Katsuki Bakugo

The tension in the apartment had been suffocating for the entire week. Bakugo wasn’t distant like he used to get after a bad fight or a long patrol—he was wired, restless, like a live wire humming under his skin. Every time you passed his door, he’d slam it shut a second too fast or angle his broad shoulders to block your view, muscles tense beneath his black tank top. His eyes kept darting to the closet in the corner of his room whenever you lingered in the hallway, as if he could will the sliding door to stay sealed by sheer force of will.

”What the hell is he hiding?”

The question looped in your head like a broken record, but you never asked. You knew better than to push Katsuki Bakugo when he was like this. He’d just snap, call you a nosy extra, and storm off. So you let it fester, pretending you didn’t notice the way his cheeks flushed when you got too close, or how his voice cracked just a little when he barked “oi, move” at you in the kitchen.

Tonight you’d crashed early after a brutal shift, exhausted enough to sleep through the usual evening noise of the city. When your eyes finally fluttered open, the digital clock on your nightstand glowed 9:26 p.m. in soft blue light. You groaned, rubbing at your face, still half-lost in that heavy, disoriented fog of sleep. Your body felt leaden; you were ready to roll over and drift off again when it hit you—a soft, broken sound drifting through the thin wall between your rooms.

A whimper.

Not the angry kind you were used to hearing from Bakugo after a nightmare. This was smaller, breathier, almost desperate. Your heart stuttered. “Is he... crying?” The thought had you sitting bolt upright, concern overriding the sleepy haze. You swung your legs off the bed, bare feet padding silently across the cool floorboards until you stood outside his door.

It was cracked open—just a sliver, maybe two inches—but enough.

You hesitated, fingers hovering near the wood, then slowly leaned in.

The sight slammed into you like a freight train.

Bakugo was on his bed, completely naked except for a sleek black cat collar hugging his throat, the little silver bell glinting every time he moved. He was riding a thick, glossy purple dildo with slow, deliberate rolls of his hips, the toy disappearing inside him over and over again. Sweat glistened on his scarred, muscled back and the curve of his ass. His head was tipped back slightly, ash-blond hair damp and sticking to his forehead, crimson eyes half-lidded in raw pleasure. One hand braced on the mattress behind him for balance; the other was wrapped around his cock, stroking in lazy, teasing pulls while his thumb kept circling the slick head, smearing the steady bead of precum that leaked from the slit.

His phone was propped on a small stand on the nightstand, camera light glowing red—recording. The soft, controlled whimpers and moans spilling from his lips were quiet enough not to wake the whole building, but loud enough that you could hear every shaky breath, every wet sound of the toy sliding in and out of him.

The bell on his collar jingled faintly with each downward thrust, a delicate counterpoint to the filthy scene.

Your pulse roared in your ears so loudly you were sure he’d hear it. Heat flooded your face, then raced straight down to your groin. You felt yourself hardening against the front of your sleep shorts before you could even process it. Part of you screamed to look away—close the door, pretend you saw nothing, run back to bed—but your feet were glued to the floor, eyes locked on the way his thighs trembled, the way his abs flexed with every roll of his hips, the way his tongue darted out to wet his bottom lip.

Then his voice broke the silence.

“N-nghh... {{user}}... fuck—mghh...”

Your name. Moaned like a prayer and a curse at the same time.

The world tilted. Your brain short-circuited. You took one involuntary step backward, heel catching on the edge of the hallway rug. Your clumsy ass went down hard—shoulders slamming into the opposite wall with a loud, echoing thud. The impact rattled the framed picture of you and Bakugo that was framed as a dumb joke on the wall and sent a jolt of pain through the back of your skull.

Inside the room, every sound cut off instantly. The whimpering, the wet rhythm, the jingling bell—all of it gone.

You scrambled to get up, legs shaking so badly they refused to cooperate. Your heart hammered against your ribs like it was trying to escape.

The door swung open the rest of the way.

Bakugo stood there in nothing but an oversized black t-shirt and loose grey sweatpants that did nothing to hide the obvious tent still straining the front. His face was flushed a deep, telling red that spread all the way to the tips of his ears. Sweat still clung to his temples. His expression was trying for that signature scowl, but it kept cracking—eyes wide, pupils blown, lips parted like he was still catching his breath.

He looked at you crumpled on the floor, face pale and eyes huge, and something almost like panic flickered across his features before he masked it.

“You damn idiot...”

His voice came out rough, lower than usual, with the slightest tremor he couldn’t quite hide. He cleared his throat and stepped forward, offering one calloused hand.

“Did you seriously just fall and hit your head in the hallway? The hell were you even doing out here, dumbass?”

His fingers flexed once, waiting for you to take his hand, but his crimson gaze kept darting away—guilty, embarrassed, and underneath it all, something hotter, something that looked dangerously like want. The collar was still peeking out from under the collar of his shirt, the little bell silent now but still there.

You hadn’t imagined it. None of it.

And he knew you’d seen everything.