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To be clear, Hanta didn’t fuck Midoriya to piss Bakugou off.
Seriously. There’s several layers as to why something like that would be fucked up, the least of which being that they’re friends and Hanta has no reason to get under his skin like that. Not for real, anyway – it’s much more fun to get him all worked up about some stupid shit, not press his fingers into an emotional bruise and dig deep.
That’s not to say he didn’t know it would piss him off – or at least, suspect as much as he could given that Bakugou still has a tight lock on all his feelings and shit, even after all these years. He’s better, Hanta will give him that, but he’s not great.
That knowledge hadn’t left his mind, not until the very moment Midoriya was blinking his big doe eyes up at him and sliding those oversized gym shorts over his fat ass, but what was Hanta supposed to do when Midoriya showed up at their apartment soaking wet and looking for his Kacchan? Tipsy at his kitchen counter and sobering fast, looking like he’d decided something important but lost whatever fire spurred him there the minute Hanta said he wasn’t home.
Hanta’s dealt with any number of people kicking the legs of their island barstool all teary and defeated, but never the number one hero in a borrowed t-shirt, damp hair curling around his ears and dripping onto the counter. His eyelashes sent Hanta down a rabbit hole fast, clumped and sticky and making him think of things that, given all his assumptions, are objectively fucked up.
He wasn't entirely sure what Midoriya was waiting for at first, because Bakugou picked up a night shift without telling anyone (again) and likely wouldn’t be home until early morning. He didn’t ask, though, and he didn’t mind sitting with him, really (and he did have to sit, because Midoriya’s heels didn’t quite reach the rungs of the stool, and standing around waist-to-eye level with the guy was likely to get him in trouble).
He can admit he’s usually thinking with his dick. Sue him, pickings have been slim lately. The war and the years to follow searching for a new, ordered system had left too many people scrambling for security, for permanence.
Call it what you like, this unspoken force that drove most of their friends into shacking up, settling down, bound in holy matrimony and locking their doors to any outsider wanting to get between them. All he knows is it didn’t happen to him that way, and life’s too short to be settling down and thinking anything could be that permanent or stable, so that’s not what he looks for, and he’s not into being analyzed for any of that shit. People cope differently, and he hasn’t fucked up a friendship irreversibly yet, so it’s simple: if a pretty thing wanders into his bedroom, he’s sticking his dick in it, and they both move on and said pretty thing comes back or they don’t.
They usually don’t.
What he’s getting at is, there are just some opportunities you don’t pass up – especially not opportunities with a fat ass and a wet little cunt.
It took about twenty minutes for Midoriya to light a cigarette, and another twenty to have him leaning into Hanta’s ear and whispering about the rings on his fingers. By then, Hanta was far too caught up in split knuckles and a wet mouth to say no.
Really, Hanta had no way of knowing he’d be called in early that morning. No way to plan for bumping into Bakugou on his way out, or watching his eyes take in Midoriya, glowing and flowery-soft, waddling out of Hanta’s bedroom all content and covered in marks of various shades. Who has a backup plan for that beyond waving around his pager and jumping over the balcony railing?
Truth be told, Hanta’s always liked Midoriya. His tendency to cry at the drop of a hat always sorta made his dick hard (what can he say — he’s human), and Hanta’s always been into that whole unfailing honesty thing, ‘cause half the shit that comes out of his mouth would be filtered and swallowed by most other people. It’s refreshing to never have to ask what someone’s thinking, and Hanta’s always sorta hoped he’d get into his pants one day.
That being said, his timing couldn’t have been any worse. Bakugou had already been pissy all week, once he found out just how often Hanta gets around, which is fucked up, ‘cause where does a guy like that get off on acting all high and mighty just because he feels like sex is sacred? Or something like that. It was more along the lines of some implication that Hanta doesn't view himself as worthy of the same connections as other people which, whoa, big jump, just because he’s known Hanta for almost half his life now doesn’t mean he knows him.
Whatever. Hanta doesn’t feel like getting his ass kicked after his shift ends – some intern interfering with one of his rescues already, literally, filled that quota, and he’s sore enough, so he fucks around some private training room for awhile in the hopes that by the time he unlocks their front door, Bakugou will have seethed himself unconscious and Hanta can slip in quietly.
No such luck. The door slams open, and Hanta doesn’t need to look up to know who it is, but he does in case he needs to dodge a punch. No explosions – Bakugou cut that shit quick after Midoriya had a scare with his hearing (and isn’t it always, always Midoriya).
The punch doesn’t come either, but Hanta doesn’t dare blink, because even after all these years of knowing Bakugou was mostly bark and very seldom bite, Hanta’s only been on the receiving end of a look like this one other time, and under eerily similar circumstances. Only Kirishima was there, and Hanta exited the situation with all his teeth in his mouth, and now no one is here except him and a spark-palmed, fire-eyed Bakugou. And yet his quirk fizzles out and dies. And there’s the bark.
“Deku? You fucked Deku?”
Bakugou yanks off his shirt, and Hanta’s blood thrums, because he knows that stance, and this is headed a direction Hanta really didn’t expect. Hanta’s not opposed to a good spar, really much prefers it over his own death, actually, but he does throw his hands up anyway because his ass really does hurt, and he’s gonna avoid the fight if he can.
Only instead of some defense, some claim to not know how much he’d actually care, what comes out of his mouth is, “Hey, man, shouldn’t have taken that night shift.”
Aw, hell.
Bakugou pops his neck, a shitty habit Midoriya always gets on him about, which always leads to an argument about the cigarettes, and Hanta usually teases him about how ruffled it makes him when his Deku disapproves of something he does, but Hanta can recognize good and bad timing. Usually. Fearing for his own life seems to rattle his filter.
“Look, dude, it’s not my fault, okay? He came onto me,” Hanta blurts, which… does not help. If anything, Bakugou looks even angrier. Hanta only just manages to shift his weight before he lunges.
But it’s clear Bakugou’s shaken, like this really bothers him, and his attacks aren’t nearly as calculated as he’s used to. Matching the same vigilance Hanta is used to needing when they do this with an off-balance Bakugou, and in almost no time at all, Hanta has him pinned, face blotchy and twisted in some unfamiliar, emotional expression Hanta’s never seen before. And once he’s caught, it’s not hard to keep him down – Hanta would be a shit hero if his tape didn’t hold.
Only Bakugou doesn’t struggle. And when Hanta plants himself more securely on his hips because he doesn’t trust it, he feels that he’s hard.
And a series of lightbulbs, one by one, light up in Hanta’s brain. Oh.
“Shut the fuck up,” Bakugou snaps, even though Hanta hasn’t said a word, and this entire situation has veered sharply left of where he thought it would go — but if there’s one thing he’s learned over the years of knowing Bakugou, it’s if he keeps talking long enough, he’ll get the answers he wants.
“What is this? You wanna even the score? Think you’ll be a better fuck than him? What’s that gonna prove, Blasty?”
Hanta can recognize vulnerability when he sees it. He can also recognize he’s about to do another objectively fucked up thing. Bakugou tips his head to the side, something defiant in the set of his jaw, red to his ears.
“Did you confess yet? No? Had him all to yourself in that apartment, but you came after me.”
How fucked up it is, to seek comfort in the person that hurt you. Bakugou’s teeth grind so hard his jaw clicks, and his lower lip is bitten raw, like he worried it to shreds on the way here.
Usually sparring with Bakugou is something of a bet — a competition, and the loser has to do something like take over laundry for the month, or fill out paperwork (Bakugou’s a busy fucking hero — that particular loss was something of a nightmare).
Hanta’s never won before — always agreed for the practice, the thrill of fighting something he knew he’d lose. He’d never even asked himself what he’d demand for a prize.
“You lost,” Hanta muses, shifts his weight to hear Bakugou hiss. “Are you supposed to be my prize, sweetheart? What should I do with you?”
Maybe the tone of Bakugou’s voice would be more menacing if he wasn’t arching into the hands pushing up his chest. Hanta pretends to inspect, but he’s stolen enough glances after Bakugou’s showers to know exactly what he has to offer, and when he says, “Fuck you,” the crack of his voice when Hanta squeezes makes it less of a threat and more of a plea.
“That’s an idea. You’ve got a smart mouth,” Hanta grins, tapping his thumb at Bakugou’s bottom lip. “You wanna show me what it’s good for?”
Bakugou swallows. “You—”
He chews his words, and Hanta waits. All he says is, finally, “You fucked the rest of ‘em before me,” and his head tips, like it took something out of him physically. He stares at the ceiling while Hanta takes it in.
Hanta understands, then, several things. The need to feel wanted before you’ll go after what you want. And maybe it’s a little more than that — the last dregs of some competitive streak twisted up in hurt and overriding any real feelings. And isn’t it true? Hanta never made a move on him, even when he could’ve, even though Bakugou is gay, and single, and objectively really fucking hot.
“Come on, man. You had that torch, and we live together. I was just trying to spare the friendship.”
Bakugou glares up at him through watery eyes, and Hanta realizes how shitty a justification that is now, considering he went and fucked the guy Bakugou’s been pining for since high school.
“Some friend,” Bakugou spits, and, okay, Hanta deserves that. Hanta pets over his face, scratches his scalp, and the furrow between Bakugou’s brows smoothes over somewhat.
Maybe this isn’t the right way to do this, but Hanta can give him what he needs, and maybe Hanta doesn’t care.
“I wanted you,” he admits. “Shit, I’d pay you if you could find someone who doesn’t want you.”
“Hm.”
“Serious.” Hanta pets over his jaw, feels it unclench under his fingers, and that’s good, the trust, the way his lips part, red and full. “You’re real pretty, Kacchan.”
There it is. Katsuki exhales, and he welcomes Hanta’s fingers in his mouth. Hanta rubs over his teeth, his tongue, and he’s wonderfully still, eyes on Hanta. Good, he thinks. Watch me.
“You wanna be good for me awhile, doll?”
Bakugou closes his mouth around Hanta’s fingers and sucks, runs his tongue over the pads, and victory sings sharp down his spine. He thinks of Midoriya doing the same thing not even twenty-four hours ago, holding himself under his knees while Hanta fucked him to tears. Bakugou’s not a crier for anyone but him, but Hanta thinks he can pull something similar out of him if he plays this right.
Hanta pets further back, and Bakugou gags, flooding his mouth with spit. Hanta’s blood sings, and he keeps them there to watch him struggle and relax, pale eyelashes lowered over stunning red eyes. They’re longer than he’d expected, wetness clinging to the root. Perfect.
Hanta pulls his fingers free, closes them around Bakugou’s throat, and he keeps his mouth open, spit pooling at the corners. Obedient and still. “Gorgeous. Gonna give you what you want.”
Bakugou swallows, thick, breathing shallow. He tips his jaw, presses his tongue behind his bottom teeth, like he’s still waiting for Hanta’s fingers to return. Hanta can do him one better.
At this point, Hanta’s sort of gotten used to the clink of a belt buckle, the slide of a zipper in its obscenity as precedence for getting his soul sucked out of his dick. It’s a little unnerving to tug at the drawstring of his favorite sweatpants and feel the fabric catch on the sweat of his skin. It’s weird to be doing all the work, and Hanta’s never fucked a throat without the pressure of hands on his thighs, but Hanta doesn’t have a grip on Bakugou’s wrists anymore, and they both know he could break free if he really wanted to.
He doesn’t. His eyes zero in on Hanta’s hands, the coarse hair peeking over his waistband. He doesn’t move at all, and Hanta’s dick throbs so hard he sees stars.
One of the best heroes Japan has ever seen, waiting patiently for Hanta to push his cock into his mouth. The flashback is sudden and visceral, and for a moment Hanta sees green eyes and freckles. He blinks, and Katsuki’s beneath him again. He can see the anxiety flare at Hanta’s hesitation, and that just won’t do at all. Hanta pushes his boxers halfway down his thighs, and presses his thumb to his lower teeth. “Try not to choke.”
It’s a little cruel to say, because at this angle, the request is unreasonable. But Hanta wants to see him try. He slides the head over Bakugou’s tongue, and it’s nothing, just a soft exhale, but Bakugou’s whole face smoothes over nicely.
“Good, sweetheart, there you go.”
Hanta strokes over his cheek, and Bakugou keeps his eyes on him. His eyelashes flutter when Hanta rocks his hips forward, and shit, he takes it well. Like a good boy. Like his Deku. Hanta tells him as much, and Bakugou goes pink, throat vibrating. Fuck, yes.
Bakugou wanting praise for this, wanting to be told he’s doing a good job — it’s the furthest thing from a surprise. It’s his whole deal.
Hanta manages about three seconds at the back of his throat before he gags, and even that is a sight to see. Hanta digs his thumb into his pulse point, smears drool up his cheek. A tear drips down Bakugou’s temple, catches in his hair, and Hanta really isn’t gonna last, shit.
“Knew you’d be pretty like this, too, f-fuck, little wider, that’s good, sweetheart.” He can’t fit much like this, but it doesn’t matter, not when Bakugou’s looking up at him like that, tonguing under the head whenever Hanta slips out agonizingly slow.
He presses deeper, testing his limits, and Bakugou’s throat spasms with a wet sound, heels sliding uselessly against the mat. Hanta feels over the hollow of his cheek, the shape of himself, and Bakugou settles, breathing harsh through his nose. Good boy.
“That’s it,” Hanta sighs, “Gonna cum down your throat, honey. Gonna take it like your precious Deku did?”
Bakugou’s eyes slit, and Hanta’s momentarily apprehensive over the fate of his dick, but all he does is swallow and sit pretty. Hanta slides his fingers up his jaw to stroke through his hair, a grounding point, something to hold onto while he spills over his tongue. He sees Midoriya again, matted curls stuck to his forehead, Hanta’s cum dripping over his cheek, and almost wishes he’d chosen to paint Bakugou’s face, too. But Bakugou swallows, and groans when Hanta catches a stray drop and pushes his thumb into his mouth, and yeah, this is just as good.
“Perfect, sweetheart. It’s a shame he isn’t here to see it.”
Bakugou hums, hoarse and broken, pressing into the hand on his cheek, and Hanta thinks, maybe he’ll get a second chance. Maybe next time Midoriya can watch.