The air in the locker room tasted like sweat, cheap body spray, and the sharp tang of industrial cleaner. Katsuki leaned against the cool metal of his locker, one foot propped against the dented door. Three weeks. No texts, no posts, no slouched figure in the back of homeroom. Denki Kaminari was just… gone?
“You hear anything?” Eijiro asked, his voice unusually subdued as he pulled his gym shirt over his head.
“About what?” Katsuki didn’t look at him. He scanned the room, his crimson eyes skipping over the other guys changing out. None of them looked back. The whispers had started a week ago.
“About Denki, man. No one’s seen him. His mom filed a report. It’s weird.”
Katsuki shrugged, the motion rolling through his broad shoulders. He slammed his locker shut. The bang echoed. “Dunce-face probably ran off to join a circus. Not my problem.”
Eijiro frowned, his toothy smile absent. “You two were… hanging out. Right before.”
“So?” Katsuki turned, his gaze finally landing on his friend. It was flat. Bored. “We fucked. It was mid. He left. End of story.” The lie was smooth, effortless. He believed it as he said it. Denki was a blur of noise and heat in his memory, already overwritten by the image of his mother’s dark eyes watching from the hallway.
“It’s just… Camie transferred after winter break. That girl from the art annex ghosted the whole school. Now Denki.” Eijiro ran a hand through his spiky red hair. “It’s a pattern, bro.”
“You writing a fuckin’ thesis?” Katsuki shoved his hands in his pockets, his posture a masterpiece of casual dismissal. But his jaw was tight. “People come, people go. I need a new one.”
Eijiro blinked. “A new what?”
“A new hole to fill.” Katsuki said it like he was ordering lunch. His eyes were already scanning again, predatory and restless. “I’m dry. Bored. Need to get my dick wet. You know anyone?”
“Dude.” Eijiro’s voice dropped. “Seriously? With everything—”
“Everything is fine.” Katsuki cut him off, sharp. “You’re my best friend. Help me out. Who’s desperate? Who’s hungry for it?”
Eijiro stared at him. The kind, himbo loyalty in his face warred with a dawning, uncomfortable understanding. He saw the emptiness in Katsuki’s eyes, the way it wasn’t just about sex. It was about filling a crack that kept getting wider. “Mina was asking about you,” he said finally, reluctantly.
A slow, wicked smirk spread across Katsuki’s face. It didn’t reach his eyes. “Pinky. Yeah. She’s got a mouth on her. Thinks she can handle me?”
“I think she wants to try.”
“Good.” Katsuki pushed off the lockers. The movement was all coiled, athletic grace. He adjusted himself in his uniform pants, a frank, unashamed gesture. “Tell her to meet me. Storage closet C. After last bell.”
“You’re just gonna…” Eijiro gestured, helpless.
“I’m gonna fuck her until she forgets her own name.” Katsuki’s voice was a low, visceral promise. He leaned in close, the scent of caramel and clean sweat enveloping Eijiro. “And then I’m gonna go home to my mom.”
He said it like a punchline. Like a victory. He turned and walked out, leaving Eijiro alone with the buzzing fluorescents and the chilling, unspoken thought that for Katsuki Bakugou, those two things were somehow the same.
The air in Storage Closet C was damp and smelled of old mops and industrial bleach. Katsuki leaned against a metal shelving unit stacked with broken electronics, one hand already palming the stiff, heavy length of himself through his uniform pants. He was hard, had been since he walked out of the locker room. The ache was a familiar, grounding throb. He squeezed, his breath hissing between his teeth.
The door clicked open. Mina Ashido slipped inside, her pink hair glowing in the weak light from the hall before she pushed the door shut, plunging them into near-darkness. A single, dusty safety bulb hummed overhead.
“You came,” Katsuki said. It wasn’t a greeting. It was an observation.
“Eijiro said you wanted to see me.” Her voice was bright, a little breathless. She took a step closer. He could see the curiosity in her gold-and-black eyes, the nervous excitement in the way she bit her lower lip. “He said you were… bored.”
“I am.” Katsuki didn’t move from the shelves. His other hand came up to rub at his chest, a slow, absent circle over his pec. He watched her. “You think you can fix that?”
“Maybe.” She smiled, wide and challenging. “I’ve heard stories.”
“Stories are for kids.” He pushed off the shelves, closing the small space between them in one fluid step. The scent of her—sweet, like candy—clashed with the bleach. He crowded her, his body heat radiating against her. “You wanna know what it’s really like?”
Mina’s breath hitched. Her gaze dropped to where his hand still rested over his cock, the fabric stretched taut. “Show me.”
Katsuki’s smirk was a cold slash in the dim light. He grabbed her wrist, her skin surprisingly cool under his palm, and pressed her hand against the bulge. He was thick, pulsing under the wool blend. Her fingers instinctively curled, and he ground himself into her grip, a low groan rumbling in his chest.
“That’s what you’re getting,” he murmured, his mouth close to her ear. His free hand came up to cup her jaw, his thumb rough against her cheek. “No sweet talk. No romance. Just this. You understand?”
She nodded, her eyes wide. “Yeah.”
“Say it.”
“Just… just your cock.”
“Good girl.” The praise was empty, mechanical. He used his grip on her jaw to tilt her face up, his crimson eyes boring into hers. There was nothing tender in his gaze. It was appraisal. Predation. “You’re gonna be a good little distraction.”
He kissed her. It was all teeth and dominance, his tongue claiming her mouth with a practiced, brutal efficiency. She melted into it, a soft sound escaping her, her hands coming up to clutch at his shoulders. She tasted like mint and the caramel gum she always chewed. She tasted like nothing Katsuki really wanted.
Breaking the kiss, he spun her around, her back to his front. His arms banded around her waist, pulling her flush against him. She could feel every rigid inch of him pressed into the small of her back. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, inhaling. Not her scent. Searching for something else. Finding only candy.
“Katsuki…” she breathed, arching against him.
“Shut up,” he whispered, the words hot against her skin. One hand slid down, over the curve of her hip, under the hem of her skirt. His fingertips traced the edge of her underwear, the fabric already damp. He huffed, a sound of dark satisfaction. “Eager. Always a fuckin’ plus.”
He didn’t move to take them off. He just pressed the heel of his hand against her, through the cotton, and rubbed. A hard, circular pressure. Mina gasped, her head falling back against his shoulder. “Fuck…”
“That’s the idea.” His other hand came up, fisting in her pink hair, not hard enough to hurt, just enough to control. To keep her still. He rocked his hips, grinding his cock against her backside in a slow, filthy rhythm that matched the motion of his hand. His breathing grew ragged in her ear. He wasn’t thinking about her. He was thinking about the quiet of his house. The shadow in the hallway. The way green eyes watched, always watched.
His grip tightened. He forced her to take another step forward, until her palms slammed against the cold metal of the door. He pressed into her, his body caging hers, his erection a brand against her. He leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of her ear.
“Don’t move,” he commanded, his voice a raw, visceral scrape. He released her hair, his hand joining the other at her hips, fingers hooking into the waistband of her panties. He didn’t pull them down. Not yet. He just held her there, pinned between his body and the door, both of them trembling with the suspended, aching promise of it.
He ripped the cotton down her thighs with a single, brutal tug. The fabric tore, a sharp sound in the damp closet. Mina gasped, the cold air hitting her exposed skin. Katsuki didn’t pause. He shoved his uniform pants and boxers down just enough, his cock springing free, thick and flushed and already leaking. He fumbled in his pocket, tore the foil packet with his teeth, and rolled the condom on with a practiced, efficient jerk of his fist. He was breathing hard, but his eyes were distant, fixed on the pitted metal of the door in front of him.
“Katsuki,” Mina whispered, pushing her hips back in invitation.
He didn’t answer. He spat into his palm, slicked himself, and positioned the head against her. He pushed inside with one relentless, deep thrust, burying himself to the hilt. Mina cried out, a sharp, gratifying sound of stretch and fullness. Her nails scrabbled against the door. “Fuck… you’re so big…”
“Shut up,” he growled into her hair, his eyes squeezing shut. He began to move, a steady, punishing rhythm, his hips driving into her with a force that shook the shelves. The wet, slapping sound of skin on skin filled the small space. He focused on the heat, the tight clasp of her body, and let his mind go blank. Then he painted a new picture over the darkness behind his eyelids.
It wasn’t Mina’s pink hair. It was dark, messy green. The body under his wasn’t curvy and yielding; it was leaner, tighter, trembling not with eager submission but with shocked, breathless surrender. The scent in his nose wasn’t candy. It was laundry soap and the faint, clean sweat of the person who raised him. Mommy. The word was a heartbeat in his skull, synced to his thrusts.
The memory hit him, vivid and unwelcome. He was fourteen, home early from training. The house was quiet. He’d pushed open the door to Izuku’s bedroom without knocking, calling for a lost textbook. Izuku was on the bed, on his back, shirt rucked up, shorts around his ankles. One hand was buried between his own legs, working a sleek, black toy in and out of himself, fast and desperate. His head was thrown back, his mouth open in a silent gasp. His eyes were closed. He hadn’t heard the door.
Katsuki had frozen. He’d watched. He’d seen the flutter of Izuku’s throat, the sheen of sweat on his collarbones, the way his hips lifted off the mattress to meet each thrust. He’d seen the exact moment Izuku’s eyes flew open and locked on his. Green, wide, horrified. The toy had stopped. A wet, obscene sound in the sudden silence.
“Kacchan…” Izuku had breathed, his voice shattered.
In the closet, holding Mina’s hips hard enough to bruise, Katsuki remembered he hadn’t said a word. He’d just stared. And then he’d turned and walked out, closing the door softly behind him. They never spoke of it. He fucked his first girl that weekend.
“Harder,” Mina moaned now, bringing him back. Her voice was wrong. It grated. He obeyed, slamming into her, using her body to chase the ghost of that forbidden image. The memory of Izuku’s face, caught in private pleasure, was hotter than any real thing in this closet. He imagined it was Izuku making these sounds. Izuku taking him. Izuku whispering his name like a sin.
His rhythm faltered. The climax built, a cold wave at the base of his spine, divorced from any real feeling for the girl he was inside. He came with a choked, furious groan, his forehead pressed to Mina’s shoulder blade, his whole body rigid. He saw green eyes watching him from the dark.
He stayed there for a long moment, his breath sawing in the quiet. Then he pulled out, the condom slick and full. He disposed of it in a trash bag of old rags without looking at it. He tugged his clothes back into place, the post-sex routine automatic, empty.
Mina turned, leaning against the door, her skirt still rucked up, her legs shaky. She looked dazed, used, a little awed. “Wow,” she breathed, a smile tugging at her swollen lips. “That was…”
“It was nothing,” Katsuki cut her off, his voice flat. He ran a hand through his spiky hair, not looking at her. “Get dressed. And forget this happened.”
He left her there in the gloom, the smell of sex and bleach clinging to him. He walked down the empty school corridor, the echo of his footsteps the only sound. The physical ache was gone. The other one, the one shaped like his mother’s silence, was wider than ever. Denki was gone. Mina was just a body. And home was just a house where someone was always, always watching.