kam

You discovered things about him, things that had nothing to do with hero work or quarterly reports. You learned the exact spot behind his ear that made him shudder, the way his breath hitched when you raked your nails down his back, and the low, guttural sounds he made when he was close to the edge. He, in turn, seemed to be memorizing every inch of you, learning what made you gasp, what made you beg, what made you scream his name.

And then there was the thing with the heels.

It was late, nearly midnight, and the only sounds in the vast office space were the hum of the servers and the distant wail of a siren. You were in his office, finalizing the guest list for the gala. The air was thick with unspoken tension, the kind that had become your new normal.

"That's the last of them," you said, closing your laptop. The final click echoed in the quiet room.

Katsuki leaned back in his desk chair, his red eyes fixed on you. "Good. Come here."

You didn't hesitate, rising from your seat and walking around the large mahogany desk to stand before him. His gaze was intense, predatory, and it sent a familiar thrill straight through you.

"You've been driving me insane all day," he said, his voice a low rumble. "That skirt, the way you kept biting your lip when you were concentrating..."

"It's called working," you retorted, but your voice was breathless.

"Is it?" he asked, his hands coming to rest on your hips, pulling you closer. "Or is it teasing?"

"Maybe a little of both," you admitted, a slow smile spreading across your face.

He chuckled, a sound that never failed to make your stomach clench. "Strip for me," he commanded, his voice dropping to a husky whisper.

Your heart pounded in your chest. This was new. Usually, your encounters were frantic, clothes torn in a rush to get to each other. This felt deliberate, intentional.

You took a step back, giving yourself space. Your fingers went to the buttons of your blouse, slowly undoing them one by one. His eyes followed your every movement, dark with hunger as more of your skin was revealed. You let the blouse slide from your shoulders, pooling on the floor.

Next was your skirt. You turned around, giving him a view of your back as you slowly unzipped it, shimmying it down your hips until it fell around your ankles. You stepped out of it, now clad only in your matching black lace bra and panties, and the stilettos you'd worn to work.

You turned back to face him, reaching behind you to unclasp your bra. As it fell away, his breath hitched. You hooked your thumbs into the sides of your panties, about to slide them down, when he spoke again.

"Stop," he said, his voice rough.

Your hands froze. "What?"

"The heels," he said, his eyes raking over your naked body. "Leave them on."

A shiver, sharp and electric, ran through your entire body. It was the possessiveness in his tone, the specific, focused desire that was so much more potent than a simple command to strip. He didn't just want you naked; he wanted *this* version of you—professional exterior stripped away, leaving only the sharp, dangerous points of your heels.

You didn't question it. You simply hooked your thumbs into your panties and slid them down your legs, stepping out of them. Now you stood before him, completely naked except for the black stilettos that made your legs seem impossibly long.

"Fuck," he breathed, his gaze burning into you. "Come here."

You walked toward him, the click of your heels on the marble floor the only sound in the room. He reached for you, his hands gripping your waist and pulling you onto his lap. The fabric of his trousers was rough against your bare skin, a stark contrast to the smooth leather of the chair.

"You have no idea what you do to me," he murmured, his lips trailing down your neck. His hands roamed over your body, one cupping your breast while the other slid down your back to grip your ass.

"I think I'm starting to get an idea," you gasped as his teeth nipped at your collarbone.

His other hand moved between your legs, his fingers sliding through your wet folds. "Already so wet for me," he said, his voice smug. "Did you like that? Being told what to do?"

"Maybe," you admitted, your hips rocking against his hand.

"Maybe?" he challenged, his thumb brushing against your clit. "I think it's more than maybe. I think you liked it a lot."

You couldn't deny it. There was something incredibly arousing about the way he looked at you, the raw desire in his eyes, the possessive way he touched you. And the heels—it was a specific kink, one you'd never encountered before, but one that was surprisingly potent.

"Tell me," he demanded, his fingers teasing your entrance. "Tell me you liked it."

"I liked it," you breathed, your head falling back. "I liked you telling me to keep the heels on."

"Good girl," he murmured, his voice thick with approval. Then he shifted you, lifting you slightly as he freed his hard cock from his trousers. "Now ride me."

You needed no further encouragement. You positioned yourself over him, sinking down onto his thick length with a moan. The stretch, the fullness—it was overwhelming in the best possible way.

You began to move, setting a slow, deliberate pace. His hands gripped your hips, guiding you, his eyes fixed on the point where your bodies joined. The stilettos gave you leverage, allowing you to rise and fall on his cock with an ease that was almost intoxicating.

"Fuck," he muttered, his head falling back against the chair. "You look so good like this. So fucking perfect."

You leaned forward, your hands bracing on the back of the chair as you increased your pace. The new angle allowed him to hit that perfect spot inside you with each thrust, building the tension in your core higher and higher.

"Harder," he demanded, his hands tightening on your hips. "Take all of me."

You complied, riding him harder, faster, the sound of your moans mingling with his guttural groans. The city lights blurred behind him, the world outside ceasing to exist as you lost yourself in the sensation.

His hand moved between your bodies again, his thumb finding your clit and rubbing it in tight circles. That was all it took to push you over the edge. Your orgasm crashed over you, waves of pleasure so intense they left you shaking. Your inner walls clenched around him, milking his cock as he found his own release, spilling inside you with a hoarse cry of your name.

For a long moment, you stayed like that, your forehead resting against his, both of you panting and sweaty. The reality of what you'd just done, of what you'd been doing for weeks, slowly started to sink in.

"We should probably stop doing this," you said, though you made no move to get off his lap.

"Probably," he agreed, his arms wrapping around you, holding you close. "But we won't."

"No," you sighed, burying your face in his neck. "We won't."

Because the truth was, you didn't want to stop. You didn't want to go back to the way things were before, when the tension between you was just frustration and annoyance. Now, it was something else entirely—something dangerous, addictive, and utterly irresistible.

As you sat there, wrapped in his arms, the city lights twinkling outside, you knew you were in deep. And for the first time, you wondered if this was just about sex, or if there was something more brewing between you and your impossible, infuriating, and utterly captivating boss.

But that was a thought for another day. Tonight, you were content to stay in his arms, your heels still on, the world outside fading away until it was just the two of you, tangled together in the quiet of his office.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

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Unprofessional Conduct Pt.1

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"By two minutes," you replied evenly, placing the files on his desk. "Traffic was heavier than usual."

"Excuses," he scoffed, running a hand through his spiky blonde hair. "Where's my coffee?"

"On its way. I told Hana to make it extra hot today, just how you like it."

A muscle in his jaw twitched. "Don't tell me what I like. You've been my secretary for eight months, you should know by now."

"I do know," you countered, refusing to back down. "That's why I said it."

His eyes flashed with something—annoyance, maybe even grudging respect. "The reports from last quarter?"

"Right here." You tapped the stack of files. "All organized, highlighted, and summarized as per your ridiculously specific instructions."

Bakugou moved behind his desk, sinking into his leather chair. "Ridiculously specific? That's how we maintain perfection around here."

"Or how we maintain a 90% employee turnover rate," you muttered under your breath, but not quietly enough.

"What was that?" he growled, leaning forward.

"Nothing," you said smoothly. "Just admiring how efficiently you run things."

For a moment, you thought he might actually smile—almost. Instead, he just nodded curtly. "Good. Now get me the meeting schedule for this afternoon. And remind me why I agreed to that charity gala next week."

"You didn't agree," you replied, already pulling up your tablet. "Your PR director signed you up before consulting you, and now you're contractually obligated."

"Fuck," he muttered, rubbing his temples. "Fine. Handle it."

"That's why you pay me the big bucks," you said with a hint of sarcasm.

"If you were paid based on attitude alone, you'd be bankrupt," he shot back.

"And if you were judged solely on people skills, you'd be working at a convenience store."

The tension in the room thickened, the familiar push and pull between you hanging in the air. This was how it always went—sharp remarks, barely veiled hostility, but beneath it all, a grudging acknowledgment of competence.

Just then, his private line rang. He glanced at the caller ID before answering. "Dynamight."

As he spoke, you took the opportunity to really look at him. Bakugou was undeniably attractive, in an intense, almost dangerous way. The hero costume did little to hide his muscular build, but in a suit, he was something else entirely—powerful, commanding, every inch the man who had fought his way to the top.

"…no, that's not acceptable," he was saying into the phone, his voice low and dangerous. "I want the full security detail reevaluated by tomorrow morning. If there's another breach like last week, heads will roll."

You shifted uncomfortably, remembering the incident he was referring to—a villain attack at a public appearance that had nearly turned disastrous. Bakugou had handled it with his usual explosive efficiency, but the aftermath had been hell for everyone at the agency.

"Fine," he said abruptly, ending the call. "Fucking idiots."

"Security issues?" you asked, already making a note to follow up with the security team.

"None of your concern," he snapped. "Just do your job and stay out of mine."

"That's hard to do when your job keeps spilling into mine," you retorted before you could stop yourself.

His eyes narrowed. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means that when you're in a bad mood, the entire office suffers. And when you're in a bad mood, which is most of the time, I'm the one who has to deal with the fallout."

Bakugou stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. "Maybe if you did your job right the first time, there wouldn't be any fallout."

"Maybe if you weren't such an insufferable perfectionist, people would actually want to work for you," you shot back, your voice rising slightly.

The air crackled with tension, his eyes blazing with anger. But then something shifted in his expression—a flicker of something else, something darker and more complicated.

"You've got a lot of nerve," he said, his voice dropping to a low rumble. "Talking to me like that."

"Someone has to," you replied, your heart pounding. "Everyone else is too scared."

He took a step closer, and you fought the urge to back away. "And you're not?"

"Should I be?" you challenged, meeting his gaze directly.

For a long moment, he just stared at you, his expression unreadable. Then, unexpectedly, he laughed—a short, harsh sound that held no real humor.

"Fuck," he said, running a hand through his hair again. "You really don't hold back, do you?"

"I believe in honest communication," you said, trying to regain your professional composure.

"Is that what you call it?" he asked, moving around his desk to stand closer to you. "I'd call it insubordination."

"I'd call it setting boundaries," you countered, though your voice was less steady now that he was so close. You could smell his cologne—something spicy and expensive that suited him entirely.

"Boundaries," he repeated, as if testing the word. "Interesting choice of words from someone who crossed the line the moment she walked through that door."

Before you could respond, his phone rang again. With a frustrated sigh, he turned away to answer it, giving you a moment to collect yourself. Your heart was racing, your palms slightly sweaty. What the hell was that?

As Bakugou dealt with the call, you took the opportunity to escape. "I'll go check on your coffee," you said, already moving toward the door.

"Don't bother," he said without turning around. "I've got a meeting in ten. Just reschedule my afternoon."

Without another word, you slipped out of the office, closing the heavy door behind you and leaning against it for support. What had just happened? The tension between you had always been there, but this felt different—charged, dangerous, almost intimate.

Shaking your head, you straightened up and walked back to your desk. You had a job to do, and getting flustered over your boss's mood swings wasn't part of it.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of meetings, phone calls, and paperwork. Bakugou was in and out of the office, leaving you to handle the chaos he left in his wake. It wasn't until late afternoon that things finally quieted down.

You were reviewing the final draft of a press release when your desk phone rang. It was Bakugou's private line.

"Dynamight's office," you answered professionally.

"Get in here," he said, and then hung up without another word.

With a sigh, you saved your work and headed to his office. When you entered, you found him standing by the window again, looking out at the city below.

"You wanted to see me?" you asked, keeping your voice neutral.

He turned, and you were struck again by how imposing he was—tall, muscular, with an intensity that seemed to fill the room.

"The charity gala next week," he said, walking toward his desk. "I need you to attend with me."

You blinked. "I'm sorry?"

"As my date," he clarified, as if it were the most normal request in the world. "The PR team thinks it'll look good—humanize me or some bullshit."

You stared at him, certain you must have misheard. "You want me to attend a charity gala with you? As your date?"

"Is there an echo in here?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. "Yes, that's what I said."

"But… why me?" you asked, genuinely confused. "Surely one of the PR representatives would be more appropriate."

"Because I don't want to deal with some simpering idiot who's going to agree with everything I say," he replied, his eyes fixed on yours. "I want someone who'll actually tell me if I'm being an asshole."

You couldn't help it—you laughed. "You want me to be your date so I can tell you when you're being an asshole?"

A small smile touched his lips. "Something like that."

"I'm not sure that's a good idea," you said, trying to regain your professional composure. "It could blur the lines of our professional relationship."

"Professional relationship?" he scoffed, stepping closer. "Is that what you call this constant bickering? The way you challenge every damn thing I say?"

"It's called doing my job properly," you retorted, though your heart was starting to pound again. "Which includes giving you honest feedback when you're being unreasonable."

"Is that all it is?" he asked, his voice dropping lower. "Just doing your job?"

"What else would it be?" you challenged, though you had a sinking feeling you knew where this was going.

He didn't answer with words. Instead, he closed the remaining distance between you, his hand coming up to cup your jaw. His touch was surprisingly gentle, a stark contrast to his usual brusque manner.

"You drive me insane," he murmured, his thumb brushing over your lower lip. "Always have, from the moment you walked in here for your interview and told me my expectations were 'ridiculously high'."

"You were asking for a secretary with ten years of experience and fluency in three languages for an entry-level salary," you reminded him, your voice barely above a whisper.

"And you were the only one with the balls to call me on it," he countered, his eyes darkening. "Do you have any idea how many secretaries I've gone through in the past two years? None of them lasted more than a few weeks."

"Because you're impossible to work with," you said, though the words lacked their usual conviction.

"Or maybe because they were all scared of me," he suggested, his other hand coming to rest on your hip. "But you're not, are you?"

You should have pulled away. You should have reminded him of workplace policies and professional boundaries. But instead, you found yourself leaning into his touch, your body responding in ways your mind was screaming against.

"I'm not scared of you," you admitted, your eyes locked with his. "I just think you're an arrogant, demanding, insufferable—"

Whatever you were about to say was cut off as his lips crashed down on yours. The kiss was nothing like you would have expected from Bakugou—it wasn't gentle or tentative. It was hungry, demanding, almost punishing, as if he were trying to prove a point.

Your hands, which had been hanging limply at your sides, came up to grip his shoulders. The fabric of his suit was expensive and smooth under your fingers, but you could feel the hard muscle beneath. His hands tightened on your body, one sliding down to cup your ass while the other tangled in your hair, angling your head to deepen the kiss.

When you finally broke apart, you were both breathing heavily. His red eyes were dark with desire, his lips swollen from the kiss.

"This is a terrible idea," you said, even as you leaned in for more.

"The worst," he agreed, before capturing your lips again.

This time, the kiss was slower, more exploratory. His tongue traced the seam of your lips before delving inside, and you met him stroke for stroke. The knot of tension that had been forming in your stomach for months was finally unraveling, replaced by a heat that spread through your entire body.

His hands roamed over your body, mapping your curves through the fabric of your clothes. When his thumb brushed against the side of your breast, you gasped into his mouth, arching into his touch.

"Fuck," he muttered against your lips. "You're so responsive."

"Only when I want to be," you retorted, though your breathless tone undermined the defiance in your words.

He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated through your chest. "Is that right?"

To prove his point, his hand moved from your hip to between your legs, cupping you through your pencil skirt. You couldn't suppress the moan that escaped your lips as his thumb pressed against your clit, even through the layers of fabric.

"Still only responding when you want to be?" he asked, his voice smug.

"Shut up," you gasped, grinding against his hand.

"Make me," he challenged, his lips finding that sensitive spot behind your ear.

You responded by fumbling with the buttons of his shirt, your fingers clumsy with desire. When you finally managed to undo them all, you pushed the fabric aside, your hands exploring the hard planes of his chest. He was even more muscular than you'd imagined, his skin hot to the touch.

Your fingers found his nipples, and you rolled them between your thumbs and forefingers, enjoying the way he hissed in response. Two could play at this game.

"Fuck," he muttered, his hips bucking against yours. "You're playing with fire."

"I'm not afraid of getting burned," you replied, though your voice was shaky.

He responded by picking you up as if you weighed nothing, your legs automatically wrapping around his waist. He carried you to his desk, sweeping aside the neatly stacked files with one arm before setting you down on the polished wood.

"You're going to be the death of me," he said, his hands moving to the zipper of your skirt.

"Promise?" you asked, your voice laced with sarcasm and desire.

Instead of answering, he captured your lips again in a bruising kiss as he removed your skirt and panties in one smooth motion. The cool air of the office hit your heated skin, and you shivered despite the warmth spreading through your body.

His fingers found your wet folds, sliding through them with practiced ease. "Already so wet for me," he murmured against your lips.

"It's the air conditioning," you retorted, though your arching hips betrayed you.

He laughed, a genuine, unguarded sound that surprised you. "Always so defiant."

"Always," you agreed, your hands working to unbuckle his belt.

When his pants were undone, you reached inside, your fingers wrapping around his hard cock. He was thick and heavy in your hand, already leaking pre-cum from the tip. You stroked him slowly, enjoying the way his breath hitched.

"Fuck," he muttered, his hips thrusting into your hand. "You're good at that."

"I'm good at everything," you replied, your thumb brushing over the sensitive head.

He captured your hand, stopping your movements. "Not so fast," he said, his eyes dark with desire. "I want to be inside you when I come."

Your breath caught in your throat at his words. "Then what are you waiting for?"

Instead of answering, he positioned himself at your entrance, teasing you with the head of his cock. You tried to push down, to take him inside you, but his hands on your hips held you in place.

"Bakugou," you whined, your patience wearing thin.

"Katsuki," he corrected, his voice rough. "When I'm inside you, you'll call me Katsuki."

With that, he thrust into you in one smooth motion, filling you completely. You cried out at the sudden fullness, your nails digging into his shoulders.

"Fuck," you breathed, your head falling back.

"Too much?" he asked, though he didn't move, giving you time to adjust.

"No," you managed to say. "Just… move."

He needed no further encouragement. He began to thrust, setting a punishing pace that had you seeing stars. Each stroke hit that perfect spot inside you, building the tension in your core higher and higher.

"You feel so good," he muttered, his lips finding your neck. "So tight, so wet."

"Harder," you demanded, your legs tightening around his waist.

He complied, his movements becoming more erratic as he approached his release. His hand moved between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit and rubbing it in tight circles.

That was all it took to push you over the edge. Your orgasm crashed over you, waves of pleasure coursing through your body. Your inner walls clenched around him, milking his cock as he found his own release, spilling inside you with a guttural groan.

For a moment, you both stayed like that, panting and sweaty, the reality of what you'd just done slowly sinking in. Then, Bakugou—Katsuki—pulled out, adjusting his clothes as if nothing had happened.

You slid off the desk, your legs slightly shaky as you reached for your discarded clothes. The silence in the office was deafening, broken only by the sound of zippers and rustling fabric.

"That was…" you started, but you didn't know how to finish.

"A mistake?" he suggested, though his tone was unreadable.

"Probably," you agreed, though you couldn't bring yourself to regret it.

He watched as you dressed, his expression thoughtful. "The charity gala next week," he said finally. "Are you still coming with me?"

You looked up, meeting his gaze. "Are you still paying me overtime?"

A slow smile spread across his face. "Double time–no, make it triple," he offered.

"Deal," you said, though you knew you were making another mistake. A delicious, dangerous mistake that you had a feeling you'd be making again and again.

As you walked out of his office, you could feel his eyes on you, and you wondered what you had just gotten yourself into. Whatever it was, you had a feeling it was going to be complicated, messy, and utterly irresistible.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

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“no!” in an instant, your hands attempt to scramble downwards, “don’t fuck my pussy—”

“no?” he laughs, quick to capture your wrists in a singular grip. he slides his heavy cock down towards your weeping slit. “you don’t wanna be the one pregnant or something?”

“no— of course not!”

“why not?” he asks innocently, before dropping his voice to a low whisper, “don’t you think you’d be a great mommy? or are you nervous about what your alpha friends would say if you got pregnant by an omega?”

you don’t answer right away, afraid of admitting to what he is suggesting. “i… i don’t...”

alas, izuku smiles, already knowing your response. he pulls back slightly, his nose brushing against your cheek as his breath grazes against the shell of your ear. “well, what would you say if i let you mark me?”

mate. mate. mate. almost helplessly, your eyes dart to his now vulnerable nape, the tantalizing sight doing all but nothing to the stoke the hungry flames growing in your core. “… i… really?”

“yeah, really,” he muses warmly, “doesn’t that sound good? don’t you wanna sink your teeth into my neck?”

“i…” you swallow thickly, nodding— drooling, “yeah…”

a pleased chuckle rumbled from his throat, the pieces of a plan just about to click into place. “mhm. all you have to do is beg alpha to fuck you. so, what's the magic word?”

your face burns with embarrassment. “please...”

“please, what?”

you hesitate, taking a moment before choking out the words. “please, a-alpha...”

“hehe~” he giggles some more, the fleshy head of his cock pressing insistently against your barrier of resistance now, “goooood omega. deep breaths now, okay?”

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“it’s not about what you can’t control,” you mumble, keeping your voice low. “you just don’t do anything about what you can.”

“is that right?” he chuckles breathlessly, shuffling his bag out of the way with his foot. “come on, get up— we’re going to the bathroom.”

“what? why?” you ask, stumbling slightly as he drags you along.

he rolls his eyes at your coyness, his hand resting against your lower back as guides you firmly ahead. “you already know why — if you need me to show you i'm in control of things, baby, i can do that — all you had to do was ask.”

as you stammer for a response, eijirou — too curious for his own good — asks, “where are you guys going?”

“mouth maintenance,” denki answers way too easily, “something’s wrong with my girl’s tongue— going to the bathroom to check it out.”

“what?!” you exclaim, a blush flooding your face as you remember just how willing your boyfriend could be in forgoing shame just to embarrass you, “no we’re not!”

“hey, kickstarted it!” he snickers, “anyways— be right back.”

although his tone is light, almost playful— you can feel the edge tucked just beneath it. your brows furrow at his insinuation, a scoff slipping past your lips. “i didn’t say i want to fuck your friend. i was just saying he’s pretty. like a doll.”

izuku simply laughs, the sound colored with something almost a bit dangerous, before pressing a kiss to your forehead. “fine. any other of my friends you find ‘pretty?”

“i’m not gonna tell you now,” you roll your eyes, returning your gaze to the screen in your hand. “‘cause you’re gonna be weird about it.”

“so there’s more?”

“no,” you scoff once more, teeth grinding against each other as you grow chagrined.

“i think ‘yeah,” he says mildly, tipping your phone’s screen down to redirect your attention. “i’m just curious, my love. i like knowing what you think about my friends.”

while the delivery of his words sound sweet, you know better. you sigh, setting your phone down to let yourself think, because you knew he wouldn’t let it go. “fine,” you mumble after a beat. “kaminari, i guess, but he’s annoying. kirishima… but i can’t tell if he’s cute or i just like that he’s tall. sero’s pretty. and i guess— ” you hesitate, before exhaling sharply, “—bakugo has some appeal to him. there, happy?”

“hm,” is all izuku responds with at first, letting himself sit with his thoughts. “i don’t think you could handle that train.”

“you said you weren’t going to be weird!” you huff, a heat creeping up your cheeks as the notion of such flashes in your mind.

a snicker escapes him at the sound of your whine, his eyes tracking the way your expression shifts as the dirty fantasies run amok in your mind. “well, i’m just saying— they all play pretty rough. like, eijirou has a huge size kink— he used to brag about how his dick reached like… here… when he did it with a girl.”

you glance downwards as his hand comes to rest just right above your belly button, your body instinctively bucking at the idea, much to your embarrassment. “that’s, that’s crazy,” you mumble, trying to feign nonchalance. “i don’t think that’s possible.”

“really?” izuku asks, tilting his head, his voice deceptively soft. “mine hits about here—” he lowers his hand a few inches down, “—when we do it. he’s a bit taller than me so i feel like it’s easy to imagine.”

“it just… doesn’t seem like… healthy or safe,” you hesitate, “i don’t know how anyone would enjoy that.”

he only offers you a shrug, brushing a stray hair behind your ear. “there’s a lot of girls out there who think bigger is better,” he notes. “what do you think?”

“i’m satisfied. like… happily.”

chuckling at that, izuku continues. “denki has a bunch of piercings, and i mean like— i haven’t seen it — but, he has a couple down there. you feel those sort of things with every movement.”

your thighs clench at his description, a surreal heat rising in your core over the concept of your boyfriend talking about the sex lives of his friends. “i don’t think i’d like that…” you comment, unsure why you were even putting in your input, as well as if you were lying or not. “it seems weird. like what if they get caught or lost?”

“they’re usually pretty well in there,” he muses, giving your hip a soft pat, “you wanna ask him and see?”

“no,” you glare, biting the inside of your cheek. “why do you want me to fuck your friends so bad?”

“why do you want to fuck my friends so bad?” he retorts.

“i said i don’t.”

“yeah? then why are you so wet?”

before you can react, his fingers glide down your stomach, effortlessly slipping beneath the waistband of your pajamas and into your panties, unbothered by your attempts of pulling away to avoid proving him right.

“ack!— izu, quit it!”

your protest goes unacknowledged. instead, a long thick finger runs along your bare slit, arousal collecting against it’s pad. “quit what?” he asks, acting oblivious. “touching you? or talking about my friends? 'cause i don’t think you want me to stop either.”

when you don’t respond, pretending to be too distracted by his ministrations, he giggles, leaning close to whisper into your ear. “y’wanna know about hanta?”

“wh-what about him?” you find yourself asking, prurience getting the best of you.

izuku smirks as you maintain a sort of act of innocence. “he likes tying girls up with his quirk and doing whatever he wants to them,” he explains slowly, taking in how the puffy lips of your pussy flutter against him with every word leaving his mouth, “blindfolds them. gags them. pinches their nipples. think he likes omorashi too.”

“o-omorashi?” you choke out, confused by how your own nipples have reactively already begun to stiffen against the fabric of your shirt. “that’s disgusting— why would he even like that?”

“denki likes it too,” he adds. “they’ve talked about how they like how helpless their partners get under them— the high they get from controlling someone else like that. i think they told me i should try it out with you one time...”

you shake your head, holding onto his arm for support as two calloused fingers slip inside your heat, pushing past the initial resistance with a delicious stretch. “nuh uh— no,” you refuse, a hint of curiosity betraying you, “that’s, that’s too weird.”

he chuckles knowingly at your reaction, fingers rocking back and forth as he speaks easily, “i think you’re just scared of me bullying you. but, hey — they’re a lot meaner than me — just imagine how they’d be with you.”

“i don’t wanna imagine that...” you exhale shakily, eyes rolling back as he brushes against your g-spot.

“but you already are imagining it,” he whispers, tapping against that exact spot again and again, over and over. “you’re soaked, babe.”

a haze feels as if it's clouding over your mind. “it’s because of you,” you whine, teeth sinking into your bottom lip in attempt to silence the noise.

“yeah?” he cooes, “it’s for me?”

you nod, a soft moan escaping you as he presses his thumb against your clit. “y-yes…”

“oh,” he smiles, as if he didn’t know. “you sure it’s not for shoto?”

“why— why would it be for him?” you ask, swallowing the pooling saliva in your mouth.

“well,” he starts, rubbing circles into you, “i don’t know. maybe you’re thinking about him using his quirk on you— teasing these—” his free hand slips under your shirt, rubbing a nipple between a thumb and a forefinger, before lightly tugging on the peak, “—with ice.”

“m’not,” you lie, already shivering as though you can feel it. you reach a hand down to palm at the growing bulge in his pants. “you’re hard,” you deflect, trying to gain some footing in this conversation, “maybe you’re the one thinking about him doing that to you.”

the attempt only makes him snicker. “nah,” he murmurs, fingering you deeper and deeper, “i’m hard because i’m thinking about how my perverted little girlfriend is about to cum on my fingers pretending it’s katsuki’s dick.”

you can feel your ears burn as the brief mental image takes you off guard — katsuki breathing heavy against your nape, gripping your hips hard, bruising — and you do your best to stifle the moan trying to escape your throat. “i, i’m not about to cum,” you whimper, fumbling with the waistband of his sweats in hopes of jerking him off as a diversion, but his hand under your shirt moves to catch your wrist, foiling the attempt.

“but you’re imagining it’s his dick, right?”

“i’m not doing that either!” you whine once more.

izuku only hums lightly at your denial. “he likes seeing girls cry, y’know that? one time, he sent me this picture of a girl he fucked — she had mascara all over her face, handprints around her neck — i thought it was a villain he fought at first. now that i think about it, i never really traded back with him…”

“no, no way— i f-fucking, fucking hate that guy,” you grit out, the idea of izuku sending his friend vulnerable pictures of you enraging yet strangely arousing.

“yeah?” izuku laughs, almost mockingly, “then why do you keep on clenching when i talk about him then?”

“it’s for you, baby, i swear…” you plead, begging him to believe you, feeling the waves of pleasure begin to ebb and flow in your core.

“you swear? you sure you’re not just saying that because you wanna cum?”

“i'm not,” you mewl, breath trembling in your chest, “it's for you, izu.”

“mm,” he murmurs approvingly, “whose pussy is this?”

“yours, only yours,” you gasp, eyes shutting tight as he curls his fingers, his free hand coming to tilt your chin upwards so that you couldn't hide from him.

“who's the only one who gets to play with this pussy? gets to have it?”

“you— oh my god,” you cry, toes curling as you feel yourself close to the edge, “i’m gonna cum, please don’t stop, please—”

“go ahead and cum, baby,” he groans, as if feeling your pleasure second-hand, “be a good girl, and cum for me.”

with his encouragement, you do exactly that, a whiny, whimper of a moan clawing itself out of your throat as your walls spasm around his fingers. izuku dutifully continues to pump his fingers in and out of you as you ride out the aftershocks.

“good girl,” izuku croons, subsequently slipping out of you. your forehead rests against his chest as you steady your breathing, the quiet in the room pressing in while your hazy mind slowly recollects itself.

eventually, you break the silence, mumbling the refrain you’ve been repeating for the past hour or so: “i don’t wanna fuck your friends.”

in response, he laughs, before guiding your hand to the outline of his cock in his sweatpants, allowing you to touch him at last. “i know, baby,” he whispers, mirth curling his lips, “although i’d prefer your first thought after cumming be, ‘i wanna fuck you.”

“i wanna fuck you,” you breathe without a second thought, gaze flicking to meet his.

his thumb lifts to brush against your bottom lip, watching as you press a gentle kiss to the pad, and you can feel his clothed shaft twitch against your palm. “hm,” he murmurs, before sitting up straight, “well, how exactly do you wanna do that?”

“i wanna suck your dick first,” you mumble, mirroring his actions before tying up your hair.

“mm, okay, baby,” he sighs contently, shifting to rest his back against the headboard of the bed. “just try not to moan any of my friends’ names when you’re choking on it, okay?”

The sound of their collective panting filled the air, the thud of fists against skin echoing off the walls as they tested each other.

Quick jabs, hits to the ribs; it was push and pull as they were nearly on equal ground, two decorated professionals with national titles.

You had to keep a close eye— track his movements to take note of any injuries, run over how exactly you would deal with each one. It was your job to.

But, admittedly, you found your gaze wandering against your will lately. More often than you wanted to admit.

It was difficult to ignore the way his biceps flexed with each jab, how soft blond tufts fell over his face, stuck to the sweat lining his forehead, the low hang of his boxing shorts highlighted his abs straining with each motion.

"Fuck!"

The sharp curse broke your trance, eyes snapping up, immediately alert.

Eijirou's hands flew over his mouth, his fighter's stance softening, hesitant hands reaching out towards his friend whose head was angled down, fighting to not reel.

"Woah, man, I am so sorry—"

Katsuki slapped his hand away, wiping at the blood beginning to drip down his nose with the back of his hand, unyielding eyes meeting Eijirou's.

"Keep it goin', Shitty Hair. And you,"

He didn't bother to look at you as you approached, keeping his burning stare on his opponent while waving you off with a harsh motion of his free hand. "Get back."

His bite was nothing new. You didn't bother to fight the eye roll, stepping closer to assess the extent of the damage. "Don't be dumb. Let me look."

"You deaf or something? Beat it."

More blood trickled down, coming over the curve of his lip. You had worked with Katsuki long enough to know that he pushed himself until he was battered, had nothing left to give.

Your job was to keep that from happening.

With a sigh, you grabbed him by the crook of his elbow.

"You are gushing blood. Come on—"

"Get your fuckin' hands off me, you piece of—"

"Again, don't be dumb—"

Eijirou blinked between the two of you, watching as you wrestled to keep Katsuki's arm in your grip, ineffectively attempting to drag him away. With a smile that didn't quite meet his eyes, he began to take backwards steps towards the bench where he kept his water, knowing there was little else he could do in this situation.

"I'm gonna take five. Go with her, man."

Feeling Katsuki's resistance give in just enough, you tugged him towards the med bay, giving Eijirou a grateful look over your shoulder. You hoped he didn't feel too guilty. Sparring was never supposed to get this intense, after all. But, mistakes happened.

You offered soft apologies under your breath to the few nurses on the same late shift as you were with a tight smile as you rushed past them to guide him into the room at the very back, shutting the door behind you.

It was just you two now.

Katsuki was still panting, worked up from the fight. There was probably enough adrenaline in his system to keep him from feeling the real pain of his affliction.

You pushed him back onto the bed against the wall to your right with a hand over his chest, feeling the warm muscle rise up and down under your palm before you turned to rummage through the cabinet, fishing out a medical kit with a crease forming between your brows.

"Are you trying to get yourself put on medical leave before your match next week?"

He didn't say a word, only the sound of his heavy breathing filling the room as you felt his glare against your back.

You sighed.

"Right before I get off too..."

"Yeah," He scoffed, a mocking edge to his voice. "'Cause I did that shit on purpose."

"You kept pushing. That was stupid and you know it, the best athletes know when to call it quits."

Katsuki scoffed, his jutted lower lip pursing as you set down the kit beside him, opening it up to fish out some gauze. "Maybe we should get you in the ring. Since you're such an expert."

You pushed his thighs apart with an unimpressed look, standing between them to get as close as you could.

A hand went behind his neck, gently tilting his head down so the blood wouldn't trickle back into his nose, go down his throat.

You carefully pinched the sides of his nose bridge to stop the blood flow, wiping away at what had escaped with clean gauze.

“You love making my life harder,” you muttered under your breath. “Can’t you just admit I'm right? Say you’ll be more careful?”

“The day I say that shit you can put a gun to my head.”

You rolled your eyes, but he continued.

"I don't say shit I don't mean," he sighed out, abs flexing as he winced slightly. “If your meddling ass didn't get in the way, I would've won.”

“Or you would've gotten your ass beat, but whatever.”

“I've had worse. A fucked up nose is nothing."

"Is that supposed to be a good thing?" you raised a brow, getting a new piece of gauze. "You never know when to stop, Katsuki. That's your issue."

The room settled into silence only the hum of the AC, your shifting, and the quiet, reluctant winces that slipped past as you tended to him.

His eyes never left you.

Sometimes, you wondered why.

Why he allowed you to treat him, why he let you get close. But you shook yourself out of those thoughts, reaching down to grab an ice pack. No time to get sidetracked, not now. Especially on something that was very likely nothing.

"Bleeding stopped."

He didn't respond, eyes downcast as you alternated between pressing it to either side of his nose bridge.

When he finally spoke, his words were quick. Quiet.

"I was going for his blind spot."

Said like he had to explain himself to you, or maybe himself.

But he didn't have to. You knew that his slip ups were extremely rare, he never made the same mistake twice— he beat himself up over every error, obsessed over earned perfection, victory.

His high standards for himself were what got him so far, but you knew they got to him. That, quietly, he sometimes needed reassurance, like anyone would.

“I know you were.” you finally responded, voice gentle, without pity.

"Eijirou's right side was open and he was getting tired. That was the right move. You would've gotten him."

He blinked down at you, as if assessing your honesty before a slight smile touched his lips. He gripped the edge of the small bed a little tighter, leaning down closer.

"Knew you were starin'."

Your heart jumped in your chest, but you pushed it down.

"Well, that is my job."

"It's your job to watch for injuries. Not stare."

You couldn't help what came out of your mouth next.

"Maybe I was staring at Eijirou."

"You think you're so funny."

"I think your ego's inflated."

"Wanna say that again?"

You pressed the ice a little too harshly into the side of his nose, drawing a small groan from him.

"Save it, Katsuki."

You packed up your kit and gathered the bloodied gauze to throw away, rinsing your hands before coming back to assess your work.

Blood clean, no signs of continued bleeding. A small bruise forming under his right eye from the trauma, expected.

It took everything in you to ignore the weight of his eyes, how he looked at you with an intensity reserved for his oppenents in the ring. Calculating, searching. You could feel the burn crawling up the back of your neck. Professional, keep it professional.

You nodded a little too quickly, turning on your heel. "Yep, all good. No more sparring, but you can go back now."

He tugged you by the back of your shirt collar before you got too far, pulling you back between his legs, face only inches away from yours.

"You don't want that."

The sudden proximity along with his words made your heart spike, as if caught.

What did you want? The question made you uneasy.

(Or, maybe it was the answer that you knew deep down that made you want to crawl out of your skin.)

You pushed back slightly, deflecting.

“I want you to see Dr. Tanaka as soon as you can. I'll make an appointment for tomorrow morning since he left for the day. I think your nose is broken.”

“No it's not.”

It wasn't. If it had been broken, you would've known from one look, you would have been angrier with him. But that was your out, your excuse to get away. And he had called your bluff, gaze unmoving.

"Don't play dumb right now."

“I'm not playing dumb." the words came snappy, brave; but you were just so close, that fire faltered. His hand that had gripped the back of your collar had shifted carefully to the front, so close to your neck that you were afraid he might feel your heart try to burst out of your throat.

"You're just…" you trailed off, struggling to find your words. "…difficult. You're being difficult.”

"Difficult?" a dry sort of laugh. "You're the difficult one. For someone smart you can be pretty fuckin' dense."

You bit the inside of your lower lip, eyes darting between him and the door.

You knew what he meant. This back and forth between you was nothing new. But when it got too real you had always gotten away, said something and acted like nothing had happened once you cooled down.

The sounds outside seemed to be getting louder, closer. These doors didn’t have locks. Anyone could come in, find you like this. One of the nurses checking in, a gym goer looking for band-aids.

“Or maybe you do know. Hm?”

The question pulled you from your thoughts in an instant, made your eyes snap to his— first mistake. Once his crimson stare bored into yours, you couldn’t look away.

Could you have been that obvious? You thought your moments of distraction were fleeting, imperceptible to the average eye.

He had never commented on it before, slipping back to his normal self even after your closest calls.

But you should’ve known better. Katsuki Bakugou was not average in any sense of the word.

(Of course, he noticed. Of course he did.)

You sputtered something before you could think, just wanting to hear something other than the sound of your own thoughts.

"Some…someone could—"

"No one's gonna come in." his voice flat, dismissal easy. All matter of fact as he craned his neck down closer to you.

"Unless you want Eijirou to come in. Since you were, what, staring at him, right? That what you want?"

"What?!" the word was almost a squeak, high and taken aback. "That's not— "

You fought the strange heat crawling up your face by shooting him a look, eyes narrowing.

"Katsuki. I was joking."

He hummed.

(Unbelieving? Amused? A bit of both?)

"Sure you were."

You opened your mouth, then closed it. The defelctions that had once come so easy were heavy on your tongue. There was no joke, no eye roll, nothing you could say to slip away. Not this time.

You sighed, next words defeated.

"What do you want me to say?"

"I want you to be real with me." you could feel his breath against your lips; hot, charged. "Tell me you don’t want this, that you haven't thought about it.”

“Katsuki…”

It came out weaker than you wanted. Small, kind of breathless. Almost pleading.

For what— to let you go?

(To keep going?)

He kept egging, eyes not once leaving yours. “Say it. I'll stop.”

And you knew he would. Because he was being serious, you could tell by his voice— how it was low under his breath, softened. 

For you, he was being intentionally careful.

Just the thought made you want to cave. But the entire reason your relationship worked, why you were able to handle him, was because you didn't give in.

"There are rules about this sort of thing—"

"You think I give a fuck about bullshit rules?"

"Yeah, I know you don't." you gave him a look. "But I do. I could lose my job, you could get me fired, or…"

You swallowed back the rest of it.

He didn't have to know how it made you afraid, testing the fragile nature of this relationship. How giving in meant that all of this could shatter, that this could all amount to one big mistake.

Katsuki blinked, taking in your expression. He looked off to the side for a beat, lips pursing in thought before, carefully, he took your hands into his.

"You know I won't let that happen. I don't see any of the other shitty medics here."

You snorted a little. Because you did know. You cocked your head to the side, a small smile tugging at your lips. "They're not shitty."

He didn't retaliate, just raised his brows slowly. The truth of his words wasn't what mattered, it was the implication behind them.

(You're the one I see. You.)

His earlier words rang in your ears.

Tell me you don't want this, that you haven't thought about it

You couldn't, because you had.

Countless times— whenever you watched him hover over his opponents, keep them locked underneath him, the heat in his eyes, a cocky smile on his lips.

He wormed his way into your mind, more often than not, late at night. When sleep couldn't find you and your bed felt exceptionally cold. Empty.

(Him. You imagined him.)

Denying all of that was exactly what you should have done. That would have been the rational thing to do, the smart thing.

But as you traced his face, followed the soft curve of his cheeks against the otherwise harsh lines, watched the furrow of his brow deepen ever so slightly, as if he, of all people, was nervous— you couldn't fight the feeling anymore.

Because you wanted to kiss him, and you wanted him to kiss you— more than anything.

Hesitantly, you brushed your thumbs over the bruises on his knuckles.

“No, I… I do. Want this, I mean."

Something in his expression shifted. Surprise, for a brief second, before that cocky gleam in his eyes that you had seen when he was in-action settled over his face. Only, a little different. (A little sharper, hungrier.)

"Yeah?" he pushed closer, nose just barely brushing yours. "You want this?"

Slowly, you nodded.

"Yes."

His gaze darted from your eyes and lips before the sliver of space between you finally disappeared.

The kiss was tentative, careful. So unlike him that it caught you a little off guard.

Soft. His lips were so soft against yours.

He kissed you like he was trying to figure out the shape of your lips, go slow enough to savor the moment, commit the feeling to memory. The hand near your collar came up to cup your jaw, angle your face just right.

You had thought about what this would feel like for longer than you would ever admit. Did he think of you the same way? Were you what he had expected?

When he pulled back just enough to breathe, he drank in your expression; your pretty lips plush and parted, wide doe-eyes blinking up at him.

He groaned, "Fuck it."

You yelped when calloused hands gripped your arms, hoisted you up like you weighed nothing, thick biceps flexing as he pulled you down to straddle his thigh.

You planted your hands on his chest to steady yourself on instinct, unable to process it for a second. Your thighs were around his leg, his hands at your waist, holding you in a way you had only ever thought would exist in the secret fantasies you let yourself indulge in. The small bed creaking under your combined weight. His chest rising and falling under your palms.

Sometimes, you forgot how strong he actually was. How he wasn’t just some other annoying, short-tempered guy— his body was molded to his profession; brute strength and jagged lines carved from a life in the ring. His shoulders broad, a tapering waist, arms nearly the size of your head. He could probably pick you up and snap you in half if he really wanted to. Your stomach flipped at just the thought.

Before you could open your mouth to speak, he flexed the muscle of his thigh; deliberate, testing. Sharp eyes watching as your face flushed at his bare muscle pressing up against your core.

Your breath hitched, warmth pooled down between your legs, heart beating in your ears as his large hands slid down to rest over your hips, holding you steady— pulling you down closer.

"Feel good?"

Your ears burned at the mocking edge to his voice. You squirmed, caught between wanting to slap that smug look off his face and slowly seek more friction by grinding down.

You didn't have to choose, not when his hands slowly guided your hips down, back and forth against his hardened muscle. You bit your bottom lip between your teeth, clearly embarassed, ineffectively fighting the whimpers that threatened to slip past with each movement.

His gaze never once left you, taking note of every little reaction.

Heat crawled up your face at being watched so shamelessly.

Leaning forward, you distracted yourself by pressing soft kisses up the side of his throat, staring to grind down on him yourself, your tongue darting out before gently sucking soft marks into his skin.

He let out a strained sigh, tilting his neck back just enough to give you more access.

You hooked your arms loosely around his neck, pecking across his jaw. Your fingers curled into the hair at his nape, giving it a soft tug, pulling his head back so his eyes met yours.

Pupils blown, eyes heavy with want, hair falling over them all messy and disheveled.

You didn't know how you had gone so long without this, how you could have ever wanted to keep your distance. Now that you let yourself have a taste, you didn't think you could ever get enough.

Tugging him to you by the hair, you pulled him to kiss you again.

This time, it was feverish, insatiable. Months of tension and denied desire pouring over all at once.

He kissed like he was still chasing you; like he had something to prove, like he wanted you to feel that you were his favorite taste. A clash of tongue and teeth, nipping at your bottom lip. Each time he pulled back to breathe it lasted less than a beat before he rushed back to steal the soft sounds that slipped past your lips as your hips continued to buck against his thigh.

But the fabric, it was in the way. No matter how hard you grinded down on him, there was too much between you and what you wanted, and the frustration was showing. Your slight sighs turning into small huffs, brows pinching against your will.

The next time Katsuki pulled back, you didn't let him kiss you again. The small string of saliva between your lips broke as you spoke, softly panting. "I want 'em off."

He looked down at your request, pinching the fabric of your pants between his index and thumb. Eyes looking up into yours carefully, like he was uncertain if that was something you really wanted.

You nodded, a little frantic.

"Off. Please."

He got straight to it. Getting them off wasn't pretty, but a controlled sort of desperate.

His movements were precise as always, fairly smooth, but you could feel that something was simmering under his palms as he moved you around to get them off just right, even more so when they finally rested over your bare legs, eyes slightly dazed as he gave the flesh a tentative squeeze.

You bit your lip at the feeling, skin burning under his touch, wanting it all over you.

You glanced down at your shirt.

"This too."

He scoffed, but there was something like a smile pulling at the corner of his lips. "Fuckin' bossy."

His hands slid under the hem, bunching the fabric up over your chest, too impatient to get it all the way off. He reached back to unclasp your bra, letting it fall to the floor as he took in the shape of your bare chest, the way your nipples hardened at the cool air of the clinic.

For a beat too long, he just stared.

On instinct, you wondered if something was wrong, if there was something about you that was weird or unappealing, the feeling twisted in you. But before you could tug your shirt back down, he cupped your tits with both hands, feeling the weight of them, squeezing slightly.

"Been waiting for this shit for so fuckin' long, y'know that?" He groaned out, leaning forward to bury his face into them.

You whimpered as he pressed wet kisses across the skin, thumb brushing over one of your nipples while his tongue lolled out to lick over the other, sucking it between his lips.

You began grinding down on his thigh again, the feeling so much more intense with just your panties on. You shifted your hips to find the angle that felt best, rubbing yourself down against the hard muscle of his thigh beneath you, solid and perfect, the friction sending sparks up your spine, your breaths coming out in shallow pants.

Each roll of your hips made your breath come a little faster, especially as his mouth pulled off one of your tits to give the other a fair share of attention.

Your nails dug into his shoulders when he nipped at your chest, sucking harshly, catching your sensitive peak between his teeth just to hear you whine. His tongue was hot against your skin, wet and needy.

Katsuki could feel your arousal starting to coat his thigh, soaking through your panties, smearing over his leg with every drag of your hips. Smiling against your chest, he pulled back with a soft pop, looking down at the glistening mess you left behind.

He moved a hand down between your bodies, slightly nudging your hips up with his leg to give him enough space in between to feel you over your panties, the fabric evidently damp as his index and middle finger stopped right above your clothed clit, pressing against it just slightly, enough to pull a shaky sigh from your lips.

"All this from just my thigh?"

There was a smug, slightly demeaning tone to his voice, like he was surprised you were so wet, as if it wasn't his fault. It made you want to throttle him. Or kiss him. Or both.

Your brows furrowed. "Shut up."

He only chuckled, drawing a line down your clothed slit. All slow, agonizing. Self-satsfied at the soft whimper that slips out of you.

"It's a simple fucking question. Haven't even touched you properly yet."

You huffed, mustering your most serious expression to meet his eyes. "God, just quit teasing, Katsuki. You're being mean."

He raised his brows, that smile on his face only widening. "You think this is mean?"

Finally, finally, he hooked his fingers into your panties, pushing them aside. The first touch, skin-on-skin, made you gasp. He dragged his fingers between your folds, coating them in your slick, slow and deliberate, coating them before circling your entrance.

"I can show you mean."

His eyes were locked between your legs, watching his own fingers move. "Look at you," he murmured, almost to himself. “Fucking soaked."

He pushed one finger inside, slow enough that you felt every inch. You whimpered softly, walls fluttering around him.

He groaned softly, watching your face contort, feeling himself get even harder in his shorts.

"Tight," he breathed. "Gonna add another. That okay?"

You nodded frantically, beyond words.

The second finger stretched you more, made you bite down on your lip to keep from moaning too loud. He worked them deeper, curling them slightly. Your chest heaved at the intrusion you fought to not cry out, your nails digging into his shoulder as he hit just the right spot.

"There?" His voice was rough, satisfied. "That the spot?"

You couldn't respond, forehead falling into the crook of his neck, clinging to him as he curled his fingers again, rubbing that soft patch inside you with devastating precision.

Once he found it, he didn't stop, pumping his fingers in and out, hitting it with precision each time.

You grinded down into his hand, feeling the heel of his palm press up against your clit. You chase the feeling, shameless. Lost in the sensation, the overwhelming feeling of him all around you.

You mumbled into the skin of his neck incoherently about how you were: "Almost… 'm gonna…"

You could hear his voice right by your ear. Hoarse, determined.

“Yeah?” his efforts nearly doubled. “Close?”

You could only nod, coherent thoughts gone from your mind, only a desperate haze of want.

"Yeah. Yes. Please, please more…"

He kept at it, silently savoring your desperate sounds.

You wrapped your arms tight around his neck, moans muffled into his skin as the tightly wound up knot came undone. Your breaths getting heavy in your lungs, head getting fuzzy, eyes fluttering shut, nails having left angry red lines down the skin of his upper back.

He ran a hand up and down your back as you collapsed against him, coming down from the high. He let you rest against him, breathing from a moment before pulling you back with a small kiss to the side of your head.

"Look at me."

It didn't sound like a request.

"Hm?"

You watched with hazy eyes as he slowly pulled his fingers out of you, the loss making you whimper. They glistened under the harsh light of the clinic, coated with the evidence of what he'd just done to you.

He held your gaze as he brought them to his mouth. His tongue darted out first, licking a long strip up the slick-covered fingers. Then, he took them fully into his mouth, sucking them clean, eyes never once leaving yours.

Your breath caught in your throat. Heat flooded through you again, despite having just come. Tasting you off his own fingers like you were the best thing he'd ever had— it was almost too much.

When he finally pulled his fingers from his mouth with a soft pop, he smirked at your expression.

"Tastes good," he said simply, like commenting on the weather.

You clenched around nothing, already missing him inside you, feeling spent but somehow needing more.

"You're shameless."

"Last I checked, I wasn't the one humping your thigh."

Your face burned, a small, angry sort of pout settling on your lips.

He snickered, hand sliding up to your waist, giving it a small squeeze. "Little too late to get all embarassed. Shit was hot."

"Uh huh…" You gave him a look, "Um. Thanks, by the way... that was—" You trailed off, not knowing how to express what you feel just the right way. "Good. It was good."

Katsuki snorted. "Just good?" you rolled your eyes, but leaned into his teasing with sweetness, something he didn't quite expect.

"Much better than good."

He searched your eyes for a beat, a hand coming up to brush back some of your hair. Then he pecked your lips— soft, almost sweet — before tugging your shirt back down carefully.

That was when you slowly realized, he was wrapping this up. But… he didn't cum?

He didn't cum.

"Hey, wait you didn't—"

He knew what you were talking about, the strained bulge in his shorts was nothing short of obvious.

"Does it look like I care."

His dismissal of his own need threw you off.

"Katsuki, that's not fair. I can't just—"

"Sure you can. You just did."

You turned his head towards you, pulling him into a soft kiss, parting his lips with yours, trying to not get lost in tasting yourself on his tongue. Gently trying to urge him to let you have him the way he had you.

You try to convince him, urge him to let you return the favor, do something.

You ran your hand over the bulge in his shorts, traced it gently, wanting. He groaned against your mouth, the sound strained in the back of his throat, like he was holding himself back. "C'mon, Katsuki," you palmed him over his shorts, wanting to hear more. "Let me? Please?"

He looked like he could give in, his jaw tense, eyes screwing shut as your finger hooked into the waistband of his shorts, drawing out a breathy sigh. You froze when the intercom crackled above you.

"The gym will be closing in ten minutes. Please begin wrapping up your sessions and make your way to the exit. Thank you."

You blinked. Fuck.

"…I can be quick?"

That was a lie. Ten minutes wasn't nearly enough time to do what you wanted to.

He waved you off with a snort, tugging your hand away from his throbbing cock, taking it upon himself to adjust the hem of your shirt with more care than you thought possible from someone like him.

"Relax." He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes. "Shit’s not a big deal. Can take care of it in the shower."

The mental image of him standing under the shower, hand wrapped around his cock, thinking about this — you — made something low in your stomach tighten.

You must have made a face, because he huffed out a laugh.

"But if you want to make it up so bad," He leaned in closer, nose brushing yours. The soft curve of his lashes was so much more apparent this close. He pressed a final, lingering kiss, grinning softly as he spoke. His voice low against your lips, promising. "We'll go for round 2."

may blabs: baby's first smut dont throw tomatoes at me.. ok btw if u ever genuinely have a bloody nose do NOT tilt your head back. that blood will go down your throat and if it gets into ur stomach u could throw up and that is not good so do NOT do that ✌️✌️

big special thank u to the mutuals ( @updownandbatty & & @cupidkats & @hushedlotus ) AND irls i bothered w this fic… u are goated ❤️‍🩹

again, art in the header is not mine, credits to the artist !!!

taglist: @nanakamii 𓂃˖ ࣪⊹ :

There are a few reasons why it’s a fabulous time of year, in his humble opinion. For one, he fights best in the heat, making this his peak season for pro work. For another, your students are on break, which means so are you, which means Katsuki can finally take you on the long-awaited trip he’s been promising. Most importantly, though, summer is your favorite season, and that’s enough reason for him to like it with you. 

Then a shriek cuts through the room, pulling him from his thoughts before he can even sit up and properly rub the sleep from his eyes.

“Kats!” you cry, voice pitched high with panic. “There’s a spider on the sink! Wake up!”

“God dammit, woman,” he grumbles, shaking his head as he rises from bed and pads over to where you are. “You teach kids how to be heroes for a living, and something as dumb as a spider gets you all fucked up?”

“Don’t start,” you hiss. “Just get the thing out of here, I don’t—oh my god! Katsuki, it’s moving! Hurry!”

He sighs, gently nudging you out of the way before grabbing a napkin and scooping up the (very) small arachnid. He tosses it into the trash as you let out a sigh of relief.

“There,” he grumbles. “Quit squealing now.”

“Thanks, baby,” you beam, turning to wrap your arms around his neck. You press a kiss to his lips, and he happily returns it. “Morning.”

“Morning,” he mumbles, pulling you against his chest. “Shower yet?”

“No, I’ll probably take one later—”

“Perfect. You can join me,” he says with a satisfied grin.

You give him a flat look. “I just did my skincare for the morning. I’m not washing it all away—”

“Let’s get this off’a you,” he says, promptly deciding to ignore you as he lifts your shirt over your head. You sigh in defeat (though you never really put up a fight anyway), groaning as your shirt goes flying, followed by your bra, and he can’t help the smirk of victory that spreads across his face.

“You’re super annoying,” you tell him seriously. 

“Yeah, yeah,” he snorts. “And you’re a fuckin’ idiot. Wanna exchange some more facts while we’re at it?”

It’s summer. Katsuki enjoys summer. He likes the warm weather, the extra time you have on your hands, and the way the two of you can spend a few days somewhere nice and far away from everything. You don’t bring along papers to grade. He doesn’t check his emails during the rare paid time off he’s taken. His paychecks finally come in handy for a nice, well-accommodating hotel room. No one interrupts when he wants you to himself.

There’s no reason not to love summer. Katsuki looks forward to it every year. He fights long, bothersome fights with villains and delinquents out there through the cold winters and tells himself that if he works hard now, he’ll enjoy the fruits of his labor when the warm weather rolls around. It’s the only thing that gets him through long days at the agency, or the stupid interviews and social bullshit that his publicist forces him through. 

All of it endured for this. This singular, peaceful week and a half with you by his side, enjoying his life without any other nonsense for once.

Katsuki likes summer—and he’s gonna like it a hell of a lot more when he puts a shiny ring on your finger when you say yes to being his wife in just a little bit.

“Here,” you hand him your body wash, “if you’re going to waste my freshly applied skincare, you better make it worth my while. You do the work.”

“Not a problem—anything for my lazy fuckin’ sunshine. You deserve to be pampered,” he agrees smoothly, chuckling when you throw your loofa at his chest. 

“Lazy?”

“S’what I said,” he hums easily. “Glad to know your ears still work.”

“You take that back, you asshole—mmph!”

He cuts you off with a kiss. It’s a good fucking kiss, he thinks. Warm water is cascading down his back, you’re in his arms and pressed against his chest, your arms are looping around his neck, there’s a scenic ocean view from the small one-way window next to both of you, and your nails do that thing that he loves with the hair at the nape of his neck. This is all that he wants. 

Katsuki can get used to a life like this—in fact, he already is used to a life like this. Ever since you moved in with him two years, three months, and twelve days ago (not that he’s been counting), he’s spent every morning waking up and moving through his routine with you woven into it. 

You in his bathroom, your toothbrush tucked beside his. You at his table while he slides breakfast onto your plate. You in his kitchen, wearing your stupid little apron while you cook as he comes home roughed up after patrol. You on his couch after dinner, legs tucked beneath you as you grade assignments. You in his bed, dragging the blanket he kicked off right back over the two of you while you shiver and complain.

Katsuki is used to this life. He fucking loves it, even. He wants it for the rest of his days. He wants you tangled up in his space, threading yourself through every corner of his existence, and he wants the comfort of knowing the next day will look the same.

So he’s going to marry you. He’s got it all figured out.

Raccoon Eyes helped him pick the ring—it’s exactly what you’d want, according to her. Apparently, she has access to the Pinterest board you’ve had for years. Ponytail Girl took you to get your nails done—something pretty and dainty and perfect for the photos. He was strictly warned not to propose unless your cuticles were in flawless condition. Pink Cheeks dragged you out to pick up a few new outfits, as if you didn’t already have enough clothes. Still, if Katsuki gets to see you in something new, he’s not about to complain. Flat-Face and Shitty-Hair even looked over his speech.

Well. It’s as close to a speech as he’s going to get. Katsuki doesn’t do stupid, sappy bullshit the way people insist he should. It wouldn’t be him. He’s going to tell you what matters off the top of his head—the things he’d never forget. He’s going to tell you that he loves you, and he’s not going to stop. That he’s going to take care of you no matter what. That you’re the only person on this planet who doesn’t drive him up a wall. That you’re worth keeping, worth never letting go of, so you better get used to it and just marry him already.

But since Kirishima insists that Katsuki at least go over the main points first, he sends the idiot a few bulleted outlines just to get him off his back.

More people than Katsuki would prefer already know that this is going to happen. It was supposed to be just Kirishima and Mina, and that was it. Kirishima simply because—well, the annoying bastard is decent enough at advice when it comes to this kind of thing, so Katsuki allows it. Mina simply because he needed someone to approve the ring, and he sure as hell wasn’t going shopping with his hag of a mother.

But the pink-haired fucking gossip ends up running her mouth, and suddenly, everyone comes to him with an opinion of their own.

She’ll be mortified if you let her get engaged with bare nails! 

You can’t let her repeat an outfit for the pictures. They have to be special!

Kirishima says you’re gonna wing your proposal??? C’mon, man, you have to plan what you’re going to say, you gotta make this good!

Katsuki has put a lot into these plans. Took you to that resort across the globe you’ve always wanted to visit, planned out your nails and outfit to match so that the pictures come out flawless, practiced the stupid speech that he didn’t need with Kirishima and Sero against his will, and he’s going to make this proposal good. Better than good. The greatest. Because that’s what he does—he does things the best, and it’s going to stay that way because that’s what you deserve. 

The fucking best that he’s got. 

“Baby,” you pull away from his lips, holding a hand to stop him when he leans back in for more. He grumbles when you do, displeased, and you laugh as you murmur, “As much as I would love to shower with you forever, we have places to be.”

“Yeah, and we got all day to be places,” he insists, hands wandering past your bare hips, grabbing a handful of your ass, and squeezing. 

“You said we’d explore,” you whine, “and I wanna do it before all the other people get there and busy everything up!”

“I’ll shove ‘em out the way,” he offers, grinning when you giggle. 

“Maybe some other time,” you snort, “maybe when you’re not in Japan’s top ten hero rankings and always land on the news. Then, maybe, I’ll entertain that lovely idea of yours.”

“Never let me have any fun,” he complains playfully, grinning as he leans back in to kiss you again. You kiss him back, and fuck—Katsuki wants to be here forever. He never wants summer to end, and he wants this for the rest of his damn days. 

He almost wonders if retiring this young is a plausible option for him when you slip your tongue into his mouth and run it against his. 

His cock is half hard already—he can feel the way it presses against you, and you move your thigh, bringing it up to rub against him and make him groan. He rolls his hips for a moment, grinding against your skin as he grows to full hardness. He doesn’t have to touch you to know that you’re dripping between your legs, not because of the shower but because of him. And he takes a little bit of pride in that. In knowing that just him and his lips on yours is enough to turn you into a pliant, needy mess in his arms. 

“Katsuki,” you try to warn. 

“Jus’ let me have my fun,” he smirks, “you know you want it. We have time.”

—————

The shower takes a bit longer than expected. But not too long—you and Katsuki are still on schedule for the day he’s planned, so he’s not worried. 

You’re still in the bathroom getting ready when Katsuki is getting dressed. He grins to himself at the thought of you doing your makeup and dolling yourself up just for him. He’s going to kiss you senseless with that lip gloss of yours smeared all over his mouth once you let him slide the ring he picked onto your finger.

He reaches into the pocket of the last pair of pants he wore to grab the small box that currently holds the most valuable thing he owns. His old hag of a mother nagged him not to keep it on him like that—that he’d lose it, or accidentally expose it, or absentmindedly throw it through the wash. He doesn’t listen, of course. Mainly because he never listens to the hag, but also because he refuses to keep that ring anywhere but within reach of his own two hands. He needs to know it’s there at all times or he’ll lose his damn mind.

So, like he always does, he grabs yesterday’s pants and reaches into the right pocket, ready to move the familiar velvet box into the pocket of the pair he’s wearing now.

Except when he reaches in, the pocket is empty. He stills. His pocket is fucking empty. 

No, it isn’t, he thinks, trying to keep a level head—it’s in there. Of course, it is. There’s nowhere else it’ll be, so he just needs to check again. His fingers sweep through the pocket again, slower this time, then harder, pressing into the seams as if the box might be tucked into some hidden corner of fabric. Some secret pocket within his pocket that was always there, and he just never noticed. 

Nothing. Absolutely nothing. 

Katsuki curses under his breath and checks the left pocket. Then the back pockets. Then he turns every single pocket he’s got inside out. Then he gives the pants a sharp, thorough shake like his life depends on it.

Nothing. Still absolutely fucking nothing.

From the bathroom, you’re still humming softly to yourself, the faucet running for a moment before clicking off. Your makeup bag zips open, then shut. You’re completely, blissfully unaware of his growing dilemma. 

His pulse spikes so hard it feels like there’s an explosion behind his ribs.

No. No, no, no. He had it. He confidently knows he had it. Last night, before bed, he checked for it—just like he always checks for it. He remembers the shape of the box against his palm. Remembers putting the pants over the chair. Did he take it out? No. He wouldn’t do that. Would he? Did he? He can’t think straight, his mind a busy swarm of worst-case scenarios and nightmare possibilities. 

“Babe?” you call through the bathroom door. “Is my lip gloss in my purse? Can you check? I don’t think it’s in my bag.”

Shit. The last thing he needs right now is you coming out while he searches for this fucking ring that he knows he had in this room as of last night before bed. Where the hell could it have gone within the few hours he slept? It’s a ring. Sure, weird and unnatural things happen—he causes explosions at will with his palms, for crying out loud, but it’s a damn ring. Weird and unnatural enough things do not happen that his ring could have grown legs and run off. 

“No!” The answer comes out far too loud. He cringes when he hears his own voice and clears his throat. “No, baby, s’not here. Keep lookin’.”

Silence for a beat. Then, “Um...okay?”

Katsuki drops to the floor and looks under the bed. Nothing but dust and an old pair of slippers from previous guests. He checks beneath the chair, under the dresser, behind the nightstand. He yanks the sheets half off the mattress, searching for the familiar sight of velvet that he knows deep in his heart is not going to be there, lying between wrinkled sheets.

But he checks anyway, and sure enough, nothing. His breathing turns shallow.

“Babe, I found my lip gloss,” you call, “right under my nose, too. It was in the bag that I was looking. I think I’m going crazy.”

“That’s good, baby,” he says, not paying proper attention, “you wear that gloss.”

If only he could find what he’s looking for, too—he really will go crazy if he doesn’t. 

Maybe it fell in the suitcase. That has to be it—right? He lunges for the luggage, unzipping it so fast that the zipper almost rips right off from his force. Clothes get flung over his shoulder in frantic handfuls—shirts, pants, socks, boxers, toiletries, charger cords. Still no box. From the bathroom comes the pop of a makeup compact closing. You’re still humming, still taking your sweet time as you get ready, and he really hopes that you’ll take a long fucking time today. He’ll never, ever complain about you taking long ever again if you just take as much time as you need today, of all days, when he needs you to, for once. He needs you to continue having no clue that the single most important object in his life has apparently vanished into thin air.

Katsuki straightens, hands flying to his chest as he tries to force air into his lungs. 

Think, moron, he says to himself in his head. He had it yesterday. He fucking knows he had it yesterday. He paid for lunch and felt it in his pocket after. He felt for it in the elevator on your way back to your room. He felt for it before bed. He always checks every chance he gets.

So it has to be here. It has to be.

It has to be, because if he somehow lost the ring meant for you—the same ring he spent months choosing, the same ring he’s supposed to slide onto your finger today—he might actually tear this entire hotel room apart with his bare hands, floor by floor, room by room, until he finds what’s his.

“Katsuki?” you call again, a little concerned this time as you hear him rummage around. “You okay out there?”

He stares at the disaster zone already forming around him, jaw clenched so tight it aches.

“Fine, sweetheart,” he forces out. “Just couldn’t find my watch, s’all.” Then he drops to his knees and starts searching the floor all over again.

“Lost something too, huh? Feels like everything’s going missing today,” you laugh from the bathroom. 

No kidding, he almost says. And then, because apparently the universe needs to hate him more than it already does, the bathroom door clicks open.

Katsuki’s head snaps up so fast he nearly gives himself whiplash.

You step out looking beautiful—you are so, so painfully beautiful. You and your pretty new outfit with those pretty little nails and those pretty lips that are glossy exactly the way he’d imagined they’d be when he’d get to kiss them. You look so perfect, so ready to be asked to be his wife—and yet, here he is. No ring, and his plans all but turned upside down.

Your gaze drifts over the room he’s practically destroyed, glancing at the overturned suitcase, the sheets half-hanging off the bed, the clothes strewn across the mattress, the pockets of his pants from last night inside out, the drawers wide open, and Katsuki crouched on the floor near the nightstand with his expression looking like he is one second away from going unconscious.

You blink once. Then twice. Then you walk over to him.

“Oh no,” you say, frowning, “you still didn’t find your watch?”

He rises to his feet so quickly that it almost makes his head spin. “Nah. Got it.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yup. Nothing to worry about.”

Your eyes narrow in suspicion. “Then why were you on the floor?”

“I was stretching.”

“Katsuki.”

“Just warmin’ up and getting my blood flowing—what’s so weird about that?”

“Warming up for what, exactly?”

“For the day,” he says, giving you his best face that says, isn’t it obvious? Like you asked a stupid question, and you’re the one who’s being weird. 

You stare at him for a long, silent moment, then glance down at his empty wrist that most definitely doesn’t have the watch he claims to have found. He wants to kick himself—you’re seeing right through his frantic lie. 

“Okay…” you say slowly, “so then why aren’t you wearing your watch if you found it, Katsuki?”

His eye twitches, and his jaw grits, and he just really wants to go home if he’s being honest. Summer is over. It’s ruined. There’s no going back from this, so he might as well just give up for now. He’ll try again next year—he’ll be more prepared and listen to his old hag of a mother for once and swallow his pride to admit she was right. All he wants to do is just go home and sleep for a week and forget this whole thing ever happened. 

“You sure are askin' a lotta questions this morning,” he says tightly.

You take a few slow steps toward him, studying his face. He knows he looks awful—that you’ll see right through him and his cracking composure. His jaw is tight. There’s a faint sheen of sweat at his temples. His breathing is just slightly off. He’s avoiding looking directly at you, which alone is enough to tell you something is deeply wrong. And you know him better than anyone. Usually, he’s grateful for it—but sometimes, at times like this, he couldn’t hate it more. 

You see right through him. 

“Katsuki.” Your voice softens. “What happened?”

“Nothing fucking happened. Who said anything happened?”

“Something definitely happened.”

“Nothing happened,” he repeats, firmer this time. “I’m fine. Room’s gonna be fine—room service’ll clean it. Everything’s fine. We’re leavin’ in five.”

“Don’t lie to me,” you argue, giving him a rather defiant look. He knows that look—that look that’s as stubborn as he is himself. You’re not going to drop this. 

“I’m not lying—”

“You are. Bakugou Katsuki, don’t take me for a fool, you hear? I’m not an idiot, so just tell me what’s going on, or I’m not leaving this hotel room.”

He rubs a hand down his face and turns away from you before you can see the panic written all over him. The despair. The heartbreak, truly—he’s absolutely devastated. If he leaves this vacation without the certainty that you’re going to be his wife, he thinks he might not even live long enough to make it to next summer so that he can try again. He’ll die of heart failure before then.

And it has to be summer. He refuses to go back home and squeeze some proposal into a random weekend just for the hell of it. It has to be perfect. It has to be meticulously planned. It has to be your favorite season, with the best plans and flawless execution. It has to be everything you deserve and more. It has to happen when the two of you can actually celebrate it together—not spend one night happy only to be thrown right back into your whirlwind lives the next morning with patrol this and extra lessons that.

And he was so close—so fucking close to making it happen. 

You’re here, you’re dressed, you’re absolutely perfect, and you’re ready to go. But he doesn’t have the ring. How could he be so useless that he couldn’t even keep a single ring safe? 

This is the most helpless he’s ever felt—the moment he’s been planning for months is slipping right through his fingers like sand. The reservation he made. The beach spot he picked out. The speech he definitely did not need and definitely did not rehearse in the shower like a fucking loser. Every part of today has been planned down to the second, and now he can’t even follow his perfect plan because he doesn’t have the one thing that matters.

You know him well, and just like he figured you would, you’ve pieced together that something is seriously wrong as you move closer, voice gentler now. “Hey. Kats, look at me.”

He doesn’t turn, doesn’t say anything. Your hand grabs his and tugs him towards you as you hug him from behind, rubbing up and down his abdomen in that soothing way that you always do. He melts against his will. 

“Katsuki. Baby.”

He slumps back and sighs.“What?”

“You’re scaring me a little.”

That makes him deflate even more. “Don’t be scared. S’nothing to worry over.”

“Well, I always worry over you, and I especially worry when you leave our hotel room a disaster scene,” you poke his belly. 

He still says nothing.

Your voice softens impossibly more. “Baby...just tell me what’s wrong. We can figure it out together—I’ll buy you a new watch if that’s what you’re sad over. It’s a watch! I know you liked it, but hey—material possessions are temporary, okay?”

“S’not the watch,” he mumbles.

“Then what is it? Tell me.”

For a fleeting second, he almost does. He almost tells you and just gets it off his chest, almost blurts the whole thing out, almost says: I lost your ring. I lost the ring I was gonna propose with, and I ruined everything. You’d know what to do. You’d make it better. You’d fix it like you always do. But he doesn’t want you to fix it—he wants to make things good for you, for once. You’re always fixing his fucking mistakes. Always dealing with his disasters and dealing with his nonsense. Katsuki knows he’s not easy to deal with. He knows you’re a saint for putting up with him. So he sighs, ready to swallow down the words, tell you everything is fine, and make sure you have a good time tonight—and for the rest of this trip, too, for that matter. 

“S’nothing, okay? C’mon, we have a good time ahead of us—I’m one hell of a planner, baby,” he says as he turns, pulls you into his arms, throws on his best smug grin, and kisses your forehead. 

—————

Katsuki is lying to you. 

You know that he is. When you come out of the bathroom and see your hotel room an absolute mess, you know something weird is up. Katsuki hates messes—hates when something is out of place for longer than five minutes. He grumbles about your stray hoodies thrown about the apartment and the way you have so many pillows on the bed just to toss them to the floor when you get ready to sleep. He huffs when you don’t clean as you cook and save everything for the end, messing up the kitchen to make one meal. He gives you a flat look when you have empty coffee cups in the cup holders of your car and throws them all away himself with an exasperated shake of his head. 

Katsuki hates messes. He’s not messing up your room, then leaving it a mess without cleaning up unless something’s wrong. Seriously wrong.

But he won’t tell you. You know he won’t tell you until he decides that he can, and sometimes, he might even decide that it will never happen. Getting Katsuki to tell you anything before he decides to is like pulling teeth—except you’ve never met such a stubborn fucking tooth that won’t budge. 

When he tells you, S’nothing, okay?, and turns around to give you a kiss on your forehead as if that will just make you forget, you’re mildly insulted. But he’s on vacation, too—he’s on the rare time off that he lets himself take once a year for a week and a half at most, and you want it to be good for him. Need it to be good for him. You need him to have a good time and enjoy himself because summer, with you, is the one time he lets himself be selfish and do what he wants. He ignores phone calls and emails, and he even sleeps in after staying up late. 

You know he’s lying, but you decide if that will keep him happy, if just for a week and a half, then you’ll let him lie and hide the truth and forget about whatever it is that’s got him so panicked. 

“You’re sure it’s nothing?” You kiss his jaw. 

He relaxes, shoulders slumping as you drop it. “Yeah, I’m sure. Now let’s go. You look hot, by the way—m’gonna rip that skirt right off’a you when we get back.”

“Don’t even think about it,” you huff, “Ochako spent a long time planning this outfit. She’ll be so sad if it doesn’t make it back.”

Ochako has never been so particular about your outfits before—you’ve never shopped with her at such fancy stores, either. She is never one to spend money on excessively expensive things, but for some unknown reason, she’d insisted that your dream vacation spot requires just as dreamy of a wardrobe, and you let her entertain her whims. A part of you wonders if it’s because she’d never dare take herself on such a nice trip or wear such nice clothes even if her paycheck now more than allows it of her, so you let it happen for the sake of allowing your friend to indulge a little, even if it’s not for herself. 

Katsuki huffs out a rather strained chuckle at your comment. “Leave it to Pink Cheeks to ruin my fuckin’ fun,” he grumbles. But he’s distracted. You can tell. “She hangs out with that nerd too much.”

You’re just about to correct him for what feels like the millionth time over the years—their names are Ochaco and Izuku, Katsuki. You’ve known them long enough to get it right by now. 

But then your eyes focus on the floor behind him at something. Your blood runs cold when you squint and get a better look—because if you’re not mistaken, and you’re pretty sure you aren’t, you’re looking directly at a tiny velvet box half-hidden beneath the edge of the dresser.

Your eyes flick from the box to the inside-out pockets on the pants that lay about. To the overturned suitcase. To the half-stripped bed. To the sweat at his temples. To the look in his eyes that feels like the world is ending over something he refuses to tell you about. And then back to the small velvet box peeking out from beneath the dresser. 

You have a sick feeling you know exactly what’s in the box—and suddenly, it all feels so…so obvious. How did you ever miss it? The way Yaomomo insisted on getting your nails done together. How she insisted on picking for you what to get, on matching your nails to hers—oh please, let’s just match this once together! The way Mina seemed so interested in your rings, trying them on as she rummaged through your jewelry and asked, oh my gosh, I think we’re the same size…what’s your ring size? The way Ochako grabbed your hands and stared at your nails as she’d complimented them with such satisfaction before planning your outfit accordingly—you have to have at least one fancy outfit for the trip, don’t you think?

Everything clicks into place so suddenly, it almost leaves you breathless.

The way he’s so panicked. The way he tore your room upside down. The way, even before all of that, he insisted on this trip being so carefully planned. 

Oh—it hits you all at once. Oh. 

Your heart gives one hard, dizzying thud against your chest. Then it starts pounding so loudly, your ears feel like they’re ringing. 

Katsuki is talking, saying something about how you need to grab a jacket and the air will be chilly when the sun sets at the beach, and he’s not going to share his like he always does this time. “Hey,” he huffs, “are you even listening—”

You step around him quietly, paying him no mind. He stops mid-sentence, brows knitting as he watches you crouch near the dresser. Your fingers reach beneath the edge of the wood and come back holding the little velvet box. And just like that, silence drops over the room—his words cut off mid-sentence. 

Katsuki goes completely still.

You straighten slowly, box cradled gently in your palm like something fragile and delicate. Like the wind will blow it away if you’re not careful. Like you can’t bear to lose this one thing you’re holding. His face drains of color as it pales, and his shoulders sag as if someone cut the strings holding him upright.

For the first time since you’ve known Bakugou Katsuki, for the first time in the years and years you’ve loved him and seen him through every lens and angle possible, he looks utterly, completely, spectacularly defeated.

You glance at the room again—at the chaos, the evidence of a frantic search, the proof of how badly he’d been spiraling trying to find this box that he’d been carrying around for you. Then you look back at him. At your Katsuki—your angry, grouchy, gruff Katsuki who loves you so carefully, so delicately, so effortlessly, he teaches you a whole new side of love that you never knew of. 

Your chest aches with fondness, and your eyes feel that familiar sting at the back of them that you try to fight back. 

You take a step closer, voice quiet as you murmur, “Kats...” Another step. One more. He’s stiff, and his jaw is clenched as he keeps his gaze fixed on the box in your hands. You lift the box slightly between you. “Is this what you were looking for?”

His eyes close as he lets out a shaky breath. A rough exhale leaves him through his nose, and you’ve never quite heard him sound so helpless. 

“Yeah,” he mutters hoarsely, rubbing his temple. “I…fuck—yeah, sweetheart. That’d be it.”

You fight back a watery smile. “It was under the dresser.”

“I can see that.”

“I think you were too frazzled and missed it.”

“I’m painfully aware.”

“It’s okay—it happens to the best of us, baby. We all lose things.”

His eyes crack open into a glare, but there’s no real heat behind it. “You wanna keep rubbin’ it in or are you done?”

You can’t help it—you laugh softly, stepping into his personal space and bringing a hand against his chest, rubbing slow circles. His heartbeat is still pounding wildly beneath your palm.

“You were planning to propose?”

He looks away immediately. “No. Who the fuck said that—you see a box and think I’m gonna get on my knees for you? Don’t get so confident—”

“Katsuki.”

“Fuck,” he groans, throwing his head back. “Can’t you just let me have this? Fuck—yes, I was going to propose. Happy? Wanna hear my speech too, just so you’re in the loop?”

“I mean, if you’re offering,” you shrug playfully.

His head slumps forward to your shoulder as he hugs you close. Hugs you tight and close like the proximity is the only thing keeping him together. “Be quiet.”

You turn your head and kiss his temple, letting him stay like that for a few moments before stepping away. Before he can protest as you pull back, you lift his hand and place the small box carefully into it, curling his fingers around it.

“Here,” you murmur. “I found your watch.”

“What the fuck are you saying—”

“Put your watch on and hurry up, we’re already twenty minutes behind schedule, and you said we have lots to do before our dinner reservation.”

You turn on your heel, stepping over the clothes on the floor like they’re not even there. Behind you, there’s a long stretch of silence. Then, “...You cannot be serious.”

You glance at him over your shoulder. He’s still standing where you left him, the velvet box clenched in one hand, staring at you as if you’ve grown two heads.

“What now?” you give him a flat look.

He gives you a look right back. “There’s no point in actin’ like it’s still a surprise, idiot.”

You blink, looking almost convincingly confused. “What are you talking about?”

His eyes narrow as he scoffs. “Don’t start this shit.”

He’s pocketing the ring, though. That dejected look on his face is gone and…and you would almost dare to say he’s fighting back a grin as he walks over to you. You reach for your perfume and spritz your wrists as you hum, “I’m not starting anything. Anyway, do I look okay?”

“Woman, you can’t be real.”

“Katsuki, I’m being very real.” You mimic right back, smiling sweetly at him as you gesture to your outfit. “How do I look?”

He snorts, rolling his eyes. “Beautiful. You fucking know that—you make everyone else look hideous.”

“Maybe we don’t have to put others down when you compliment me,” you scold.

“I’m just telling it like it is,” he snickers, grabbing your wrist and pulling you flush against him as he kisses you. Hard. He kisses you, and kisses you, and kisses you. Your lips on his, your body against him, and your head cradled in his palms. You bring your hands up to bury into his unruly tufts of hair, and in a few hours, there will be a cool, metal band on one of the fingers that so regularly tangles into his hair. 

You can hardly wait.

“You’re wasting time,” you breathe as you pull away, lip gloss smeared against your lips and his, “Now we’re twenty-five minutes behind schedule.”

“Then move it, smartass. We’re burnin’ daylight,” he says, and when he drags you through the doors and takes you outside, when the sun hits his skin and his eyes meet yours, you think about how it’s summer. You like it when it’s summer. 

Summer is when Katsuki is going to ask you to be his wife, and summer is when you will say yes. Summer is when you’re going to spend the rest of your life with Bakugou Katsuki.

Adulthood is a bummer. Everything is so different now—you don’t gossip with Toru every day or giggle with Mina in passing periods. You don’t tease Ochako about her rapidly growing crush or share headphones with Kyoka during lunch. You don’t study with Yaomomo or sit in Tsu’s room and have deep discussions about philosophy. Class 1B isn’t there to rival you and your peers. Mister Aizawa isn’t popping around at the oddest moments in that ridiculous sleeping bag.

And then adulthood is nice. Some things never change—Bakugou is yelling about something in the distance like a maniac, while Midoriya rubs his neck sheepishly. Todoroki says something with that deadpan face of his, and that only seems to set the blonde off even more. You can’t help but huff, rolling your eyes fondly.

Class 1-A is trauma-bonded, and fuck if it’s not one hell of a bond—adulthood claiming your lives and free time or not. You’ll find the time to get together like this at least once a year—with someone as good at planning as Yaomomo and someone as persistent and vocal as Iida, everyone makes it to the Class 1-A routine meet-up.

If only you weren’t so fucking devastated at this meet-up, you could have appreciated it properly. But you are, and there’s nothing to do about it now but suck it up—and hey, there’s always next year, right?

That’s what you tell yourself as you robotically hug each girl goodbye. That’s what you tell yourself as you watch your former classmates—turned occasional colleagues—file out of the bar and head off in different directions, dispersing along all the paths life has dragged them down separately.

You stand there for a good second after everyone leaves—you’re the only one left, you’re sure. Alone. As always, you think with a self-deprecating scoff, you’re alone. Even when you’re surrounded by a room full of people, you’re alone.

You should just get an Uber home. It’s late, you have morning patrol, and it’s getting really fucking cold, the night breeze biting at your skin. But you stand there anyway, stiff and unresponsive, because you are, despite trying to shove it all aside for one night, devastated. And so fucking alone.

“The hell are you still standing out here for?” comes a gruff voice from behind you.

You jolt—and that’s how out of it you are, because who the hell sneaks up on you so easily? You’ve honed your fighting abilities and reflexes better than that. You’ve made sure your skills are good enough that you aren’t crept on so easily. So why didn’t you hear Bakugou coming up behind you? You have no clue.

“Bakugou,” you mumble, “why are you still here?”

“Hah?” He looks at you, mildly irritated. “I asked you first, Stretchy. Answer me before you ask me stupid questions.”

Stretchy. Even after all these years, Bakugou calls everyone by those obnoxious nicknames he comes up with instead of their actual names. You’ve noticed a long time ago that he always goes one of two routes when picking his stupid little names: by physical appearance or by quirk. It just so happens he chose to use the latter for you—ever since the day your body stretches out like elastic in front of him for the first time, you’ve been Stretchy. Have been nothing else. Will probably never be anything else. 

If you weren’t so emotionally downcast, you might’ve rolled your eyes and snapped back: my name is not Stretchy! But you don’t have it in you. So you just mutter, “I’m getting an Uber.”

“So get it, then,” he grumbles. “The hell are you waiting for? It’s the middle of the fucking night.”

You don’t point out that it’s…kind of sweet, in a blunt, Bakugou sort of way, that he’s concerned about your safety. Or that it’s pointless to be, considering you’re a pro hero too—one who patrols in the middle of the night on a regular basis. But anyone who’s shared years with him, classroom and battlefield alike, knows better than to argue with him over meaningless things if they value their eardrums.

“Yeah, whatever,” you mumble, pulling out your phone to call the damn Uber. You should’ve just driven yourself, but you’d been too exhausted—and, frankly, too sad—to deal with the thirty-minute drive. It’s not like you can’t afford to waste the money, anyway.

You tap your screen once. Then twice. Nothing.

Huh.

You press and hold the power button. Still nothing. You’ve got to be fucking kidding, you think.

As if your week couldn’t have gotten any worse.

First, you get ghosted by your almost-but-not-quite boyfriend, who was never really your boyfriend, but that’s not the important part. The important part is that he almost, just almost, was by anyone’s standards. Then, after he gets you fucking attached, you find out he ghosted you for some other girl with way nicer fucking tits and longer legs than yours (no, you did not stalk that girl’s socials, thank you very much. You just happened to stumble onto it and accidentally…tapped the tagged user. That’s all). Then, you miss out on enjoying the one night you look forward to every year because you can’t pull yourself out of this stupid, heavy funk. And now, finally, your phone is dead. Completely dead. No Uber, no ride home, no immediate access to the ice cream in your freezer to have a good, necessary cry.

And Kaminari has already left, so he can’t charge it with his quirk. Great. Fantastic, even.

“You’ve gotta be fuckin’ kidding me.” Bakugou’s voice cuts through your spiral as he glares at you. “Were you here to be social or be on your damn phone all night? How’s that thing already dead, huh?”

“I wasn’t on my phone,” you shoot back, a little more petulant than intended. “I just…forgot to charge it before I got here.”

He stares at you with what can only be pure, hard judgment. “You people are so poorly prepared for everything, it never fails to piss me off.”

Well. If your week couldn’t get any worse, you now have to have Bakugou Katsuki, of all people, call you an Uber and get you home, which means you have to tell him your address. Which means you will, inevitably, lie awake all night wondering if he’s going to look up your apartment and judge it. Not that you think your place is bad, or that Bakugou is even the type to care about that kind of thing—but your brain is not exactly known for being reasonable once it gets going.

At the same time that you say, “I’ll pay you back if you call me an Uber,” he exhales sharply and snaps, “Well, fucking follow me, then.”

You pause.

“What?” you blink.

He’s already started walking off, and your question only seems to irritate him further. “Exactly what the fuck I said. Follow me.”

You do—only because you have to, if you want to ask him again to get you the damn Uber. “Bakugou, I’ll pay you before the Uber even gets here, okay? You don’t have to worry about your money—”

You hear the sharp beep of a car unlocking, and then a sleek, obnoxiously fancy Porsche lights up from the inside. Bakugou yanks the passenger door open and jerks his chin toward it, already glaring.

“Get in. And don’t talk like I can’t afford a fucking Uber—I’m not so desperate for money that I need you coughing it up that fast, you damn loser.”

“You…what?” You just blink at him, stupidly.

Bakugou looks like he’s just about one minor inconvenience away from exploding. He tips his head back with a long, aggravated groan. “God damn it, Stretchy—I’ve got shit to do in the morning, okay? Get. In. Did you hear me that time? For fuck’s sake, your hearing can’t be that bad.”

“…Why?” you ask, somehow even more stupidly.

You can’t help it—this doesn’t feel like a Bakugou thing to do. And it definitely doesn’t feel like a Bakugou thing to be doing for you of all people.

“Can you just fucking get in the car so I can drive you home and call it a night?” he grits out.

His eye is twitching now, just slightly, and you decide you would actually like to make it home tonight, so you decide not to push your luck. You walk over and get into the car without another word. It’s best not to piss him off to the point where he changes his mind on helping you altogether. That would be rough.

The door slams shut behind you almost immediately after you’re in, and Bakugou is in the driver’s seat just as fast. “Put your seatbelt on,” he mutters, reaching for his own.

He says this as you’re in the process of reaching for it, and you sometimes forget just how unnecessarily annoying Bakugou can be. And bossy. Very, very bossy.

“I am,” you mutter back, rolling your eyes.

”Here,” he only grunts in response, handing you a charger, and you wordlessly take it, plugging in your phone.

”Thanks,” you say quietly. “Good thing you were still there, huh?” You give him a sheepish look.

His only form of reply comes as a flat look. You wither under it.

”What were you still doing there while everyone was gone anyway?” You mumble.

”Taking a phone call,” he mutters. And then, because he’s apparently still as petty as he used to be back in the day, he glances at yours and adds, “Because I keep mine charged.”

You all but pout at his pointed statement, huffing as you start to defend yourself. “Okay, well, I never make this mistake usually. I just—”

You cut yourself off when your phone lights up from charging and turning on, catching your attention at the same time it does Bakugou’s. Well—that was pretty fast, at least. You almost wonder if the five percent he’s managed to get you to will be enough to last you on an Uber ride home. That would be better than a long thirty minutes sitting next to the agitated lump of blonde hair next to you, right?

You can’t entertain the idea for even a second longer than you had it, though. Because Bakugou is already muttering under his breath, “Finally,” before looking at you and saying, “now send me your address so I can type it in.”

”You know, if you were this pressed for time I could’ve just typed the address into your GPS myself,” you say dryly.

”Great idea,” he says just as dryly, “next time, maybe I’ll try that when you talk less. Now gimme the address, idiot.”

Well. You give up on your idea of the Uber and you do. And you watch as he slots his phone into the holder on the dash, your message lighting up the screen—Stretchy. That’s your contact name.

Of course it is. (But then again, it’s a miracle Bakugou even saved your contact at all—you’d always assumed he had the class group chat muted.) You fight the urge to roll your eyes again and just slump back into your seat instead, resigning yourself to your fate for the night as he taps on your message and pulls up your address in his GPS.

The engine hums to life, low and smooth, and the car pulls out onto the road. You sink a little deeper into your seat, letting your head fall back for a second before, against your better judgment, your eyes drift over.

Bakugou drives like he does everything else: so absurdly impressively, it’s actually ridiculous. It’s just driving, and yet he makes it look like it’s something only he can do so well—one hand on the wheel while the other rests on the gear shift, relaxed. His posture is easy, shoulders set, gaze sharp on the road ahead. And it’s just one of those attractive things men do for no reason.

It’s…annoying. How natural he looks. How good he looks.

The streetlights flicker over him in passing streaks, catching the sharp line of his jaw, the slight furrow in his brows, the way his eyes narrow just a bit when he switches lanes. Bakugou looks so annoyingly good, and you’re helpless to notice it.

Because that’s just the thing—you’ve always noticed it.

You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t thought he was attractive back in high school. You definitely did. It was hard not to. He was bulky and muscular and tall with a good face—he even wore baggy pants and a tight-fitted shirt for his hero costume. He did all the right things (without meaning to, of course) to be attractive to the average girl.

But his attitude? Well…that’s another matter.

That had killed the attraction before it could ever be anything more than a passing thought. A surface-level thing. Something you’d notice and immediately shove aside because Bakugou Katsuki was not someone you entertained a crush on unless you were actively trying to make your own life harder. And you definitely didn’t need that, so you never put much thought into it.

And yet, now, years later, watching him drive like this, you’re painfully aware that it’s…still there. That lingering attraction that you undeniably have for him. Persistently so.

You tear your gaze away before you can get caught staring. What the hell is wrong with you? It’s just Bakugou. You’ve known him for over a decade, and you’ve never been affected by him like this, and you won’t start now. Your broken heart and devastating loneliness are getting to you. That’s all.

The silence stretches—not uncomfortable, exactly, and you’re sure Bakugou would prefer it this way, if anything. But still, you feel like it’s too stiff for you to handle, so you do what you’re best at. Awkwardly making small talk to fill in the awkward silence, even if it’ll annoy him.

(If anything, you hope it will.)

You clear your throat. “So.”

He doesn’t look at you. “So?”

“…Busy lately?” you try, immediately regretting it. God, that was lame.

He huffs quietly through his nose. “Yeah. Work doesn’t exactly stop for heroes.”

“Right,” you nod, even though he isn’t looking. “Same.”

Another beat of silence. You glance at him again, just for a second, and immediately regret it when you notice the way his hand shifts slightly on the wheel, forearm flexing.

Holy fuck.

“Your new agency’s…uh. Doing well?” you ask, grasping at anything that sounds remotely normal. Remotely interesting. Bakugou would love talking about himself—right?

“Tch. Obviously,” he mutters. “We’re not half-assing shit over there.”

“Yeah, I figured,” you say quickly. “I’ve heard good things.”

He shoots you a brief sideways glance, like he hardly believes it. “From who?”

“People,” you shrug, already cringing. “Around.”

“Hn,” he grunts. He looks back at the road. “Well, they’re right. I’m gonna be the best agency soon, too—you’d do well to remember that.”

You press your lips together, trying not to smile. God, he’s insufferable. You hum, letting your head rest back. “Kaminari said you’ve been working yourself to death without some sidekicks.”

“Dunno why you’re listening to that idiot,” Bakugou scoffs. He looks a little sulky at the mention of having no sidekicks—like it’s a sore topic. (You’re not surprised in the slightest when Kaminari tells you that no sidekick stays for long after getting a taste of Bakugou’s abrasiveness.) “Dunce-face talks too much.”

“He said you don’t take breaks.”

“I don’t need breaks.”

You snort softly. “Yeah, okay.”

That earns you another glance, longer this time, but the sulkiness is gone, and there’s something almost amused sitting underneath it. Barely there, but it’s there. “Worry about yourself,” he says, turning back to the road. “You’re the one who looks like shit tonight.”

You blink, then scoff. “Wow. Thanks.”

“You know what I mean,” he mutters.

Yeah. You do. You’re sure you looked miserable and stiff as a board all night. No way the girls didn’t notice, but they know you well enough to know you’ll come to them on your own time—and you will. When the time is right, you’re sure you’ll vent away about men and their shittiness and their lack of communication and commitment when you’re feeling up to it.

For now, though, you’ll just sit here and be driven home by Bakugou Katsuki, who seems to know something is up, yet does not comment on it as he does a surprisingly nice thing for you. And for some unknown reason, that makes something in your chest feel just a little less heavy.

The rest of the car ride goes rather smoothly, and you pull up to your apartment in what feels like a surprisingly fast amount of time. Time…doesn’t seem to drag on with Bakugou, even when it’s silent. Of course, he’d actually entertained your small talk when you tried here and there, but you find that there’s almost…comfort in Bakugou’s silence.

He parks in front of the building. And then, he surprises you as he says bluntly, “You've been actin’ weird all night. What’s with you?”

You stiffen, jaw tightening. “Nothing, I don’t know what you’re—”

“That’s bullshit. I’m not fucking stupid,” he cuts in, flat.

“Well, why’s it your business?” you snap, sharper than you mean to.

Bakugou shrugs, like it really doesn’t matter either way. “It’s not. But I drove thirty minutes in the opposite direction for your dumbass, so I’m curious why.”

You huff, looking away toward your apartment building, arms crossing tighter over yourself. “It’s nothing. Just…a shitty week.”

“Tch.” He leans back slightly, still watching you. “Shitty how?”

“Just stuff,” you mutter. “It’s not a big deal.”

He clicks his tongue, clearly not buying it. “Liar.”

You shoot him a look. “Excuse me?”

If there’s one thing that Bakugou is that people tend not to give him credit for, it’s that he’s perceptive. Observant. They make the mistake of thinking that he always rushes right in, charges head-on without an ounce of a plan or a single thought in his brain other than brute forcing his way out of everything. But that’s farther from the truth than anyone would assume. Bakugou is so smart, it just adds to the list of reasons why he’s infuriating.

He’s smart, and he notices things, and he always has a pretty fucking good idea of what he’s talking about.

So when he says, “You’ve been off all night. Quiet—and not your usual type of quiet,” you look at him funny. You never assumed he’d have a good idea of what he’s talking about when it pertains to you.

“Wow. Since when do you know me so well?”

“I know all of you freaks—have to if I’m gonna beat you all and be number one,” he shoots back immediately. Then, after a moment, “You still seein’ that guy Dunce-face was talking about?”

You still. Just for a second. How did…how did he know that’s what was wrong? (And why is Kaminari airing your business out like that? From now on, you’re going to stick to the girls, and that’s it—Kaminari has lost his gossip privileges.) And of course, Bakugou catches the way you stiffen almost immediately, so he catches on that he was right. “Hah. Knew it,” he mutters. “Sparky says the guy’s lame as shit.”

“It’s not—” you start, then exhale sharply. “It’s nothing.”

“That means you’re not seein’ him anymore, I take it,” he says. “So was he a jerk?”

You groan, dropping your head back against the seat. “Can you not?”

“No,” he says, without hesitation. “You’re sitting here acting like shit over some guy?”

“I’m not acting like shit,” you snap, even though you know you are. “And he’s not just some guy, either.”

“You are acting like shit,” he says flatly. “What, you love him or something?”

“No,” you sputter, “we didn’t even know each other like that for it to be love.”

“So then what’s the big deal?”

You look away again, jaw tight. “I don’t know! It’s like…it’s just…” You trail off and sigh. “It’s stupid.”

“Yeah,” Bakugou shrugs. “Probably.”

Your head snaps back toward him in disbelief. (At least now you know there is at least one thing he’s not good at—he can’t comfort people for shit.) “Wow. Thanks, asshole.”

“But you’re clearly stuck on it,” he continues, unfazed. “So it’s not stupid to you. Are you gonna be fine, or are you gonna go up there and spiral all night?”

“Still don’t see how it’s your business,” you grumble.

It’s only silent for a moment before Bakugou grabs his keys and turns the ignition off on his (very fancy) car. His door opens and closes, and before you can even get an idea of what’s happening, he pulls your door open and gestures for you to get out.

“Let’s go,” he says.

“W-what?” you stutter.

“I said, let’s go,” he rolls his eyes, “We’re goin’ up to your place, and you’re gonna give me a bottle of water and somethin’ to snack on. Least you can do for making me drive all this way.”

It’s his way of keeping you company for a bit longer. This much, you know.

Bakugou is a complicated guy. He’s mean and rude and crass and loads of other unpleasant things that people could use to describe him in order to convey that he’s…not easy to get along with. Not even a little. 

But he’s a good person at heart. It’s undeniable. People are always safe around Bakugou, even if it costs him his life (though really, it hardly ever does because he’s just that good), and even if it takes every ounce of his blood, sweat, and tears. He does it because it’s in his nature to do so—ingrained in him since the day his quirk was manifested. He’s the best at winning against bad things, and it helps people—imperfectly, sure, and not always in a very heartfelt manner, but as sincerely as it comes.

If he decides to come up and spend time with you for a bit to keep your mind off of your broken heart, it’s not because he pities you or feels this self-righteous sense of justice. He never does what he doesn’t want to do. So he wants to do this—and it’s because in his own, weirdly unexpected way, he cares. 

Perhaps it’s not entirely unexpected, though, you suppose—after all, Class 1-A is trauma-bonded for life. All of you. 

—

When you let him into your apartment, he takes a quick glance around. Lingers over the small trinkets and items you keep as decor, and then marches his way over to the kitchen as he mumbles, “What sorta snacks you got?”

You pull out one of the bags of red, hot, spicy chips from the convenience store that you keep stashed away—they can’t be good for you, but you figure you only live once—and hand them to him. He perks up minimally. 

Bakugou likes spicy things. It’s one of the first things you ever learned about him, actually about him as a person and not just him pertaining to the nature of the hero course, and for some reason, it’s a detail you seem to remember. 

He grabs the bag and slinks off to your couch while you grab your long-awaited ice cream and slump onto the opposite end of it right after, which isn’t too far, considering your couch is not that large. His feet are thrown over your coffee table, and you don’t care enough to bother with scolding him about how ill-mannered it is. 

“So,” he grunts, popping a chip into his mouth. “Why the pity party? He dump you or somethin’?”

“We weren’t together,” you mutter, digging your spoon roughly into your frozen treat. You’re long past the point of wondering if it’s a wise idea to tell Bakugou all your woes—he’s already here, so you figure, why the hell not? “I don’t think it qualifies as a dump.”

“Ah,” he huffs, chewing as he seems to get whatever clarity he was searching for. “So he ran off before things got official, and now you’re sulkin’.”

“I’m not sulking,” you click your teeth—all of which is said through a rather sulky tone, so he only snorts and raises an eyebrow at you. You just respond by glumly taking a spoonful of your ice cream as you add, “And it’s not even like I fell for him that hard, okay? It’s just…the principle of things—he shouldn’t have strung me along like that, and he could’ve just told me instead of disappointing me when things seemed to be going great. And, he definitely never implied that he was seeing other people, so it’s particularly low of him to do all that just so he could see another girl who is clearly so opposite of me, so I’m not even sure I was his type, rather than an easy situationship. Except I didn’t give him what he wanted easily, so I bet that’s why he lost interest so suddenly when he realized he wasn’t going to get what he—”

“Holy fuck,” Bakugou groans, “you sound like the damn nerd with all that mumbling. Okay, so some guy wanted to get in your pants, you didn’t let him, and he got bored. Big deal—just means you picked a fucking loser. So don’t do that next time.”

He says it like it’s so simple. It’s never that simple. Men are so naive. 

“Thanks for the stellar advice,” you say sarcastically, shooting him a flat look.

He only smirks, shrugging as he hums, “Yeah, don’t mention it. Don’t get used to it though—I’m not a fuckin’ therapist who solves your shit for you.”

“I’ll try not to depend on you too much,” you roll your eyes. You take another spoonful of your ice cream and sigh tiredly as you slump back against your cushions, and he sighs heavily and throws his head back exasperatedly. 

“Look, I know I’m not always the most…fuck, I don’t know the word—”

“Kind? Compassionate? Empathetic? Understanding—”

He shoots you a withering glare, and you huff as you trail off. “Anyway,” he fixes you with a pointed look, “even though I don’t get all bent up outta shape over nonsense like this, I’d get it if you were head over heels for this bastard. But it sounds like you didn’t even like the loser that much, so I’m failing to understand why it matters that bad.”

“Because,” you sigh in exasperation, “I just…I don’t know…I wanted someone to choose me and like what they see, okay? No one ever cares to even bother getting to know me, and I’m starting to wonder if there’s a reason why.”

“You just haven’t set your sights on the right guy yet,” he shrugs, “big fuckin’ deal. You’ll stop being dumb and choose a good one eventually—I’m willing to believe you’re capable of at least that much.”

“They really ought to give you your therapy license,” you say dryly, your face as unimpressed as your tone. “I bet people would pay good money to hear this.”

“I’ll consider it if my agency is a bust,” he snorts, shooting you a sly smirk as he leans back into the couch, one arm slung over the backrest. “Seriously though,” he adds after a second, side-eyeing you, “you’re makin’ this deeper than it is. Some shallow guy bein’ shallow is a stupid reason to get all in your head about shit or whatever.”

You press your lips together, staring down into your melting ice cream. “Well, that’s easy for you to say,” you mutter.

“Hah?” he grunts.

It is easy for someone like Bakugou. Someone who’s always good at everything and knows it. Has enough confidence for two people and then some. You’re certain that if Bakugou actually let women come near him long enough to entertain the idea of a romantic relationship with him, they’d be at his feet the way they are for Todoroki. Women have a thing for men they feel like they can change, can make soften up just for them. He’d be a magnet for the fix-it type of girls if he were actually interested someday, and it only frustrates you further when he talks like your problems are so simple. 

“This is how it’s always been for me—even back in high school, it was the same thing.”

Bakugou’s brows knit slightly. “The hell are you talkin’ about?”

You stare intently into your pint of ice cream, stabbing the spoon in and out. “Like…with guys. It’s always been like this.”

“That’s bullshit.”

You blink at him. “What?”

“I was there, in case you forgot,” he says, as if that alone settles the matter. “Don’t rewrite shit. You got asked out once by that extra.”

You frown. “That’s not—okay, first of all, that was just so he could try and show off his support gadgets to the agency I did my work study with. It doesn’t count. And second, that’s not my point.”

“Then what is?” he shoots back.

You hesitate, then sigh, dragging your spoon through your ice cream again. “Like…I don’t know!” You gesture with your hand vaguely, “I’m never memorable…or the sort of person that stands out enough for people to be interested, you know? Even Mineta made a list once when we were in school—did you know that? Ranking all the girls. And I was last. Like, dead last for whose tits he’d want to see in order. And I know it’s stupid—it’s Mineta. But some part of me wondered why I was last, and…I just figured maybe when I got older, got more confident, and figured myself out, then it’d be different. But it’s not. It’s just the same thing again—and now I’m starting to wonder if there’s a reason why I was last on that list.”

Silence settles heavily between you. Bakugou stares at you incredulously, like you’ve just said something that’s genuinely incomprehensible. “You’re fuckin’ kidding me, right?” He scoffs.

You don’t meet his eyes as you bring your legs up to your chest and hug your arms tightly around your knees. “What?” You frown, sulky and self-conscious.

“You’re tellin’ me you’re still hung up a decade later over that small fry not wantin’ ta take a peek at your tits? Why the fuck would you even want him to see them?”

“I don’t want him to see them,” you defend, huffing. “But like…fuck, c’mon! If the perveiest, creepiest guy you know doesn’t get excited at the thought of seeing you naked, who in their right mind will?”

He looks at you in pure distaste. “I knew you were an idiot, but I thought you weren’t this much of a fucking idiot, Stretchy. Sitting here wanting people to see you naked. Fuckin’ absurd.”

“Don’t be purposely dense,” you snap. You don’t know why it matters so much that Bakugou understands where you’re coming from, but it does. It’s important that he understands. “I’m not…I just…all my life, I’ve never been the one people want. There’s always someone better. Hotter, or smarter, or funnier. Nobody wants me—not even for the wrong reasons. How can I expect anyone to want me for the right ones?”

Bakugou is silent. For a moment, you think he finally understands. Think he’ll finally have an odd moment where he’s compassionate and gentle and you see eye to eye and have a heart-to-heart about your lifelong insecurities and your raging sense of inferiority when it comes to anything outside of your job. (Because at least you can give yourself that much—you’re good at your job.)

But then he says, “You’re so dumb, it physically hurts to watch you sometimes.”

And you bury your face into your knees and just sigh. Why did you have any hope for anything else? Why did you expect Bakugou Katsuki of all people to have empathy for your lack of confidence? The walking epitome of confidence is sitting on your couch, and you had the gall to think he’d even try to understand you.

But then he takes you by surprise.

“You see the shit people say on the internet about you, don’t you? You got fans. They think you’re hot.”

You blink as you lift your head back up. “Well, sure, but—”

Bakugou cuts you off. He looks at you like you’re dumb as he speaks, and you almost wonder if you are with the way he holds so much conviction in that gaze of his. Like he believes wholeheartedly you’re a stupid fucking idiot with stupid fucking thoughts.

“But fucking what? That means you’re clearly not the ugliest girl on the planet. You’re sociable enough that you got plenty of friends, too, and you have talents. You’re half decent enough at hero stuff. You’re tellin’ me you think no one wants you? You have to be pretty air-headed to think no one’s gonna desire you or whatever.”

All things aside regarding the…well, delivery of his statement, it’s a pretty nice statement. Something about the idea that Bakugou believes someone could definitely want you makes your chest feel rather light. It’s kind and comforting in an odd way, despite the rough and borderline mean way of saying it. That’s Bakugou for you, though, you suppose. Always doing good in the least seemingly good way possible.

“You’re being weirdly thoughtful,” you fix him with a look as you stir your ice cream around. You fight back a small smile. 

He huffs, throwing another chip in his mouth before he mumbles, “I’m always thoughtful, you loser. I’m fuckin’ awesome, you’re just blind as shit.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you smile.

“Just eat your ice cream before it turns into soup,” he grumbles.

You take his advice for once, scooping up another bite just to give your hands something to do. The cold bites at your tongue as you think on his words. You have to be pretty air-headed to think no one’s gonna desire you or whatever. Are you? Are you air-headed to think that? No one has given you a reason to think they do want you—but he seems to say it like he knows it’s true. Like he knows someone wants you exactly in the way you want to be wanted. It eats away at you in your head. Does he know who? Is it someone from your old class? A friend of his? Kirishima, or Sero, or hell…even Todoroki? (You rule out Kaminari rather quickly—you almost pity the guy for how long he’s pined after Jirou.)

You glance at him from the corner of your eye. He’s already looking at you. You freeze for half a second, catching him eyeing you down, and he doesn’t even bother pretending otherwise. Just watches you, eyes narrowed slightly like he’s trying to figure something out, trying to search for something that he can only find in you.

“What?” you mutter, a little defensive.

“Tch.” He looks away first, shoving another chip into his mouth. “Nothin’.”

You don’t buy that for a second. “You’re staring.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You literally were.”

“Eat your damn ice cream,” he snaps back, but there’s no real heat in it.

“Why’re you being all weird all of a sudden?” you mutter.

He scoffs. “You’re the one who’s weird. Don’t start projecting.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

You roll your eyes as you go back and forth with him, but there’s a small smile tugging at your lips again, uninvited and almost second nature somehow. It lingers longer than you expect. Who knew it could be so easy to smile in Bakugou’s company? You wonder if the you from high school would be shocked to see this now—hell, you think the you of last week would be shocked to see this, too. 

You look back at him, and he’s still staring—softer this time, less like he’s searching for whatever it is he was searching for a moment ago, and more like he’s staring just to stare.

“What?” you ask again, furrowing your brows.

He doesn’t answer right away. Just looks at you—looks at you hard and good and…and so full of certainty and conviction like earlier. Certainty for what, you wonder. You have no idea, but it almost feels like something is shifting in your relationship with Bakugou—or perhaps, something that was always there that you never knew of is revealing itself. It makes your stomach twist.

What relationship do you even have with him? Outside of being semi-friendly? You shared a class with him for three years and fought through a dark, heavy disaster side by side. It’s unfair to say you don’t know him that well—he was your friend. That much, you think, is fair to say. Perhaps not your closest friend, nor a lifelong one. But a friend all the same. 

So what is it? Why does it feel like there’s something that’s making itself noticeable now, all these years later? What is it exactly? Your head spins as you try to figure it all out, all while he just keeps on fucking staring.

“Nothing,” he mutters finally, but it sounds distracted. It sounds like his mind is elsewhere, and his body is here. 

“You’re still staring,” you whisper.

His jaw tightens slightly. “Stop sayin’ that,” he mutters.

“Then stop staring.”

“I was making eye contact, you fucking idiot.”

“I think you were staring.”

“No, the fuck I wasn’t.”

“You’re looking right at me as you say that.”

“'Cause it’s called fucking eye contact—are you dumb or something?”

You stare at him. He stares right back. And then, because you’re you, you break it first—huffing out a quiet laugh and shaking your head. “I see. Are you just now realizing I’m super gorgeous or something?”

“Tch. Weren’t you just going on about how no one seems wowed by you?”

You glare at him. “Low blow. And I said that’s how it seems to be for some reason—I never said I agreed with it. Personally, I think I’m rather delightful, and people should notice it more.”

“Yeah, real charmer,” he mutters.

You bump your knee lightly against his without thinking. “Shut up.”

It’s small. A casual touch, if anything. You didn’t think much of it—in fact, it almost came to you naturally. But sitting on your couch and spilling your heart out and sharing snacks with Bakugou feels so oddly familiar, though, that perhaps your judgment is a little clouded. 

He stills at the small touch. Your smile fades a little when you realize it—when you realize he didn’t just brush it off like it’s casual. His gaze drops again, slower this time, to where your knee is pressed against his. And then back up. Did you cross a boundary? Did he find that weird? Is he uncomfortable? Was that a more intimate gesture than you thought it was? 

You’re sitting there spiralling in your head as you just watch him, waiting for him to say something. Anything. 

He doesn’t. Instead, he leans forward slightly—just enough that the space between you closes so that only a few bare inches remain. Your breath hitches.

“Bakugou—”

“You’ve always been pretty dumb,” he mutters, voice low.

You blink. “What?”

“Exactly what I said,” he closes his eyes and sighs, like he’s tired and conflicted and…and something else. Something else you just can’t decipher, no matter how much you try. “I don’t get how you don’t fucking see it.”

“What do you mean?”

He doesn’t answer. But he does open his eyes—deep and sharp vermillion eyes that are looking at you, and he seems to have made a decision that he’s almost a little hesitant with. Like he’s reluctant to fully go through with it, but still. He’s determined. That much you can tell—you know what a determined Bakugou looks like, and this is it. This is it if you know it, and you know that you know it. 

And then he leans in.

He leans right in, pressing his lips to your and kisses you softly. It’s so soft—softer than any touch you’ve ever felt. So careful and considerate, as if you’re a fragile petal that’s on the verge of falling off the stamen, and he’s taking every ounce of willpower to keep you tethered to where you are. Keep you from falling away. Keep you there and whole and pieced together so that even the most delicate of touches doesn’t ruin you. 

You almost wonder if he thinks he would—ruin you, that is. You wonder if all that careful consideration is because Bakugou believes you’re a fragile petal that could blow away, and he’s nothing but a harsh, cold wind that would blow you off your balance and carry on like it’s just his nature to do so. 

And then he pulls back just as fast as it happened to look at you, brows furrowed slightly like he’s bracing for you to shove him off or yell at him.

Your brain is still catching up. He just kissed you. Bakugou Katsuki just kissed you. You stare at him, wide-eyed, and for once, he actually looks uncertain. Nervous, even—almost disappointed. And it does something weird to your chest.

“Fuck, I shouldn’t have done th—”

“You just kissed—” 

You both speak at the same time. You pause, he does too, and then his jaw tightens. “Yeah. I…that was stupid. Sorry—I…fuck, I don’t know what I was think—”

You don’t know why you do it, but you lean forward and kiss him again. It just happens before you can process it—some invisible, untraceable, yet undeniable force that makes you just do it.  

And instantly, without even questioning it, his hand comes up, quick and certain, as it grips lightly at your jaw to steady you so he can kiss you properly. 

It’s slower this time. More deliberate. Less like he’s being careful and more like he’s trying to savor it now that he knows that he can. His lips press into yours as if they fit like puzzle pieces, and his tongue slides past your parted mouth to press against your own. Your breath catches, fingers curling slightly into the fabric of his shirt without you meaning to.

It’s weird, but it’s not—kissing Bakugou. He’s the last person you ever expected to kiss tonight, maybe even ever, but fuck does it feel like it’s the rightest thing you’ll ever do. 

“How the fuck do you think no one wants you?” he grumbles between kisses, like he’s personally insulted by the idea. It’s starting to occur to you that perhaps he is just a little insulted by the idea. “You’re so…so fuckin’ dense.”

“No one has ever made it clear,” you snap, bringing your hands around his neck and tugging on his hair as he kisses you deeper.

He hisses, but it only eggs him on to kiss you harder, more fervently. “You want it clear? Then here the fuck you go.”

He kisses along your jaw. Down your neck. Across your collarbone. When your shirt slips off, you don’t even have the clarity to stop and think about what it is you’re doing—it just feels that natural and right to let him do it. He takes in the sight of your tits in your bra, grabbing a handful of them with large, warm hands as he scoffs.

“These the tits that small fry didn’t wanna see? I’m fuckin’ glad—I’d be pissed as hell if he got to see these.” 

He pulls off your bra. Rips it right off your back and makes you gasp as you feel the claps fly clean off somewhere in the distance. 

“Hey—”

“Oh, shut up,” he huffs, “it’s a fuckin’ bra. I’ll buy you some more if you’re that pressed over replacing one.”

Before you can even scold him for tearing your undergarments and being so nonchalant about it, his mouth latches onto a nipple, sucking and rolling his tongue over the nub as it hardens under his touch. You gasp, arching into his touch, whining when one of his hands moves to cup your other breast and use his fingers on the neglected nipple. 

“Oh my—fuck,” you breathe, your heart rate getting faster as your breaths come out more labored. 

Bakugou grins against your tit, still sucking and licking—and when you feel the faintest pressure of teeth around your nipple while his fingers pinch around the other, you let out a sound that you’d be mortified about if your mind wasn’t so stuck in the clouds, hazy and unclear.

He kisses down the valley of your breasts when he finally pulls away—right down your belly and right above the waistband that’s sitting against your skin before he looks up at you for permission. “This okay?” he grunts. 

You nod quickly as you breathe heavily. 

He gives you an unimpressed look as he raises a brow. “Use your words,” he says firmly, “I know you can—can’t you?”

“Yes,” you whine, “yes, this is okay. J-just…get on with it.”

That satisfies him enough, it seems, because he’s pulling all the cloth that separates your core from him down, revealing your dripping cunt as he lets you kick off the cloth that pools at your ankles. 

“Look at you,” he coos, grinning smugly at the sight of your arousal smeared along your folds and your skin. He leans closer to get a better look, and you whine in shame. “Fuck,” he grunts, parting your legs with strong hands along your inner thighs as you try to close them from embarrassment. “Quit that,” he hisses. For whatever reason, you obey. “Fuck, you are so wet.”

“Bakugou,” you whine again, horrified, “what is wrong with you?”

He gives you a deeply bothered look. “Katsuki,” he snaps.

“What?” You furrow your brows. Why is he introducing himself to you as if you’ve never met him before—does this man forget that he and you not only shared a class for three fucking years straight, but you fought a war side by side? Of course, you know his first name is Katsuki—

“For fuck’s sake, Stretchy,” he says in pure exasperation, “you’re so dense, you make rocks seem weightless. Say Katsuki, not Bakugou—s’weird to hear that during sex. That’s my fuckin’ mother’s name, too, y’know.”

“Thank you for that mental image,” you fix him with a glare, “and I’m not denser than a rock—”

He licks a stripe along your pussy to shut you up, and fuck does it work. Bakugou—or…well, Katsuki, you correct in your head—is so good at everything he does, it’s almost infuriating. But you aren’t a liar, and you would be lying if you said you weren’t grateful for him being so good at eating you out. It’s like his life depends on it, the way he laps away at your folds, pressing his tongue into your cunt and pulling back away to roll over your clit. It’s so…so fucking good.

It feels good. Feels right. Somehow, it feels like this is natural and like he’s supposed to be there between your thighs. You’d expected yourself to be a bit more self-conscious about him seeing you like this, doing things to you like this, for a bit longer. But you’re not.

Instead, you’re throwing your head back into the couch as you moan, “Katsuki—mmhhh.”

“Yeah?” he grins, so smug and handsome at the same time. Just unfair. “You like that, huh?”

“B-be quiet,” you huff, whimpering when a finger sinks past your folds and stretches you open, “you always talked too much.”

“And you always talked too little,” he counters, “tell me how good you feel and say my name like that again while you do it,” comes his blunt demand.

And he earns what he asks for, of course, because a second finger follows that first, and it makes you whine out his name in response like it’s an inevitable chain of events. He’s pumping his digits into your wet cunt and pressing into your sweet spot like it’s that simple. His mouth closes around your clit, and he sucks, his tongue working some sort of unearthly magic along the bundle of nerves as you practically sob in pleasure.

Good, good, good—everything that Katsuki does is so good. He’s so good at everything, it blows your mind. Literally. You can hardly think as he fucks his fingers into you and builds that familiar pressure up in your lower belly. They’re longer and thicker than your own—and all those years of explosives at his fingertips have really roughened up the skin. They’re calloused and scarred. And they feel amazing when they glide along your walls. The friction is so different when it’s his fingers and not yours—they hit angles and stretch places you never hoped to do so yourself.

Like he can read your mind, he asks, “Feels nice?” with a low voice.

You can barely think, let alone form a proper response. Everything feels too sharp, too overwhelming—your breath catching, your body reacting before your brain can keep up. You roll your hips into his fingers as they thrust into you, grinding down onto his mouth so his tongue can lap away at your clit.

“Yeah—” you manage, voice uneven, “so…so good, Katsuki—”

“I know, baby,” he murmurs. Baby—he just called you baby. And it’s…sweet. He says it oddly sweet and oddly gentle as he kisses your clit and smiles into your thigh when the kisses trail along the insides of them. His fingers are still pressing into that soft, sensitive spot in the back of your walls, still applying pressure exactly where you see white every time, and all the while, he seems to be so unexpectedly happy to be doing it.

You stare down at him, watching him between your legs, and when vermillion eyes intensely stare right back, piercing and calculating and yet so…so soft, you can’t look anymore. Just close your eyes and let it happen as your body starts to creep towards that familiar sensation of euphoria.

“Katsuki,” you whine, voice cracking.

“Jus’ let it happen, sweetheart,” he hums, “gonna cum for me?”

“Yeah,” you whine some more, “yeah—fuck. M’gonna cum.”

“Then do it, baby.”

You do. Katsuki is there to work you through it. Your walls spasm as you fall—no, plummet—off the edge, and he doesn’t hold back for an instant. His fingers are fucking into your tightness, the squelching sound of them gliding against your wet folds invading your very good hearing. His tongue is rolling back and forth against your swollen clit—so unforgiving and ruthless in his pace.

You can feel your back arch off the cushions of your couch, your hips working on their own accord as they move and grind down into his touch. Katsuki devours it all—laps away at your juices and groans at the taste of you. Groans right into your pussy and leaves you shuddering at the vibrations his gruff voice leaves against where you’re most sensitive.

“So fuckin’ tight,” he mutters, “driving me crazy here, y’know—sucking my fingers right in, I don’t even have to do much myself.”

When you’re done chasing your high, chest heaving as you catch your breath and slump back against your couch, his mouth doesn’t stop. He just stays there, pressing his lips where he can along your thighs, kissing and sucking into your skin, leaving blossoming marks in his wake while you try to gather some coherence in your mind.

“Fuck,” you say breathlessly. “I…just…yeah. Fuck.”

He snorts. “You’re too easily impressed,” he mutters.

“Yeah, well,” you glare, not meeting his gaze, “it’s not like I’ve ever done…this—” you vaguely gesture at him between your legs, “—to have a proper assessment of your skills.”

He looks at you. Bewildered. “Wait—you’ve never been fucked?”

“I’m not a virgin!” you sputter quickly, “not…not that there’s no reason why I can’t be a virgin—but I’m not, okay? I’ve been fucked.”

“So what is it then?” he raises a brow.

“I’ve never had someone do…this,” you gesture again.

“Eat you out?”

“Why do you have to go and say it like that?” you whine, covering your face with your hands—you’re sure said face is bright red and flushed.

He’s always been so vulgar. Even when you were kids. At least then, he was just vulgar with his language and not the connotations, but right now, he’s being vulgar about everything. And it’s seriously fucking with you right now—in more ways than one, evidently.

Katsuki only snorts, looking at you in mild amusement. “If you can’t say it, you got no business doing it. And you gotta have better standards, too—the fuck do you mean you never been eaten out before?”

“Men are not so giving,” you glare at him, “they’re in it for themselves. You’d know that if you weren’t a man.”

“Well, I am a man,” he shoots back, “and as a man, I know I’m pretty fucking giving. Cause I got standards and shit for my performance, and you should fuck people who have standards. And while you’re at it, you should get some god damn standards yourself, too.”

“I think you should take off your clothes instead of sitting there and lecturing me,” you huff. 

To your mild surprise, he stands up and pulls you into his arms, lifting you up easily—seriously, what is he built from?—before mumbling, “Where the fuck is your room?”

You mumble out, “Hall to your left—s’the door on the right at the end.”

In what feels like record time, he’s there, tossing you onto the mattress softly enough that you don’t feel the recoil of impact harshly, but hard enough that you do a little bounce. He chuckles as you glare, easily lifting the black t-shirt he’s wearing over his head. It reveals his bare torso and…shit.

It’s not as though you’ve never seen Katsuki shirtless. Of course, you have. You’ve trained with him and battled alongside him, and more than once has he been shirtless, or even had his shirt burned clean off. It’s nothing new to you that he’s muscular and well-built and so fucking broad—but fuck. He’s really bulked up since you last saw him shirtless. The biceps you can see from his short-sleeved shirt were already proof of that, but seeing him now without it, seeing his pecs and the clear indents of every ab while the broadness of his body is on full display, is just something else, entirely. 

And you’re staring. Because how could you not? Of course, you’re staring. You’re only human, no matter how superhuman this society is—you can’t help it that you’re simply in awe as you look at him. 

And he seems to notice it instantly, because he gives you a teasing grin as he murmurs, “Likin’ what you’re looking at, huh? Makes sense.”

“Would you be quiet?” you huff. You sit up as he unbuckles his belt, watching as he strips himself of his pants and boxers in one go, easily revealing his erection as if there are no second thoughts. 

It must be nice being so easily sure of yourself, you think. Everything about Katsuki’s life seems like it must be so nice. Good quirk. Good intuition. Good looks and an equally good body. Good everything—he must never overthink things. He must never overthink if the person in front of him likes what he has to offer and if it’s good enough to like for longer than one short instance. Of course, it’s good—it’s him. 

It must be nice being Bakugou Katsuki, born to be so confident and so great at everything. 

At least that’s what you think until he mutters, “Quit starin’, you freak,” with a huff. His ears are pink at the tips, and he doesn’t meet your eyes, and…it’s weirdly adorable that he’s shy. 

You smile, endeared as you reach over, grabbing his hand, pulling him down to hover over you in bed, his arms caging you while his nose bumps against yours. You can see his eyes better from here. Closer than you’ve ever seen them. His lashes are darker than the rest of his hair—almost a light brown that flutter so beautifully when he blinks. 

You hum, kissing his mouth with a soft peck, there one second and gone the next. He frowns, almost pouts, at how quickly it’s over. 

“Don’t get all shy on me now, Blasty,” you murmur.

“I’m never shy, Stretchy,” he shoots back. 

Your hand moves between your bodies, hesitantly reaching for his hard, swollen length. There’s a blonde patch of hair between his thighs that is neatly trimmed, and he’s got a small birthmark at his hip bone. As for his cock—it’s…well, it’s big. Thicker than it is long, but no less impressive. You figured it would be. Of course, just like everything else he’s got, he’s blessed to be impressive. 

You wrap a hand around his cock, stroking slowly as he shudders and lets out a soft, breathy groan. Your hand barely wraps around the girth of it, fingers just shy of meeting, and you look down to watch your fist slide up and down the length of him. He’s slick with pre cum that dribbles from his tip, twitching a little when you squeeze at the base experimentally as you stroke him. 

“S’that even gonna fit?” you gape at the sheer size of him, and that’s all it takes for that minimal shred of shyness to leave him. He has the nerve to look at you smugly—so wholly amused. 

“Course it is,” he snorts, smirking slyly. “Got you all nice and prepped, didn’t I? B’sides—isn’t bein’ stretched out and all kinda your thing?”

You give him a dirty look. Your quirk doesn’t work that way, and he knows it, but you suppose it’s naive to expect anything less from Bakugou. Of course, he’d throw in a cheeky, asshole-kind of poke at your meta abilities when he sees fit. 

“Be quiet,” you warn.

“If that’s what you want,” he hums, “then you should fuckin’ do something about it.”

You wrap your arms around his neck and pull him in, kissing him hard and rough, earning a deep, satisfied rumble from his chest as you do. His cock nudges against your inner thigh, grinding against you for a short moment before he stills, jaw gritting tightly as he forces himself to be patient and mutters, “You got a condom?”

“On the pill,” you peck the corner of his lips, “so just fuck me—fuck me, Katsuki.”

That’s all he needs to hear. His tip is nudging against your entrance, sliding along your folds, and gathering the slick that’s practically dripping so he can coat himself in your mess. It’s filthy, and it makes you shudder as you feel the hot, heavy weight of him simply brush against you. 

“Fuck,” he groans, “gotta feel you—m’gonna go insane.”

He’s pushing past your folds, sinking inch after agonizing inch so slowly, so carefully, you almost want to hiss that you won’t break. But something stops you—the way he stares between your bodies, that dazed look in his eyes with wide pupils as he watches himself sink into you is enough to force you into submission and be patient. 

For him—just for him, you’ll be patient. 

“Baby,” he drawls, his voice a low, rough purr, “baby, you’re so fuckin’ tight—god.”

“Fuck, Katsuki,” you whimper. He stretches you out good—fills you up and then some as he presses into all the right spots. “S’so deep—need more, please.”

“Whatever you want, sweetheart,” he presses a soft kiss between your brows before his hips are moving. 

It’s slow at first, like he’s testing the waters, and when your head throws back into your pillow as you whine in pleasure, it’s like every worry in his head about hurting you flies out the window. His hips snap faster into you, his thrusts go a little deeper, his movement a little more frenzied. By the time he sets a fluid pace, it’s quick and rough and so fucking good. 

“Wanted this for so long,” he grits his teeth, letting out a long moan as you clench around him. “Shit, wanted this for so fuckin’ long you wouldn’t believe—wanted you for so fuckin’ long.”

“More,” you whine, “p-please—give it to me, Kats.”

Oh. Oh, he likes the sound of that—there’s a deep, almost animalistic groan in the back of his throat that erupts before he goes impossibly faster, bullying his cock into your walls and slamming into that soft, sensitive spot he did so easily with his fingers, too. Something in his brain is almost rewired, you think, when he hears the nickname fall from your lips. 

Something that makes him bury his face into your neck and nip and bite at the skin hungrily. 

“Say that again,” he demands. “Say it.”

“Kats,” you sob, “mmhh—s’good, baby. Feels so good.”

“Yeah? Bet no one’s ever fucked you like this, huh? Like you mean something?”

“No,” you shake your head, “no one.”

“Only me, huh?”

“Only you,” you whimper, nodding along as your hips roll as much as they can into his own, trying to match his movements so he can press even deeper into you. 

Katsuki does fuck you like you mean something. No one’s ever really done that. You’ve always had sex just for the sake of sex. It’s never been anything more outside of that—sure, you’ve had your eye on a guy, or two that you wished maybe would look at you as something more than a good fuck. But they don’t make a lasting impression to keep you wanting more. Keep you craving more. Keep you hoping that maybe, just maybe, there could be more. 

Somehow, Katsuki makes that possible. He grabs your hips softly, rubs his thumb back and forth like he’s worshipping the skin when he angles you down on his cock for deeper access to your cunt. He kisses your jaw and cheeks with soft, wet pecks instead of just shoving his tongue down your throat. He bites his lips and looks at you with soft, dazed eyes and not the usual dark, lust-filled ones you’re used to. 

You never really minded being used. Never minded being more than an easy fuck if it meant you could get something out of it, too. But he makes you feel wanted—and you like being wanted. You like being something worth coming and staying for. 

“Fuck, m’close, sweetheart,” he rasps, sweat collecting on his forehead as his pace gets sloppier. The thick head of his cock slams roughly against your walls, and a thumb finds your clit to bring you closer to your peak with harsh circles against the sensitive bundle of nerves. 

You can feel it—can feel the slow build of pressure in your belly, that familiarly delicious ache between your thighs as the friction of his cock sliding in and out of your pussy accumulates in every nerve. You’re close too, and Katsuki can tell—it’s so fucking easy for him to read your body. Like he was made to understand it. 

“Close too, huh?” he pants, “you almost there?”

“Yes,” you wail, “yes—fuck, yes! Wanna cum.”

“Then do it,” he hums, “cum with me, baby.”

He rolls his hips into you once—then twice, and you feel it snap. That coil in your belly that was tight and waiting to burst. It makes your mind go blank and your lips part, and a cry of his name rings in your own ears loudly. You can feel the way you contract around him, spasming and squeezing and pulling him in as your orgasm hits you like a tidal wave.

It makes his cock twitch before he tenses and stills—his own orgasm hits him just as hard. Hot, white ropes of his release fill you up, the messy, sloppy pace of his thrusts fucking his load into you as he works you both through your highs.

It’s good—not just because it’s pleasurable, but because you feel important. You feel like only you could give him this, and only you could be the one he wants it from. He leans down and kisses you, slow and messy, drinking in your moans as he pours his own into your mouth. He says your name so pretty when he’s like this—so breathless and soft, you feel like your ears are ringing just listening to the sound of him. 

“You’re so good, baby,” he mumbles, “so good for me.”

“K-kats,” you whimper—it’s all you can even say. 

“I know,” he moans, “I know, sweetheart.”

And then it’s over. You finish, and so does he, and then it’s just the two of you tangled like that while you both pant and catch your breath. Sweaty skin on sweaty skin, lingering touch on lingering touch. Your fingers weave through his blonde locks, tracing along his scalp and fiddling with the small baby hairs at the nape of his neck. His fingers are wrapped around your hips, digging softly into the plush skin and making home in the warmth of it. 

“People want you, dumbass,” he mutters, leaning and kissing your cheek. “You’re just an idiot who doesn’t know how to look.”

“Be in my line of sight next time, and maybe I will,” you mumble. 

He laughs as he slumps down next to you, pulling your body into his as he wraps you up with his body and the sheets on your bed—it’s the softest sound you’ve ever heard from him, and fuck, do you want to hear it more. 

You wonder, as sleep creeps up on you, if this will all be an odd, weird, crazy dream when you wake up.

—

When you wake up, it is not an odd, weird, crazy dream.

Well, it’s definitely odd and weird and crazy. But it’s not a dream, that’s for sure. A sleeping, clearly bare Katsuki is in your bed, right beside you, and you’re in his arms. He’s holding you close and tight, and there would be no chance of escape if you wanted to leave his embrace (which you don’t really think that you do).

One minute turns into two. Two turns into three. And eventually, after a few agonizing minutes of trying to slowly inch away just enough to get a closer look at his sleeping face, Katsuki says without opening his eyes, “Quit squirming.”

You still. And then, you huff, squirming around just to annoy him. 

“Oi!” he glares, opening two sharp, yet sleep-hazed red eyes. “I just said stop.”

“Well, I don’t answer to you,” you scowl. “How long have you been awake?”

“Since you decided to stare at me like a creep.”

“I was not staring,” you say, giving him a scandalized look.

He only grins, giving you a sly look as he yawns and mumbles, “Yeah. Whatever you say, dumbass.” Then he pulls you closer, bringing your cheek to lie on his chest while his chin props itself over the crown of your head. “You okay? From last night, I mean?”

“Yeah,” you say softly. “M’fine.”

“Not hurt? Wasn’t too rough?”

“Nope,” you answer easily. 

You realize this position might have less to do with the fact that he wants to hold you rather sweetly, and more to do with the fact that he might not really want you to look at his face when he asks his next question. 

“You uh…you regret it? Or some shit?”

You pause, taking in the odd, rare moment of…vulnerability in his voice. Like he’s scared to hear your answer but needs to know desperately. You find yourself answering rather honestly when you say, “No. I don’t. Last night was really nice—I liked it.”

“Yeah?” he breathes.

“Yeah,” you mumble. 

“Great. Go out with me, then.”

You do a double-take as you pull away and look at him in equal parts disbelief and equal parts irritation. He has the nerve to look rather expectant. “What?”

“What do you mean, what?” he huffs. “Go out with me—exactly what I said.”

“You can’t just throw that out there randomly!”

“Randomly?” It’s his turn to be shocked and irritated. “The fuck do you mean? I was balls deep in you last night, and this is random?”

“Yeah b-but…” You sputter, smacking his chest. “First of all, don't say it like that! And second, I had no idea until last night that you even thought I was attractive, let alone likable. Now you want to date me out of the blue?”

“I don’t ask shit for no reason out of the blue,” he grumbles, “of course I think you’re attractive and likable if I’m asking you out. You think I’d waste my time with just anyone?”

“Usually,” you give him a flat look, “when you ask someone out, some sort of confession comes first. You know? Like, hey—I think you’re pretty cool. Or you’re really beautiful. Or even, hey, I think we get along nicely, don’t you? Do you wanna go out sometime?”

Katsuki closes his eyes and sighs exasperatedly. “Hey, loser,” he smiles tightly. It’s rather petty, honestly. “I think you’re cool and beautiful—thought it since we were fuckin’ brats in school. We get along nicely for the most part, too, when you’re not a pain in the ass. Let’s go out.” 

“That was a demand, not a question.”

“You are so fuckin’ difficult for no reason,” he groans, digging the palm of his hand into his eyes tiredly. “Holy fuck—you’d say no, or somethin’? That why you need it to be a question?”

“Well, no, I wouldn’t…but it’s the principle of things—”

“Fuck your principles,” he mutters, pulling you close and planting his lips onto yours. You melt rather instantly, kissing him right back without hesitation. He grins against your mouth and pulls away, leaving you breathless. “The only damn principle you need to know is that you and I are good for each other. And that means we should go out.”

Class 1-A is trauma-bonded for life—it’s this invisible, untraceable, yet undeniable thing. You think it’s a good thing that you are, because it leads you straight to Bakugou Katsuki. 

—

One new message from: ♡ PLUS ULTRA GIRLIES ♡

Mina: sooo can we talk about last night? SOMEONE was def giving us the cold shoulder

Toru: ^^

Kyoka: ^^

Momo: Come on, guys. I’m certain there’s a reasonable explanation. We should be ready to listen whenever she’s ready

Ochaco: absolutely! 

Tsu: but we do want to hear the reason asap

Mina: yeah it better be good bc that was just mean

Toru: ^^

Kyoka: ^^

You: i promise i’ll tell u everything soon ok? but guys. You: holy fuck. guys… You: i slept with bakugou last night

Mina: WHAT?

Toru: WHAT?

Tsu: WHAT?

Kyoka: WHAT?

Momo: WHAT?

Ochako: WHAT?

Mina: I KNEW HE HAD THE HOTS FOR YOU I KNEW IT Mina: THIS NEEDS TO BE A GROUP CALL RIGHT NOW

You: I CAN’T TALK RIGHT NOW HE’S LITERALLY IN FRONT OF ME MAKING BREAKFAST IN MY KITCHEN

Ochako: aw wait that is sooo sweet of him. he’s a great cook too

Toru: proof or it didn’t happen :P 

You: [ one attachment ]

Kyoka: HOLY SHIT THAT’S DEFINITELY HIS BACK

Momo: Well…As long as you’re happy!

Mina: LMAOOOOO STOP YAOMOMO

Ochaco: bakugou can be nice when he wants to be!! don’t be so hard on him

Tsu: when has he ever wanted to though…?

Toru: never lol let’s be real

You: he has a soft side OKAY? ochako is right u guys are being way too hard on him

Mina: oh god it begins

Toru: she’s already making excuses for him

Kyoka: the sex was that good huh??

Momo: Make sure you pee so you don’t get a uti ok?

he knows he should have invited you, dynamight would have loved to have had you on his arm. however, secret dates of strawberries and cream on rooftops at midnight are not the same as flashing lights and haggling paparazzi. he wasn’t sure you could handle the predatory heat of the limelight.

so when you finally come around, pouting from his couch over spilled red wine as you explain the reason for your lack of call and texts. bakugou doesn’t tell you it’s over, doesn’t shout, doesn’t make you out to be some kind of fool. he wipes your tears with a calloused thumb and presses you back into the sheets, peels back your clothes until you’re vulnerable and naked and fucks you like there’s an apology lined up on the tip of his cock.

“i don’t play games, ‘m too old for that shit,” the gravel in katsuki’s voice should act a warning. low enough to emulate the rumble of a predator’s roar as he hangs over you, teeth sharp as they scrape your sweaty shoulder — deft finger tips offering no remorse as they singe their prints into the meat at your waist. katsuki kisses the side of your head, starkly soft, compared to the unrelenting crash of his hips tumbling into yours, cock plunging to the depths of your selfishly suctioning cunt like a marker. like belongs. “you want somethin’ outta me, you be a good girl ‘n ask. yeah?”

his words land like a slap, scalding, stinging. tears spring to your eyes because you know now that you’ve been childish, katsuki isn’t like other boys you’ve dealt with. he’s a man, a good one, an established one who fucks you like you mean something to him. more than just a pretty piece of eye candy stuck to his pearly white tooth. he continues to steamroll into you, create a print of your body in the cushions of the couch — sweat clinging to the pockets and divots in your back because he runs hot, from the igneous rock melting around his heart to the surface of his skin.

“you want me, then ‘m yours. not gonna chase you, gotta use your words like a big girl.”

his lips, chapped and slightly pale pink, curl upwards. the motion subtle at first — beguiled. not meant to tease you, because you take it so well, because your cunt clings to him for ever inch he divulges and presses into your tight heat to make sure you get the memo. only he fits only, he stays, only he belongs inside.

not these idiots your age who’d rather make you cry from emotional turmoil rather than ecstasy.

you push at his chest but your hips rise to take more of katsuki in, slick between your thighs and over your pulsing pussy where you’ve been glazed with your own arousal — having came at least twice already. it’s some sort of a punishment threaded with love that lays dormant amongst red eyes. those same eyes pulling you apart, analysing the twitch of your face and the arch of your back at certain patterns of thrusts.

the difference in the softness of his eyes compared to his actions muddle your brain — like colours are contrasting painted on a canvas that reads complimentary. an optical illusion of lust and longing. bakugou needs you, the spark of youth you bring to days where he feels out dated, but he folds you up and pounds into you with strength that doesn’t need defending. an obvious and objective fact.

“c’mon baby,” the hero drawls, licking a line of sweat from your chin to your hairline. “asked you a fuckin’ question.”

“y-yes,” you nod your head weakly, the single thread holding together your sanity starting to fray at the edges — splintering. “yes daddy! ‘m sorry, sorry. wan’ you, always do. won’t do it again!” you babble, losing the filter.

“atta girl,” he croons. “now one more. make it count, make it messy. all f’daddy…”

the pro hero splays a hand against your supple stomach — coarse as he kneads your skin, feeling for the bulge the size of him creates as it carves a pathway to your pinnacle. even whilst bakugou shifts above you, attention never strays from your pleasure. it becomes the focus, the centre of his universe where you are the sole star capable of swallowing him whole — burning his nerves until they’re raw and sensitive. his freehand steadies the weight of him against then arm rest, new leverage for the swift, pummelling ministrations of his hips past the gooey ring of your entrance to the syrupy g-spot that turns your vision with brand new technicolour. blindly, you reach for katsuki — clawing and clingy somehow simultaneous.

ever an indicator that you miss him, that even in your blissed out state you’re aware of how childish you’ve been. you’ve missed katsuki like the sun must miss the moon when they rise and fall on opposite ends of the sky, like someone’s carved out an organ you need to survive. he may be older and wiser and all things you are not — but he is a presence you now fear you cannot live without. your body, creaking with exhaustion and a tiredness that pleasantly buzzes into something warm and rapid in your lower belly — gives in one last time, as though to make the old man’s dying wish come true.

the upholstery below becomes tainted, the material darkening as a lubricious cascade of essence pools between your folds in turbid stream, adding a sheen to your clit and katsuki’s tummy that has softened with slight age. your fingers curl in the coils of silvering blonde hair that have bleached in the sun as time has gone on — slick and damp, from the sweat that dots his hairline in pure pearls. as you arch and make room for the silent scream building in your lungs, the pro hero latches onto the swell at your chest with an eager hungry mouth, perhaps to muffle his whimpers as the crest of his own ecstasy follows suit. your orgasm puddles around the stretch of his thick shaft, mingling with the translucent white pushed out from the slit at his tip, beading against the lining of your womb.

katsuki bakugou might be an older man, he might be war torn and sharpened with age — but he is better than the type you’re used to dating.

he’s experienced in courtship and in sex, and that’s exactly why you learn never to let him go. never to ghost again.

end ! likes are appreciated, but just liking doesn’t do much on tumblr! to support and motivate myself and other writers, reply, reblog and comment if you'd like to see more!! — asks are open to thirsts and thoughts! join my taglist ! love you!

“i’m not even ‘even’—ing — i’m just... surprised. the hell do you do on all those dates you go on?”

“i told you,” you half shrug, your gaze avoiding his, “i just talk and stuff.”

“see,” he rolls his eyes, tsking lightly, “when someone says ‘and stuff,’ it makes you think they’re having sex.“

the blush across your cheeks intensifies, the back of your neck practically on fire at this point. “i… i’m not doing that either, you weirdo,” you stammer. “what i mean is what i say, you know that.”

he shrugs, yet there's something very thoughtful in his expression now. “i guess i just didn’t know how strong your commitment to honesty was.”

“what does that mean?”

“i just… i dunno,” he shrugs again, “i thought you had game.”

“i have game,” you scoff, “i’m just waiting... for the right person.”

he takes pause. “who’s that?”

“who’s what?”

“the right person.”

“i don’t know,” you mutter, “guess when i’ll meet them i’d know.”

another silence falls between you, this one thicker than before. his mouth opens to speak, before closing, and then opening again.

“what if they’re like...” he cuts himself off with a sigh, “...ah, nevermind.”

you tilt your head, curiosity cutting through your nerves. “like what?”

“like… right in front of you.”

you blink.

“...katsuki?”

“i'm sorry,” he mumbles out quickly, moving to stand, “i don't— just forget it...”

“no, katsuki, please— wait,” you reach out to him, your hand landing on his wrist. you take a breath before continuing, mind grappling to make sense of it all. “are you saying you... like me? like...like me?”

his leg bounces. “yeah,” he admits after a beat, voice lower now, like he’s forcing the words out before he can talk himself out of it, “of course i do. but i get if you don't see me that way—”

“no, no—” you reassure, shaking your head, “i do. i do.”

upon hearing your requital, katsuki swallows thickly. after all these years of pining for you in silence, trying to convince himself to just give up his pointless crush, the words leaving your tongue couldn't sound any sweeter. he glances at you again, eyes flicking to your lips before snapping back up, a flicker of nerves flashing across his face as temptation begins to gnaw at him.

“what... what are you doing?” you find yourself whispering as he leans closer.

“can i kiss you?” he murmurs, “please?”

it feels like your heart may nearly burst out your chest at the question. before you can over think it, you nod.

surprisingly, the lips of your best friend are soft as they brush against yours. the kiss is brief, nervous, barely more than a peck, and nothing like the confident katsuki you know, and yet it manages to send a shock straight down your spine all the same. that being said, it surprises you both when your hands find the collar of his shirt in order to pull him back in for another, and even more when the rush of gravity sends the two of you tumbling down onto the floor.

as the kiss intensifies— teeth clashing, tongues exploring, gasps and moans filling the air, it nearly feels like the newly-discovered jaws of passion might consume you whole. you barely clock the hard on in katsuki's pants pressing against your thigh in the heat of it all — too distracted with how naturally his hands entangle themself into your hair — until he pulls away from you with a groan, the weight's absence discernibly missed as he rests his forehead against yours.

still, you don't bring awareness to it, too busy trying to catch your breath. “i...wow...” you manage, wiping your chin of drool with the back of your hand. “is it always like that?”

he shakes his head, clearing his throat with a rough sound. “it's never been that good for me,” he rasps, before a passing thought crosses his mind, “definitely can be better though.”

“better?”

with half-lidded eyes, his tongue darts out to wet his lips, like he’s still weighing how much to say out loud. eventually he exhales, the sound quiet and decisive.

“…fuck it,” he mutters under his breath.

carefully, his hands slide down your sides, before settling at your hips— the movement more hesitant than sure, intent on giving you every chance to pull away, yet the question is clear but unsaid.

can i fuck you?

“oh,” you mumble, your mouth feeling desert-dry while a heat began to pool low in your core. “i... do you have a condom?”

katsuki nods feverishly, thumbs moving to hook through your shorts' belt loops in order to tug them down. “we're not gonna need that for a while.”

“w-we're not?"

for the first time tonight, you finally see that familiar smirk spread across his face. you've always said he's had the weirdest humor. and yet, you watch attentively as he lowers his mouth to press a soft kiss to your navel, and then to the lips of your cotton-clad pussy— the fabric positively soaked with arousal now.

“don't cover your eyes, okay?"

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