Mina doesn’t have time to answer your clueless question before there’s a clamor of greeting and the addition of larger, male bodies to your small group of girls.

“Ladies!” Denki makes his way through security first, grinning broadly behind a pair of gaudy Versace sunglasses with his arms held wide in expectation of hugs. Ochaco humors him first, planting a barrage of kisses on his cheek, and you make a mental note to keep an eye on her.

Kirishima comes next, tumbling down next to you hard enough to bring a noisy creak from the booth that you can hear even over the music. His fingers rustle the top of your hair before making their way to the hem of your dress– your very short dress.

“This dress is hot,” he slurs in your ear, planting a slobbery, good-natured kiss on your cheek. “You’re hot!”

You greet him with a gentle pat on the head, settling easily into the familiar arm he throws over your shoulder. “Having fun?”

“Don’t we make a good-looking couple? I mean, come on,” Eijirou ignores you, yelling over the music to Denki with a—delayed—suggestive wiggle of his eyebrows. Denki barely considers him, waving him off in favor of the liquor on ice.

“You two were cuter back in school,” Denki finally scoffs, pouring up.

“I heard your tastes lean a bit pinker these days, anyway,” Ochaco says, reclining into Izuku’s arm with a wink.

Eijirou’s reaction is slow, dulled by the drinks, but comical. His red eyes widen, arm tightening defensively around your shoulders. Eijirou’s gaze darts to Mina, who—bless her—is oblivious and fussing over Sero’s collar.

“She told you?”

“She didn’t have to,” you laugh, rubbing a reassuring hand on Eijirou’s forearm. “You really thought it was a secret?”

“It was supposed to be,” Eijirou grumbles, barely audible over the thumping bass. He settles into the couch beside you, crossing his arms in a pout unbecoming of a man of his musculature. It only makes you laugh harder, snuggling into his side.

“Eiji—”

“Shitty secret.” Ah, there he is. You try your hardest to be entirely unreactive to his arrival, but contrary to custom, Bakugou breaks first, eyes locking in on you almost instantly as he takes his seat. His sustained gaze is enough for you to justify a slow once-over; a simple black button-up clings to the curve of his well-built muscle, making his hair look brighter, his eyes look redder, his scowl look meaner. Black always suited him, an appropriately intense color for a personality like his. He looks good— really good. Annoyance flares inside of you at the realization.

Eijirou whines out something to the effect of disappointment without surprise, but it’s clear Bakugou isn’t listening. He accepts the glass of bubbles Mina pushes into his hand without so much as a grunt of irritation, his eyebrows lifting in an indistinct reaction when they catch on the short hem of your dress. When he leans forward, elbows to knees, you feel your body’s unwarranted reaction zipping through your nerve endings like fire catching, little burns lighting you up from temple to fingertip.

“What’s your problem, Blasty?” Denki laughs, addressing the obvious staredown between the two of you. “Got butterflies?”

“Dress,” Bakugou coughs out around a mouthful of champagne, flicking calloused fingers at you in a display of insouciance.

“Please don’t start,” Mina begs, nestling into the cushion on the other side of Eijirou. “We’re celebrating!”

“What about it?” You ignore her, sitting up out of Eijirou’s warmth to draw the length of your torso out, the hem of your little black number climbing yet another dangerous inch up your thighs. If your legs weren’t crossed politely at the ankle, strappy heels resting on one another, you have no doubts that Bakugou would be able to see the unsubtle color of your g-string. Hell, he still might.

Bakugou rises to the carefully constructed choreography you two have assembled over the years, tilting his head thoughtfully. “Makes you look…” he trails off, squinting at you.

“Hot?” You supply sweetly, dragging a hand down your thigh.

“Easy,” Bakugou corrects, a cruel smirk melting over his face like butter. Izuku cries out in protest, landing a heavy hand on Bakugou’s shoulder to scold him. Eijirou hurries to pull you back into his side when you scoot forward, teeth bared; Mina’s arm darts out to corral you before you can deliver what would have been an artfully crafted insult about Bakugou’s lack of length downstairs.

“We’re celebrating,” Mina seethes, elbow digging into the hollow of your throat. Her lethal eyes lock on Bakugou, who’s still grinning smugly. “Whether you like it or not, Number 9.”

You’re still debating the merit of dumping your vodka soda over Bakugou’s stupid, blond-tufted head when Mina’s words settle in. Number 9. Bakugou’s grin has dropped, and he’s staring at you intently, seemingly waiting for you to acknowledge the news. Even he doesn’t look like he knows how he wants you to react, face eerily neutral but a clear flush of pink rising to his cheeks. 

“Number nine?” It sounds hollow when you repeat it, even amongst the racket of Denki half-heartedly trying to organize a toast.

“Congratulations to the—” hiccup, “—best of us knuckleheads to come out of UA!”

“Except you,” Ochaco sings to Izuku, planting a kiss on his cheek. You can only make out her words because there’s a ringing that’s begun to shake in your ears, and you’re simply watching her glossy mouth curl around the words inches from his freckled cheeks. Your chest feels incredibly tight.

“Top ten today, top five tomorrow!” Eijirou crows, crashing his flute against Denki’s with nearly enough force to break the glass.

“Number nine!” Sero echoes, smiling lazily.

“The top ten?” You finally find the presence of mind to mouth to Mina, who shakes her phone at you meanfully amongst the chaos of Denki’s toast.

minnie<3: i wasn’t even positive that they were coming…

me: you still could’ve told me!?!? #9???

minnie<3: email went around the agency this morning!!! you didn’t see?

The answer is redundant enough that you lock your phone and shove it back under your bare thighs, glaring at Mina. Obviously not.

Bakugou’s still staring at you over the rim of his champagne like you’re some indecipherable language, and it’s making your skin crawl with heat. Kirishima’s beginning to notice, you realize with a flare of panic, as he’s tilting his head at Bakugou questioningly, but it’s all rendered moot when the cocktail waitress appears with a tray of sickeningly green shots.

“We didn’t order those!” Mina shouts over the music.

“They were sent over as a gift!” The waitress responds brightly, passing out the little glass jars.

“What are they?” Ochaco eyes hers disdainfully, grimacing when Denki throws his back without question.

“A round of our ‘toxic sludge’ shots to celebrate the Great Explosion Murder God Dynamight!” The waitress ignores Bakugou’s embarrassed snarl at the mention of his former full hero name. “Courtesy of a friend.”

She gestures vaguely to the packed bar and darts off to attend to the other needy patrons in her section before any of you can ask her to elaborate. The pointed name of the shot doesn’t go unnoticed, all of you exchanging wary glances as Bakugou scoffs and pours his shot into the ice bucket in the center of the table without a word. Sero stands and cranes his neck over the crowd. Denki hops up beside him, still half-smiling, before a nervous expression of realization overtakes his cheery countenance. You stand, despite Eijirou’s attempts to tug you back down by your wrist. You’re perhaps overly aware of Bakugou’s crimson eyes tracking your movements as you step gingerly around the small table cluttered with glasses, coming to the barrier separating your private table from the rest of the club.

You really should have expected this, but there’s still a melancholy note of surprise that rings through you when you meet Neito’s eyes across the crowd. The surprise fizzles out into anger when he raises his shot in a toast, identical in color to the ones that have just arrived at your table.

“Fucking Monoma,” Sero hisses, flipping the bird across the busy room. Neito places a hand over his heart in feigned pain, then blows you a sickly kiss. Your stomach churns.

“Are you kidding?” Izuku’s eyes narrow.

“Of course not–”

“Copy-Paste sent these? What a bitch,” Bakugou says irritably, and you really do commend him for not bringing the building down. Maybe he is maturing after all, though his cheeks still redden while he rolls his eyes. You, however, have had just enough to drink to feel your temper rear its ugly head, tossing your clutch back on the couch behind you.

“I’m going to say something,” you say suddenly, surprising even yourself as you start to shoulder past Denki and Sero.

Mina reacts first. “No. No way are you going over there.”

“Yes I am, Mina, this is fucked–”

“I agree. No shitty-ex-boyfriend showdowns tonight.” Sero wraps a firm arm around your waist, but pauses when you glare up at him.

“Do I need to turn the heat up in that big head of yours, Hanta?” You aren’t sure what about the gesture has you running this hot, you can tell you’re overreacting. You can even feel your quirk slipping away from you– Denki’s vodka soda is starting to steam. “Move.”

Sero thinks twice about grappling with you in this state, and steps aside, fielding multiple alarmed protests from around the group as you stomp past him. You can even hear Bakugou swear under his breath as you duck under the red velvet rope and past security, shoving through the crowd with an impressive speed, spurred on by your anger.

While Hitoshi, who you’ve belatedly realized is standing next to him, widens his eyes at your approach, Neito seems unsurprised to see you. The easy, expectant grin that spreads over his face only ramps your temper up further, and you narrow your eyes at the cocktail in his hand, turning it to a solid block of ice just to piss him off. Neito only chuckles, setting it on the bar behind him and holding his arms out, as if you were running to him for a hug.

“Sweetness! How are you?”

“Don’t fuck with me, Neito,” you snap, pressing your manicured finger up against the buttons through the center of his shirt. “That was beyond immature.”

“Jesus Christ,” Hitoshi moans quietly, one palm coming up to cover his face in shame. “I told you not to–”

“To whom?” Neito tilts his head, his smile growing. “Don’t tell me you ran over here with your claws out because I made a little joke at Dynamight’s expense.”

You blink, momentarily stunned. You want to tell him that that’s ridiculous, but he’s…right. Embarrassingly so. Neito’s eyes flicker over your face, all the sick satisfaction he’s getting from calling your bluff showing plainly on his features.

“Did you go running from my bed into Dynamight’s? I am surprised—”

“No,” you cut him off sharply, regaining your composure. “This isn’t about Bakugou, and, to be clear, I’m not sleeping with him, before you leak that rumor to the tabloids.”

You turn your gaze to Hitoshi, glaring at him and raising your eyebrows to imply that your unspoken threat extends to him too. Hitoshi, never a fan of you and Neito’s spats, simply holds his hands up in a show of innocence, turning back to the woman he’d been talking to.

“Right, right. Still not the fondest of bedfellows, then?”

You take a deep breath to settle your quirk. It’s twitching beneath your fingertips, the urge to grab his frozen cocktail, boil it, and throw it straight in his smug face. You’ve dated some unsavory characters, but god, Neito has to have been your worst decision yet.

“When I ended things, I gave you strict instructions not to interact with me again.”

“Like I said, the drinks were a gift for Bakugou.” Neito gives you that look again, the one you loathe that feels like he’s picking you apart faster than you can put your defenses up. “So sweet of you to come celebrate his big night.”

“Mina tricked me,” you mutter, inadvertently losing that exchange with your flimsy excuse. “When I told you to leave me alone, that went for my friends too, asshole.”

“You look beautiful,” Neito murmurs, reaching up to brush his knuckles against your cheek. You flinch hard, and your face twists into an ugly scowl.

“Stay the hell away from us, alright? Before you start something you can’t finish.” You turn your back on him, ripping your arm free from his attempt to grab your wrist. Just before you disappear back into the mass of bodies that separates you from your section, you hear Neito’s last comment.

“Right, run back to your best friend, Bakugou.”

You brush his words off with an angry huff, throwing your shoulder ahead of you into the crowd. You intentionally take a moment to get lost in the masses, not necessarily wanting to return to your friends so soon after the confrontation with Neito. Don’t tell me you ran over here with your claws out and your panties bunched because I made a little joke at Dynamight’s expense. You chew on your lip as you weasel through the people around you, mulling it over in your head. Sure, you can tell yourself that it was just leftover animosity from the breakup, but that was months ago, and you weren’t even that upset. Was it really over Bakugou? Then again, you could just be a live wire because of what it means now that Bakugou’s reached the top ten. A conversation from your last semester of high school threatens to bring itself to the forefront of your memory, but you shake it off as the security guard lets you back into the bottle service section. He probably doesn’t even remember.

“There you are!” Mina tugs you back into the plush leather cushion with a sigh of relief. “What happened?”

You shrug, feigning nonchalance and avoiding Bakugou’s inquisitive gaze. “I told him the fuck off. I told him to leave me and you guys alone months ago.”

“Pretty bad-ass.” Denki raises his glass across the circle, draining yet another cocktail.

“He’s the worst,” Ochaco commiserates, still tucked snugly against Izuku, who nods.

“Let’s just forget about it,” Izuku says cheerfully, brushing aside the half-empty shot glasses and reaching for his champagne again. “We’re partying with a top-ten hero, aren’t we?”

Notwithstanding that the top ten hero in question is more of a homebody than anything else, you all cheer and raise your glasses, happy to put the incident behind in favor of having a fun night. You set your resolve to try at least, to put the bullshit with Neito in the back of your mind and not let your temper dredge forward into the rest of what could honestly be a fun evening, but the look Bakugou sends you practically makes your blood run cold.

Amongst the joyful cheering of “Top 10! Top 10!” around you, Bakugou’s jaw is set, tension burrowed into each sharp angle of his face. His eyes drag up your body, from your heels to your ankles and further, pausing momentarily at the soft fold of one thigh over the other. When your eyes finally connect, your friends’ obnoxious chanting fades to the background. It’s pointed– the carmine eyes locked on you tell you exactly what you hoped wasn’t true. The breath leaves your chest; he does remember that conversation all those years ago. Vividly, if the leisurely pace of his gaze on your skin is anything to go by.

It’s hard to shake it, but you try valiantly, leaning back into Mina and Eijirou’s little bubble on the couch, exchanging tidbits of gossip and increasingly slurred grievances about the rising costs of hero insurance. Denki brings a handful of girls up from the crowd, enthusiastic fans who are more than happy to drape themselves over the single heroes in the group and put some distance between you and Bakugou. Bakugou bristles when Denki tosses a bubbly blonde in his direction, but for the most part, he takes it on the chin, even letting her perch on his knee. You’re stupid enough to raise an eyebrow, a snarky comment rising in your throat, but the smirk Bakugou shoots you over her shoulder shuts you up. Does he plan on cashing in? Like, actually?

“Give me your phone,” you blurt, reaching for Mina. Still mostly caught up in her blatantly flirty conversation with Eijirou, she hands it over wordlessly, batting her eyelashes and giggling at whatever joke he’s made. You ignore them both, opening her messages and clicking on the most recent conversation.

pomeranian: Y’all are at Drop? Don’t know if we’re coming but Ei’s asking.

mina: yessssss!! we’re in a booth under my name, just ask security.

pomeranian: The girls are with you?

mina: you know it

pomeranian: Is she there?

mina: sighhhhhh yes ur nemesis is here but play nice, we’re celebrating YOU!! see u later don’t let denki pass out yet

You read the conversation several times, blinking your false lashes rapidly as it all sinks in. Bakugou made sure you would be here. You flick your eyes up to where his all-powerful hand is resting on the small of the woman’s back, present enough to feign interest but not low enough to suggest anything. Not for certain. A stray, green spotlight illuminates the spread of his scarred fingers over her dress, and your breath catches in your chest at the span of his fingers, the breadth of his palm. It’s all too much, suddenly.

“I’m going to the bathroom,” you mutter to Mina, tossing her phone on the couch.

“What?” That gets her attention; she sits up away from Eijirou, gently wrapping pink fingers around your hand. “Are you good?”

“Yeah,” you say with a tight smile, picking up your clutch and—of course—dropping it in your haste. “Shit.”

“I got it!” Eijirou practically dives to the floor to scrabble your lip glosses and tampons back into your bag, understanding his role in the situation immediately as he gives you and Mina a quick, private moment over his spine.

“What’s up?” Mina hisses, eyes flicking back and forth between you and the guest of honor. “Bakugou?”

“He asked you if I would be here.” You try to keep the accusation out of your voice, but everything’s beginning to peak in your chest. The drinks are too strong in your bloodstream, the lights are too low in some places and too bright in others, there’s a handprint embedded in your mind. Mina chews the inside of her cheek.

“I guess I didn’t think about it, I don’t know. Is something going on? Besides,” she pauses, glancing at Bakugou over your shoulder, “the usual, I mean.”

It isn’t Mina’s fault. She only knows the carefully crafted story, the same as the rest of your friends. A historic rivalry, not one with the grandeur of Deku and Dynamight, of course, but a more personal one. A private rivalry that started in your first year of UA and developed into something dark, something with teeth, with a tongue. She doesn’t know about the conversation, or about the gradual fall of the unlikely dominoes that had set the scene, the night that lit the match. You take a deep breath, exhaling through your nose.

“No,” you say firmly, taking your bag from Eijirou. “I just need to, like, decompress. I have my phone.”

“Want me to come?” Mina tries, but you’re shaking your head, backing away from her with an unsteady smile and mouthing something about how you’re totally fine. Right.

You don’t dare turn to see if Bakugou notices your hasty escape, wiggling past the security guard again and beelining down the miraculously clear path towards the VIP bathroom. Your phone’s already buzzing frantically in your clutch, likely Mina and Ochaco firing off round after round of urgent texts trying to puzzle out your sudden departure, drawing even more attention to you at the exact moment you need it least. The VIP bathroom is strangely, blessedly empty, except for the bathroom attendant. She greets you kindly, but your breath is coming fast.

“Can I– can I just have water? And, like, a quick second alone?”

“A second?” She frowns as she hands you the paper cup, and tilts her head, realization blooming over her face. She’s a pretty girl, younger than you, but not by much. An excited smile brings dimples to her cheeks. “Wait, aren’t you–”

“Yes,” you answer breathlessly, forcing a gracious smile. “Yes. It’s so nice to meet you, and I’d be happy to talk more, but I really need a favor.” The girl nods eagerly, and you feel like such a dick pulling the celeb card, but really. You need a favor. “Can you just stand outside and guard the bathroom for a minute? I just really, really need to be alone.”

“Got it,” she says with a determination that rivals that of your fellow pros in the field. “Anything else?”

“No, no. Thank you so much, it’ll just be a sec.”

She nods again, stepping out through the door and telling you to take all the time you need. You really should get her name, put in a good word for her with the promoter or something. A shaky hand brings the cup to your lips, and some overly fragrant flavored water wets your lips. It isn’t enough.

You give in to the natural urge of self-critique as a form of self-soothing and approach the mirror, picking at various pieces of your hair and popping the cap off your eyeliner as the dreaded memory surfaces, bobbing along your consciousness like it was doomed to the moment you heard Number 9. The morning after your graduation party comes rushing back to you, and it’s almost embarrassing how clearly you can recall the morning sun bleeding through a crack in Bakugou’s shuttered blinds, the angry green numbers of his alarm clock, the ridiculously high thread count sheets you woke up tangled in. You recall the shock, the dawning horror of the weight of the arm over your waist. It was two weeks after your eighteenth birthday, and you hadn’t yet developed any ability whatsoever to hold your liquor. The very first time you let your guard down, you woke up in Katsuki Bakugou’s dorm room.

The nervous bite you plant in the palm of your hand leaves an indent in the skin, not dissimilar to the bruises Bakugou had left on you all those years ago. You stare in the mirror at the spot on your neck that had been purple the next day, the bruise Mina had poked that you’d blamed on a drunken make out with Shinsou, Bakugou glowering at you all the while from across the table. You remember parts of the hook up itself; you were both still nervous teens, sexual experience severely limited by a grueling training schedule, a literal war, and your self-imposed relegation to the same friend group since your first year. Bakugou’s shaky hands stroking softly down the backs of your thighs as you’d straddled him, the tentative press of your lips against his collarbone as he spread your legs, the tentative, disbelieving laugh you’d shared when it was all over. And then the morning after…

You shimmy your shoulders thoroughly, forcing yourself to see you in the mirror instead of the knock-kneed girl trying to cover her hickeys with concealer and steel her way through her first round of sidekick interviews. You pull your phone from your purse, wincing at the amount of notifications.

ocho!!: where’d u go??? did bkg say smth?

minnie<3: do i need to come check on u?

minnie<3: i’m worried

eiji: please text mina back if you see this ;p

ocho!!: was it monoma???

deku: Ochaco would like you to text her back. Thank you!

minnie<3: bkg asking where u went..

ocho!!: bakugou is asking after u…?????

minnie<3: if u don’t text me back rn one of us is coming after u

You sigh, firing off a quick text that you’re fine, lying about a line at the restroom and insisting you’ll be back soon. That’s that.

“It was years ago,” you say to the mirror, voice echoing through the empty stalls. God, you hope that the attendant isn’t right outside the door. “It was years ago. You’re being crazy. No way he remembers. No way.”

The effect is small, but talking to yourself aloud is silly enough to shake some of the nerves from you, and you let out an awkward giggle to yourself. Right, you are being crazy– it was a high school hook up for god’s sake, and—

“Let me in that fucking door right now, or I’m going to set you to the side and blow it off the hinges.”

You’d recognize that voice anywhere, especially with that tone.

“Bakugou!” you practically shriek as you throw the bathroom door open to find a worrisome scene: Bakugou in all his terrifying, Dynamight glory, towering over the bathroom attendant who’d so kindly allowed you to hole up in the bathroom on your own. There’s a short line of glamorously dressed women behind him, looking at him with some confusing combination of fear and attraction on their faces. You get it, honestly. “What in god’s name are you doing?”

“There you are.” Bakugou settles back into himself with frightening ease, looking you up and down like he’s inspecting you for injuries. He frowns. “What’s the matter with you?”

“With me?” You scowl back at him, taking the fearful bathroom attendant under your arm. It’s usually easy to separate the Dynamight that you can count on to pull you out of a pile of rubble and the Bakugou that you can count on to “accidentally” knock your drink into your lap when you’re getting hit on, but not when he’s like this. His forearms are practically bulging from the cuffed sleeves of his shirt, eyes bright and narrow like he’s on site at work. He’s intimidating by design, but beautiful by happenstance. Your bathroom pep talk flies out the window.

“I told him you needed a second,” she says warily, eyes flickering between you and Bakugou. Bakugou rolls his eyes, but you’re genuinely impressed she was willing to go toe to toe with Dynamight over you. You absolutely need to find out this girl’s name when you’re done dealing with the obvious blond problem in front of you.

“Fifteen minutes is a lot more than a second–”

“I’m so, so sorry, he’s an idiot. No social skills,” you cut him off, turning to her apologetically. You can feel Bakugou’s frown deepening in offense, but you ignore him.

“It’s okay,” she says, shooting Bakugou a look so scathing you have to stifle a chuckle. “Do you still need me to hold the bathroom?”

“No–”

“Yes,” Bakugou says at the same time. All the women in line groan in exasperation, and he turns his angry face to them, causing a few to blanche. “Oh, fuck off. Go piss in the men’s room.”

“We don’t need the bathroom,” you hiss at him, grabbing him by the wrist to tug him closer to you. “Why are you making a scene?”

“I need to talk to you without all these fucking extras eavesdropping,” he spits back, gesturing wildly at the line of women you’re attempting to usher towards the restroom.

“Speak to– w-why?” you splutter, looking up at him in surprise.

Bakugou scoffs, returning to his full height and looking around until his eyes find purchase on a red emergency exit sign. He mutters about you being so damn difficult under his breath, but takes your hand none-too-gently anyway, tugging you towards the exit until you’re bathed in the erratic lights of the city at night, feeling the breeze lick mercilessly at your bare legs. Once he’s dragged you outside, Bakugou simply drops you, leaning against the dirty brick with his arms crossed over his chest and staring at you accusingly. Your patience thins.

“You’ve got some nerve, Bakugou. What was that?” You cross your arms right back at him, trying to play it off as if you’re not just trying to shield yourself against the cold. He’s unrepentant, brushing your question off.

“Why are you holing up in the bathroom like some freak in the middle of a party? You’re acting like fucking Icy Hot.”

“I just needed a second,” you grit out, scowling. “What about that is so hard?”

“What freaked you out? Your shitbag ex say something?” He’s watching you as he speaks, as if the furrow between your brows can be decoded somehow if he stares at it long enough, as if you’re hiding a secret in the irritated tapping of your index finger against your bare arm.

“Nothing,” you say harshly, rubbing your arms up and down your shoulders. “Can we be done here? It’s freezing–”

Bakugou levels an irritated glare at you. “I’ve seen you boil a man alive. You’re a pro, figure it out.”

You bite into your lip, embarrassed, and take a moment to close your eyes. Adjusting the temperature of your own blood, especially to a minute degree, is tricky business, and landed you in the recovery ward more than once back in school. You’ve mastered it now, as he knows, just with a bit of concentration. Bakugou waits impatiently.

“Okay,” you breathe, taking him in. He really is gorgeous like this, angry and hot to the touch and easy to admire in a way you don’t let yourself do often. You miss the hope you had that night, the hope garnered when gentle hands touched you and you let yourself think there was more to him than what he let you see. “Spit whatever’s on your mind out already. Clearly you want to be out here for a while if you’re making me work for it.”

Bakugou smirks, but his heart’s not in it. He’s tense, you realize belatedly, and that makes your stomach drop. “Depends.”

“On?”

“Do you know what today is?”

Your heart stops. You dodge. “Sunday.”

Bakugou scowls at you. “Don’t play stupid. Doesn’t suit you.”

He’s skirting dangerously close to giving you a compliment, so you bite. “Today is the day the hero rankings were updated for the year.”

“Right.” Bakugou nods. He pushes off the wall, not coming closer, exactly, but he’s standing unsupported now. Your breath catches in your chest. “I moved up.”

“Three spots,” you agree, trying very hard not to appear affected and mostly failing. He’s the one with his back to the wall, but you feel cornered as you watch the way his hands flex around his sizable biceps. 

“I’m in the top ten now,” Bakugou says bluntly. He takes a step forward this time, and you step back in turn, wincing when your body involuntarily admits your weakness.

“I know.” Your voice sounds labored. Bakugou takes notice, tilting his head curiously.

“You said something to me,” he finally blurts, face unreadable, “years ago. You remember?”

You swallow thickly. You’re back in his dorm room, the last morning he would ever spend in it, screaming at him like you weren’t wearing his shirt.

“Of course no one can know,” Bakugou spits, running a hand through his sleep-addled hair. “Especially not Ei.”

“We broke up two months ago,” you bite back, scowling.

“I’m his best. Friend,” Bakugou growls, pointing at himself. The fact that this particularly fucked situation is probably the only context he’d ever admit that out loud makes you roll your eyes.

“I don’t even know what I was thinking–”

“Don’t sit there on your fuckin’ high horse.” Bakugou’s in your face before you can think, that slightly crooked finger now pointed accusingly at your chest. “You were down my throat before I could say no.”

“Oh?” Your temper flares, and you’ve got an identical finger pointed between the meeting of his collarbones, face scrunched. “You were the one who left these on my neck! What do you have to say for yourself when I’m sitting here looking like I slept with a horned up vampire?”

“Bad judgment call,” Bakugou hisses.

You can feel the humiliating crumble of your face, the way your body suddenly flinches away from him. There’s a moment, a brief, thunderous moment when you can see regret flicker in his eyes, when his jaw stutters almost like an apology is clawing at his teeth. It’s too late, anyhow. You have one of those irreparable wounds now, the ones you hear your non-hero friends talk about in your increasingly sparse conversations about their boyfriends. It’s deep, down in your gut. Bad judgment call.

“Fuck you,” you whisper, backing away from him and scraping your bra off the floor. “Fuck you.”

“Again?” Bakugou quirks an eyebrow, and if you had any more years of experience, you’d see the guilt staining his cheeks red, you’d hear the rasp coloring his sarcasm the wrong shade of blue. You’re young, though, and vicious to boot.

“I’m glad I got it out of the way, actually,” you say, voice low and venomous. Bakugou’s eyebrows lift, and you relish in his surprise, ready to jab the knife in deep while he’s belly-up. “It’s a relief to find out you’re such a disappointment.”

Bakugou almost stumbles. He sways, and that’s enough. His face contorts, ugly and angry and maybe even a little fearful. You don’t care; you’re too busy gathering your dress off the floor and stifling tears.

He finally regains his composure, scoffing at you. “We’ll see about that when you come crawling back for more.”

“Over my dead body.”

“Liar,” Bakugou says through gritted teeth. You’ll wonder later if he’s trying to take a shot at you, or himself.

“Okay, fine.” You stand up, eyes blazing and hands full of the clothes he’d slowly stripped you of not eight hours ago. “The day you make the top 10. That’s when I’ll come ‘crawling back’.”

Bakugou coughs out a laugh, the usual cocky mask he wears settling into place with what appears to be conscious effort. “Yeah? Hope your schedule’s clear next year, princess.”

“Oh, I’m not worried about it,” you scoff, reaching for the door handle. “It’ll never. Fucking. Happen. Good luck, asshole.”

It strikes you again how damning it is that you remember the entire exchange, word for word. So much life has taken place between then and now. You’re two capable pro heroes now, signed to your respective agencies. Bakugou—Dynamight, you unwittingly correct yourself—dove between you and a nasty shot from a villain’s quirk just last week. You (against the half-decent advice from your PR agency) forced yourself close enough to boil a villain that was inches away from putting a knife through Dynamight’s jugular last year. It made global headlines, good and bad. You’ve both got apartments, an entire space where you live your day to day life that the other has never seen. You’ve dated other people, you’ve been reported on, you’ve done the motions. You both made it, and in the background, the day you swore would never come approached, quietly and lethally. You blink at Bakugou.

“I remember.” Your voice is shaky, and you force yourself to look away.

“It happened.” There’s a sobering lack of smugness in his voice. You hadn’t even noticed him coming closer, too lost in your reverie, and now, when you glance up, he’s close enough to bite. “Top ten.”

“I know,” you say, wishing he would just get to the point, give you anything to move forward with. Bakugou’s eyes are unreadable as he glares down at you.

“You promised me something.” It seems like it takes effort for him to say it, his breath moving heavy in his chest. You hadn’t dared to think he might be as on edge as you, but there’s questionable evidence. “But I don’t take consolation prizes.”

He knows you too well. Your hair-trigger temper kicks behind your ribs, determined to hold onto your pride, even if it’s with white knuckles. You frown at him determinedly. “I’m a big girl. We made a bet.”

Bakugou angles his head down, coming close enough to really look at you. Despite your longstanding intolerance for one another, you work together often, something from your agencies about how good the obvious friction is for your media profiles. More than that, your quirks actually work nicely in tandem, and sometimes, your ability to predict his movements, to rely on the familiarity you have with the subtleties of his body, is the only thing that saves you from an early grave. It’s habit for you to watch him, something as bone deep as knowing when to take your next breath.

He still moves like the apex predator he is, ungodly muscles strung taut as a bow beneath that pretty dress shirt, but you’re so close you can see the gold of his chain glinting in the low light with the movement of his labored breath. You shiver when he cuffs his fist, drags war-worn knuckles along the length of your bare arm. Goosebumps appear in the wake of his touch as his breath warms your forehead.

“Still cold?” His voice is gravelly when he speaks, knotted behind his Adam’s apple. You swallow thickly, but steel your resolve. 

“Nope.” 

You hold his gaze, getting the distinct impression that he’s testing you for something. You want to pass whatever arbitrary test he’s putting you through, and you immediately kick yourself at how easily he’s got you rolling over. In your defense, Bakugou is truly a sight to see up close: the sharp angle of his jaw, the elegant slope of his nose, the intensity of his crimson eyes.

Bakugou leans down ever so slightly, ghosts his lips over your temple. You can smell the burnt sweetness of his quirk, thinly veiled by his cologne. Your breath is caught in your chest, every muscle locked. You’ve had calmer moments staring down the barrel of a gun.

“I’m not going to pretend like I don’t want this,” Bakugou speaks quietly, “but I don’t want it if you have to pretend like you do.”

You think for a moment, throat constricting around your ego as you force it down. You wince when your words hit the air, airy and all-too-telling.

“I won’t have to pretend.”

Bakugou stiffens, nods silently. When he takes a step back from you—and you release a breath so massive it’s humiliating—his eyes are unreadable, but the corner of his mouth quirks up.

“S’that why you wore that fucking cocktail napkin?” Bakugou gestures at your dress vaguely, grinning in anticipation of your reaction. It’s whiplash to go from admitting to Bakugou that you actually would very much enjoy fucking him to him insulting you, but it’s familiar. Your face screws up in a scowl.

“Are you going to be this big of a dick throughout this entire process?”

The accidental double entendre makes you frown harder, and Bakugou barks out a laugh. It breaks the tension, if anything, so you let it slide, chuckling along with him.

“Probably.” He shrugs, looking you up and down with far less subtlety now that he knows he’s got the green light. You try to look like you aren’t enjoying it, foot tapping impatiently.

“It’s still my big night,” he finally says, gesturing towards the door and not even trying to hide how smug he looks. “Come help me celebrate?” 

All you can do is scoff, half of the magic of the prior moment gone and the other half pooling hot and molten between your hips.

“Just be subtle, please,” you sneer, mostly to cover up how obviously flustered you are. You stomp ahead of him before he can put you back under whatever godforsaken spell he’d just managed, heels wobbling under your hard steps.

The atmosphere of the club is unwelcome to your frayed senses, the bass thudding through the walls almost makes you wince. The sweet bathroom attendant waves excitedly at you when you walk past, and you offer her a wave back and a mouthed word of thanks, unable to stifle the laugh that comes flying out of you when she scowls at Bakugou.

“Not making any new fans, I see,” you say over your shoulder, alarmed when you realize just how hot on your heels Bakugou is. He presses a warm hand to your hip to guide you through the crowd, and you bite deeply into your lip to suppress the gasp he wouldn’t be able to hear.

“She has shitty taste in heroes, anyway.” Bakugou grins wickedly when you turn around mid-stride to glare at him, pressing harder against your back to urge you forward. Your heart thuds in your throat as you have the silent march back to the table to ruminate on just what you’re in for— you’re going to spend the night between Bakugou’s sheets. Bakugou, your most consistent hero partner and the bane of your personal life. Your stomach rolls in anticipation.

“Welcome back!” Kirishima shouts with a smile that’s almost believably oblivious, red eyes flitting between you and Bakugou suspiciously.

“Are you okay?” Mina and Ochaco ask simultaneously, the latter of the two pulling you into her lap. You pause, glancing at Bakugou, who nods ever so slightly.

“I think so,” you say weakly, putting on an air of exhaustion as your nerves buzz beneath your skin, far too conscious of Bakugou’s intense gaze. “I feel really lightheaded. Maybe I’m coming down with something.”

“What?” Ochaco pouts, pressing the back of her hand to your forehead. “Oh, you do feel pretty warm, actually.”

You frown slightly before you remember— you haven’t turned your temperature back down since stepping outside. All the better then.

“Did you hit my vape? I have a press thing tomorrow!” Denki gasps, looking at the grape flavored bar in his hand like it’s burned him. You roll your eyes, waving him off.

“I think I just need some rest,” you say, wincing sheepishly at your friends. “Are you guys going to kill me if I call it a night?”

“Of course not.” Mina pats your hand, smiling so kindly at you that you can feel guilt spreading under the current of your nerves. “Do you need—”

“I’ll call a car,” Bakugou interrupts, bringing the rhythm of the group to a stuttering halt. The blonde that had enjoyed a prior residency on his thigh glances at her friends, disappointment in her smoky eyes. The annoyed glare she shoots at you makes the situation a little too real, and you snuggle into Ochaco’s shoulder to mask the tension on your face. Mina gapes at him. 

“What?”

“Car,” Bakugou emphasizes, scowling at her. “You want her to walk home? I’m leaving, anyway.”

“I guess not,” Ochaco says, looking between you both strangely. Your eyes widen ever so slightly in warning, but Bakugou’s unreadable, clicking away on his phone. Even Kirishima sits up, frowning.

“But Katsuki, bro, it’s your big night!”

“Yeah, and I came.” Bakugou rolls his eyes, putting his phone away. “I have an early patrol. Thanks for the bubbles.

“You’re…welcome?” Mina stutters, staring at you. “You’re good? You’re sure?”

“Yeah, I guess I’ll take whatever help I can get.” You’re on your feet now, more than ready to just get the hell out of here, even if the next location that awaits you is unthinkable. You aren’t sure when Bakugou became so bold; you’ve seen him pick up women before, always talking lowly in their ear with one of those damn hands pressed to the small of their back, granting them a rare smile in some dark corner away from your friends. Yet, here he is practically parading you out like a damn showhorse.

Goodbyes are exchanged with varying degrees of awkwardness; you hold no qualms that your friends aren’t observant enough to notice something is up, but that’s a tomorrow problem. You and Bakugou have experience building a cover story in the light of day, anyway. He doesn’t touch you as you walk before him, not even through the crowd. There’s a pointed absence there; you aren’t sure if you want him to put his hand back on your hip, your back, but you miss the warmth.

Bakugou ushers you both through a side door, smartly avoiding the path out through the front onto the sidewalk. God forbid the paparazzi get a shot of Entropy and Dynamight ducking out of the club. Early. Together. The side door spits you out in the garage, and in typical douchey, Bakugou fashion, a black Mercedes pulls up almost instantly. You almost have to stifle a laugh when Bakugou opens the door for you, glaring at the chauffeur when he tries to get out and do it himself.

The air inside the car is stifling. The seats are laid out so you and Bakugou sit on opposite sides of the SUV, facing each other. You hold your little clutch tightly in your lap, staring right back at Bakugou, whose eyes haven’t left you since the door shut. You tilt your head in the direction of the driver, raising an eyebrow.

“He works for me,” Bakugou says gruffly, understanding your question without needing to hear it. He shuffles around in the armrest next to him, producing two small bottles of water. He tosses one your way carelessly, cracking the lid of his own. “If you have something to say, say it.”

Charmer, you think, trying not to roll your eyes. “Where are we going?”

“My place,” Bakugou answers simply, bringing the bottle to his lips. It’s all very clinical, how suddenly you’ve ended up in the backseat of a car with him on the way to his mysterious apartment that he forbids any of you from visiting.

“Really?” You cross your arms over your chest, feeling very exposed in your little dress outside the forgiving darkness of the club. Bakugou’s eyes dart to your thighs briefly, but he brings them back to your face with enough speed that you don’t dare to call him out on it. You wonder how much of the spark you’d felt in the alley has carried into the car, skin still hot even as he’s several feet away from you. “Thought it was off limits?”

“What, you thought I was going to fuck you in the car and send you on your way?” Bakugou scoffs. The brashness of it catches in your throat, your eyes wide. It makes him smirk, how startled you are.

“No,” you spit back, trying to recover. This is familiar: Bakugou acting like a dick, and you digging your claws into him in return. “I didn’t really think about the logistics of this because I didn’t think it would ever happen.”

“I was ranked twelfth just last year,” Bakugou points out, still smirking at you. You have no retort, feeling just how inevitable this night always was sinking heavy in your stomach. You’re forced to concede, crossing your arms over your chest with a little huff and looking out of the window beside you.

The rest of the short ride passes in weighted silence. It turns out Bakugou doesn’t live that far from The Drop– you’re still in the middle of mentally cataloguing the various ways in which this is a terrible idea when you feel the car pausing to allow the arm of another parking garage to let you in. You look at Bakugou, eyebrows raised—this is a pricey district, after all—but he’s just looking out of the window, watching the concrete blocks of the underside of his home come into view.

The years have been kind to him– physically, at least. You can admit it within the private recesses of your mind: Bakugou is intimidatingly hot, so much so that it’s practically chafing against your skin. He looks like a fucking model, pretty red eyes cut sharply into the angular structure of his face, strong nose, high cheekbones, and god, the rare occasions he does smile can knock you on your knees if you’re not careful. That’s not even counting the musculature he’s packing below the neck. You try to swallow, but it gets stuck in your throat as the knowledge of what’s to come runs hot in your bloodstream. You’re actually going through with this.

Bakugou thanks the man curtly, passing a folded bill into the waiting hand over the driver’s seat. He opens his own door again, offering a hand to you to help you clamber out of the SUV. The elevator’s right there, and Bakugou presses the button, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye.

“You good?” He coughs lightly into his hand, still avoiding your eyes.

“What?” You hadn’t realized he’d actually been picking up on the quiet tension. It’s easier to imagine Bakugou as an uncaring ass, but you do know him, and you know how intuitive he is. You hope he can’t feel the anxiety rolling off you in waves.

“You’re quiet,” he says by way of explanation. When you pause, he grins a little. “Not saying I don’t like it, but it’s weird.”

You shove at him in an uncharacteristically playful manner, a bit of the tension bleeding out of you. He even gets a little laugh out of you, and your breath finally starts to come easier. “I’m not being weird, you asshole. This is weird.”

“Is it?” Bakugou hums, gesturing for you to step into the elevator when it arrives. You wish so badly Mina could be here to see this: Bakugou, the perfect gentleman, and you, his lovely leading lady. It’s hard not to laugh again as the doors close behind you.

“I didn’t think you remembered.” It’s a quiet admission when you let it leave you. It hangs in the stale air of the elevator, your breath caught in your chest as Bakugou considers it, eyeing you all the while as you travel upwards toward the inevitable. He leans against the opposite wall, crossing his arms over his chest and making his biceps bulge in a way that feels entirely unfair. The way he’s looking at you very abruptly concentrates all of your feelings into something…hot, moving slow through your veins. All that tension you’d felt behind the bar was nothing compared to this, this molten feeling pooling between your hips.

“Did you remember?” Bakugou tilts his head. You track the angle of his shoulder, the minute degree he’s lowered his jaw to.

“Yes,” you whisper, finding his eye contact more and more smothering by the second. You opt out, glancing up to the numbers increasing far too slowly as you travel up, floor by floor.

“Why wouldn’t I, then?” Bakugou’s harshness bleeds into his question, like he doesn’t understand why you’d think he’d forgotten. Seeing him now, in this light, seeing the impatience that’s growing more and more obvious in him, you don’t know why you thought that, either.

You’re bailed out of answering when the elevator doors finally ding open, letting you both out on the twenty-seventh floor. You try not to wobble on your heels as Bakugou lets you exit first, then takes the lead, digging in his pocket to find his keys. The doors are few and far between on this floor, suggesting large apartments. You almost regret what you’re here for; the prospect of being the boots-on-the-ground journalist to snoop through Bakugou’s apartment on behalf of your friends is almost as enticing as the idea of sleeping with him. When you reach his door, Bakugou pauses with the key in the lock to look at you, eyes sweeping over your face. He’s close, close enough that you can see something in his eyes, something you’ve never seen before and don’t have the language to define. It shoots through you like lightning, steals your breath.

“You good?” It’s your last out and you recognize it as such. The gaze he locks you in on is laser-focused, so intense that you have to consciously remember how to move your mouth when you respond.

“Open the door, Bakugou.”

Bakugou practically shudders when you address him directly, the first sign he’s starting to crack under the pressure, same as you. You have no idea what awaits you, positive that there’s been significant changes in the years since you laid under a nervous teenage boy, but you step forward, anyway. It’s time you admit to yourself that you’re curious, chomping at the bit, even.

Bakugou’s apartment is almost totally dark when you step in. The only light source is  an overly warm, almost orange lamp propped tastefully on a table that spans the length of the back of his couch. You don’t get the chance to pry too much due to the low lighting, likely by design, you think with a pang of annoyance. Bakugou’s surprisingly quick to back you against the wall, finally making use of the size advantage he has over you, the breadth of him caging you against the wall by his front door. The proximity should be startling, but you’re too ready for this to care; too many of the mental walls you have preventing this from sneaking into your most forbidden fantasies have already fallen.

“I…” Bakugou leans down, drags his nose along your cheek, “have been waiting for this. For fucking years.”

He doesn’t kiss you, not yet. He just lets his hands skirt over the skimpy fabric that’s serving as your last layer of protection. You’re beyond saving, you think, as you gasp, arching forward into his touch.

“Really?”

“Oh, yeah,” Bakugou says, as if it’s the most simple thing in the world. Your heart pounds in your throat, nipples pebbling against the thin, black cotton. His hands continue their maddening path, shaking with a tremor you’ve come to recognize from the field. It overtakes him when he’s rearing up for a good fight, usually alongside that vicious grin the magazines love so much. You’re dizzy. “Years of putting up with your ass, lettin’ you pick fights, talk shit to the press, but I knew you’d end up here eventually. Knew I’d earn it.”

You can feel the satisfaction in his voice, smooth as honey with a burn like liquor. Knew I’d earn it echoes around in your head with what should be alarming significance, but you can’t dig into it at the moment because the sharp smoke of his cologne has you leaning your chin up, inadvertently asking for him to kiss you. A slip of the hand, and your eyes widen. Bakugou chuckles under his breath, his hands finally coming to rest on your ribcage.

“You want it, too, huh?” Bakugou murmurs, fanning the flames of the humiliation raging in your chest. He taps your nose with his, letting you feel just how close his lips are. “You want me?”

The whispered yes hardly makes it past your mouth when Bakugou’s on you, licking into your mouth like he’s been waiting on it all night. He swallows your gasp easily, one hand coming to splay between your shoulder blades, shoving your chest flush to his. The other fists in the hair at the nape of your neck, keeping you tilted up to him so he can run his tongue along your teeth, nip at your lip. He’s incredible at this—of course he is—kissing the breath out of you until you’re practically mewling into his mouth, feeding the ego that has him grinning against you between kisses.

Your hands run over his arms, his shoulders, his chest, pressing your fingers greedily into each deep line that marks the curvature of his muscle. Bakugou’s body isn’t unfamiliar to you; you can’t count the number of times you felt his chest on your back during a narrow save, the number of times you’ve felt the pressure of his strength during a training exercise, but this— this is completely new. One of his thighs comes to press insistently between your legs, and it takes all the willpower in you to hold your hips back from rubbing yourself over the strong muscle you know to be there, the muscle you’ve felt for yourself in an entirely different context. When Bakugou pulls away, he takes a string of spit and a keening, whiny sound from you with him, panting as he looks down on you, hand still harshly fisted in your hair.

“Good?” Bakugou huffs, licking his lips. You’re too far gone now, words shooting out before you can stop yourself.

“Where’s your bedroom?” You’re embarrassingly out of breath. Bakugou cocks an eyebrow at you in surprise, and you’re not so far gone that you don’t roll your eyes at him. “If you’ve been waiting for this so damn long, I’m not going to give you the satisfaction of saying it was bad.”

Bakugou groans and laughs all at once, which is, unfortunately, devastatingly hot. He uses the hand in your hair to bring you close to him again, dropping down for another deep, harsh kiss. “Come on, then.”

Existing in a space in which most of the people you regularly interact with are superpowered freaks should mean you’re less surprised when Bakugou easily lifts you, but the squeak you let out is undignified to say the least. You lose one heel on the initial hoist it takes him to throw you over his shoulder, and the other is torn off by Bakugou and tossed carelessly to the side.

“Those were $600, you ass,” you seethe through your teeth, trying to bite back the butterflies swarming in your stomach as he carries you to his bedroom. You try to rationalize: Of course Bakugou can carry you, you’ve seen the guy bench 450 fucking pounds. It does nothing to quell the giddy, electric arousal zipping up and down your nerve endings.

“Well they better not leave a $600 mark on my wall,” Bakugou snips back, but you can hear the gravel in his voice. You aren’t sure what’s hotter: how absolutely insane this entire situation is, or how turned on by it he seems.

You wriggle in his grip until you can bend at the hip over his shoulder, completely abandoning your idea of using this as an opportunity to squint in the dark and make out anything about his apartment—torture devices, spiked furniture—in favor of sinking your teeth into the hard flesh of his hip. There’s barely enough give in the muscle for you to properly bite into it, but it makes Bakugou jump all the same.

“You little fucking– did you just bite me?”

You bite into your lip now, smug. “Hope that doesn’t leave a mark either, then.”

Bakugou practically kicks open the door he’s reached, and a dirty thrill runs down your spine as he carries you over the threshold of his bedroom and sets you down unceremoniously, hands steady on your hips to make sure you don’t wobble. He leans down to press his hot mouth back to yours, only moving his hands from you for a second to slick his shirt off. You let him press hot, open-mouthed kisses against your mouth even through the awkward movements of him wrangling the silk off his shoulders, keening into the kiss as he nips harshly at your bottom lip, payback that draws a breathy chuckle from you.

You want to keep playing with him as your confidence returns, pushing him, and you act boldly; one hand comes between his legs, palming over the bulge you find. Jackpot— Bakugou’s lips stutter against yours helplessly as a grunt from him breaks the rhythm of your kiss.

“Oh,” you simper, pulling away just enough to bat your eyes at him. “Having fun?”

“Yeah, you got me hard. Happy?” Bakugou says impatiently, but the heavy breathing in his chest takes the bite out of his words. You don’t respond, peppering a series of kisses along his jaw, down the strong column of his throat and over his Adam’s apple, humming under your breath when you feel his fingers tighten around the flesh of your hips.

You lean into the rush of it, the high of having a literal killing machine strung tight under the lightest touch you can manage. Before you know it, you’ve dropped to your knees before him, prompting a sound from him that’s somewhere between a guttural groan and a gasp of surprise.

“You don’t have to—”

“I’m going to,” you say simply, bringing one hand up to the button of his pants. You pause, and look up at him, biting your lip innocently. “Unless you don’t want me to?”

Bakugou practically rolls his eyes. “Yes— fuck, yeah, of course I want you to, but—”

“Then let me,” you say, your smile beginning to infect your voice as you work his fly open. He’s big, you can tell already as you rub gently over his boxer briefs, warm to the touch and so hard it feels like it hurts. “You earned it, right?”

The noise that escapes Bakugou this time is far closer to a whimper than you know he’d like to admit. 

It takes you one solid breath to muster the confidence to join Bakugou in the effort of ridding him of his slacks and underwear, but you can feel the saliva pool wantingly in your mouth when you return to your kneeling height only to be met with a face full of Bakugou’s cock. You almost want to groan at how much you hate this; of course he’s perfect. Red tip drooling for you, fat and weighty when you wrap your hand around it. A tentative pump of your fingers down the shaft has him grunting above you, and has you squeezing your thighs together, thanking your lucky stars you’d thought to go down on him.

You lick carefully at the head, eyes rolling back at the saltiness of his precum, how silky the skin here feels under your tongue. Your hesitance doesn’t last long; it only takes you a few moments to stick your tongue out fully, grabbing him by the base and rubbing the head over the flat surface of your tongue.

“Fuck, that’s hot,” Bakugou grits out, sounding almost panicked at how easily you’re plucking the control of the situation from him, string by string. You’ve been so occupied with his cock you almost forgot about the man attached to it, and you flick your eyes up towards him, eager to watch his undoing. What a sight you’re met with.

You want to commit it to memory, the image of Katsuki Bakugou—of Dynamight, even—completely undone above you. Bakugou’s head is lolled lazily on his neck, chin to the sky as deep breaths rock his core. His hands are uncharacteristically tentative as one pets over your hair, the other planted firmly on the wall behind you as he leans into the warmth of your mouth. His abs contract and shudder, skin twitching over steel muscle like a racehorse. Bakugou notices your pause and tilts his head down to take you in, one thick string of drool connecting your wet lips to his cock. He narrows his pretty eyes at you, smirking cruelly, and you think it’s cosmically unfair for someone to be this fucking attractive.

“You like watchin’?” He questions you softly, bringing his thumb to your lips.

You follow his cue and suck his finger in, moaning around it as the taste of burnt caramel greets you; his quirk, you realize. It’s mind-numbingly hot to have it in your mouth, the force of explosions powerful enough to level a city dripping down the back of your throat. Bakugou’s answering groan sounds pained, especially when he drags his thumb in and out of your mouth, massaging your tongue.

“You don’t know how many times I thought about you like this,” he confesses, pressing his thumb deep into your throat, testing for your gag reflex. “When I was some punkass teenager who got lucky enough to get into your pants, when we’re on patrol and you snap at me, watchin’ you run around with all those fucking extras you insist on dating.”

You can’t even gasp in surprise, too preoccupied with the hypnotic motion of Bakugou’s thumb still stroking slow and steady over your tongue. There’s a furrow between his brows as he watches you absorb the information, and a gratified upturn at the corner of his mouth when he realizes you’re choosing to keep his thumb in your mouth instead of smarting off to him. His smile widens, darkens, and you realize he’s slowly palming his cock beside your face, almost like he’s sizing you up next to it. The thought sends a fresh current of arousal rocketing through you.

“I could just take a picture.” Bakugou rubs his wet thumb over your cheek, almost lovingly, even as you let out an indignant squeak. He strokes his cock slowly in front of your face, fingers carding into your hair. “You want it?”

You nod eagerly, letting your jaw open wide in lieu of an answer. That’s all it takes for him to push forward into the soft, warm cavern of your mouth, stretching your kiss-swollen lips around the girth of his cock. You keep your eyes on him, watching as he lets his own jaw drop slightly, letting the sight of you, mouth stuffed with him, really settle in his mind. He’s not afraid to thrust forward into your throat, to tap the sensitive back and pull increasingly large gags out of you, one hand now fisted in your hair. You know him well enough to know he’s still taking it easy on you, but he seems to be enjoying finding your limits, see how far your body will allow him before you hunch over with a particularly harsh gag. He fucks into your mouth not roughly, but firmly, with a slow, pointed rhythm– you get the distinct impression that he’s less interested in the act itself than he is the fact that it’s you doing it, you perched on your knees and starting to let little moans eek out every time his cock kisses the back of your throat.

Drool is beginning to leak out of where you’re connected, collecting in a little puddle on the cliff of your chin and pouring in long strings over onto your chest, your dress, your knees. Bakugou’s free hand comes to swipe at the mess below where you’ve got his cock nestled firmly in your mouth, collecting some of your sticky, thick saliva on his fingers. When he brings his hand up to his mouth, sucking off the evidence of his cock in your mouth, you moan in earnest, eyes fluttering as you rub your thighs together wantonly. It’s so…depraved, so un-Bakugou the way you’ve always imagined him, and above all, it’s hot. Bakugou chuckles, letting his cock free from your throat with a lewd pop.

“Gettin’ lonely down there?”

You have to cough before you can answer, something that gratifies Bakugou endlessly if his face is anything to go by. “You seemed to be enjoying yourself.”

“Well, if I knew what that mouth could do, I would’ve stopped telling you to shut it years ago.”

You laugh dryly as Bakugou helps you to stand. Your gut instinct is to adjust your absolutely ruined hair, wipe your face, swipe at the eyeliner that’s surely bleeding down your cheeks, but Bakugou stops you with the look he gives you, grabbing you by the jaw.

“Don’t let it go to your head,” Bakugou says quietly, eyes flickering over your face as he smiles disbelievingly, “but you look so goddamn good like this. Even better than I imagined.”

Your momentary insecurity gets stuck in your throat, your entire body freezing as you watch him take you in. It’s a short moment, blessedly– Bakugou reaches around you and easily finds the zipper that holds your cocktail dress snug around your body, he hesitates for the shortest second, giving you one last chance to make the easy choice, to deny him access to your body and walk out, to call a car and wind up snug in your bed. You remain nestled firmly against him, shimmying subtly as if you’re asking him. As if you’re inviting him. Once your dress is in a puddle on the floor, it takes Bakugou no time to lift you by the waist, practically tossing you onto his bed. A giggle leaves you when you bounce, giddy and almost relieved to be shucked of your restrictive dress; the only thing that hides any part of you from him now is your g-string.

“Orange?” Bakugou cocks an eyebrow at you as he lays his strong body over yours, snapping the thin strap of your panties as he stretches himself out. Your cheeks heat, face scrunching indignantly.

“It’s peach. And it was a coincidence–”

Bakugou cuts you off with a sharp laugh. “Yeah, right. Little surprise just for me, more like.”

“Fuck you,” you hiss, trying to retain your dignity as one of his strong hands comes to palm the fat of your breast, thumb toying with your nipple. Bakugou grins, wide and unabashed.

“You’re about to,” he says, not waiting for your response before ducking down to drag his tongue roughly along the pebbled peak of your nipple, tearing a ragged gasp from you. “God, these fucking tits.”

You can’t formulate a proper response, pinned beneath him as he eagerly takes your nipple in his mouth, sucking harshly and pulling back to flatten his tongue and lick in earnest. His free hand wraps around your torso to find its former home between your shoulder blades, splaying wide and pushing you up to arch for him, forcing you to press your breasts into his face. His teeth sink into the fat underside of your breast as he sucks a dark bruise into the flesh, drawing a haggard moan from you. 

Satisfied, he switches sides. When his hand comes back around your body, you assume it’s to grab at the tit he’d just moved from, but it travels down your body, squeezing at your hip before finally coming to rest just over the orange fabric that’s quickly growing damp.

“Bakugou–” you gasp in surprise, even as your body betrays you, unintentionally twitching up towards his touch. Bakugou shoots you a look, even as his teeth are gently clamped around your nipple.

“Little formal,” he grumbles, properly pressing two fingers down against your panties. You’re soaked, you can feel it in proper when he presses the fabric into you, rubbing little circles over your clothed clit.

“K-Katsuki.” Your brain protests, the natural instinct of a decade of dealing with Bakugou threatening anyone who uses his given name, anyone but Kirishima, anyway. To your surprise—and satisfaction—a deep groan rumbles through Bakugou’s frame when you stutter his name out; he rewards you by slipping his fingers beneath your underwear, sliding them through your wet folds eagerly. You choke on a moan, one hand darting to lock itself around his wrist– you don’t know if you mean to move his hand away, or pull it closer.

“Too much?” Bakugou—Katsuki—murmurs, kissing his way up your chest to lick up your neck, nip at your jawline. Your fingers wrapped desperately around his wrist do nothing to deter his slow, steady movements between your legs; you always forget just how damn strong he is.

“Uh-uh,” you manage, shaking your head urgently. When he’s back over you properly, he’s staring down at you, so intense it almost takes your breath away. You almost wonder what he’s looking for, until he answers your unspoken question: one long, calloused finger sinks into you, pulling a long whine from your chest. Your eyes flutter shut, but you can hear him suck in a breath above you.

“Fuck– fuck yeah. You’re so wet,” Bakugou mutters, mostly to himself, you think. “When’d you get this worked up? In the car? Back at the club?”

“I’m not answering that,” you grit out, even as your hips cant eagerly up into his hand. You’re so wet that the second finger he slides in meets little resistance; you relish the stretch, cunt fluttering happily around the intrusion. Bakugou smirks, curling his fingers up and intentionally stroking along that spot you can feel deep in your stomach. You choke out another moan, turning your head to hide in his shoulder as he dismantles you.

“Can’t wait to feel you wrapped around my cock,” Katsuki continues, scissoring his fingers inside of you. “Can’t believe how fucking wet you are, and it’s all for me. Bet you hate it, don’t you?”

You do hate it, at least a little. You could snap back at him, but your body’s making it pointless. You’re so wet it’s smeared between your thighs, coating Bakugou’s palm, and as silence envelops the two of you, you hear it– a soft, wet sound, produced by the combination of Bakugou’s rhythmic thrusting and your undeniably soaked cunt. You untuck your face from his neck, eyes wide in horror as Bakugou’s grin grows, the noises of his ministrations growing louder as he speeds up, just to drive home the humiliation heating your face.

“Listen to that,” Bakugou whispers, smugness lighting every sharp feature of his handsome face. “S’like she’s talking to me.”

“Oh my god, can you shut up,” you murmur, hand flying over your face to mask your embarrassment. Katsuki’s not having it, pinning your arm above your head with frightening speed. He’s properly in your face now, forcing you to look him right in the eye as the coil behind your belly button starts to grow tighter and tighter.

“I don’t think you want me to,” Katsuki counters, placing a jarringly soft kiss on the corner of your mouth. He’s still smirking down at you, but you know he can feel how your body’s starting to shake, how your walls are clamping down on him. “Sure doesn’t feel like you want me to. Down here it feels like you want to cum.”

“No,” you gasp out, even as his fingers begin to press harder against that one spot—that he found far too quickly—that has you spiraling, clenching around him. “No.”

“No?” Katsuki doesn’t stop, but he slows, quirking one eyebrow at you curiously. “You don’t want to cum?”

“Not like this,” you choke out, able to regain some of your bearings as he slows his pace. Katsuki slips his fingers out of you, blessedly content to just rub small circles over your clit. He watches you curiously, watches the way your eyes dart from his eyes down to his cock, hard and waiting. He furrows his brow, but you can see the moment realization lights up in the red of his eyes, and the grin that curls on his face is nothing short of evil. He’s going to make you say it.

“Oh?” Katsuki’s circles slow even further, like he knows you need the extra brainpower to form the full sentence he wants. “What do you want?”

“Katsuki,” you whine, trying to appeal to him with his given name. His tongue flickers out over his bottom lip, but he holds his ground.

“What do you want?” He repeats himself, staring down at you intensely. You have no doubts that he’ll give you what you want, but you know he’s not going down without a fight. Your eyes narrow at him, before you sigh.

“I want to cum with…with you inside me. Please.” Your voice is low, ashamed, but Katsuki’s face lights up.

“Look how nice you can be,” Katsuki says, far too amused. He’s slipped his hand out from your panties now, and you groan, smacking at his chest in annoyance.

“You’re such a dick.”

“Yeah,” he admits, bringing his fingers up to suck you off of them. His eyes close, a blissful hum rumbling in his chest. “Fuck.”

“Taste good?” It’s your turn to smirk up at him, choosing to ignore the nervous current of arousal that floods you as Katsuki slides your g-string down your legs. In lieu of an answer, he leans down and buries his tongue in your cunt abruptly, making you gasp and jump. Katsuki laves his tongue through your wet folds, kissing sloppily over your pussy. When he stretches his body over yours again, hips slotting between your thighs, his smile is wet, slick with the damning evidence of how turned on you are.

“See for yourself.” Katuski licks into your mouth just how he’d licked into your cunt, and you moan openly into his kiss, practically sucking the taste of yourself off his tongue. He echoes a groan back into your mouth, one strong hand carding through your hair and tugging gently, forcing you to open up further for him. The accidental swipe of his cock through your folds makes you gasp, pulling back. Katsuki seems rattled too, panting as he looks down to see his cock drooling on the trimmed hair between your legs.

You can feel the intensity of the moment stalling the current you’ve established, both of you realizing that the true point of no return has finally arrived. Katsuki’s eyes return to yours, flickering over your face as his thumb rubs over your cheekbone.

“Do it,” you murmur, turning your head to press an errant kiss to the heel of his hand. “You earned it.”

Katsuki reaches down to place his palm at the back of one of your knees, opening you up for him. He groans quietly when he sees the strings of your arousal stretching as he bends your thigh back towards the bed, swiping his hand through the mess he’s made and using it to wet his dick.

“I’m not goin’ easy on you,” he mutters, shoulders twitching when the head of his cock catches at your entrance.

“Don’t,” you say breathlessly, one hand wrapping around the wrist he plants next to your head. You blame what comes out of your mouth next on how dizzy you are with the sensation of it– Katsuki Bakugou of all people, kneeled in between your legs and seconds away from fucking your brains out. “Show me what you thought about all these years.”

Katsuki sucks in a sharp breath, eyes darting to yours in surprise. He looks down at you, and for a moment, everything you hate about him is gone. It strikes you just how beautiful he is, the precise corners of his face and the intimidating bulges of his musculature. His eyes are intense when he searches your face for even a note of hesitance, for anything that isn’t abject, unadulterated want. The corner of his mouth twitches upwards, and he leans down, kissing you deeply, licking over your tongue.

Your gasp gets lost in the kiss he plants on you as you feel him press into you, the insistent stretch of his cock as your body gives him the space he demands of it. He was big in your mouth, but he’s massive in your cunt, weighty and thick as your walls spasm around him.

“Holy shit,” Katsuki grunts into your mouth, breaking the kiss to look down at where he’s pushing into you. “Look at that.”

Against your better judgment, you tilt your head to the side, giving yourself an obstructed view of Katsuki’s cock ruining you, inch by inch. You whine, tossing your head back against his pillows, fingernails digging into his arm.

“Oh my god–”

Katsuki cuts you off with a hiss under his breath when he bottoms out completely. He doesn’t thrust, not properly, just grinds himself against you, letting you feel just how full you are.

“You feel like fucking heaven, sucked me right in.”

“God,” you manage, chest heaving as your thigh twitches in his grasp, instinctually trying to cage him in. “You’re– you’re big.”

“Yeah?” The tone of his voice makes you realize he’s never going to let that go, and you throw a palm over your eyes to shield yourself from the weight of his ego.

“Can you just let me enjoy this without ruining it?” Your voice is humiliatingly hoarse, even as he punches a groan out of you with a sudden, deep thrust. Katsuki chuckles, leans back on his haunches just long enough to wrap his hand around your wrist and pin it beside your head with the full weight of his body, forcing your eyes back on him.

“Oh, I can make sure you enjoy it.” Katsuki bites into his lip as he slides smoothly back into you, no rhythm, just feeling how you contract around him at this angle. He’s insufferably smug when his eyes meet yours again, especially as your bottom lip wavers with the heavy pressure of him between your legs. “But you’re going to watch.”

You can’t even get another word out before he’s picking up his pace, not finding his footing anymore but fucking you now, in every sense of the word. Your jaw drops, eyelids fluttering as you watch his cock, slick with your cum, pound relentlessly into your cunt. Your fingers flex and grasp around nothing where Katsuki has your one hand pinned, but your other hand comes up to grab at your breast, fingers closing around one nipple.

“Yeah? Like that?” Katsuki grunts out, voice labored with effort.

“That’s– oh,” you stutter around a gasp when his hand forces your leg higher, giving him an entirely new angle to fuck into you. It’s perfect, revamping the momentum that you’d forced him to abandon earlier. “That. There.”

Katsuki’s face lights up in a wicked grin, somehow managing to drive his hips faster. He leans down to you, mean and unapologetic as he sees your eyes widen.

“You think I can make you cum like this? Just with my cock?” His eyes search your face, relishing the impending panic blooming on your features that yes, he probably can make you cum like this, and soon, if the tightening behind your bellybutton is anything to go by.

“I– I don’t– fuck.” You can’t even get a full sentence out, turning your head to the side and screwing your eyes shut, trying to make sense of the onslaught of pleasure that’s turning you inside out.

“Tsk.” Bakugou’s hand is gone from your knee, and before you can make sense of it, he slings your knee over his elbow, strong hand grabbing your chin harshly. He has to lean down further into you, forcing you to open further for him, forcing his cock deeper, forcing you to cry out when he jerks you to face him again.

“Oh–”

“What’d I say?” Katsuki growls, narrowing his eyes at you. The pressure in you is building, almost alarmingly fast, and you feel your cheeks grow hot as you blink away a stray tear.

“Katsuki, I– I think I’m close.”

“Told you I was gonna make you watch,” Katsuki spits out, a groan rumbling in his chest as he feels the frantic contractions of your body around him, your end spelling itself out in the rhythm of his thrusts. “Don’t hide.”

The orgasm building in you is almost terrifying in its intensity, your eyes wide as you blink up at him, panicked. 

“I can’t, I– it’s so much–”

Katsuki shakes his head firmly at you, holding your gaze like he isn’t quite literally dismantling you piece by piece.

“Don’t run from it. Just breathe,” he pants, hot and heavy into your open mouth. You recognize that tone; you’ve heard it in the field, heard it when your quirk output is too high and you’re about to knock yourself out mid-fight. He’s always telling you that when you run too hot. Breathe.

The tension begins to wrap around you so tight you almost feel like you’re suffocating, like there’s no possible way this can break without breaking you along with it. You know your nails have breached the skin of his back, can feel the breath caught in your throat.

“Breathe,” Katsuki says more urgently, bringing one hand to cradle the back of your head, force your forehead to meet the sweaty skin of his shoulder. “I’ve got you. Breathe.”

When the cord snaps, it genuinely feels like you’re going to die for a second, like no one on earth was ever meant to feel this level of euphoria. His name finds a home in your mouth, stuttered gasps of it and desperate cries punctuating the most intense orgasm that’s ever racked through your body. Toes curling, fingernails breaking the skin of his shoulders, Katsuki sees you through to the end, even as your vision goes white and your back arches beneath him. It’s incredible, really, how long the pleasure rolls through you, throwing you against the rocks again and again. You suck in a deep breath, trying to regain your footing as Katsuki’s thrusts start to slow, aligning himself with the rhythm of your body clenching around him as you come down from your high.

“K-Kat–” you choke out, searching for him even before you can force your eyes to focus properly. “Katsuki?”

“Here,” he responds instantly, pulling your head out from the crook of his shoulder. “M’right here. You with me?”

“Holy shit,” you surprise yourself by laughing breathlessly into his mouth, “like– holy shit.”

Katsuki chuckles along with you, fingers swiping hair from your forehead. “Yeah?”

“I don’t– I don’t think bodies are supposed to do that,” you say through your disbelieving laughter, letting him lull you into a gooey, post-orgasmic state as he rocks into you slowly. Your fingers twitch as you card them through his hair lazily, trying to force your body to return to some state of homeostasis. Katsuki barks out a laugh at that, bringing his hand back to your chin and shaking you gently.

“Keep stroking my ego like that, and I’ll have to get your brain checked for oxygen deprivation,” Katsuki says, smirking down at you.

“It is concerning,” you agree, exhaustion ringing in your voice. Katsuki studies you, not overly soft, but there’s something observant in the way his eyes flicker over your face. You frown. “I’m not tapping out, if that’s what you’re trying to figure out.”

Katsuki’s grin grows wider, feral. “Thought I had you for a second.”

“You wish,” you spit, quirking your mouth back at him. The banter comes back to you far more naturally than it should, considering you’re still pinned under him, naked and trembling with the aftershocks of your orgasm.

“Good.” Katsuki pulls out of you, leaving you empty and puffing out a little surprised gasp. “Because I want you on top.”

“After that?” You say indignantly as he rolls to his back, sitting up against his headboard and tugging you along with him. Your thighs already burn from what he’s enacted on your body, quads shivering under your skin as he gets you situated on his stomach, just a precarious inch or two away from his waiting cock.

“You a pro or not?” Katsuki eyes are heavy as he takes you in, running his hands up and down your quivering thighs bracketed on either side of his waist. Strong fingers press into your skin, massaging the muscle. “Don’t make me start sending you to my trainer.”

“That guy’s a lunatic,” you scoff quietly, wiggling yourself down to rest atop his cock properly, slotting it right in the center of your wet, swollen folds. Katsuki grunts, one hand traveling up to ghost fingers over the curve of your breast, the peak of your nipple.

It’s not until you meet his eye that you reach the striking realization that you’ve been here before– the first time you’d slept with him, all those years ago, Katsuki had insisted you ride him, fingers gripped tight into your hips as he lowered you down. He still has that hazy, almost reverent look in his eyes as he takes you in. You’ve grown so much since then: new scars, heavier breasts, firmer hands. Katsuki wordlessly takes you with one strong hand, wedging his thumb at the sticky fold of your hip into your thigh, urging you to move, sliding you up and down his cock. You both continue like this for a moment, your hands braced on his shoulders while he shuffles you along. You’re wet enough that it isn’t long before the head of his cock catches on your dripping hole, and you shift your hips just enough to sink down on him, moaning lowly as the fulfilling stretch of Katsuki inside of you overtakes your senses again.

“You’re warm,” he murmurs, both hands skimming eagerly up and down your ribcage as you begin to slowly undulate your hips, not bouncing, but just grinding down, letting him carve out permanent residence inside of you.

Insecurity spikes, awareness of your quirk coming to the forefront. “Too warm?”

“Mm-mm,” Katsuki replies, shaking his head. “Feels good. Too good.”

The thought that he might cum soon is a relief and a disappointment all at once, your walls fluttering around the thick intrusion of him as you try to reckon with the fact that, yes, this will have to end. There will be an after. Katsuki’s errant thrust up into the heat of you knocks the thought out of your head before you can drift too far from him, thankfully.

“We did this before,” you whisper, a full-body shiver ripping through your body as you get him sitting at the right angle, head of his cock rubbing on that soft spot inside of you over and over, maddeningly slow. “The first time.”

Katsuki doesn’t respond, gaze soft. His hands are indulgent as he takes free reign to grab and grope at the curves of your body, occasionally sucking in a sharp breath when he reaches something he particularly likes; the small of your back, the curve of your ass, the back of your neck. His eyes don’t close for a moment, darting from one corner of you to the next, even as his breath begins to come heavier in his chest.

“Think you can cum again? Like this?” Katsuki’s strained voice breaks the silence, thumb finding your swollen clit, swirling circles in the mess that joins the two of you.

You have no response but a slow, thin whine, head rolling back on your shoulders. This isn’t what sex with Bakugou was supposed to be; it’s passionate, intimate, the way he sits up further, leans in to kiss open-mouthed down your neck. He groans, so deep in his chest it shakes you, licking and scraping his teeth over your sweaty skin. He trusts you to find your own rhythm, placing one massive hand on the nape of your neck, pinning your sticky chest to his. The familiar pressure starts to build inside of you, but it’s different this time, nothing but slow, molten heat dripping down your core, concentrating all of your attention on his cock splitting you open, on your clit, trapped between the full pressure of his thumb and your torsos moving together. You lean back into the hand at your neck, forcing him to give you enough leeway to come nose to nose with him, eyes lidded but still searching for red irises.

“Will you cum with me?” You ask back, grinding down harder, with more intent. Katsuki’s moan gets caught in his throat, fingers flexing around your neck.

“Yeah, s’that what you want?”

“Yes,” you breathe wantonly into him, one of your palms coming to press flat to his cheek. Your thumb gets caught between both of your open mouths, rubbing over the spit-slick plush of his bottom lip. It was never supposed to be like this. Every piece of carefully constructed protection crumbles around you as you let him fuck you into someone new in his arms, someone vulnerable, someone needy.

Katsuki’s not much better off, kissing you even as your thumb partially hooks into his mouth, keeping him open so you can run your tongue over his teeth. You’re hungry now, unabashed without any walls to hide behind. The room is suffocatingly hot, both from the sex and the involuntary way your quirks lick at each other, the otherworldly heat of him and the space between atoms that you’re desperately trying to keep a grip on.

“Fuck,” Katsuki pants, crushing his mouth to yours. “Perfect, perfect pussy, gonna make me cum. You with me?”

And you are. It’s fast, humiliatingly so, but you’re drowning in the sensation of it all, mind lost to everything but the slick grind of his cock in your cunt and the taste of him in your mouth, warm and sweet and salty on the back of your tongue.

“Yeah, just– oh, that. Fuck, keep doing that.” Katsuki knows what you want before you can get it out, it seems, hands finding your hips, giving you a little more lift to the way you’re rolling your hips into him, moving faster and faster until you can feel your orgasm wrapping itself around your throat.

“There you go,” he growls, forehead pressed to yours. “Right there, isn’t it? Just stay with me, I’m almost–”

“I-inside, Katsuki.” The thought stutters out before you can stop it.

“Oh shit– okay, you’re fuck– fuckin’ milking me,” Katsuki grits out, pained. “Come on, baby, m’so close.”

Reflecting later, you’ll realize that—humiliatingly—it’s baby that pushes you over. Even the illusion of tenderness, Katsuki’s specific brand of it, has the knot in your stomach slipping itself undone with a slow, sticky satisfaction that rumbles through you like thunder. You keep your lips on his, moaning openly into him, ignoring the tears that color your kiss salty. Katsuki, to his credit, keeps you stable even as you shake and squeeze around him, lifting you up and down on his cock as you cum hard all over again, fingers fisting in his hair and digging into the grooves of his shoulderblades. It doesn’t take long for his jaw to stutter against yours, a broken groan pouring into your mouth as you feel him pin you in his lap, grinding your clit against the neat blond hairs above his cock as warmth bleeds into you from the inside out. Katsuki’s cock kicks inside you as he cums, fills you until the creamy mixture of both of you is sticking you together, dripping between your thighs to stain his bedsheets.

A fucked out grin breaks over your face as you come back to yourself, moving your lips against his slowly as your hips twitch against him. Words don’t come to you, not yet, only the quiet awareness that these are your last vestiges of plausible deniability, last moments to feel him sticky and trembling with exertion under you. Or so you thought.

“Kat–” His name escapes you in a breathless cry as your back hits the sheets, his cock leaving you with a gush of cum that he’s quick to remedy by pressing his open mouth between your legs. “Katsuki!”

Any attempt to fight him is fruitless, his iron grip is locked around your thighs, knees rested on his shoulders, holding you open for him to lick into. It’s too much immediately; your hands come to tug at his hair harshly, but he only groans, his satisfaction vibrating through you as he tongues at your cunt, cleaning up the mess he’d made of it. Your luck wins out when you start kicking halfheartedly at his back. Katsuki pulls away from you, one long string of your arousal literally dripping off of his chin, and leaps up your body with an exhausted laugh.

He’s on your mouth before you can even fully process the absence of him between your legs, kissing you with a fervor that you might have matched if he hadn’t fucked it out of you. You simply keep your hand in his hair, letting him spread the taste of you—both of you—over your tongue until he pulls back, panting.

The eye contact you hold isn’t like one you’ve ever experienced before, not with Katsuki, and certainly not with anyone else. Your chests are heaving, faces slick with the sacrilegious evidence of what you’ve done tonight.

It’s almost like you can see Katsuki settling back into himself, see the hard lines returning to his face as he watches you, monitoring for any sudden movements. You’re too spent to even waste too much energy puzzling about it, just letting your breath grow more even as your eyes flicker over the pretty features of his face. Katsuki brings his hand up, making like he’s going to thumb affectionately at your cheek, but just as you’re bracing for the devastatingly soft touch he’s going for, he hesitates. When he redirects, he wipes your chin messily instead, tsking under his breath.

“You need a shower,” he says decisively, rolling off of you and onto his feet before you can even mourn the moment that’s shattered.

You sit up onto your elbows, affronted. “Like you’re any better.”

Katsuki grunts an assent, swiping at his chin with the back of his hand. He pads off in the direction of a door on the side of the room, presumably his bathroom, without a word, leaving you to flop back into the sheets, absorbing the state you’re in right now. Your eyes dart around on instinct, stealing little bits of Katsuki while he has his back turned.

The room around you is similarly dark to the small glimpses you’d gotten of the rest of the apartment; sleek lines of dark-stained wood make up his bed, matching nightstand, the desk off to the side. You’d expected it to feel cold and artificial, but there’s a book on his nightstand and— you smirk to yourself. A pair of reading glasses folded neatly over the cover of a romance novel. The only splash of color in the room is a framed magazine; when you narrow your eyes, you realize it’s a signed All-Might edition of Hero Weekly, from way back in the day, maybe even before your high school years. Suddenly, all of this feels too personal, even more so than having him inside of you. You’re in Bakugou’s apartment. 

You’re mentally mapping where you think all of your stuff is—shoes by the door, dress on the carpet, clutch…maybe in the front hall, panties god knows where—to make a quick getaway when Bakugou returns, rubbing at his forehead like you’ve given him a migraine.

“You comin’? S’hot now.” His voice is low, almost slurred like something’s been taken out of him. You fight through your surprise, trying not to stare as you nod, pulling your aching body from the softness of his sheets.

He leads you into his bathroom, flinching when your bare feet make contact with the white-and-black tiled floor. It’s surprisingly warm, twin lamps lighting the space from either side of the mirror. The shower isn’t hot enough to fog the glass yet, and one of your hands comes over your mouth in horror as you take in your own reflection: bruises forming in too many spots to count—your hips, the junction of your neck and shoulder, a nasty one on the underside of your tit—skin pallid and sticky with sweat, eyeliner smeared down to the curve of your jaw. You catch Katsuki’s eye in the mirror, expecting bravado, but his mouth twitches with a tired sense of satisfaction, a quiet pride in the work he put in on your body.

Wordlessly, you step into his shower. Katsuki shuts the door behind him as he follows you. You can’t help the quiet moan that slips from you as the scalding water hits your skin, bringing needed relief to your sore muscles. You move around each other efficiently, like you can predict his movements. You pass him the cedar-scented body wash when you’ve scrubbed the strings of dried spit from your chest, and he hands you the shampoo without a word. Something shifts the longer you’re under the water together; Katsuki’s hand grazes your waist when he reaches for the washcloth, you bump into his hip when you move to scrub between your thighs. Almost like your bodies are seeking each other out where you don’t have the courage to.

The dam breaks when you’re wrestling with your hair, an unreal amount of conditioner gumming up the knotted strands. It’s hopeless– you can’t go to sleep like this, god only knows what it’ll look like in the morning, but it’s a mess. Your fingers are making little progress when a second set joins them, as strong and steady as the sigh Katsuki breathes into the steam. You start slightly at the contact, but you melt against his chest easily when his hands start to gently untangle your hair. Nose tucked between his pecs, you slump against him, refusing to let yourself think into the comfort your sore body is so desperately craving. Katsuki’s silent above you, but you can hear his heart thudding in his chest, the deep rhythm of it lulling you into submission as he works his hands against your scalp.

It would be easy to worry about this—the intimacy, the novelty of having Katsuki’s broad chest pressed to your cheek—but you know there will be time to pick it apart tomorrow.

You don’t think about the potential implications when he keeps you pulled tight to him as he rinses your hair. You don’t let your breath hitch when he turns the water off and your flesh breaks out in goosebumps, when he rubs his warm hand over your back to ease the chill that bites at you. You don’t let your mind take it and run when he slides one of his t-shirts over your head, tugging the hem until you’re fully swallowed by black fabric.  You don’t overthink it when he pulls you to him under the covers, tucking your body against the curves of his like you fit there, like there’s space for you to belong to him until the sun comes up.

“Good?” Higurama grunts into your ear, planting a wet kiss on the silver earrings you wear to your clerkship every day. “Your cunt’s so soft, hugging my cock.”

Higurama’s voice is ordinarily monotone and tired as he mutters his way through contracts and complaints, but when he’s inside you, it’s like he comes alive. He growls filth and praise alike against your skin, a dark warmth lighting him from the inside out while he murmurs things about your body you’d never dare to think.

“Mhm,” you affirm, still quieted by the fabric between your teeth. A shuffling outside the door brings you both to an urgent pause. You release his jacket on instinct, sitting back to flash wide, panicked eyes at him.

“Sh.” Higurama gathers you to his chest, pressing a firm hand between your shoulderblades to keep you pinned to him. On him. You swallow a nervous whimper as he pushes the chair closer to his desk, pulling up the time clock application on his laptop. You’re powerless to do anything but cling to him, walls contracting around the blunt intrusion of his thick, motionless cock. A door shuts down the hallway, distant in relation to the wooden walls of Higurama’s office. He loosens his grip, just enough to let you come back to meet his eyes.

“That was close–”

“No,” Higurama insists, rolling his hips up into you. You try to keep your disapproving eyes on him, but he’s making it difficult. “It was just Tomoko leaving. She was the last one, I checked. We’re okay.”

“This is the last time,” you say weakly, already anticipating the chastising shine in his eyes. You want to look away, and Higurama grants you that small mercy, dipping his head to press wet kisses up the column of your throat.

“You said that,” he murmurs, “last time. And the last. And the–”

“I mean it,” you cut him off, swallowing hard to keep your voice steady, even as your hips begin to take on the rhythm he’s setting. His hands grip your hips firmly over your bunched-up pencil skirt, letting you rock into him slowly. You just know that his slacks are ruined, and the fact that you also know he keeps a spare pair in the closet for just these occasions makes your cheeks burn. “I– I want to go to law school. I already scored–”

“A 174 on your LSAT,” Higurama finishes for you, nipping at your jaw. You can hear the pride in his voice, and you very much wish you couldn’t. “No thanks to my mentorship, I’m sure.”

“I'm too smart for all of this to be for nothing,” you hiss back, fisting your hands in his hair and forcing him to look at you. “If– if we were caught…this would ruin me.”

“I wouldn’t let that happen.” Higurama plants a wide hand on the center of your chest and presses against your resistance until you realize what he’s doing, and allow yourself to be moved. Your back hits his desk like it has so many times before. The sound of his paperweight hitting the ground echoes the dull thud of realization that settles in you as he stands, pushing your body up the mahogany surface.

Could you quit him? You haven’t given it an honest try, not really. The supposed “last time” had been just a week before, Higurama’s fingers nestled in the wet mess between your thighs in the backseat of your car. Before that, a late night dissecting depositions had ended in him convincing you to take the files to his house, “more comfortable”. You’d awoken wrapped in sheets with a ridiculously high thread count and fingerprint bruises dotting your wrists. That’s not to mention the coffee he brings you every morning, the way he takes notice of the bags under your eyes. The gifts, especially; the royal purple panties hanging off your right ankle are stained with lovemaking and guilt. 

“This is the last time,” you pant up at him, hardly even believing yourself. Higurama hums, pulling your hand to his mouth and brushing his lips over the pulse point fluttering like a little bird under the skin of your wrist.

“This is the last time,” he repeats, thrusting shallowly into you, just enough to keep himself wet. The look in his eyes is discomforting; he looks more like the Higurama you know outside of the bedroom. There’s a weight to him now, one he's very obviously trying to shake off. You can see the spark dulling in his eyes— the spark you’d never noticed was devotion until it was gone. The building rhythm of him inside you isn’t enough to silence the sticky sadness cracking open behind your ribs, but it’s enough to distract you from it. For now, at least.

Higurama drapes his body over you, hands squeezing greedily at the flesh of your stomach, your hips, your breasts. He kisses you until you’re gasping for breath, lips swollen and sticky to match the damage he’s doing between your legs, an undeserved orgasm beginning to bloom in the pit of your stomach. When he pulls back to examine you, the wavering of your jaw and the utter ruin of your eyeliner, he smirks wryly, thumbing at your lip.