#bbf!bakugou

"Kats—"

The wet, soft pressure of plush lips over your nipple turns to the bite of teeth, cutting you off. "Don't."

You inhale sharply, fingers burying themselves deeper into the mess of Bakugou's blond hair, spine arching further into his touch. The couch creaks in protest.

Your brother's best friend groans softly under his breath, one finger curled around the thin strap of your tank top hanging down off of your shoulder. His other hand slides up from where it's cupping your side, thumb stroking your other aching, pebbled nipple through the thin, silken fabric.

The living room air is cool against your spit-soaked skin as his mouth abandons your exposed tit, coming instead to hover over the one still covered beneath your top.

You can feel his hot breath as he exhales.

"Call me that, and I'm going to fuck you right here," he mutters, cupping your boob and squeezing it.

You're straddling him, so you're well aware of just how hard he is beneath you.

It would be so easy for him to just tug your pathetic little excuse for pajama shorts aside. To thrust his cock right into your wet hole and fuck you stupid right here on your brother's couch at nearly three in the morning.

Bakugou's mouth closes over your untouched nipple, sucking it right through the fabric of your tank top. Your teeth sink into your cheek as you try to hold back a moan at the feeling of the sticky, damp material against your skin.

(It's even hotter, somehow. With this barrier that has him working even harder to suck and lick through it as you tremble in pleasure, fingers tangled in the hair at the back of his head.)

"Bet that's probably what you want," he continues, slowly pulling down the other strap until both of your tits are on full display.

Bakugou looks up at you, and there's a faint hint of light from the street outside that reflects in his eyes.

"But the thing is—" He lets his lips ghost over the sensitive, aching nipple he's yet to suck bare.

You choke out a whimper of pleasure at the exact moment he presses a warm palm to your mouth, muffling the sound.

who makes a show of groaning and rolling his eyes when he sees the way you perk up at the sight of the sprawling sunflower farm that he’s about to pass.

who acts put out when you look over at him with eyes that are clearly asking him to pull over.

who does a horrible job at acting like he’s just checking his phone while he snaps a shot of you standing before a sunny sea of golden yellow, turning back to look at him, caught mid-laugh. it makes his stupid heart fumble.

(“they remind me of you”)

he wants to argue that there’s nothing about him that resembles a goddamn flower. he shoves a wad of bills in the hand of the kid who’s selling bouquets out of a bucket near the entrance instead, grumbling when you light up as he unceremoniously waves it at you.

(he spends the drive home pretending he’s not watching your soft smile out of the corner of his eye.)

Bakugou’s voice startles you from the train of thought you’ve been absorbed in, bottom lip tucked between your teeth as you stare down at your phone.

Glancing up, you find your brother’s best friend looking at you from the other end of the couch, video game paused. He’s dressed nicer than usual, biceps in the midst of a feeble protest against his short-sleeved white button up, though the uppermost buttons at his chest seem to have lost the war with his patience already.

The console controller sits resting on his knee, and it’s an effort to drag your gaze away from the snug fit of his dark wash jeans against his thighs. He taps his fingers there when you don’t respond, and you can’t help but look again, following the movement like a cat.

You swallow. “I can’t just—“

Bakugou huffs. “You can’t break up with your bum ass loser boyfriend who I’m gonna bet just told you he’s gotta bail on the party today?”

There’s an automatic excuse that dances on the tip of your tongue, one about how it’s just going to be a boring family reunion. And he forgot he had plans with his friends—

But Bakugou’s coming.

(Because you know he’d rather die than tell your mom no.)

“It’s not a big deal,” you mumble, looking back down at the text.

Bakugou clicks his tongue against the back of his teeth, voice gruff as he drags a hand through his hair and ruins whatever attempt was made at taming it earlier. “You deserve better.”

His words curl like smoke around the curves of your ribcage, slowly slip like honey through your veins. He runs a hand over his jaw, scarred fingers passing over soft, pink lips.

You shiver.

“You guys ready?” Your brother’s voice breaks the surface tension of the moment with all the subtly of a knife.

Bakugou offers to drive to your parents’ house and tells your brother to fuck off when he makes for the passenger seat, waving him to the back before opening the door for you.

bakugou katsuki x f!reader @ 8:30 pm

“Your shitty date’s late.”

You glance up from your phone, gaze sliding over to where your brother and Bakugou are sitting on the couch across the room. Hands wrapped around a gaming controller, the blond’s attention is raptly trained on the television screen in front of him.

Your brother mutters a string of expletives as a cacophony of explosions goes off in the game, and you make a pointed effort to ignore the way the tendons in Bakugou’s forearm flex as he makes quick movements with the joystick. 

Fingers idly tracing the edges of your skirt, you roll your eyes. “It’s 8:30, so he’s technically not late yet. Also, how do you know he’s shitty if you’ve never even met him?”

Bakugou spares you a brief, sidelong glance. “8:31. He’s fucking late. Shitty and late.”

“Traffic is a thing,” you counter, going hot all over with annoyance. 

Your brother groans as the words GAME OVER flash across the screen, his controller clattering against the coffee table when he stands up and stalks off toward the bathroom. Attention back on your phone, you don’t realize that Bakugou has crossed the room until his shoe nudges one of your heels.

“Means he’s a shitty driver, too.”

When you tilt your head back to look at him standing over you, you swear there’s a brief moment where his gaze flits over the expanse of your bare legs. 

“Don’t you have like, hero stuff to do?” you ask him hotly.

The mental image of him in his hero suit decidedly does not help the threat of a shiver that starts to wrack its way down your spine the longer he continues to stare down at you, arms crossed. You bite your bottom lip as you resist the urge to make a snarky comment about whatever the hell is going on between his biceps and the innocent bystanders that are the sleeves of his t-shirt. 

Egregious.

When you moved back to Musutafu six months ago after a messy breakup and took over the guest room in your brother’s apartment, you hadn’t quite anticipated just how much you’d be seeing of Bakugou Katsuki again. 

Old crushes die hard, etc.  

Bakugou scoffs, running a hand through his hair and shaking his head. “Yeah, and it’d be a fuckin’ crime to let you—”

There’s a knock at the front door—8:35. But that’s not what cuts Bakugou off. 

He blinks at the finger now gently pressed to his lips while you stand in front of him, something hot like satisfaction stretching inside of you at the way he doesn’t even try to keep talking. 

He waits.

It’s the promise of a quick exit that leaves you feeling brave even when you’re one step away from being enveloped in his warm scent. 

“You gonna wait up to see if I get home late, too?”

Bakugou’s nostrils flare, and you smile. Soft. Flirtatious. 

You make it as far as the door before a hand splayed roughly against the seam of the doorframe stops you. Turning, a bundle of fabric is shoved into your hands.

who finds out you walk home alone from the night shift at work when you quietly let yourself into your shared apartment with your brother at nearly two in the morning, soaked and shivering from the rain.

who stares at you blankly when you shrug and say there are too many creeps on the subway at night (like walking through the city is any safer).

bakugou, whose car you find idling at the curb outside of your work the next night.

bakugou, who told your brother time and time again he wouldn’t be caught fucking dead dancing at the wedding.

whose dress shirt is already two buttons down by the time the music starts, sleeves rolled to his elbows, hair mussed. who’s pinching the bridge of his nose and muttering something under his breath as yet another bridesmaid gives up on her hopeful campaign to flirt with him (that’s three now).

who hasn’t missed the fact that you’ve yet to dance all night because your boyfriend was already drunk off his ass by the end of cocktail hour.

bakugou, who has never liked your boyfriend. who’s muttering under his breath about how it’s a goddamn waste if you don’t get to dance in that dress.