Chapter Text
Bakugou is going to survive this. He is. He has decided. He is sitting on the couch, arms crossed, trying not outwardly show what he's inwardly feeling; I am a bomb with a pin halfway out, I am going to kill him, and Kaminari Denki is vibrating next to him.
See, Bakugou had been fine.
That was the thing. He’d been fine. The dorm common room was blessedly empty, no chatter, no idiots, no Kaminari doing whatever loud, vibrating nonsense he did just by existing. The couch cushions were still warm from sunlight through the windows, the air was calm and his ribs weren't hurting anymore and he was feeling at peace.
Izuku was off getting chewed out by Aizawa-sensei for being reckless on the training field again. Again. Katsuki would’ve stayed him with him for emotional support if it weren't for the fact that he was absolutely livid at Deku for getting hurt again. Also, if it weren’t for the small detail that Aizawa-sensei had quite rudely shoved him out of the training field himself, citing something about “rest” and “medical clearance” while Katsuki had been very clearly in the middle of his own (secret) training.
Whatever.
He was still in a good mood. Deku was talking to him again, which meant the world hadn’t ended, and everything else could be dealt with later.
Mostly.
See, that was the problem. Katsuki was mad. He was furious, actually- but he couldn’t afford to be mad right now. Not when they’d just spent days barely speaking after that stupid villain stunt, he really, really didn’t want to go back to that.
He had things to say. Opinions to share. A whole backlog of commentary about their useless classmates, the even more useless people on the internet, and at least three separate rants about world politics that Deku would happily listen to with that earnest little nod of his.
Katsuki needed to talk to him.
So fine. He’d swallow it. He’d shelve the anger. He’d be mad later, after he got his words out, after he made sure Deku was still there, still close enough to hear him.
Later was acceptable.
See, he’d warned the nerd, he warned him what would happen if he'd gotten himself hurt again. Katsuki hadn’t even threatened him properly this time. Not really. What was the point? One: it’d be useless. Izuku could overpower him if he wanted to -mostly- and they both knew it. Two: every threat Katsuki ever threw at him landed hollow, defanged the second it left his mouth.
Threatening the rest of the class was satisfying. With the others he meant all of it, and they knew it as well, but Deku just smugly grinned because they both knew he wasn't going to do shit. Ugh, Katsuki hated being so in love. So he was here here, sprawled on the couch, scrolling through his phone, trying to unwind after a brutal training session and wait for Izuku to come back. Peace. Quiet. Finally.
Then the door had burst open like a goddamn villain attack.
Bakugou didn't even look up. "Fuck off, Pikachu."
"No, wait, seriously! This is life or death!" Kaminari dumped the clothes on the coffee table and flopped down next to him—way too close. "I have a date tonight. Like, an actual date with this girl I met at the coffee shop last week. She's cute, man. Super cute. And funny! She laughed at my joke about voltage—"
Why me? Bakugou thought, gripping his phone tighter. Out of everyone in this shitty dorm, why does this walking short-circuit always come to me? Pinky would've listened to this crap with sparkly eyes. Shitty hair would've hyped him up like a damn cheerleader. But nooo, it's gotta be me.
“Okay, so,” Kaminari says, already on minute six of so, “I was thinking maybe casual-casual, so no jeans y’know? Like, not too try-hard but also not sloppy, because what if she thinks—”
“Denim,” Bakugou says flatly. He just wanted to shut him up.
Kaminari's eyes lit up like he'd just won the lottery. "Okay, shirt then. First I narrowed it down to these." He held up a black button-up shirt. "This one? Makes me look mature, right? Sophisticated?"
You couldn't look sophisticated in your entire lifetime, dumbass. You'd short out the buttons.
"It's fine," Bakugou muttered.
Kaminari beamed. "Cool, cool! Or wait—this one?" He swapped to a graphic tee with some stupid electric guitar print. "More casual? Shows my personality? Or maybe the red hoodie? Chicks dig red, right? Energetic vibe?"
See he's keeping most of his internal thoughts to himself. Ever since Deku had gotten mad when he'd yelled at a civilian and had gotten his provisional license revoked.
“Okay,” Izuku had said, scooting closer, bright and earnest, “so—internal thoughts are like…” He paused, thinking, then pointed at Katsuki’s head. “‘Wow, Ashido is being really annoying right now.’”
Katsuki bristled. “She was—”
“Example,” Izuku said quickly, holding up a hand, smiling. “Just an example. That one? Stays in here.” He tapped Katsuki’s temple again. “You don’t say that out loud.”
Katsuki huffed. “That’s bullshit.”
Izuku nodded. “Yeah! But it works.”
Then Izuku sighed, “External thoughts are like… ‘Hey, Pinky, I need a minute,’ or ‘I’m getting overwhelmed.’ Those are okay to say.”
Katsuki stared at him. “Those are not the same thing.”
“I know,” Izuku said, still smiling. “That’s why they’re external.”
Katsuki groaned, dragging both hands down his face. “So I gotta translate every damn thought I have.”
“Basically.”
“That’s hell.”
Izuku laughed again, soft and fond. “Kinda, yeah.”
Katsuki slumped back, scowling. “So what about, ‘If you don’t stop talking I’m gonna blow up the room’.”
Izuku tilted his head. “Internal.”
“And ‘You’re driving me insane’?”
“Internal.”
“And ‘I’m mad because I’m scared you’re gonna get hurt’?”
Izuku stilled.
“…That one,” he said carefully, “could be external. If you want.”
Katsuki was confused.
Izuku smiled anyway. “If I’m there, you can just tell me the internal ones.”
Katsuki shot him a glare. “That just means you’re stuck with me all damn day.”
Izuku beamed. “Yeah.”
"But if you’re not there—”
“Then you still follow the system,” Izuku finished, far too smug.
That's how he found himself in this situation.
“Oh! Okay, yeah, dark jeans, got it.” Kaminari beams. “What about the shirt? I was also thinking yellow because that’s like, my color, but also black because it’s sleek, but what if black is too intense for a first date? Do you think black is too intense? You wear black all the time,and people think you’re intense so...”
Bakugou inhales.
Exhales.
Counts to five, like he was told. Like a civilized person.
Fuck you Sparky.
Internal.
“Red’s fine,” he says. “Plain. No stupid graphics.”
"Yes! Genius!" Kaminari tossed the others aside and leaned in even closer, practically vibrating. "Okay, next—hair! Should I gel it up like usual? Make it spiky? Or flatten it down for that 'mysterious' look? Wait, no, maybe add some highlights? Temporary ones? Do girls like that? What if I do the thing where one strand falls over my eye—"
I'm going to kill him. I am actually going to murder this idiot and hide the body in the training grounds. I bet Deku will help me hide the body.
"-Because sometimes gel makes it crunchy and what if she hugs me and—”
“No gel,” Bakugou snaps, then corrects himself because Izuku’s voice appears in his skull like a curse. “Just… wash it.”
"Oh shit. I didn't wash my hair when I showered! Thanks man!"
How? How does one plan a date and not wash their hair?
"Okay, okay, last one—where do I take her? I was thinking arcade? Fun, games, I can win her prizes with my mad skills. Or movie? Classic, dark theater, maybe hold hands... Or dinner? But that's boring, right? Wait, no—mini golf! Competitive but cute! Or that new café with the cat theme? Girls love cats! But what if she's allergic? Oh god, what if—"
“Arcade is fine. But food later,” Bakugou says. “Somewhere you can sit. Talk. Not loud.”
“Oh. Oh, yeah. That makes sense.” Kaminari grins at him like he’s just been handed divine wisdom. “You’re actually really good at this bro.”
Kaminari leans closer. Too close. Way too close. “Do you think I should bring her flowers? Or is that old-fashioned? Or desperate? Are flowers desperate?”
Bakugou's eye twitched. His internal scream was deafening: GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT YOU ANNOYING SPARK PLUG BEFORE I TURN YOU INTO FRIED CHICKEN! IF YOU SAY 'BRO' ONE MORE TIME I'LL EXPLODE THE COUCH. WITH YOU ON IT-
But Izuku's sweet words again. Be nice Kacchan. To your friends.
“Small bouquet,” he says. “Nothing dramatic.”
“Ohhh, small bouquet. Yeah. That’s good.” Kaminari pauses. “What flowers do girls like?”
Bakugou stares into the void.
“Ask the florist,” he says.
There is a silence. A blessed, fragile silence.
Then Kaminari gasps.
“Oh! What if I trip? I trip a lot. What if I trip in front of her? Should I, like, joke it off? Or pretend it didn’t happen? Or—”
“Kaminari.”
“Yeah?”
“If you trip,” Bakugou says, voice low, controlled, “you get up. You laugh. You keep goin’. That’s it.”
Kaminari blinks. Then smiles, wide and bright and unbearably pleased. “Dude. Thanks. Seriously.”
Bakugou turns away before his face can betray him.
Izuku, I hope you’re happy. I hope you’re watching this somewhere, nodding, saying ‘yes, this is growth.’ I hope you know I am seconds away from growth straight into a criminal record.
"Bakugou man-"
Something in Bakugou finally snaps.
“I DON’T CARE,” Katsuki bellows. “I DON’T CARE—ASK ANYONE ELSE. ANYONE. I DON’T GIVE A FUCK.”
Kaminari freezes.
“I DON’T EVEN GIVE A FUCK IF YOU KILL HER,” Katsuki keeps going, words tearing themselves out of him, wild and unfiltered and external in the worst way. “HELL, I’LL HELP YOU KILL HER MYSELD IF IT MEANS YOU’LL STOP TALKING ABOUT HER—”
“DUDE—”
“I DON’T CARE,” Katsuki roars, voice cracking with it now, hands shaking, “I DON’T CARE ABOUT YOUR DATE, YOUR CLOTHES, YOUR HAIR, YOUR FLOWERS, I DON’T CARE—PLEASE—”
"Please for the love of god stop talking before I punch you through the-"
Izuku walks in right as Bakugou is still mid-spiral.
He froze in the doorway, mouth literally falling open as his eyes darted from the explosion of discarded clothes on the coffee table, to Kaminari—who was currently backed up against the far wall, hands raised in surrender, to Katsuki, red-faced and snarling mid-tirade.
Kaminari squeaked. “Okay, man, I was just saying thank you for the help—thanks, seriously, I’m gonna head out now, bye!”
He bolted past Izuku like his life depended on it (it probably did) and vanished down the hall.
Izuku is still staring.
“Kacchan,” he says finally, voice quiet, disbelieving. “Are you okay?”
Bakugou swallows. The adrenaline drains out of him all at once, leaving his limbs heavy, his chest tight. “Yeah, I—”
Izuku doesn’t let him finish. He crosses the room and wraps his arms around Katsuki, firm and familiar, pressing him close.
“It’s okay,” Izuku murmurs into his shoulder.
And fuck—fuck—it works.
Katsuki’s irritation dissolves on contact and he feels himself relaxing. He exhales shakily, turning into the hug, burying his face against Izuku’s shoulder, fingers gripping fabric.
“Sorry, I—”
“Shh, it’s okay, Kacchan,” Izuku murmured, voice soft and steady. One scarred hand came up to cradle the back of Katsuki’s head. “What happened?”
“Nothin’,” Katsuki grumbles, then sighs, defeated. “He’s goin’ on a date. I was helpin’ him pick outfits and shit. I was tryin’ to do the whole internal thoughts, external thoughts thing like you said, but—jesus, Deku, he just—kept talking.”
Izuku snorts despite himself. He pulls back just enough to look around the room again; the abandoned jackets, the scattered shirts.
“Wow,” he says, then laughs quietly. “Honestly, I can’t believe you stayed through that, Kacchan.”
Katsuki scowls, but it’s weak. “I was doin’ good,” he mutters. “I was.”
“I know,” Izuku says easily. “You were.”
Katsuki exhaled shakily. “I’ll apologize to him later. When he’s back from his date.”
Izuku nods.
Then he smiles, bright and soft, and deliberately looks away from the mess. “Let’s forget about him now, okay?”
He steps closer again, hands slipping down, fingers catching on the drawstrings of Katsuki’s pants as he tugged lightly.
Katsuki’s breath caught as Izuku sank slowly to his knees, green eyes never leaving his.
By the time Izuku’s mouth closed around him, warm, perfect, and devastating Katsuki couldn’t even remember what he’d been angry about in the first place.
Holy fucking shit.
Katsuki’s head thunked back against the couch cushions with a muffled thud, fingers tightening in those stupidly soft green curls as Izuku took him deeper. The common room was dead quiet except for the wet sounds Izuku was making; deliberately filthy, because the bastard knew exactly what that did to him-and the occasional shaky exhale Katsuki couldn’t quite swallow back.
“Fuck—Deku—”
Izuku hummed around him, the vibration shooting straight up Katsuki’s spine like a live wire. Those freckled hands slid up his thighs, thumbs pressing into the muscle just hard enough to ground him, keep him from floating off into whatever embarrassing noise he was about to make.
Look at him. Just look at Deku.
Those big green eyes were locked on his face, lashes wet, cheeks flushed dark pink. Izuku’s freckles stood out like constellations against the heat in his skin, and his lips, jesus help him, those lips were stretched wide around him, shiny, swollen, glistening. Every time he pulled back just enough to breathe, a thin string of spit connected them, obscene and beautiful.
He's so fucking hot I can’t—
Every single thought about Kaminari, the clothes explosion, the endless yapping, it all vanished. Gone. Replaced by the heat of Izuku’s mouth, the flick of his tongue, the way he swallowed around him like he was starving for it.
Katsuki’s free hand clawed at the couch cushion, tiny pops sparking from his palm and singeing the fabric. He didn’t care, the dorm couch had been through worse. Couldn’t care. Not when Izuku started bobbing in earnest, one hand wrapping around the base to stroke what his mouth couldn’t reach, the other slipping lower to cup him, rolling gently.
Fuck. I’m not gonna last. Not when he looks like that. Not when he’s this perfect.
“Sh-shit—Deku—gonna—”
Izuku looked up again through his lashes and din't pull off, eyes half-lidded and smug as hell, and took everything Katsuki gave him with a low, satisfied moan that Katsuki felt in his goddamn toes.
Mine. All mine.
When it was over, Katsuki slumped boneless against the couch, chest heaving, staring at the ceiling like it held the answers to life. Izuku crawled up slowly, pressing soft kisses along his stomach, his chest, the side of his neck, until he was tucked against Katsuki’s side with his head on his shoulder.
Katsuki’s arm came around him automatically, pulling him closer.
"Mm let me return the favour baby."
“Your ribs are still bad, Kacchan,” Izuku protested immediately, hands coming up to frame Katsuki’s face.
His thumbs stroked over the faint bruise on Katsuki's face. “And you strained your wrist too, remember? You’re not supposed to put weight on it.”
Katsuki scowled, heat still thrumming under his skin. “I don’t care.”
“No, Kacchan.”
Katsuki was getting upset again now. He wanted to taste Deku, fuck.
He shifted, trying to sit up more, but Izuku’s hands stayed gentle and unyielding, keeping him pinned.
“Let me suck you,” Katsuki said, his voice very, very close to a whine. “Please.”
Izuku’s ears went scarlet instantly. “Kacchan—don’t say things like that—”
But Katsuki’s eyes had already dropped to the very obvious bulge straining against Izuku’s sweatpants. A slow, wicked smile curled across his face.
“Look at you,” he rasped, voice gravel and smug satisfaction.
Izuku made a strangled little sound, half embarrassment, half desperation, and tried to shift his hips away. Katsuki didn’t let him. He hooked a finger under Izuku’s chin, tilting his face back up.
“I’m fine,” Katsuki insisted, softer this time, thumb brushing Izuku’s lower lip. “Ribs’ll hold. Wrist’ll hold. I want you in my mouth, Izuku. Want to make you feel good the way you just did for me.”
Izuku’s breath hitched.
“Kacchan…”
“Please, baby,” Katsuki murmured, leaning in until their foreheads touched. “Let me take care of you.”
Izuku swallowed hard, eyes fluttering shut for a second. When he opened them again, the fight had drained out of them.
“…Okay,” he whispered, voice shaky.
Katsuki’s grin turned sharp and triumphant.
He eased Izuku back against the arm of the couch, careful of his own ribs, and slid down with deliberate slowness, ignoring the twinge in his wrist entirely.
Worth it, he thought, mouthing along Izuku’s hipbone through fabric, feeling him shudder. Every goddamn ache is worth this.
And when he finally tugged those sweatpants down and wrapped his lips around Izuku, the broken moan that tore out of his boyfriend’s throat made every bruise, every strain, every second of frustration from earlier disappear completely.