Chapter 3: What starts as a confrontation becomes a raw display of possession when Ochaco witnesses Bakugou marking his claim on Izuku in the most vulgar way possible.
The agency felt like a minefield. Izuku moved through its corridors like a ghost, his body aching with a familiarity that now carried the sharp aftertaste of shame. Every muscle in his lower back protested, a deep, reminding throb. The fresh bite on his shoulder, hidden under his uniform, burned under the fabric. He’d heard nothing from Katsuki since the sound of his retreating footsteps in the hallway. The silence was worse than the shouting.
He took the back stairways, the ones rarely used, where the concrete steps were dusty and the lights flickered. He ducked past door windows, keeping his head down, timing his movements between shifts. It was cowardly. It was necessary. He couldn’t look at him. Not after the rooftop. Not after the door. If he saw those red eyes, he’d either shatter or beg, and both options were untenable.
He just had to make it to the locker room, grab his forgotten analysis notebook, and get out. A two-minute operation.
Katsuki, however, was done with evasion. The hollow, gnawing pit in his gut from the night before hadn’t filled; it had yawned wider, hungrier. The taste of Izuku, the feel of him clamping down, the broken sound he’d made—it was a fire in his blood, and it demanded fuel. Izuku’s avoidance was a challenge. A denial. And Katsuki Bakugou didn’t lose.
He knew the nerd’s patterns, his stupid, conscientious habits. He’d forget something. He’d take the path of least visibility. The back stairwell near Supply B.
Katsuki leaned against the cold cinderblock wall in the dimness of the stairwell landing, a predator in the gloom. The echo of a cautious footfall, soft on the concrete above, was all the confirmation he needed. He didn’t smile. His pulse jumped, a quick, violent beat.
Izuku pushed open the door to the landing, his eyes on the steps, and walked directly into him.
He gasped, stumbling back, but Katsuki’s hand shot out, fisting in the front of his hero suit, slamming him against the wall beside the door. The impact knocked the air from Izuku’s lungs.
“Running, Deku?” Katsuki’s voice was a low, gravelly threat. His face was close, his breath hot. “Trying to hide?”
“Let go,” Izuku choked out, his hands coming up to push at Katsuki’s wrist. His heart was a frantic drum against his ribs. “We’re at work.”
“And?” Katsuki shoved him harder against the wall, his knee nudging Izuku’s legs apart. “You think that matters? You think any of that shit you heard on the roof matters?” He was lying. It mattered. It mattered so much it was tearing him in two, and this was the only way he knew to stitch the pieces together—with force, with possession.
“It matters to me,” Izuku whispered, his voice cracking. He turned his face away, the green of his eyes glistening.
That look, that fragile resistance, was gasoline on the fire. Katsuki leaned in, his mouth against Izuku’s ear. “Bullshit. Your body knows the truth. It always does.” He ground his hips forward, letting Izuku feel the hard, insistent line of his erection through his pants. Izuku shuddered, a full-body tremor of conflict, but his own traitorous body responded, a flush spreading down his neck.
“See?” Katsuki murmured, a dark, satisfied sound. He didn’t wait for permission. He never did. He hauled Izuku off the wall and towards the door to the main locker room, shoving him inside. The room was empty, silent but for the hum of a faulty light and the drip of a distant shower.
Katsuki drove him across the space, not stopping until Izuku’s back hit the cold metal of his own locker with a clang. He pinned him there, a forearm across his chest, and claimed his mouth in a vicious, consuming kiss. It was all teeth and tongue and the shared, metallic taste of blood from a split lip. Izuku fought for a second, a weak push against Katsuki’s shoulders, then melted with a desperate, aching moan, his hands fisting in Katsuki’s spiky hair.
It was the surrender Katsuki needed. He tore his mouth away, breathing ragged. He made quick, brutal work of Izuku’s belt and zipper, shoving the fabric down just enough. He spat into his own palm, slicked himself, and pressed the head of his cock against Izuku’s entrance. There was no preparation, no gentleness, just the relentless, burning pressure of invasion.
“Kacchan, wait—fuck—” Izuku’s head fell back against the locker with a dull thud, his eyes squeezing shut as Katsuki pushed in, past the tight, clenching ring of muscle. It burned, a sharp, blinding stretch, and Izuku sobbed, his nails digging into Katsuki’s biceps.
“No waiting,” Katsuki growled, sinking deeper, his own breath hitching at the blistering, perfect heat. “You don’t get to run from this.” He sheathed himself fully, buried to the hilt, and held there, watching the tears leak from the corners of Izuku’s eyes. “You belong to this. To me.”
He drew back and slammed home, setting a ruthless, driving pace. The locker rattled with every thrust. The sound of skin slapping against skin, of Katsuki’s guttural grunts and Izuku’s choked-off whimpers, filled the sterile room. Katsuki bent his head, his teeth finding the fresh mark on Izuku’s shoulder, biting down until Izuku cried out, the pain cresting into a wave of electric pleasure.
“Yeah, that’s it,” Katsuki panted against his skin. “Take it. You need it. You’re fucking desperate for it.”
He hooked one of Izuku’s legs over his arm, opening him up further, driving even deeper. The new angle made Izuku see stars, a broken stream of “yes, yes, please,” falling from his lips. Katsuki’s hand slid between them, rough and calloused, wrapping around Izuku’s cock, stroking him in time with his punishing thrusts.
That’s when the main locker room door swung open.
Ochaco Uraraka froze, her gym bag dropping from her hand with a soft thud. Her eyes, wide with shock, took in the scene: Bakugou, fully clothed, pinning a half-undressed Izuku against the lockers. The rhythmic, slick sound. The raw, animalistic tension in the air.
Izuku’s eyes flew open, meeting hers. Horror, shame, and a perverse, helpless arousal warred on his face. He tried to speak, but only a strained gasp emerged.
Katsuki didn’t stop. He didn’t even turn his head. He slowed his thrusts to a deliberate, possessive roll of his hips, keeping himself buried deep inside Izuku. He brought his lips to Izuku’s ear, his voice a low, resonant growl meant for both of them to hear.
“Tell her,” he demanded, his fingers tightening on Izuku’s cock, giving him a rough, claiming stroke. “Go on, Deku. Tell her whose cock you dream about at night.”
He punctuated the command with a sharp, deep thrust that made Izuku’s knees buckle. Katsuki held him up, his own body a cage of heat and muscle. His red eyes, blazing with a chaotic mix of triumph and self-loathing, remained locked on Izuku’s terrified, pleasure-glazed expression, waiting for the world to break.
The world didn’t so much break as fracture, a spiderweb of humiliation spreading from Izuku’s core. Ochaco’s face, pale and utterly still, was a mirror reflecting his own depravity. A high, thin sound escaped him, part moan, part whimper, as Bakugou’s cock twitched inside him, a vile reminder of the pleasure coexisting with the ruin.
“Stop,” Izuku gasped, his voice strangled. He shoved weakly at Bakugou’s chest, his hips involuntarily pushing back onto that hard length. “Kacchan, please, not in front of her—not her—”
Bakugou’s answer was another brutal, grinding thrust, his hand still working Izuku’s leaking cock. “Why? She should know what you are.” His breath was hot and ragged against Izuku’s ear. “She should see how you fucking beg for it.”
Tears blurred Ochaco into a smudge of pink and brown. Izuku’s body was a traitorous thing, heat coiling tight in his gut, his legs shaking. “Ochaco,” he pleaded, turning his face towards his friend, his voice cracking with desperation. “Just go. Please, just leave.”
Ochaco took a single stumbling step backward. Her mouth opened, but no words came. The raw, wet sounds of the act, the smell of sweat and sex, it filled the space, undeniable.
“Look at her,” Bakugou commanded, his fingers digging into Izuku’s thigh. He pulled almost all the way out and slammed back in, a punishing rhythm that stole reason. “Let her watch you come on my dick.”
The dual assault was too much. The shame scalded him, but the physical sensation was a cresting wave, undeniable and brutal. His orgasm ripped through him, torn from his throat in a choked, sobbing cry. His release striped his stomach and Bakugou’s moving hand, his body clamping down in violent, rhythmic pulses around the cock still pistoning into him.
Bakugou fucked him through it, his own release hitting with a guttural snarl, his teeth sinking into Izuku’s already bruised shoulder as he emptied himself deep inside. He held there, pulsing, for one endless second before pulling out with a wet, obscene sound.
The silence that followed was absolute, broken only by their ragged breaths. Izuku slumped against the locker, exposed, spent, and utterly broken. Ochaco was gone. The door swayed softly on its hinges where she had fled.
Bakugou tucked himself away, zipping his pants with a sharp, final sound. He looked at Izuku, at the mess on his stomach, the tear-tracks on his cheeks, the fresh bite blooming over the old one. The triumph he’d sought curdled in his stomach, metallic and sour.
He’d won. He’d proven his point. It felt like ash.
“Clean yourself up,” Bakugou said, his voice hollow. He turned and walked out, leaving Izuku shivering against the cold metal. The locker room hummed, empty, bearing witness.
The locker room hummed, empty, bearing witness. Izuku slid down the cold metal, his uniform pants still tangled around his thighs. The wet chill of the linoleum seeped into his skin. He stared at the opposite wall of lockers, unseeing, as the physical sensations receded, leaving a cavernous, numb hollow in their wake.
He could still feel the ghost of the thrusts, the exact shape of the intrusion. His own release was a cold, sticky patch on his stomach and shirt. He should move. Clean up. Ochaco had seen. The thought landed, a delayed detonation that made his breath hitch violently.
A ragged, dry sob worked its way up his throat. He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, but no tears came. He was too empty for tears. He was just a container for shame, slowly leaking onto the agency floor.
After a small eternity, he pushed himself up. His legs trembled, the muscles in his thighs protesting. He cleaned himself with paper towels from the dispenser, the rough brown paper scraping his skin. Each motion was mechanical, disconnected. He righted his clothes, zipped, buckled. The bite on his shoulder screamed under the fabric.
He didn’t look at his reflection in the mirror. He couldn’t. He just shouldered his bag and walked out, leaving the scene of the crime behind. The hallway was mercifully empty. His phone buzzed in his pocket once, then again. He knew it was Ochaco. He couldn’t face that either. He turned it to silent, the vibration fading to nothing against his leg.
Bakugou’s palms sparked once, a crackle of uncontrolled energy, as he stormed down the sterile corridor. The burning satisfaction he’d chased was already guttering out, replaced by something colder and heavier. He could still smell Izuku on his skin, taste the salt of his sweat and tears. He’d made his point. He’d stamped his ownership in front of an audience. It should have felt like victory.
It felt like shit.
The pit in his chest wasn’t hollow anymore; it was a solid, aching mass. It throbbed with the memory of Izuku’s shattered expression when he’d told him to speak. It echoed with the soft click of Round Face’s retreat. He’d wanted to brand Izuku, to mar him so thoroughly no one else would look at him. Instead, he’d just proven he was the thing that broke him.
“Fuck,” he snarled under his breath, shoving the emergency exit door open with too much force. The alarm didn’t even blare; he’d shorted the mechanism weeks ago for this exact reason. The cold outside air hit him, but it didn’t cleanse.
He walked without direction, his boots pounding the pavement. The image wouldn’t leave him: Izuku, pinned, exposed, coming apart while his friend watched. It should have been hot. It just was. And the ‘after’ was a void. He’d left him there, again, crumpled and used. The burning in his gut was now unmistakably, infuriatingly, like regret. Like shame.
He would never, ever admit that.
So where does he go? The gym. It was the only place where the chaos in his head could be drowned out by physical agony, where the fire in his muscles could maybe burn out the other, more confusing fire. The agency’s basement gym was open 24/7, a concrete box filled with the scent of iron, sweat, and desperation.
He threw the door open. The lights were on, fluorescents buzzing over the racks of weights. And of course, who was there, midway through a set of brutal-looking deadlifts?
Kirishima.
His friend grunted, hauling the massive weight up, veins standing out in his neck. He locked out, held it for a second, and lowered it with a controlled crash. He wiped his face with his tank top, his sharp eyes landing on Bakugou immediately. There was no surprise in them. Just a weary, knowing assessment.
“Figured you’d show up here,” Kirishima said, his voice calm. He didn’t smile. He just stood, waiting, like a wall Bakugou was going to have to finally climb or break himself against.