Lame

the thrill that moves through you has you gasping into his mouth, pussy fluttering from how easily he overwhelms your senses. melting into him, letting him kiss you stupid. growing too horny to continue this way, you hold onto him and somehow manage to get him to lay on the couch.

his back resting on the cushions with you straddling him. "i wanna ride you," words spoken soft and tantalising, hand slipping under his shirt again to rest where it once was.

gojo's shirt rides up with your touch, the warm pressure of your soft palm has his cock twitching in his pants. "are you waiting for an invitation?"

"more like a plea," you challenge his glib attitude.

"pleaseee sit on my dick, pretty," his hands slide up your thighs to grip your hips, "i'm aching for it." and as if to prove his point, he ruts his hips up under you. grinding his erection against your clothed cunt.

your nails lightly scratch against his skin, lungs shuddering from the much needed stimulation. you're digging your teeth into your lower lip to stifle down any pathetic sound he might be able to pull from you. failing completely when he tugs you down at the same time that he's rutting up.

"fuuuuck– hold on– hnn– this feels soo—" he doesn't finish his sentence, head tilting back as he keeps dry humping you.

his skin is all flushed and radiating heat, eyes dazed and lost in the muted pleasure he's gaining from this. he's acting like a dog as he keeps relentlessly grinding against you. a small and pitiful whimper leaves him and you're keening into it. hands tugging his shirt up more, palms perched on him as you meet his grinds.

"wait– wait– hng– i'm gonna—" even though he's asking you to wait he doesn't stop his hips, continuing until he's shuddering through his own orgasm.

his pants growing damp as he cums in them, gojo can feel the way his seed clings to his clothes. coating his dick in his own sticky release. if it hadn't felt so fucking good he'd probably be embarrassed but he's in complete bliss right now.

"did you just cum?" you ask him, somehow even more aroused. his relaxed and borderline fucked out expression making you want him more.

he's panting softly, eyes glazed over as he answers, "you shouldn't have looked at me like that."

Rearing back, you swear the corner of his mouth twitches in amusement at your appalled reaction. “I beg your pardon? Doctor, I can't do that. It's inappropriate.”

“Not here, Miss,” he clarifies and your face warms from jumping to conclusions. “Just from how you're reacting, I can deduce that you haven't indulged in self pleasure before. You don't know what you enjoy and have no autonomy over your body. Hence, you need to experiment and try out new things to figure out what pleases you and what does not.” 

Nodding slowly, your hands twist the hem of your skirt as you absorb his words. The idea of masturbation feels shameful. You're not particularly religious but after growing up in a household where it was seen as a sin to be lustful, you still harbor such thoughts in your subconscious. 

Lifting your shy gaze, you're stripped bare by his amethyst eyes scanning over your face, mentally jotting down every microexpression of discomfort that flickers across it. 

Setting his notebook aside, the gentle smile he graces you with has your stomach flipping. It's startling how just that gesture has you relaxing, his presence easy to melt into, loosening your tongue. 

“As your doctor, I want what's best for you,” he utters your name in that rich, mellow voice of his akin to a wife calling her husband and you perk up. “Please tell me if I'm overstepping your boundaries. I do not mean to be anything other than strictly professional.” 

“Oh, no, no. You're fine. I was just taken aback is all,” you assure him with a shake of your head and an earnest smile. 

Relief loosens the tension in his shoulders, his eyes softening. “Good, now shall we begin?” 

“Yes, please,” that polite word has his irises swirling but you chalk it up to a trick of the light. 

“Alright. Are you okay with following my instructions? There's this genre of audio erotica called guided masturbation which I recommend you look into but for professional purposes, I just want to ease you into it so you're not lost when you try it out, okay?” 

Swallowing, you nod, shifting to get comfortable as you're laying on the plush couch. “Okay.” 

“I want you to close your eyes and imagine your boyfriend touching you. You're in control, he's listening to you and eager to know what pleases you. Tell him how to touch you.” 

Brows twitching, you want to tell him that this seems like an exercise for fitting for sex therapy but he'd already told you in your last session that he creates these activities based on the specific needs of his patients according to his observations and what he deems necessary.

“Where would you like him to start?” he asks in a quiet voice that wavers like you're suspended in a body of water, waves lapping at your bobbing body. “Your lips? Your neck? Your chest?” 

Hand rising, you brush your fingers over your lips, eyes fluttering shut as they tingle. “My lips.” 

“How do they feel against his ones?” 

“Soft like petals.” 

“How do you want him to kiss you?” 

Tongue peeking out, you tentatively lick the pad of your finger, tasting salt. “With…tongue. I've never done that before. He's always refused.”

And perhaps that is why your brain cannot conjure the image of him kissing you. You've always had a vivid imagination but now his silhouette is distorted like the still surface of water disturbed by pebbles dropped into it. 

“Does it feel good?” 

“This is hard,” you admit, embarrassed. 

“How so?” 

“I can't picture him doing this.”

The psychiatrist goes silent for a few moments, the faint sound of traffic and the ticking of the clock on the wall all that fills your ears, amplified by your lack of sight.

“No worries, you can picture someone else. A teenage crush, maybe a celebrity you like. Many people fancy imagining their favourite characters too,” he offers simply.

Lips thinning, the daydream you're in darkens, slowly seeping away and your disappointment creeps in. “I can't. Maybe we should try another time—”

“If it’s too difficult to focus on him, imagine me.”

Scandalised by the suggestion, your eyes fly open, head whipping to the side to look at him, your imagination shattering like stained glass hit by a brick. 

“Excuse me? That's hardly appropriate.”

“Am I a worse candidate than your boyfriend?” he questions and your eyes widen at the teasing lilt in his voice.

“Um, no. I just find it odd. Don't you?” 

A smirk curls at the corner of his mouth. “I can assure you that I've had patients who've tried much worse than just picturing me in their fantasies, Miss.” 

Heat licks at your cheeks. “Ah, okay.”

“You have my consent. Ready to continue?” he cocks his head and asks, sleek hair cascading down his shoulder like spilled ink.

Assuming your position again, you sigh, eyes sliding shut. “Yes.”

“Imagine my hands. Where do you want them while we're kissing?”

With your eyes closed, you followed his forbidden directive. Your hands slid over your ribs, trembling. 

“Here,” you murmur, squeezing at your plush waist and skating palms up to the curve of your breasts that tighten. “And here.” 

“Okay, let's start slow. We want to build up the tension, drag it out. There's no finish line to race to. Just feel.” 

Obliging, you run your hands up and down your sides from your hips to your waist, groping and caressing. They're not your delicate fingers but his thick, long ones digging into your flesh over your clothes, grabbing greedy handfuls of you. 

“Does that feel good? My hands gripping at you, feeling you up in fistfuls?” 

The question trickles into your ears, your pulse melting into hot syrup that pools in your stomach and dips between your legs. An airy, needy sigh passes your lips. 

“Great,” you breathe a dreamy sound, thighs rubbing together, skirt bunching up and you can feel the phantom of his deft fingers hooking into the hem to hike it up. 

“Very good,” he praises, voice light and sweet like he's proud of you for being an active participant in this exercise. “Now on to your neck. My lips are grazing your skin there, what do you want from me?” 

“Bite it,” you blurt instantly, brows knotting as your neck warms with the ghost of his teeth sinking into it, your pulse racing against the enamel as he sucks a flowering hickey into the blank canvas of your skin, hot, needling desire swirls in the pit of your stomach and sizzles against your clit.

The dream morphs into something lucid, him hovering over you, caging you with those bulky limbs, mouth latched onto your neck as your nails drag down the cotton of his shirt that's taut against his meaty pecs, the muscles flexing beneath your palms. The zwip, zwip, zwip of your clawing against the fabric, laddering it with how desperately you're scratching. 

His gentle scent of lilies and something woodsy, the tan terrain of his skin, the dips and ridges of his sculpted form, sweat beading his skin, a devouring hunger in his eyes that scares you and arouses you at the same time because it's so visceral and yet he's holding himself back, willing to kneel at your feet and worship you. 

You don't see your boyfriend’s indifferent face; you see Geto's broad shoulders and his dark, predatory gaze softened by that clinical smile as he tells you how good you're doing for him, kissing down your neck and unbuttoning your blouse, calling out your name as you moan in response. 

“Miss [Name].”

No, that's actually him talking to you right now. A big, warm hand clasps your wrist and tugs, your eyes blinking open, vision blurred and slowly clearing as you look at him. 

Tie askew, his hair is not as neat as it was before you shut your eyes and his cheeks are slightly red as he peers at you. 

“Sorry for touching you without your permission but you were getting carried away there,” he apologises, glancing down at your chest and away. 

Glancing down, you gasp as he lets go of your wrist as you see the lace of your bra on display. You'd been undoing the buttons of your blouse, skirt ridden up so far that one move would have your panties flashing him too. 

Mortified, you spring up and he hands you the blanket beside him which you gratefully accept and cover yourself with. “I am so sorry. I didn't realise—”

“It's okay, just tell me that your imagination will work perfectly when you're exploring it yourself somewhere private,” he interjects with a reassuring smile, clearing his throat. 

Clapping, he stands. “Well then, this session is over. We made good progress, I think. Get home safe,” he greets you with a nod, exiting to room to give you privacy to gather yourself.

The fantasy was a revelation. It makes the drive back to your apartment bearable; it makes the shower sessions a sanctuary where you’d slip your hand between your thighs and whisper your psychiatrist's name into the steam.

After all, there's no harm in practicing. It's make believe, it's not like you're cheating on your boyfriend. Everything is alright. 

It's liberating, really. The realisation that you're not a broken woman. That you're not undesirable. Touching yourself becomes a self love ritual. 

The shame that usually curdles in your stomach evaporates, replaced by a searing, liquid heat.

Weeks pass. Your boyfriend is the last thing on your mind. When he fucks you, his movements are still clumsy and selfish, but you simply close your eyes and summon Dr. Geto, hand slipping between your thighs to rub your clit and make yourself come.

You're glowing, revitalized, and Geto watches it all from behind his mahogany desk, taking meticulous notes on your psyche—and your scent.

For months, he had been the architect of your recovery. After your boyfriend had spent years treating your body like an inconvenient vessel for his own release, Geto had taught you that your pleasure was a sovereign right.

During your final session, the air in the room changed—charged, heavy with the scent of his expensive cologne and the sudden, sharp intent in his eyes.

“I’ve been observing your progress,” Geto muses, standing up. He moves with the grace of a panther on the prowl, stopping beside the chaise. “You’re smiling more. You’re distancing yourself from the man who doesn't deserve you. But there is a final stage to this therapy—one that addresses the psychosomatic tension you’re still carrying.”

The man reaches down, his large, warm hand cupping your cheek. The touch is electric. “Sit up.”

You obey, heart hammering against your ribs. 

He clears the papers from his heavy mahogany desk with a single, slow sweep of his arm. “Your boyfriend treats sex as a conquest. I treat it as a necessity. Bend over, please.”

Fantasy is about to become reality.

Moments later, you're gripping the edge of the polished mahogany, the grain cool against your palms, as Geto comes up behind you. He takes his time as he lifts your skirt, his fingers tracing the line of your spine with agonizing slowness.

“This is the session I've been waiting for,” he whispers against the shell of your ear, his breath hot.

Skirt rolled up to your waist, he bares your ass to him and peels away your soaked panties, picking them up and inhaling your musky sweet scent deeply. It's dizzying, so addictive. He balls up the flimsy cloth and stuffs it into his pocket.

When he eases in, it isn't the clumsy, impatient shove you are used to. It's a slow, deliberate push. He's massive, a solid weight that filled the void your boyfriend had left behind. You let out a shattered cry, your forehead pressing into the desk.

“That's it, you're doing so well,” he growls, his hands catching your hips, his thumbs digging into your hipbones to hold you steady. One hand slides to your belly, pressing down on the bulge there as you whimper. “Feel me here? Feel how perfectly you fit against me."

The drag of his cock inside you is all-consuming. Every time he drives forward, his heavy weight presses you down into the desk, the glossy wood and the heat of his body creating a sensory overload. Each vein and ridge rubs back and forth inside you, tickling all those sweet spots inside you that have your head swimming, drool dribbling from your parted lips and moans spilling from you that you barely recognize. 

"Your body isn't a burden," he whispers, his voice thickening as the friction built toward a fever pitch. "It is a temple, and I am its most dedicated servant. Tell me... does your boyfriend ever make you feel this seen?"

"No," you breathe sharply, vision dimming with heat. You're jelly, your senses dissolving into the scent of his cologne and soap.

"Then let him go," he grits, his grip tightening until his knuckles were white. "Forget his name."

Who?

He leans down, biting the sensitive skin where your shoulder meet your neck, his long hair falling like a curtain around you both. As he hits your deepest point, over and over, you feel the last remnants of your old life shatter.

"This is the only medicine you need," he hums, his voice breaking. "And I'll be sure to provide it whenever you want it."

You could feel the power in his thighs, the strength of his chest against your back as he presses his lips into the softness of your neck, cock sinking into you deeper and deeper with each smooth roll of his hips, the desperate drag of his body against yours nearly molding you two together as his cock carves a home for itself in your snug cunt. 

“Fuck, do you know how good you feel? Sucking me in so greedily, fitting me like a glove. Your boyfriend barely left a mark,” he seethes, biting down on your shoulder as his lazy, savoring thrusts descend into something feral and harsh, grunts thrumming though your skin as the desk creaks and whines with you. 

“Ah, Geto—” 

“Suguru, baby. I'm your Suguru,” he mumbles in a drunken slur against the side of your face, lips smushed to your wet cheek, licking up the tears of pure bliss and relief that streak down your face. 

“Suguru,” you gasp out and a long, drawn-out groan rumbles out of him, his abdomen bunching against your lower back as his hips smack against your plush ass, the flesh rippling. 

“I’ve spent months learning every fracture in your psyche,” he rasps, his pace quickening, the sound of sweat-slick skin slapping skin echoing in the quiet office. “I know exactly where you’re broken. And I know exactly how to fill those spaces.”

He reaches around, his large fingers finding your aching clit, circling with a clinical precision that sends sparks crackling through your vision. You are far gone, your mind turning to white noise as he buries himself to the hilt, over and over.

Cupping your jaw, he turns your face so he can get a good look at you, half-lidded eyes dark and glistening with elation as he takes in your messy hair, smudged eyeliner, tears dotting your lashes and parted lips. 

Ducking down, he licks a hot, wet stripe up your chin, slurping the drool there, tongue delving into your mouth and kissing you sloppy like you had fantasized about for months, hip thrusts stuttering from how sweet and buttery you taste. 

“You’ve never looked better," he moans into your mouth, his voice thick with a dark, satisfied pride as he feels your pussy clench around him in a violent, weeping orgasm, drinking down your whimpers. “This is the only medicine you need from now on. I'll give it to you every time, yeah?” 

“Yeah,” you mewl, incapable of saying anymore as you struggle to kiss him, legs quivering and cunt convulsing, drawing his orgasm forward, thick, creamy cum splattering inside your squelching walls. 

You lay slump against the mahogany, breathless and gold-spun with afterglow. Suguru doesn't pull away immediately, buried deep within you, his arms wrapped around your waist, holding you together.

"Much better," he sighs, pressing a tender kiss to your shoulder, his kind smile returning to his face even as his eyes remained dark with a predatory satisfaction. "I think we’ve made excellent progress today."

Smiling deliriously, you're spent and shimmering, a patient finally cured by the most radical of treatments.

note: i doubt i did that blurb justice huhu but i wanted to write suguru

such a joke that could only be achieved by gojo satoru himself, but little did he know that people would begin to ship him with you. resulting in his fans migrating to your page to raid your comments with, ‘collab’, ‘are you and goat dating?’, ‘is there a joint account?’, and millions more. you could honestly say that his audience was yours, and your audience was his.

you’d be lying if you said that you’ve never thought of satoru in such an inappropriate manner, to be honest who wouldn’t? he’s got the ideal body you’ve daydreamed about, the charismatic personality and a gorgeous fucking face to match it. it’s almost annoying really.

but what’s really annoying is the fact that he lives overseas in japan — meaning that if you two ever did want to collaborate you’d be traveling miles away from home just to have sex.

“i could always fly out to you.” satoru suggests over face-time, his camera constantly moving because he can’t stand still as he walks around with his phone. “i mean, logically yeah but it’s not that deep.” you respond with your eyes fixated on the screen before satoru’s rapidly pulling his phone towards his face. “what do you mean it’s not that deep?!” he softly pouts, as if this situation was something serious.

you let out an unbelievable laugh. “i’m saying that it’s not worth you flying over here just for sex.” you specify as his pout deepens even more. “i don’t have to travel there just for sex, what if i just wanted to hang out with you.” he says, blue eyes peering at you through the screen.

there’s a brief pause as you think on it. “then yeah, i guess that’s fine as long as you bring me a souvenir since i’ve never been to japan.” you raise up a hand, holding your pointer finger up with a bright smile.

“a souvenir you say?” satoru repeats slowly, as his childish pout disappears once he hears the words he wants to hear. “a souvenir from japan??!” he grins mischievously, as he watches you nod. “i’ve got a perfect souvenir for you!”

little did you know that two weeks from now you’d be getting a package with a japanese address on it, and there’s only one person it could be sent from — gojo satoru. you open the box carefully, pulling the folds apart before seeing another box, though much smaller with a letter on top of it.

“message me when you’ve received it. it’s a souvenir homemade authentically from japan — love toru ( ^ω^ ).”

you’re reaching for the smaller box, tearing it apart as styrofoam wraps around the edges. you’re pulling the safety cover off to be met with a translucent, pink siliconed dildo. roughly thick in girth, there’s a prominent vein running down the bottom of the shaft and a gorgeous mushroom-shaped tip which looks awfully similar to his.

there’s absolutely no way satoru sent you a replicated mold of his dick. you’re speed-dialing his phone as you hold the shape of his dick in your hand as he answers the phone almost instantly.

“moshi moshiiii.” you could hear his stupid grin through the phone. “satoru what kinda souvenir is this?” you ask stunned and in disbelief as he cracks a laugh. “it’s the souvenir you ask for— personally made by yours truly.” he replies proud of himself.

you’re truly at a loss for words. “i don’t know what possessed you to send this, but you should’ve saved your money.” you said, fully taking in the size of the dildo.

“no, it’s for you.” he replies, “to y’know, prepare yourself for whenever we hang out and… do it.” his voice quiets towards the end of his sentence. “plus! i wanna see you use it, if you don’t mind.” he says softly, hoping that you’d say yes, before he’s frowning at your answer.

“absolutely not.” you reply blatantly.

you should be mad he just barged in, didn’t greet you and he’s already taking up space. he makes your furniture look like it belongs in a dollhouse and even though he’s a few metres away from your desk, it feels as if he’s under your nose, analysing your whole career.

yet, you eye his forearms, the veins that run up them, the chunky biceps that look constrained in his tee. the silver dog tag that rests between his pectorals and the black radio he’s got clipped to his pocket.

when his ruby eyes land on you they’re alight with interest though he doesn’t smile. instead, he seems curious standing in the middle of the room.

“i’m not the big boss, i have a manager too. just head editor,” you reply, feeling the urge to look in the mirror to check you look good. no fly ways or a crumb on your face and your blouse is on straight. 

“you’ve got an assistant and a big ass office with windows,” he walks over to them, peering at the city below. “i’d say that’s pretty important.”

you bite down on your lip, endeared. then your body fires up. last time you spoke… what he said.  i’ll eat your pussy, fuck you good too. oh shit.

“i’ve been in the company for a while, i had to fight for it.”

he nods at you, clearly impressed as you lean back on your leather chair behind your two pink monitors.

“i came to give back the tupperware from the cupcakes. they were damn good.”

you didn’t even realise the paper bag he’s holding. he plops it on the chair in front of your desk. he did say he would return them.

“thanks… you didn’t have to, i would have came by to get it.”

“no it’s fine. didn’t have fuck else to do in my break.”

everything feels heated, charged and suddenly you can’t remember all the points on your to do list. it’s a second too long of silence, staring at this man as he stares over at you. his lips are pouted like he’s about to whistle but then he relaxes when he stares at your lips.

you clear your throat, offer him the chair opposite your desk. he drops into it and you’re immediately overwhelmed at how he swallows it. fills it up completely, slouching slightly so his thick thighs have space to spread. he rests both arms on the rests, opting to look around your office again instead of your face.

your heart booms against your rib cage, you pretend to click something on your monitor to distract the fact your hands are sweaty.

“i can leave if you’re busy. i was gonna just leave them behind the front desk downstairs but the woman insisted i give them to you myself.”

you internally roll your eyes. okay, you can’t keep your own secrets and you told pretty much everyone you saw that you found the blonde firefighter who came over attractive. it’s your own fault.

“no!” then you clear your throat, “no, you can stay. sorry about them.”

bakugou has no clue what he’s doing here. he’s out of his depth. he’s used to his fire station and his men, stomping around with their rough humour and running whenever there’s an alert of danger nearby. he definitely isn’t used to being in a calm, colourful office sitting opposite a gorgeous woman. he can barely keep eye contact and equally can’t stop looking at you.

a few people walk past your windows looking out to the corridor, two ladies talking among themselves with books in their hands.

he can’t tell if you’re nervous but you keep biting down on your lip, looking at your computer screen and then back at him. he needs to say something, anything.

“did you bake those cakes?”

you smile, cheeks round, “yes! i enjoy baking when i have free time.”

he can’t stop himself, “a reader and a baker. i fuckin’ love that.”

your lips part, breath shaky and he sits up in the cream chair.

“i like to cook,” he blurts, “i… i cook for the guys sometimes. we have a kitchen at the station.”

“really? what’s your usual?” you rest your head on your palm, tilting your head. he could ask you to get down on your knees and you’d do it. especially with those suspenders running down his hard chest.

you notice the blush on his cheeks, “usually meals my ma would make back home, since they’re massive and can feed the family. stews, soups, noodles, you know,”

“you should bring me some. i usually just get sandwiches or pastas from down the road,” you flirt, “yours sounds tasty.”

he feels like a dog with the one aim to make his owner happy. “definitely. it’s only a twenty minute walk.”

“okay, i’ll be looking forward to it.”

he meant what he said when he texted you last, “when are you free for me to take you out? if you’re still up for it. it’s okay if not.”

katsuki cringes inwardly and then again when you start clicking around on your computer as if you’ve ignored him.

“sorry, have to check my calendar….,” you remember the text he sent you, that he wants to take you out before he does anything to you. your body feels like it’s on overdrive, overheating, overthinking and just needy. “friday evening?”

bakugou’s got no clue if he’s free then but he nods anyway. “yeah, yes. i’ll set somethin’ up.”

it feels as if he’d taken up too much of your time, so he stands up, dusting off his trousers. but not without asking, “what did y’mean when you said it felt like your last birthday? y’know, the day we came here for the false alarm.”

one of the interns accidentally hit the fire alarm in the staff kitchen, causing panic, sirens and an immediate call to the local fire station. everyone was dashing down the stairs to get outside but when have fire alarms ever been genuine? usually it was a drill or an accident so you took your time, saving your documents on your desktop and grabbing your bag while the alarm blurted in your ear drums.

you were last to make it out and immediately you were starstruck by the line up of firefighters outside your building. all five of them were chunky, muscled and gorgeous. it wasn’t just you that had hearts in your eyes, it was your colleagues too, flirting and talking to them like they were saved from a fire that didn’t even happen. you find your assistant and nudge her, “that one. i want him.”

the blonde looked mad, a frown planted on his face, the beige jacket with yellow hi vis only made him look larger. he’s got his helmet in one hand and he’s staring at his watch. he opted to not talk to the bustling groups of women, just standing by the door of the truck waiting to leave.

you took it upon yourself to walk over to him, a few of your colleagues following behind you.

“this reminds me of my last birthday.”

you say to your friends with a giggle and the purpose for him to hear. he only reacts with a raised brow but otherwise reactionless. until your friend says something to you and you feel his eyes scan you from top to bottom, eying your id badge hanging around your neck. you read his name on his jacket. bakugou.

you give him your signature flirtatious grin. pearly whites with shiny lips. cheeks soft and eyelashes fluttering. the man blushes, cheeks flushed red and you can swear his next breath comes out shaky. 

“you… you shouldn’t assume the alarms are drills. could get yourself killed,” he grits his teeth at you but he feels like he’s already lost.

“it was a false alarm, so i didn’t die this time,” you fold your arms across your chest, stepping over to him, “how did you know i assumed that?”

bakugou feels like he’s about to choke and die. you smell good. floral yet sweet. a delicious musk that has him wondering how your ass looks in that short black skirt you’ve got on.

“you’re the only one here with a bag. you also came down twenty minutes after everyone else,” he grunts, “in other words, you would have died.”

you pout, “don’t put yourself down, you would have saved me in time. you need to prepare for people like me…,” you read his name on his jacket again, “bakugou.”

he exhales through his nose, “or you can listen to the alarms like everyone else, yn.”

you roll your eyes, your smile not letting up while this firefighter named bakugou looks like he’s about to explode. 

kirishima walks over patting him on the back, “i checked their internals, everything’s fine. i’ll be back to replace the glass cover for their alarm.”

bakugou gives you one look before getting back into the truck and assumes he will never see you again. until you turn up a few days later at the station.

you laugh at katsuki, “now you want to know? it looked like you were about to spank me for coming down late.”

you notice his eyes darken and his hand adjusts his belt buckle, “i meant what i said then.”

you’ve got the same flirtatious smile as before and bakugou needs to grow some fucking balls if he’s going to handle you. take you out on dates and fuck you like he promised. 

“okay, mr firefighter,” and bakugou rubs his top lip under his septum just for a semblance of control, “my last birthday, my friends got me firefighters. they were dressed like you but there was no fire.”

part of him thought there was a possibility of a fire on your birthday, the other seventy percent assumed right.

bakugou huffs a strained laugh, rubbing his eyes, you’re back clicking something on the computer then back focused on him.

“you’re into that?”

“i’m into you. the uniform is a plus.”

he knows this, you asked to suck him off last time you were together. but still it doesn’t feel true, a woman like you, successful, beautiful and confident, into him? he can’t look at you without counting to ten in his head to regulate his breathing.

“i’ve got half an hour before i’ve gotta go back.” he grunts, leaning forward on his elbows. “d’you think you can listen to me for that long?”

heat swells in your lower stomach. you feel like jumping up and down to chant yes yes yes.

you narrow your eyes at him, “possibly.”

he points to the corner of your office where the windows to the corridor wouldn’t be able to see. only two people have walked by so far but more could. bakugou can’t have anyone see what he’s about to do to you.

“could you stand there for me? be a good girl?”

bakugou thinks he understands you. what you like, what you want, just from your small interaction at the fire station. how confident you are when he’s nervous over you, compared to how shy you get when he’s in control. 

he hears you inhale sharply, looking behind you at the corner of the room and then him. wide shoulders, the dog tag necklace swinging at his neck as he leans. you’re sure you’ve soaked through your underwear at this point, there’s no way you haven’t.

“what will you do to me?” 

his grin is slow as he stands. that fucking gold tooth, “come find out.”

you're out of your chair because what you’re not going to do is ignore this man who promised he will pleasure you. you’re not going to fuck in your office… unless, you shouldn’t but if he asks—

you press your back against the wall and he crowds you, both forearms by your head. his breath is hot on your face, craning your neck up to look at him.

“fuck me—,”

“oh my god, baby,” he hushes you, grabbing your jaw. he’s about to go insane, beat down all his morals just to give you want you want, “who’s left you so needy? always askin’ for my cock?”

you frown up at him, eyes defiant and sharp even though he’s squeezing your cheeks between your fingers. you fight back your whine at baby. you love hearing that come out his mouth. “nobody’s left me? i just…”

the annoyance wins over your arousal, about to push him off you but he grabs both your wrists with one hand, “i didn’t fuckin’ mean it like that. you just drive me crazy, so goddamn… sayin’ whatever is on your mind. whenever it’s silent i hear your voice.”

you’re still not a fan of what he said, “saying what?”

“that you want to suck me off. can’t get in the back of a truck without gettin’ hard.”

he entertains you by pressing into your stomach, large and long. you feel like squealing, unbuckling his belt and taking it in your hand.

“that’s what you deserve. after you said no to me then too.”

“i’m not fuckin’ you until after one date. i’ve got morals—,”

you poke his shoulder, “and you’re saying i don’t?”

he groans aloud, “no, baby.” 

nothing he says is coming out right, so he decides to start kissing your jaw, pecks that make you stretch your neck and your eyes flutter shut.

“wanna treat you right. learn shit about you before i fuck you,” he whispers, “it’ll be worth it.”

that almost makes your knees buckle, so you’re grateful he’s holding your hips to keep you against the wall.

“i’m never asking you for anything again,” you murmur, hands drifting to rake through his hair. “saying no to me twice.”

you sound flabbergasted, almost laughing at yourself.

“last time i’m ever sayin’ no to you, baby. after friday, you’re gettin’ anythin’ you want from me.”

he’s wrapped around your finger, you both know it.

“anything?” you tug one of his suspenders and katsuki practically growls at you. you’re too perfect, his idea of heaven.

“yes. fuck, let me touch you,” he kisses your lips, slides his tongue into your mouth and moans. it’s a good kiss, you won’t deny that, better than the last one you had in the truck. he bites down on your lip before tucking his face back into yours, sucking your tongue. 

a calloused palm lands on your thigh, a finger running along the hem of your skirt, “lemme touch you. have you come on my fingers, baby.”

you want to deny him like he denied you all this time, but you know it would feel good, especially with how he’s staring at you like he can’t imagine anything better.

“i—,”

your work phone vibrates on your desk, it’s your assistant downstairs. “i need to take it.”

as soon as you grab the device, accepting the call, bakugou’s got you back against the wall, his face in your neck, undoing two buttons on your blouse so he can kiss over your chest.

“hey yn! just wanted to ask if you wanted the delivery to go in your office for the meantime. it’s the special editions of that sports romance?”

you need to push him off you, shove this firefighter out and away so you can get back to work.

“yn?”

bakugou looks at you, lips slick with spit, laughing at you slightly. he mouths, “answer her.”

“y-yes sorry. reading something. keep them downstairs, i’ll get them later.”

when bakugou decides to strike, your mouth gapes open when the man gets on his knees, his fingers crawling up your skirt to grab the top of your tights. your eyes widen, you need to push him away.

“are you sure? the delivery men can bring them up, they’re quite heavy?”

he’s about to— fuck. he kisses over your clothes tights, slowly dragging your tights down over your ass. he looks up at you and smirks. you cover his face with your hand to protect your sanity.

“n-no it’s fine, i’ll get them after.”

he only kisses your palm, his hand coming to rub your heat between your legs. he rubs the fabric of your panties and you feel him hum in delight.

“okay, i’ll let them know? how was the firefighter? he was the one you liked when they came over, right? or was it the red headed one—

bakugou drags your hand off his face then, frowning with his lips unimpressed.

“i’ll tell you later. i’m going now.” you blurt.

“wait, is he still up there? i would have noticed him coming down—”

you hang up, throwing your phone on the office chair.

bakugou flips up your skirt, revealing your striped white and navy underwear. he kisses your mound over the fabric.

“you said you wouldn’t give me head—,”

“you liked kirishima?”

you blink at him, your fingers in his hair. he’s handsome all the time, but more so on his knees before you. nose brushing over your centre and you’re sure he’s sniffing you. he knows how wet you are, he can see the damned damp patch.

“who?” and then it clicks, “your firefighter friend? what, no. i’ve never spoken to him.”

you smell good, he wants to yank off your underwear and have you sit on his face so he can drink anything that comes out of you. he’d much prefer this in a bed, so he can take his time, listen to every moan so he can learn your body for all the times after.

bakugou grunts, “why’d your assistant mention him?”

“she mentioned you first. i spoke to you, i let you show me around the station, i have you on your knees for me.” the last part has you smiling.

bakugou can’t take hold of the situation, the control slipping through his hands like quicksand and he’s okay with it at this point. 

“so why’d she mention him?” he still pushes.

“my colleague likes him, they went off together, remember? she got mixed up,” you ruffle his hair, “don’t worry, nobody’s taking me away from you.”

once the jealousy simmers in bakugou’s stomach, he pulls down your underwear and spreads your legs apart. 

“thank fuck.”

bakugou starts with one straight lick from your dripping hole to your round clit at the top. you taste just as he imagined, his moan seeping out of him without warning. he hears you gasp from above, your fingers grabbing a tuft of hair.

“knew you’d taste good, baby girl,” he licks again, stuffing his tongue down your centre to get as much as he can. you’re twitching all over the place, head flung back in the wall behind you and back arched. it’s going to be easy to make you come, you’re already soaked from the look of him.

this is his third time meeting you and he’s already got you on his tongue. bakugou considers himself lucky, blessed, chosen. you cover your mouth when he flicks his tongue inside you, hands keeping you still at your hips.

his nose is in the hair at your mound when he talks, “next time,” a kiss on your clit, “we’re doing this at mine,” another kiss, “so you can make as much noise as you want.”

he tenses his tongue as he licks at your clit, alternating between that and sucking.

“oh, fuck. fuck, katsuki…,” your first time saying his name, he realises. you don’t usually call him anything.

“say it again,” he grunts, “my name.”

he can barely see your face over your arched back, so as he pulls away slightly, he makes sure to sink two fingers inside of you.

“oh shit, katsuki,” you elongate the last syllable of his name, whimpering as you try to push him back into you. he could have predicted you’d be a pusher, “more, katsuki.”

he listens, gliding his fingers in and out with ease, the wet sloppy sounds loud in your perfect girly office. you look similar to the image you signed off on last week for a particularly nsfw work book that will be printed on the inside cover. a muscled man on his knees for a woman in office attire.

“this is s-so crazy,” you mumble, barely registering the words you’re saying. bakugou listens, curling his fingers as he keeps his lips locked on your clit. “i’ve never done this before. this doesn’t feel r-real.”

bakugou laughs into you, breath hot and vibrating. he arches your body so only your shoulders lean on the wall and he’s able to see your whole body. especially how you sneak your hand up your blouse to grab your breast in your white lace bra. your breast is spilling out of it, he feels his cock pulse once he notices your nipple, your fingers pinching the delicate bud as your eyes roll back into your head. he does not deserve to be witnessing this now, you’re going to ruin his life.

“i’m going to come, katsuki,” you whine. your body feels tight with need, release just a second away. bakugou keeps up his rhythm which only makes him louder. the slurps of his tongue, his fingers thrusting in and out.

“c’mon baby, all for me now.”

he holds your hips as you fall apart, a high pitched whine piercing out your throat as pleasure shoots down your bloodstream. your eyes pinch, facing the ceiling as you can’t help but mumble, “fuck, fuck me, oh my god.”

bakugou feels accomplished. the same as the painful success after doing multiple fire runs in a day. his cock aches in his cargos, heavy and sensitive as more of your liquid trails down his hand and wrist.

once you seem somewhat settled, your eyes opening slowly, bakugou kisses your clit goodbye and shuffles up your underwear. he needs to do it or he’ll explode—  his tongue licks over his wrists and he plops his fingers into his mouth.

you watch it with half lidded, sleepy eyes, “you’re so sexy.”

bakugou’s already flushed red in the cheeks but this time he feels the compliment in his cock.

“i really liked that,” you say, barely bothering to adjust yourself, “felt amazing.”

“good. i loved doin’ it.” 

bakugou notices tissue on your desk, lightly cleaning you up and pulling up your tights next. he’s so careful with you it makes your pout. adjusting your skirt correctly around your waist, then straightening out your blouse. he kisses your breast, then your nipple because he has to, then buttons you back up.

you still look exhausted, wrapping your arms around bakugou’s neck.

he kisses your lips twice, “i’ve gotta go now. my break was over fifteen minutes ago.”

you scrunch up your face in annoyance, reaching for his cock. your mouth waters. you can’t believe you haven’t seen it yet, you can picture it from just how it feels in your hand. you’re a second away from asking him if he wants help with it, that you want it inside you somewhere but you refuse.

you do squeeze him in your palm though, just to have his forehead fall onto your shoulder. “friday.”

“friday, katsuki.”

you let go of him, pushing him off you lightly.

you think bakugou’s gone for sure as you try your hardest to get back to work on your computer. your eyes keep drifting to your personal phone, to text the firefighter. then back on your screen where you zone out remembering him on his knees and how he felt between your legs.

the firefighter is carrying two boxes as he pushes your office door open again with his back. that’s at least 200 hardback books he’s carrying in those boxes, with pure ease. his biceps are tense, bulging and you wonder if he could pick you up next time you are together. 

“your assistant asked me. the ones from the phone call.” he rounds your desk and drops them next to you by bending his knees. he’s still crouched when he looks up at you.

“stop looking at me like that,” you forget the thank you, unable to draw your eyes away from him.

he stands up to his full height, scratching his head with a boyish grin, “like what—,” you give him a deadpan look, “sorry, i can just fuckin’… friday.”

you hum back.

“i think your assistant knows we did shit? ‘cause i was up here for so long.” he spills out, grabbing the door handle.

you sigh loudly, “oh shit.”

you can already imagine the rumours you’re going to have to kill around the office. everybody already knows you’re into him… you’ll just say you had lunch or something?

“see you friday, baby.”

“bye katsuki.”

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