Chapter 9: Claiming What's His
The heavy door of Bakugou’s apartment clicked shut, sealing them in a silence that felt louder than the street outside. The deadbolt turned with a definitive thunk.
Then Bakugou moved.
He didn’t kiss him. He took. In one violent, seamless motion, he spun Izuku and shoved him face-first against the cool wall of the entryway. The impact knocked a gust of air from Izuku’s lungs. Bakugou’s body pressed against his back, a furnace of coiled muscle and simmering intent.
“You like showing off how much you’re mine, huh?” The words were a hot, snarling whisper against Izuku’s ear. Bakugou’s hands, rough and efficient, yanked Izuku’s t-shirt up to his shoulders, then dragged down the waistband of his jeans and briefs in one brutal pull. Cool air hit exposed skin. “Making a fucking scene. Declaring it to the whole goddamn world.”
Izuku’s forehead rested against the wall. He was exposed, vulnerable, his heart hammering against his ribs. But the fear was a thin veneer over a deep, thrumming thrill. “Kacchan—”
“Shut up.” Bakugou’s palm landed flat between his shoulder blades, pinning him. His other hand dipped lower, calloused fingers not exploring, but claiming. They pushed between Izuku’s cheeks, dry and demanding. Izuku gasped, his body arching instinctively. “You kissed me. In public. After all that fucking… talking.” He bit down on the cord of muscle where Izuku’s neck met his shoulder, not hard enough to break skin, but enough to brand. “You don’t get to talk now.”
His fingers retreated. Izuku heard the frantic rustle of clothing, the clink of a belt buckle, the tear of a foil packet. Bakugou’s breathing was ragged, not just from lust, but from the emotional siege of the afternoon. This was his language, the only one he trusted when words became too treacherous.
He didn’t prepare Izuku. He spat roughly into his own palm, a crude, wet sound in the quiet, and slicked himself. The blunt, hot head of his cock pressed against Izuku’s entrance, a promise of violation.
“This what you wanted?” Bakugou growled, his voice strained. “When you pulled your little stunt? You wanted this?”
“Yes,” Izuku hissed, pushing back against the pressure.
Bakugou drove forward.
The burn was sharp, immediate. Izuku cried out, a choked sound swallowed by the wall. Bakugou sheathed himself in one relentless, unforgiving thrust, burying himself to the hilt. He stopped, his body shuddering against Izuku’s, his forehead dropping between Izuku’s shoulder blades. They were fused, panting, a single tense entity.
“Fuck,” Bakugou breathed, the word shuddering out of him. “Fuck, you’re tight.”
Then he moved.
It was punishing. It was piston-like, each snap of his hips slamming Izuku into the wall with a force that would leave bruises. The rhythm was furious, a physical vent for the confusion, the embarrassment, the terrifying exposure of the booth. The slap of skin on skin, the wet, obscene sounds of their joining, filled the sterile apartment.
“You… fucking… own me,” Bakugou grunted with each thrust, the admission torn from him like shrapnel. “With your goddamn… doe eyes… and your… fucking… goodness.” He wrapped a hand in Izuku’s hair, yanking his head back to expose his throat. “You think I don’t know? You think I’m too stupid to see I’m your fucking charity case?”
“No—” Izuku tried, but the words fragmented into moans.
“Shut up! You kissed me.” He punctuated the word with a particularly deep, twisting thrust that made Izuku see white. “In front of them. Now they know. Now everyone fucking knows the great Dynamight is… is…”
He couldn’t say it. He fucked the word into Izuku instead, his pace becoming desperate, almost frantic. The aggression was still there, the rough, almost cruel angle, but it was layered now with something raw and panicked. This wasn’t just domination. It was a confession wrought in violence.
Izuku reached back, blindly, his fingers digging into Bakugou’s taut hip. “Kacchan… I’m here,” he gasped, echoing the alley, the fragile truth they’d built. “I’m still here.”
Bakugou’s rhythm hitched. A broken sound escaped him. He released Izuku’s hair, his arm wrapping instead around Izuku’s chest, holding him so tightly it hurt. His thrusts lost their mechanical precision, becoming deeper, slower, more grinding. The snarl was gone from his voice, replaced by a ragged, vulnerable heat.
“Don’t you fucking leave,” he mumbled into Izuku’s sweat-damp skin, his lips moving against his shoulder blade. “Don’t you dare.”
He shifted his angle, and Izuku shouted, pleasure detonating up his spine. Bakugou had found it, and now he aimed for it with a focused, brutal precision that was its own form of worship. The earlier fury was transmuting, melting in the forge of their connection into a white-hot, possessive need.
“Gonna come,” Izuku warned, his voice shattered. “Kacchan, I’m—”
“Do it.” Bakugou’s hand slid down Izuku’s stomach, rough fingers encircling his leaking cock. “Come for me. Show me.”
The dual assault was too much. Izuku came with a hoarse cry, spilling over Bakugou’s fist and onto the wall, his body clamping down around the cock still pistoning inside him. The intense, rhythmic clenching pushed Bakugou over the edge. He buried himself deep and stilled, a guttural roar muffled against Izuku’s back as he emptied himself, pulse after hot pulse.
They collapsed against the wall, a heap of sweat-slicked limbs and heaving chests. Bakugou’s weight was heavy, anchoring. The only sounds were their ragged breaths and the slow drip of come on polished floorboards.
Slowly, softening, Bakugou slid out. He didn’t move away. His arm remained locked around Izuku, his face hidden.
Izuku’s legs trembled, threatening to buckle. He felt raw, used, utterly seen. And more settled in his own skin than he had in weeks.
After a long minute, Bakugou pushed himself upright. He didn’t look at Izuku. He turned and walked towards the bathroom, his movements loose, spent. Izuku heard the shower start.
He was pulling his jeans up, wincing at the tenderness, when Bakugou reappeared in the bathroom doorway. He’d wiped himself off, but his hair was still wild, his eyes shadowed.
“Get in here,” he said, his voice rough but devoid of its earlier bite. It was just a statement.
Izuku followed. The shower was spacious, steam already curling. Bakugou pushed him under the hot spray first, then stepped in behind him. He didn’t speak. He took a bottle of soap, poured it into his palms, and began to wash Izuku’s back. His touch was methodical, thorough. He washed the dried sweat from his shoulders, the place he’d bitten. His fingers, so violent minutes before, smoothed over the marks they’d made.
He turned Izuku around, his gaze finally meeting his. The red eyes were tired, unguarded. He soaped Izuku’s chest, his stomach, careful, almost clinical. He went to his knees in the spray and washed Izuku’s thighs, the evidence of their coupling from his skin. The act was so profoundly intimate it stole Izuku’s breath more effectively than the sex had.
Bakugou rinsed him, his hands guiding the water. Then he stood, handed Izuku the soap, and turned his own back to him. An offering. A silent request.
Izuku’s hands trembled as he lathered Bakugou’s broad shoulders, the powerful muscles of his back, the scars they both carried. He washed the ash-blond hair, his fingers massaging his scalp. Bakugou’s head bowed under the touch, a silent surrender.
They dried off in silence, wrapped in clean towels. Bakugou walked into the bedroom and fell onto the large bed, face down. Izuku hovered for a moment before lying down beside him, on his back, staring at the ceiling.
The sun had set, casting the minimalist room in deep blue shadows.
“Therapy’s tomorrow,” Bakugou said, his voice muffled by the pillow.
“I know.”
“Gonna tell her about the door.”
“Okay.”
Another long silence. Then, Bakugou rolled onto his side, facing Izuku. In the dim light, his expression was unreadable. “That kiss,” he started, stopped. His jaw worked. “It wasn’t… I didn’t hate it.”
Izuku turned his head on the pillow. “Just the location?”
“The audience.” Bakugou’s eyes gleamed. “But the… the thing itself. It was… fine.”
Izuku’s lips twitched. A monumental admission, in Bakugou-speak. “It was more than fine, Kacchan.”
“Don’t get a big head, nerd.” Bakugou flopped onto his back again. “It doesn’t mean I’m gonna start holding your hand in press conferences.”
“I know.”
But after a few minutes, Bakugou’s hand slid across the sheets. His pinky finger hooked around Izuku’s. A tiny, hidden point of contact in the dark.
Izuku closed his eyes, the aches in his body a sweet, familiar map. The game had changed. The rules were still being written, in bruises, in silence, in the anchor of a single hooked finger. But they were writing them together.
But they were writing them together.
The quiet held for perhaps twenty minutes. Izuku felt the slow, steady cadence of Bakugou’s breathing beside him, the warmth of their barely-touching hands. He was drifting, the day’s tumult softening into a haze at the edges of his consciousness.
Then the hand hooked around his pinky shifted.
Bakugou’s fingers slid over his, not clasping, but exploring. They traced the knuckles, the lines of his palm, with a restless, almost irritable curiosity. The touch was light, but it carried a charge that instantly vaporized Izuku’s drowsiness. It was a scientist examining a fascinating, dangerous specimen. It was a thief checking the lock.
“You’re thinking too loud,” Bakugou muttered into the dark, his voice a low rasp.
“I’m not thinking anything.”
“Bullshit. Your breathing changed.” Bakugou rolled onto his side again, facing him. His eyes were two faint crimson smudges in the near-dark. “What is it?”
Izuku swallowed. “Just… today. The booth. The wall. All of it.” He turned his head. “It felt different.”
Bakugou didn’t answer. His exploring hand moved up Izuku’s arm, over the curve of his bicep, his thumb pressing into the muscle. It wasn’t a massage. It was a claim check. “It was different.”
He said it like a confession dragged over broken glass.
Then he moved closer. The space between their bodies vanished. Bakugou’s front pressed against Izuku’s side, his leg sliding over Izuku’s thighs. He was big, and hot, and suddenly everywhere. His face burrowed into the junction of Izuku’s neck and shoulder, his nose cold against the still-damp skin.
He inhaled, deeply, as if drawing the scent of Izuku’s soap and sweat directly into his lungs. His exhale was a shudder.
“Kacchan?”
“Shut up.” The words were muffled against his skin. “Just… shut up for a minute.”
Bakugou’s mouth opened. His tongue, hot and wet, swept a broad, slow stripe up the side of Izuku’s neck. Izuku jolted, a gasp catching in his throat. It was an animal gesture, primal and shockingly intimate. Bakugou did it again, licking from his collarbone to his jawline, savoring the taste like it was something vital.
Then his lips closed over a patch of skin below Izuku’s ear. He sucked, not hard enough to bruise, but with a steady, relentless pressure that made Izuku’s toes curl. He nibbled the edge of the suction with his teeth, a delicate, maddening threat. He didn’t bite. He worshipped.
“Fuck,” Bakugou breathed against the wet skin, his voice thick. “Fuck.”
His hands began to move. They slid under Izuku’s shirt, pushing it up, his palms scraping over Izuku’s ribs, his stomach, his chest. They were everywhere, hungry and possessive, mapping every plane and curve as if committing it to memory. He squeezed Izuku’s pec, his thumb rubbing roughly over a nipple until it peaked into a tight, sensitive bud.
“You kissed me,” Bakugou repeated, but the snarl was gone. It was a mantra now, a reason. He rolled on top of Izuku, his weight a delicious, crushing anchor. He yanked Izuku’s shirt off over his head and tossed it into the darkness. “You fucking… you did that.”
He captured Izuku’s mouth this time. It wasn’t gentle. It was deep, and wet, and starving. Bakugou licked into him, his tongue tangling with Izuku’s, tasting him with a guttural, needy sound. Izuku’s hands flew to Bakugou’s hair, gripping the spiky strands, holding him there. The kiss was a battle without enemies, a desperate exchange of air and heat and yes.
Bakugou broke away, panting. “I can’t get enough,” he snarled, but it sounded like agony. “It’s in my fucking head. Your skin. Your taste. That fucking… ‘I’m staying.’ It’s a drug.” He rutted his hips down, his hard cock dragging against Izuku’s through thin sleep pants. “You’re a goddamn drug.”
He ripped his own shirt off, the fabric tearing at the seam. His skin was searing hot. He attacked Izuku’s neck again, sucking a new mark over the old one, his hands wrenching both their pants down just enough to free their cocks. He wrapped a big, calloused hand around them both, squeezing them together.
The feeling was electric, overwhelming. Izuku cried out, his hips bucking off the bed. The slide was slick with pre-come, maddeningly good, Bakugou’s grip almost too tight.
“Look at that,” Bakugou hissed, his forehead pressed to Izuku’s, his eyes burning down at where his hand worked them. “Mine. You’re so fucking mine it’s coming out of your skin.” He sped his hand, a rough, jerking rhythm that was devoid of finesse and utterly devastating. “You love this. You love me marking you up, owning you. Don’t you?”
“Yes,” Izuku choked out, his vision swimming. “God, Kacchan, yes—”
Bakugou’s mouth slammed back onto his, swallowing his moans. His hand worked them faster, a brutal, perfect friction. Izuku could feel the tension coiling in Bakugou’s body, the tremor in his arm. He was close, teetering on the edge, his control fraying into pure need.
Izuku came first, with a broken sob, spilling hot over Bakugou’s fist and his own stomach. The clench of his body, the raw sound he made, pushed Bakugou over. He tore his mouth away, a ragged shout ripped from his throat as he painted Izuku’s stomach with his own release, his thrusts into their combined grip turning jagged and helpless.
He collapsed, his full weight driving the air from Izuku’s lungs, his face buried in the pillow beside Izuku’s head. His breath came in hot, ragged gusts against Izuku’s ear. They were a mess of sweat and come, trembling in the aftermath.
Bakugou didn’t roll off. He shifted slightly, just enough to slide a leg between Izuku’s, and pulled him back against his chest. Spooning him. His arm locked around Izuku’s waist, holding him in a vise-like grip. His lips found the nape of Izuku’s neck again.
And he began, once more, to taste him. Slow, open-mouthed kisses. The lazy drag of his tongue. Gentle nips of his teeth. It was relentless, soothing, and profoundly addictive. Izuku melted into it, into the solid wall of heat at his back, boneless and sated.
“You’re not sleeping,” Bakugou murmured against his skin, his voice slurry with exhaustion and satiation.
“Neither are you.”
“Don’t wanna.” His hand splayed over Izuku’s stomach, fingers stroking through the sticky mess there. “This is better.”
It went on for hours. The deep night bled towards a pale, pre-dawn grey. Every time Izuku drifted, Bakugou’s hands would wake him—a palm sliding up his thigh, lips closing around his earlobe, a slow grind of hips against his ass. It wasn’t always to go again, though they did, once more, slow and deep and whispering, Bakugou entering him from behind with a groan that sounded like homecoming.
Mostly, it was touch. Constant, reaffirming touch. Bakugou, who communicated in explosions and insults, had found a new vocabulary on Izuku’s skin. He traced his freckles. He kissed the old scars on his fingers. He nuzzled the soft hair at his temple.
Izuku lived for it. The possessive hunger behind it, the unspoken fear that if he stopped, Izuku might vanish. It felt good. Really good. Not just the physical pleasure, but the terrifying, wonderful vulnerability of it.
The whole night, they didn’t sleep. They drifted in a hazy, tactile limbo, tangled in the now-damp sheets. Words were sparse, grunted, or sighed. The room filled with the sounds of their breathing, the rustle of cotton, wet kisses, and soft, punched-out moans.
As the first true light of dawn began to outline the window blinds, Bakugou’s restless hands stilled. They lay face to face, legs entwined. Bakugou’s eyes were heavy-lidded, bloodshot, but clear. He looked at Izuku—really looked—at his kiss-swollen lips, the constellation of love bites on his neck and shoulders, the peaceful exhaustion on his face.
He didn’t smile. Bakugou didn’t do that. But the harsh lines of his face softened into something unguarded and real.
“Therapy’s in four hours,” he said, his voice hoarse from use.
“I know.”
“I’m gonna be tired as shit.”
“Me too.”
Bakugou’s hand came up, his fingers brushing a curl of green hair off Izuku’s forehead. The gesture was so tender it made Izuku’s chest ache. “Worth it,” he muttered, as if annoyed by the admission.
Then he pulled Izuku closer, tucking Izuku’s head under his chin. “Sleep now, damn nerd. One hour.”
Outside, the city began to wake. Inside, in the wreckage of his sheets, Katsuki Bakugou held onto the one thing he’d never known how to ask for, and finally, desperately, allowed himself to keep.
Inside, in the wreckage of his sheets, Katsuki Bakugou held onto the one thing he’d never known how to ask for, and finally, desperately, allowed himself to keep.
The one hour of sleep was a fiction. They drifted in a shallow, clinging doze, Bakugou’s arms locked tight around Izuku’s middle as if he might be stolen by the dawn. The alarm on Bakugou’s phone shattered the grey silence, a harsh, buzzing judgement. Bakugou snarled, fumbling to slam it off without letting go. Izuku stirred against him, muscles protesting, a full-body ache of pleasant soreness.
“Did you sleep?” Bakugou’s voice was a gravelly scratch against Izuku’s hair.
“No,” Izuku said, sheepish. He turned within the circle of Bakugou’s arms to face him. Bakugou’s eyes were red-rimmed, the skin beneath them shadowed. “You either.”
“Deku…” It was an almost-growl, threaded with more concern than irritation.
“No, it’s fine! I’ll sleep when I get to my place.” Izuku grinned, tracing the sharp line of Bakugou’s jaw. “Someone had to wake you up. You weren’t gonna wake up in an hour, and neither was I if I fell asleep.”
Getting dressed was a slow, shared lethargy. Bakugou moved with a deliberate, heavy-limbed slowness, pulling on black tactical pants and a fresh shirt. His eyes never left Izuku. As Izuku bent to pull on his own socks, wincing at the pull in his lower back, he caught Bakugou’s smirk in the mirror’s reflection.
It was a smug, possessive thing. His red eyes tracked over Izuku’s body as he dressed. It looked like he’d been attacked by an octopus. The marks were everywhere. His neck was a brutal canvas of purpling love bites and reddened teeth marks. They trailed down his back, a roadmap of last night’s journey, and dotted his collarbones and the insides of his thighs. Bakugou hummed, a low, satisfied sound vibrating in his chest.
Izuku remained blissfully unaware, yawning as he tugged a loose t-shirt over his head. He ran a hand through his hopelessly tangled green hair, failing to tame it. The faded scar on his cheek stood out against his tired skin.
“C’mon,” Bakugou grunted, snagging his keys from the desk. “My session’s in forty. I’ll drop you at the agency.”
The ride in Bakugou’s black, aggressively tuned car was quiet. Sunlight streamed through the windows, too bright. Izuku leaned his head against the cool glass, watching the city blur past. He could feel Bakugou’s glances, sharp and assessing, at every stoplight.
They pulled into the agency’s underground lot. As they walked towards the sleek elevators leading to the main lobby, a familiar trio emerged from a parked car. Kirishima’s bright red hair was the first thing Izuku saw, followed by Iida’s stiff posture and Uraraka’s cheerful wave.
“Morning, lovebirds!” Kirishima called, his grin shark-like. “You two look… rested.”
Bakugou shoved his hands deep into his pockets, refusing to dignify that with a response. His neck, Izuku noticed with a private thrill, was completely clean. He’d worn a higher-collared shirt. Izuku hadn’t.
“Good morning!” Iida said, chopping a hand through the air. “I trust you are both prepared for today’s afternoon patrol debriefing. Punctuality is—”
“They get it, Iida,” Uraraka laughed, floating over. She linked her arm with Izuku’s, pulling him back a step as the group moved towards the elevators. “Are you okay?” she asked, her voice dropping to a concerned whisper. Her eyes scanned his face.
Izuku smiled, a genuine, warm thing that made the freckles on his cheeks shift. “More than okay. I am tired, though.” He yawned again, as if to prove it. “Can you drive me home after? I wanna sleep, and my car’s still at my place.” He hummed sleepily.
Uraraka just shook her head, a fondly exasperated look on her face. She poked his neck, right on a particularly dark bruise. “I meant about these.”
Izuku blinked, confused. “About what?”
“Izuku.” She let go of his arm and pulled out her phone, flipping the camera to face him. “Look.”
He leaned in, squinting at the screen. The reflection showed his sleep-mussed green hair, his lips swollen from a night of use. And his neck. Oh. His entire neck, from jawline to the collar of his t-shirt, was a spectacular, violent display of passion. Purple, red, and blue marks bloomed across his skin in a pattern of unmistakable teeth and suction. He looked thoroughly, publicly claimed.
His face flushed a deep, mortified crimson. He slapped a hand over his throat, as if he could hide it. Behind him, he heard Kirishima’s booming laugh and Bakugou’s low, triumphant chuckle.
“Damn, Bakugou,” Kirishima wheezed, clapping a hand on Bakugou’s shoulder. “You trying to file a territorial claim or win a pie-eating contest?”
Bakugou shoved him off, but the smirk on his face was a sharp, glorious thing. “Mind your own business, Shitty Hair.”
Iida had gone stiff, his glasses glinting. “Such… visible… markings are highly unprofessional for a public hero setting! What if the media—”
“Fuck the media,” Bakugou said, his eyes locked on Izuku’s horrified reflection in the phone. His gaze was a physical touch, a brand in itself.
Izuku lowered his hand from his neck. He looked at Bakugou, at the proud, unrepentant set of his jaw. The embarrassment was still there, hot in his veins, but underneath it sparked something else. A defiant warmth. He turned back to Uraraka, who was watching him with a mix of worry and amusement.
He gave her a small, tired, but utterly certain smile. “It’s okay,” he said, and found he meant it.
The elevator doors pinged open. As they stepped inside, Bakugou’s hand found the small of Izuku’s back, a brief, grounding press through the fabric of his shirt. It was a secret in plain sight, a whisper against the roaring evidence painted on Izuku’s skin. Izuku leaned into it, just for a second, before the doors closed on the six of them, carrying them up into the day.