Chapter 10: Professional Disruption
The fluorescent lights of the debriefing room hummed like angry insects. Izuku sat stiffly in a padded chair, the worn fabric scratching against the fresh bruises on his neck. Every shift in his seat sent a subtle ache through him, a secret reminder of the night before. He kept his collar pulled high, but it was a futile gesture. The marks peeked over the edge like a taunt.
Across the laminated conference table, Bakugou slouched, one ankle propped on his opposite knee. He looked bored, tapping a pen against a closed folder. His eyes, however, were anything but idle. They tracked around the room, missing nothing: Iida’s precise gestures as he set up a holographic display, the way Kirishima was already dozing, chin on his chest. They lingered, hot and heavy, on Izuku.
Uraraka sat to Izuku’s left. She hadn’t said a word about his neck since the elevator, but her silence was a loud, knowing thing. She nudged a styrofoam cup of terrible agency coffee towards him.
“Long night?” she whispered, her voice barely audible.
Izuku’s ears burned. “Something like that.”
The head of their division, a veteran hero with a perpetually tired face, cleared his throat. “Alright, people. Let’s review the Shiwasu District patrol logs. Dynamight, Deku. You were on the afternoon shift. Start us off.”
Bakugou gave a curt nod, flipping his folder open. His report was characteristically brutal and efficient. “Two minor altercations. One drunk with a minor amplification Quirk trying to rob a konbini. Contained without property damage. One domestic dispute on the fifth floor of a tenement. Mediated. No arrests required.” He spoke in a clipped monotone, the perfect picture of professional disinterest.
But under the table, his foot stretched out. The toe of his boot nudged Izuku’s ankle.
Izuku jumped, knocking his knee against the table leg. The sound was a dull thud in the quiet room. Everyone glanced at him.
“Sorry,” he mumbled, his face flushing. “Uh, my report corroborates Dynamight’s. The tenement situation was… volatile, but he de-escalated it effectively.” He forced his eyes to stay on his own notes, feeling Bakugou’s gaze like a physical weight.
The boot retreated. For a few minutes, there was only the drone of the division head’s voice and the click of the hologram remote. Then Izuku felt a hand on his thigh.
He froze. Bakugou’s chair was a good three feet away. He couldn’t possibly…
The hand was large, warm, and unmistakable. Calloused fingers slid up the inseam of his trousers, a slow, deliberate invasion. Bakugou was still looking straight ahead at the hologram, his expression one of mild disdain for the presented statistics.
Izuku’s breath hitched. He pressed his thighs together, trapping the hand, but Bakugou’s fingers just pressed harder, massaging the muscle through the fabric. A silent, relentless demand.
“Deku,” the division head said. “Your analysis of the Quirk usage patterns in the second incident?”
“I—the patterns—” Izuku’s mind went blank. The hand was moving higher, thumb circling dangerously close to his groin. “They indicated a lack of control, rather than malicious intent. So the… the mediated approach was correct.”
He felt sweat bead at his temples. Uraraka was looking at him again, a faint line of concern between her brows.
The hand retreated. Izuku almost sagged with relief. It was short-lived.
Bakugou’s chair scraped back. “Need a better angle on this map,” he grumbled, as if annoyed by the poor resolution. He stood, walked around the table behind Izuku’s see chair, and then, instead of returning to his seat, he pulled an empty chair directly next to Izuku’s and dropped into it. Their shoulders brushed.
“Better,” Bakugou said to the room, his eyes on the hologram.
His right hand disappeared below the table again. This time, it didn’t stop at Izuku’s thigh. It went straight for his belt buckle.
Izuku’s heart hammered against his ribs so violently he was sure everyone could hear it. He shot a desperate glance at Bakugou, who was leaning forward, elbow on the table, chin resting on his fist, the picture of rapt attention. His other hand was working open Izuku’s belt with terrifying dexterity.
The click of the buckle releasing was deafening in Izuku’s ears. The zip slid down with a whisper of sound. Cool air hit his stomach.
“As you can see,” droned the division head, “the spike in minor disturbances correlates with the festival weekend. We need increased visibility.”
Bakugou’s fingers, now slick with something from his own pocket—hand sanitizer, lotion, Izuku didn’t know—pushed past the waistband of his briefs. They circled his half-hard cock, giving a rough, casual stroke that made Izuku jolt.
“You alright, Deku?” Kirishima asked, blinking awake. “You’re vibrating.”
“Fine!” Izuku squeaked, his voice an octave too high. “Just… tired. From the patrol.”
Under the table, Bakugou’s grip tightened. He began to stroke in earnest, a rough, fast rhythm designed to bring him to full hardness with brutal speed. Izuku bit the inside of his cheek, the coppery taste of blood flooding his mouth. He stared fixedly at a stain on the carpet, his knuckles white where he gripped the edge of the table.
Bakugou leaned in, as if to point something out on the hologram. His lips brushed the shell of Izuku’s ear. His breath was hot. “Look at her,” he murmured, voice a low, venomous thrill.
Izuku’s eyes, glazed with panic and building pleasure, flicked to Uraraka. She was watching them. Not the hologram. Them. Her gaze was sharp, analytical, moving from Bakugou’s falsely attentive profile to Izuku’s rigid, flushed one. She saw everything. She knew.
“She knows you’re about to come on my hand in the middle of a fucking debrief,” Bakugou whispered, his fingers twisting on the upstroke. “She knows what you are for me. A filthy secret right out in the open.”
The humiliation was a live wire, sparking and sizzling straight to his core. He was rock hard now, painfully so, leaking into Bakugou’s merciless hand. He was going to come. He was going to come in his pants like a teenager while his superior discussed public safety metrics.
Bakugou’s hand stilled, clenched at the base of his cock, denying him. “Not yet,” he breathed.
Then his fingers pushed further back, past his balls, probing. One slick, insistent digit pressed against his entrance. Izuku choked, a sound he disguised as a cough. Bakugou didn’t pause. He pushed inside, the burn a shocking counterpoint to the sterile room. He worked him open with a single-minded focus, scissoring, curling, stretching him right there under the cheap laminate table.
Tears pricked at the corners of Izuku’s eyes. He was panting, shallow little breaths he tried to mask by shuffling papers. Uraraka’s eyes were wide. She opened her mouth as if to say something, then closed it, a deep blush rising on her own cheeks. She looked away, down at her hands, but the tension in her shoulders screamed her awareness.
Bakugou added a second finger. The stretch was exquisite, brutal. Izuku’s hips gave a tiny, involuntary buck. Bakugou’s elbow moved on the table, covering the motion.
“Deku, you have a point to add?” The division head was looking at him.
“N-no, sir. I concur.” His voice was strangled.
Bakugou crooked his fingers, rubbing over that spot inside him with unerring accuracy. White-hot pleasure lanced up Izuku’s spine. He saw stars. A moan clawed its way up his throat. He slammed his own fist into his mouth, biting down on the knuckles to trap the sound. His teeth met the bruises Bakugou had left there the night before.
Bakugou withdrew his fingers. There was the sound of a zipper, quieter than Izuku’s own heartbeat. Then the blunt, hot head of Bakugou’s cock was pressing against him, nudging where his fingers had just been.
“Keep your fucking voice down,” Bakugou growled into his ear, a final, vicious command.
And he pushed in.
It was a slow, inexorable invasion, a claiming done in centimeters to avoid drawing attention. The fullness was overwhelming. Izuku was stuffed, stretched open on Bakugou’s thick cock in a room full of their colleagues. He could feel every vein, every pulse. Bakugou was seated to the hilt, their bodies connected in the most intimate way possible under the concealment of the table.
Bakugou didn’t move. He just sat there, buried inside him, as the meeting droned on. His breathing was slightly uneven. Sweat gleamed at his temple. He was the picture of strained control.
The division head moved on to the next agenda item. Kirishima snored softly. Iida took meticulous notes.
And inside Izuku, Bakugou began to move.
Tiny, almost imperceptible shifts of his hips. A subtle rocking that sent shockwaves of pleasure through Izuku’s entire nervous system. The drag was maddening, the friction constant and deep. Bakugou’s arm was around the back of Izuku’s chair, his hand now resting on Izuku’s opposite shoulder, fingers digging in. To anyone else, it might look like a casual, if aggressive, posture.
To Izuku, it was the grip of a man holding onto a cliff’s edge.
Each minute rock forward rubbed Bakugou’s cock directly over his prostate. The pleasure was a tight, coiling spring in his gut, winding tighter and tighter with each micro-thrust. Izuku’s own cock, trapped and neglected, wept against his briefs. He was trembling, a fine, constant shake he couldn’t suppress. He kept his fist wedged in his mouth, his breaths coming in ragged, silent heaves through his nose.
Bakugou’s lips were against his hair now. “Gonna come,” he whispered, the words tight, strained. His hips stuttered, losing their minute rhythm. “Gonna fill you up right here. Let it drip out of you in the meeting.”
The image, the filthy promise, was the final trigger. The coil snapped. Izuku came, silently, violently, his body seizing. His climax ripped through him with no outlet but a strangled gasp into his fist and the hot, wet spill flooding his underwear. His inner muscles clamped down on Bakugou’s cock in rhythmic, desperate pulses.
That was all it took. Bakugou grunted, a harsh, choked sound he covered with a cough. Izuku felt the hot, sudden flood of release inside him, filling him up just as Bakugou had promised. Bakugou’s fingers dug into his shoulder hard enough to bruise, his entire body going rigid for a long, endless second before slumping back in his chair.
They sat there, joined, panting quietly in the aftermath. The division head was wrapping up. “Any final questions?”
No one spoke. The hologram flickered off.
“Dismissed.”
Chairs scraped. Kirishima yawned and stood. Iida began collecting his things. Uraraka was the first out of her seat, her movements quick and tense. She didn’t look at either of them as she hurried from the room.
Bakugou waited until everyone else had filed out. Then, slowly, he pulled out. The sensation made Izuku whimper, a soft, broken sound. Wetness trickled down his thigh, soaking into his clothes. He felt utterly debased. And utterly, hopelessly owned.
Bakugou zipped himself up, stood, and adjusted his jacket. He looked down at Izuku, who was still frozen in his chair, a wreck of rumpled clothes and shame.
“Clean yourself up,” Bakugou said, his voice back to its normal, dismissive growl. But his eyes were dark, satisfied, and gleaming with a dangerous possessiveness. “My place. Tonight. Don’t be late.”
He turned and walked out, leaving Izuku sitting alone in the silent, bright room, the scent of sex and stale coffee clinging to the air. The evidence of what they’d done was cooling on his skin, a secret that wasn’t a secret at all, not to the one person whose opinion suddenly mattered more than anything.
Uraraka knew. And the world, Izuku realized with a dizzying, terrifying thrill, felt like it had just narrowed to the space between his body and Bakugou’s, no matter who was watching.
The wetness cooling on his thigh was a cold, shameful brand. Izuku finally moved, his joints stiff, and fumbled with his belt. His fingers trembled. The clean, empty room felt like a crime scene. He stood, the evidence of Bakugou’s possession seeping uncomfortably into his clothes, and walked on unsteady legs toward the restroom down the hall.
He nearly collided with Uraraka just outside the door. She’d been waiting, her arms crossed tight over her chest. Her face was pale, her lips pressed into a thin, worried line.
“Izuku,” she started, her voice low and urgent. Her eyes dropped to his rumpled shirt, the still-visible marks on his neck, and he knew she could imagine the rest. “What was that? In there? That was… I could see—”
“It’s fine, Ochaco.” The lie was brittle, automatic. He couldn’t meet her gaze. “It’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing! He was—and you were—” She reached for his arm, but he flinched back. Her hand fell. “This isn’t okay. The way he treats you… it’s not just rough, it’s…”
“It’s what I want.” The words shocked him with their truth. He finally looked at her, seeing the confusion and care in her eyes, and it hurt more than Bakugou’s teeth. “Please. Don’t.”
A shadow fell over them. Bakugou stood at the end of the corridor, having doubled back. He looked between them, his expression hardening from casual arrogance to something defensive and sharp. “Problem, Round Face?”
Uraraka spun on him, her own temper flaring. “Yeah, there’s a problem. What the hell do you think you’re doing? In a meeting? To him?” She gestured at Izuku, who felt like a specimen pinned between them. “You can’t just… use people like that!”
Bakugou’s eyes narrowed. A muscle in his jaw jumped. He took a step closer, not to her, but to Izuku, positioning himself almost between them. His posture was a clear, physical claim. “It’s none of your fucking business. You don’t know a goddamn thing about it.”
“I know what I saw! I know he’s my friend and he’s hurting!”
“Hurting?” Bakugou barked a short, humorless laugh. He didn’t look at Izuku. “You’re projecting. Stay out of it.”
“I won’t! You need to—”
“I have therapy.” The words cut through her building tirade, flat and final. He said it like a shield, a weapon, a get-out-of-jail-free card all at once. He checked his watch, a dismissive, perfunctory gesture. “In fifteen minutes. So fuck off with your intervention.”
He turned, his shoulder brushing Izuku’s as he passed—a deliberate, possessive touch. He didn’t say another word, just walked away, his footsteps echoing in the tiled hallway. The dismissal was absolute.
Uraraka stared after him, frustration and helplessness warring on her face. She looked back at Izuku, her eyes softening into something like grief. “Therapy? He’s using that as an excuse to avoid—”
“Maybe he needs it,” Izuku whispered, more to himself than to her. The memory of Bakugou’s raw, whispered admissions in the dark, the vulnerability he’d licked and bitten into Izuku’s skin, rose up. This was part of it. The chaos, the possession, the unbearable tenderness—it was all the same tangled, furious knot. “I have to go.”
He left her standing there, a lonely sentinel in the bright, empty hall. He drove home in a daze, showered mechanically, and tried to scrub the feeling of the debriefing room from his skin. The hot water couldn’t touch the cold, slick memory inside him. He showed up at Bakugou’s apartment at exactly eight, the echo of don’t be late a drumbeat in his skull.
Bakugou opened the door. He’d changed into sweats and a thin tank top. He looked drained, the aggressive energy from earlier replaced by a simmering, quiet intensity. He didn’t speak. He stepped aside to let Izuku in, then closed the door and locked it.
The silence was thick. Bakugou leaned back against the door, watching him. “She corner you?”
“Yes.”
“What’d you say?”
“I said it was what I want.”
Bakugou pushed off the door. He crossed the space in three long strides, cupping Izuku’s face in his hands. His thumbs stroked over the freckles on his cheeks, a gesture so at odds with the violence of the afternoon. “It is,” he stated, but it sounded like a question.
“Yes.”
Then Bakugou kissed him. It was slow, deep, and searching. There was no anger in it, only a desperate, focused hunger. He tasted Izuku’s mouth like he was trying to find an answer on his tongue. His hands slid down, gripping Izuku’s hips, pulling him flush against his body. Izuku could feel him already hard through the soft fabric.
“I need—” Bakugou started, then bit off the words. He never finished the sentence. Instead, he walked Izuku backwards toward the shower, their lips never parting. He turned the water on, still dressed, steam quickly fogging the glass enclosure. He pushed Izuku under the spray, clothes and all, and followed him in.
The water soaked through Izuku’s shirt, plastering it to his skin. Bakugou’s hands slid beneath it, pushing it up. He broke the kiss to yank it over Izuku’s head, tossing the sodden mass aside. His mouth went to Izuku’s throat, not to bite, but to suck dark, new marks over the fading ones from the night before. His hands made quick work of Izuku’s pants, shoving them and his briefs down in a tangle around his ankles.
Bakugou dropped to his knees in the spray. The water sluiced over his spiky hair, flattening it. He looked up, his red eyes blazing through the steam. He didn’t ask. He just took Izuku’s cock into his mouth, sinking down until his nose pressed into the wiry hair at the base.
Izuku cried out, his hands flying to Bakugou’s head. The heat was shocking, the wet suction perfect and ruthless. Bakugou’s tongue worked along the underside, his throat relaxing to take him deeper. He bobbed his head with a brutal, rhythmic efficiency, one hand cupping and squeezing Izuku’s balls, the other pushing two fingers back inside him, stretching him open again right there under the pounding water.
“Kacchan—I’m gonna—” Izuku choked out, his thighs trembling.
Bakugou pulled off with a wet pop, his fingers still working inside him. “Not yet.” His voice was ragged. He stood, water streaming down the hard planes of his chest. He turned Izuku around, pushing his chest against the cool tile wall. “Hold on.”
Izuku braced his forearms against the wall, spreading his legs. He heard the tear of a foil packet, the slick sound of Bakugou rolling the condom on. Then the blunt pressure was back, more familiar now, but no less overwhelming. Bakugou pushed in with one long, steady thrust, sheathing himself completely. He stopped, his body shuddering against Izuku’s back, his forehead pressed between Izuku’s shoulder blades.
“Fuck,” he breathed, the word lost in the shower’s roar. “Every time. It’s like the first fucking time.”
He began to move. These weren’t the tiny, secretive rocks from the conference room. This was a full, driving piston stroke, each snap of his hips driving Izuku forward into the wall. The water cascaded over them, mixing with sweat. The sounds were obscene: the slap of wet skin, the choked grunts Bakugou buried in Izuku’s neck, the slick, rhythmic squelch of each deep penetration.
“You told her,” Bakugou panted, his hand splaying over Izuku’s stomach, holding him in place for a particularly hard thrust. “You told her you want this. You want me. This fucking mess.”
“Yes!” Izuku gasped, the admission torn from him. His own cock, trapped between his body and the tile, leaked precome with every jolt.
“Say it again.” Bakugou’s pace became frantic, uncoordinated. He was losing his rhythm, chasing his own end. “Who do you belong to?”
“You! Kacchan, I’m yours, I’m—” The completion ripped through him, a silent, convulsing wave that milked Bakugou’s cock deep inside him.
Bakugou shouted, a raw, unfiltered sound. He slammed in one last time, hips stuttering as he came. He collapsed against Izuku, his weight heavy and spent, his breath coming in ragged gulps against Izuku’s wet skin.
They stood there under the failing hot water until it ran cold. Bakugou finally moved, cleaning them both with a rough, impersonal efficiency. He led Izuku, silent and pliant, to the bed. He pulled him into the now-familiar spooning position, his arm a heavy band across Izuku’s chest.
His lips touched the back of Izuku’s neck. “Therapy was shit,” he muttered into his damp hair.
Izuku waited. The clock on the bedside table ticked.
“Talked about the door. About the… the public shit.” Bakugou’s grip tightened. “She says I’m trying to control the narrative. Pre-empt the rejection.” He let out a harsh breath. “Bullshit.”
But he held Izuku closer. The unspoken words hung in the dark: Is it bullshit? The fear was in the tightness of his arms, the press of his forehead against Izuku’s spine. He’d paraded their secret in a debriefing room, marked him where friends could see, all while running from the very exposure he courted.
Izuku covered Bakugou’s hand with his own, lacing their fingers together over his heart. He didn’t have an answer. He only had this: the damp sheets, the pounding of their hearts slowly syncing, the relentless, terrifying hope that for Bakugou, this claiming was not the end of a game, but the clumsy, violent beginning of a language they were both still learning to speak.