The Scars We Hide

The hallway was a battlefield of ordinary cruelty. Kacchan and his two groupies blocked Izuku’s path like they always did—a wall of familiar contempt, their shadows stretching long over the scuffed linoleum. Dust danced in the afternoon light, lazy and indifferent to the static crackling between them.

“Out of my way, Deku.” Bakugou’s voice was gravel and fire, a warning wrapped in contempt.

The usual taunts came. Quirkless. Dreams too big for a boy made of glass. Izuku took it the way he always did—tight smile, hunched shoulders, waiting for the storm to pass. But his eyes caught something that made his stomach drop.

A mark on Bakugou’s forearm. Hidden under his rolled-up sleeve. A perfect circle of puckered skin, red and angry at the edges, the center already shiny with scar tissue.

A cigarette burn.

Izuku’s heart went into freefall. The taunts faded to static. He’d seen that mark before. On Bakugou’s wrist three months ago, when he’d grabbed him during a training exercise and felt him flinch. On his collarbone two weeks before that, peeking above his gym uniform.

He knew what it meant.

The boyfriend. The one Bakugou never talked about, never acknowledged, never brought around. The one Inko had mentioned seeing Bakugou with once—a tall man with cold eyes and hands that always seemed to be grasping.

“—you even listening, Deku?” Bakugou’s voice cut through. Sharper now, but Izuku heard the tremor underneath. That crack in the armor only he seemed to notice.

“Sorry,” Izuku said, stepping aside with a bow that was more reflex than respect. “Didn’t mean to block your way.”

Bakugou shouldered past him hard enough to make him stumble. Izuku watched them disappear around the corner, fists clenched at his sides, nails biting into his palms.

That night, he lay staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars on his ceiling. All Might posters watched over him like silent guardians. He thought about the burn. The way Bakugou’s hands shook sometimes when no one was looking. The whispered rumors that followed him since middle school—bruises that appeared and disappeared like seasons, the boyfriend who was always touching, always possessive, always wrong.

Bakugou could level buildings with his temper. Reduce villains to ash. And someone was reducing him to embers.

The weekend arrived wrapped in spring warmth. Cherry blossoms drifted past windows like pink snow. Izuku was hunched over his analysis notebook when he heard the doorbell ring.

His mother’s voice floated up—bright, welcoming—followed by another voice, lower, raspier. Familiar. Mitsuki Bakugou’s laugh shattered the quiet.

“Izuku! The Bakugous are here! Come say hello!”

He set his pen down. These visits were orchestrated by the mothers, two women who’d been friends since before either son was born, trying to force friendship between fire and water.

He found Mitsuki on the couch, tea in hand, sharp features softened by warmth as she chatted with his mom. And there, by the door like a prisoner awaiting sentencing, stood Bakugou.

He looked smaller. Izuku noticed it immediately—maybe the light, or the way his shoulders curved inward like he wanted to disappear. He wore a long-sleeved shirt despite the warmth, loose and dark, swallowing his frame.

“Kacchan.” The name slipped out.

Bakugou’s eyes snapped to him. Red. Sharp. Full of warning. Don’t. Don’t you dare.

“Why don’t you boys go to Izuku’s room?” Inko suggested, oblivious. “We’ll call you when lunch is ready.”

Mitsuki snorted. “Don’t burn the house down, brats.”

Bakugou was already moving, boots heavy on the stairs. Izuku followed, heart hammering.

His bedroom door stood open. Bakugou stood in the center, surrounded by All Might memorabilia, looking like a caged animal. The curtains were drawn, softening the afternoon light to gold. He was rigid, fists clenched, breathing short and controlled.

Then, without a word, he moved to Izuku’s bed. Kicked off his boots. Crawled onto the mattress, curling into himself, pressing against the wall like he needed its solidity.

Izuku froze in the doorway. “Kacchan?”

“Shut the door.” Barely a whisper. Stripped of its usual explosive rage. Raw and bare, like a nerve.

He obeyed. The click of the latch was impossibly loud. The room held its breath. Birds sang outside. Downstairs, the mothers laughed at something.

Bakugou was shaking. Fine tremors ran through him. He’d pulled his knees to his chest, arms wrapped around them, face buried in his sleeves.

Izuku approached slowly, like a wounded animal. The bed creaked when he sat down. He didn’t reach out. Didn’t speak. Just sat there, present, waiting.

Minutes passed. Tension built.

Then Bakugou uncurled. Slid across the bed, pressing against Izuku’s side. Sudden, desperate. Hands fisting in his shirt, face pressing into his shoulder.

“Kacchan…” Izuku’s voice cracked. His arms hovered, uncertain, then wrapped gently around the trembling form.

Bakugou fit against him in a way that felt both wrong and right. Smaller than Izuku remembered. More fragile. The shirt couldn’t hide the softness underneath—a curve at his chest, a narrow waist.

The tremors continued. Bakugou’s breath was hot against his neck, stuttering.

“I’m sorry,” Izuku whispered. Not sure what he was apologizing for. For noticing. For existing. For the world that broke this boy piece by piece.

Bakugou’s fingers tightened. His body shifted closer, and Izuku felt something he hadn’t expected—the unmistakable softness of breasts against his chest. He tried not to react, keep his breathing steady. But his heart had started racing for different reasons.

When Bakugou pulled back, his eyes were red-rimmed but dry. He looked at Izuku with fear and defiance, daring him to say something. Reject him. Add to the collection of pain carved into his skin.

“Look,” he said, barely above a whisper. “Just… look. And don’t fucking say anything.”

His hands moved to the hem of his shirt. Pulled it over his head in one smooth motion.

Izuku’s breath caught.

Bakugou’s body was a study in contradictions. Upper half undeniably feminine—full breasts, soft and round. A waist that curved inward like an hourglass. Shoulders narrow but strong. Pale skin, almost luminous, marked with bruises in various stages of healing.

But below the waist—hips wider than a typical male’s, legs smooth and hairless. And where Izuku expected male anatomy, there was something he’d only read about in obscure medical texts. A micro penis, barely formed, nestled above a vaginal slit. Both features underdeveloped but undeniably present.

He didn’t look away. Couldn’t.

“Intersex,” Bakugou said, the word like a curse. “Knew since I was a kid. Mom made me keep it secret. Said people wouldn’t understand.”

Izuku’s throat was tight. “The boyfriend…”

“He found out.” Bakugou’s voice broke. “He found out, and he fucking hated it. Said I wasn’t a real man. Said I wasn’t a real anything.” Bitter, hollow laugh. “Guess he had to remind me what I was every time he got the chance.”

The burn on his arm seemed to pulse. A mark of ownership. A brand of shame.

“Kacchan…” Izuku reached out, fingers hovering over the scar. “Can I…?”

Bakugou nodded, jaw tight.

Izuku traced the edge of the burn, feather-light. Felt him flinch, brace for pain that never came. His hand moved higher, cupping Bakugou’s jaw, tilting his face up until their eyes met.

“You are not broken,” Izuku said, each word deliberate. “You are not wrong. You are not less than.”

Bakugou’s expression crumpled. Walls built from years of anger and defiance crumbled. He surged forward, crashing their lips together in a kiss—desperate, clumsy, tasting of salt and surrender.

Izuku responded with gentleness. His hands found Bakugou’s waist, pulling him closer, anchoring him. The kiss softened. Deepened. Became more question than demand.

When they broke apart, both breathing hard, Bakugou’s face was flushed. Eyes dark with want and uncertainty.

“I’ve never…” He couldn’t finish.

Izuku’s thumb traced his cheekbone. “I know.” He’d had partners before—casual things, explorations that taught him patience and care. “We don’t have to do anything. We can just stay here.”

Bakugou shook his head. “No. I want… I need to feel something good. Something that’s mine.”

The words hung heavy. Izuku understood. This wasn’t just about sex. It was reclamation. Taking back a body that had been used and dismissed and broken.

He pressed a kiss to Bakugou’s forehead. “Tell me what you need. Tell me if anything hurts. Tell me to stop, and I will.”

Bakugou’s hands came up to frame his face, fingers trembling. “Show me,” he whispered. “Show me what it’s supposed to feel like.”

They moved slowly. Each touch a question that got an answering shiver. Izuku undressed him with reverence, pressing kisses to each bruise as he revealed it, murmuring reassurances. Bakugou’s hands were less certain, fumbling with Izuku’s shirt, his belt, his pants. Izuku guided him with patience born from understanding.

When they were skin to skin, Izuku paused to look. Bakugou lay beneath him, his unusual body laid out like an offering. Eyes squeezed shut, bracing for pain that wouldn’t come.

“Open your eyes. Look at me.”

Bakugou obeyed. Vulnerable. Terrified. Raw.

“You are beautiful,” Izuku told him. “Every part of you. I need you to hear that.”

A tear slipped down Bakugou’s cheek. He nodded, unable to speak.

Izuku began to touch him properly. Hands mapping his body—the swell of his breasts, the dip of his waist, the curve of his hips. He learned where Bakugou gasped, arched, trembled. Gentle. Unhurried.

When he finally pressed inside, Bakugou cried out—not in pain, but surprise. His hands flew to Izuku’s shoulders, gripping hard enough to bruise. But his body responded eagerly, rising to meet him.

“I’ve got you,” Izuku whispered against his hair. “I’ve got you.”

The rhythm they found was slow, deep, deliberate. Bakugou’s breath came in short gasps, body moving in counterpoint. Each thrust seemed to unlock something—a wall crumbling, a defense falling.

And then Bakugou’s voice broke through the quiet.

He moaned. Soft. Vulnerable. Unlike anything Izuku had ever heard from him. Floral. Petals and morning dew. The sound of a man who’d never been allowed to feel pleasure, finally surrendering.

“Izuku…”

His name. Spoken in that voice, that moan, that confession. It was everything. The beginning of something new.

Izuku held him as the climax rolled through them both. Held him as his body shook. Held him as tears streamed down his cheeks. He didn’t let go.

Afterward, they lay in silence. The afternoon had aged around them, light shifting from gold to amber. Bakugou rested on Izuku’s chest, ear pressed to his heartbeat. His fingers traced idle patterns on Izuku’s skin.

“It didn’t hurt,” he said finally, voice hoarse.

“It shouldn’t.” Izuku’s hand came up to stroke his hair.

“He always made it hurt.” Quiet. Almost inaudible. “Said that’s how it was supposed to be. Said I deserved it for being a freak.”

Izuku’s arms tightened. “He was wrong.”

“I know.” Bakugou lifted his head, meeting his eyes. That newfound clarity, a light that had been dimmed for too long. “I know he was wrong.”

He shifted, reaching for his shirt. But Izuku caught his wrist. Gently, he brought Bakugou’s arm to his lips and pressed a kiss to the cigarette burn.

“This will heal,” he said, fierce. “And if he ever comes near you again, I will kill him.”

Bakugou laughed—a real laugh, rusty but genuine. “I can kill him myself.”

“I know. But I’ll help.”

They dressed in silence. When they were done, Bakugou stood by the window, peering through the gap in the curtains at the street below.

“Don’t tell anyone,” he said, steady now. “About this. About me.”

“I won’t.”

“I mean it, Deku. If anyone finds out—”

“No one will.” Izuku came to stand beside him, close enough to feel his warmth. “This is ours. No one else’s.”

Bakugou turned, studying him with suspicion and hope. “Why are you doing this? Why do you care?”

Fair question. They’d been rivals, enemies. Their history written in explosions and tears. But Izuku had always seen. Even when Bakugou was at his worst, he saw the cracks. The quiver in his lip. The way his hands shook after a fight. The desperate hunger in his eyes when he thought no one was watching.

“Because you’re worth caring about,” Izuku said simply. “You always have been.”

Bakugou’s breath hitched. For a long moment, he just stared, searching for deception, pity, anything that might break this fragile thing. He found nothing but truth.

“You’re a damn nerd,” he said, thick with emotion.

“I know.”

Downstairs, Inko called them for lunch. Bakugou straightened, rolled his shoulders back, slid his usual mask into place. But when he looked at Izuku, there was something different in his eyes.

“Come on, Deku.” He opened the door, paused. “If we make Mom wait, she’ll never shut up about it.”

They descended the stairs together, shoulders brushing. The mothers were setting the table, arguing good-naturedly. The afternoon had turned to evening, sky painted in violet and rose.

As they sat down, Izuku caught Bakugou’s eye. A knowing glance passed between them, carrying the weight of their shared secret.

Under the table, Bakugou’s foot pressed against Izuku’s. A small thing. Deliberate.

A promise.

The scar on Bakugou’s arm would heal. But the wound inside him, festering for years, had begun to mend. In the quiet of Izuku Midoriya’s bedroom, something new had been born.

Something that would survive the coming storms.

Something that was theirs.