Chapter Text
It's strange, how easily three people can fall into a kind of rhythm.
Not harmony. Bakugo would probably blow something up before admitting to that.
A rhythm that happens when you've spent too long living under the same roof, learning the subtle weight of footsteps in the hallway, the sound of doors closing, the timing of showers and the clatter of mugs in the kitchen. A quiet choreography built on coincidence and habit.
The condo isn't big, but it's nice. Three bedrooms on opposite ends of a narrow living space, three bathrooms, one connected to your room, an unspoken act of courtesy from the start. The place smells faintly like detergent and miso, and the hum of the fridge fills the quiet whenever no one's talking. The sunlight from the east-facing window hits the counter every morning, and sometimes, if you're up early enough, you'll find Shoto standing there barefoot, pouring tea while the city outside still yawns awake.
You don't remember who first suggested the idea of moving off-campus, only that it made sense at the time. The dorms at Heights Alliance were safe and convenient, but suffocating. Everyone watched everyone, all the time. And for students who already lived their lives under constant surveillance by teachers, media, and expectation... it was too much.
The three of you were the only ones who managed to convince your parents, that living nearby would be fine. Responsible, even. You promised to keep your grades up, pay rent on time, avoid explosions in the kitchen. Technically, you've kept all three promises, depending on how leniently you define explosions.
You split rent three ways. The bills are automatic. The trash schedule is taped to the fridge with a magnet shaped like a dumbbell (Bakugo's choice). There's a strict no-shoes policy in the common area that only Shoto actually follows, though he never says anything when Bakugo forgets. It works somehow, three people, each occupying their own life, sharing the same small space.
You don't think of yourself as a real part of Class 2-A, but the students there know your name. You're the support course kid who spends half her time covered in oil stains and solder marks, trying to build gear that can survive their training sessions. You like the work: the precision of it, the way engineering turns chaos into function. The irony doesn't escape you, though. You spend all your time helping others refine their power, while having none of your own.
Quirkless. It's not something you say out loud often. You don't have to. It's just... there, a quiet fact that hangs at the edge of every conversation. You've had years to make peace with it, and for the most part, you have. But sometimes, standing beside people who could bend the world if they wanted to, it still feels like walking beside a fire you can't touch.
Maybe that's part of why you said yes to this living arrangement. Maybe you wanted to prove, to them, or to yourself, that you could hold your own, even in the smallest ways.
Bakugo, for one, treats you the same as he treats everyone: with noise. His personality fills every room before he does. He's surprisingly clean, but the kind of clean that feels defensive, like he can't stand a mess because it reflects disorder, and disorder feels like losing. He cooks more often than you'd expect, loud about it, knives clattering against the cutting board, complaining the whole time that "you idiots would starve without me." You once told him you could cook too, and he'd only grunted something about not poisoning him. That was months ago, and you've yet to try.
Shoto, on the other hand, is quiet in a way, as though silence is his native language. He doesn't fill space so much as he occupies it. Sometimes you'll catch him reading in the living room, his half-empty mug leaving faint rings on the coffee table, or scrolling through recipes he'll never make. You think he likes having people around, even if he doesn't say much. His presence is... steady. Reliable, in a way that sneaks up on you.
The condo has settled into its pattern. You, Shoto, and Bakugo moving through the days between classes and training, brushing past each other in the kitchen, trading half-sentences at breakfast, sharing the silence of late nights where someone's always awake. It's not exactly peaceful, but it's familiar.
You've learned that familiar can be dangerous.
Because comfort makes you stop noticing things. Like how your toothbrush sits next to Shoto's on the sink, or how Bakugo sometimes falls asleep on the couch with your blanket pulled over him. How your shampoo runs out faster lately, or how the walls feel thinner than they probably are. How you've stopped locking your bedroom door.
It's just proximity. Shared space, shared time. You tell yourself that when Shoto passes by close enough for your shoulders to brush, or when Bakugo throws you a look across the kitchen that lingers a little longer than it should. It's just what happens when people live too close for too long.
Still, sometimes you catch yourself thinking about the line you've all silently drawn between roommates and whatever it is that hums just underneath that word. A line that keeps bending every time Bakugo's laughter echoes through the apartment, every time Shoto leans down to look over your shoulder while you're tinkering with something, every time you wake up and hear voices through the thin walls, low and half-asleep.
It's not like anyone planned this. You didn't move in expecting anything complicated. It was supposed to be easy. Affordable and practical.
But you know yourself well enough to recognize the creeping warmth of something else, suspended between affection and tension, that you haven't decided whether to ignore or indulge.
For now, you choose to ignore it. You keep your focus on the steady rhythm of life at the condo. Mornings, classes, late-night repairs. The sound of water running in the other bathroom. The quiet that settles over everything once you're alone again.
Most days, you don't actually see much of them. The apartment looks lived-in but rarely feels crowded, because Bakugo and Shoto are almost always gone out training, sparring, or running laps around U.A.'s massive fields. Sometimes they use the gym downstairs on the ground floor, a shared one for residents, though you suspect Bakugo only goes because he hates the thought of anyone else outworking him. Shoto's more consistent.
It works for you. Their schedules carve space into your day; the sound of the door closing behind them always leaves a thin quiet that settles like dust in the air. You like that quiet. You need it. Because when they're both here, it's harder to think. Sometimes you find yourself breathing a little shallower, aware of how small the apartment really is, how every sound carries.
Today, though, the condo is yours.
They'd left for training in the morning, and a text had come through a few hours ago in the group chat: "staying late. patrol drills." Short, to the point, Bakugo typing for both of them. You'd replied with a thumbs-up emoji, because what else was there to say?
Now, it's evening. The sun's already down, the air outside humming with the quiet electricity of city traffic. You stand in the middle of the living room, phone still in your hand, the glow from the screen fading. For once, the space feels entirely yours. Just you, and the low buzz of the apartment's quiet, and the sudden awareness of what to do with it.
It's rare, this kind of solitude. Rare enough that you can feel its weight, heavy and promising, like something you could sink into. You tell yourself you'll just relax, take a break, maybe shower, maybe put on music, something indulgent.
You'll make good use of the time, you think.
You scroll through your phone for a moment, then pair it to the little speaker on your nightstand. The first song that plays is one you've had in rotation for years, the kind of track that fills the air without demanding too much from you. The bass hums through the floorboards, echoing just enough that you can feel it in your ribs. It's been weeks since you've been able to play music out loud like this; usually you wear your earbuds, mindful of how thin the walls are.
Now, though, you turn the volume up a little higher.
Your room looks lived-in, the way rooms of people who spend more time working than existing usually do. A few clothes are thrown over the back of your desk chair, your bed still unmade from the morning. On your desk, a small sprawl of blueprints, sketches, and half-assembled parts scatter the surface: notes from a prototype you've been working on for one of the hero support requests. Some of the tools still glint faintly under the lamplight, a thin smear of graphite across your thumb from earlier in the day.
You hum along as you start to tidy, moving slowly through the space. The rhythm of the music folds around you, soft and easy, blending with the sound of hangers clacking and drawers sliding shut. A hoodie gets draped neatly across your chair. A few empty cans from late-night caffeine sessions finally make their way into the trash.
No noise, no explosions, no one shouting about discipline or technique. Just the music and your own small movements filling the quiet.
You pause by your desk, glancing at the open sketchpad. Lines of an unfinished design staring back at you. It's for Bakugo, you think, remembering the rough outlines of his gauntlet schematics, the constant adjustments you've had to make to keep up with how much heat and force he puts through them. He's demanding, but he trusts you with it, and that's something.
Shoto's requests are gentler, more curious, always framed like questions: Would this work? Could you try that? It's a kind of language between you and them, one made of gears and bolts and trust.
Still, you shut the sketchbook. Work can wait. It's a Friday night after all.
You roll your shoulders back, stretch, and let yourself sway a little to the beat. The room feels different with the music bouncing off the walls. You hadn't realized how much you missed this kind of freedom until you had it again.
And with it, a thought begins to linger at the back of your mind, quiet but persistent: how rare it is to be completely alone. How rare it is to feel unobserved.
You sink into the bed, the sheets cool against your skin, the faint scent of detergent and something like cedar still clinging to them. For a moment, you just breathe, letting the air settle in your chest as the last notes of the song fade out.
It hits you then how long it's been since you've really let yourself unwind. Not just sit around, but actually exhale. To stop thinking about deadlines, design specs, patrol schedules, or the constant presence of two pro-heroes who seem to live and breathe motion. You can't even remember the last time you did anything that was just for the sake of easing the ache out of your own body. Not studying, not working, not fixing someone else's gear. Just... easing tension in a way that didn't involve soldering irons or caffeine.
You pull one knee up, resting your heel against the bed, your body folding comfortably into itself. The shift in posture feels intimate somehow, like a small act of defiance against the week that's worn you thin. The hum of the fridge in the kitchen carries faintly through the walls, but it only makes the silence feel softer, safer.
No one's home. No one's going to knock.
The thought almost makes you smile. Bakugo's learning to knock, emphasis on learning, but you can still count on one hand the number of times he's done it without being prompted. He means well, in his own explosion-shaped way, but privacy isn't exactly one of his strengths. Shoto's better, quieter, but even then, you've never really had a stretch of time where you could relax without wondering if one of them was about to come through the door asking for something.
Tonight, though, there's no risk of that.
Your room feels heavier in their absence, but not in a bad way. You trace the faint outline of your knee through the blanket, fingers idle, and your thoughts start to wander, to small, curious places they probably shouldn't.
You wonder if they ever have nights like this too.
When you're not around.. when you've got your earbuds in or you're asleep behind a closed door... do they ever just... let go? The idea makes heat creep up the back of your neck before you can stop it. It's not like you've heard anything, ever. No muffled sounds through the walls, no rustling sheets, no sharp exhales that give too much away. Which either means they're very discreet... or they don't.
You don't know which thought is more distracting.
You shift again, the sheets whispering beneath you, and exhale slowly, eyes half-lidded as you stare at the faint glow from your nightstand. The air feels a little warmer now, humming faintly with something unspoken. Maybe it's just the quiet, how thick it feels when no one else is here to break it. Or maybe it's something else entirely, something you've ignored for a long time that's finally asking to be noticed.
Either way, there's no one to interrupt you tonight.
-----
The city was still shaking off the echo of what had happened hours ago. Even from blocks away, Katsuki could smell the faint metallic bite of scorched concrete and melted wiring, the kind of aftermath that came with pro-level fights. Sirens had quieted, crowds dispersed, and whatever was left of the villain's mess was being handled by people paid enough to deal with it.
They'd been sent home early. "Unnecessary risk," Endeavor's voice had rumbled through the comm, thick with authority and the kind of irritation that meant even he hadn't seen that attack coming. And fine, maybe it made sense, neither of them were pros yet, but Katsuki still hated being dismissed. His shoulders were tight with leftover adrenaline, jaw flexing as they cut through the side streets toward the condo.
Shoto walked a half-step behind him, hands tucked into his pockets, face unreadable as usual. He never looked tired, though Katsuki knew he had to be. Patrols had been long lately. School was longer. Somehow, though, IcyHot managed to make exhaustion look calm. Detached.
"Still pisses me off," Bakugo muttered, shoving his hands deeper into his jacket pockets. "They act like we're made of glass the second shit gets serious."
Shoto hummed, noncommittal. The streetlight above them flickered as they passed. "You wanted to fight a villain ranked in the top ten?"
"Damn right I did," Bakugo snapped, though his voice lacked its usual bite. "Not like we would've just gotten in the way."
"Maybe not," Shoto said mildly, eyes tracking the movement of their shadows stretching long across the pavement. "But they're not wrong about unnecessary risk."
Bakugo clicked his tongue, a sharp sound that cut through the quiet. "Yeah, yeah. Always the damn model hero student."
That earned him the faintest tilt of Shoto's mouth, barely there, more reflex than expression. He didn't answer. The silence between them stretched, filled with the dull rhythm of footsteps and the occasional passing car.
Truth was, Shoto didn't mind silence. It suited him. But walking beside Bakugo was never quiet in the true sense. Even when he wasn't talking, Katsuki's energy filled the space around him, like static before a storm. You could feel him thinking, bristling, measuring every detail of the world for something to push against.
Shoto had grown used to it. Maybe even preferred it over the emptiness of walking home alone.
They reached the main street leading toward their building, the familiar glow of the condo complex coming into view up ahead. The sidewalks were mostly empty now, just a few commuters and the faint hum of vending machines by the entrance. Bakugo's pace slowed slightly from weariness.
He wouldn't admit it out loud, but the day had been long enough to scrape at the edges of his patience. Patrol. Training. Dealing with idiots who didn't know how to follow basic formation orders. The whole time, a low, simmering frustration had built in his chest, the kind that didn't burn out easily.
Now, though, as they neared the front doors, a different kind of restlessness began to settle under his skin. The kind of pent-up energy that came when he had nowhere left to put it.
Shoto noticed it, of course, he always did, even when he didn't say anything. He could read Bakugo in ways that were both simple and infuriating. Not emotionally, exactly, but rhythmically. The way someone learns a song by heart without ever needing to name it.
"You're quieter than usual," Shoto said finally, voice calm.
Bakugo shot him a look. "And you talk too damn much."
The faintest curve of amusement flickered in Shoto's eyes before he looked away again, letting the silence take over.
They reached the entrance of the building, automatic doors sliding open with a soft hiss. Warm air greeted them, tinged with the faint scent of the artificial lemon cleaner the janitor seemed overly fond of. The elevator lights glowed dull orange against the brushed steel walls as they stepped inside.
Bakugo leaned back against the railing, head tipping slightly, eyes half-lidded. He hated the too slow elevators, but right now, the quiet hum beneath his boots almost felt calming.
"Tch. Bet the nerd's passed out already," he muttered after a moment, mostly to himself.
"Maybe," Shoto said, glancing at the floor numbers ticking upward. "She usually stays up late, though."
Bakugo's eyes flicked toward him briefly. "You keep track of that or somethin'?"
Shoto didn't look away from the elevator panel. "She works on her projects at night. Hard not to notice the light under her door."
Bakugo grunted, crossing his arms. He didn't like the way his brain lingered on that image. The faint light, the hum of some quiet machinery, your voice humming along to music they could barely hear through the walls.
He told himself it was just the fatigue making him think about it. Nothing more.
Shoto, beside him, was thinking something similar, but his thoughts didn't come with the same irritation. They came softer, like curiosity brushing against the edges of his awareness. He wondered if you were awake now, tinkering with something small, the same way you always did when the world outside finally quieted down.
The elevator dinged.
The hallway was quiet when the elevator doors slid open, that late-hour stillness that only buildings like this had, a few dim wall lights casting long shadows across the carpet. Their footsteps sounded too loud against it.
Bakugo shoved his hands in his pockets again, scowling at the floor as they walked. The adrenaline had mostly burned off, leaving the kind of tired that sat deep in his muscles. Patrol cut short or not, it hadn't exactly been an easy day.
"You're dragging your feet," Shoto said lightly.
Bakugo rolled his eyes. "You volunteering to carry me, IcyHot?"
"No," Shoto replied, tone flat but calm. "I don't think either of us would like that."
That pulled a sharp exhale from Bakugo, not quite a laugh, more like a scoff that didn't find the energy to finish. "Damn right."
They turned the corner that led to their unit. The hallway stretched empty ahead of them, just a few closed doors and the faint scent of some neighbor's takeout lingering in the air. Shoto reached up to tug the glove from his right hand, tucking it into his pocket. His shoulders rolled slightly, loosening the stiffness there.
"You think she's still awake?" He asked after a pause.
Bakugo frowned.
"Our roommate," Shoto said, tone unchanged.
Bakugo grunted. "Dunno. Probably passed out with the damn soldering iron still in her hand. Or blasting music like last time."
He didn't mean it to sound as sharp as it came out, but exhaustion and habit made his voice rough. Truth was, he didn't really mind when you played music. Just didn't like how often it slipped through the walls and got stuck in his head when he was trying to sleep.
"Hmm," Shoto hummed. "She seemed tired this morning."
"Yeah, 'cause she never stops working. It's stupid."
"Or responsible," Shoto said simply.
Bakugo narrowed his eyes. "You always gotta play devil's advocate?"
Shoto didn't answer. The corner of his mouth twitched just enough to be noticeable.
They stopped outside their door. The faint green light of the lock sensor glowed when Shoto lifted his keycard, but before he could swipe it, Bakugo's hand shot out, stopping him.
Shoto glanced at him, one brow lifting slightly. "What?"
Bakugo tilted his head. "You hear that?"
For a moment, there was nothing, just the low hum of the air vent above them. Then, faintly, through the thin wood and metal of the door, came a sound neither of them were expecting.
Soft. Breath caught between a sigh and a whimper.
Shoto's brows drew together, expression unreadable. Bakugo's eyes narrowed, confusion flickering before realization started to settle in.
The next sound erased all doubt. A low, breathy moan, barely audible, but distinct enough that the space between them changed in an instant.
Neither moved.
Bakugo's jaw flexed, the muscle ticking once, sharp and visible even in the dim light. "You gotta be kidding me," he muttered under his breath, voice low and tight.
Shoto's gaze stayed fixed on the door. There was no judgment in it, just a quiet, startled kind of awareness. His mind moved slower than Bakugo's, less reactive and more observational, but the weight of what they were hearing still hit him all the same.
It wasn't loud. Just the kind of sound that slipped out when someone thought they were completely alone.
Bakugo scrubbed a hand over his face and muttered something that didn't quite make it past his teeth. "She's- fuckin'...you've gotta be kidding me."
Shoto didn't respond. He was still listening, not intentionally, but it was impossible not to. The air between them had gone taut, like the moment before a wire snaps.
Bakugo turned slightly away from the door, staring down the hall as if it might give him an exit. "What the hell are we supposed to do? Just stand here?"
Shoto's voice was even. "Would you rather go in?"
Bakugo glared at him, heat creeping up the back of his neck. "Hell no."
A pause. Another quiet sound from inside, softer now, but it kept them both still.
Shoto finally said, "We should come back later."
"Later?" Bakugo hissed, keeping his voice low. "It's our place, dumbass."
"Still," Shoto said. "You don't seem eager to interrupt."
Bakugo opened his mouth to argue, but the words died before they formed. He wasn't.
The tension held there for another few seconds. Two tired heroes standing frozen in a narrow hallway, the air thick with something neither of them could quite name.
Shoto was the first to move, stepping back silently, eyes steady but unreadable. Bakugo followed, slower, still muttering under his breath, his heartbeat just a little too quick for how still he was trying to look.
The moment Shoto retreated, the air shifted, and Bakugo felt a fresh spike of irritation, the kind that always flared when someone else tried to decide his next move. No one told him what to do, especially not IcyHot. And even more so when the alternative was shuffling back out into the damn hall like some kind of coward who didn't know which apartment he lived in.
He stopped the thought before it could fully form, coward, and replaced it with a surge of possessive stubbornness.
He lived here. He paid rent. He had a right to walk into his own apartment like he owned the damn building.
He glared at the lock sensor, then shot a quick, scorching look at Shoto, who was now standing quietly a few feet back, waiting with a kind of infuriating neutrality.
"We're going in," Bakugo ground out, his voice barely a rasp but laced with absolute authority. He didn't wait for a reply, just yanked his keycard from his pocket, slammed it against the sensor, and pushed the door inward without giving the lock a chance to fully disengage.
He didn't stride in like he was entering a battlefield, not exactly. The exhaustion and the residual heat in his neck kept his movement quick and choppy, a stiff-backed, low-to-the-ground kind of walk that still projected the belief he was the only thing that mattered in the space. He didn't look left or right, his gaze fixed on the floor a few feet feet in front of him, chest tight.
Shoto followed, but not immediately. He paused for a beat outside the open doorway, eyes lingering on the faint light spilling from your room before stepping over the threshold. His movement was quieter, a reflection of his internal debate: Was this appropriate? No. Was it necessary? Probably. Did it matter what he thought when Bakugo had already made the choice? No.
He was only following because Bakugo had gone first. It was the simplest, least-complicated path forward, and it prevented the argument that would inevitably follow if he tried to linger in the hallway.
The moment the main door clicked shut behind them, the soft, intimate sounds were instantly amplified.
The living room felt suddenly too bright, too quiet, and yet entirely too loud. The sounds were no longer vague, muffled whispers through wood. They were distinct. A slow, drawn-out gasp, followed by a low, almost vibrating hum that sounded deep in your throat. It was unmistakable now: You were in your room, and you were not jamming to music.
Katsuki froze a step into the apartment, his back to the wall, hands clenching tight in his jacket pockets. The heat he'd felt earlier now spread from his neck to the tips of his ears, and his jaw locked so hard his teeth probably hurt. He hadn't wanted this. He had mentally prepared for a fight, for an argument, for a quiet evening of work, not this.
His eyes flickered toward your closed door, then quickly away, fixed now on a random scuff mark on the wall. He was flustered, genuinely, completely thrown, but he was him. He wouldn't bolt. He wouldn't even acknowledge the sounds beyond a sharp inhale that did nothing to calm the quick, irritated thrumming in his chest.
This is our place. She's in her room. I'm going to mine. The mantra was silent but fierce, a way of bulldozing past the reality of the situation.
Shoto, standing a half-step behind him, was also unmoving. His usual impassiveness was momentarily fractured. His eyes were wide, the heterochromatic gaze fixed not on your door, but on the sudden, rigid stiffness in Bakugo's shoulders. He could feel the tension radiating off the other man, sharp and overwhelming.
Then he heard you, a small breathy noise that was quickly muffled, as if you'd pressed your face into the bedding. The sound settled on Shoto like a weight, making his own heartbeat tick up in a rare moment of overt surprise.
He didn't look away from Bakugo's back, a slow flush rising on his own cheeks as he processed the noise. Unlike Bakugo's hot, immediate fury, Shoto's discomfort was cooler, more layered. It was the awkwardness of being an accidental, unwanted witness to something deeply personal.
The silence that followed was heavy with the sounds of your private moment.
Katsuki couldn't stand it. He had to move.
He felt the heat in his face climb from an embarrassed flush to a stinging burn. It wasn't the kind of heat from an explosion; it was the kind that came from profound, unwanted vulnerability, his and yours simultaneously.
He didn't move toward his own room. The thought of walking down the hall, turning the corner, and leaving you to finish whatever the hell that was, was somehow worse than dealing with it head-on. It felt like admitting defeat, like running from something that was technically happening in his apartment.
He took one stiff step forward, then another, his boots muffled by the carpet. He wasn't walking normally; he was stalking, driven by a raw, agitated need to put an end to the suffocating sounds.
With every inch he covered, the low hum of the fridge, Shoto's silent, judging presence, faded. All that remained was the increasing volume and clarity of the sounds coming from behind your closed door.
It became undeniably, explicitly clear what he was hearing.
There was a series of quick, shallow huffs that peaked into a breathy, uneven panting. He heard the faint, rapid rustle of fabric, followed by the specific sound of someone pressing a hand or fabric hard against their mouth. A muffled **mmff—**
His face burned hotter, the blood pounding visibly in his temples. He was no innocent kid; he knew what that meant, and the sheer invasiveness of the sound, the fact that it was you, just a thin layer of wood away, was making his skin crawl with overwhelming embarrassment.
He stopped right in front of your door, his body a stiff, immovable pillar of muscle and tension. The scent of detergent and a faint, sweet scent seemed to seep through the wood. He could practically feel the warmth of the room on the other side.
He reached out, his hand instinctively going for the knob. He wasn't thinking about procedure, or courtesy, or even the consequences. Knocking never crossed his mind. He was acting on the pure, visceral need to control the situation, to stop the noise, and to re-establish the normal, stable reality of the apartment.
You're not here alone. Stop. That was the only coherent thought, and it propelled his action.
His fingers closed around the cold brass knob. He twisted it hard, not bothering to check if it was locked. It wasn't. He pushed the door inward, not with a slam, but with a firm, decisive shove, intending to bark a single, sharp command.
The intention died the second his eyes registered the scene.
He froze, his hand clamped on the brass knob, holding the door open just wide enough for him to see.
You were on the bed, not looking at the door, completely lost in your own world. Your body was beautifully taut, your back arched with a deep, consuming tension. Your shirt was bunched up just under your chest, exposing your stomach and the fast, shallow rhythm of your panting breath.
His gaze dropped immediately, snagged by the sight between your bent knees. Your pants and underwear were down, pooled messily around your ankles. Your hips were slightly lifted, and you were rocking gently onto the two fingers that were pressed firmly and deeply into your slick, wet, glistening cunt. The pace was rhythmic, frantic, and entirely focused.
He saw the tight clench of your muscles, the subtle drip of moisture against the sheets, and the demanding focus in your face.
Your eyes were closed, your brow furrowed, and your other hand was clutching the sheets so tightly the fabric was white over your knuckles. You were making low, breathy, focused sounds. Strained whimpers, building hums and huffs that spoke only of intense, self-contained pleasure.
The sight was overwhelming, instantly hijacking his brain. The heat on his face didn't feel like embarrassment anymore; it felt like a heavy, suffocating pressure. His throat was utterly dry. He was witnessing something deeply private, raw, and incredibly demanding, and you didn't even know he was there.
The rush of adrenaline, the need to shout and assert control, vanished. It was replaced by a dizzying cocktail of shock, an aggressive spike of flustered desire he immediately despised, and a sickening feeling of being a creeping voyeur. He realized the magnitude of his mistake. He hadn't just interrupted you; he was now actively spying on you.
Your head shifted slightly on the pillow, and a small, uneven gasp escaped your lips as you found a new rhythm, pushing yourself harder against your fingers.
That movement, that fragile moment of exposure, snapped Bakugo out of his paralyzed stare. He had to move, right now, before you opened your eyes.
He pulled the door. He didn't turn the knob again, just slowly, painstakingly, released the pressure and allowed the heavy wood to swing back toward the frame. The only sound was the whisper of his boots as he shifted his weight, and the almost imperceptible schnick of the latch sliding quietly back into place.
The silence that followed was total.
He stood with his back pressed against the closed door for a long, aching moment, his chest heaving silently as he tried to catch his breath. His heart was hammering a furious, panicked rhythm against his ribs. The visual: the arch of your back, the slick intensity of your hand... was already burned into his memory, something he knew he wouldn't be able to scrub away.
He finally pushed off the door, his movements stiff and quick. He didn't look at the living room or down the hall. He just strode immediately, heavily, toward the corner that led to his own room.
He needed to get away from your door. He needed to get away from IcyHot, who was no doubt already measuring his reaction. He needed to be anywhere that wasn't here.
Shoto watched the entire, wordless spectacle from the living room. He saw Bakugo emerge from the hall corner, moving at a speed that was too fast for weariness and too quiet for rage.
Bakugo looked, in a word, ruined.
The flush on his face was no longer a mix of irritation and heat; it was a deep, mottled red that started high on his neck and bled into his hairline. His jaw was clenched so tight the muscle pulsed, and his eyes were wide and flickering with a panicked intensity that made his usual glare look dull by comparison.
Whatever Bakugo had seen in your room, it had clearly been devastating to his composure.
Shoto didn't move. He didn't speak. He knew there was nothing to say. Telling Bakugo I told you so or You shouldn't have done that would be pointless, and frankly, too much effort. He simply registered the evidence: Bakugo had confirmed what was happening, and the confirmation had broken his equilibrium entirely.
The air in the apartment felt unnaturally charged, thick with the silence from your room and the raw, lingering tension left by Bakugo's retreat. Shoto felt his own skin prickle, a strange, creeping heat beginning to spread under his clothes that was completely unrelated to his Quirk. It wasn't unpleasant, but it was deeply awkward and unsettlingly unfamiliar. He was tired, but this new, unexpected warmth felt like a jolt of energy, the kind that made his hands feel restless.
He recognized the sensation from moments of deep stress, but this was different...it was internal, and it felt linked directly to the noise and the subsequent image of Bakugo's flustered face. He decided the solution was purely practical.
He turned, walked over to his own closed door. He stepped into his room and immediately headed for his bathroom, planning on a cold shower. He needed to wash the strange, unsettling heat out of his system and put a solid, icy wall between himself and the rest of the apartment.
Bakugo didn't make it to his own bathroom immediately. He stumbled into his bedroom, kicking the door shut with a heavy, unnecessary thud. He collapsed onto the edge of his bed, head bent, his breathing still ragged.
The image was on loop: the arch of your back, the tight clench of your hand on the sheets, the two fingers pumping relentlessly. It was clearer, more detailed, and infinitely more real than anything he had ever seen on a screen.
You. That was fucking you.
He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to replace the image with the the face of the villain they'd encountered earlier, but the scene kept overriding everything. The slight glisten on your skin, the dampness he had briefly glimpsed..it was devastatingly effective.
He was seventeen. He wasn't stupid. He knew what an erection was, and he knew he had one. A thick, unyielding hard-on that strained against his jeans with an urgency that was completely new. He had been turned on by porn, sure, but that was distant, predictable, and easily dealt with. This was different. This was raw, immediate, and fueled by a profound sense of violation and fascination.
He had half a mind, a stupid, angry, primal instinct, to be loud. To unzip his pants, grab himself, and start grunting loud enough for you to hear, a furious, possessive retort to the sounds they'd been forced to endure. You think you're the only one?
The impulse was sharp, but the shame was sharper. He couldn't do it. He couldn't be that much of a childish asshole, especially not after the look he'd seen on your face. He had seen you and couldn't risk you knowing he was responding to that.
Muttering a guttural curse, he stood up, his body already reacting with painful urgency. He ripped his jacket off, letting it fall to the floor, and marched toward the bathroom.
He turned the shower on scalding hot, then ignored it completely. He braced his hands against the tiled shower wall, and dealt with the agonizing rush of blood to his cock quickly and forcefully, focusing only on the sharp, grinding friction, trying to burn the visual out of his skull with sheer sensation.
He was still a virgin. And he hated that the one truly overwhelming experience that brought him to his knees wasn't a hero fight or a world-shattering Quirk demonstration, but five seconds of watching you in your bed.
Bakugo braced his hands on the cool porcelain, sweat beading on his forehead despite the cool tile. The shower was still running, providing a loud, steaming shield from the rest of the apartment. He was focused on the immediate, desperate act of relieving the ache, but even the rough friction and the impending release couldn't stop the barrage of images.
The sight of you was a wildfire in his head. It was the arch of your back, the precise, rocking movement of your hand, and the heavy sound of your breathing. He had watched you at your most demanding and unguarded, and the memory was overwhelming everything.
As his climax sharply approached, over too quickly, the unwanted fantasy seized control.
It wasn't just you on the bed anymore. It was you beneath him. He saw your legs wide, the slick, glistening wetness he'd glimpsed now smeared across his own skin. He heard the same strained, building hums, but this time, they weren't being choked back. They were sounds of escalating pleasure forced out by the demanding thrust of his own cock inside you.
He imagined your fingers, which had been clutching the sheets, now clawing at his back. He saw the tension in your face, the same fierce concentration, dissolving into a breathless, desperate mess as you writhed beneath him.
The fantasy hit him with the force of an explosion, a raw surge of power and desire that was terrifyingly potent and entirely focused on you.
He finished with a muffled gasp, stumbling back. His muscles were shaking, his lungs burning. He leaned his head against the cold glass, staring at his own fogged reflection: flushed, wild-eyed, and looking utterly defeated.
He was a virgin. And the first intense masturbatory fantasy he'd ever experienced wasn't some generic porn scenario; it was the vivid, immediate memory of his roommate, overlaid with the aggressive, possessive insertion of himself into her most private moment.
What the hell are you thinking?
He hated it. He hated the way the image persisted, the way the sound of your imagined pleasured moan seemed to mock him. He was a professional hero student. He didn't get off to fantasies about his damn roommate, especially after having just played the role of a peeping creep.
Then, the crushing reality of the next morning set in.
Tomorrow was Saturday. Tomorrow, you would be there. You were always up by nine. You made the coffee while he usually started the eggs. Shoto would eventually shuffle out, and for a glorious, excruciating hour, the three of you would sit at the small kitchen table, eating breakfast and talking about nothing.
How was he supposed to sit across from you, looking at your normal, un-flushed face, and pretend that less than twelve hours ago, he hadn't been standing in your doorway, watching you get off, and then immediately afterward, stroking his own erection to the image of his cock inside you?
The shame returned, deeper and heavier than before, laced with a potent, confusing thrill. He knew he had to act like none of it had happened. He had to be louder, more aggressive, and more normal than ever, just to crush the image.
But he also knew that every movement you made, every casual brush of your arm as you reached for the butter, every soft sound you made while sipping your coffee, was going to be filtered through that five-second clip he'd recorded in his brain.
He turned off the shower and stood there, soaking in the steam. He had to face you. And he knew, with a sick certainty, that the thought of seeing you, of dealing with you, was now inextricably tangled with the potent, forbidden memory.