The convention hall air is thick with body heat and sharp cologne. The line crawls forward, a river of damp fabric and excited whispers, but Izuku feels the world narrow to a single point. There, behind a long table littered with glossy posters, Dynamight sits. Katsuki Bakugou is a wall of muscle and containment, his black-lined crimson eyes scanning the crowd with a bored, predatory focus. Up close, he smells dangerous—spent fireworks and expensive sandalwood.
Izuku’s hands are sweating inside his All Might hoodie pockets. His heart is a frantic bird against his ribs. When it’s finally his turn, he stumbles forward, the poster in his grip already wilting from his damp palms.
“Hi,” Izuku breathes, voice barely a squeak. “I’m—I’m your biggest fan. Really. I’ve analyzed all your fights since your first year at U.A. Your tactical adaptability is unparalleled!”
Katsuki’s eyes slide from the next person in line back to Izuku. They rake down the small frame swallowed by fabric, linger on the mop of green curls, the wide viridian eyes. A slow, calculated smile stretches his lips. It doesn’t touch his eyes. “Biggest fan, huh?” His voice is a low rumble, meant to be felt in the bones.
Izuku flushes, nodding rapidly. “Yes! I have all your limited edition merch, even the prototype Dynamight Buster Gauntlet replica that they only made five of, and I’ve watched your agency’s disaster response protocol videos seventeen times to chart the efficiency matrices—”
Katsuki holds up a hand, cutting him off. The gesture is effortless, absolute. Izuku’s mouth clicks shut. The hero’s gaze is heavy, cataloging. “You’re a smart kid. Passionate.” He leans forward slightly, the movement making the muscles in his shoulders shift under his tight black tank. “What’s your name?”
“Izuku. Midoriya Izuku.”
“Izuku,” Katsuki repeats, the name a rough purr in his mouth. He holds out his hand, not for a handshake, but palm up. “Let me see that poster, Izuku.”
Izuku scrambles to place the rolled poster into the hero’s waiting hand. His fingers are trembling. Katsuki’s hand is enormous, scarred, the skin warm and dry. As he takes the poster, his thumb drags deliberately across the sensitive inside of Izuku’s wrist.
The contact is electric, a brand. Izuku jolts, a tiny gasp escaping him. He feels the touch everywhere—a hot, shocking stripe against his skin that has no business feeling so intimate.
Katsuki doesn’t acknowledge it. He unrolls the poster on the table, picks up a sharpie. “Biggest fan deserves a proper signature.” He glances up, red eyes pinning Izuku in place. “You stay right there. Don’t move.”
Izuku can’t have moved if he wanted to. He’s frozen, his wrist still burning, his breath caught somewhere high in his throat. He watches, mesmerized, as Dynamight’s powerful hand moves with surprising grace, scrawling his hero name with a flourish before adding, beneath it in smaller, tighter script: *For my devoted little analyst. –K.B.*
Katsuki rolls the poster back up with a slow, deliberate twist of his wrists. He doesn’t hand it over. He holds it, his eyes never leaving Izuku’s flushed face. “Devoted,” he says, testing the word. “You know what that means, Izuku?”
Izuku swallows, his throat clicking. “It means… loyal. Faithful.”
“It means you don’t walk away.” Katsuki’s voice drops, a private rumble meant only for the space between them. The noise of the convention hall fades to a dull roar. “Even when it gets hard. Even when it scares you. You stay.”
“I wouldn’t walk away,” Izuku whispers, the confession torn from him. “Not from you.”
Katsuki’s smile is a sharp, approving slice. “Good.” He finally extends the poster. Izuku reaches for it, but Katsuki doesn’t let go. Their fingers brush, then wrap around the same cylinder of paper. Katsuki’s grip is a cage. “There’s an after-party. For the top-tier sponsors. Quiet. Private.”
Izuku’s heart stutters. “I… I don’t have an invite.”
“You do now.” Katsuki leans in closer. Izuku can see the faint lines at the corners of his eyes, the individual spikes of his blonde hair. He smells like a storm. “My plus-one. Back entrance. Nine o’clock. You gonna be there for me, little analyst?”
The question isn’t a question. It’s a hook, set deep. Izuku feels it pull. He nods, a frantic little jerk of his chin. “Yes. Yes, Dynamight—”
“Katsuki,” the hero corrects, his thumb stroking over Izuku’s knuckles where they both hold the poster. “When we’re alone, you call me Katsuki.”
“Yes, Katsuki,” Izuku breathes, the name foreign and heavy on his tongue. His mind is spinning, a whirlwind of *he knows my name he touched me he wants me alone*. The words tumble out in a nervous rush. “I’ll be there, Kacchan.”
The nickname hangs in the air between them, a slip of the tongue, a fragment of a hundred private, star-struck diary entries. Izuku’s eyes go wide with instant horror. He flinches back as if struck, his grip on the poster going slack. “I’m so sorry! That was—I didn’t mean—it just came out, I’m so sorry, Dynamight, sir—”
Katsuki’s hand tightens, preventing the poster from falling. His thumb is still on Izuku’s knuckles, a warm, inescapable pressure. The sharp, predatory smile softens into something more curious, more possessive. “Kacchan,” he repeats, rolling the childish syllables in his deep voice. He lets it sit there, watching the panic play across Izuku’s freckled face. “No. Don’t apologize.”
“But it’s disrespectful, I—”
“I like it.” Katsuki’s interruption is final. He leans in even closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial rumble that cuts through the convention hall din. “My biggest fan. My devoted little analyst. You get a special name for me. One nobody else uses.” His red eyes are locked on Izuku’s, pinning him in place. “You keep calling me that.”
Izuku’s breath hitches. The panic melts, replaced by a dizzying, warm flood of something he can’t name. It feels like winning a prize he never dared to dream of. “Really?”
“Yeah.” Katsuki’s thumb strokes once, slowly, over the bump of Izuku’s knuckle. “It’s ours. Now say it again.”
“K-Kacchan,” Izuku whispers, testing it aloud under that heavy gaze. It feels different now. Sanctioned. Secret. A thread tying them together.
“Good.” Katsuki’s approval is a physical warmth spreading through Izuku’s chest. The hero finally releases the poster, letting Izuku take full possession of the signed cylinder. His hand retreats, but the ghost of his touch remains, a brand on Izuku’s skin. “Nine o’clock. Back entrance by the loading docks. Tell security you’re with me.” He leans back in his chair, the movement shifting the powerful lines of his shoulders. The bored, predatory focus returns to his eyes as he glances past Izuku to the next fan in the endless line. “Don’t be late.”
“I won’t be,” Izuku says, but the words are lost in the noise. Katsuki is already looking past him, offering a sharp, professional smile to the next person in line. The connection is severed as publicly as it was forged.
The loading dock behind the convention center is a canyon of concrete and shadow, the air smelling of diesel and damp asphalt. Izuku arrives twenty minutes early, his small frame dwarfed by the towering bay doors. He clutches his signed poster like a talisman, his heart a frantic bird against his ribs. A security guard in a dark uniform steps into his path, blocking the single steel door marked ‘PRIVATE.’
“This area’s closed, kid. Event staff only.” The guard’s voice is flat, bored. His eyes scan Izuku’s All Might hoodie, his nervous posture.
“I’m—I’m with Dynamight,” Izuku stammers, the words feeling like a lie the moment they leave his mouth. “He said… he told me to come here. At nine. I’m his plus-one.”
The guard’s eyebrow lifts. He looks Izuku up and down again, slower this time. “Got a pass? An invite?”
Izuku’s stomach drops. “He said to tell security I was with him. He said you’d know.”
“He didn’t tell me anything.” The guard crosses his arms. The gesture is final. “Look, fan-kid, I get it. You want to meet the heroes. But this isn’t the place. Go back around front.”
Panic, cold and sharp, lances through Izuku’s chest. He’s going to miss it. He’s going to be late for Kacchan. “Please,” he says, his voice cracking. “Just… can you check? My name is Midoriya Izuku. He knows me.”
The guard sighs, a long-suffering sound. He’s about to speak when the steel door beside him buzzes and swings inward.
Katsuki Bakugou fills the doorway. He’s changed out of his hero gear into dark, tailored slacks and a simple black shirt that strains across his chest and shoulders. The sharp scent of his cologne cuts through the diesel smell. His red eyes find Izuku instantly, then flick to the guard.
“He’s with me.” Katsuki’s voice is a low rumble, devoid of any warmth. It’s a statement of fact, not an explanation.
The guard’s posture stiffens, his bored demeanor evaporating. “My apologies, Dynamight. He didn’t have a passprotocol—”
“Now he does.” Katsuki, I was just following doesn’t look at the guard. His gaze is fixed on Izuku, pinning him in place. He extends a hand, not toward Izuku, but in a clear command for him to approach. “Come here.”
Izuku scrambles forward, ducking slightly under the guard’s arm. He stops just in front of Katsuki, tilting his head back to look up at him. The hero is even bigger up close like this, a wall of heat and muscle. “I’m sorry, Kacchan. I was early, I didn’t mean to cause trouble—”
Katsuki’s hand comes up, not in a gesture of dismissal, but to cup the side of Izuku’s face. His palm is broad, his fingers rough with scar tissue as they slide back into the soft green curls. The touch is possessive, intimate, completely out of place in the concrete chill of the loading dock. “You didn’t cause trouble. You followed instructions. That’s good.” His thumb strokes Izuku’s cheekbone, a slow, deliberate pass that makes Izuku’s breath catch.
“I was just… the guard said…” Izuku stammers, leaning unconsciously into the warmth of that hand.
“He doesn’t matter.” Katsuki’s voice is a low, grounding rumble. His other hand comes up to rest on Izuku’s shoulder, then slides down his arm, a slow, assessing drag over the fabric of the hoodie. “Only thing that matters is you’re here. With me.”
Izuku nods, a small, shaky movement. The panic recedes, replaced by a buzzing warmth under his skin where Katsuki touches him. It feels like being claimed. Like being chosen. “Thank you for letting me come, Kacchan.”
“Told you I would.” Katsuki’s hand leaves his face, trails down the side of his neck, his thumb pressing lightly against the frantic pulse there. He feels it jump. A faint, approving smirk touches his lips. “Come on. Party’s upstairs. Quieter.”
He turns, his hand sliding from Izuku’s neck to the small of his back, a firm, guiding pressure. Izuku stumbles a step forward, his body moving before his mind can process the heat of that large palm through his clothes. Katsuki leads him through the steel door into a stark, fluorescent-lit service corridor.
The door swings shut behind them with a heavy, final clang. The noise of the outside world vanishes. It’s just the hum of industrial lighting, their footsteps on polished concrete, and the overwhelming, storm-scented presence of the man beside him. Katsuki’s hand doesn’t leave his back.
“Nervous?” Katsuki asks, his voice echoing slightly in the empty hall.
“A little,” Izuku admits, his own voice a whisper. “I’ve never been to a sponsor party. I don’t know what to do.”
“You don’t have to do anything.” Katsuki’s fingers splay, his touch becoming more deliberate, more encompassing. It’s not just a guide anymore. It’s a hold. “You’re my guest. You stick with me. You let me take care of you.”
They reach an elevator. Katsuki taps a keycard against the panel. The doors tslide open silently. Inside, it’s all mirrored walls and soft, golden light. Izuku sees a dozen reflections of himself—small, wide-eyed, swallowed by his hoodie—standing beside a dozen reflections of Katsuki’s powerful, predatory stillness.
The doors close. The world shrinks to a four-by-six box.
Katsuki turns, leaning back against the mirrored wall. He looks at Izuku, his red eyes tracking from the messy green curls down to his worn red sneakers and back up. His gaze lingers on the way the oversized hoodie drapes over Izuku’s narrow shoulders, hinting at the delicate shape beneath. “That merch is a crime, you know.”
Izuku flushes, looking down at his All Might hoodie. “It’s… it’s comfortable.”
“It’s comfortable,” Katsuki echoes, his voice a low, flat hum in the quiet elevator. His eyes don’t leave Izuku’s body. “It’s also hiding you. Take it off.”
Izuku blinks, his brain stuttering over the command. “My… my hoodie?”
“What else would I mean?” Katsuki doesn’t move from his lean against the mirror. His arms are crossed, his expression unreadable. “I want to see what you’re hiding under all that cheap fabric.”
“I’m not… it’s just me,” Izuku stammers, his hands coming up to clutch at the hem of the sweatshirt. The elevator continues its smooth, silent ascent. The mirrors show his panic from every angle. “It’s cold in here.”
“It’s not.” Katsuki’s voice leaves no room for argument. It’s a fact. “You’re warm. I can feel it from here. Take it off, Izuku. For me.”
The use of his name, spoken in that low, deliberate rumble, does something to Izuku’s insides. It feels like a key turning. His fingers tremble as they find the zipper. The sound is loud in the stillness. He shrugs the heavy fabric off his shoulders, letting it pool at his feet on the elevator floor. He’s left in a simple, faded t-shirt, one that’s too big for him as well, the neckline slipping to expose the sharp line of a pale collarbone.
Katsuki’s gaze is a physical weight, traveling over the thin cotton. He can see the delicate shape of Izuku’s shoulders, the slight swell of his chest, the way the shirt hangs loose around his small waist. “The shirt too.”
“Kacchan, I…” Izuku’s voice is a whisper. He feels exposed, even though he’s still mostly covered. The air in the elevator feels thinner, hotter.
“You said you were my biggest fan.” Katsuki pushes off the wall, taking one slow step forward. The space shrinks. “Biggest fans trust their hero. They listen. They show their devotion. Isn’t that right?”
Izuku nods, a jerky, helpless motion. His eyes are wide, fixed on Katsuki’s face. He can’t look away. He hooks his fingers under the hem of his t-shirt and pulls it up and over his head, his arms getting tangled for a second before he frees himself. He holds the crumpled shirt in front of his chest, a flimsy shield.
Katsuki doesn’t speak. He just looks. His red eyes catalog every detail: the dusting of freckles across pale skin, the soft, gentle curves of Izuku’s hips, the tiny, budding swell of his chest with its puffy, inverted nipples. His gaze lingers there, then travels lower, over the flat plane of his stomach, to the waistband of his jeans. The silence is thicker than any touch.
“The jeans too.” Katsuki’s voice is a low, grounding rumble in the mirrored silence. His right hand moves, palming the thick bulge straining against the front of his tailored trousers. He rubs himself slowly, a deliberate, obscene gesture as his eyes stay locked on Izuku’s half-naked form. “All of it. I want to see my biggest fan. All of him.”
Izuku’s breath hitches. His gaze drops to Katsuki’s hand, to the movement there, and his brain stumbles over the meaning. “I… I don’t…”
“You don’t what?” Katsuki takes another step forward. The elevator hums, climbing. “You don’t understand? Or you don’t want to?” His hand stills, resting possessively over his cock. “Tell me you don’t want to, Izuku. Tell me you want to leave.”
The challenge hangs in the air, sharp and dangerous. Izuku’s mouth is dry. Leave? Now? After being chosen, after being brought here, after Kacchan touched his face and called him good? He shakes his head, a frantic little motion. “No! I want to stay. With you.”
“Then show me.” Katsuki’s voice softens, a fraction. It’s a reward for the right answer. “Trust your hero. Let me see the devotion you talked about. It’s just a body. Nothing to be scared of.”
Izuku’s fingers fumble with the button of his jeans. His hands are trembling so badly he can barely manage it. The zipper sound is deafening. He pushes the denim down over his hips, letting them fall to pool around his ankles with the hoodie. He’s left in only a pair of simple orange panties, the cotton worn thin and soft.
“The panties too. Now.”
Katsuki’s voice is a low command, a vibration in the golden-lit air. His hand is still resting over the thick outline of his cock, a silent, obscene promise. He doesn’t move closer. He just watches, his red eyes burning with a patient, predatory heat.
Izuku’s breath shudders out of him. The orange cotton is the last barrier between his skin and the air, between his body and Kacchan’s gaze. His fingers, clumsy and cold, hook into the waistband. He hesitates, his knuckles brushing the soft skin of his lower belly.
“It’s just a body, Izuku.” Katsuki’s tone shifts, softening into something that sounds almost like encouragement. It’s a trap, but Izuku is too far gone to see the teeth. “Nothing I haven’t seen before. Nothing to be ashamed of. Show me.”
Izuku closes his eyes. He pushes the panties down, letting them fall to join the pile of his clothes at his feet. The elevator air is cool on his bare skin. He feels utterly exposed, the fluorescent light from the corridor outside bleeding under the door and glinting off the mirrors, showing him a dozen naked, trembling reflections.
“Open your eyes.” Katsuki’s voice is closer. He hasn’t moved, but his presence seems to fill the small space. “Look at me.”
Izuku forces his eyes open. Katsuki’s gaze is a physical touch, sweeping over him. It lingers on the soft, dark green curls between his thighs, on the delicate, pink folds of his pussy. Izuku feels a hot, shameful flush crawl up his chest and neck. He wants to cover himself. His hands twitch at his sides.
“Don’t.” Katsuki reads the intention instantly. “Hands at your sides. Let me look at you.” He lets out a slow, appreciative breath. “Fuck. You’re even prettier than I thought. All those freckles… and this.” His eyes fix between Izuku’s legs. “Such a cute little kitty. All hidden away for me.”
The childish, innocent word in Katsuki’s rough mouth sends a confusing jolt through Izuku. He whimpers, a soft, helpless sound. “Kacchan…”
"Spread your legs," Katsuki says, his voice a low command that vibrates in the small space. "Let me see that tiny kitty of yours."
Izuku whimpers, a soft, broken sound. He shifts his weight, his bare feet cold on the elevator floor. He obeys, moving his feet apart until he's standing with his legs slightly spread, exposing himself fully to Katsuki's burning gaze.
"Wider," Katsuki growls, his eyes fixed between Izuku's trembling thighs. The tent in his tailored trousers is massive, a thick, obscene outline straining against the fine fabric. "Show me what you're hiding."
Izuku shuffles his feet further apart, his face flaming. The cool air touches him there, a shocking intimacy. He feels utterly open, the delicate pink folds of his pussy exposed in the mirrored light.
"Good boy," Katsuki murmurs, his approval a hot wave that makes Izuku shiver. "Now use your hands. Spread those pretty lips for me. Let me see all of it."
"I… I don't know how," Izuku whispers, his voice cracking with shame. His hands hover at his sides, fingers twitching.
"Yes, you do." Katsuki's tone is patient, instructive. A teacher with a willing student. "Touch yourself. Show your hero how devoted you are. Two fingers. Pull yourself open for me."
Izuku's breath hitches. He brings a trembling hand down, his fingertips brushing the soft, hairless mound. His skin is so sensitive. He flinches at his own touch. Slowly, clumsily, he presses two fingers against his outer lips, peeling them apart. The inner flesh is a darker, glistening pink. He feels a hot, slick wetness he doesn't understand.
Katsuki lets out a slow, appreciative breath. "Fuck. Look at that. Already getting all wet for me, aren't you?" His own hands move to his belt. The click of the buckle is deafening. He unzips his fly, the sound rough and final. "Such a good, eager little fan."
He pushes his trousers and briefs down just enough to free his cock. It springs out, thick and heavy and uncut, the head a dark, flushed red. It's massive, a true 10 inches of girthy, veined flesh, curving slightly upward. His low-hanging balls, heavy and full, sway with the movement. He wraps a firm hand around the base, giving himself a slow, possessive stroke. Pre-cum beads at the slit.
Izuku's eyes go wide, his green irises swallowing the shocking sight. He's never seen one before, not in real life. It's terrifying. It's huge. His fingers, still holding himself open, go still. "K-Kacchan… that's…"
"That's your hero," Katsuki finishes for him, his voice a rough rumble. He takes a step forward, closing the small distance. The heat of his body radiates against Izuku's naked skin. The thick head of his cock brushes Izuku's inner thigh, a searing brand. "This is what you wanted, isn't it? To be close to me?"
Izuku can only stare, his mouth agape. The musky, masculine scent of him fills the air, mixing with the sharp cologne. It's overwhelming. His own body betrays him, a fresh trickle of wetness making his fingers slip. "I… I didn't know…"
"You didn't know it would feel like this?" Katsuki leans in, his lips brushing the shell of Izuku's ear. His free hand comes up to cradle Izuku's jaw, his thumb stroking the flushed cheek. "You're shaking. Are you scared?"
Izuku nods, a frantic little motion. Tears prick at the corners of his eyes.
"Don't be," Katsuki whispers, his breath hot. "I'm going to take care of you. Your cute little kitty is going to learn exactly what it's for. It's going to take every inch of me. And you're going to love it." He presses his cock more firmly against Izuku's thigh, leaving a slick, hot trail. "Now keep holding yourself open. Don't let go."
The thick, flushed head of Katsuki’s cock nudges against Izuku’s exposed folds. It’s searing hot, a blunt, alien pressure against the most intimate part of him. Izuku gasps, his fingers, still holding himself open, trembling violently.
“Feel that?” Katsuki’s voice is a low, gritty rumble. He drags the crown up through the slickness, smearing pre-cum and Izuku’s own wetness together. “That’s where I’m going to be. Deep inside that tight little kitty.”
“It’s… it’s so big,” Izuku whimpers, his eyes wide and fixed on the point of contact. The sheer size of it, the veined weight resting against him, feels impossible.
“It’s made for you.” Katsuki grinds the head in a slow, deliberate circle, making Izuku’s knees buckle. “Now. Use that pretty pussy. Rub it on me. Up and down. Get my dick nice and wet with you.”
“H-how?”
“You move,” Katsuki instructs, his patience a thin veneer over raw hunger. “Your hips, stupid. Rock into me. Let your kitty lips slide on my cock. Show me how much you want it.”
Izuku obeys, a shaky, shallow thrust of his hips. The motion drags his sensitive folds along the thick shaft. A jolt, sharp and electric, shoots through his core. He whines, the sound torn from his throat.
“There you go,” Katsuki praises, his hand tightening on Izuku’s jaw. “Again. Harder. Cover me in you.”
Izuku does it again, another helpless rock forward. The friction is overwhelming—a confusing mix of too much and not enough. His own slickness eases the glide, creating a wet, filthy sound in the quiet elevator. Each pass coats more of Katsuki’s length in a glistening sheen.
“Look at that,” Katsuki breathes, his eyes dark with lust. He watches his cock glisten, watches Izuku’s small body work to please him. “You’re dripping all over me. Such a messy, eager little thing. You were made for this.”
Izuku’s breaths come in ragged pants. His thighs are shaking with the effort, with the sensation. A low, unfamiliar heat is building in his belly, coiling tight. He doesn’t understand it. He’s scared of it. But his body keeps moving, grinding his soaked pussy against the hard, demanding flesh.
“Kacchan… it feels…”
“It feels good, doesn’t it?” Katsuki finishes for him, his thumb stroking Izuku’s cheek. “Your body knows what it needs. Even if your head doesn’t. It knows this willy belongs inside it.”
The low, unfamiliar heat in Izuku’s belly snaps tight, a coil springing free without warning. His back arches, a sharp, broken cry tearing from his throat as his entire body seizes. His pussy clenches violently around nothing, and a hot, clear gush erupts from him, soaking Katsuki’s cock and dripping down his own trembling thighs in a sudden, shocking flood.
“Fuck,” Katsuki snarls, his grip on Izuku’s jaw going iron-tight. He watches, transfixed, as the innocent boy squirts all over him, the sight so obscenely pure it tips him over the edge. His own orgasm hits him like a detonation, thick, white ropes of cum painting Izuku’s tiny, spasming cunt and his own slick shaft in heavy, possessive stripes.
Izuku sags, held up only by Katsuki’s hand. He’s panting, dazed, his green eyes glassy and unfocused. The elevator smells sharply of sex and salt and spent fireworks.
Katsuki pants, catching his breath, his cock still pulsing against Izuku’s oversensitive flesh. He looks down at the mess he’s made—the boy’s petite body marked with his release, mixed with the evidence of Izuku’s own bewildering pleasure. A slow, satisfied smirk curls his lips.
“Good boy,” he rasps, finally releasing Izuku’s jaw to stroke his damp curls. “You came just from rubbing on me. Your little kitty’s even more eager than I thought.”
Izuku whimpers, a shiver wracking his frame. He feels hollowed out and full of static. “I… I didn’t mean to…”
“You did exactly what you were meant to do.” Katsuki pulls back slightly, tucking his spent, glistening cock back into his trousers with a grimace of oversensitivity. He doesn’t bother to clean himself up. He leaves Izuku standing there, naked and dripping. “We’re going up to my penthouse suite.”
Izuku just nods, the motion sluggish. He’s still trying to process the violent, confusing waves that just wrecked him.