𝖏𝖚𝖘𝖙 𝖆 𝖌𝖞𝖆𝖑

you should’ve known that the second your fifteen-year-old son and his pink-haired best friend yuji came barreling into the living room asking you to do a tiktok trend, it was going to be a horrible idea.

megumi stands there with his arms crossed, cheeks a little pink, trying to act like this isn’t his master plan while yuji bounces on his toes grinning like a mischievous little brat.

“it’s simple, mom,” megumi mutters, eyes on the floor, “you just call someone you haven’t talked to in forever and say goodnight. that’s it. no big deal.”

yuji grins wider, “yeah! and it’s funny when they’re confused! people eat this shit up.”

you glare at the pink haired kid, hearing him cuss and the tips of his ears turn red, his eyes go a little wide.

“stuff! i meant stuff. s-sorry, ma’am.”

megumi rolls his eyes at his kiss-ass friend, then turns back to you. “come on, mom. it's just for fun.”

you raise an eyebrow, already smelling the setup. these two gremlins only get this excited when they’re about to embarrass somebody—usually you.

you sigh, kicking your feet up on the coffee table. “who am i even supposed to call? i don’t even really talk to anybody,” you ask, already knowing the answer is gonna make your stomach flip.

megumi shrugs way too casually. “dad, obviously. you guys barely talk unless it’s about me.”

yuji nudges him, whispering something that sounded a whole lot like ‘ten dollars, she does it’ with a smile.

you raise an eyebrow at that and stare at your kid, then at the phone being shoved into your hand like contraband.

toji. your ex-husband.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ pro hero bakugo fucks his pr agent

tw: rough sex, office sex, uniform kink, unprotected sex, creampie (he’s bad at pulling out), semi-public, fingering, orgasm denial, canon timeskip katsuki (mid‑20s)

═══════════════════════

It’s your job.

Literally.

Keeping Dynamight from ruining his own career.

And if that wasn’t already hard enough, he makes it worse…by being exactly who the fuck he is.

“No." You hiss under your breath, heels clicking as you walk ahead of him toward the press room. “You can’t call the guy a dumbass on air. I don’t care if he was one.”

Katsuki scoffs behind you, unbothered. “He was. If he’d kept his fuckin’ head down like I told him, I wouldn’t’ve had to blast through a whole damn wall.”

You stop walking. Turn.

He nearly walks into you, catches himself just short, and glares down at you like you’re the problem.

“You’re on live TV in four minutes.” You say calmly, like you’re not seething. “Do not go in there and curse out the other pro. Don’t grunt. Don’t scowl. Don’t call anyone an extra.”

He tilts his head, unimpressed. “That’s half my fuckin’ vocabulary.”

“I know." You mutter, then force a bright, PR-trained smile and spin back around. “That’s what keeps me employed.”

And you walk away.

Heel. Toe. Clip. Click.

You know he’s staring. You always do. Especially when you're wearing tights.

——————

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

The tension.

The bickering. The heat. The way you look at each other too long.

You’re his public relations rep, for fuck’s sake. You handle his sponsorships. His press coverage. His approval ratings.

You’re not supposed to want to kiss the way he spits out a swear word.

Not supposed to like the way he leans back in an office chair, thighs spread, chest still heaving after a patrol, sweat clinging to the collar of his suit.

Not supposed to stare.

But god. When he's in that black and orange hero suit? Hands braced on his thighs? Jaw clenched like he's still thinking about the fight?

You’re not blind.

And he notices.

The way your eyes drop to his chest. The slow blink you give him when he runs a hand through his hair.

The sigh you let out when he shrugs out of his gear.

He notices. And worse?

He smirks.

——————

“You need to stop saying ‘fuck’ in interviews." You mutter, eyes on your clipboard, not looking at him.

He’s standing behind you. Way too close.

“What the fuck else should I say?”

“NOT that.” You whirl around.

He leans in.

Close enough that your nose almost brushes his. Close enough to see the mild amusement behind the scowl on his face.

He likes this. He likes riling you up.

“You got a better suggestion?” He murmurs, voice low. “Wanna write me a script, princess?”

You hate when he calls you that.

You hate that it makes your stomach clench.

Your gaze drops - for half a second - to his mouth.

His gaze drops - for half a second - to the neckline of your blouse.

You’re close. Too close.

You step back.

“I’m sending you talking points for the next segment.” You say, sharp and professional.

But your voice comes out breathier than it should.

It happens again two days later.

You’re both backstage at a hero gala, arguing in low tones near the emergency exit. You’re wearing a dress that hugs your thighs. He’s in a suit he clearly hates.

“You’re not skipping the meet-and-greet.”

“Tch. Waste of time.”

“You promised the agency.”

He rolls his eyes. “I never fuckin’ promised-”

“Bakugo.” You grit, stepping into his space.

He steps right back into yours.

You’re chest to chest. Breath to breath.

You can feel the tension rolling off him. That storm-thick frustration, the itch in his jaw, the impatience humming just under his skin.

Your hands are clenched into fists at your sides.

His arms are folding, muscle flexing even under the expensive fabric.

Neither of you moves.

You can feel his eyes on your mouth.

“You’re real fuckin’ annoying." He mutters, like a reflex.

Your voice is steady. “You’re lucky I haven’t walked out yet.”

“Why don’t you?”

You blink.

And for a moment, the room feels too hot.

“Because you'd fall apart without me.”

It slips out before you can stop it.

And to your surprise - he laughs.

Low. Under his breath. A smirk twitching at the corner of his mouth.

“Yeah?” He mutters. “You think you got me all figured out, huh?”

“No." You say. “But I know what happens when you don’t have someone to clean up your messes.”

You turn. Start to walk away.

But not before he mutters low just loud enough for you to hear.

“...Wouldn’t mind makin’ a mess outta you.”

You stop. You don’t turn. But your legs go weak for just a second.

You pretend they don’t.

——————

It’s a quiet evening.

Your phone buzzes with approval ratings. Even after that snarky remark to the press.

You’re in his office. He’s half-undressed, the tie from his suit he aggressively ripped off thrown over his chair.

“Did good tonight." You mutter, glancing at your tablet. “Only cursed twice.”

He’s watching you. From the chair. One leg spread wide, ankle crossed over the other.

“Did better than that." He says.

You glance up.

And he’s not smirking.

He’s watching you with that look - the one that makes your pulse skip. The one that feels like he’s undressing you with his eyes.

Your throat tightens. You clear it.

“You’ll still need to do the morning interview." You say softly. “Public’s loving the new outreach campaign.”

“Yeah?”

You nod.

You try to look back at the screen.

But he leans forward in the chair. Arms braced over his thighs.

“Y’know I’m not stupid, right?”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

“I know what you’re doin’. Walkin’ away every time I get close. Pretendin’ you’re not into it.”

You open your mouth. Close it.

“I’m not-”

“Yeah, you are.”

His voice is low. Certain. Unapologetic. And it hits something in your chest that makes your heart beat louder.

You don’t move.

Just stare at him. The way his jaw clenches. The way his gaze slides over your legs. The way he looks like he’s holding himself back.

“You’re my client." You whisper.

“So?” He mutters.

You swallow. And you don’t say anything else.

Because he’s not wrong.

Not really.

You clear your throat.

The air feels too thick.

“I’ll… see you tomorrow, Bakugo.”

It’s the most professional thing you can manage.

You grab your tablet. Keep your expression neutral even though your pulse is a hammer in your throat.

He doesn’t say anything. Just watches you leave, jaw tight, that unreadable look in his eyes that sits somewhere between challenge and want.

——————

The next few days, you pretend everything’s normal.

You sit in meetings. Draft press statements. Edit highlight reels from his latest rescue operation.

You tell yourself it’s fine. That the heat in your stomach every time he says your name is nothing but stress.

But then night comes. And it’s just you, your couch, your laptop, and the soft blue glow of the TV screen.

Katsuki is on the news again. Hair still damp from the fight, arms crossed while he answers questions. You watch the way his throat flexes when he swallows, the way his forearms tighten under the black fabric of his uniform.

The way he doesn’t smile. Not even when they praise him. He just nods once. Lowers his eyes. Grunts something short.

And god, you shouldn’t. But you imagine what it would be like to shut him up with your mouth. To grab that stupid collar of his uniform and drag him down until his words die between your lips.

You press your thighs together. Turn the TV off.

——————

Three nights later, you’re packing up to go home.

The sun’s already down, the office nearly empty. You’re standing at your desk, tugging on your coat, considering the text from your friends:

Come out. Drinks?

You hover over your phone. Wonder if maybe getting drunk would drown out this thing that’s been sitting in your chest all week.

And then you hear it.

Heavy boots.

The door clicks open.

He walks in still in uniform - black and orange gear streaked with dirt, the faint smell of smoke clinging to him.

“Bakugo.” You straighten up. “Come to bother me for the last few minutes of my work day?”

“Was in the area.” His voice is rough, casual. “Figured I’d stop by.”

You raise a brow. “To do what? Critique my reports?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just leans against the doorframe, eyes dragging over you - slow, deliberate.

“What’re you doin’ tonight?” He asks finally.

Your heart stutters. “Why?”

He shrugs one shoulder. “Just askin’.”

“You don’t need to know everything I do after hours.”

“Tch. The hell’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” you say evenly, grabbing your bag, “I have a life outside babysitting your public image.”

He snorts. “Babysittin’, huh?”

You glance up - he’s smirking, sharp and cocky. The kind of smirk that crawls under your skin.

“Yeah." You snap. “Babysitting. Because you can’t go a single day without me cleaning up your-”

“You goin’ out with someone?”

The question hits like a slap.

“That’s none of your business.”

“Didn’t fuckin’ ask if it was." He growls. “I asked who.”

You step closer, glaring up at him. “You don’t get to ask me that.”

And for a second, neither of you moves.

Just shallow breaths.

The sound of the clock on the wall ticking too loud.

Then -

Bang.

He slams the door shut behind him, hard enough to make the glass rattle.

Your stomach drops.

“Bakugo-”

But he’s already crossing the room.

You back up instinctively - until the edge of your desk hits the backs of your thighs.

He doesn’t stop. He grabs your jaw, fingers firm but not cruel, and crashes his mouth against yours.

It’s rough. Unapologetic. Teeth. Tongue. Breath.

You shove at his chest once - not to stop him, but to feel how solid it is - and then you’re pulling him back in by his collar.

The sound that leaves him is somewhere between a growl and a sigh.

He kisses you harder. Deeper. Like he’s starving. Like you’re the first breath after weeks underwater.

You grab a fistful of his uniform. He grips your hips and lifts you - strong enough that your breath catches as you’re set on the desk, papers scattering, his body slotting between your legs.

He’s still kissing you - the kind that leaves your lips raw and your lungs aching. You can taste him. Smoke, salt, adrenaline.

You drag your nails down his neck and feel him shudder.

He breaks the kiss, forehead pressed to yours, breath harsh.

“You done tellin’ me it’s not my business?” He mutters.

You tilt your chin up, meeting his eyes.

“Maybe." You whisper. “If you keep your mouth busy.”

And he does.

He grabs your hips, pulls you closer, and kisses you again - deeper this time, slower, tongue sliding against yours like he’s learning you one breath at a time.

The kind of kiss that feels like it’s been waiting months to happen.

You should shove him back, get your shit together, tell him this is a massive breach of every ethical boundary in your job description…

But instead, your fingers are tugging at the buckle on his duty belt, hands shaking with the effort.

Bakugo’s mouth is hot against yours and he groans when he feels you pull the strap free.

“Fuckin’ god, finally." He pants, helping you get it off. It drops to the floor with a loud, metallic clunk, utility clips rattling on impact.

You don’t even look at it. Too focused on the way he’s already dragging your blazer off your shoulders, his gloved fingers fumbling at the buttons of your blouse.

“You wear too many fuckin’ layers." He mutters against your mouth.

You huff a breath into his. “You’re the one in a Kevlar corset.”

He smirks - barely - lips brushing yours like he’s laughing. “‘S tactical.”

You roll your eyes.

Another kiss - rough and open-mouthed - and his fingers finally get one of the buttons undone. Then another.

You gasp when he brushes the fabric aside, his palm warm over the skin of your ribs.

Your own hands are already under his uniform compression shirt, fingertips gliding over the edge of his abs, the heat of his body soaking through the suit.

And then -

“Fuck.” He curses softly, tugging at your tights. “How the hell do these things come off…”

“You’re a pro hero.” You breathe, lifting your hips. “Figure it out.”

Your tights are halfway down your legs, bunched at your knees, when he leans back with a groan.

“Fuck this." He mutters. “I don’t have the patience.”

He fists your skirt and shoves it up around your hips instead, bunching the fabric at your waist in one quick, rough pull.

You exhale a sharp breath, blinking down at him. “Seriously?”

“I’m busy." He grits, voice low, eyes flicking to the dark panel of your panties. “Unless you want me to waste time getting it off right.”

You snort, breathless. “God forbid you use any finesse.”

Katsuki smirks -- that fucking smirk - and leans forward, crowding your body until you’re flat on your elbows, back arching, skirt hiked up, legs spread wide on the edge of your own desk.

“Finesse." He echoes, almost teasing. “You want finesse, princess?”

His fingers hook the waistband of your panties, tugging them all the way down, pocketing them easily.

And then you feel him. Two fingers, thick and callused, sliding through your folds - slow, firm pressure dragging over slick heat.

Your head falls back with a soft, involuntary gasp.

Katsuki leans in at the same time. Mouth catching the underside of your jaw. Kissing slow, possessive, hungry.

“Not so smug now, huh.” He murmurs against your skin, dragging his mouth down the side of your throat, biting softly at the hinge of your jaw.

You open your mouth to fire something back, but he curls his fingers, just right. Your breath catches. Your thighs twitch.

“Fuck.”

He grins again and kisses lower, under your chin, tongue flicking slow just beneath your ear.

You feel him breathe you in, that little grunt in the back of his throat when he realizes how wet you already are.

“All this for me, huh?” He mutters. “Just from makin’ you mad?”

Your hand fists in the collar of his uniform, yanking him back up to your mouth.

“Shut up." You whisper, voice wrecked. “You talk too much.”

“Thought you liked my mouth.”

You kiss him hard before you can answer - open, messy, his fingers still working between your thighs.

It’s hot. Deep. Desperate.

“You should’ve said somethin’ sooner." He rasps, dragging his thumb slow over your clit. “Fuckin’ coulda been doin’ this for months.”

Your answer is another moan. Sharp, breathy, hips grinding down like you’re chasing the friction, fast and sloppy.

And all he does is smile. That same cocky little grin against your mouth as he curls his fingers deeper, wrist flexing just right.

“Yeah,” he whispers. “There she is.”

You can barely think.

He drags his fingers slow through your slick. Rubbing tight, cruel little circles on your clit, just enough to make your thighs twitch, just enough to make your stomach coil, just enough to make you almost come then backing off.

Again.

You grit your teeth. “Bakugo.”

He grins against your throat, not even trying to hide it. “Yeah?”

“You’re doing this on purpose.”

“You’re cute when you’re pissed.” He mutters, kissing under your ear.

You slap a hand down on the desk behind you, lifting yourself up on one elbow, staring him down.

He's still in his hero uniform. Boots planted between your spread thighs.

And fuck, you hate how hot it is.

His hair’s a mess, cheeks flushed, arms flexing every time he moves. You can see the curve of his biceps, the thick straps tight across his chest, the way his utility vest rises and falls with his breath.

You can smell sweat. Smoke. Him.

It’s all too much.

You’re wet, aching, toes curling in your heels. And he’s standing there acting like he’s got all the time in the world.

Your voice drops. “Stop fucking around.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you. “Yeah?” He mutters. “You want it that bad?”

You stare him down. “You know I do.”

He breathes out a rough laugh. Then…

He licks his fingers.

Slow. Deliberate. Eyes on yours.

Your stomach flips.

Then he reaches for his belt, yanks his zipper down…

And your mouth parts before you can stop it.

Oh.

Oh.

You weren’t ready.

He’s thick, flushed, already leaking. You blink once, caught completely off-guard - and he sees it.

He smirks. “You gonna sit there with your mouth open or you want me to fill it later?”

You blink hard. “You’re such a…”

But you don’t finish, because he’s already grabbing your hips, dragging you forward across the desk like you weigh nothing.

You gasp, hands bracing behind you, legs spread wide -

He’s in. One hard, deep thrust.

He pushes all the way in, slow enough to feel every inch, but fast enough to make your back arch and a full, helpless moan spill out of your mouth.

“Fuuuck -”

His hips grind against yours, breath caught, head falling forward onto your shoulder as he groans just as loud.

“Holy shit - baby…”

You both freeze at the sound - loud, echoing off the office walls - and then, like instinct, you grab the front of his uniform and pull him down, slamming your mouth into his.

The kiss is messy, all lips and teeth and open gasps.

You moan into him. He groans into you.

His cock pulses deep inside, the stretch insane, thick enough that you feel it everywhere.

You’re clenching without meaning to. He swears again. Low, guttural, and thrusts shallow, just once, like he can’t help it.

His mouth breaks from yours, panting.

“Tightest fuckin’ thing I’ve ever felt." He breathes, voice wrecked.

"Harder." You demand.

And yeah. He fucks you like it’s all he’s been thinking about.

Just deep, hard thrusts, slamming into you with all that strength he tries so fucking hard to hide during press events.

Your hips knock against the desk with every push, the wood creaking underneath you. Papers scattered, pens long gone.

He grunts with every movement, his jaw tight, eyes locked on your face like he wants to see every second of it.

“God. Fuck.” He pants. “So fuckin’ good. So fuckin’ tight."

You claw at his arms, nails dragging over fabric and skin. "You gonna narrate the whole thing?"”

He grabs your thighs, hoisting you higher on the desk, getting a better angle before slamming in again.

You moan, loud, eyes fluttering shut.

It’s almost filthy. The contrast. How professional you look half-undressed. Blouse unbuttoned, bra still on. While he’s slamming into you like it’s the only thing that’ll quiet his head.

He palms at your chest, squeezing. “Been thinkin’ about these fuckin’ tits since the first week I met you." He mutters, mouth brushing your collarbone, tongue flicking the sweat pooling there.

You roll your eyes, breathless. “Charming.”

“Shut up." He pants. “You know I have.”

His hands fumble at your back, cursing low when he can’t get the clasp - until it finally snaps free.

Your bra slides off your shoulders.

He doesn’t hesitate. Mouth drops to your chest, teeth grazing the swell of your breast, tongue licking a hot stripe over your nipple.

You cry out, legs locking around him, and he fucks into you harder, rutting deep and fast and rough.

You suck in a breath when he bites down - not hard, just enough to make you twitch. He soothes it with his tongue immediately after, lips wrapping around your nipple, groaning into your skin like he’s fucking starved.

Your hands are in his hair, tugging hard. His mouth is everywhere. Your throat, your chest, your jaw - sucking, biting, kissing, dragging his tongue over every inch of skin he can reach.

The sound of skin slapping fills the office. Your moans. His grunts. His voice muttering low filth into your neck.

“Been wantin’ this since the first time you yelled at me." He admits, nipping your ear. “Every fuckin’ meeting. Every press run. You’d stand there all smug in your little heels…”

And he can’t stop touching you. Even with his cock buried deep, slamming into you like he wants to carve himself into your body.

He can’t stop.

One hand claws at your waist, gripping your skirt like it offended him. The other’s everywhere. Cupping your tits, dragging down your sides, spreading over your stomach like he’s trying to memorize you by feel alone.

“So beautiful.” He grits, voice cracking on the words.

He palms your breast again, rougher this time, thumb brushing your nipple as he leans down to take it into his mouth for the third time, sucking so hard your hips jolt.

You moan - loud, unfiltered - one hand braced behind you on the desk, the other buried in his damp hair.

He groans against your skin, tongue flicking fast, teeth grazing, biting before he kisses the sting better again.

You suck in a breath when he pulls back just enough to look at you.

“This what you wanted?” He pants. “Shit - this what you been thinkin’ about when you stare at me in that fuckin’ pencil skirt?”

You roll your hips up into him, gasping. “Maybe.”

“Maybe?” He repeats.

Then he grabs your tits in both hands and fucks you deeper.

Harder.

It punches a cry out of your throat.

“Say it.” His voice is all gravel. “Say you’ve been thinkin’ about this.”

“Fuck…yes.”

“Say you wanted me.”

“I wanted you." You cry out. “God, I - fuck, Bakugo.”

He kisses you again - filthy, wet, lips dragging against yours with no aim but contact, connection, pressure. Tongue curling into your mouth like he owns it.

It’s insane.

It’s so wrong.

It’s your office.

But you don’t care. Not even a little.

Not when his teeth are back at your collarbone, sucking hard. Not when his hand slides down between your bodies to rub your clit in hard, perfect circles.

Not when he groans low into your ear, voice wrecked and possessive…

“You’re mine now. You know that, right?”

You can’t speak. Just nod.

You’re right there. So fucking close it’s unbearable.

Your legs are shaking around his waist, skirt bunched, tits bouncing with every thrust. One heel’s still on. The other is god knows where.

And Katsuki is pounding into you like he’s possessed. Jaw tight, sweat running down his neck, grunting through clenched teeth.

“You feel so fuckin’ good…tight little pussy….so fuckin’ wet for me….”

You’re panting so hard your voice breaks. And then you say it.

You whine it.

“Katsuki…”

His whole body jerks like you punched him.

“Say it again." He rasps.

You do. You’re not even thinking anymore, just crying out through gritted teeth, eyes shut, hand clawing at his bicep:

“Katsuki - Katsuki….fuck….don't stop…"

He loses it. His rhythm falters, hips stuttering, thrusts deeper and rougher like he wants to fuck his name right back into you.

You moan it again, higher, more broken - and he grabs your thighs tighter, slamming into you so hard the desk rocks with it.

“C'mon baby…” He pants. “Keep sayin’ it. Fuckin’ love the way you say my name…”

You’re right on the edge. And it snaps. White-hot and sharp, coiling tight, then ripping through you like a wave that hits too fast, too strong—

“Katsuki!” You cry out one last time, voice cracked, body clenching hard around him as your orgasm slams into you, long and blinding and overwhelming.

You sob into his mouth, back arching, thighs locking around him like you’re trying to take him deeper.

“Shit…fuck…” He gasps, head dropping to your shoulder, and suddenly he freezes.

“Wait, ah…fuck.”

But it’s too late.

He pulls out right at the edge, cock twitching as he spills hot and messy against your thigh, the edge of your skirt.

"Didn’t pull out fast enough…damn it." He swears again, breath shaking, watching it drip.

Neither of you move.

You’re panting, chest heaving, bra discarded, his release leaking down your leg. Katsuki is standing between your thighs with his pants halfway down, still in full pro hero gear, eyes locked on you like he’s never seen anything better in his life.

And the room is hot. Sticky. Silent - except for your breath and your thighs still trembling open around him.

You lick your lips. Shaky.

“That was…”

Your voice breaks. You clear it.

“…so fucking stupid.”

He grins. Hair in his eyes. Still flushed, still panting.

“Yeah.”

And then - without even blinking - his hand slides back down to your ass, fingers massaging rough and slow, squeezing the soft curve of it.

His voice is hoarse.

“Now let’s do it again.”

The plot:

Goodnight Shinobu 🦋

“I’ve always been angry.”