Archive of Our Own ^beta

Izuku knows exactly where he stands. He is a hero, now. He has a decent sized apartment. He wants a house, some day. (He could probably afford it, too, but it sounds like so much space to have to himself.) He is a person who is determined, sometimes irrationally, and he is analytical by nature. A realist, who sees the sincere truth so that he can figure out how to overcome it.

Izuku had known exactly where he stood when Bakugou kissed him in their second year of high school. With his back shoved rough against the rooftop railing, digging into his spine, with their teeth clacking together awkward, with the other boy's clammy hands, smelling like smoke, all balled up in his shirt. Izuku had known even then that he was just an outlet, just an experiment, like an object being used to satiate curiosity. A play-thing.

Hormones. It was hormones, and of course Bakugou was overwhelmed with them. Of course he wanted to know what it was like to kiss someone. Of course he cared so little that he would demand Izuku where he wanted him without explanation. Izuku had not held any illusions that this meant anything beyond how disposable he was.

He had been proven right by the way Bakugou avoided him for a week before falling right back into bullying.

It was not spoken of, it was not repeated. Not really.

Well, maybe once or twice.

Blips, just glitches on a radar.

There was one time. They had run a rescue mission together and been locked up in an empty room for three days. They had spent two days across the room from one another in tense silence, each attempt Izuku made at conversation dying in the air between them. On the third day they had been tangled up in each other's laps, still without words as they exchanged spit and hot breath instead.

The other time was during winter vacation in senior year. Kaminari had gotten ahold of alcohol. Izuku was never as close with that crowd. He didn't mind, didn't dislike them any, didn't feel left out. He had his own friends, after all. Karaoke and shopping dates with the girls was plenty for him. Movies with Iida and Todoroki.

Even if he'd been invited, he wouldn't have drank underage like Kaminari's crew did, anyway. Primarily for fear of getting in trouble. Like they had.

When it came time for half to take their parents' scolding and the other half to bolt, somehow Kirishima had deduced that the best place to drop a stumbling-drunk Bakugou was Izuku's house.

His mom hadn't asked questions, allowing them to have an impromptu sleepover, but Izuku doesn't blame her. She's never really been in on how complicated things are with the two of them.

Izuku hadn't asked questions either, just accepted Bakugou into his room, and accepted Bakugou's incoherent mumbling into his mouth until he passed out beside him.

These kisses have repeated in Izuku's mind for years. Literally years, he scolds himself, mind racing at a million miles an hour about how ridiculous he is, about how he is a Goddamn adult now. He assures himself that he is just obsessing, and in time he will forget. Slowly, he will think less of chapped lips, rough on his. Of strong arms holding him in place.

Someday, he is sure he will be able to sleep at night without wishing he had ever done more than whimper and be thrown aside.

***

He doesn't ever forget. Not really. He thinks about it less than he did in school, less than he did fresh out of school, but it still lingers.

The villain of the day is weak, to be honest. But he is clever, and with an inconvenient quirk. No, maybe Izuku is just making excuses for why there was time for backup to arrive. Maybe he's slacking. Maybe he's preoccupied.

A bank-robbery conducted by duplicate clones. Hostages. Classic mafia-movie showing off. It's almost endearing, really, when they don't have any idea how to commit crime beyond imitating media.

Bakugou is his back up, though he shouts his head off insisting the opposite. Izuku does not bother arguing, does not point out that he had gotten there first, that he did not need the help. He just laughs. Izuku takes half of the duplicates out - Bakugou takes the rest.

It is the first time he has seen Bakugou in – he doesn't even know how long. Years. How many? His mind tries to do the math but fumbles it up when muscular arms bump his by mistake, when light through the stained-glass windows catches smoke in the air, makes rainbows in blond hair.

He cannot get a word in between the action of the fight and Bakugou's bitching. This is endearing, for some reason. He is an idiot for being delighted.

Outside, Uraraka waits to see if she is needed. In light of the answer being “no,” in the aftermath she invites them out to karaoke before they can part ways.

Karaoke is terrible. Izuku has become less insecure by leaps and bounds, and even learned to embrace a certain level of attention. Playing hero takes a high tolerance for cheesy lines and all eyes on you. It's part of the appeal, even. It's cool, and it's exactly what he admires, what he wanted.

Well, making light of a frightful situation to put others at ease is a bit different than standing in front of people you've known since you were a child and singing off-key. Knowing that you have the power to help people and save the day is different from knowing that you're practically tone deaf. His years of friendship with the girls and their karaoke addiction does not do him any favors. He has always been more prone to listening than singing.

Izuku hardly gets two lines of a song out before he is sitting back down, red-faced, beside Asui. Her expression is as difficult to read as ever, but she does not laugh at him, just claps and tells him he did his best.

Iida picks up where Izuku left off. He is always unashamed, in a way that makes Uraraka's eyes sparkle. Izuku wonders if this is new.

Bakugou looks ready to implode. This is to be expected. Even Uraraka had whispered to Izuku how surprised she was that he had come.

His knee bounces, the focus of all his concentrated energy from sitting otherwise still, from rising irritation, and from boredom. Izuku's anxiety feeds off of him, off of his furrowed brow and his clenched jaw. He tries to relax and mostly manages.

He wishes he were more caught up in Uraraka's smile. He used to be – for a decently long time. She had been like a polar opposite, someone warm and soft and soothing, someone encouraging. He had wanted that in a way that was just as real.

Uraraka is analytical. Like Izuku, almost. She is observant. She spouts her truths without a second thought.

That had made it increasingly clear to Izuku exactly where he stood. The romantic attraction had sort of burnt out from there.

And now, years later, years, he reminds himself, he can scarcely tear his gaze from Bakugou's sneer. This should have burnt out. It really, really should have. He knows where he stands.

His eyes follow the blond's lips as they press against the glass of his drink. Izuku does not particularly like alcohol, but he likes the idea of licking it from the other man's tongue. He likes the pink flush that has been slowly rising on his cheeks.

His own cheeks are not cooling down, even three songs later. He just needs a breather. He needs a tiny break from being glowered at. He excuses himself to the restroom.

For as noisy as the individual karaoke booths are, the halls are quiet. The soft carpet underfoot keeps his steps from making a sound as he pads his way to the restroom. He splashes water on his face. Dabs it dry with a paper towel. Breathes in. Breathes out.

The door slams open, then closed.

“Kacchan,” Izuku says, aware that his voice comes out oddly calm for how startled he is. He wants to ask why he's there, why, when you were the one I wanted to get away from, but keeps his mouth shut. It's a restroom. There are only so many conclusions to be drawn.

He wonders why he still uses this nickname. They were far from friendly, even back in school. They don't talk, anymore. They are caught up in their own things, in their work as heroes. In – whatever else they do. Izuku feels himself getting stupider in proximity to Bakugou. This is a mean thought. He knows Bakugou is smart.

“You suck at singing,” Bakugou tells him. He has been quiet in the karaoke booth, after so much shouting at the attempted bank robbery. The middle-ground sound of his voice is jarring. Gravely and lower than it is loud, but echoing off the tiles.

“Yes,” Izuku says, because what else is there to say to a fair observation?

“You couldn't even finish a fucking verse,” Bakugou says, and laughs. “And you keep looking at me, like...” He exhales loudly, as if he can't settle on a word to describe his annoyance.

If they were back in their school days, Izuku would have apologized and carried on. He would have hunched his shoulders in and brushed past the moment, and had to fight back a panic attack later in the day, pretending not to know why, just because it came hours later. He knows it is not coming, anymore. That's a blessing almost as good as seeing Bakugou after so long.

Today he just watches Bakugou, wary. He's always angry. And he has always been too oblivious to Izuku to notice how intently he is watched, to notice that it's his mouth. If he thinks Izuku is an idiot, fine. It's better than being recognized as a depraved childhood friend with a crush.

He thinks the other man will just storm past him, shove him aside maybe. He doesn't expect the hands that grip his arms tight. He doesn't expect to be pulled close.

Through narrowed eyes, Bakugou scans his face, like he is searching for something. Izuku isn't sure what he wants, what he should give. Izuku feels dizzy with his confusion, with how close they are. He thinks of Bakugou kissing him back, way back, in high school. For God's sake, he tells himself. Get over it.

His eyes dart to Bakugou's lips, and before he even finishes raising his gaze, their mouths have been jammed together by the blond.

He stumbles back with the force of it until the counter's edge is pressed hard and sharp into his waist, a familiar discomfort that comes with the territory. Most of the kisses he'd gotten from Bakugou were painful. Even now, Bakugou only follows the movement, pressing into him so hard he has to lean back into the edge.

There has to be a reason. He does not know what it is, and that's painful in its own way. He knows where he stands, sure, but he has no idea what goes on in the life of Bakugou, these days. Maybe he is going through a break-up. That can lead to these kinds of outbursts. Maybe he's just under a lot of stress. He hopes it's nothing to do with villains.

Izuku tilts his head, parts his lips, and invites Bakugou to take him over, to use him freely. He is short of breath, knees weak. Bakugou's tongue invades his mouth, hot and wet as it pushes against his own. Izuku's arms are bruising beneath the other man's fingers. He knows he has felt pain a thousand times worse, a thousand times over, but it is a heavy sort of feeling, an ache from his arms to his lungs in his chest.

“Hurts,” he says, because it is not stop. Bakugou's tongue traces over his bottom lip as the word slips out between heavy breaths. He does not expect Bakugou to care, but with the same hurried desperation of their kisses, the other man lets go of his arms, hands coming to cup his cheeks instead.

Izuku feels like he'll be swallowed up by those hands and that mouth, and clutches the hem of Bakugou's shirt feebly. Bakugou's fingertips slide back, weaving their way into his messy hair, gently guiding a tilt of his head as he goes straight back to kissing.

He's hard, Bakugou's thigh is shoved rough between his legs. His whole body burns up in shame, because he knows better, he knows where he stands, and why does his body think that them growing distant would change this? Why does his body think it's hot to be held too hard and pushed around?

Bakugou laughs into his mouth. Izuku feels his embarrassment branch off like lightning into a thousand other emotions. Into anger, sadness, resentment, bitterness, longing. It hurts, and not in the nice way. And disgust, because there should not be a nice way.

Bakugou draws back with his mouth, bites Izuku's lower lip softly. He presses forward with his leg, purposeful, knowing. Izuku's whole body is brittle, and he fails to bite back the whimper.

“You like when it hurts,” Bakugou says, before capturing his mouth again. Izuku can only moan weakly, the sound muffled.

He doesn't know how much time passes. It must be some sort of miracle that no one comes or goes from the room. Eventually they part. Bakugou's hands come back to hold his cheeks, enveloping his face, secure and warm. Izuku is painfully hard. He is heated, breathing uneven and labored, cheeks flushed from ear to ear. His head feels foggy. He feels like an idiot.

“No,” Izuku lies through his teeth.

Bakugou's expression hardens again. A moment ago he had almost looked like his childhood self, gleefully destroying a toy. Now he suddenly looks furious again. “No? No?! Are you kidding me right now?”

Izuku has to stop himself from blurting out, but if you want me to, that's okay, I can hurt, in his aroused desperation. Maybe they can go back to kissing. Maybe he could just touch him, or be touched, or anything to relieve this persistent ache.

“Kacchan,” Izuku tries, not sure what else to say. Bakugou lets go of him. His clenched fists at his sides spark like firecrackers. He only has the patience to wait for a moment, and Izuku has nothing to offer.

Bakugou leaves. The door slams behind him, again, the entire moment over as suddenly as it began. Izuku's knees slam against the bathroom floor.

It takes him a very, very long time before he can stand back up and return to the others. Bakugou is long-gone.

***

Maybe it's stress. Izuku does not think much of catching a summer cold. If anything, it is convenient that it catches him so close to his weekend, the days he is not on-call. That usually doesn't stop him, but even so, it's a slight relief to minimize the time he feels like he is slacking.

Uraraka and Iida stop by to check on him with shopping bags full of medicine and painkillers. It's over-kill. Asui comes by with a huge pot of carrot soup and a list of people who claim to have helped make it. The size is equally silly.

Todoroki comes and keeps him company for a day, with a beautiful, unnecessary bouquet that looks fresh from a hospital gift shop. Izuku's mother stops by once or twice and drops off her own meals for him. She reheats them when he is hungry. Does some household chores he has been putting off, despite him telling her not to.

Then he is alone again.

He can keep the soup down, mostly, and texts his gratitude to everyone. He just needs to sleep it off, and does so valiantly. He sleeps through the days, more of them than he had hoped, only waking up for hazy, feverish trips to the bathroom or for food and drink.

He has nightmares alongside strange, vivid dreams of nonsense. He dreams he wakes up so many times that he is not always sure when it is real. He dreams of sleepy conversations with his mother who calls to check on him, and confirms they never happened. Uraraka texts him about their phone conversation that he does not really recall happening.

This is why he is not entirely convinced that Bakugou is real, when he wakes up from an afternoon nap to the other man sitting by his bed. His perception of his presence is hazy. He half expects him to disappear when he calls out, when he reaches out, “Kacchan?”

Bakugou does not vanish. Izuku touches his shoulder, and Bakugou stares up at him. He is glowering, as if Izuku is the intruder here, but this is not particularly strange.

“I'm not here to feed you fuckin' soup or put wet towels on your forehead,” Bakugou warns him preemptively. Izuku nods, watching the way his mouth forms words, watching the white flash of his teeth in the dimly lit room.

Izuku raises his hand. He runs his fingers up Bakugou's neck, surprised that he is allowed to. His thumb traces from his jawline to his mouth. Bakugou's jaw is clenched hard, teeth grinding. Sometimes Izuku wonders if it hurts.

Izuku's finger ghosts over his teeth. He had not realized it was possible for Bakugou to look angrier, but when Izuku's hand twitches and he makes to pull away, the other boy leans in to it. Izuku's finger is slid along his smooth teeth, along his gums and behind his cheek. It is hot and moist. Curiously, his gears still spinning slow with sleep and sick, he feels his way around. Rubs against the inner walls of his mouth, then feels along his teeth.

Bakugou has to open his mouth wider to accommodate, tongue stuck to the side as Izuku's finger draws over his back teeth. Izuku tells himself that his breathing is labored because of his fever, that his temperature is sky high because he is sick. He can feel Bakugou's spit coating his fingers, threatening to spill out his open mouth. He feels his tongue move, awkwardly, with nowhere to rest that doesn't lead to him licking Izuku's finger.

Bakugou's expression of anger slowly becomes one of dispassionate acceptance. Blond lashes flutter shut, and bit by bit, he relaxes his jaw. Bakugou begins to look near as drowsy as Izuku feels. His shoulders slouch inward, eyelids heavy. He leans into the touch, inviting Izuku to explore his mouth further. It is strange to not be on the defensive.

Izuku likes the sensation of it, of invading Bakugou, of forcing his way in. His fingers being accommodated as he pushes the other man's lips open. He half convinces himself it is another dream for how bizarre it is. His voice is breathy when he manages to murmur, “Kacchan.”

He runs his finger over Bakugou's tongue, feels it flatten for him, then press up against his digit.

His breath hitches. As if in response, Bakugou's lips close around it, sucking for the briefest of moments before his mouth is open again. He looks up to meet Izuku's eyes, gaze defiant, like he is rejecting any control this implies Izuku has. Like he is scoffing at the idea that Izuku could be deluded into thinking this is his upper hand.

Each intake is shaky, and Izuku feels himself shivering. His whole body is too hot. He is beginning to realize that this is not a dream, and he is not sure how to reconcile that. He is not sure what he is supposed to do next after pulling his slicked fingers from Bakugou's mouth. He wants to smear the spit on the other man's cheek, and his mind quickly explains to him, rambling and verbose, that it would be some machismo based show of dominance, then veers off into a hundred side-thoughts on the matter, and what it means about himself.

He doesn't do it. He wipes his fingers on his blanket.

“I knew it,” Bakugou mutters.

Izuku doesn't understand. “Um,” he begins, but is not sure what he hopes to follow up with.

Thankfully Bakugou interrupts. “There's--” he begins, then immediately growls at himself and has to clear his throat. All the relaxation Izuku had read in his body is replaced with tension, with tight muscles and the cracking of his joints. “--Curry,” he tries again. “There's curry. If you're tired of the same bullshit soup every day.”

“Oh,” Izuku says. He wonders how he even got in to his apartment.

Bakugou does not slam the door when he leaves. When Izuku checks, there are still two meals from his mother, and a small portion of Asui's carrot soup. There is a new container of homemade curry, with perfectly cut ingredients.

There are yellow and orange flowers on the table.

He is slightly less sure of where he stands.

***

Adults move on. Izuku does not like this, but figures he is just particularly clingy.

It isn't as though his life revolves around Bakugou, or his crush on him, by any means. But here he is, still far, far too invested in his childhood friend. Bully. Rival? God, he doesn't even know, and spinning himself in circles over it is pointless.

Bakugou gave him flowers for a summer cold.

No, that probably isn't what he should be hyper-focused on. Bakugou let him shove his fingers in his mouth. That's weird for someone he's seen maybe twice in a year, even if they don't know that it's the penultimate jack-off material to you.

His eyes have always sought out Bakugou. Of course, he is aware of any other pro heroes, especially ones he went to school with. But Bakugou in particular, he hones in on, and always has. He catches any news broadcast that mentions him. Reads up on all his cases online. Like with everyone, sure.

He doesn't watch and re-watch anyone else's news clips, though.

Today, Bakugou comes to him. Hands shoved deep in his pockets like he is still a surly teenager, the blond snaps, in the middle of the sidewalk, “dinner.”

Izuku does not quite know what to do with that. He wishes he could inherently understand, wishes they had some sort of silent bond, but they do not.

“Alright?” Izuku says, unsure of what he is getting himself into. The sun is setting already, so he assumes it will be another day. Maybe even the kind of 'another day' that gets pushed back and pushed back until it is canceled. Like friends who do not want to admit that they do not want to spend time with you. Like unrequited crushes who know that you're creeping on them.

Except Bakugou drags him to dinner immediately, literally drags him, hand around his wrist. Izuku is lucky to have just been out on a walk for fresh air, free of plans. Or maybe Bakugou planned this somehow. That seems ridiculous, but he isn't sure how, otherwise.

It's an Italian restaurant, and far too formal for their scuffed jeans and T-shirts. No one complains about a hero, though, let alone two together. Izuku does not worry about tabloids very often, least of all with Bakugou. If they have anything to say, they'll probably be right. Childhood friends, rivals, reuniting after time apart. Bonding.

Well, something like that. Izuku knows it ends there.

Dinner is nice. He doesn't eat out very often, these days. He's started to enjoy cooking as he gets older, but there's something nice about having food brought hot to your table. He's by himself so often, and going out feels like a waste when you're alone. It's a novelty.

Bakugou eats. Izuku eats. He lets his eyes wander the interior of the restaurant, taking in the nice ambiance. It's romantic, really. Dimly lit. Red carpet, cream-colored walls painted gold with candle light. Each table hosts a pretty couple whispering quietly to each other like no one else in the world matters.

So why are they here?

He fends off the awkwardness as best he can, but they are quiet until the wine.

The wine, at Bakugou's request, makes it easier. With wine, Bakugou talks about heroics. He laughs about Kirishima's antics. They used to be roommates, fresh out of high school, but have since separated. They still spend time together constantly. Izuku has always lived by himself. It's nice to hear about it. It makes him nostalgic for something he's never had.

Bakugou talks about a persistent fanboy he rescued last month with a foreign sort of glee. It suits him. Izuku used to wonder if these parts of being a hero even appealed to Bakugou, or if he just liked winning fights and being praised, and figured this was the easiest way to get both. He had never questioned his dedication, his heroism itself.

He looks to Izuku, and when Izuku laughs along with him, he grins. It's not a new expression, but it's strange to have it directed at him, strange for it to lack malice. Strange for it to host fondness.

They even talk about their days in school together. There are plenty of times they brush past, smoothly evading anything complicated. They do not really mention the bullying. But missions, assignments, and classmates are all fair game.

And then love lives.

“A-ah,” Izuku stutters, his face just slightly warm from drinking. “Well – Asui has been seeing--”

“Yours, dumb-shit. Your love life.” Bakugou sneers, but it is oddly cheerful. “No, let me guess. None?”

Izuku huffs playfully. “I'm very busy with stopping villains, you know!” He has flirted with people before, and he does not consciously avoid relationships. Not really, he tells himself. After all, there had been a brief stint with Todoroki. They had kissed twice and decided to call it quits. Their dates worked much better as friend-dates. Even if he was a really, really nice kisser. Izuku decides not to mention this. “What about you?”

Bakugou waves a dismissive hand. “Flings.”

Izuku raises an eyebrow, pausing mid-bite.

To elaborate, as if the concept is complicated, the blond adds, “fuck-buddies. You know?”

Izuku thinks of their encounter in the karaoke bathroom. Oddly, he thinks of feeling up Bakugou's mouth. He knows it was probably only erotic to him, but it's hard to imagine Bakugou was completely unaware. He nods slowly. This helps. He knows where he stands. “Yeah, um... I get that.”

“Not right now, though,” Bakugou says quickly, looking somewhat put-out.

“Oh,” Izuku says. “Okay?”

So this is not leading there, tonight. He nods. He understands. Message received, he thinks to himself, feeling proud of his interpretation skills.

They still have a good time. Enough that Bakugou throws an arm around his shoulder as they leave and walks him all the way home that way. He is heavy and off-balance, and walking with an arm around him is actually difficult to coordinate. Izuku does not complain for fear it will stop.

At the doorstep of his apartment, Bakugou pulls away to take out his cell phone. Izuku complies, and they exchange numbers. They make more small-talk, though it is mostly Bakugou complaining about whatever tiny things about the night were not perfect. Izuku nods along, agreeable. He enjoys pandering to Bakugou's moods when they aren't entirely directed at him.

Where he is usually rough, this time his hands come to hold Izuku's shoulder gentle, tentative.

For the first time, their kiss is not a mash of mouth to mouth, his bottom lip is not nearly bitten off. Not that he dislikes that, but this softness is nice too. A proper kiss, lips slotted together like they belong, like it is natural. He can almost pretend this isn't some weird hopeless thing that Bakugou torments him with obliviously.

When they part, Izuku opens his eyes in time to see Bakugou drawing back, eyes still shut. His eyebrows are furrowed, but there is still a trace of relaxation in his face, in his loose jaw.

“U-um,” Izuku stammers out, unsure if he is supposed to invite Bakugou inside or not. He tries to keep the thoughts internal but they spill out like four glasses of red wine. “I know you mentioned that you don't have any fu-um, flings. Right now. So, I know I'm not supposed to – or am I? I don't really know if you want me to invite you inside or not. I mean, I'm alright either way, which alarms me, but this was so similar to a date, and then getting a kiss at the end, so I don't want to seem like I'm not taking a hint that you want to come inside? But then was saying you don't have any flings right now a hint that you don't want to–”

“–Oh God, you still do this?” Bakugou cuts him off. “Holy shit, shut up.”

Izuku snaps his mouth shut, obedient.

“I was,” Bakugou says, and interrupts himself to let out a frustrated sigh. He runs a hand through his hair. “We're taking it slow.” It sounds like a question.

“Okay?” Izuku offers. Taking what? He wants to know.

There is an uncomfortable silence. Izuku shifts his weight. Bakugou scowls.

Volcanic, Bakugou blurts out, “if this is going to work, doesn't it have to be on your bullshit terms? So like, whatever you want?”

“This,” Izuku repeats.

“This. You think I'd let you shove your whole fucking hand in my goddamn mouth without ulterior motives, you weirdo?”

Izuku flinches back, face burning up quick. “Wha—I was feverish and delirious and didn't know what I was–”

“–Yeah sure, whatever, you're super innocent,” Bakugou interrupts again. “You're definitely not a sexually depraved nerd with an oral fixation.” Then he grins, the bastard, all shiny teeth and gums.

“Kacchan,” Izuku whines, because this is just bullying on a slightly more mature topic.

After a growl, Bakugou says, “Look, ass-face, I don't make you put it into words, why the fuck should I have to?”

“Because I don't understand?” Izuku tries, stammering and raising his hands almost defensively. He is beginning to suspect he does not know where he stands at all. But without the context of being used as an outlet, as Bakugou's personal libido punching bag, the night at karaoke doesn't make sense.

Then again, his fever-dream doesn't make sense with that story to begin with.

He knows better than to hope. He has had a thousand small moments with Bakugou that he had hoped and prayed and cried for when he was younger, hoping they would finally smooth something over between them. It has been happening since Goddamn elementary school, and he isn't so naive that he'll let it happen again.

A small voice in the back of his head still tells him, maybe those moments mean something.

The much louder voice assures him more confidently: this is just extended bullying.

“Fuck, I'm just trying to–” Bakugou begins, but this time Izuku is the one to cut him off, voice shaky with the realization.

“–That's all, isn't it? You're just trying to – f-fuck. With me.” He means it in both senses. Bakugou is torturing him again, luring him into a false sense of security just so he can hurt him more, and laugh. Maybe that's just another outlet. Emotional or sexual, he knows he is only here to be used.

“Don't interrupt me, asshole!” Bakugou snaps, as if he has not casually interrupted him all night.

“Whatever you're trying to do to me – don't,” Izuku counters, and turns to head inside. It's exhausting, being played with. He's tired.

Bakugou catches his wrist and tugs him back. Izuku knows he is the stronger of them, but he is caught off guard enough that it works. When he wrenches away, it is hard enough to make them both stumble.

Less than an hour ago they were laughing over dinner and wine. Less than five years ago Bakugou told him to kill himself. His mind won't allow him to let go of either.

Izuku tells him, “there's no taking anything back.”

“No shit, no one is trying to.”

It isn't forward-facing to still pine for Bakugou, Izuku reminds himself. It isn't forward-facing to seek validation from the one who left you feeling like you needed it to begin with. He is bitter at himself for feeling this way and at Bakugou for making it happen.

“You said you don't want it to hurt,” Bakugou mutters furiously. “But you still look at me that same stupid way. But whatever. Okay. You said, so I'm fucking trying.”

Izuku's mind reels. He had been staring. It hadn't been random, in the karaoke restroom. It had been because Bakugou knew how he was being looked at. Bakugou is observant. He's smart. Izuku knew this.

That doesn't matter.

“Did you think I ever wanted you to hurt me?” Izuku demands. He feels like crying, feels the familiar lump in his throat. He swallows it back. “That's a ridiculous excuse for everything. You just want to push the blame on me and say you didn't know, like it's my fault for not speaking up. And now that I told you to stop hurting me, you'll just stop it? That easy?”

“Of course I didn't think you wanted to be bullied, holy fuck, Deku.” The blond throws his hands in the air, exasperated. “I'm just saying from here on.”

It comes out as a vehement whisper. “Is this any different?”

Bakugou's hands fall to his sides so that their sparking does not hurt anyone, does not catch anything on fire. Izuku thinks, with disdain and guilt for it all at once, that this is what Bakugou's self control amounts to. Minimizing the inevitable damage.

Bakugou who still, as a hero, cannot contain his anger or his fire, but who brought him flowers and food when he was sick. Took him on a date. Dropped him off at home, ready to leave with just a kiss at the door.

It is difficult to reconcile the niceties with the boy who teased him mercilessly. And now he has the audacity to act like he's pursuing anything more than sex, as if he cares about Izuku, as if he is a human being who is capable of compassion for him.

Even this attempt at kindness has been littered with yelling, interruption, insults. Izuku has to remind himself of this, past all the parts he loved enough to overlook it. Past the small part of him he wants to crush, that takes perverse pleasure in those exact things.

“You like me,” Bakugou insists. “So let this – let me be good.”

Izuku bites back the reflexive argument. It's bizarre to hear Bakugou giving him any semblance of control. It has been years for Bakugou to mature plenty, he knows, but he cannot wrap his mind around it. It took long enough to even process and recognize how bad it had been from his own side, let alone trying to understand an absent person's growth from there.

“Good night, Kacchan,” he says, instead. He wants Bakugou to grab his wrist again and stop him. He doesn't want the fight to continue, but he doesn't want to go be alone, he doesn't want Bakugou to stop trying after this.

Bakugou does not follow. Izuku knows this is a good sign. He knows that. His heart doesn't.

***

A person who cares about you can hurt you by mistake, Izuku thinks to himself. Of course they can. But torture is different. Not just feeding, but creating anxiety. That takes malice, pure and simple. Bakugou is amazing. Was amazing. This does not excuse him. Izuku tells himself this, because it is a conclusion that took him far, far too long to accept.

He repeats it in his head like a mantra, that Bakugou has been very Not Okay to him. To think it would be over would be to stare at clouds and call the sun dead.

Just because Bakugou has some sort of fixation on him and he's used to getting what he wants. God, to the extent that his first step towards apparently trying to make amends and get what he wants with Izuku had been to corner him in a karaoke bathroom and kiss him until it hurt. To insist to his face that you like when it hurts.

He does. He does, he does, he does. The problem is that he is not stupid enough to ignore that as a red-flag. He figures that's the type of thing you're supposed to tell someone you're already with, not seek out. Not something to be used to get with someone.

It's easy to think in composed, logical words, but he knows his red-cheeks give away how difficult it is.

He gets a text message exactly two weeks later. He hadn't forgotten they had exchanged numbers, he just hadn't expected anything to come of it. Rather, he had spent the last two weeks aggressively talking himself out of calling to apologize when he hasn't done anything wrong.

It tells him a time and a place.

He is stupid, and he obeys.

He knows that he shouldn't. He even tries to dress decently and get his hair to calm down. He's a mess. Not just in the unimpressive results of his efforts to look nice, but in his heart that pounds so fast that he sort of wants to tear it out.

“You showed,” Bakugou says, when he saunters over to meet him in the movie theater lobby. He sounds surprised.

Izuku's laugh comes out nervous.

He's able to relax, so fast that he is sort of angry with himself.

It reminds him of high school, when he used to go see movies with his friends. Chatting and joking, bickering over snacks to buy. It's fun. Better than standing up in front of everyone and having to sing, at least. If he had to choose a favorite social outing, sitting in a dark room with no pressure to entertain is certainly high on the list.

The movie is amazing. It's some sort of middle ground between a documentary on a past-hero and an action flick. Izuku points out all of the falsities and Bakugou tells him to shut up each time. But he laughs. With his eyes scrunched up, flashing teeth, he laughs.

Izuku's eyes drift to Bakugou in the darkness, over and over. He watches the light flicker across his cheeks, watches it catch his hair in neon. Sometimes Bakugou catches him staring. He elbows him with a scowl, but does not say to stop.

They share popcorn and a drink, though Bakugou hogs them both.

It isn't so bad.

Bakugou holds his hand, near the end of the film. Izuku is ashamed for the way his fingers twitch, and like he is overcompensating for his fear, he entwines them tight. Bakugou squeezes. He squeezes back.

He does not recall the end of the movie as well as he would like.

Bakugou walks him home again. They hold hands. They discuss the movie. They bicker, as always, though Izuku supposes it's less one-sided than it used to be. Bakugou takes to tossing leftover popcorn into the air, trying to catch it in his mouth. He is usually successful, but Izuku prefers when he misses for the brief offended pout that crosses his face. Sometimes he digs out unpopped kernels and pops them in his palm.

These things remind him of when they were young. He is not sure if he is endeared to it or frightened by it.

At his doorstep, Bakugou shifts his weight, awkward, until finally Izuku is the one to kiss him goodnight.

“Okay,” Izuku says, not drawing back. His lips drag across Bakugou's with his words. “You want whatever this is to work. So be good.” He does not think about how lewd that sounds until a moment too late.

Bakugou does not pull away, either. Izuku feels his shiver, and knows it is not the chill of evening air. “If that's what you want.”

“Come inside.”

“Is that being good?”

It isn't. They are both a tangled mess of mixed signals and conflicting wants. Bakugou wants to be in control, always, but wants Izuku badly enough to try and give some of it up. Izuku wants to be hurt. He wants to be used. But he knows that even inside himself it is complicated, and his logic screams against those wants, because he is afraid of them. He wants them in some ways and not in others, but knows that Bakugou is capable of everything terrible.

“It's probably,” he begins, starting calm, feeling Bakugou's light intake of breath. “I mean, I think, it's probably my mind trying to take back control of things that hurt me by recreating them as if they were positives. Like dealing with trauma by fantasizing about the same situation. The fact that you're fantasizing means you're in control of it and you've taken back control from the reality, so you fantasize about weak moments but actually have more power now because you're the one--”

Bakugou's head jerks away. Izuku wonders how long they stood, lips to lips, not even kissing. “Oh for fuck's sake, Deku, shut the fuck up. Do you want me inside or not?”

That sounds lewd, too.

“Yeah,” Izuku breathes. “Come inside.”

***

Izuku's fingers are in Bakugou's mouth again. His hand cups the man's cheek, thumb jammed between his lips, pushing against his tongue, almost stroking it. Izuku's back is against the wall, head knocked against it as he leans back to look up at the other man. Bakugou has him straddled, hips resting heavy on Izuku's lap. He is slouching, whole body relaxed from the shoulders down, even as he leans forward, offering his mouth.

Oh, Izuku realizes, distantly. He is in charge.

It isn't as though he hasn't thought of fucking Bakugou before. Of course he has. Guiltily – with shame and frustration tinting all his fantasies until jerking off had nearly made him more stressed instead of less. But he had thought of it, even so. Self indulgently, with anguish, he had thought of it.

He just had usually pictured Bakugou on top. Not because it was his personal preference, per-say, but because it was just easier to imagine. After all, there is something to fantasizing about a loss of control. Then you don't have to be responsible for what you want. You can push your desires and demands onto the other person, or a daydream figment of them, anyway. There's nothing strange about you wanting these things. You don't even want them. It's all them, and so you are free of guilt or shame.

Submissive Bakugou has never really come to mind easily. Izuku is grateful for him, now, and all the tiny details that keep him Kacchan. The way he looks down at him with half-lidded, demanding eyes. His arms are slack in front of him, hanging loose like he has forgotten he even has them. He licks Izuku's fingers and lets him thrust them, fuck, let's him push them in and out of his mouth. A small line of saliva trails down his lips to his chin.

Izuku shivers, and has to hiss back his own drool. Embarrassing. There is no way he is not the one being indulged. He draws his fingers out and has to arch his back to mash their lips together, tongues quickly entwining. That tongue that wrapped so nice around his fingers pushes against his own. He has to catch his own impatient moan.

His hands fumble their way to unbuttoning Bakugou's slacks. They are loose enough to slide down, and his briefs easily follow, tugged down just enough to free his erection to the cool bedroom air. The spit on his fingers helps to lubricate his grip, but with how much Bakugou's cock drips with precome, it's far from needed. He fists his hand around his length, sliding up and down carefully.

Bakugou's hips stutter forward, pressing into his grip. His whole body goes heavy, hunching over until his head buries in the crook of Izuku's neck.

“Fuck,” Bakugou mutters under his breath, his voice low, and directly into Izuku's ear. He could set the pace if he wanted, but his thrusts are tiny, minute motions, as weak as the trembling shudders through his body. “Fuck,” he says again, “can't you – shit.”

“Do you need something, Kacchan?” Izuku asks. Bakugou bites his neck, hard, as if punishing him for asking. It's a poor punishment, given the way it makes Izuku's own cock throb against his jeans. That's cute. It's too cute. He wants to tell Bakugou how endearing it is that he can't just ask for what he wants, how adorable his embarrassment is. He gets the feeling he might die for it.

That might not be so bad.

His own voice startles him for how low it is. “What do you need?” Teeth on his neck again, a harsh bite, painfully suckled while the skin is still raw and sensitive. He whimpers at the sensation, his grip stroking Bakugou's cock tightening.

Bakugou doesn't answer. Izuku didn't expect him to. Instead he is graced with a ghost of tongue licking at his shoulder; hair tickling his cheek. His own hips rise uncontrollably, desperately seeking the friction of his jeans and of Bakugou's weight on his lap.

“Your mouth is so hot,” Izuku murmurs, tilting his head to expose more of his neck for him. He isn't sure if he's rewarded or punished for his words, but it makes him bite his lip to keep in a moan either way. He quickens the pace of his hand, jerking Bakugou off rough. Warm puffs of breath on his skin prove how he likes it; teeth grazing his jaw ask for more. Pain all up his neck sets the pace.

He can feel him getting close, feel the pulse of his cock, the quickening of his breath. The desperation as he starts to push into his hand harder. “Good,” Izuku encourages, quiet. “Good, Kacchan. Come for me.”

The praise seems to do something, based on the violent shudder that overtakes Bakugou's body. It is only a couple moments longer before Bakugou comes with a strangled sound, his lips loose around Izuku's earlobe. It lands hot and sticky on Izuku's shirt.

Bakugou's head is heavy and sweaty on Izuku's shoulder as he mutters under his breath, “fuck you, tell me what to do, fuck off with that.” He draws back slow, spent and lazy. Izuku does not mind, particularly. This is plenty to work with for when he is alone. He doesn't expect to be tended to. Even Bakugou trying to “be good,” whatever that even means, is still Bakugou.

Then Bakugou's hands come to rest on Izuku's thighs as he climbs down from on top of him. He doesn't stand up, doesn't leave. He slides down and makes quick work of Izuku's pants. Even as Izuku arches up off his bed to help slide them down, he is murmuring, “you don't have to do anything...”

“No shit,” Bakugou snaps before biting into his inner thigh. Izuku's cock twitches violently at the pain. He lets out a hiss at the wet sensation of tongue trailing up from his thigh to his balls. From there Bakugou licks higher, mouth suckling up the side of his shaft until he reaches the head of his cock. He takes it into his mouth all at once, a sudden, overwhelming warmth.

Izuku has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep it together, just from watching that mouth stretch around him, lips puckered up and swollen. Bakugou is rough. His teeth scrape every so often. He sucks hard, and takes Izuku in so deep that he should be gagging. Izuku catches himself thrusting his hips up into it. Bakugou's hand squeezes rough on his hip, but he does not push him back down. He leans into it, let's him do it.

He had not expected a blowjob, and expects even less that Bakugou will take a mouthful of his come gracefully. He tries to warn him, “I'm – close, Kaccha-ahn...”

Bakugou hums, and does not pull back. His fingers squeeze, bruising hardened skin, red now, purple later. Izuku bites back all sound, coming silently with a rope of come shooting out into Bakugou's mouth. In response, he opens wide, taking the rest; allowing it to spill out and letting Izuku see it drip from his tongue.

Then he swallows.

“Kiss me,” Izuku blurts out, breathless, knowing he needs to stop giving commands.

Bakugou raises a hand as if he is about to wipe his mouth with its back, but catches himself and drops it. “Don't have to tell me,” he complains, but obeys even so. He pushes up into Izuku hard, the taste of come on his tongue mingling into Izuku's own mouth.

When they part, their heavy breaths still mixing together, saliva and come faintly dribbling on Bakugou's chin, Izuku does not think before murmuring “I love you, Kacchan, I love you so much.” He knows this is not new information. There's no way Bakugou hasn't known for years.

That's the problem, isn't it? Bakugou knows all his secrets and he's ready to blow through them without any of Izuku's rationality or hesitance. He knew he loved him and knew he wanted him, and had been ready to move forward with that without so much as confirming it first.

Yet his face is immediately fire-red, all-but glowing, his expression somewhere between baffled and offended.

He stammers out, “wha—I—shut up, Deku, I know!”

“Is that more embarrassing than this?” Izuku wonders, pointedly wiping Bakugou's chin for him with his thumb. The fact that he can open his mouth so nice for his come, can drool for it without shame, but flusters over being confessed to is amazing in its own way.

“It should be embarrassing for the one who wants it, not the one indulging them,” Bakugou retorts. “I'm just fucking generous.” Izuku supposes this is true. It's all theory over experience, but he's pretty sure kinks are meant to come up a little later in a relationship. And for them to be handled with enthusiastic acceptance is an outcome some people can only wish for.

Bakugou's brief, suave maturity dissipates, and he buries his face into a clean spot of Izuku's shirt. His arms wrap around Izuku's middle in what he assumes is meant to be a hug. Izuku rubs his back, almost idly.

It's... peaceful. Just relaxing together, cuddling, God. Briefly he thinks, if I could show my younger self this. Even such a simple thought immediately dissolves into internal rambling. Would it be healthy for his younger self to know that his torture leads here? Is it healthy that it has lead here? Is it better or worse to see that there is some metaphorical light at the end of the tunnel? What about when that light is from something so dangerously explosive?

Maybe he shouldn't be doing any of this. People mature, people grow, but their core does not change. Their bickering is fine, funny, even. What if it escalates? What expectations do each of them have, and will they be met? The honeymoon phase of the requited crush and resolved sexual tension is not going to cover for the damage of constant fighting, constant put-downs. The things he finds endearing are not, or shouldn't be. How long until that falls apart?

“Deku. Shut up.” Bakugou's voice drifts up to him, muffled. “You're fine. Love you, too. Stop thinking so loud.”

There is still pink at the tips of his ears beyond that shock of blond hair. He must have felt the way his hands paused before returning to the half-hearted back massage. Izuku wonders if the only way he could bring himself to say something sappy was to smash it into a complaint sandwich. This amuses him.

“Sure.”

***

They are dating, apparently.

Yes, Izuku rationalizes, this is generally what it means when two adults say they love each other and start sleeping together regularly. Sometimes people like the whole “no labels,” thing, but apparently, despite what Izuku would have guessed, that isn't a hang-up Bakugou has.

No. That particular issue is Izuku's. Every time Bakugou says something possessive he is torn between swooning or screaming-while-running-far-far-away.

He tries not to wince when Bakugou calls him his 'boyfriend,' but it doesn't work. Too bad Bakugou isn't as dumb as he seems; he notices. When he's questioned, or rather, interrogated, Izuku just dismisses it as embarrassment for the juvenile term. Bakugou doesn't look like he believes him, but he starts to say 'partner' instead.

Just in case, Izuku figures, mildly touched even though the problem isn't really solved.

Bakugou texts him, sometimes. He's terrible at it and frequently doesn't read Izuku's texts for three days, then replies with one word, if at all.

Somehow, Izuku is still endeared by this.

They don't go on many dates. They try for a while, inviting each other out places, but they get interrupted by villains so many times that Izuku is beginning to think it was a miracle they even had two proper dates. That's fine. He doesn't really like the stress and formality of it all.

They spend time at each others' homes, and do surreal domestic things like grocery shopping, and trading off making dinners. They watch movies on the couch, sprawled across each other like clingy teenagers. Izuku does not know that they will ever move in together, ever progress beyond chain-links that hook together at the edges of their own lives.

Part of him wants to be fearless, but he knows what it's like to lose people you love. That's a risk for heroes, always.

The ease with which Izuku holds his phone between shoulder and cheek, bickering with Bakugou over what movies to rent and what to make for dinner, is startling. Frightening. He learns just how to let his shoulder roll, loosening so that the phone slips down an inch to dull Bakugou's frequent shouting. He learns how many rings it takes for Bakugou to answer, and he learns how long it takes for Bakugou to be at his doorstep.

He is afraid of when those things will stop. 'Ending' is a risk any relationship runs, but Izuku does not fear Bakugou getting bored of him or that whatever fixation he has will be satiated and quelled so well that he will bail. After all, Bakugou isn't clingy worth words, but he is clingy, in a way that is hard for Izuku to articulate but impossible to deny.

Bakugou loves him, and Izuku knows where he stands.

Izuku loves Bakugou too. Just like he loves being a hero. Both are terrible risks, and both risks mix together into something even more frightful.

Bakugou still yells a lot. Izuku does not really flinch, these days. Bakugou bosses him around and makes plans without consulting him, and throws childish tantrums when he can't get his way. Izuku is working on not letting this get to him, but at least he got used to standing up for himself years ago.

Because Bakugou also leaves him water on his bedside table in the mornings, and doesn't pick movies Izuku would hate. Bakugou fusses over whether or not Izuku has eaten or not, and rages harder at villains than he does at Izuku.

“I want stir-fry udon,” Bakugou is insisting, for the hundredth time. “Like your mom makes. With zucchini.”

“I still don't make it as good as her,” Izuku reminds him, and has to shift his phone to the other side. He rolls his stiff shoulder as he pads about the kitchen. He had been seeking inspiration for what to make, but now it's been decided for him, and so he checks for the ingredients. “And that's what I made the last three times I cooked. Aren't you bored of it, yet?”

Bakugou huffs. “No. It's practice.”

“Spoiled,” Izuku mumbles. He lets the phone slip down again, Bakugou's muffled indignance still coming through loud. When he has quieted, Izuku readjusts. He examines the content of his fridge. “You get groceries, though, since it's on the way. When you keep asking for the same food, we run out of ingredients quick, you know?”

He likes to give Bakugou chores. It makes him complain, but there is a certain scowl he makes lately that is new. Izuku likes the shape of his lips. It's worth listening to his bitching, he figures. He'd like to be an optimist.

He'd like to be.

He is practically interrupting Bakugou's latest rant when he asks, “do you think this is safe?”

It's easier to ask scary questions when he can't see Bakugou's disappointment in him.

The other man has been at it long enough not to linger on having his complaints interrupted. There is a brief silence over the line, vague static and white-noise in Izuku's ear. Then, an irritated, “what?”

Izuku stares down the light inside his fridge. “Nothing. We're out of carrots, too.”

***

Bakugou is stretched out across the couch, one leg hanging off the side, bent at the knee so that his foot rests flat on the floor. Izuku lays on top of him on his stomach, arms crossed over Bakugou's chest. Nearly ten minutes ago, he asked Izuku what he had been trying to ask, earlier. He has been impressively quiet through the start and stop of a dozen failed sentences to explain.

“Well,” Izuku tries again, slowly. He starts to slip to the side, and Bakugou catches him with one arm, cradling him there. He has to fight back the urge to snicker at the position, at nothing but the still absurd idea of the two of them cuddling. He should be used to this by now, but there is a fear that shadows new familiarities. “You know, with being heroes. It's always dangerous for their friends and family. Their, um... Lovers.”

Bakugou's shrug comes from beneath him, rippling Izuku's position. “Bit late to be worrying about that.”

“Aren't you scared?”

Bakugou looks tremendously bored, and does not say anything back.

Izuku repositions himself, now curled up at Bakugou's side, squished between the other man and the back of the couch. It's kind of a relief to not be looking him in the eyes.

Sometimes they talk about terrible tabloid gossip, about heroes and their published love-lives, and Izuku thinks that this is not so strange, given their career. This is just how it is for heroes. Sometimes they have to talk about death. Sometimes they have to talk about how frightening it is when families are left behind. Izuku does most of the talking in these cases. But Bakugou listens, and Izuku knows he worries for others more than himself. Not out of selflessness, but confidence.

Izuku has already said too much about it. He has nothing new to say this time, just the same thoughts made more personal.

He is a pillar of hope, and knows that he would always encourage anyone to follow any relationship they wanted, no matter what their status was. He would never make light of, or dismiss the decisions to make those sacrifices, of course, but to anyone floundering, he knows he would tell them to follow their heart. Even if it's a risk.

It isn't as if they aren't together for fear of any danger. They are together. And they aren't afraid.

But sometimes he thinks of children whose parents never come home, of heroic parents who give up their children, and of heroes who leave their lovers just to protect them. He thinks of how few heroes have public relationships, have relationships at all.

Bakugou doesn't need protecting, he tries to remind himself. Neither of them are any sort of regular citizen.

The reminder isn't as helpful as he would like. He's always known that. The fear isn't rational, isn't based on how invincible he feels the both of them are.

“I figure,” Bakugou says, eventually, staring up at the ceiling with complete disinterest, “you don't really need protecting.”

Izuku knows that Bakugou does not, either. He knows. It just doesn't help.

***

When they migrate to the bed, Izuku tries to fix the pillows and lay down peacefully. Bakugou has other plans, pushing him and guiding him until he is sitting up, leaning against the wall while Bakugou straddles him. Izuku swallows. Bakugou must like this position, for how often they wind up in it.

“I like that you can take it,” Bakugou tells him.

Izuku shivers. He doesn't know how to take that. Is it a euphemism? Is that to denote who will be doing what? Or is Bakugou just admitting to how much he enjoys being a bully? “Um... I. Thank you?”

Bakugou speaks casually as he peels his shirt over his head. “It used to piss me off, because it was like losing. But I don't...” He falls into silence, his shirt still wrapped around his arms. He looks to become more frustrated the longer he searches for words, and Izuku reaches up to help tug the shirt away.

“I like it,” Izuku tells him, whispered like a sinful confession. It kind of is. He can't meet the blond's eyes, and instead stares hard at his hipbones, disappearing into loose sweatpants. He wants to lick the bony edges of them. He figures it has been a couple months, and is probably alright to finally say aloud what Bakugou has known this whole time. “Um. I mean, I like... I like when you hurt me.” Still, his rational brain makes him add, though he feels breathless, “sometimes.”

Bakugou's shirt drops beside them. His hand comes to cup Izuku's head, fingers weaving into his hair with far too little finesse for how tangled it is. Izuku winces, and Bakugou's breath stutters just slightly. He is struggling to contain a grin, “I like hurting you.”

Even after the admissions, as good as consent and understanding being exchanged, Bakugou's kisses start as soft as always. He arches on Izuku's lap, pressing their lips together and sliding his fingers deeper into Izuku's dark hair. Their breath is hot, mixed together, and Izuku feels his whole body warming up as the kisses deepen. As Bakugou's tongue runs across his bottom lip for permission, as his teeth nibble it before he gives the chance for an answer.

Bakugou's fingers grip his hair tight, painfully. He tugs, forcing Izuku to tilt his head back. He leans over him, overbearing, and Izuku's whole body tingles, the pain sending a shiver up his spine. He swallows back a whimper.

“Yeah?” Bakugou asks his voice heavy in Izuku's mouth. His grip in Izuku's hair tightens again, and as the smaller boy leans his head back into it, Bakugou kisses at his jaw, trailing up it until he can nibble at Izuku's earlobe. Izuku squirms, helpless underneath Bakugou's weight.

Then the blond rolls his hips. A slow, purposeful drag, tracing his weight over the noticeable bulge in Izuku's jeans. He laughs, burying his face in Izuku's neck as if there is no greater pleasure than the slow torturous grinding, as if Izuku should be ashamed of himself. Izuku bites his lip, chokes on a moan. He wants more friction, wants skin on skin, something other than his underwear and fucking jeans rubbing against him.

“I thought,” Bakugou murmurs, punctuation to the rhythm of his hips. “I'd let you fuck me. While you were pretending to be so fucking innocent and well-adjusted, I'd let you see what that's like.”

Izuku fails to contain it this time. He whimpers into Bakugou's shoulder, kissing it almost desperately just for something to do. Something to keep his mouth occupied so that he doesn't start begging. It's too soon for that.

“I'll probably still let you, sometime.”

He's pictured that enough now that his brain supplies him all the jerk-off material he's thought up over years. But what really sends his temperature skyrocketing is that Bakugou is telling him. Telling him his own version, murmuring in his ear, “you still don't have to do anything. You're easy to push around.”

As if to prove it, Bakugou's hand presses to his chest, palm flat, and pushes. Izuku is already against the wall. It isn't enough to hurt, but it's uncomfortable, being shoved when he can't back up any further. “Just have to get you on your back. Get your pants off. I bet you get off on small shit like that. Right?”

Izuku nods, too embarrassed to answer aloud. It isn't as if he ever got aroused while actually being picked on. But that isn't to say the memories of it hadn't come up at inappropriate times. There's nuance, his mind rushes to tell him, far more verbosely than he is in the mood for. Bakugou gets that, probably, so it's fine not to dwell on these thoughts right now.

Probably.

“Then I could ride you however I wanted. Hold you down so you don't fuck it up for me. Sound good?”

God, he doesn't even care anymore. Izuku can feel the bulge of Bakugou's erection touch his stomach at the end of each roll of his hips. He can see the way precome has left a wet dot at the tip of where his pants are strained. “Yeah,” he whispers, awed. It is still sometimes hard to wrap his mind around affecting Bakugou the way Bakugou affects him.

Bakugou finally draws back. A smug grin has his lips quirked up, like nothing amuses him more.

“Not today, though,” he says. He looks Izuku straight in the eyes, shameless, somehow. “I'm gonna fuck you until you cry.”

“Okay,” Izuku says.

He wants to cry almost immediately, as Bakugou drags across his lap one more time before pulling back. Bakugou watches him, his heaving chest, and laughs to himself. Izuku feels pathetic and weird, but Bakugou is here with him anyway, indulging him, glossy-eyed enough to give away that he's getting off on this just as much. That's part of the appeal, he guesses. Being at his weakest, his most pathetic, and being loved during it.

“Turn around,” Bakugou commands. “Hands on the wall. Ass up.”

Izuku's face flushes all over again, but he does as he's told. It's embarrassing. He isn't particularly insecure about his body, but he feels revealed and awkward. Vulnerable, as Bakugou tugs his pants and boxers down in one motion.

Bakugou's hands feel him up greedily, squeezing at his ass cheeks, spreading them apart. The lube is cold; Izuku tenses up, and again, Bakugou laughs at him. Izuku forgives him in an instant for the careful way his fingers probe inside of him. It's cautious and gentle, pushing inside of him. Like he is exploring his insides, stretching him out.

Izuku wouldn't mind if he were rougher. Maybe he is all talk. (Izuku wouldn't hate this, either. The sex they usually have is plenty good. And the words are so good, even without follow up.)

Bakugou's fingers slide deep inside him, then slip out equally slow. He almost cannot focus on the sensation for how fixated he is on his position, on Bakugou watching him so intimately. Except for – God it feels so nice. His lips part with no words in mind, so instead he just licks his lips and arches his back in plea.

“See? Look how good you take it. I bet I could slide in right now.”

Izuku's breath hitches. He's slick with lube, but hardly prepared at all. He imagines stretching out on Bakugou's cock, imagines the burn, the hurt of it, and the feeling of being pushed passed his limit. “No,” he whines, mostly for show.

Bakugou's fingers drag. His lips brush Izuku's ass cheek, then a graze of teeth before he pulls back. “No,” he agrees. “You'd like that too much, wouldn't you?”

Izuku makes a strangled sound, not wanting to answer something so lewd.

Bakugou's palm is up against his ass, fingers thrusting inside of him with wet, sloppy sounds. Izuku tries to rock back into it, tries to hurry things along. He does want Bakugou to fuck him, prepared or not. Able to admit it or not. Bakugou lets out a knowing hum, for once being compliant. His hand shakes, matching Izuku's rhythm, quickening for him.

“Kacchan,” Izuku groans, eventually, his palms sweaty against the wall. This isn't enough. It's good, but the pool of heat in his gut is overwhelming.

“Fine, fine,” Bakugou concedes, but Izuku doesn't miss how quick he moves; sliding his fingers out of Izuku and lining his cock up at his entrance. There is a guttural noise from the back of his throat, a needy sound as he curls over Izuku's back. “So fucking impatient, can't even let me fuck with you for fun.”

Rebelliously, Izuku pushes his hips back against Bakugou's cock, forcing him to sheath fully inside of him. He hears his own sigh, half relief and half pain. Like a punishment, Bakugou doesn't give him time to adjust, not when he's done this to himself. Instead he starts moving immediately.

The feeling of Bakugou's cock thrusting in and out of him, of being stuffed full, is so good. Like an itch being scratched deep, deep inside of him. Bakugou is hard and hot, and Izuku's tongue lolls out of his mouth. He is grateful to be facing away from Bakugou for fear of drooling, but he can't help it.

“Fuck, Deku,” Bakugou grunts, “you're so tight.”

He can't bite back the moan in response. Bakugou's hands are on his hips, holding him tight enough to bruise as he pushes into him. No matter how much he tries to steady Izuku's hips, Izuku is shoved forward, pressed hard against the wall. He crosses his arms in front of his face to cushion it – but the harsh push isn't so bad. He hears himself exhale, unwittingly, “oh, God, oh my – God, Kacchan.”

Bakugou's pace quickens. One of his hands moves, buries in Izuku's hair and tugs, hard. “That's right, you love this, huh?” Izuku's yes comes out strangled. Not that it matters with how Bakugou just keeps talking. “You like having my cock split you open, you like letting me fuck you into the wall. Can't believe – fuck – can't believe you're so slutty. You want me to touch you? You want me to make you come?”

Izuku moans a nonverbal yes. He feels full, feels the drag of that thick cock filling him up again and again. His own cock twitches at the offer, leaking in anticipation.

And then Bakugou slows. Bent over Izuku, his chest flush against Izuku's back, his thrusts become shallow and drawn-out. His hand slides from Izuku's hip down to his front to squeeze his inner thigh, but doesn't travel further despite the weak attempts Izuku makes to buck into the touch.

“Which would you rather?” Bakugou asks, and Izuku can feel him grinning into his shoulder, all sharp teeth and hot, labored breaths. “Want me to keep fucking you? Or want me to jerk you off? Pick one.”

Izuku whines, “I can't do that.” He reaches down with his own hand, ready to take care of himself if Bakugou won't. He expects to be stopped. Instead Bakugou's hand just covers his, sliding over his cock with him.

“Yeah, that's it,” Bakugou murmurs, voice low. He grinds into Izuku, burying himself deep inside him with every thrust. “Make yourself come. Fuck yourself on my cock, that's it. That's so dirty.”

So disgusting. Bakugou doesn't say it, but Izuku knows he wants to. Izuku wants to hear it, feeling the slickness of his length, squeezing his own erection in time with Bakugou's thrusts. Desperately whimpering, trying to get Bakugou to jerk him off instead of just hold his hand as he does it himself.

Izuku breaks. Not begging hasn't paid off, and his whole body is trembling, heated, and any degradation is worth it – he wants it. “Please, Kacchan, I need you to do it – need to come, please?”

The way Bakugou bites his shoulder gives Izuku the distinct impression of biting back a groan. The huff of breath is telling enough, but Bakugou doesn't break character. “Yeah, yeah,” he murmurs, his hand slipping under Izuku's to stroke him off. His grip is rougher, tighter, and so perfect. “You're so good, Deku, so good at taking my dick, God. Look at you, begging for me to make you come – so pathetic. Go ahead, then. Come on my cock.”

Bakugou's hips slam against Izuku's. His cheek presses to the wall, both his hands coming against it but losing their grip with how badly his body trembles. He is hot and dizzy, feeling Bakugou pound into him, jerking off his cock. Tears well up in his eyes as he takes it, feeling himself grow closer and closer.
The orgasm catches him by surprise. He is sure that his clenching up is sign enough for Bakugou, but still sobs in a belated warning, “c-coming, Kaccha-ah!”

The sob shakes through him again, tears slipping down his face as Bakugou fucks him harder, more frantically. Izuku's come spills over Bakugou's fingers – he is hyper-sensitive, but Bakugou doesn't relent. He is hardly even bent over anymore, now pinned against the wall on his knees, arms flat against it from the elbows up. Bakugou's fingers leave his hair and kneed into the back of his neck as he fucks him into his own orgasm.

Bakugou stills when he comes, his cock twitching inside of Izuku until finally they are both just pressed against each other, against the wall, catching their breath.

Izuku turns to face Bakugou, sliding down weakly to sit. Bakugou is still panting, red-faced, but immediately cups Izuku's cheeks with both hands.

“Are you crying?” He asks, as if this was not part of the plan and he does not know what to do with it.

Izuku scrubs at his eyes, and nods.

“In a good way?” Bakugou asks, cautiously. His thumbs slide soft at the corners of Izuku's eyes, wiping up any stray tear-stains Izuku had missed.

“Yeah,” Izuku says, suddenly worried that maybe all the communicating he has thought they have been doing has only been understood by himself. His mind races a mile a minute, but doesn't get anywhere before Bakugou breaks into a grin.

“Good. Told you so.”

It's a strange mix. Praise and degradation. But they are a strange couple, Izuku and Bakugou.

“I'm gonna take a bath,” Bakugou says, as close as he gets to an invitation to join. Izuku smiles and nods. Follows him with shaking legs, steadying himself with a hand on Bakugou's shoulder.

At least these days they both know where they stand.