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"𝐈'𝐦 𝐢𝐧 𝐛𝐞𝐝, 𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐢𝐧’ 𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐧, 𝐧𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐝,
𝐇𝐞’𝐬 𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐞"
Izuku lies there trying to breathe through the softness.
Todoroki moves carefully, too carefully, guided by tenderness, by patience, by a kind of love that is supposed to be comforting. His hands cradle Izuku’s thighs like they’re something fragile. His lips brush Izuku’s cheek, slow and warm, as if the gentleness itself could fill the emptiness in Izuku’s chest.
Izuku wants to melt into it.
He wants to feel the moment, to let the warmth anchor him.
He wants to care — in the way Todoroki deserves.
But he feels himself slipping out of his own body.
Floating.
Watching from somewhere above the bed as Todoroki tries to love him enough for both of them.
Todoroki’s rhythm is steady. Consistent. Predictable.
Izuku stares at the ceiling and feels none of it in the place that matters.
He wants to tell himself this is what peace feels like.
He wants to believe this is what a healthy relationship looks like.
But there is a hardness in his throat and a tremor in his hands.
His body moves, almost automatically — hips lifting, muscles tightening, responding the way they’re supposed to.
But his heart is somewhere else entirely.
"𝐈 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐡𝐢𝐦, 𝐤𝐢𝐬𝐬 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐦𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐡, 𝐩𝐫𝐚𝐲𝐢𝐧’
𝐇𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐧’𝐭 𝐬𝐞𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐈 𝐬𝐞𝐞"
Izuku lifts his hand to touch the back of Todoroki’s neck, drawing him down for a kiss.
It’s soft. Familiar. Safe.
Todoroki sighs into it, relieved, as though the kiss means Izuku is fully here with him — present, grounded, loving him in return.
Izuku keeps his eyes closed.
He can’t let Todoroki see the truth sitting in them like a bruise.
Because behind every flicker of his lashes, Katsuki’s face flashes like a lightning strike — brutal and blinding.
Todoroki’s lips are warm.
But they don’t taste like fire.
They don’t make his heart twist.
They don’t make him shake.
Izuku kisses him again anyway, desperate, trying to force the moment to feel right.
He tries to pray the tension out of his chest, prays Todoroki can’t feel the tremble in his fingers.
He hopes Todoroki can’t see the sharp ache behind his eyes — the longing he’s been running from for years.
He hopes Todoroki can’t tell that every time Izuku blinks, someone else is standing in his place.
"𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐈 𝐜𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐦𝐲 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬,
𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐡𝐢𝐦,
𝐖𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐧’ 𝐧𝐨 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐠𝐮𝐢𝐬𝐞,
𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐡𝐢𝐦"
Izuku shuts his eyes for a second — one careless second — and the world shifts.
Todoroki’s weight disappears.
His gentleness dissolves.
His steady, measured breaths fade.
And Katsuki takes his place in the dark of Izuku’s mind.
No disguise.
No hesitation.
No kindness to soften him.
Just sharp eyes and sharper hands, leaning over him the way only Katsuki ever could — with confidence, with hunger, with the unspoken promise that he knew every inch of Izuku better than Izuku knew himself.
Katsuki replaces Todoroki with unbearable ease.
His smirk flashes across the darkness.
His breath ghosts over Izuku’s ear.
His voice — raspy and impatient — curls into the hollow places inside him and fills them instantly.
Izuku’s breath catches in his throat.
His whole body jerks.
Todoroki takes it as pleasure.
Izuku wishes he could pretend.
But Katsuki is everywhere behind his eyelids.
He erases Todoroki completely.
"𝐈 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐚 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥 𝐠𝐮𝐢𝐥𝐭𝐲,
𝐈 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐚 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐢𝐭’𝐬 𝐰𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐠,
𝐈 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐚 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐚𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧,
𝐖𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐚 𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚 𝐝𝐢𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐠"
Izuku grips the sheets until his knuckles ache.
He wants guilt to crash into him.
He wants it to swallow him whole.
He wants the shame to hurt badly enough to stop the thoughts, to silence the images of Katsuki’s hands, Katsuki’s mouth, Katsuki’s voice saying his name like he was the only person in the world that mattered.
But guilt refuses him.
Instead, all he feels is the sharp, twisting ache of wanting — wanting someone he can’t have, someone he lost long before he ever started pretending he could love someone else the same way.
Todoroki murmurs his name softly.
Izuku tries to respond.
He wants peace.
He wants silence in his heart.
He wants to stop mourning someone who isn’t dead.
He wants to be normal.
He wants to love Todoroki without the weight of another man pulling his heart backwards.
But no matter how hard he tries, the song in his chest stays the same.
And it isn’t about the man above him.
"𝐈 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐨 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝 𝐦𝐞,
𝐈 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧’ 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞,
𝐇𝐞 𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐧,
𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐈 𝐝𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐡𝐞’𝐬 𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐧’ 𝐟𝐨𝐫"
Todoroki touches him like he’s precious.
Every movement slow.
Gentle.
Caring.
He gives everything — all the stability, all the softness, all the emotional safety Izuku told himself he wanted.
But Izuku has learned something horrible about himself:
He doesn’t want gentle.
He wants intensity.
He wants hunger.
He wants to feel like he’s being pulled apart and put back together in the same breath.
Todoroki can’t give that — not because he doesn’t love Izuku, but because that’s not who he is.
And Izuku doesn’t know anymore if Todoroki touches him out of love… or because he feels responsible for him.
Meanwhile Katsuki — Katsuki would have needed him.
Katsuki would have demanded he be real, imperfect, messy.
Katsuki never wanted half of him.
Izuku tears his gaze away from the ceiling.
He doesn’t know what Todoroki is giving anymore.
And he doesn’t know if he deserves any of it.
"𝐈’𝐦 𝐢𝐧 𝐛𝐞𝐝, 𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐢𝐧’ 𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐧, 𝐧𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐝.
𝐘𝐨𝐮’𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐞"
Izuku’s back hits the mattress first, soft sheets cooling the sweat along his spine. Todoroki’s weight settles over him, steady, careful, the way he always is — like he’s touching something fragile. Like he’s touching someone who deserves gentleness.
Izuku wishes he could feel grateful for it.
Instead, the moment Todoroki pushes into him, slow and tender, Izuku’s breath stutters — not from the stretch, not from the pleasure, but from the shock of how easily his mind abandons the present.
Heat blooms low in his stomach, his thighs tightening instinctively. A broken sound slips from his mouth, sharp, needy.
And shame follows instantly, hot and choking.
Because that sound… that reaction… that desperate arch of his hips—
None of it belongs to the man inside him.
The ghost of another touch rises up like a tidal wave he can’t stop.
Katsuki’s hands slamming into his hips, fingers digging hard enough to bruise.
Katsuki’s teeth at his throat, biting down the second Izuku moans.
Katsuki’s voice — rough, panting, demanding — “Say it. Say my name when you fall apart for me.”
Todoroki moves carefully, hips rolling in a slow rhythm meant to soothe. His breath brushes over Izuku’s shoulder, soft, warm, full of affection.
It feels wrong.
It feels unbearably gentle when every nerve in Izuku’s body screams for something harsher, something familiar, something Bakugou.
Izuku grips the sheets, knuckles white. He bites his lip until he tastes blood, trying to keep the whimper in his throat from turning into the name he really wants to say.
Todoroki mistakes the tremor running through his body as pleasure and adjusts the angle, trying to coax another sound from him. Izuku forces himself to meet it, tilting his hips, pretending the shiver down his spine is because of the man with him.
But the truth lives in the way his pulse jumps too fast.
In the way his mind keeps dragging him somewhere else.
In the way his chest aches with a hunger he thought he buried years ago.
Deep inside — in the part of him he keeps locked away, terrified to face it — he knows exactly who he’s reacting to.
And it isn’t Todoroki.
It’s the boy he never stopped wanting.
The boy he never stopped loving.
The boy who ruined him for anyone else.
Bakugou Katsuki.
"𝐈 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐡𝐢𝐦, 𝐤𝐢𝐬𝐬 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐦𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐡, 𝐬𝐚𝐲𝐢𝐧’
𝐎𝐡 𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐡, 𝐛𝐚𝐛𝐲, 𝐭𝐨𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐨𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐨𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐨𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐦𝐞”
The sound escapes him — a soft, shaky moan he didn’t expect.
Todoroki freezes, then blushes, then kisses Izuku with a tender urgency.
He thinks it’s for him.
Izuku wishes it were.
He wraps his arms around Todoroki and kisses him back, desperate to drown in affection he doesn’t feel deeply enough.
He whispers broken encouragement against Todoroki’s mouth, trying to guide the moment somewhere real.
But Katsuki haunts every nerve in his body.
Izuku remembers exactly how Katsuki touched him — confident, fast, unpredictable, rough enough to leave bruises in places only they knew about.
And it hurts knowing Todoroki will never touch him like that — not because he can’t, but because he would never think to.
Izuku gasps again.
Todoroki thinks he’s doing everything right.
Izuku wishes the lie felt better.
"𝐈 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐚 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥 𝐠𝐮𝐢𝐥𝐭𝐲,
𝐈 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐚 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐢𝐭’𝐬 𝐰𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐠,
𝐈 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐚 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐚𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧,
𝐖𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐚 𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚 𝐝𝐢𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐠"
Todoroki finishes.
He rests his forehead against Izuku’s temple, whispering soft, sweet affection.
Izuku lies there frozen.
Not because the act was wrong — but because nothing inside him has changed.
The guilt still won’t come.
The clarity still isn’t here.
The peace refuses to show itself.
Izuku wants to scream.
He wants to cry.
He wants to tear open the part of his chest where Katsuki sits like a star that refuses to burn out.
He wants to sing a different song.
He wants to love Todoroki in the way that would make all of this easier.
He wants to stop loving someone who doesn’t love him anymore.
"𝐈 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐨 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝 𝐦𝐞,
𝐈 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧’ 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞,
𝐇𝐞 𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐧,
𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐈 𝐝𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐡𝐞’𝐬 𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐨𝐫"
Todoroki curls around him afterwards, arm draped over Izuku’s waist.
His grip is soft and steady.
His breath warms the back of Izuku’s shoulder.
He murmurs something gentle — something loving — into Izuku’s hair.
Izuku’s stomach knots.
Todoroki gives him stability.
He gives him safety.
He gives him a calm life Izuku once thought he wanted.
But Katsuki gave him fire.
Katsuki gave him conflict.
Katsuki gave him a reason to breathe deeper.
Katsuki made him want.
Izuku wants to want Todoroki.
He just… doesn’t.
And that truth is starting to tear something inside him apart.
"𝐒𝐨𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫, 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐝𝐞𝐫, 𝐢𝐧 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧,
𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐨 𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐞,
𝐇𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞, 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐝𝐞𝐞𝐩,
𝐈 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐨 𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐈 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝"
Izuku remembers the last time Katsuki touched him.
It wasn’t even sexual.
Not really.
Just Katsuki grabbing him during a spar — slamming him against the mat, bodies pressed chest-to-chest, breath hot, eyes locked with something sharp and intimate.
Izuku’s legs had gone weak.
His chest had stuttered.
His heart had nearly broken through his ribs.
Katsuki always knew exactly which part of him to hit — emotionally or physically — to get a reaction.
Todoroki never makes him feel that way.
Not because he isn’t enough, but because he isn’t Katsuki.
And Izuku hates himself for it.
"𝐈 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐚 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥 𝐠𝐮𝐢𝐥𝐭𝐲,
𝐈 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐚 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐢𝐭’𝐬 𝐰𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐠,
𝐈 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐚 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐚𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧,
𝐖𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐚 𝐛𝐞 𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐢𝐧’ 𝐚 𝐝𝐢𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐠"
Todoroki falls asleep easily.
Izuku doesn’t.
He lies awake for what feels like hours, staring into the darkness, chest tight and throat burning.
Guilt still won’t come.
Shame still won’t drown him.
He wants peace.
He wants an answer.
He wants anything that would make this easier.
But all he hears is Katsuki’s voice echoing in the back of his mind — taunting, laughing, softening only for him.
The song in his heart refuses to change.
"𝐈𝐭’𝐬 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐚 𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧,
𝐈𝐟 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐛𝐨𝐝𝐲 𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐢𝐭 𝐮𝐩,
𝐒𝐨 𝐈’𝐦 𝐩𝐮𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐧’ 𝐢𝐭 𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐩𝐫𝐚𝐲𝐢𝐧’
𝐇𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐬𝐞𝐞 𝐢𝐭 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐈 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞,
𝐈’𝐦 𝐩𝐮𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐧’ 𝐢𝐭 𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐩𝐫𝐚𝐲𝐢𝐧"
Izuku rolls onto his side, facing the wall.
He pulls the blanket up.
His hands shake.
He buries his face into the pillow and tries to breathe quietly, so he doesn’t wake Todoroki.
So he doesn’t have to explain why his chest feels like it’s splitting open.
Nobody asks if he’s happy.
Nobody brings up Katsuki’s name.
Nobody notices the way Izuku tenses when someone mentions explosions or hero rankings or anything that sounds like him.
So Izuku pushes it all down.
The memories.
The longing.
The truth.
He hides it deep inside himself, praying Todoroki never sees the way his heart stutters at the wrong time, for the wrong person.
He pushes it down so hard his throat hurts.
And he prays Todoroki never realizes:
Izuku was never his.
He was always Katsuki’s.
Even now.
Even still.
Always.