Chapter 22: Filthy Reckoning
The silence after the locker room was a living thing, a thick, suffocating blanket that followed them for days. Kirishima had just stared, his jaw unhinged. Uraraka had clapped a hand over her mouth, her eyes wide as saucers before she’d grabbed a sputtering Kirishima by the arm and hauled him out, leaving Katsuki and Izuku alone in the buzzing fluorescent hum.
They hadn’t spoken about it. Missions came, debriefs happened, their professional interactions clipped and flawless. But the air between them crackled now with a acknowledged current, a door kicked open that could never be fully closed.
Tonight’s debrief had been particularly grueling, a warehouse sting that went south thanks to faulty intel. Katsuki’s temper was a barely contained inferno, his movements sharp and violent as he stormed towards his car in the agency’s underground garage. The concrete cavern echoed with the slam of his palm against the steel elevator door.
“Kacchan.”
Izuku’s voice wasn’t loud, but it cut through the damp air like a knife. Katsuki didn’t turn, just jerked open the driver’s side door of his muscular black sedan.
“Not now, Deku.”
“Yes now.”
There was a new force in that tone, a resonance that made Katsuki pause. He turned, his red eyes glowing in the dim light. Izuku stood ten feet away, still in his rumpled hero costume, the green of it looking almost black in the shadows. His face was smudged with grime, but his eyes were clear, burning with a determination that had nothing to do with villains.
“What?” Katsuki snarled.
“You kissed me in front of them,” Izuku said, stepping forward. “You declared it. And then you’ve said nothing for four days.”
“So?”
“So, I’m done waiting for you to make sense of it.”
Izuku closed the distance fast. He didn’t shove, but his advance was so purposeful, so unyielding, that Katsuki found himself taking a half-step back, the backs of his thighs hitting the cold metal of the car’s front hood.
“The fuck do you think you’re doing?” Katsuki growled, but the heat in his voice was shifting, morphing from anger to something else.
“Claiming what you put on display.” Izuku’s hands came up, planting themselves on the hood on either side of Katsuki’s hips, caging him in. His gaze dropped to Katsuki’s mouth, then lower. “You started this game, Kacchan. You don’t get to freeze me out.”
Before Katsuki could form a retort, Izuku was moving. He dropped to his knees on the oil-stained concrete, the sound a soft, final thud in the quiet garage. His hands went straight to the fastenings of Katsuki’s combat pants, fingers nimble and sure despite the lingering tremor Katsuki could see in them.
“Deku—” The name was a warning, but it came out strangled.
The zipper rasped down. Izuku didn’t hesitate. He yanked the fabric down just enough, freeing Katsuki’s cock, which was already half-hard, stirred by the aggression and the shocking submission. The cool garage air kissed his heated skin, a contrast that made him twitch.
Izuku looked up at him, that fucking look of worship and defiance all mixed into one, and then he leaned forward and took him into his mouth.
Katsuki’s head slammed back against the car’s windshield with a dull thunk. A broken curse hissed through his teeth. It was obscene. It was perfect. Izuku’s mouth was searing hot, his tongue a flat, relentless pressure along the underside of his shaft. He didn’t start slow or tentative; he deep-throated him on the first stroke, his nose pressing into the coarse blond hair at the base, his throat working around the head with a wet, gagging choke that vibrated through Katsuki’s entire nervous system.
“Fuck,” Katsuki gasped, his hands flying to Izuku’s head. Not to push him away. To anchor himself. To feel the riot of green curls under his palms.
Izuku pulled back, saliva slicking his chin, and went to work with a precision that was utterly devastating. He used his tongue like a weapon, swirling around the crown, lapping at the slit where pre-come was already beading. He sucked just the head, his cheeks hollowing, creating a vacuum that made Katsuki’s toes curl in his boots. Then he’d plunge down again, taking him deep, his throat fluttering and convulsing around the intrusion.
He was messy, noisy, and utterly consumed by the act. The sounds were filthy: wet sucks, guttural swallows, Katsuki’s own ragged pants. Izuku’s hands gripped Katsuki’s thighs, his fingers digging into the dense muscle there, holding on as he bobbed his head in a relentless, hungry rhythm.
Katsuki was unraveling. The frustrated rage of the failed mission, the tense silence of the past days, the sheer audacity of Izuku cornering him like this—it all coiled tight in his gut and boiled upwards. His hips began to piston forward, meeting Izuku’s mouth with shallow, desperate thrusts.
“You—fucking—slut,” he gritted out, each word punctuated by a jerk of his hips. “This what you wanted? Huh? After I kissed you, you needed this? Needed my cock down your throat?”
Izuku moaned around him, the vibration a direct line to Katsuki’s spine. His eyes were glazed, tears leaking from the corners from the strain, but he didn’t stop. He devoured.
The end approached like a detonation. Katsuki’s vision spotted. The warning tensed his balls, shot sparks up his spine. He fisted Izuku’s hair violently, yanking his head back just enough to break the seal of his lips. Izuku stared up, dazed, mouth red and swollen and glistening.
“You’re gonna swallow every fucking drop,” Katsuki snarled, his voice raw and cracking with the force of his climax. “You hear me? Every. Last. Drop.”
He shoved Izuku’s head back down and came, hard. Hot, bitter pulses shot directly down Izuku’s throat. Katsuki held him there, hips stuttering, as Izuku choked and swallowed convulsively, his Adam’s apple bobbing against Katsuki’s grip. He didn’t pull away until the last shudder had wracked through Katsuki’s body, until he felt Izuku’s tongue make a final, clean swipe.
For a moment, there was only the sound of their harsh breathing and the distant drip of a pipe. Katsuki, slumped against the car, felt hollowed out and terrifyingly exposed. Izuku knelt before him, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, his expression unreadable in the deep gloom.
Then, light.
Blinding, white high-beam light flooded the space, washing over them in a stark, revealing tableau. The engine of a precision-made sedan purred to a halt twenty feet away.
The driver’s side door opened. Tenya Iida, still in his crisp hero attire, glasses gleaming under the garage lights, stepped out. He took one step forward, then froze. His rigid posture went impossibly stiffer. His head tilted, as if his brain refused to process the information his eyes were sending: Izuku Midoriya on his knees, Katsuki Bakugou with his pants open, the intimacy of the act still hanging thick and palpable in the oil-scented air.
Iida’s mouth opened. Closed. No sound came out. The three of them were locked in the blinding headlights, a grotesque, frozen sculpture of shame and exposure.
The light illuminated everything: the shock on Iida’s face, the devastation dawning on Izuku’s, and the defiant, grim satisfaction hardening in Katsuki’s eyes as he stared straight into the glare, making no move to cover himself or help Izuku up.
He just watched, and let them be seen.
The light carved their shame into the concrete walls.
Time, thick and syrupy, dripped for one eternal second. Iida’s face was a mask of pure, uncomprehending horror, his glasses reflecting the obscene scene back at them. The engine of his idling car hummed like a trapped insect.
Katsuki was the first to move. A raw, guttural sound ripped from his throat—“Fuck!”—more a vibration of rage than a word. He shoved himself off the car hood, his movements sharp and jerky as he fumbled with his pants. The zipper grated loudly in the stillness as he yanked it up, tucking his softening, wet cock away with a brutal, punishing efficiency. The fabric felt like a prison against his oversensitive skin.
He couldn’t look at Iida. Instead, his scorching gaze landed on Izuku, who was still kneeling, paralyzed, on the dirty floor. “Get up,” Katsuki spat, his voice low and venomous.
The command broke Izuku’s trance. He scrambled to his feet, legs wobbling, wiping his mouth again with a trembling hand. His face was a furnace of crimson, burning from his neck to the roots of his hair. “Iida, it’s… it’s not what… we were just…” The words died, suffocated by the overwhelming evidence.
Iida finally found his voice. It wasn’t loud. It was clipped, precise, and colder than the garage concrete. “Midoriya.” He said the name like a verdict. “Your… your fly is open.”
Izuku looked down, fumbling with the closure of his own costume with clumsy fingers. A choked, desperate sound escaped him. “We were debriefing! I mean, after the mission, the tension, it just—” he stammered, the lie pathetic and transparent even to his own ears.
Katsuki barked a harsh, mirthless laugh. It echoed off the pillars. “Shut up, Deku. You’re making it worse.” He finally turned his head, meeting Iida’s stunned eyes. The defiance was back, a brittle shield. “You got a problem, Four-Eyes? Or you just enjoy the free show?”
Iida’s jaw worked. He took a single, deliberate step forward, the headlights casting his long shadow over them. “This is a secured agency facility. This is… this is conduct utterly unbecoming of a professional hero. Of anyone!” His voice rose, cracking with a blend of outrage and profound disappointment. “I return because Uraraka said there was concerning behavior, and I find this? In a parking garage?”
“Then stop fuckin’ staring,” Katsuki shot back, but the bravado was thin. His own pulse hammered a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He could still taste the metallic edge of panic beneath the lingering satisfaction Izuku’s mouth had given him.
Izuku found a fragment of courage, stepping slightly in front of Katsuki, though his body trembled. “Please, Tenya. Don’t… don’t tell anyone. It’s complicated. We’re… figuring it out.”
“By engaging in public indecency?” Iida’s hand chopped the air, a stiff, agitated motion. “This is not ‘figuring it out,’ Midoriya! This is a spectacular lapse in judgment! The security cameras—”
“Are on the entrances and exits, not on my fucking car,” Katsuki interrupted, a dangerous smirk playing on his lips. He’d scouted that months ago. “Your headlights are the only thing that saw anything. So what’s it gonna be? You gonna file a report? Gonna run and tell Mom?”
The challenge hung in the oily air. Iida looked from Katsuki’s snarling expression to Izuku’s pleading, devastated eyes. The rigid righteousness on his face faltered, just for a moment, replaced by something more conflicted, more human. He was their friend, before he was a rulebook.
He took a deep, shuddering breath, adjusting his glasses with a stiff hand. “I will not be an accomplice to this… this secrecy.” His voice was quieter now, strained. “But I will not publicly humiliate you. You will tell me what is happening. Tonight. My apartment, one hour.” His gaze pinned Izuku. “Both of you.”
Without waiting for an answer, he turned on his heel, marched back to his car, and shut the door. The headlights snapped off, plunging them back into the murky dimness. The engine revved once, and the car retreated, the sound fading until only the drip-drip of the pipe remained.
The darkness felt heavier now, charged with a different kind of tension.
Katsuki leaned back against his car, the cold metal seeping through his shirt. He let out a long, slow breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “Well,” he muttered, the word rough. “That was a fucking disaster.”
Izuku was silent. He stood a few feet away, a silhouette of shame in the gloom. When he spoke, his voice was hollow. “He’s going to make us talk.”
“So we’ll talk. We’ll lie.” Katsuki pushed off the car, moving toward the driver’s side. “Say it was stress. A one-time mistake. It’ll blow over.”
A hand grabbed his wrist. Izuku’s grip was surprisingly strong. “Was it?” The question was a bare whisper, but it cut deeper than Iida’s headlights ever could. “A mistake?”
Katsuki stopped. He could feel the heat of Izuku’s skin, the slight tremble in his fingers. He could still smell himself on Izuku’s breath. The memory of those desperate, swallowing gulps replayed in his mind, and a fresh, unwanted coil of heat tightened in his gut. This was the dangerous game. This was the part where feelings got fucking complicated.
He yanked his wrist free. “I don’t know what it was,” he snarled, truth tasting like ash. “But we’ve got fifty-eight minutes before we have to sell a story to the most literal motherfucker on the planet. Get in the car.”
He slid into the driver’s seat, slamming the door. Through the windshield, he watched Izuku stand alone in the empty space for three more heartbeats before slowly, mechanically, walking around to the passenger side.
The passenger door opened with a sigh of hinges, and Izuku folded himself into the dark interior. He pulled the door shut with a soft, definitive click that sounded far too final in the quiet cabin. Katsuki turned the key; the engine growled to life, and he shoved the car into gear with more force than necessary, the tires giving a short screech against the concrete as he sped towards the exit ramp.
They sat there in the silence for a while, the only sound the car starting and the monotonous hum of the engine as they merged into the late-night traffic. The glow of streetlights washed over them in rhythmic pulses, illuminating Izuku’s profile, then casting it back into shadow.
“You were the one that started it…” Katsuki’s voice was low, grating against the quiet.
Izuku was silent, staring out the window at the blur of sleeping storefronts.
“You’re- you’re the one who got on your knees.” Katsuki’s grip tightened on the steering wheel, his knuckles bleaching white. “I didn’t ask you to.”
“Are you mad that I did?”
The question hung there, simple and devastating. Katsuki swerved around a corner, the movement sharp. “I’m mad we got caught. But dammit Deku, weren’t you the one who said not to do this stuff outside of our homes?” He shot a glare across the center console. “He’s gonna think it’s on me. That I… that I made you.”
“So I’ll tell him.” Izuku turned his head, his eyes catching a passing light, glinting with a stubborn sheen. “I’ll tell him it was my choice. That I initiated.”
“Like he’ll believe that.” Katsuki’s laugh was a dry, hollow crack. “Everyone always thinks it’s me. The aggressive one. The unstable one. You’re fucking ‘Deku,’ the sweetheart. They’ll think I corrupted you.”
“You didn’t corrupt me.” Izuku’s voice gained strength, cutting through Katsuki’s bitterness. “You just finally let me in. And I’m tired of acting like wanting you is something that happens to me, instead of something I choose to do.”
Katsuki had no retort. The truth of it, spoken so plainly, stole his words. He drove, the city lights streaking past, until he realized he wasn’t heading towards his own apartment, or Iida’s. He was following muscle memory, a different kind of instinct, pulling into the familiar parking garage of Izuku’s building. He killed the engine. The sudden quiet was a physical presence.
“Why are we here?” Izuku asked, but he was already unbuckling his seatbelt.
“Because your place is closer,” Katsuki muttered, the excuse flimsy. “And I’m not having this talk with Four-Eyes with your fucking taste still in my mouth.”
They rode the elevator up without looking at each other, the mirrored walls reflecting their fractured silence. Izuku’s hands were shoved deep in his pockets, shoulders hunched. Katsuki leaned against the back wall, his head tipped back, staring at the ceiling lights as they climbed. The doors slid open on Izuku’s floor with a soft chime that felt obscenely cheerful.
Inside, the apartment was dark and still. Izuku didn’t turn on the main lights, just a small lamp by the sofa that cast a dim, warm pool onto the floor. He tossed his keys onto a side table, the metallic clatter loud in the quiet. Katsuki stood just inside the doorway, feeling like an intruder, like a storm that had blown in and didn’t know how to leave.
“He’s going to want definitions, Kacchan.” Izuku didn’t turn around, speaking to the darkened window. “What are we?”
“We’re fucking.” The words came out automatically, a defense he’d rehearsed in his head a thousand times.
Izuku turned then. The lamplight caught the determined set of his jaw, the fierce green of his eyes. “We’re not just fucking.” He took a step forward. “You kissed me in front of our friends. You came in my mouth in a parking garage. You drive to my apartment when you’re panicking. That’s not just anything.”
“It’s a mistake, then.” Katsuki’s voice was rising, heat flooding back into his limbs, a welcome substitute for the vulnerability choking him. “A repeated, fucking glitch.”
“Is it?” Izuku was in front of him now, close enough that Katsuki could see the faint dusting of freckles across his nose, the lingering redness around his lips. He smelled of sweat, garage filth, and them. “Then why are you still here?”
Katsuki’s control snapped. He grabbed Izuku by the front of his shirt and slammed him back against the nearest wall. Plaster shuddered. A framed picture rattled. “Because I’m a glutton for it,” he hissed, their faces inches apart. “Because you look at me with those fucking eyes and get on your knees and I lose my goddamn mind. That’s why.”
Izuku’s breath hitched, but he didn’t struggle. He lifted his chin. “So take it. Lose your mind. We have forty minutes before we have to be sane for anyone else.”
It was an invitation, a challenge, a surrender—all of it. Katsuki crushed their mouths together. This kiss wasn’t like the possessive display in the locker room. This was pure consumption, a battle for air, teeth clacking, tongues warring. It was filthy and desperate, a physical argument where their bodies screamed what their words couldn’t.
Katsuki’s hands tore at Izuku’s clothes, the fabric of his hero suit tough and resistant. He got his hands under the material, wrenching it up, his palms scraping over the hard planes of Izuku’s stomach, the defined muscle of his chest. Izuku fought back just as fiercely, yanking Katsuki’s shirt over his head, breaking the kiss only for the second it took to pull it free before attacking his mouth again.
They stumbled away from the wall, a tangled, furious mass of limbs, shedding clothes in a ragged trail across the floor. Katsuki shoved Izuku backwards onto the couch. He landed with a grunt, bare now except for his briefs, his cock straining visibly against the cotton. Katsuki stood over him, breathing hard, his own erection jutting out aggressively.
“You want this to be a choice?” Katsuki snarled, hooking his fingers in the waistband of Izuku’s briefs and dragging them down. Izuku’s cock sprang free, flushed and leaking. “Then choose. Tell me what you want.”
Izuku’s eyes were dark, pupils blown. “You. Anyway I can get you. Right now.”
It was all the permission Katsuki needed. He spat roughly into his own palm, slicking himself, the act crude and efficient. He didn’t wait, didn’t prepare Izuku beyond that. He pushed Izuku’s thighs apart, lined himself up, and shoved forward in one brutal, shearing thrust.
Izuku cried out, a sharp, punched-out sound, his back arching off the couch cushions. It was too dry, too fast, a burn of friction that bordered on pain. Katsuki stilled, buried to the hilt, his own breath catching at the agonizing tightness, the hot, convulsive clutch of Izuku’s body around him.
“Fuck,” Katsuki gasped, the word trembling. “Fuck, you’re so tight.”
Izuku’s face was contorted, a beautiful map of strain and need. He wrapped his legs around Katsuki’s hips, his heels digging into the small of Katsuki’s back. “Move,” he demanded, his voice raw. “Just move, Kacchan. Please.”
Katsuki obeyed. He pulled back and slammed in again, setting a punishing, relentless rhythm. The couch groaned in protest beneath them. Each drive was a jolt, a claim, a punishment for the vulnerability they’d been forced into downstairs. The slap of skin on skin, the wet, obscene sounds of penetration, their ragged, shared breaths—it was the only dialogue that made sense.
Katsuki leaned down, biting at Izuku’s shoulder, his neck, his jaw, leaving marks that would bloom purple and blue by morning. Izuku gripped Katsuki’s back, his short nails carving red trails through the sweat-slick skin. He was muttering, a broken litany. “Yes—there—just like that, don’t stop, please don’t stop—”
The coil in Katsuki’s gut wound tighter, a familiar, critical pressure. He reached between them, his calloused fingers wrapping around Izuku’s leaking cock. He jerked him in time with his thrusts, rough and fast. Izuku’s whole body seized, his internal muscles clamping down on Katsuki so hard it was almost painful.
“I’m gonna—Kacchan, I’m—”
“Come,” Katsuki ordered, his voice a guttural rasp against Izuku’s ear. “Come all over yourself, you desperate fucking mess.”
Izuku shattered. His orgasm ripped through him with a choked shout, his release striping his stomach and chest in hot, white pulses. The intense, rhythmic clenching of his body pushed Katsuki over the edge immediately after. He buried his face in Izuku’s neck, stifling his own roar as he pumped his own release deep inside, his hips stuttering through the last, helpless thrusts.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their heaving lungs. Katsuki collapsed on top of him, a dead weight, still buried inside. The smell of sex and sweat was overwhelming. Izuku’s arms came up, wrapping around Katsuki’s back, holding him there in the shuddering aftermath.
Reality, cold and insistent, began to seep back in. The clock was ticking towards Iida’s deadline. Katsuki finally pushed himself up on trembling arms, pulling out. Izuku winced at the sensation, a wet, messy sound accompanying the movement.
They didn’t speak. Katsuki stood, found his pants, and pulled them on. Izuku lay on the ruined couch, staring at the ceiling, come cooling on his skin. The domestic silence was more unnerving than the garage’s echo.
Katsuki’s phone buzzed on the floor, screen lighting up. A text notification. He scooped it up, thumb smearing across the screen.
It was from Iida. The message was typically precise.
My apartment. Now. We will talk.
A second message followed immediately, a location pin. Not Iida’s usual address. An unfamiliar location in a quiet, residential district.
Katsuki showed the screen to Izuku, whose face paled. “That’s not his place,” Izuku whispered, sitting up slowly. “That’s… that’s his family’s home. The Iida estate.”
The weight of that settled over them, heavier than any physical aftermath. This wasn’t just a conversation with a friend. This was a summons before something far more formal, far more daunting. Katsuki looked at Izuku, at the marks on his skin, at the defiance and fear warring in his eyes. The game had just changed board.
“Get dressed,” Katsuki said, his voice stripped of all heat, flat and final. “We’re out of time.”