Chapter Text
Third year at U.A. had started like any other semester—loud, chaotic, and already exhausting by the second week. Katsuki Bakugo sat in his usual seat by the window, arms crossed, scowling at the empty blackboard. The morning sun slanted across the desks, and the rest of Class 3-A was in its usual pre-bell circus.
“Yo, Bakubro, you good? You’ve been staring at that wall like it owes you money,” Kirishima said, leaning over from the desk behind him.
“Shut up, Shitty Hair.”
Mina Ashido spun around in her seat, pink curls bouncing. “He’s probably plotting world domination again. Or thinking about how to blow up the vending machine that ate his spicy chips yesterday.”
“I said shut up.”
Denki Kaminari grinned, never one to miss an opportunity. “Nah, he’s been extra broody lately. Bet it’s a crush. Who is it, man? That support course girl with the goggles? Or—”
Bakugo’s glare could have curdled milk. “I will murder all of you and make it look like an accident.”
The door slid open.
The entire class quieted. Shouta Aizawa stepped inside wearing a tailored burgundy suit.
The jacket was a deep, rich wine-red, perfectly fitted across his shoulders and tapering at the waist. The trousers were the same color, sharp creases down the front. A black dress shirt underneath, top button undone, showing just a sliver of pale skin and the faint edge of a collarbone. His hair was tied back in a low, messy bun, a few strands escaping to frame his face. The underground hero looked… unfairly good.
The class erupted.
“Sensei?!” Mina squealed. “Oh my god, is this a fashion intervention? You clean up Nice!”
“Looking sharp, Aizawa-sensei!” Kirishima pumped a fist. “Very manly!”
Sero whistled low. “Did you have a hot date or something? Spill.”
Aizawa’s tired eyes swept the room, unimpressed. “Hero Commission meeting. They required formal wear. Sit down and shut up before I expel the lot of you for wasting oxygen.”
He moved to the podium, setting down a thin stack of papers. The suit jacket shifted with him, hugging the line of his back. The color made his pale skin stand out more, made the dark circles under his eyes look almost artistic instead of exhausted.
Bakugo’s brain flatlined.
He had been aware of Aizawa for years. The man was his homeroom teacher, his combat instructor, the one who pushed him harder than anyone else and never took his shit. Bakugo respected him. Admired him. Maybe even—quietly, viciously—wanted him.
But this?
This was different.
His eyes locked onto the way the burgundy fabric stretched across Aizawa’s shoulders when he turned to write on the board. The subtle flex of his forearm as he picked up the marker. The way the open collar revealed the sharp line of his throat. Bakugo’s mouth went dry.
Fuck.
In his head, the classroom disappeared. He imagined stepping up behind Aizawa, crowding him against the blackboard. Sliding a hand into that messy bun and tilting his head back. Pressing his mouth to that exposed throat, tasting skin, feeling the rumble of Aizawa’s low voice against his lips. Imagined the capture weapon wrapped around his own wrist instead, pulling Aizawa closer until there was nothing between them but heat and the faint scent of black coffee and dry shampoo.
He wanted to kiss him until Aizawa forgot how to be tired. Wanted to bite that sharp jaw and hear the man Break.
“—kugo.”
Bakugo didn’t register his name at first.
“Bakugo.”
The voice was closer now. Calm. Warning.
He blinked hard. Aizawa was standing right in front of his desk, arms crossed, burgundy sleeve brushing the edge of Katsuki’s notebook. Those dark eyes pinned him in place, unreadable but knowing.
“Eyes on the board,” Aizawa said quietly. Not loud enough for the whole class to hear, but firm. “Not on me.”
The class went suspiciously silent for half a second before the whispers started.
Bakugo’s ears burned. He forced his gaze to the blackboard, jaw clenched so tight it hurt. His heart was hammering like he’d just finished a full-power detonation drill.
Aizawa lingered for another beat, then turned away. The suit moved with him like it had been made for his body. Bakugo’s fingers curled into fists under the desk.
He spent the rest of the lesson in a fog—taking notes on autopilot while his mind replayed the same three seconds on loop: the burgundy jacket, the open collar, the way Aizawa’s eyes had narrowed at him like he knew.
Like he’d known for a while.
When the bell rang, Bakugo stayed seated until most of the class had filed out, pretending to check something in his bag. Aizawa was erasing the board, back to the room.
Katsuki stood up. His chair scraped loudly.
Aizawa didn’t turn around, but his shoulders tensed—just slightly.
“Problem, Bakugo?”
Bakugo stared at the line of his spine beneath that goddamn suit. He wanted to say a thousand things. You look like sin in red. I can’t stop thinking about you. Tell me I’m not imagining the way you look at me sometimes.
Instead he shoved his hands in his pockets and muttered, “No. Just… nice suit.”
Aizawa finally glanced over his shoulder. For a split second, something flickered across his face—resignation, maybe. Or exhaustion that had nothing to do with lack of sleep.
“Eyes forward from now on,” he said softly. Almost gentle. “Don’t make this complicated.”
Then he walked out, burgundy suit cutting a sharp figure down the hallway.
Bakugo stood there long after the door closed, chest tight, skin buzzing.
He was so fucking screwed.
---
Friday nights in the 3-A dorms followed a predictable rhythm. Most students crashed early after a brutal week of training, or stayed up in the common room gaming until their eyes bled. By 11 p.m., the building usually settled into quiet.
Shouta Aizawa hated these weekly checks, but they were necessary. He moved through the dimly lit halls in his usual black sweats and loose long-sleeve shirt, capture weapon coiled loosely around his neck. His eyes burned from lack of sleep—another night spent buried in reports and patrol logs.
He pushed open the kitchen door, expecting it to be empty.
It wasn’t.
Katsuki Bakugo stood at the counter in a black tank top and sweatpants, back to the door, stirring something on the stove. The low light caught on the sharp lines of his shoulders and the faint scars across his arms. He usually passed out by nine sharp. Seeing him here at this hour was… unusual.
Bakugo didn’t turn around immediately, but his shoulders tensed the second Aizawa stepped in.
“Sensei,” he muttered, voice rough like he’d been caught doing something illegal. “Didn’t think you’d still be up.”
Aizawa leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “Routine check. You’re normally asleep by now.”
“Yeah, well… couldn’t sleep.” Bakugo shrugged, still not facing him fully. He turned off the stove and slid a perfectly cooked omelette onto a plate. The smell of soy sauce and green onions filled the small kitchen—simple, but deliberate.
Aizawa’s stomach chose that moment to remind him he’d skipped dinner again. He sighed.
Bakugo finally glanced over, crimson eyes flicking across Aizawa’s tired face. Something softened in his expression for half a second before he masked it with his usual scowl.
“You look like shit,” he said bluntly. Then, quieter: “Sit. I made extra.”
Aizawa raised an eyebrow but took the stool. The first bite was perfect — light, seasoned just right with soy and green onion. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was.
Bakugo leaned against the opposite counter, watching him eat with a half-scowl that didn’t quite hide the concern underneath. “You eat like shit, you know that? Always skipping meals. And don’t get me started on your sleep schedule. You look worse than usual.”
Aizawa chewed slowly, then gave a tired, fond eye-roll. “Pot calling the kettle black. You’re the one who trains until your hands bleed and calls it ‘rest.’”
A small, reluctant smirk tugged at Bakugo’s mouth. “At least I eat properly. You survive on black coffee and spite.”
They fell into a surprisingly easy silence while Aizawa finished the meal. The kitchen felt warmer than it should have at this hour. When the plate was finally empty, Aizawa reached for it to take to the sink.
Their hands brushed — accidental, fingers grazing over the edge of the plate.
Bakugo didn’t pull away.
Neither did Aizawa.
For a long second their hands stayed there, skin to skin, warm from the cooking and the late-night quiet. Bakugo’s crimson eyes dropped to their touching fingers, then slowly lifted to Aizawa’s face. The air thickened.
Aizawa finally withdrew his hand, exhaling quietly. He set the plate in the sink and turned back, voice low and careful.
“You’ve been… off lately,” Aizawa finally said, voice low and careful. Not accusatory. Just tired honesty. “Staring in class. Lingering after lessons. Showing up in places you shouldn’t be at this hour.”
“Katsuki.” he said quietly.
Bakugo’s real name landed softly between them. The blond froze.
Aizawa continued, gentler than he probably should have been. “I’m not blind. And I’m not stupid. Whatever you think is happening here… it can’t.”
Bakugo stepped closer to the island, eyes never leaving Aizawa’s. The teasing lightness from earlier had burned away, replaced by something raw and steady.
“I’m not pretending anymore,” he said, voice low and rough. “I was here for you tonight. Yeah. I knew you’d do the rounds. I knew you’d look like you haven’t eaten in twelve hours.” He gestured at the half-empty plate. “And I’m not giving up on this. Whatever the fuck is between us… it’s not one-sided, and it’s not going away just because you want it to.”
Aizawa’s breath caught for a fraction of a second. He kept his face neutral, but his fingers tightened around the edge of the plate.
Bakugo stepped closer, stopping just breath away from Aizawa.Close enough that Aizawa could see the faint flush high on his cheeks, the way his jaw clenched with the effort of holding back.
“I’ve been holding this shit in for months ,Shit even years,” Bakugo continued, quieter now. The anger had bled out, leaving something raw and honest. “Every time you push me harder in training. Every time you stay behind to make sure I don’t blow my damn arms off. Every fucking time you look at me like you’re fighting the same thing I am.” His voice dropped. “Stop pretending it’s nothing. Stop pretending it’ll just disappear with time. It won’t.”
The kitchen felt smaller. The only sounds were the hum of the fridge and the heavy beat of restrained breathing.
Aizawa looked at him—really looked. At the young man who had grown into something fierce and brilliant right in front of him. At the want written so clearly across that usually explosive face.
For one dangerous heartbeat, Aizawa let himself feel it too. The pull. The warmth in his chest that had no right to be there.
Then he closed his eyes briefly and exhaled.
“Eat your own dinner, Bakugo,” he said softly, standing up. “And go to bed. That’s an order.”
He turned toward the door, but not before he heard Bakugo’s quiet, stubborn reply behind him.
“I’m not giving up, Shouta.”
Aizawa paused for half a second in the doorway, back still turned, heart hammering harder than it had any right to.
Then he kept walking, leaving the warmth of the kitchen—and Katsuki Bakugo—behind him.
---
The weeks after that late-night kitchen encounter passed in a strange, heavy haze.
Bakugo had changed.
There was no more hesitation in him, no more stolen glances quickly looked away. The nervousness that once made him scowl and turn red at the edges had burned away completely. What replaced it was something far more dangerous: open, unrelenting focus.
In homeroom, during lectures, while Aizawa spoke at the front of the class—Bakugo stared.
Not subtly. Not with the old flicker of uncertainty. His crimson eyes followed Aizawa’s every movement with calm, deliberate intensity. When Aizawa turned to write on the board, Bakugo’s gaze traced the line of his shoulders, the tilt of his head, the way his hair fell across his face. When Aizawa addressed the class, those eyes locked onto his without shame, charged and steady, like a promise.
The rest of the class had started to notice.
“Bakubro’s been weird lately,” Kirishima muttered one morning.
Mina leaned in with a grin. “He’s staring again. Like, hard. Think he’s plotting something?”
Bakugo didn’t even bother snapping at them anymore. He just kept watching.
---
From Aizawa’s side, it was becoming unbearable.
He knew what this was. He had known for months, maybe longer. The pull was mutual—quiet, unwanted, and growing stronger every day. Every time those crimson eyes found him, something inside Shouta tightened and warmed in equal measure. He wanted it. That was the worst part. Some traitorous part of him wanted to stop running, to turn around and meet that stare head-on.
Instead, he ran.
He kept his responses shorter in class. Avoided lingering after lessons. Assigned Bakugo extra solo drills just so he wouldn’t have to stand too close. At night he lay awake longer than usual, replaying the feeling of Bakugo’s fingers brushing his in the kitchen, the low roughness of his voice saying I’m not giving up, Shouta.
He wanted to give in.
He couldn’t.
He’s still my student, Aizawa reminded himself every single day, even as the words started to feel hollow. This can’t happen. Not now. Not ever.
But the distance he tried to create only seemed to make Bakugo more determined. The stares grew bolder. The tension in the air between them thickened until it felt like the whole class could choke on it.
One afternoon, near the end of a literature lesson, Aizawa made the mistake of letting his own eyes drift toward Bakugo’s desk.
Their gazes locked.
Bakugo didn’t look away. Didn’t smirk. Didn’t even blink. He just held the stare, steady and burning, as if he could see straight through every wall Aizawa had built. As if he knew exactly how badly Aizawa wanted to stop pretending.
Aizawa was the first to break it, turning back to the board with his heart hammering harder than it had any right to.
This boy is going to ruin me, he thought, fingers tightening around the marker.
And the terrifying truth was… a part of him was starting to think it might be worth it.
---
The U.A. auditorium was pure chaos — the good kind.
Students from Class 3-A were laughing, crying, hugging, and shouting over each other. Kirishima had Mina in a crushing bear hug while she sobbed dramatically into his shoulder. Denki was taking selfies with half the class, flash going off like explosions. Sero and Jiro were trying (and failing) to calm down a teary Ochaco. Even Todoroki looked quietly emotional, a small smile on his face as Midoriya hugged him fiercely.
Shouta Aizawa stood off to the side near the stage steps, arms loosely crossed, watching them with tired but fond eyes. He wore a charcoal-black suit — tailored, sharp, and unexpectedly elegant on his lean frame. The dark fabric made his pale skin stand out and his messy hair look almost intentional. No capture weapon today. Just the man.
He occasionally stepped forward when students approached — a quiet word of congratulations here, a firm pat on the shoulder and a few encouraging words there.
“You’ve come far. Keep moving forward,” he told Midoriya, who was openly crying.
“Don’t get cocky just because you graduated,” he told Kirishima with the ghost of a smirk.
Then he felt it — that familiar, burning stare.
Katsuki Bakugo approached in a perfectly tailored black suit that made him look every inch the adult he now was. Broad shoulders, sharp jaw, blond hair styled just enough to look deliberate. He moved with the same confident swagger, but there was something new in his eyes tonight. Open. Hungry. Unafraid.
“Sensei,” Bakugo drawled, voice low and teasing as he stopped right in front of him. “Trying to kill me on my graduation day with your looks?”
Aizawa raised an eyebrow, lips twitching. “You’re still calling me Sensei?”
“Force of habit.” Bakugo’s gaze dragged slowly down the charcoal suit and back up. “Or maybe I just like how it sounds when I say it to you. Fuck… you really wearing that suit to torture me?”
Aizawa let out a short, dry breath that was almost a laugh. Genuine Laugh. “I didn’t know you had a type. Apparently you prefer people who actually know how to wear a neat suit.”
Bakugo smirked, stepping a fraction closer. “Yeah? Well my type’s a sloppy hobo who survives on black coffee, never sleeps, and still looks unfairly hot while doing it.”
Aizawa rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth curved upward despite himself. “Don’t get started, Bakugo.”
They stood there for a moment amid the noise of the crowd, the banter fading into something heavier. Aizawa’s expression softened.
“You did well,” he said quietly, genuine. A real, small smile touched his lips — rare and sincere. “You worked harder than almost anyone I’ve ever taught. You’re going to become an extraordinary hero, Katsuki. I mean that.”
Bakugo’s cocky expression faltered for a second. Something vulnerable flashed across his face before he covered it with a smirk. They talked a little longer — about future agencies, patrol routes, stupid jokes about how Bakugo would finally be able to blow things up without getting detention — but the air between them kept growing thicker.
Eventually Aizawa exhaled. “I need some quiet. Enjoy the party.”
He slipped away from the crowd and headed toward the old 3-A classroom, the hallway lights dimmed for the night.
He didn’t make it far.
Footsteps followed him.
Bakugo.
---
The old 3-A classroom was steeped in silence, moonlight spilling across the empty desks like silver dust. The faint scent of chalk and polished wood lingered in the air — familiar, nostalgic, and somehow heavier tonight. Shouta Aizawa let the door click shut behind him and rolled his shoulders, finally allowing the exhaustion of the day to settle. The celebration noise outside felt miles away.
He exhaled slowly, loosening his tie with two fingers.
Then the door opened again.
Aizawa turned, already knowing who it would be.
Katsuki Bakugo stepped inside, closing the door with a soft click that sounded far too final. The black tailored suit clung to his broad frame, jacket unbuttoned, revealing the crisp white shirt underneath. He looked devastatingly adult — sharp jaw, powerful shoulders, crimson eyes locked on Aizawa with unrelenting focus.
“Why are you here, Bakugo?” Aizawa asked, voice low and controlled.
“Wanted quiet,” Bakugo replied, taking one slow step forward. “Same as you.” Another step. “But mostly… I wanted you.”
Aizawa’s pulse kicked up. He took a measured step back. “This isn’t appropriate.”
“We’re not teacher and student anymore,” Bakugo said, voice dropping into a rough murmur as he continued advancing. “You don’t get to hide behind that shit tonight. No more excuses. No more running.”
Aizawa’s back hit the edge of a desk. He was trapped — the solid wood pressing against his hips, Bakugo’s body heat closing in like a wall. Bakugo stopped barely a breath away, looking down at him with dark, hungry eyes.
“Bakugo…” Aizawa warned.
Bakugo reached up, slow and deliberate, and brushed the loose strands of black hair away from Aizawa’s face. His calloused fingers lingered, tracing the shell of Aizawa’s ear, then sliding down to cup the side of his jaw. He didn’t pull back. The touch burned.
Aizawa’s hand came up, pressing firmly against Bakugo’s chest. “Stop.”
Bakugo didn’t stop. He leaned in harder, pinning Aizawa fully against the desk with his taller, broader frame. Their bodies aligned — chest to chest, hips brushing, thighs nearly slotted together. The heat radiating from Bakugo was intoxicating.
“Tell me to leave,” Bakugo breathed against his cheek, lips grazing the sharp cheekbone. “Look me in the eyes and say you don’t feel this.”
Aizawa’s breath hitched. Bakugo’s mouth moved lower, pressing a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the side of his neck, right over the racing pulse. His tongue flicked out, tasting skin.
Aizawa inhaled sharply, a full-body shudder rolling through him. His fingers curled tighter into Bakugo’s shirt.
“You have no idea how fucking badly I want you,” Bakugo whispered hotly against his throat, voice low and velvet-rough. “Every damn day in this classroom I sat there imagining dragging you behind the desk, shoving you down, and kissing you until you forgot how to speak. How many nights I jerked off thinking about bending you over this exact desk…” His hips rolled once, slow and deliberate, pressing the obvious hardness against Aizawa’s thigh. “Fucking you senseless until the only thing left in your head was my name.”
Aizawa’s breath stuttered. “Shut up,” he pleaded, voice strained and hoarse. “Bakugo… shut the hell up.”
Their eyes met.
For one long, suspended moment, Aizawa’s iron restraint fractured. His gaze dropped to Bakugo’s mouth, dark lashes fluttering. His hand slid from Bakugo’s chest up to the back of his neck, fingers threading into blond hair.
Bakugo’s eyes flared with triumph. He leaned in—
Reality crashed back.
Aizawa shoved him hard, breaking free, and turned sharply toward the door, heart hammering violently against his ribs.
He only made it three steps.
A powerful arm snaked around his waist from behind and yanked him back against a solid, unyielding chest. Bakugo spun him around with surprising strength and slammed him up against the classroom door. The impact rattled through Aizawa’s body as Bakugo pinned him there with his full weight — one thigh shoved between Aizawa’s legs, hips flush, one hand braced beside his head.
Then Bakugo kissed him.
It was raw, devouring, months of pent-up hunger unleashed all at once. Bakugo kissed like he did everything — intense, overwhelming, merciless. His tongue swept into Aizawa’s mouth the second his lips parted on a gasp, tasting, claiming, dominating. One hand gripped the back of Aizawa’s neck possessively while the other slid down to grip his waist, pulling their bodies impossibly closer until there was nothing between them but fabric and heat.
Aizawa made a low, broken sound — half protest, half desperate need — and his hands fisted in Bakugo’s suit jacket, yanking him even harder against him. Their mouths moved together wetly, tongues sliding, teeth grazing. Bakugo groaned into the kiss, grinding his hips forward in a slow, filthy roll that made Aizawa’s knees weaken.
When they finally broke apart, both gasping for air, Bakugo rested their foreheads together. His voice was wrecked, lips brushing Aizawa’s with every word.
“Still gonna pretend you don’t want this… Shouta?”
Aizawa’s answer was a low, frustrated growl. His hands fisted tighter in Bakugo’s suit jacket and yanked him back in.
Their mouths crashed together again, hotter, messier. Bakugo groaned deep in his chest — a rough, hungry sound that vibrated against Aizawa’s lips. He tasted like the champagne from the party and pure want. Aizawa tried to take control, tilting his head to deepen the kiss, tongue sliding against Bakugo’s with deliberate pressure. For a second he almost won — Bakugo let out a surprised, pleased noise and followed his lead.
Then Bakugo’s fingers found the knot of Aizawa’s charcoal tie.
With one sharp tug he loosened it, yanking the silk free and dropping it to the floor. Before Aizawa could protest, Bakugo hooked two fingers into the open collar of his shirt and pulled hard, slamming their bodies flush together.
“Fuck,” Bakugo growled against his mouth.
Their hips aligned perfectly. The hard line of Bakugo’s cock pressed against Aizawa’s through their suit trousers, sending a white-hot spark shooting up Aizawa’s spine. He gasped into the kiss, the sound breaking into a low, involuntary moan he tried desperately to swallow back. It slipped out anyway — breathy, wrecked.
Bakugo’s breathing was ragged, hot puffs against Aizawa’s cheek. “That’s it,” he muttered, voice gravel-rough. “Don’t hold back. Let me hear you.”
One of Bakugo’s hands slipped under Aizawa’s shirt, palm sliding up the bare skin of his stomach. Calloused fingertips traced the ridges of old scars, then higher, brushing over a nipple. Aizawa shuddered hard, another moan fighting its way out. He bit Bakugo’s lower lip in retaliation, trying to regain some control, but Bakugo only groaned louder and rolled his hips forward again.
Their cocks dragged together through fabric, the friction intense and perfect. Sparks exploded behind Aizawa’s eyes. He could feel how hard Bakugo was — thick, hot, straining against his zipper — and the realization made heat pool low in his gut.
“Shit… Katsuki—” Aizawa breathed, the name slipping out before he could stop it.
Bakugo’s hand tightened on his waist, the other still under his shirt, thumb circling slowly over sensitive skin. “Say it again,” he demanded, voice low and filthy. He ground against Aizawa in a slow, deliberate roll, dragging their clothed cocks together once more. The pressure was maddening. “Fuck, you feel so good. Been thinking about this for years.”
"Katsuki" Aizawa’s head fell back against the door with a dull thud. His breath came in short, shaky pants. He was trying — god, he was trying — to stay quiet, but every thrust of Bakugo’s hips pulled another broken sound from his throat. Small, desperate noises he couldn’t quite hold back.
Bakugo’s mouth latched onto his neck, sucking a mark just below his jaw. His hand kept moving under the shirt, exploring, claiming every inch of bare skin he could reach. The contrast of cool classroom air and Bakugo’s burning palm made Aizawa shiver.
Their breathing filled the room — harsh, uneven, syncing and then breaking apart again as hips rolled and hands wandered. Bakugo groaned every time their cocks rubbed together, the sound raw and needy. Aizawa’s fingers dug into Bakugo’s shoulders, half pushing, half pulling him closer.
For a moment Aizawa tried to flip them — to press Bakugo against the door instead — but Bakugo was stronger, broader now, and he used it. He caught Aizawa’s wrists, pinned them above his head with one hand, and kept grinding slow and filthy against him.
“Not yet,” Bakugo panted against his ear, voice dripping with smug satisfaction. “You’ve made me wait too fucking long. Let me feel you fall apart first.”
Aizawa’s cock twitched hard at the words. Another moan slipped out, louder this time, and he didn’t even try to stop it.
Bakugo smiled against his throat — sharp, victorious — and rolled his hips again, dragging them together in a rhythm that made sparks burst behind Aizawa’s eyelids.
---
A burst of loud, drunken laughter exploded from the hallway just outside the classroom — some of the graduates still roaming the building, voices bright and careless.
The sound cut through the thick, heated air like a blade.
Aizawa’s entire body went rigid. For a single, frozen second he could still feel the ghost of Bakugo’s hands on his skin, the press of his cock, the taste of him. Then reality crashed down hard.
He shoved Bakugo back with both palms flat against his chest — harder than he meant to. Bakugo stumbled, breathing ragged, crimson eyes still dark and blown wide with raw want.
Aizawa’s hands trembled as he fumbled to button his shirt, fingers clumsy on the fabric. He couldn’t look at Bakugo. Not yet.
“…This was a mistake,” he said, voice low and rough.
Bakugo’s face crumpled like he’d been physically slapped. The heat in his eyes shattered into something sharp and wounded, mouth parting in silent shock before twisting with pain.
Aizawa’s chest tightened painfully.
He forced the words out, clipped and heavy. “We shouldn’t have done this. I shouldn’t have lost control.” A short, exhausted exhale. “If anyone needs to take responsibility, it’s me.”
Bakugo’s fists clenched so hard the knuckles went bone-white. His shoulders shook once — barely visible — before the anger flooded in to cover the hurt.
“Shut up,” he snarled. The word cracked at the end, raw and broken, like something inside him had splintered.
Aizawa stopped.
The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. Bakugo’s chest heaved, eyes glassy with fury and something far more fragile that made Aizawa’s stomach twist into knots.
“This wasn’t a fucking mistake,” Bakugo growled, voice shaking with barely-contained emotion. “We both wanted it. You wanted it. Don’t you dare stand there and act like this is some dirty sin you have to apologize for.”
Aizawa looked away, jaw clenched so tight it ached. Inside, guilt clawed at him — vicious and unrelenting.
“Even if we’re no longer teacher and student,” he said quietly, forcing his voice steady, “this would complicate everything. Your career. Mine. Our lives. You’re just starting out—”
Bakugo barked out a dry, bitter laugh that sounded like it hurt him more than it hurt Aizawa. It echoed in the empty classroom, hollow and awful.
“Still hiding behind the same shitty excuses.” He stepped closer, eyes burning with tears he refused to let fall. “You’re a fucking coward, Shouta. I waited years for you. Years. And you won’t even fight for this. Not even a little.”
The words landed like blows. Aizawa’s fingers twitched at his sides — he almost reached out, almost grabbed Bakugo’s arm, almost said wait — but he stopped himself. The self-disgust burned hotter than any desire had.
Bakugo’s shoulders sagged, the fight draining out of him all at once. He looked smaller somehow, despite the broad frame and tailored suit. When he turned toward the door, his voice was barely more than a broken whisper.
“…Now I’m starting to doubt if you ever really loved me at all.”
The door clicked shut behind him with a finality that echoed louder than any explosion.
Aizawa stood alone in the moonlit classroom, shirt still half-open, tie lying forgotten on the floor like evidence of his failure. His lips still tingled. His skin still burned where Bakugo had touched him. His cock was still half-hard and aching, a cruel reminder of how badly he had wanted this.
He pressed the heels of his hands hard against his eyes until stars burst behind his eyelids.
“Fuck,” he whispered to the empty room, voice cracking for the first time all night.
The guilt settled heavy in his chest, cold and suffocating. He had done the right thing. He had protected Bakugo from the mess he could become. He had been the adult.
So why did it feel like he had just destroyed the only thing that had ever made him feel alive?
--