#weese.asks

The thought renders him frozen. Him. Bakugo Katsuki, 29 years old. Virgin. Hands shaking where they rest on the smooth of your thighs, his face hot— so fucking hot— as he stares down at your naked form.

Do you know? Did you know when you met him, when you started hanging out? It would’ve been obvious, right? The way his face would warm at your laugh, how he had to grow into your touches.

How this is your seventh official date, and he only now has you naked in his bed.

“Bakugo, if you keep staring, I’m gonna explode,” you mumble, pushing up on your elbows to press your lips to his cheek, a hand coming up to cup the other side of his face.

You look nervous too, but, like you said, he’s been staring, so he can’t really blame you. “You’re just… really fucking pretty,” he mutters, trying to win himself a little more time— not that it’s a lie, you’re ethereal— his fingers flexing, squeezing the meat of your thighs.

You giggle then, flop back against the pillows— his pillows, he thinks, heart kicking up again— and reach for him, nimble fingers threading through his hair. “That’s not fair,” you whisper, little fake pout on your face. “You haven’t even touched me, and I feel like I’m on fire,” your words melt into a moan, and it almost feels like a punch to the gut.

The good kind, the kind that slaps him out of his funk and pushes him forward.

He kicks himself when he presses his lips to the inside of your knee, hears the breathy little sigh you sing, feels it in his cock. Your skin is so fucking soft against his lips, and the higher on your thigh he kisses, the softer it gets, the more you wriggle and moan, and he—

He bites at the junction of your thigh and pelvis— nothing too hard, just wants to feel you— sucks the pillowy flesh into his mouth. You’re louder then, hips bucking a little, fingernails scratching against the skin of his scalp, his name leaving your lips.

It reminds him who he is, who you are, what he’s doing. This isn’t about him losing his virginity, or him not being good enough, this is about feeling each other, and there’s nothing he wants more than to feel you.

When he pulls away, he sees the mark he’s left, a surge of pride swelling in his chest, need coiling deep in his stomach, has him rutting gently against his sheets. Fuck, he needs to taste you, needs to hear more of those needy moans, needs to feel you lose yourself beneath him.

Thumbs pull apart your outer labia, giving him better access to your syrupy folds, little gasps and tugs of his hair telling him this is good, this is what you want.

He presses a little kiss to the nub at the apex of your pussy before flattening his tongue against your wetness and tasting you. His eyes roll behind closed lids at the sound of your broken moan, the feel of your nails in his hair, the essence of you.

He does it again, licking and tasting, fingers pressing so hard into your skin he’s probably gonna bruise you, but you’re getting louder, wetter, pulling him impossibly closer—

“Katsuki—“ you gasp, and he looks up at you, your teary eyes and flushed face. “I-inside,” you whisper, pleading with him, begging him.

“Yeah?” His voice his cracking, husky and strained.

“Please,” you whine, jutting your hips in desperation, your bottom lip wedging between your teeth as you blink back tears.

“Fuck,” he breathes, bringing a finger to your hole, slowly pushing it in, watching as it disappears inside you; he almost shudders feeling your warm, spongey walls clenching around him, your cries music to his ears as you whisper and moan and wriggle your hips, fists clenching in his sheets by your shoulders.

A grin spreads on his face, determination and need to conquer taking over. His free hand holds your hips down, spanning out just under your bellybutton, and he enters a second finger, making note of the gasp that slips from your lips when he crooks his fingers, tips finding something a little harder and rougher than your soft, clenching walls.

He can’t help it, he’s sucking and biting at the supple skin of your inner thigh as he pumps this fingers into you, loving the fact that he needs to hold you down, revelling in your moans, your crescending cries, your begging—

The begging.

It’s got him rutting against the mattress, your fingers weaving into his hair and tugging him up, up, up until his lips are on yours and he’s swallowing your moans. His ruts his clothed cock against your thigh as he fucks you with his fingers, heel of his hand rubbing against your wet clit as you rock against him.

Then you’re bowing off the bed, crying against his lips as your walls flutter and convulse around his fingers; the thought of that happening to his cock has Bakugo keening lowly, spending his seed into his briefs and collapsing on top of you.

“Did you…” you start, breathless, chest still heaving, “I thought you said you’re a virgin?”

“I just came in my pants, sugartits,” he grumbles, nuzzling one of your breasts. “What more proof do you need?”

You laugh then, “I’m really hoping you’ve got more in the tank, Dynamight.”

So, there you are, dressed in the most extortionate LBD you could afford, a full face of makeup, and fresh press-on nails. They’re a little annoying, and you’ve accidentally placed your right middle nail on a smidge crooked, which you really can’t help but notice, not to mention how irritating your false lashes are—

“I’m just gonna head to the men’s room,” Shindou rises, those dark eyes set on you. “Don’t go anywhere, little mouse.” He warns playfully, warming your cheeks.

Your eyes follow him as he walks away, the way he’d looked at you fresh in your memory, your heart beating uneasily.

He’s going to expect something after lashing out all of this cash; something you’re not quite sure you’re willing to give.

“Lookin’ a little sad for a date in this place,”

Your breath hitches, head quickly turning to see someone else sitting in your date’s chair; someone you’d honestly rather be sitting with.

“You look nice,” he says, your face warming as his eyes travel your face, neck, chest. “You on a date?” He asks, as if he doesn’t know.

People start to whisper. Of course they do, this isn’t the type of place that accepts men in hoodies and sweats, let alone men that take the seats of others.

“Bakugo, what are you doing here?” You whisper, the many sets of eyes boring into your skull setting you on edge.

He leans back lazily, throwing an elbow over the back of his chair, “haven’t seen you for a couple’a weeks; you done with me?” He asks shamelessly, those red eyes almost glaring at you, anxiety bubbling up your throat.

You look away, you have to, “I, uh, I figured you’d be sick of me, so I... branched out.”

“Did I say I was sick of you?”

“Bakugo, it’s... I’m not good enough to be around you.” You mutter, eyes dropping to the table, the expensive and numerous silverware, the deep red of the tablecloth.

“Then why am I so angry that you’re out with some other guy? Looking like that, no less.” He’s looking away— glaring pout on his face— daring one of the waiters to come over and tell him to leave the establishment.

Despite how flustered he’s made you, you want to question him, ask him what he really means. Did he really come here to—

“Bakugo? Get outta my chair.” Shindou sneers, folding his arms and looking down his nose at the competition.

“Don’t think I will, asshole,” Bakugo snaps back, red glare fixed to him.

“She’s not interested in you or your company anymore; she’s got me now, don’t you, sweetheart?” He asks, not waiting for an answer. “Now, get outta my chair before I call security to take care of your sorry ass.”

The chair screeches and you stand, breath held in your chest, bottom lip fixed between your teeth. “I’ll still pay you for tonight,” you say, meeting the deep brown eyes of your date, “but I’m not staying, sorry.” You bow— briefly— then step away from the table, leaving both men gawking.

“Hey!” Comes a gruff yell from the blonde, but you keep walking, too overwhelmed and embarrassed— people are still watching you as you escape— to turn and look him in the eye.

You make it to the foyer of the restaurant before he grabs your wrist, reels you around to face him, “stop running from me!” He growls, tugging you against him, wrapping your naked shoulders in his clothed arms, his forehead falling to the crook of your neck.

Your eyes close, and only basking in the warmth of his hug did you realise just how cold you were. Just how alone you were.

“I...” he starts, breath hot against your collarbone, “I’d be— fuck, just don’t date other men.” He finishes heatedly, fingers pinching into the clothed skin at your waist.

“Okay, Bakugo,” you breathe softly, using what little mobility you have in your arms to pinch your fingers in his hoodie. “Take me home?”

He breathes out a sigh— exhaustion mixed with elation— and stands tall, loosening his grip on you a little. “You’re not hungry?”

You are, but you fall against his chest, missing that warmth. “We can order in,” you mumble, smile growing on your face as his low chuckle fills your ears.

Your fist flies up and connects with his nose, those eyes going wide as crimson drizzles down, colouring his lips red and turning that smug grin into something akin to surprise.

But you’re not done.

Your hands grab at his yukata and tug him down to blanket you, your tongue dragging up his face— jaw to nose— tasting the tangy metallic liquid, eyes closing when you hear his gasp morph into a growl, as your lips slide against his own.

Then he’s taking over despite your need to control the situation, a hand going to your throat, clenching around your windpipe, tugging a moan from your lips as he pulls away from them to taunt you again.

“What’s this?” He grins, teeth tinted orange, cheeks pink. “Little girl wants to play?” He asks, tightening his grip, those purple claws puncturing the thin skin of your throat, stirring something deep in your core.

A whimpering breath escapes you when you try and snap back, spreading the grin on his face as he leans down, eyes so close you can see a freckle in his iris, the gleam in his eye.

big, gruff bakugo inviting you to his footy games and after parties. introducing you to his friends as a friend, but glaring at anyone who goes near you. keeping you away from the booze bc he knows how eager you are when you’re intoxicated, only for you to snap at him about how you’re nervous around so many popular people, and how being sober is making you less inclined to stay.

so he just stays with you— or are you staying with him?— finds that he likes the weight of your hand on his knee when you sit with him on a sofa, likes your hand resting in the crook of his elbow when you both head out to the backyard for beer bongs.

Likes your tongue in his mouth, your ass on his lap, your fingers in his hair as you straddle him in the backseat of his Jeep. Likes how you paw and press at him, likes how you laugh when he flips you and litters you with kisses.

Likes that you stop mid make out to ask him about his friends, about something trivial that really could have waited.

He feels content to have you asleep in his passenger seat as he drives— he didn’t drink a drop, he’s got a quiz in the morning— back to his place, chest all warm and fuzzy when he remembers you telling him that you’ll just crash at his place.

But nerves bite and gnaw at him when he recalls you’re not actually his. That you’re both just “having fun”.