his thrusts into more coherent rolls. He sniffles, rubbing his tear-stained face against the pillow. “Oh my gosh,” he moans, throat fried. It still burns from vomiting earlier, his temple pulsing with the threat of pain. He shoves it down, humping his fist harder again, the force knocking his pillow against his wall. “C-can I please?” He isn’t even sure what he’s asking for, exactly; he only knows that he wants. That it thrums through him, liquid and sweet and so fucking hot.

His free hand reaches up, trembling, and starts petting his own hair, fingers tangling into knots and trying to tease them apart. He whimpers at the feeling, pressing into it, skin vibrating and tight. “I-I wi-ish I were cute,” he whispers, eyes closed, nosing at his pillow. “I’m— Mm. S-sorry, my cock is just so…!” Searing hot in his hand, thick and throbbing, the head catching on the rough fibers of his comforter. Shit, he didn’t put down a towel this time. He needs to grab a towel.

He wrenches himself away from the mattress with a sharp gasp, eyes wide. Towel. Right. “Fuck.” He hops off the bed with shaky legs. “S-sorry. Should, um. Cut this part? O-or something. Gotta grab a towel, fuck…”

For a moment, he waits at his closed bedroom door, listening, counting the seconds with the rhythmic throbbing of his cock. There’s no one, of course; he lives alone. Then he unlocks it, stepping into the bathroom and snatching his regular towel, closing his bedroom door behind him with his hip and tossing it onto the bed. “There we go. Had to grab a towel, sorry,” he says, breath still heavy as he climbs onto his bed, braced on his spread knees. His cock, tacky with drying lube, wags between his thighs. He stills, watching it as it bobs back and forth.

Then he blinks, reaching down to run his fingers through his lube-matted pubic hair, just above the twitching, bloated length of his cock. “S-sorry, got distracted,” he manages. “J-just. Looking at my cock, haha… Dunno why, but. It looks kinda funny? Like, it’s wagging between my legs, kinda like, u-um, I dunno…” He grips the shaft, eyes lidding. He licks his lips at the sensation. “Need more lube. Um.”

He leans over, grabbing the bottle and squirting a huge glob directly onto his cock, hissing at the chill. “Cold! Th-the lube, I just. I couldn’t wait, I’ve got to— Mm. M-mmhm.” He spreads it over his cock with both hands, passing one fist down then the next, over and over. “O-ohhh my gosh, I’m just so fucking hard right now, it’s crazy. ’S so hot, too. Pulsing under my hand l-like. Like…” He can’t think of a comparison. Can’t think of much, really.

He raises his left hand, sticky with lube, to card through his hair, scratching gently at the nape of his neck and then sliding back. He hums, eyes sliding shut at the sensation. “Cute,” he whispers, fucking his other fist. “Cute, cute, cute…”

The word rises to a fever pitch in him, so sweet and bright and fragile. He chews on his lower lip, squeaky moans breaking through the barrier. He reaches up to thumb along his cock head, rolling his thin, silky foreskin back and forth and causing a high-pitched whimper to escape as he pants through the sharp sensitivity. He reaches down with his other hand, stroking the base of his cock as he continues to torture the head, grabbing it fully and twisting his hand around it. “F-fuck, it’s soooo sensitive! Ah! A-ah, fuck! Fuck!”

His eyes unfocus, crossing slightly as he stares at his cock, hips spasming. “I can’t stroke it like this,” he whines, “gonna cum if I do but I wanna, I wanna! I wanna cum so bad! I wanna, had to wait so long, wannaaa!” He sobs wetly, ass clenching as he fucks his hands, the one palm twisting cruelly, slick and dragging along his frenulum. “CanIcum? Can I? CanIplease? Mmm! M-mm, fuuuuck…”

He pants, letting his head fall back. “Cute,” escapes him in a yip as his hips lurch. “C-cute! Cute! Oh my fucking— Cute! Cute, cute, cute, fuck fuck fuckfuckfuck—!”

He cums with a shrill whine, tongue hanging, fist tightening over his cock head, cum spurting past his thumb pressed over his slit, pungent and thick. His other hand strokes frantically, slick and hot and so fucking perfect.

“Ohhh my gosh,” he pants, blinking up at the ceiling. His body still buzzes with his orgasm, pulse purring in his skull. “Oh wow. Um.” He swallows, looking down to inspect the damage. His still-hard cock sits in his hands. When he tweaks his hand at the head, he winces in over-sensitivity, releasing his grip. His other hand rests at the base, pressing against his pubes, meat of his palm hot against his balls. He reaches down to absently fondle his nuts, feeling less intense sparks jolt up to his cock as he leans over, taking stock of the cum situation.

It’s not that bad. Most landed on the towel and his hand. “Came a lot,” he murmurs, his breathing returning to a more regular rhythm. He wipes his hands on the towel. “Phew. Um. Ah ha.” Embarrassment threatens to swallow him. He grabs his cock again, stroking the softening length and letting out a shuddering breath, painful thoughts dulled with the sensation. “Ohhh my gosh. I should not jerk off again right after, that’s crazy. Mm.” He swallows. “Okay, yeah, um. Refractory’s a thing, gotta let go of it now.”

He does, looking up at the pop filter, at the computer recording silently behind it. “Uh. S-sorry, this was probably pretty disjointed.” He slides off the bed, reaching down to fiddle with his balls again as he watches the recording continue. “Um. Well, thank you for listening. I hope you have a nice day, ah, wherever that is. B-bye.”