Chapter 11: Breakfast Interruption
The grey light of a cloudy morning filtered through Bakugou’s blinds, striping the bare floor and the tangled sheets of the bed. Izuku woke to the sound of clattering in the kitchen, the rich, bitter scent of brewing coffee cutting through the lingering sleep in his head. He stretched, wincing at the pleasant soreness in his muscles, a full-body reminder of the night before. The other side of the bed was empty, but still warm.
He found Bakugou by the counter, shirtless, a pair of low-slung sweats hanging from his hips. His back was a landscape of corded muscle, shifting as he poured ground coffee into a filter. He didn’t turn around.
“Coffee’s almost done,” he grunted.
“Thanks, Kacchan.” Izuku’s voice was still rough with sleep. He moved to lean against the opposite side of the counter, watching him. The domesticity of it was a quiet shock, a fragile bubble around the chaos they inhabited. Sunlight caught the fine blond hairs on Bakugou’s forearms.
Bakugou slid a full mug across the granite towards him. Their fingers brushed. A simple touch, but it sparked like a live wire. Bakugou’s eyes snapped up, red and intense. The vulnerability from the night before was gone, sealed away behind a familiar, simmering intensity.
“Saw the tabloid headline on my feed this morning,” Bakugou said, his tone deceptively casual. He took a sip of his own coffee, eyes locked on Izuku over the rim. “‘Deku’s Midnight Rendezvous: A New Mystery Partner?’ Had a grainy pic of you leaving that shitty udon place near your agency. Two nights ago.”
Izuku blinked. “What? That’s… I was with Iida and Todoroki. For dinner.”
“I know.” Bakugou set his mug down with a sharp click. “I know who you were with. The article doesn’t. They’re speculating. Some intern at a hero blog, probably. Talking about your ‘lonely heart’ and ‘who might finally be the one to tame the Symbol of Hope’.” He spat the last words out like poison.
“It’s just gossip, Kacchan. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“It means they’re looking.” Bakugou pushed off from the counter, circling it slowly. “They’re always fucking looking at you. Talking about who’s good enough for you. Who you should be with.” He stopped in front of Izuku, crowding him back against the cool stone. “Uraraka’s not the only one with fucking opinions.”
Izuku’s heart began to pound. “There’s nothing to have an opinion about. There’s no one else.”
Bakugou’s hand came up, not to strike, but to grip his jaw, forcing his head up. “You think that matters? You think some vulture with a camera gives a shit about the truth?” His thumb stroked over Izuku’s bottom lip, a possessive, threatening caress. “They see what they want. They talk about you like you’re public property. A prize.”
“I’m not—”
“I know what you’re not.” Bakugou’s other hand shot out, sweeping Izuku’s full coffee mug off the counter. It shattered on the floor in an explosion of ceramic and brown liquid, the crash violently loud in the quiet apartment. Izuku flinched.
Before the sound had even faded, Bakugou was spinning him around, bending him forward over the wet, coffee-splattered granite. His chest pressed against the cold stone, his hips held in a vise-like grip.
“Kacchan—!”
The sound of Bakugou’s sweats being shoved down was answer enough. Then a blunt, unyielding pressure, slicked with nothing but the remnants of lotion from the night before and his own spit, which Bakugou had hastily used. He pushed inside in one brutal, tearing thrust.
Izuku screamed. The burn was white-hot, a searing stretch that stole the air from his lungs. It was too much, too dry, too fast. Bakugou didn’t pause, didn’t give him a second to adjust. He was already buried to the hilt, his body a line of searing heat plastered against Izuku’s back.
“This,” Bakugou growled into his ear, his voice trembling with a fury that felt like it would crack the world. “This is the only headline that matters.” He pulled back and slammed in again, a punishing, deep stroke that shoved Izuku hard against the counter’s edge. “You feel that? That’s mine. Every fucking inch.”
He set a brutal, piston-like rhythm, each thrust jolting Izuku forward, his hips hitting the stone with a bruising force. The slap of skin on skin was obscenely loud, a wet, rhythmic counterpoint to Bakugou’s ragged breathing. Izuku’s own cock, trapped and painfully hard, rubbed against the cold granite with each violent push.
Bakugou’s hands splayed over Izuku’s back, then slid down to his hips, his fingers digging in hard enough to leave ten perfect, blooming bruises. He yanked Izuku’s hips back to meet every thrust, spreading him wider, forcing himself deeper. “They want to talk about who gets to touch you?” he snarled, his breath scorching hot on Izuku’s neck. “They want to speculate? Let ‘em. They’ll never know what it’s like to have you like this. To feel you this tight, this hot, fucking milking my cock raw.”
The words were filthy, possessive arrows that found their mark deep in Izuku’s gut. The pain was transmuting, melting into a shameful, overwhelming pleasure. The raw friction was a brand, the claiming complete and terrible. Tears spilled from Izuku’s eyes, smearing on the counter. His moans were choked, helpless things, punched out of him with every drive of Bakugou’s hips.
“You take it,” Bakugou panted, his rhythm beginning to fracture, becoming erratic, desperate. “You take all of it. Because it’s yours. I’m yours. This fucked-up, broken… thing… is yours. And anyone else who thinks they can even look at you—” He drove in one last, devastating time, his body arching, a guttural roar tearing from his throat as he came, pumping his release deep inside, marking him in the most primal way possible.
Izuku followed, his own climax ripped from him by the convulsing tightness around Bakugou’s cock, streaking the granite beneath him with white.
They collapsed together over the counter, a mess of sweat, come, and spilled coffee. Bakugou’s weight was heavy, his forehead pressed between Izuku’s shoulder blades, his breath heaving. The silence that followed was broken only by their ragged gasps.
Slowly, carefully, Bakugou pulled out. Izuku whimpered at the loss, at the sudden, sensitive emptiness and the hot trickle down his thigh. He expected to be left there, used and shaking.
Instead, Bakugou’s hands gentled. He turned Izuku around, his face unreadable. He looked at the tear tracks, the flushed skin, the mess between his legs. Without a word, he hooked an arm under Izuku’s knees and lifted him, carrying him away from the wreckage of the kitchen.
He took him to the bathroom, not the shower, but lowered him into a bath already filling with warm water. He tested the temperature with his wrist before settling Izuku into it. Then he climbed in behind him, bracketing Izuku’s body with his legs, his chest to Izuku’s back.
For long minutes, he just held him, letting the water soothe the ache. Then his hands began to move. Not with lust, but with a focused, clinical tenderness. He used a soft cloth and unscented soap to clean the come from Izuku’s stomach, the drying streaks from his thighs. He washed his back, his arms, his neck. Each motion was deliberate, slow, an apology written in touch.
He rinsed Izuku’s hair, massaging his scalp with firm, knowing fingers until the tension bled from Izuku’s shoulders and his head lolled back against Bakugou’s collarbone. The heat of the water, the silence, the utterly unexpected care—it dismantled Izuku completely. The sharp edges of the world softened. The fear, the possessiveness, the public scrutiny, all of it receded under the steady, rhythmic sweep of Bakugou’s hands.
Bakugou washed himself quickly, then lifted Izuku out, wrapping him in a large, fluffy towel. He dried him with the same thorough, quiet attention, patting gently between his legs where the skin was tender. He led him back to the bedroom, which he’d hastily remade with fresh sheets in their absence.
“Lie down,” he said, his voice low.
Izuku did, boneless and pliant. Bakugou pulled the covers over him, then retrieved a tube of arnica cream from his nightstand. He pushed the sheets back down to Izuku’s hips and began to work the cream into the darkening fingerprints on his skin. His touch was firm but careful, kneading the soreness from the muscle beneath the bruises. He didn’t speak. The only sound was their breathing and the soft, slick sound of his hands on Izuku’s skin.
Izuku felt his consciousness slipping, not into sleep, but into a hazy, weightless space where he was only sensation: the healing press of fingers, the clean smell of the sheets, the solid, watchful presence beside him. It was a headspace he rarely allowed himself to enter: a place where he was not a hero, not a symbol, not even a partner, but simply someone to be cared for.
When Bakugou was done, he pulled the covers back up. He stayed seated on the edge of the bed, looking down at Izuku. His expression was complex—a tumult of anger spent, frustration lingering, and something softer, almost bewildered, that he could never voice.
“Therapy,” he muttered, as if reminding himself. He checked the time on his phone. “In forty.”
Izuku reached out, his hand finding Bakugou’s wrist. He didn’t have the words either. He just held on.
Bakugou looked at the hand on his arm. He didn’t shake it off. He leaned over, his shadow falling across Izuku’s face. For a suspended moment, he just looked at him, his red eyes scanning every freckle, every lash. Then he bent and pressed his lips to Izuku’s forehead. It was a dry, closed-mouth kiss, brief and surprisingly chaste. A seal. A silent promise.
“Sleep, damn nerd,” he whispered, the old insult devoid of any bite.
He stood, grabbed a fresh hoodie, and left the room. Izuku listened to the sounds of him moving in the apartment: the jingle of keys, the sigh of the front door opening and closing. The lock turned with a definitive click.
Alone in the quiet, warm bed, surrounded by the scent of clean cotton and arnica, Izuku closed his eyes. The ghost of the kiss on his forehead burned brighter than any bruise. He fell asleep before he even heard the front gate clang shut downstairs.