#fuuuuuuck

it’s a shrill noise that definitely signals something, and it would just be background murmur to you on any given point of time, but not to jake. because the minute his alarm reaches his ears, he’s immediately pulling off you, sliding the stained glasses he knows you love on him so much up bridge of his beautiful nose and plops back down on his chair to go back to working on whatever mumbo jumbo advanced physics workbook he was typing out before you both started this debauchery.

and you just stare. dumbfounded. absolutely ashamed.

because just a few seconds ago, jake had both your legs dangling off his surprisingly broad shoulders, the fabric of whatever color shirt which always fit his frame stupidly well crinkling under your heels that wouldn’t stop digging into his back with how each ministration of his tongue had you shaking. you can still feel the ghost of his palms keeping you in place as he’d ravished you with nothing but that smart mouth and those slender fingers you still can’t stop fucking staring at.

fuck. fuck.

jake is such a sexy fucking asshole.

he’s an absolute cocky bastard who can name complex quantum equations at the drop of a pin and simultaneously reduce you to a whimpering, heaving, flustered pile of dreadful desire for him with just a single glance at his arms.

you reckon you’ll still find the imprints of his nails pink and crescent on your upper thighs the next morning, and you’ll still probably think about it the next day when your mind wanders to how good he looked stalking his way over to the bed so he could pull you all the way down the edge without a word. you’ll still think about the way you’d shivered under the gaze of his dilated pupils raking across each inch of your barely clothed body hidden under the same sheets you’d both fooled around in just last night. you can probably also remember the way his hot mouth exhaled next to your lips when he’d leaned in to sigh about how you were nothing but an insatiable, pathetic little toy before practically ripping off whatever was standing between his touch and your very much leaking cunt.

“sorry, baby.” his sweet voice rumbles sickeningly through the air, drawing a cold shudder from your body at the way it always reacts to him. you can hear the smirk in his voice despite not even looking at his face, unable to stop the dryness in your mouth when he barely turns sideways to cast you a glance through his peripheral. “i’ll make you cum in the next break.”

. . .

But here you are. Six months in, and you still haven’t decided if you want to murder him or climb him like a tree.

It starts small. The first time you actually speak is when you’re both in the elevator at 2 a.m., you in ratty pajamas holding a trash bag, him in his hero costume, mask pushed up into his hair, gauntlets dangling from one hand. He smells like smoke and something sweet and dangerous. His eyes flick to you, then away.

“Tch. You always take the trash out looking like a hobo?”

You glare. “You always come home smelling like a barbecue gone wrong?”

His mouth twitches. Not a smile. Something sharper.

“Watch it, extra.”

The doors open. He steps out first. You hate that you watch the way his back muscles move under the torn black tank. That should’ve been the end of it.

But then there’s the night your power goes out during a storm. The whole building’s dark. You’re sitting on the floor with a candle, eating cold ramen, when there’s a knock, You open the door and there’s Bakugo, holding a flashlight like a weapon, scowling.

“Your stupid crying was loud enough to hear through the wall. Quit it.”

“I’m not crying.”

“You were sniffling like a damn baby.”

“It’s allergies.”

He stares at you. Then shoves a portable charger into your hand. “Your phone’s probably dead. Don’t come banging on my door at 4 a.m. when it dies.”

You take it. Your fingers brush his. He jerks back like you burned him. The charger smells like him. You use it for three days and pretend you don’t notice.After that, it’s a slow war. You leave him sarcastic little notes when he’s loud.

“Some of us have jobs that don’t involve yelling ‘DIE’ for a living. 3 a.m. is not workout time.”

“If you drop that weight one more time I’m calling the police.”

“Nice explosion at 5:47 a.m. Really appreciated the wake-up call, asshole.”

He starts writing back in sharpie on the same paper and sliding it under your door.

“Cry harder.”

“Maybe if you weren’t so fucking weak you wouldn’t wake up.”

“Your handwriting’s ugly as shit.”

But then one night you come home late, soaked from rain, groceries split open on the hallway floor. Oranges rolling everywhere. You’re on your knees trying to salvage them when his door opens. He looks at you. Then at the mess. Then at you again.

“…You’re a fucking disaster.”

“Thanks, genius.”

He crouches, starts picking up your groceries without asking. His fingers brush yours again when you both reach for the same orange. This time he doesn’t flinch.

“You eat this rabbit food shit?” he mutters, holding up a thing of spinach.

“Some of us don’t live off protein powder and spite.”

He snorts. Actually snorts. It’s unfairly cute. You don’t thank him. He doesn’t expect you to. But the next morning there’s a new note under your door.

“Your eggs were cracked. Replaced them. Don’t bitch about the brand.”

Inside your fridge, a carton of the expensive organic eggs you always buy. You stare at it for 15 minutes. You start leaving him things too. A slice of the banana bread you baked. A cold bottle of water after you hear him come in coughing from a bad fight on the news. He never says thank you. But nothing you leave ever goes to waste. The tension builds like a storm.You stop pretending you don’t look when he walks by in towels after the gym. He stops pretending he doesn’t notice you staring.

Sometimes you catch him watching you when you’re watering plants on your tiny balcony, arms crossed, jaw tight.

One night you’re drunk. Not wasted, just soft around the edges. You knock on his door holding a bottle of wine like an idiot. He opens it shirtless. Of course he’s shirtless.

“The fuck do you want?”

You shove the bottle at him.

“You’ve been slamming doors all day. Come drink with me so I don’t commit homicide.”

He stares. Then steps aside. You end up on his couch. His place is cleaner than you expected. Smells like cedar and smoke. He drinks straight from the bottle when you pass it. Your knees touch.

“You’re annoying as hell,” he says.

“You’re worse.”

“You cry at movies.”

“You cried at the dog food commercial with the old man.”

“Shut up. I had something in my eye.”

You laugh. He watches your mouth. You don’t kiss that night, But you’re close, So close.

The dam finally breaks three weeks later.

You’re in the hallway arguing about whose turn it is to take the trash down. He’s in a black tank, sweat still drying on his collarbone. You’re in an oversized shirt and no bra because it’s laundry day and you ran out of fucks.

“You’re not my fucking maid,” he growls.

“Then stop leaving your stupid energy drink cans in the hallway!”

“I’ll leave ‘em wherever I damn well—”

You shove him.

Hard.

In the chest.

He doesn’t move. Just grabs your wrist and yanks you forward so fast your breath catches.

“You wanna fight, extra?” His voice is low. Dangerous.

“That what this is?”

You should pull away. You don’t.

“Maybe I just want you to shut up for five seconds.”

His eyes drop to your mouth.

“Make me.”

You kiss him like you’re trying to win. He kisses back like he’s declaring war. You end up against the wall. His hands are everywhere in your hair, under your shirt, gripping your thighs hard enough to bruise.

You bite his lip and he groans, deep and wrecked. He tastes like smoke and caramel and something addictive. He picks you up like you weigh nothing, kicks his door open, and carries you inside.

Clothes don’t survive. He throws you on the bed and crawls over you, eyes wild.

“You’ve been driving me fucking insane for months,” he snarls against your throat.

“Feeling’s mutual, asshole.”

He laughs, rough and breathless, then drags your shirt over your head. His mouth is on your neck, your collarbone, your breasts, hot and messy and perfect.

You arch into him, nails raking down his back.

When he finally pushes inside you, it’s slow. Deliberate. Like he’s savoring the way you fall apart.

You wrap your legs around his waist and pull him deeper.

“Fuck— Katsuki—”

He loses it. The pace turns brutal. The headboard slams against the wall so hard you’re both grateful the building’s mostly heroes who sleep through explosions.

He fucks you like he’s trying to erase every fight, every glare, every month of pretending he didn’t want this. You come first, clenching around him so hard he curses and follows right after, burying his face in your neck with a broken sound. After, he doesn’t let go. Just rolls you both over so you’re on his chest, his arms locked around you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. You trace the scars on his shoulder.

“…So,” you mumble,

“does this mean you’ll take the trash out from now on?”

He snorts, fingers tightening in your hair.

“Shut up and go to sleep, dumbass.”

You smile into his skin.

The next morning, there’s a new note taped to your door.

“Coffee’s on. Don’t be late or I’ll drag your ass out of bed myself.”

You keep that one forever.

taglist: @thisismyao3

pt.2