Work Text:
Bakugou was ignoring him.
Midoriya had been concerned when it had hit the usual check-in day — five days before the full moon — and Bakugou still hadn't messaged him back. Hadn’t picked up a single one of his calls.
In fact, they haven’t exchanged a single word — Midoriya's disregarded texts aside — since he had been promptly kicked out of Bakugou's apartment after the events of the last lunar cycle. It certainly stung, but Midoriya wasn't about to push his sense of goodwill on his capricious werewolf friend. He's learned the hard way that smothering only serves to provoke Bakugou's fangs.
He wrinkles his nose, slams the brakes on the runaway anxiety train. 'Friend' is definitely the wrong term. Inadequate. Like wearing an ill-fitting glove.
At first? Sure. Helping Bakugou ride out his moonstruck, destructive tendencies had been innocuous, a thing born of convenience. It had escalated over the years in such minute increments that the degree of the shift hasn’t quite registered: he's gone from serving as a glorified watchman during full moon nights to scratching the soft fur behind Bakugou's ears in the name of pleasant distraction, to … this. This strange, nebulous something.
A something that leaves his ribs achy when Bakugou shuts him out for the umpteenth time.
He‘s pathetic. Sitting at his bedside desk, staring sightless at the assignments stacked in front of him. Heart twisting in knots because Bakugou doesn't want to talk to him, again. Doesn't trust him with this, maybe at all, even after all this time.
A perpetual hedgehog's dilemma.
Kacchan can take care of himself, anyway, he insists to himself, wringing his hands. He's entirely capable of that. He'll be fine.
His phone buzzes violently against the smooth wood. Midoriya scrambles for it like a starving man tossed a fresh loaf of bread. Incorrigible. He’s not breathing, pulse jackhammering as he dares to hope —
Come over.
Two words. After weeks of fretting and being frozen out, two petulant words was all he had to show for it?
His heart aches. His mind rages.
Then, another message flashes on his screen. Even shorter, yet terribly poignant in a way that has Midoriya fumbling hurriedly for his ratty coat and bright red sneakers.
Please.
He's out of breath by the time he's at Bakugou's front door, lungs stinging. The apartment complex is a rat hole, dirty and dilapidated. Few reputable landlords were willing to rent to werewolves on account of the expected property damage that came with the lunar territory. Bakugou’s spent his fair share of nights crashing on Midoriya’s couch when he’s had his fill. Midoriya doesn’t mind.
He had tried to bring up the concept of Bakugou moving in with him exactly once, and the acutely nauseated look he'd received in response had been enough to sink the subject.
At least he'd had the sense to not buy a collar.
Gifting collar to a werewolf was a sign of intense devotion. An apt answer from a human to a werewolf's pressingly possessive nature. I am yours, and you are mine. It was practically a proposal.
Midoriya can't help but huff miserably at the thought, throat tight. Bakugou would have tore him to shreds on the spot.
As soon as he's breathing even again, he raps his knuckles on the door. The strangely still silence of the surroundings is eerie, and Midoriya clutches his jacket closer as his eyes dart around.
He would be lying if he claimed to be comfortable loitering around here, never mind in the dead of night. The pale moonlight's ghostly glow divvies his own shadow in two, casting a devilish purple on the walls.
Midoriya hears something inside bumping and scratching against a wall, punctuated by a faint rumbling growl that breaks off into a high, plaintive whine.
That‘s not good.
“Kacchan?” he calls, and the sounds of scrabbling abruptly stop. He turns the knob experimentally, only to find with vague surprise that it's unlocked.
Also not good.
"I’m coming in,” he says, to no reply.
As he clicks the door shut behind him, he's swathed in an unholy darkness so thick that it seems tangible. There's not a single light source on throughout the entire flat, the moon's glow the sole provider of any sort of illumination. Midoriya can hear heavy footfall from deeper within the apartment, and he inhales shakily.
He really doesn't want to freak out. Doesn't want Bakugou to think that he's scared of him, or worse, set off some primal predatory instinct by panicking, but he can barely see and it's making him jittery.
He squints as his eyes slowly adjust, and he gulps loudly as he thinks he makes out a slouched figure in the inky gloom. "Kacchan, is that you?"
Bakugou is unreasonable under the moon’s devilish persuasion. All of his usual surly inhibition is lost, enveloped in a spiraling cloud of base desire and dogged instincts.
Midoriya knows this, yes, but he’s no less panicky when Bakugou tackles him to the floor, effortlessly pinning his wrists above his head with one hand.
The werewolf noses against the length of his neck, panting and growling indecipherable nonsense into Midoriya’s flushed skin. He can feel those nails, halfway claws, digging into his skin with a possessiveness that has Midoriya’s heart hiccuping. Even in the blackness, he can discern the violent swish of Bakugou's lupine tail.
“Kacchan,” he greets tentatively, careful to keep his neck bared in a show of submission. Bakugou twitches at the sound of his voice, pulling back to regard him with a tilt of his head. His eyes glow an ominous red, a warning to would-be prey. And yet here Midoriya was, a sentimental lamb straight to the slaughter. “Feeling okay?”
It takes a great deal of effort for Bakugou to reply with something halfway coherent, his frame wracked with tremors. There’s a faint light of lucidity that passes through his gaze, and he looks dimly ashamed of himself as he regards Midoriya's solid form beneath him.
“No,” he snaps, voice breaking off in an angry whine. Bakugou releases Midoriya's wrists, twisting his mouth like he's eaten something bitter. He's not making eye contact, scratching burning red trails down his own forearms with sharp nails. “Hot.”
Midoriya has a good idea of what he means — if the heat of his eyes and the needy grinding against his leg are any indication — but he doesn’t dare voice it. He won’t implant this sort of vulnerable Bakugou with any ideas that aren’t his own.
“Okay,” he soothes, keeping his voice gentle. “Can I help?”
Bakugou’s head jerks up, pupils blown wide, and Midoriya feels his stomach bottom out.
Crescent fever was a lupine phenomenon. In the nights before a full moon, a werewolf often frantically straddled the fine line between human and beast in a frenzy of moonstruck madness. Being alone with a werewolf in crescent fever wasn’t suicidal, per say, but it was by no means safe.
Everyone has heard one story too many about premature morphs — and the ensuing violence that followed them. Midoriya's seen the way Bakugou twitches at even casual anecdotes, jaw clenched so tight that it hurt to look at it.
Midoriya starts as sharp teeth abruptly sink into the meat of his neck and shoulder. He inhales raggedly, doing his best not to flinch away from Bakugou’s cruel mouth.
“Kacchan, that hurts,” he protests mildly, a hand curling and tugging at the back of Bakugou's skull-print shirt. Bakugou instantly releases him, swiping a warm tongue along the deep teeth marks with an apologetic softness. It's enough to make Midoriya coo under his breath, and he slowly moves his hand to scratch Bakugou behind the ears. They're velvety, twitching pleasantly under his touch.
"Good boy," he says without thinking, and Bakugou freezes.
That's not good, his brain helpfully supplies.
Midoriya can feel himself sweating bullets as the silence stretches, his anxiety swirling in a violent tailspin. He can't see Bakugou's face, but the hands at his biceps grip him a little too tight.
Of course he’s fucked up again, stepped carelessly on yet another buried landmine —
"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Bakugou grouses aloud, cutting through his thoughts. His voice is reedy, devoid of expected anger. "Don't just — fuck. What kind of freaky shit is that, I'm not your dog."
"Sorry," Midoriya rescinds.
Bakugou's lifted his head enough for Midoriya to see his face: he's vigorously chewing his cheek, the entirety of his face flooded an unmistakable red.
Ah.
"Not here," Bakugou curtly announces, and Midoriya's brows quirk.
"What not here?"
"I'm not a goddamn animal," he insists vehemently, more to himself than Midoriya. Bakugou's not looking at him again, voice so low that Midoriya has to strain to catch it. He pins Midoriya with an acrimonious glare, full of expectation. "I'm in control. Hear me?”
“Yeah,” Midoriya rasps. He pushes himself to a sitting position, nose to nose with Bakugou. Close enough to kiss, but neither of them moves to initiate. "What do you want, Kacchan?"
An open invitation. Bakugou eyes Midoriya with bestial hunger, a fang flashing as he bites his lip.
"Touch me."
Midoriya bobs his head soundlessly. Eagerly. He can't find it in himself to refuse Bakugou when all is said and done.
That's no good, either, his mind taunts, as Bakugou pulls him to his feet. You're just getting used.
Midoriya fumbles along through the dark hallway, pulled along by the insistent grip of Bakugou's hand. He's pliant as Bakugou all but tosses him onto the mattress, boneless as he's pushed back roughly against the headboard. Holds his breath as he's assertively straddled.
Bakugou's room has a single window, flooding the both of them in the moon’s ethereal glow. There's something about this — being under the moonlight, under Bakugou's warm, heavy body — that fills Midoriya with romantic lunacy.
Bakugou has that expectant look again, hips rolling insistently atop him, and Midoriya reaches out to brush his fingertips along Bakugou's angular jawline. His lids lower, eyes smoldering critically in the dark as Midoriya thumbs at his lips, but opens his mouth. Obedient.
There's something strangely enticing about running his fingers along Bakugou's sharp teeth. An illicit thrill to how Bakugou relaxes his jaw and offers his mouth for him to explore at his leisure. Erotic. The way his tongue laves softly over his intruding fingers, teeth just scraping against his skin, has Midoriya's stomach pooling with heat. He exhales soft as he withdraws his spit-slicked digits, breath brisk.
Bakugou's drooling a little already, ears twitching as he regards Midoriya with a hazy glaze. He's beautiful, all sharp angles and untamed wildness. A dream, immaterial and unobtainable. But when Bakugou looks at him like this, like he's just as hopelessly enamoured — Midoriya can pretend for a fleeting moment that the werewolf is all his.
His heart thunders against his ribs as he presses closer, sloppily mashing their mouths together. Bakugou makes a rumbling sound from deep in his chest, a clawed hand tugging at his messy mop of dark curls. He runs a pushy tongue over the seam of Midoriya's lips, breathes weightily in the kiss. Like he's equally as affected. Mutual.
Kissing Bakugou isn't dissimilar to being punched by him — he's left achy and breathless all the same as he pulls away. He watches as Bakugou swipes away a thin trail of saliva from the corner of his mouth, shivers as those eyes look back up at him. Calculative. Wanting. The impasse drags on too long, and Midoriya resists the urge to fidget.
"I — " Bakugou cuts himself off, glaring into his lap. After a beat, he looks back up, and the hunger in his expression makes Midoriya skittish. "I'm gonna fuck you until you cry."
It's shameless. Midoriya expects it, but still flushes regardless. "Oh," he acknowledges, voice small. Bakugou makes an odd expression, but it's gone before it can be deciphered. “Okay.”
Midoriya is used to Bakugou's filthy mouth. He’s vaguely growing accustomed to these mindless moon romps. Fumbling on top or gasping underneath, all on wolfish whim. But he's not familiar with the strange sort of restraint that tempers Bakugou's touch tonight.
He dimly wonders if Bakugou's grown tired of him.
"Let me touch you first."
The words are blurted out before he has time to process their gravity. Werewolves are odd about orders, especially on the cusp of a shift. He immediately worries his lip, stares a hole into Bakugou's shoulder. "Please," he adds, softening the demand.
Bakugou furrows his brow, limbs quivering as Midoriya slowly pushes him down into the soft sheets. He blinks slow, dreamy, as Midoriya peels off his t-shirt. Shivers as hands ghost down his chest and pinch at his nipples. Bakugou arches into that touch as it strokes down his sides; lifts his hips obligingly as thumbs hook into the elastic of his shorts. He makes a wounded noise as Midoriya playfully mouths the outline of his swollen cock through his briefs, grinding his teeth together even as he tucks his tail.
"Shit," he pants, in lieu of anything else. Bakugou’s nails catch on Midoriya's shirt, ripping the cloth into ragged ribbons as he scratches down his back. There's a subtle note of warning in his tone. "Shit, Deku, don't tease — "
Bakugou bites back a low whine when Midoriya finally touches him; strokes a rough hand down his length and pumps in perfect, torturous intervals. His toes curl as Midoriya looms over him, breath brisk as he works his cock. It's too gentle, unhurried, and Bakugou glares exasperatedly at him. He's not going to beg, damn it. Not going to degrade himself more than he already has.
He opens his mouth in a dissatisfied snarl — and then Midoriya swipes a thumb lightly across his glans. His moan is loud, not muffled by pillow or arm, and he shudders bodily as an affectionate kiss brushes along his temple. There's a small smile flirting at the corners of Midoriya's mouth, lips at Bakugou’s ear.
"Good boy," Midoriya murmurs knowingly, and he feels how Bakugou’s heavy cock twitches.
Face aglow, he bites his own hand hard enough to break skin in an effort to swallow the keens bubbling in his throat, but he can feel Midoriya tugging it away.
"Don't hide. You’re so good, so pretty, Kacchan."
"Stop," he tries to say, but he's whining low and desperate instead, thrusting wantonly into Midoriya's fist. "Fuck, fuck — "
"You’re beautiful, so perfect," Midoriya is crooning, lids fluttering as he clumsily jerks Bakugou off. He can feel something dangerous rising like bile in his throat. Feels it lifting the clasp on Pandora's box, beckoning forth forbidden, weighty sentiment. He's tearing up, throat thick as his lips quiver. "Kacchan, I — "
Lightning fast, Bakugou surges up, grabbing Midoriya's arms and slamming him against the mattress so hard the breath whooshes out of him.
"I told you not to fuckin' tease," Bakugou growls. His voice is unearthly, tongue running along shiny teeth and gums. Midoriya gapes up at him. "Spread your legs."
Midoriya parts his thighs obediently, breath hitching as Bakugou rips away his shorts and underwear. The crescent fever has clearly hit the breaking point, the struggle to retain his remaining inhibition lost.
"Kacchan," he says warily, eyeing those too-sharp nails. Even his apparent masochism has its limits. "I can — "
"Prep yourself," Bakugou interrupts, reaching over to grab a small blue bottle. He drops it on Midoriya's chest, watching him with heated eyes. "Hurry up."
Embarrassing. Midoriya can't help but shrink under the undivided attention, shakily squeezing a dollop of lube onto his fingers. He prods inside himself delicately, stretching himself with a tenderness he knows he'll soon appreciate. Gasping, he crooks his fingers just right, a shudder rippling through him as he brushes against his walls.
His mind soon drifts: losing himself as his eyes flutter closed, leisurely chasing carnal sensation, breath hitching and stuttering out in quick gasps. He’s all but forgotten his audience until a clawed hand curls around his thigh, and his eyes snap open to find Bakugou boiling with heat above him.
“Enjoying yourself?” Bakugou’s voice is a dark roil, equal parts frightful and arousing. “Damn Deku — thinks he has me wrapped around his fuckin’ finger. Like a damn dog, at his beck and call."
Whoa. Where had that come from?
Midoriya opens his mouth to protest, but Bakugou’s already lifting his hips up. He pushes in rough, merciless, and Midoriya’s breath comes out in a frantic, vaguely pained stutter. Bakugou is big, the throbbing glide of his dick sending a wave of heat through him.
“Kacchan,” he groans, fingers curling into fists. He's plowed into with brutality, punching heady gasps out of him as the bruising grip on his hips only tightens. “K-Kacchan, s’rough — ”
“Rough?” There’s a mocking edge to the frisson in Bakugou’s voice. He pointedly looks at Midoriya's cock, standing proudly at attention against his stomach. “Complaining even while you’re rock hard and dripping wet? Fucking pervert.”
Midoriya moans at the degradation, moisture smarting at the corners of his eyes. Bakugou’s expression is blurry, a smear of sharp teeth and fierce eyes through pleasured tears, and he desperately blinks them back. He wants to see him, wants to burn every one of his expressions into his mind.
In case this is the last time you can, his brain laughs.
“Gonna — Kacchan, I wanna come,” he pants, already overwhelmed. “Please touch me, please, Kacchan — ”
Bakugou pulls out of him, cruelly jerking him away from the edge of orgasm, and Midoriya almost cries. He’s flipped onto his stomach, a hand fisting into his curls and pinning his face to the sheets, ass up. Flinches as sharp teeth rake along his lower back, feels Bakugou grin against his skin.
“No,” Bakugou rumbles as he grinds back into him. “Too easy. You haven’t earned that. You’ll come from my cock, and just my cock. Got it?”
Midoriya chokes back a sob, tears spilling over as his dick weeps between his legs. “Kacchan — ”
Bakugou snaps his hips at the perfect angle, and Midoriya’s bones liquify. He’s trembling, forearms braced shakily against the mattress as he revels in the burn, in the hurt. His breath is coming in hiccups as Bakugou's dick stuffs him full, thrusting in and out of him at a self-gratifying pace. He feels used, reduced, as Bakugou viciously marks up his back.
“Feeling it?” It’s wry, rhetorical, but Midoriya nods desperately. “You’re so fuckin’ easy. Look at you, crying for my cock. Don’t even have to touch you.”
His lip trembles, ears burning with shame. Right, all right. He’s pathetic, so pathetic, but he feels his stomach tighten all the same. “Kacchan,” he gasps, “I’m — I’m close.”
“Go ahead,” Bakugou says, pulling Midoriya’s head back. His eyes are wild, smirk sharp. Predatory. “Come.”
With a wet hiccup, he spills onto the sheets, sobbing out as Bakugou reaches around to work his hyper-sensitive cock at a ruthless pace. Bakugou’s thrusts don’t let up in the slightest; Midoriya’s cheek is pressed into the mattress as he’s fucked into relentlessly, guts aching when Bakugou finally comes.
Their breathing is ragged as Bakugou gradually pulls out. Midoriya tries to move — only to bite his lip on a low whimper. He burns, every muscle in his body screaming out in protest as he drags himself up to a sitting position. His cheeks are still wet with tears, and he quickly scrubs them away with a forearm.
Bakugou is eerily still, posture tense and distant. It gives Midoriya a creeping sense of déjà vu, twisting sick in his stomach.
Midoriya gingerly stands to his feet. He can feel Bakugou’s gaze on his back as makes his way towards the bathroom, a telltale stiffness in his step.
He starts at his own reflection, surveys how his body is covered in angry red scratches and bites. A strange sense of satisfaction bubbles in his gut, and he sets about cleaning himself up.
Maybe he won’t get kicked out this time.
He returns to find Bakugou breathing in the scent of his ripped clothes, angrily jerking himself off. The sight roots Midoriya to the spot, swallowing in his desperate pants and whines. A werewolf’s libido tends to be especially insatiable in bouts of crescent fever, and Bakugou is no exception. He stops as soon as he notices Midoriya, casts away his tattered shirt to glare at him like he's out of place.
After a solid minute of silence, Midoriya clears his throat.
“Kacchan, do you want to — ”
“Shut up,” Bakugou snarls, cutting him off. He has that distant look in his eyes again, ears pulled back as he scrubs a shaking hand over his face. “Fuck, fuck!”
Midoriya pushes through the soreness, moving closer to the shuddering werewolf. “Hey, hey, it’s okay,” he murmurs soothingly, reaching to touch Bakugou’s shoulder — and jerks back when Bakugou snaps at his arm.
Yikes.
“Fuck off!” He's feral, rage seething from every pore. “You’re always like this, always just — fuck. I knew this was a shitty idea. ”
The regret in Bakugou’s voice stings. “Sorry,” Midoriya says automatically, swallowing the lump in his throat. “I just want to help you — ”
“You can’t,” he spits, voice breaking. He’s pulling violently at his own hair, breath ragged. “You don’t fucking get it. I’m always a werewolf. This bullshit doesn’t just turn off and on with the fucking moon, it’s always there. It just gets harder to ignore.”
He breathes in hard, tail thumping angrily against the bed. He’s glowering at the floor. “I’m constantly fucking thinking about this. Drives me insane. And you — god. Always looking at me like a wounded dog, like you knew all along. Always with that goddamn look, full of fucking pity.”
The word is like a slap in the face. “Kacchan,” he whispers, voice hoarse. “You think I pity you?”
"No shit," Bakugou thunders, jerking his head up to glare at him. Midoriya realizes with horror that his eyes are wet. “Always bending over backward for fucking everybody, with your stupid bleeding heart. I can’t fucking stand your martyr complex.”
Realization dawns on Midoriya all at once, hitting him with the force of a freight train. He can‘t breathe, blood roaring in his ears.
Oh. Oh.
Midoriya wants to laugh at the absurdity of it all. They're the same. They both think they're being used. That these temporal trysts were a ticking clock, both fearing the imminent, nebulous expiration date when the other would finally rip out their heart. It’s needlessly, disastrously cruel. They’ve rubbed each other raw in their cowardice.
"Kacchan I — " his voice cracks. "I'm not here because of pity."
Bakugou twitches, but says nothing. His ears droop as looks up at Midoriya with wounded resignation. Like he expects the car to roll back over his broken body.
With a inhale of courage, Midoriya reaches out towards him. Bakugou watches his hand with wary eyes, lids lowering as a scarred palm presses reverently against his cheek.
“This is so stupid,” Midoriya laughs, mirthless. Bakugou's lashes flutter as fingertips brush along his jawline, lips parting as Midoriya cards his fingers through spiky locks. “Why can’t we just talk about what we want, like normal adults?”
Bakugou’s breath grows brisk as he’s pushed down against the bed, bites his tongue on a whiny, needy sound. Midoriya gazes down at him, big teary eyes full of him. Only him.
"Deku.” It's said like a question, Bakugou’s eyes burn into him. Waiting.
Yours?
“Kacchan,” he answers, his voice a thrum of longing. Relief. Bakugou's eyes close, lips parting as their mouths meet, sweet. Melting into each other, until their forms are indistinguishable.
Mine.