❦𝓤𝓷𝓯𝓲𝓵𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓮𝓭; 𝓐 𝓓𝓮𝓴𝓾𝓫𝓪𝓴𝓾 𝓢𝓽𝓸𝓻𝔂❦

Chapter 1

Warnings: Bakugou performing amateur porn, obsessiveness, stalking, very unreliable narrator, breaking and entering, kidnapping, drugging (with a very brief mention of a needle), and eventual non con, dub con and stockholm syndrome. You have been warned.
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Every night is pretty much the same. Well, for it to be different, he'd have to have hobbies, or friends or something like that. Instead it's heading home after work, making dinner and eating half of it while his computer boots up. The rest of the night is spent watching Kacchan.

What had begun as an innocent...accident, or rather, a random click, has sort of...begun to take over his life. Kacchan always does his shows right after Izuku finishes work, after dinner for most people, so it's probably not surprising that he'd happen onto him at some point, but...he had...seen a show one unassuming Tuesday night...

And now he can't stop watching.

Kacchan's the sort of type that Izuku has always been into. Strong, broad shouldered... blonde. It had kind of been the turning point, actually, realising a few years ago that All Might never had been a childhood hero, but a childhood crush -- and Kacchan epitomizes what he likes. He echoes so many of those traits.

Except that All Might never got naked in any of his films.

Kacchan is actually eating when he logs into the chat today. He's like that; starts off super casual, like the viewer has just happened upon him in his bedroom, hanging out in a tank top and these ridiculously short shorts and eating a granola bar.

"Hey, fucker," he says when he sees Izuku's username pop up. He's not unknown...it's not like Kacchan isn't going to notice him when he's here every night spending half his income on requests for Kacchan to take off just a little bit more clothing. "What are you going to want tonight, huh?"

God, Izuku doesn't even know. He likes everything Kacchan does. Likes everything he says, everything about his body....everything.

He rarely types a message. This is self preservation. If he starts writing, will he be able to stop? Will he out himself as a complete loser in front of this perfect stranger and an entire room of other horny loners? Better just to send requests with credits attached. That's simpler.

"No response, of course," Kacchan says derisively around a mouthful of granola, balling up the now empty wrapper and tossing it somewhere off screen. He's lounging on his bed - a queen, Izuku thinks - which is covered in an attractive plaid navy and red pattern. Behind him, four (no, five) pillows, and a opaque container, which Izuku knows is full of various sex toys and paraphernalia. That's all that's really visible of his room, but Kacchan has a pretty good setup with a nice, high definition camera.

It's not surprising. Already there are more people in the room than Izuku usually sees even when someone is right in the nitty gritty of a performance. He must be making a lot of money off desperate weirdos like Izuku, so of course he'd have good equipment.

Kacchan sucks his thumb to get at the last little bit of chocolate, then grins, "Okay, who's gonna pay me to take something off? You don't get it for free, you know."

Izuku is too fucking slow, someone's already beat him to it. 50 credits to take off his top. Kacchan snorts and rises onto his knees, gripping the bottom of his tanktop in both hands and yanking upwards, baring his belly and chest in one go. It drags over his chin and then his lips and then his nose even with the loose collar, and then it's gone, tossed somewhere into the room.

Jokingly Kacchan flexes, but his body is no laughing matter. As he bends his arms his biceps and shoulders come into relief, thick muscles against skin that looks almost too thin to contain him. His chest is perfect too...thick, plush pectorals that Izuku wants to -- to bite, to touch -- and his abs they're...well. He's...