Chapter Text
The dorm halls were quiet, just after midnight.
Most of Class 1-A had collapsed early from the long joint training session with 1-B. Even Bakugo had burned himself out more than he’d like to admit. He’d showered, thrown on sweatpants, and cursed the ache in his back while heading to bed. But something kept buzzing in his head.
Midoriya.
He hadn’t seen Deku since the exercise ended. That wasn’t like him — the nerd always came back for dinner, always buzzed about someone’s performance. Maybe he was in the training room longer than expected. Maybe he was icing an injury. Or maybe—
Bakugo clicked his tongue and knocked once before cracking open Midoriya’s door.
“Izuku—”
The room smelled like muscle balm and warm soap.
Midoriya was there, shirtless, facing away, toweling off his hair. The overhead lamp was off, but his bedside light glowed soft and gold — enough to see the sweat still on his back, the fresh bruises blooming under his shoulder blades, the faint red line where someone’s capture tape had rubbed raw against his waist.
Bakugo’s throat went dry. His hand stayed on the door.
“...Kacchan?”
Midoriya turned.
Chest bare. Hair damp. Skin flushed. Wide green eyes blinking at him like he hadn’t noticed Bakugo standing there with every muscle locked in place.
“You okay?” Deku asked, stepping forward.
Bakugo shut the door behind him without thinking.
And locked it.
Midoriya’s brows lifted.
“What’s—?”
“Don’t—” Bakugo rasped. His voice cracked like it’d caught on heat. “Don’t stand there like that. You don’t even know what you’re doing.”
Midoriya looked down, blinking at himself. “I just got out of the shower.”
Exactly.
That’s what made it worse. The casualness. The openness. The fact that Deku looked this good and didn’t know what it did to him.
“I came to check if you were okay,” Bakugo muttered. “And you’re just... fuck.”
Midoriya stepped closer, carefully, a small smile ghosting at the corner of his mouth. “I’m fine. You’re the one who looks tense.”
“Don’t start.”
“I’m not starting anything.”
Bakugo's hand came up, fingers brushing the side of Deku’s jaw, then sliding behind his neck. He could feel the pulse there, wild and ready. Deku didn’t flinch — just leaned in with that quiet, desperate hunger he never voiced but always showed with his body.
The kiss landed sharp. Heated. Immediate. Bakugo pushed him back with force, guided by instinct more than thought, and Midoriya let him — gasping as his knees hit the bed and he sat, then laid back, willingly.
“Tell me to stop now,” Bakugo muttered, hovering above, breath hot against Izuku’s lips. “Because if you don’t... I won’t go easy tonight.”
“I don’t want you to,” Midoriya breathed.
That was all he needed.
Bakugo’s hands were rough, fast, wanting, pressing into every new mark, mapping bruises like they were art. He stripped Deku’s towel away, then pulled his own sweatpants low — just enough — and pressed his hips between Izuku’s thighs, grinding until the other boy arched up with a low, choked moan.
“Kacchan—”
“You feel that?” Bakugo hissed, panting as he rutted against him. “I’ve been like this since I saw you. Fuck.”
He grabbed Deku’s wrists and pinned them above his head, leaning down to bite at his collarbone, at his jaw, at the curve of his neck that always made him squirm. Izuku gasped and writhed, but didn’t pull away.
He never did.
“Use your safe word if it’s too much,” Bakugo whispered, voice hoarse. “I mean it, Izuku.”
“I know. I won’t need it.”
They kissed again — deeper this time, filthier, with tongues meeting and breath shared. Bakugo gripped his hips and thrust in one sharp movement. Deku cried out, fingers curling into the sheets, face twisting from the sudden stretch.
“F-Fuck—Kacchan—!”
“Too much?”
“N-no. Just... keep going—don’t stop—”
Bakugo bit his lip, his chest tight with need and guilt and longing. Deku was always so warm. So tight. So loud. And right now he looked wrecked — already flushed red to his ears, tears threatening at the corner of his eyes, and Bakugo couldn’t tell if it was too much or just right.
He started moving, slow at first, then harder — deep, controlled thrusts that made the bed creak under them. Izuku writhed and sobbed out his name, back arching with each slam of Bakugo’s hips.
Bakugo’s hands gripped his thighs, bruising maybe, and his chest tightened again.
What if he actually hurt him?
What if he went too far?
What if—
“Kacchan,” Midoriya whimpered, arms sliding around his neck, pulling him down. “Don’t stop. Please.”
That was the moment Bakugo melted, just a little. He kissed Izuku’s cheek, then his temple, then pressed his forehead against his.
“You tell me the second it’s too much, nerd. I swear to god.”
Midoriya nodded, breath hitching.
And Bakugo kept going, rough and fast and deep, but always watching — always ready to pull back, always reading his face.
He would take care of him.
No matter how wrecked he looked beneath him, Bakugo would always, always make sure he was okay—