Chapter 3: Bakugou's entrance is anything but subtle - the door slams against the wall as he takes in the sight of Izuku's bare ass pistoning between Sophia's spread thighs, her dusky nipples pebbled from their frantic coupling, the scent of sex thick enough to choke on. 'You fucking traitor,' he snarls, but his rage falters when Sophia locks eyes with him while deliberately clenching around Izuku's cock - a challenge neither man can resist.
The buzzing stopped. The silence it left was heavier, a vacuum that sucked the warmth from the room.
Izuku’s body, still draped over hers, went taut. Sophia felt his heart hammer against her ribs, a frantic counter-rhythm to her own. He didn’t breathe. She stared at the ceiling, at the glow-in-the-dark stars she’d stuck there as a teenager, now faintly visible in the dark. A childish constellation overseeing this adult ruin.
Then, a new sound. Not a buzz. A heavy, deliberate thump against her apartment door.
Not a knock. An impact.
Izuku scrambled off her so fast the loss of his weight and heat felt like a physical wound. He stumbled backward, yanking his jeans up over his hips, fumbling with the button. His face was bone-white in the dim light from the streetlamp outside.
Thump.
“Open the fucking door, Deku.”
The voice was low, a gravelly promise of violence muffled by the wood. It vibrated through the floorboards. Bakugou.
Sophia sat up slowly, pulling her sheet around her. The sticky, cooling feeling between her thighs was now a damning evidence. She felt no fear. Just a cold, settling numbness. Of course. The tracking app. If Izuku had used it to find her, Bakugou would have no qualms about using it to find Izuku.
“He knows you’re here,” she said, her voice hollow. “Your phone has been buzzing on my floor for five minutes.”
Izuku looked at her, his eyes wide with animal panic. “The window… the fire escape…”
“You’re not leaving through the window,” she said, flatly. She stood, the sheet wrapped around her like a toga. The defiance was automatic, a reflex born from too much hurt. “You wanted this. You made this choice. Now face it.”
THUMP. The door shuddered in its frame. “I know you’re in there! I can smell your fucking pathetic guilt through the door! OPEN IT!”
Izuku flinched at every word. He looked from Sophia to the door, a trapped thing. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out.
Sophia walked past him. She didn’t look at him. She went to the door, her bare feet silent on the cool wood floor. She didn’t unlock it. She simply stood there, on the other side of it from him.
“Go away, Katsuki.”
A beat of silence. More terrifying than the pounding. “Campbell.” He said her name like it was a curse he’d just remembered. “Let me in. Now.”
“No.”
“This isn’t about you. This is between me and him.”
She actually laughed, a short, sharp sound. “You’re in my hallway, pounding on my door. It’s about me.”
The next impact wasn’t a thump. It was a splintering crack. The cheap deadbolt tore partially free from the frame with a shriek of protesting wood. The door swung inward, slamming against the wall with a bang that shook the pictures on her shelves.
Bakugou Katsuki filled the doorway, a silhouette of pure, crackling fury. The hallway light behind him haloed his spiky hair. His chest heaved, his hands clenched at his sides, sparks popping faintly in his palms—a leftover, unconscious habit from a Quirk he no longer had in this world, but the menace was intact. His red eyes swept the room, past Sophia in her sheet, and locked onto Izuku.
Izuku stood half-dressed by the bed, his jeans undone, his shirt missing, his hair a disaster. The smell in the room—sex, sweat, her vanilla candle—was unmistakable. Bakugou’s nostrils flared. His gaze dropped to the tangle of sheets on the bed, to Sophia’s discarded towel, to Izuku’s phone still vibrating on the floor.
The understanding dawned in his eyes, not as a shock, but as a confirmed, horrific truth. The fury didn’t increase. It crystallized, turning cold and deadly.
“You,” Bakugou breathed, the word directed at Izuku but soaking the entire room. “You fucking piece of shit.”
He moved. It wasn’t a run; it was a lunge, a predator closing the distance in two strides. Izuku cried out, a wordless sound of fear, throwing his hands up. Bakugou didn’t throw a punch. He grabbed a handful of Izuku’s hair and shirt and slammed him, back-first, into the nearest wall. The impact rattled the windowpane.
“Katsuki, stop!” Izuku gasped, struggling.
“Stop?” Bakugou snarled, his face inches from Izuku’s. “You’re in her bed, you’re inside her, and you want me to stop?” He shoved his knee between Izuku’s thighs, pinning him. “How long? Huh? How long have you been fucking her behind my back?”
“It wasn’t—it wasn’t like that!” Izuku choked out, tears springing to his eyes. “Tonight… it just happened…”
“Bullshit!” Bakugou roared, shaking him like a ragdoll. “I saw your face when you saw her on the balcony! You looked like you’d been gutted! This has always been there!” He looked over his shoulder, his crimson eyes burning into Sophia. “And you. You just couldn’t help yourself, could you? Had to have what was mine. Again.”
The word ‘again’ hung in the air, toxic and familiar. It dragged the past into the room—the drunken hookup in junior year, his cold dismissal after, the way he’d made her feel used and foolish. The numbness around Sophia’s heart cracked, releasing a geyser of old, festering anger.
“Yours?” Her voice was quiet, but it cut through Bakugou’s rage. She let the sheet drop. It puddled at her feet. She stood naked before them, not in invitation, but in confrontation. Her skin was marked—the red scrape from the alley brick on her back, the fresh, dark bruise from Izuku’s mouth on her neck, the faint, older scars of her own insecurities. “Nothing here is yours. He’s not a trophy. And I’m not a consolation prize you get to discard and then reclaim.”
Bakugou’s eyes raked over her naked body, and the fury in them flickered, complicated by something else—a raw, hateful hunger. He’d seen her like this before. In the dark, three years ago, fumbling and drunk. He’d had her. And he’d thrown her away. Seeing her now, marked by another man—by Izuku—unleashed something primal and possessive.
“You think this makes you special?” he spat at her, but his grip on Izuku loosened a fraction. “He’s just confused. He doesn’t know what the fuck he wants. He’ll use you up and then come crawling back to me when he feels guilty enough. That’s what he does.”
Izuku made a wounded noise. “Don’t… don’t talk about her like that.”
“Why?” Bakugou turned his snarl back on Izuku. “You just used her to get back at me, didn’t you? Because you were mad about the balcony? Because you’re a jealous little coward who can’t just fucking talk?”
“It wasn’t like that!” Izuku shouted, finding a shred of defiance. “You have no idea what it’s been like! You have no idea what I feel!”
“Then tell me!” Bakugou screamed in his face, spit flying. “Tell me what you feel for her! Right now! Say it!”
The room went silent. Izuku’s mouth worked, but no sound came out. His eyes, terrified, darted from Bakugou’s livid face to Sophia’s still, naked form. He couldn’t say it. The guilt, the confusion, the years of friendship, the new, raw claim of Bakugou’s relationship—it all locked his throat.
Sophia saw the truth crush him. She saw the hope she hadn’t even realized she was clinging to wither and die. A cold clarity descended.
Bakugou saw it too. A brutal, triumphant smile twisted his lips. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.” He finally released Izuku, shoving him away in disgust. Izuku slumped against the wall, sliding down to the floor, his face in his hands.
Bakugou turned fully to Sophia. The triumph faded, replaced by that intense, scorching scrutiny. He walked toward her, each step deliberate. She didn’t retreat. She stood her ground, even as he stopped so close she could feel the heat radiating from his body, could smell the night air and faint smoke on his jacket.
“He can’t choose you,” Bakugou said, his voice now a low, intimate rasp. “He doesn’t have the balls.” His eyes traveled over her face, down her neck, over her breasts, her stomach, the curve of her hips. The look was not kind. It was appraising, re-claiming. “But I see the marks he left. You let him fuck you in an alley. You let him fuck you here.” His hand came up, rough fingers tracing the bruise on her neck. She jerked her head away, but he caught her chin, forcing her to look at him. “You were always messy, Campbell. Desperate.”
“Fuck you,” she whispered, her own anger a thin veneer over desolation.
“Maybe,” he murmured, his thumb brushing her lower lip. His gaze was fixated on her mouth. “That’s the only thing that makes sense anymore.”
He kissed her.
It was nothing like Izuku’s kiss. There was no apology, no desperation, no tender confusion. It was pure domination. A claiming. His mouth was hard and demanding, his tongue forcing its way past her lips before she could even think to resist. He tasted like anger and whiskey. One hand gripped the back of her neck, holding her in place, while the other arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her flush against him. She could feel the hard planes of his body, the relentless strength, and the rigid evidence of his arousal pressing against her stomach.
A raw, guttural sound came from across the room. Izuku had looked up. He was watching, his face a mask of utter devastation.
Bakugou broke the kiss, but kept his grip on her. He looked over his shoulder at Izuku, a challenge in his eyes. “You want to see what it looks like when someone knows what they want?” he growled.
He turned back to Sophia, his hands dropping to her hips. He spun her around, bending her forward over the foot of her own bed. The rough denim of his jeans scraped the backs of her thighs. She braced her hands on the rumpled sheets, still warm from her and Izuku. She was exposed, completely vulnerable.
“Katsuki, don’t!” Izuku cried out, starting to rise from the floor.
“Stay down,” Bakugou commanded without even looking at him, his voice leaving no room for argument. He yanked his own jeans open, the zpper a loud tear in the silence. He didn’t bother pushing them down far. He just freed himself, and Sophia heard the wet, slick sound of him spitting into his hand, slicking his length. There was no preparation, no pretense of care.
He drove into her in one brutal, splitting thrust.
Sophia cried out, a sharp sound of shock and pain. She was still tender, oversensitive from Izuku. Bakugou was bigger, rougher, his entry a violent invasion. There was no lingering wetness to ease the way, just the brutal force of his need. He buried himself to the hilt, his hips crashing against her ass with a sound like a slap.
“This,” Bakugou grunted, pulling back and slamming home again, making her gasp. “This is what you wanted, right? This is what you’ve been waiting for? To be the thing that comes between us?” His pace was punishing, each thrust jolting her forward on the bed. He leaned over her, his chest pressing against her scarred back, his mouth at her ear. “You’re just a warm, wet hole for us to fight over. That’s all you’ve ever been.”
His words were filthy, meant to degrade. But a horrible, traitorous heat was spreading from where they were joined. It was the shame, the anger, the twisted validation of finally being the center of this catastrophic attention. Her body, betraying her, began to loosen, to accommodate him, a slick warmth easing his vicious strokes.
She turned her head, her cheek pressed into the sheet. Izuku was still on the floor, watching, frozen. Tears streamed silently down his freckled cheeks, his knuckles white where he gripped his own arms. He was witnessing her violation, and his own, and he could do nothing.
Bakugou’s thrusts grew more erratic, his breath hot and ragged in her ear. “He’s watching,” he panted, biting her shoulder. “He’s seeing how I take what he just had. He’s seeing who you really belong to.”
Her eyes locked with Izuku’s across the room. In his gaze was a universe of pain, of helpless guilt. In that moment, she hated them both. Hated Izuku for his weakness. Hated Bakugou for his brutal strength. Hated herself for the coil of pleasure tightening deep in her belly, spurred by the raw carnage of the scene.
Bakugou’s hand snaked around her hip, his fingers finding her clit. He rubbed rough, relentless circles, his touch devoid of finesse, purely functional. “Come on,” he urged, his voice a dark rumble against her spine. “Come for me while he watches. Show him.”
The pressure, the degradation, the intense visual of Izuku’s broken stare, it all coalesced into a wave of dark, shameful pleasure. A sob wrenched itself from her throat as her body convulsed, a sharp, violating climax that ripped through her with the force of a detonation. Her inner muscles clamped around Bakugou’s driving length, and he shouted, a raw, triumphant sound.
He fucked her through her spasms, his own control shattering. With three final, brutal drives, he stiffened, grinding deep. She felt the hot rush of his release fill her, a second flood in as many hours, a mingling of fluids that felt like the ultimate desecration.
He stayed there, buried inside her, for a long moment, his weight heavy on her back. His breathing slowly eased. He pulled out, and she felt the immediate, sickening trickle down her thigh.
She didn’t move. She stayed bent over the bed, her body trembling with aftershocks and exhaustion.
Bakugou straightened his clothes with a few efficient tugs. He looked at Izuku, then at Sophia’s prone form. The fury was gone, replaced by a hollow, satisfied coldness. “Now we’re even,” he said, to neither of them and both of them.
He walked to the door, stepping over the broken bolt. He paused on the threshold, not looking back.
“Lock your door next time, Campbell.”
He left, pulling the shattered door closed behind him as best he could. It listed on its hinges, a broken mouth.
The room was silent. The smell of sex and violence was overwhelming. Sophia slowly pushed herself upright. Her legs nearly gave way. She didn’t look at Izuku. She walked to her dresser, pulled out clean underwear and an oversized t-shirt, and put them on with mechanical movements.
Izuku was still on the floor. He looked shattered, hollowed out. “Sophia…” he whispered.
“Get out,” she said, her voice utterly spent.
“I… I can’t leave you like this.”
“You should have thought of that before you followed me home from the alley.” She finally looked at him. “You were right. This was all a mistake. Every single part of it. Now get out of my room.”
He crawled to his feet, movements stiff with shame. He found his shirt, pulled it on. He couldn’t meet her eyes. He shuffled to the broken door, a ghost of the person who had entered hours before.
He left without another word.
Sophia stood in the center of her room. The bed was destroyed. The door was broken. Her body ached in places she didn’t know could ache. She walked to the window seat and gathered Caspi, the cat, into her arms. The animal purred, oblivious. She sat in the dark, holding onto the only thing in the room that felt clean, and watched through the window as first Izuku, then Bakugou, walked off in separate directions down the empty street below
The purring vibration against her chest was the only anchor. Her own breathing eventually slowed to match the cat’s steady rhythm, a mechanical process divorced from the ruin inside her. Dawn was a grey smear against the window when she finally moved, her limbs stiff, her skin cold.
She stood on trembling legs, placing Caspi back on the cushion. The room stank. Sex, sweat, regret. She opened the window, letting the chill morning air wash over the marks on her body. Then she methodically stripped the bed, bundling the sheets into a tight, stained ball. She did not look at them.
A shower was pointless. She felt his come leak down her thigh as she walked to the bathroom. She cleaned herself with a cold, clinical precision, watching the evidence of both men swirl down the drain. The hot water would feel like a comfort she didn’t deserve. The mirror showed her the bruise on her neck, the red pressure marks on her hips from Bakugou’s grip. Her dark eyes were flat, empty.
She dressed in clean jeans and a hoodie, pulling the fabric over her scars and her new wounds alike. The broken door leaned against the frame. She stared at the splintered wood for a long moment. An open wound in her supposed sanctuary. Her thumb traced the cracked edge of the deadbolt.
He’d broken in. He’d said what he wanted, taken what he wanted, and left her in pieces. Again.
A cold, sharp clarity pierced the numbness. It wasn’t hot anger. It was something harder, more determined. She grabbed her keys and phone. The tracking app was still open. A little blue dot pulsed several blocks away, stationary. Bakugou’s apartment. Of course he’d gone home. He’d probably poured a drink, convinced himself he’d restored some fractured order.
He was wrong.
The walk was a blur of grey sidewalks and early morning light. Her body ached with each step, a visceral reminder. She didn’t think. She just moved, a guided missile fueled by three years of silence and one night of annihilation. His apartment building was a nondescript brick box. She knew the code. She’d known it for years, from when they were all just friends studying on his floor.
The elevator smelled like disinfectant. Her reflection in the polished metal doors was a ghost. She knocked on his door. Once, hard.
Silence. Then, shuffling. The door swung inward.
Bakugou stood there, shirtless, wearing low-slung sweatpants. A glass of amber liquid was in his hand. His spiky hair was damp, like he’d tried to wash the night off. His red eyes, bloodshot and wary, widened a fraction before narrowing into their usual guarded glare. He smelled like soap and bourbon.
“The fuck do you want?” he grunted, his voice raspy.
“To talk.”
“Not interested.” He moved to shut the door.
Her foot shot out, wedging in the frame. The wood hit her sneaker, but she didn’t flinch. “You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to fuck me like that and then shut the door.”
A muscle jumped in his jaw. He looked down at her foot, then back up at her face. He stepped back, allowing the door to open wider. A silent, surly invitation. She walked in.
His apartment was ruthlessly clean, minimalist, everything in its place. It felt like a museum to his own control. The contrast with the ravaged chaos of her bedroom was absolute. He didn’t sit. He leaned against his kitchen counter, taking a slow sip of his drink, watching her.
“So talk.”
She didn’t sit either. She stood in the center of his living room, feeling the grit of the alley and the sweat of his sheets still on her skin. “You think what you did fixed anything?”
“I didn’t do it to fix something. I did it to make a point.”
“The point that I’m a warm, wet hole for you to stake a claim in?” she repeated his words back to him, her voice eerily calm. “I heard you the first time.”
He had the decency to look momentarily unsettled. He set his glass down with a sharp click. “You were letting him fuck you five minutes after you saw us together. What did you expect?”
“I didn’t expect you to break my door down. I didn’t expect you to rape me.”
He flinched as if struck. “I didn’t—” he started, but she cut him off, her calm cracking.
“You shoved your dick into me while I was bent over, dry, without a word of asking. You did it to punish him. You did it to humiliate me. You used my body as a weapon in your fucked-up battle with him. Again.” The last word hung between them, charged with the memory of that drunken night years ago, his hurried finish and cold retreat.
“It wasn’t like before,” he argued, but the conviction was thin.
“Wasn’t it? You took what you wanted and left. Just like last time. The only difference is this time you made sure someone was watching.”
He pushed off the counter, his body coiling with a restless energy. “You wanted it. You were wet for it.”
“My body reacted. That’s biology. That’s not desire.” She took a step closer, her own anger rising now, hot and sharp. “You have no idea what I want. You never have. You were too busy being disgusted with yourself for touching the fat, desperate friend to ever actually see me.”
His face paled. “That’s not—”
“Don’t.” She was trembling now, the cold clarity burning away into raw, years-old hurt. “You rejected me so completely it felt like a chemical burn. And I buried it. I became your friend again. I watched you fall for him. And I swallowed it. But you don’t get to use that old, buried want as an excuse for what you did last night. You don’t get to weaponize my teenage crush to prove a point to your boyfriend.”
“He’s not my—” Bakugou stopped, running a hand over his face. The conflict was raw on his features, the anger deflating into something more complicated, more exhausted. “It’s a mess.”
“You made it a mess. Both of you. You used me as the battleground.” She was directly in front of him now, close enough to see the faint scar by his eyebrow, to smell the bourbon on his breath. “I am not your consolation prize, Katsuki. I am not his guilty secret. I am not the thing you fight over to avoid fighting with each other.”
“Then what are you?” The question was barely audible, stripped of its usual fury.
“I’m the one who’s leaving.” She said it quietly. “I’m deleting the app. I’m changing my number. My door will be fixed, and you will never cross that threshold again.”
Something like panic flickered in his crimson eyes. It was gone in an instant, replaced by a stubborn, defensive scowl. “You’re running away.”
“I’m surviving. Something you wouldn’t understand, because you just attack everything in your path until it’s as destroyed as you feel.” She turned to leave. Her hand was on the doorknob.
“He’ll never choose you.”
She paused, her back to him. The old wound throbbed. “I know,” she said, and the acceptance in her voice was the most painful thing she’d ever uttered. “But he’ll never really choose you, either. He’s too afraid of breaking anything. Even something already broken.”
She opened the door.
“Sophia.”
The use of her full name, not ‘Campbell’, made her stop. She didn’t turn around.
“It wasn’t disgust.”
She waited, her breath held.
His voice was rough, each word dragged from a deep, uncomfortable place. “That night. Back then. It wasn’t disgust with you. It was… I didn’t know how to want something that wasn’t a fight. You were… soft. And it scared the hell out of me. So I blew it up.”
The admission hung in the sterile air of his apartment. It changed nothing. It explained everything.
“You still blew it up last night,” she said finally, without turning. “You just had a bigger audience.”
She walked out, closing his perfectly intact door quietly behind her. The elevator door slid shut, and she leaned against the wall, finally allowing the tears to come. They were silent, bitter things. Not healing. Just an acknowledgment of the scorched earth she was leaving behind. She would not look at the tracking app again. She would not wait for a call that would be full of stammered apologies and crippling indecision. The street outside was bright now, morning in full force. She walked into it, away from the alley, away from the broken door, away from the two magnets whose chaotic force had finally, irreparably, spat her out.