Art

his other hand is on your ass, greedily pawing and squeezing, in awe of just how big he is compared to you, watching the recoil from all of his thrusts.

“so fuckin’ wet, ugh. better be quiet, ‘less you want kirishima to know how much of a slut you are.”

but that just makes you yelp, nodding, trying to stifle your cute little noises but knowing it’s useless. it feels too good, you’re too cock drunk, and katsuki was right — you had been wanting this for years .. might as well just let go and enjoy it.

“awwww, I know, I know … pretty thing just wants to be used by both of her big, pro-hero roommates, yeah?” and he’s so fucking smug, honestly hoping that kirishima can see how good both of you look right now. he doesn’t have to wait for long, because poor kirishima can hear everything from where he’s sitting on the couch in the living room. it takes him some time, but he finally gathers the confidence to open your bedroom door.

“you’re talking about me while fucking her?”

“yeah, and?” bakugo says nonchalantly, slowing his pace but still languidly rolling his hips to fuck you, giving kiri a perfect view of how his abs flex, how your cute pussy welcomes him in. kirishima’s thick, half hard cock twitches in his sweatpants.

“kiri …” you whine, looking up at him with angel eyes and the cutest pout, sniffling into the pillows. you want to reach for him, but you’re too fucked out. “hi, pretty. you enjoying yourself? though, bakugo can be so mean, huh? poor thing.” kiri purrs, walking to the bed and lovingly playing with your hair, cradling your face.

“m-mhmm, feels so good, but I want you here.”

“fuckin’ brat. nothin’s good enough for you.” bakugo smacks your ass, just once, then moves his hand to find your clit. it makes you cry out and your legs fold together, but he keeps them in place. “shhh, baby.” kirishima whispers, immediately easing you.

“take her mouth, because I’m not pulling out right now.” katsuki offers ; he’s still a bit jealous, even if he wanted this.

but kiri is sweet, so he kisses you first. “hi, pretty girl,” he lulls, holding your face as you moan into his mouth, letting your tongues slide against each other and savoring your sweet taste.

he makes sure that you’re comfortable as he settles into your pillows and plushies, bakugo eyeing you both carefully, his middle finger still rubbing your clit, making you whine and cry.

kiri slips his shirt off and you could drool just from looking at him, and you literally start salivating once he pushes his sweats down to his muscular thighs, sighing as his gorgeous, massive cock springs free. you whimper kiri’s name and he dotes on you, telling you how beautiful you are, and how you’re doing so good for them. bakugo is a lot to handle, so he is actually impressed.

kiri’s big, maybe even a bit bigger than katsuki. his tip is already blushed and needy, leaking with precum that you eagerly lick off. he moans, already much more vocal than bakugo, which you love.

just like with katsuki, it’s going to take a lot of work to make him fit.

it’s going to be a long night, but you love it.

[ @slutsenpai × @sidesenpai × my masterlist × event masterlist ]

prompt 05 / 15 for my 2k follower event !! ଘ(੭ˊᵕˋ)੭

notes. why aren’t they real why aren’t they real why aren’t they real why aren’t they real why aren’t they real also thanks for the request !! :3

He keeps his arms hooked under your legs, pushing them back to give him full access to you. Dragging his thumb lazily over the thin fabric of your panties before his tongue follows the same path. 

There's a hunger in his eyes — one that only shows up when he plans to make your thighs his home for at least another two hours. It's obvious in the way he rips off your underwear, pawing at your thighs like he’s been deprived for too long.

"Denki," you warn, glancing at where his breath fans over your pussy, "You have 20 minutes. I mean it."

He snorts, before muttering a quiet, 'Yeah, Yeah.' — his lips ghosting over your heat before he gives you a quick nip at your clit, and that's all the warning you get before his mouth is on you. 

The sounds in the room are nothing short of sinful — so is the sight between your legs. Denki's eyes are bloodshot, hooded with lust and a dazed look that could only mean trouble. Licking, sucking, slurping. As if every inch of you was something new — something he hadn't gotten his fill of yet. 

His face is shiny, lips pulling away from you for a few seconds before he's diving back in, tongue first.

"Den-denki -fuck- right there" you whine, fingers now pulling at his hair as you grind on the wet muscle. He groans at the sting, readjusting his hands before pulling you taut against his face. "Y-you have to stop now -mmm- 10 more minutes" you whimper, moving your hips in sloppy circles as he laps at you like clockwork.

He huffs, moving his face from your cunt and eyeing the thin line of slick that still connects you. Face flushed, chin and cheeks coated in your juices before he's wiping it with the back of his hand — licking the appendage clean as his eyes bore into yours.

Fucking tease.

"What're you so worried about?" he hums, trailing his fingers to your clit and thumbing at the swollen nub. "It's nothing Hanta hasn't seen anyway."

You freeze at that, hips pausing their motions to peer at him as you cringe at the memory. Hanta's walked in on you more times than you can count — the first few times you may have passed as an accident, a misjudgement of timing on your part. But now you're convinced Denki's doing this on purpose.

"Doesn't mean I want it to happen again."

"You sure? I think your pussy's tellin' a different story." he snickers, pressing a thick finger against your fluttering hole.

The smile on his face is wiped in an instant, face buried to the hilt as you tug on his blonde locks. The sting against Denki's head is sharp enough to send a message — your way of telling him to 'shut the fuck up'. 

And he does. Willingly. 

Darting his tongue back out to do what he's told. You don't miss the smile that spreads across his cheeks as he presses a second finger inside you. Groans and whimpers slipping past his lips as you tug his hair harder.

As if the tug might hide the truth. But he knows he's right — and so do you.

© tokkushin — all rights reserved. all works belong to me .ᐟ pls do not repost/copy, or feed into ai. a/n: yeah i dunno. i just needed this out of my head bruh 🫩 can i get out of the chair now

“Why did you ask me to come?” You giggle, looking around. The bar definitely isn’t your crowd. You think you might be the youngest in there, most of them being men around Toji’s age. Never mind that it’s a Wednesday night, and you have class tomorrow. 

“Just wanted to see you,” Toji states, grabbing his drink back from you. “Can’t a guy miss his girl?”

His girl. You hum, leaning in and giving his cheek a kiss, smearing lip gloss on his skin. Toji hasn’t exactly asked you to be his girlfriend. You haven’t asked either. It feels silly asking for such a thing. He’d probably think you’re being childish. 

You still love it when he calls you his and covers your tits in hickeys, though. 

“Well, I suppose,” you reply, pressing yourself against his arm, making Toji’s pants tent. 

Now, Toji really just did want to see you. When he texted you, there were zero ulterior motives. His stupid old man brain just forgot the effect you have on him. Can you blame the guy? 

It’s not like you object when he stands up and pulls you into a dirty bathroom stall, locking the door after him. Nor do you reject when he pulls up your top, watching your tits spill out, giving each of his girls a proper greeting, like he wanted earlier.

"God, I missed these," He states, eyeing the faded hickeys he gave you last time, gripping and groping them, attaching his mouth to your nipples and sucking while he pinches the other. He groans at the way you whine before coming up and kissing your lips, swallowing your moans. 

“Toji,” you gasp, running your fingers through his hair and pressing yourself against him, feeling his hard-on against your stomach. Toji hums, pulling away to look at you. Flushed cheeks, lidded eyes, already panting. You look like a dream. 

And then there’s that fucking skirt. His eyes move down, and he appreciates the way your thighs are on full display.

“Did you wear this for me, kid?” He asks, and you nod eagerly, wiggling your hips at him. 

“Yes, sir. Know how much you like it,” you reply, and Toji sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose. 

“Minx,” he mutters, shaking his head as he pulls up your skirt to your stomach, revealing a flimsy pair of pink panties. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

The confession only seems to make you brighten, and you squeal in delight when he grabs your hips and places you on the sink. He places himself between your thighs, getting on his knees so he can kiss and nibble your sensitive skin. You sigh, resting yourself on your hands behind you, digging your heel into his back. 

He chuckles at the wet patch on your panties before nosing at it, taking a deep breath. 

“Pervert,” you gasp, though you’re grabbing his hair in your hand and pulling him closer to your cunt. Toji scoffs, but he doesn’t try to deny it. Instead, he licks a stripe across your panties. 

“Slut,” he replies, and before you know it, you’re pulled off the sink and turned around. A big hand is placed on the back of your neck, pushing you down onto the cool marble, and you gasp. Toji is behind you, and you feel him rub himself against you while his free hand roughly grabs your ass. 

You grip the edge of the sink, searching for purchase, and your breath hitches when you hear the sound of a zipper. 

The promise of him ruining you in a bathroom stall right now makes you dizzy. Most days when he fucks you, you’re barely able to walk afterwards. You realise that when you walk out of here, every dirty middle-aged man in the bar will know that you just let Toji fuck you in a toilet stall. For some reason, you like that thought. 

“Put it in,” you whine, and Toji clicks his tongue, pulling his cock out from his boxers and stroking his drooling cock. 

“You're such an impatient little girl,” he sighs, rubbing his cockhead on your clothed cunt. “Let me catch my breath, yeah? Have some grace for an old man.”

This makes you scoff. 

“You’re barely forty—oh!” In a split second your panties are pushed to the side and Toji slips in. He grips your hip so hard that you wonder if it’ll bruise, while his other hand remains on the back of your throat. 

“Fuck,” you mewl when he begins shallow thrusts, fucking himself deeper and deeper inside your snug cunt. The stretch burns and it's not long before you’re taking him to the hilt, feeling like he’s in your throat. “So good, sir,” 

You shut your eyes, mouth falling agape, as you slip away, drowning in pleasure, gasping each time his tip bullies your cervix.

Toji doesn't say much, instead enjoying the view of your backside and the way his pelvis collides with your ass. It’s like your pussy is sucking him in, unable to let him go for too long. Not that he ever would—your body is a safe haven for him. 

You’re a mess. Whining and moaning and spilling out cock-drunk, babbled praises. You always thank him so nicely. For making you feel good, for stretching your pussy so nicely. The fact that he barely has to touch you and you’re already this ruined is a wonder to Toji.

Pleasure shoots down his spine and makes him hold back throaty groans. Your cunt is simply too fucking good. He knows other people his age might look down on him for fucking a college girl, but he simply can’t help it. And right now, balls deep in you, he doesn’t regret a single thing.  

“Tojiiii,” you whine, twisting your head back to look at him, taking in his sweaty forehead and lidded eyes. “It’s too much—too big.” 

Toji sends you a smile, his scar stretching deliciously across his lip. He looks down, gripping your ass, and watching himself disappear in and out, angling up so he’s repeatedly hitting your sweet spot. You hiccup, biting down on your lip to keep the scream that threatens to spill. 

“You sure, sweetheart?” Toji asks as he speeds up, fucking you meaner, harder. You can barely keep up at this point, hardly hearing what he's saying. “Your cunt feels like it’s made for me, though.”

Your hands curl into fists, and you cry out. Loud enough to make Toji worry someone might get concerned and try to interrupt your precious alone time. He puts two fingers in your mouth and without thinking you instantly suck on them, drool spilling from the corner of your mouth. Each moan is muffled, and Toji leans over you, pressing his chest to your back as his cock carves a space in the shape of him inside you. 

“Good girl,” his tone is full of wonder, as he watches your expression carefully. "Good fucking girl,"

Your eyes roll back, this new angle allowing you to take him even deeper. Your hips twitch, and you can feel Toji nod as he kisses your shoulder. 

“Shhh, kid, take it all,” he mutters, fingers pressing on your tongue, making you gag. He feels you tighten up, and you convulse as you come, the loud squelching of your pussy filling the room. “Yeah, baby, I know, shhhhh,”

Toji comes soon after, the feeling of your cunt becoming even tighter sending him over the edge, groaning as his hips stutter and he buries himself deep inside of you, filling you up till it’s spilling down your thighs. When he pulls out, he immediately puts your panties back in place and gives your clothed cunt three little pats, snorting at the way your hips twitch in sensitivity. 

You are still out of it as he puts his half-hard cock back in his pants and helps you stand up. Big hands run up and down your sides, as he kisses you, murmuring praises against your lips. You wrap your arms around his neck, hiding your face in the crook of his neck.

"Feels weird," you huff, referring to the cum currently soiling your panties, and it's clear by your tone that you're blaming him. He knows you think he's a pervert.

Maybe he is.

“Sweet girl,” he says, his tone apologetic, as he pulls your top down and puts your skirt back in place. “You’re so good for me,” 

The praise makes you giggle and you seem to forgive him as he kisses your cheeks and fixes your hair. He helps you stumble out of the bathroom after you’re both all tidied up again and when you walk out, several people send you looks. It makes you hide behind him as you tug on his hand. 

“Let’s go home,” you whisper, but Toji shakes his head and grins at you. 

“Let me get one last drink, baby, then we’ll go.” 

Sick freak. 

thank you for reading >:D please reblog and comment to support your writers!!

dilf toji masterlist | main masterlist

Adulthood is a bummer. Everything is so different now—you don’t gossip with Toru every day or giggle with Mina in passing periods. You don’t tease Ochako about her rapidly growing crush or share headphones with Kyoka during lunch. You don’t study with Yaomomo or sit in Tsu’s room and have deep discussions about philosophy. Class 1B isn’t there to rival you and your peers. Mister Aizawa isn’t popping around at the oddest moments in that ridiculous sleeping bag.

And then adulthood is nice. Some things never change—Bakugou is yelling about something in the distance like a maniac, while Midoriya rubs his neck sheepishly. Todoroki says something with that deadpan face of his, and that only seems to set the blonde off even more. You can’t help but huff, rolling your eyes fondly.

Class 1-A is trauma-bonded, and fuck if it’s not one hell of a bond—adulthood claiming your lives and free time or not. You’ll find the time to get together like this at least once a year—with someone as good at planning as Yaomomo and someone as persistent and vocal as Iida, everyone makes it to the Class 1-A routine meet-up.

If only you weren’t so fucking devastated at this meet-up, you could have appreciated it properly. But you are, and there’s nothing to do about it now but suck it up—and hey, there’s always next year, right?

That’s what you tell yourself as you robotically hug each girl goodbye. That’s what you tell yourself as you watch your former classmates—turned occasional colleagues—file out of the bar and head off in different directions, dispersing along all the paths life has dragged them down separately.

You stand there for a good second after everyone leaves—you’re the only one left, you’re sure. Alone. As always, you think with a self-deprecating scoff, you’re alone. Even when you’re surrounded by a room full of people, you’re alone.

You should just get an Uber home. It’s late, you have morning patrol, and it’s getting really fucking cold, the night breeze biting at your skin. But you stand there anyway, stiff and unresponsive, because you are, despite trying to shove it all aside for one night, devastated. And so fucking alone.

“The hell are you still standing out here for?” comes a gruff voice from behind you.

You jolt—and that’s how out of it you are, because who the hell sneaks up on you so easily? You’ve honed your fighting abilities and reflexes better than that. You’ve made sure your skills are good enough that you aren’t crept on so easily. So why didn’t you hear Bakugou coming up behind you? You have no clue.

“Bakugou,” you mumble, “why are you still here?”

“Hah?” He looks at you, mildly irritated. “I asked you first, Stretchy. Answer me before you ask me stupid questions.”

Stretchy. Even after all these years, Bakugou calls everyone by those obnoxious nicknames he comes up with instead of their actual names. You’ve noticed a long time ago that he always goes one of two routes when picking his stupid little names: by physical appearance or by quirk. It just so happens he chose to use the latter for you—ever since the day your body stretches out like elastic in front of him for the first time, you’ve been Stretchy. Have been nothing else. Will probably never be anything else. 

If you weren’t so emotionally downcast, you might’ve rolled your eyes and snapped back: my name is not Stretchy! But you don’t have it in you. So you just mutter, “I’m getting an Uber.”

“So get it, then,” he grumbles. “The hell are you waiting for? It’s the middle of the fucking night.”

You don’t point out that it’s…kind of sweet, in a blunt, Bakugou sort of way, that he’s concerned about your safety. Or that it’s pointless to be, considering you’re a pro hero too—one who patrols in the middle of the night on a regular basis. But anyone who’s shared years with him, classroom and battlefield alike, knows better than to argue with him over meaningless things if they value their eardrums.

“Yeah, whatever,” you mumble, pulling out your phone to call the damn Uber. You should’ve just driven yourself, but you’d been too exhausted—and, frankly, too sad—to deal with the thirty-minute drive. It’s not like you can’t afford to waste the money, anyway.

You tap your screen once. Then twice. Nothing.

Huh.

You press and hold the power button. Still nothing. You’ve got to be fucking kidding, you think.

As if your week couldn’t have gotten any worse.

First, you get ghosted by your almost-but-not-quite boyfriend, who was never really your boyfriend, but that’s not the important part. The important part is that he almost, just almost, was by anyone’s standards. Then, after he gets you fucking attached, you find out he ghosted you for some other girl with way nicer fucking tits and longer legs than yours (no, you did not stalk that girl’s socials, thank you very much. You just happened to stumble onto it and accidentally…tapped the tagged user. That’s all). Then, you miss out on enjoying the one night you look forward to every year because you can’t pull yourself out of this stupid, heavy funk. And now, finally, your phone is dead. Completely dead. No Uber, no ride home, no immediate access to the ice cream in your freezer to have a good, necessary cry.

And Kaminari has already left, so he can’t charge it with his quirk. Great. Fantastic, even.

“You’ve gotta be fuckin’ kidding me.” Bakugou’s voice cuts through your spiral as he glares at you. “Were you here to be social or be on your damn phone all night? How’s that thing already dead, huh?”

“I wasn’t on my phone,” you shoot back, a little more petulant than intended. “I just…forgot to charge it before I got here.”

He stares at you with what can only be pure, hard judgment. “You people are so poorly prepared for everything, it never fails to piss me off.”

Well. If your week couldn’t get any worse, you now have to have Bakugou Katsuki, of all people, call you an Uber and get you home, which means you have to tell him your address. Which means you will, inevitably, lie awake all night wondering if he’s going to look up your apartment and judge it. Not that you think your place is bad, or that Bakugou is even the type to care about that kind of thing—but your brain is not exactly known for being reasonable once it gets going.

At the same time that you say, “I’ll pay you back if you call me an Uber,” he exhales sharply and snaps, “Well, fucking follow me, then.”

You pause.

“What?” you blink.

He’s already started walking off, and your question only seems to irritate him further. “Exactly what the fuck I said. Follow me.”

You do—only because you have to, if you want to ask him again to get you the damn Uber. “Bakugou, I’ll pay you before the Uber even gets here, okay? You don’t have to worry about your money—”

You hear the sharp beep of a car unlocking, and then a sleek, obnoxiously fancy Porsche lights up from the inside. Bakugou yanks the passenger door open and jerks his chin toward it, already glaring.

“Get in. And don’t talk like I can’t afford a fucking Uber—I’m not so desperate for money that I need you coughing it up that fast, you damn loser.”

“You…what?” You just blink at him, stupidly.

Bakugou looks like he’s just about one minor inconvenience away from exploding. He tips his head back with a long, aggravated groan. “God damn it, Stretchy—I’ve got shit to do in the morning, okay? Get. In. Did you hear me that time? For fuck’s sake, your hearing can’t be that bad.”

“…Why?” you ask, somehow even more stupidly.

You can’t help it—this doesn’t feel like a Bakugou thing to do. And it definitely doesn’t feel like a Bakugou thing to be doing for you of all people.

“Can you just fucking get in the car so I can drive you home and call it a night?” he grits out.

His eye is twitching now, just slightly, and you decide you would actually like to make it home tonight, so you decide not to push your luck. You walk over and get into the car without another word. It’s best not to piss him off to the point where he changes his mind on helping you altogether. That would be rough.

The door slams shut behind you almost immediately after you’re in, and Bakugou is in the driver’s seat just as fast. “Put your seatbelt on,” he mutters, reaching for his own.

He says this as you’re in the process of reaching for it, and you sometimes forget just how unnecessarily annoying Bakugou can be. And bossy. Very, very bossy.

“I am,” you mutter back, rolling your eyes.

”Here,” he only grunts in response, handing you a charger, and you wordlessly take it, plugging in your phone.

”Thanks,” you say quietly. “Good thing you were still there, huh?” You give him a sheepish look.

His only form of reply comes as a flat look. You wither under it.

”What were you still doing there while everyone was gone anyway?” You mumble.

”Taking a phone call,” he mutters. And then, because he’s apparently still as petty as he used to be back in the day, he glances at yours and adds, “Because I keep mine charged.”

You all but pout at his pointed statement, huffing as you start to defend yourself. “Okay, well, I never make this mistake usually. I just—”

You cut yourself off when your phone lights up from charging and turning on, catching your attention at the same time it does Bakugou’s. Well—that was pretty fast, at least. You almost wonder if the five percent he’s managed to get you to will be enough to last you on an Uber ride home. That would be better than a long thirty minutes sitting next to the agitated lump of blonde hair next to you, right?

You can’t entertain the idea for even a second longer than you had it, though. Because Bakugou is already muttering under his breath, “Finally,” before looking at you and saying, “now send me your address so I can type it in.”

”You know, if you were this pressed for time I could’ve just typed the address into your GPS myself,” you say dryly.

”Great idea,” he says just as dryly, “next time, maybe I’ll try that when you talk less. Now gimme the address, idiot.”

Well. You give up on your idea of the Uber and you do. And you watch as he slots his phone into the holder on the dash, your message lighting up the screen—Stretchy. That’s your contact name.

Of course it is. (But then again, it’s a miracle Bakugou even saved your contact at all—you’d always assumed he had the class group chat muted.) You fight the urge to roll your eyes again and just slump back into your seat instead, resigning yourself to your fate for the night as he taps on your message and pulls up your address in his GPS.

The engine hums to life, low and smooth, and the car pulls out onto the road. You sink a little deeper into your seat, letting your head fall back for a second before, against your better judgment, your eyes drift over.

Bakugou drives like he does everything else: so absurdly impressively, it’s actually ridiculous. It’s just driving, and yet he makes it look like it’s something only he can do so well—one hand on the wheel while the other rests on the gear shift, relaxed. His posture is easy, shoulders set, gaze sharp on the road ahead. And it’s just one of those attractive things men do for no reason.

It’s…annoying. How natural he looks. How good he looks.

The streetlights flicker over him in passing streaks, catching the sharp line of his jaw, the slight furrow in his brows, the way his eyes narrow just a bit when he switches lanes. Bakugou looks so annoyingly good, and you’re helpless to notice it.

Because that’s just the thing—you’ve always noticed it.

You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t thought he was attractive back in high school. You definitely did. It was hard not to. He was bulky and muscular and tall with a good face—he even wore baggy pants and a tight-fitted shirt for his hero costume. He did all the right things (without meaning to, of course) to be attractive to the average girl.

But his attitude? Well…that’s another matter.

That had killed the attraction before it could ever be anything more than a passing thought. A surface-level thing. Something you’d notice and immediately shove aside because Bakugou Katsuki was not someone you entertained a crush on unless you were actively trying to make your own life harder. And you definitely didn’t need that, so you never put much thought into it.

And yet, now, years later, watching him drive like this, you’re painfully aware that it’s…still there. That lingering attraction that you undeniably have for him. Persistently so.

You tear your gaze away before you can get caught staring. What the hell is wrong with you? It’s just Bakugou. You’ve known him for over a decade, and you’ve never been affected by him like this, and you won’t start now. Your broken heart and devastating loneliness are getting to you. That’s all.

The silence stretches—not uncomfortable, exactly, and you’re sure Bakugou would prefer it this way, if anything. But still, you feel like it’s too stiff for you to handle, so you do what you’re best at. Awkwardly making small talk to fill in the awkward silence, even if it’ll annoy him.

(If anything, you hope it will.)

You clear your throat. “So.”

He doesn’t look at you. “So?”

“…Busy lately?” you try, immediately regretting it. God, that was lame.

He huffs quietly through his nose. “Yeah. Work doesn’t exactly stop for heroes.”

“Right,” you nod, even though he isn’t looking. “Same.”

Another beat of silence. You glance at him again, just for a second, and immediately regret it when you notice the way his hand shifts slightly on the wheel, forearm flexing.

Holy fuck.

“Your new agency’s…uh. Doing well?” you ask, grasping at anything that sounds remotely normal. Remotely interesting. Bakugou would love talking about himself—right?

“Tch. Obviously,” he mutters. “We’re not half-assing shit over there.”

“Yeah, I figured,” you say quickly. “I’ve heard good things.”

He shoots you a brief sideways glance, like he hardly believes it. “From who?”

“People,” you shrug, already cringing. “Around.”

“Hn,” he grunts. He looks back at the road. “Well, they’re right. I’m gonna be the best agency soon, too—you’d do well to remember that.”

You press your lips together, trying not to smile. God, he’s insufferable. You hum, letting your head rest back. “Kaminari said you’ve been working yourself to death without some sidekicks.”

“Dunno why you’re listening to that idiot,” Bakugou scoffs. He looks a little sulky at the mention of having no sidekicks—like it’s a sore topic. (You’re not surprised in the slightest when Kaminari tells you that no sidekick stays for long after getting a taste of Bakugou’s abrasiveness.) “Dunce-face talks too much.”

“He said you don’t take breaks.”

“I don’t need breaks.”

You snort softly. “Yeah, okay.”

That earns you another glance, longer this time, but the sulkiness is gone, and there’s something almost amused sitting underneath it. Barely there, but it’s there. “Worry about yourself,” he says, turning back to the road. “You’re the one who looks like shit tonight.”

You blink, then scoff. “Wow. Thanks.”

“You know what I mean,” he mutters.

Yeah. You do. You’re sure you looked miserable and stiff as a board all night. No way the girls didn’t notice, but they know you well enough to know you’ll come to them on your own time—and you will. When the time is right, you’re sure you’ll vent away about men and their shittiness and their lack of communication and commitment when you’re feeling up to it.

For now, though, you’ll just sit here and be driven home by Bakugou Katsuki, who seems to know something is up, yet does not comment on it as he does a surprisingly nice thing for you. And for some unknown reason, that makes something in your chest feel just a little less heavy.

The rest of the car ride goes rather smoothly, and you pull up to your apartment in what feels like a surprisingly fast amount of time. Time…doesn’t seem to drag on with Bakugou, even when it’s silent. Of course, he’d actually entertained your small talk when you tried here and there, but you find that there’s almost…comfort in Bakugou’s silence.

He parks in front of the building. And then, he surprises you as he says bluntly, “You've been actin’ weird all night. What’s with you?”

You stiffen, jaw tightening. “Nothing, I don’t know what you’re—”

“That’s bullshit. I’m not fucking stupid,” he cuts in, flat.

“Well, why’s it your business?” you snap, sharper than you mean to.

Bakugou shrugs, like it really doesn’t matter either way. “It’s not. But I drove thirty minutes in the opposite direction for your dumbass, so I’m curious why.”

You huff, looking away toward your apartment building, arms crossing tighter over yourself. “It’s nothing. Just…a shitty week.”

“Tch.” He leans back slightly, still watching you. “Shitty how?”

“Just stuff,” you mutter. “It’s not a big deal.”

He clicks his tongue, clearly not buying it. “Liar.”

You shoot him a look. “Excuse me?”

If there’s one thing that Bakugou is that people tend not to give him credit for, it’s that he’s perceptive. Observant. They make the mistake of thinking that he always rushes right in, charges head-on without an ounce of a plan or a single thought in his brain other than brute forcing his way out of everything. But that’s farther from the truth than anyone would assume. Bakugou is so smart, it just adds to the list of reasons why he’s infuriating.

He’s smart, and he notices things, and he always has a pretty fucking good idea of what he’s talking about.

So when he says, “You’ve been off all night. Quiet—and not your usual type of quiet,” you look at him funny. You never assumed he’d have a good idea of what he’s talking about when it pertains to you.

“Wow. Since when do you know me so well?”

“I know all of you freaks—have to if I’m gonna beat you all and be number one,” he shoots back immediately. Then, after a moment, “You still seein’ that guy Dunce-face was talking about?”

You still. Just for a second. How did…how did he know that’s what was wrong? (And why is Kaminari airing your business out like that? From now on, you’re going to stick to the girls, and that’s it—Kaminari has lost his gossip privileges.) And of course, Bakugou catches the way you stiffen almost immediately, so he catches on that he was right. “Hah. Knew it,” he mutters. “Sparky says the guy’s lame as shit.”

“It’s not—” you start, then exhale sharply. “It’s nothing.”

“That means you’re not seein’ him anymore, I take it,” he says. “So was he a jerk?”

You groan, dropping your head back against the seat. “Can you not?”

“No,” he says, without hesitation. “You’re sitting here acting like shit over some guy?”

“I’m not acting like shit,” you snap, even though you know you are. “And he’s not just some guy, either.”

“You are acting like shit,” he says flatly. “What, you love him or something?”

“No,” you sputter, “we didn’t even know each other like that for it to be love.”

“So then what’s the big deal?”

You look away again, jaw tight. “I don’t know! It’s like…it’s just…” You trail off and sigh. “It’s stupid.”

“Yeah,” Bakugou shrugs. “Probably.”

Your head snaps back toward him in disbelief. (At least now you know there is at least one thing he’s not good at—he can’t comfort people for shit.) “Wow. Thanks, asshole.”

“But you’re clearly stuck on it,” he continues, unfazed. “So it’s not stupid to you. Are you gonna be fine, or are you gonna go up there and spiral all night?”

“Still don’t see how it’s your business,” you grumble.

It’s only silent for a moment before Bakugou grabs his keys and turns the ignition off on his (very fancy) car. His door opens and closes, and before you can even get an idea of what’s happening, he pulls your door open and gestures for you to get out.

“Let’s go,” he says.

“W-what?” you stutter.

“I said, let’s go,” he rolls his eyes, “We’re goin’ up to your place, and you’re gonna give me a bottle of water and somethin’ to snack on. Least you can do for making me drive all this way.”

It’s his way of keeping you company for a bit longer. This much, you know.

Bakugou is a complicated guy. He’s mean and rude and crass and loads of other unpleasant things that people could use to describe him in order to convey that he’s…not easy to get along with. Not even a little. 

But he’s a good person at heart. It’s undeniable. People are always safe around Bakugou, even if it costs him his life (though really, it hardly ever does because he’s just that good), and even if it takes every ounce of his blood, sweat, and tears. He does it because it’s in his nature to do so—ingrained in him since the day his quirk was manifested. He’s the best at winning against bad things, and it helps people—imperfectly, sure, and not always in a very heartfelt manner, but as sincerely as it comes.

If he decides to come up and spend time with you for a bit to keep your mind off of your broken heart, it’s not because he pities you or feels this self-righteous sense of justice. He never does what he doesn’t want to do. So he wants to do this—and it’s because in his own, weirdly unexpected way, he cares. 

Perhaps it’s not entirely unexpected, though, you suppose—after all, Class 1-A is trauma-bonded for life. All of you. 

—

When you let him into your apartment, he takes a quick glance around. Lingers over the small trinkets and items you keep as decor, and then marches his way over to the kitchen as he mumbles, “What sorta snacks you got?”

You pull out one of the bags of red, hot, spicy chips from the convenience store that you keep stashed away—they can’t be good for you, but you figure you only live once—and hand them to him. He perks up minimally. 

Bakugou likes spicy things. It’s one of the first things you ever learned about him, actually about him as a person and not just him pertaining to the nature of the hero course, and for some reason, it’s a detail you seem to remember. 

He grabs the bag and slinks off to your couch while you grab your long-awaited ice cream and slump onto the opposite end of it right after, which isn’t too far, considering your couch is not that large. His feet are thrown over your coffee table, and you don’t care enough to bother with scolding him about how ill-mannered it is. 

“So,” he grunts, popping a chip into his mouth. “Why the pity party? He dump you or somethin’?”

“We weren’t together,” you mutter, digging your spoon roughly into your frozen treat. You’re long past the point of wondering if it’s a wise idea to tell Bakugou all your woes—he’s already here, so you figure, why the hell not? “I don’t think it qualifies as a dump.”

“Ah,” he huffs, chewing as he seems to get whatever clarity he was searching for. “So he ran off before things got official, and now you’re sulkin’.”

“I’m not sulking,” you click your teeth—all of which is said through a rather sulky tone, so he only snorts and raises an eyebrow at you. You just respond by glumly taking a spoonful of your ice cream as you add, “And it’s not even like I fell for him that hard, okay? It’s just…the principle of things—he shouldn’t have strung me along like that, and he could’ve just told me instead of disappointing me when things seemed to be going great. And, he definitely never implied that he was seeing other people, so it’s particularly low of him to do all that just so he could see another girl who is clearly so opposite of me, so I’m not even sure I was his type, rather than an easy situationship. Except I didn’t give him what he wanted easily, so I bet that’s why he lost interest so suddenly when he realized he wasn’t going to get what he—”

“Holy fuck,” Bakugou groans, “you sound like the damn nerd with all that mumbling. Okay, so some guy wanted to get in your pants, you didn’t let him, and he got bored. Big deal—just means you picked a fucking loser. So don’t do that next time.”

He says it like it’s so simple. It’s never that simple. Men are so naive. 

“Thanks for the stellar advice,” you say sarcastically, shooting him a flat look.

He only smirks, shrugging as he hums, “Yeah, don’t mention it. Don’t get used to it though—I’m not a fuckin’ therapist who solves your shit for you.”

“I’ll try not to depend on you too much,” you roll your eyes. You take another spoonful of your ice cream and sigh tiredly as you slump back against your cushions, and he sighs heavily and throws his head back exasperatedly. 

“Look, I know I’m not always the most…fuck, I don’t know the word—”

“Kind? Compassionate? Empathetic? Understanding—”

He shoots you a withering glare, and you huff as you trail off. “Anyway,” he fixes you with a pointed look, “even though I don’t get all bent up outta shape over nonsense like this, I’d get it if you were head over heels for this bastard. But it sounds like you didn’t even like the loser that much, so I’m failing to understand why it matters that bad.”

“Because,” you sigh in exasperation, “I just…I don’t know…I wanted someone to choose me and like what they see, okay? No one ever cares to even bother getting to know me, and I’m starting to wonder if there’s a reason why.”

“You just haven’t set your sights on the right guy yet,” he shrugs, “big fuckin’ deal. You’ll stop being dumb and choose a good one eventually—I’m willing to believe you’re capable of at least that much.”

“They really ought to give you your therapy license,” you say dryly, your face as unimpressed as your tone. “I bet people would pay good money to hear this.”

“I’ll consider it if my agency is a bust,” he snorts, shooting you a sly smirk as he leans back into the couch, one arm slung over the backrest. “Seriously though,” he adds after a second, side-eyeing you, “you’re makin’ this deeper than it is. Some shallow guy bein’ shallow is a stupid reason to get all in your head about shit or whatever.”

You press your lips together, staring down into your melting ice cream. “Well, that’s easy for you to say,” you mutter.

“Hah?” he grunts.

It is easy for someone like Bakugou. Someone who’s always good at everything and knows it. Has enough confidence for two people and then some. You’re certain that if Bakugou actually let women come near him long enough to entertain the idea of a romantic relationship with him, they’d be at his feet the way they are for Todoroki. Women have a thing for men they feel like they can change, can make soften up just for them. He’d be a magnet for the fix-it type of girls if he were actually interested someday, and it only frustrates you further when he talks like your problems are so simple. 

“This is how it’s always been for me—even back in high school, it was the same thing.”

Bakugou’s brows knit slightly. “The hell are you talkin’ about?”

You stare intently into your pint of ice cream, stabbing the spoon in and out. “Like…with guys. It’s always been like this.”

“That’s bullshit.”

You blink at him. “What?”

“I was there, in case you forgot,” he says, as if that alone settles the matter. “Don’t rewrite shit. You got asked out once by that extra.”

You frown. “That’s not—okay, first of all, that was just so he could try and show off his support gadgets to the agency I did my work study with. It doesn’t count. And second, that’s not my point.”

“Then what is?” he shoots back.

You hesitate, then sigh, dragging your spoon through your ice cream again. “Like…I don’t know!” You gesture with your hand vaguely, “I’m never memorable…or the sort of person that stands out enough for people to be interested, you know? Even Mineta made a list once when we were in school—did you know that? Ranking all the girls. And I was last. Like, dead last for whose tits he’d want to see in order. And I know it’s stupid—it’s Mineta. But some part of me wondered why I was last, and…I just figured maybe when I got older, got more confident, and figured myself out, then it’d be different. But it’s not. It’s just the same thing again—and now I’m starting to wonder if there’s a reason why I was last on that list.”

Silence settles heavily between you. Bakugou stares at you incredulously, like you’ve just said something that’s genuinely incomprehensible. “You’re fuckin’ kidding me, right?” He scoffs.

You don’t meet his eyes as you bring your legs up to your chest and hug your arms tightly around your knees. “What?” You frown, sulky and self-conscious.

“You’re tellin’ me you’re still hung up a decade later over that small fry not wantin’ ta take a peek at your tits? Why the fuck would you even want him to see them?”

“I don’t want him to see them,” you defend, huffing. “But like…fuck, c’mon! If the perveiest, creepiest guy you know doesn’t get excited at the thought of seeing you naked, who in their right mind will?”

He looks at you in pure distaste. “I knew you were an idiot, but I thought you weren’t this much of a fucking idiot, Stretchy. Sitting here wanting people to see you naked. Fuckin’ absurd.”

“Don’t be purposely dense,” you snap. You don’t know why it matters so much that Bakugou understands where you’re coming from, but it does. It’s important that he understands. “I’m not…I just…all my life, I’ve never been the one people want. There’s always someone better. Hotter, or smarter, or funnier. Nobody wants me—not even for the wrong reasons. How can I expect anyone to want me for the right ones?”

Bakugou is silent. For a moment, you think he finally understands. Think he’ll finally have an odd moment where he’s compassionate and gentle and you see eye to eye and have a heart-to-heart about your lifelong insecurities and your raging sense of inferiority when it comes to anything outside of your job. (Because at least you can give yourself that much—you’re good at your job.)

But then he says, “You’re so dumb, it physically hurts to watch you sometimes.”

And you bury your face into your knees and just sigh. Why did you have any hope for anything else? Why did you expect Bakugou Katsuki of all people to have empathy for your lack of confidence? The walking epitome of confidence is sitting on your couch, and you had the gall to think he’d even try to understand you.

But then he takes you by surprise.

“You see the shit people say on the internet about you, don’t you? You got fans. They think you’re hot.”

You blink as you lift your head back up. “Well, sure, but—”

Bakugou cuts you off. He looks at you like you’re dumb as he speaks, and you almost wonder if you are with the way he holds so much conviction in that gaze of his. Like he believes wholeheartedly you’re a stupid fucking idiot with stupid fucking thoughts.

“But fucking what? That means you’re clearly not the ugliest girl on the planet. You’re sociable enough that you got plenty of friends, too, and you have talents. You’re half decent enough at hero stuff. You’re tellin’ me you think no one wants you? You have to be pretty air-headed to think no one’s gonna desire you or whatever.”

All things aside regarding the…well, delivery of his statement, it’s a pretty nice statement. Something about the idea that Bakugou believes someone could definitely want you makes your chest feel rather light. It’s kind and comforting in an odd way, despite the rough and borderline mean way of saying it. That’s Bakugou for you, though, you suppose. Always doing good in the least seemingly good way possible.

“You’re being weirdly thoughtful,” you fix him with a look as you stir your ice cream around. You fight back a small smile. 

He huffs, throwing another chip in his mouth before he mumbles, “I’m always thoughtful, you loser. I’m fuckin’ awesome, you’re just blind as shit.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you smile.

“Just eat your ice cream before it turns into soup,” he grumbles.

You take his advice for once, scooping up another bite just to give your hands something to do. The cold bites at your tongue as you think on his words. You have to be pretty air-headed to think no one’s gonna desire you or whatever. Are you? Are you air-headed to think that? No one has given you a reason to think they do want you—but he seems to say it like he knows it’s true. Like he knows someone wants you exactly in the way you want to be wanted. It eats away at you in your head. Does he know who? Is it someone from your old class? A friend of his? Kirishima, or Sero, or hell…even Todoroki? (You rule out Kaminari rather quickly—you almost pity the guy for how long he’s pined after Jirou.)

You glance at him from the corner of your eye. He’s already looking at you. You freeze for half a second, catching him eyeing you down, and he doesn’t even bother pretending otherwise. Just watches you, eyes narrowed slightly like he’s trying to figure something out, trying to search for something that he can only find in you.

“What?” you mutter, a little defensive.

“Tch.” He looks away first, shoving another chip into his mouth. “Nothin’.”

You don’t buy that for a second. “You’re staring.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You literally were.”

“Eat your damn ice cream,” he snaps back, but there’s no real heat in it.

“Why’re you being all weird all of a sudden?” you mutter.

He scoffs. “You’re the one who’s weird. Don’t start projecting.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

You roll your eyes as you go back and forth with him, but there’s a small smile tugging at your lips again, uninvited and almost second nature somehow. It lingers longer than you expect. Who knew it could be so easy to smile in Bakugou’s company? You wonder if the you from high school would be shocked to see this now—hell, you think the you of last week would be shocked to see this, too. 

You look back at him, and he’s still staring—softer this time, less like he’s searching for whatever it is he was searching for a moment ago, and more like he’s staring just to stare.

“What?” you ask again, furrowing your brows.

He doesn’t answer right away. Just looks at you—looks at you hard and good and…and so full of certainty and conviction like earlier. Certainty for what, you wonder. You have no idea, but it almost feels like something is shifting in your relationship with Bakugou—or perhaps, something that was always there that you never knew of is revealing itself. It makes your stomach twist.

What relationship do you even have with him? Outside of being semi-friendly? You shared a class with him for three years and fought through a dark, heavy disaster side by side. It’s unfair to say you don’t know him that well—he was your friend. That much, you think, is fair to say. Perhaps not your closest friend, nor a lifelong one. But a friend all the same. 

So what is it? Why does it feel like there’s something that’s making itself noticeable now, all these years later? What is it exactly? Your head spins as you try to figure it all out, all while he just keeps on fucking staring.

“Nothing,” he mutters finally, but it sounds distracted. It sounds like his mind is elsewhere, and his body is here. 

“You’re still staring,” you whisper.

His jaw tightens slightly. “Stop sayin’ that,” he mutters.

“Then stop staring.”

“I was making eye contact, you fucking idiot.”

“I think you were staring.”

“No, the fuck I wasn’t.”

“You’re looking right at me as you say that.”

“'Cause it’s called fucking eye contact—are you dumb or something?”

You stare at him. He stares right back. And then, because you’re you, you break it first—huffing out a quiet laugh and shaking your head. “I see. Are you just now realizing I’m super gorgeous or something?”

“Tch. Weren’t you just going on about how no one seems wowed by you?”

You glare at him. “Low blow. And I said that’s how it seems to be for some reason—I never said I agreed with it. Personally, I think I’m rather delightful, and people should notice it more.”

“Yeah, real charmer,” he mutters.

You bump your knee lightly against his without thinking. “Shut up.”

It’s small. A casual touch, if anything. You didn’t think much of it—in fact, it almost came to you naturally. But sitting on your couch and spilling your heart out and sharing snacks with Bakugou feels so oddly familiar, though, that perhaps your judgment is a little clouded. 

He stills at the small touch. Your smile fades a little when you realize it—when you realize he didn’t just brush it off like it’s casual. His gaze drops again, slower this time, to where your knee is pressed against his. And then back up. Did you cross a boundary? Did he find that weird? Is he uncomfortable? Was that a more intimate gesture than you thought it was? 

You’re sitting there spiralling in your head as you just watch him, waiting for him to say something. Anything. 

He doesn’t. Instead, he leans forward slightly—just enough that the space between you closes so that only a few bare inches remain. Your breath hitches.

“Bakugou—”

“You’ve always been pretty dumb,” he mutters, voice low.

You blink. “What?”

“Exactly what I said,” he closes his eyes and sighs, like he’s tired and conflicted and…and something else. Something else you just can’t decipher, no matter how much you try. “I don’t get how you don’t fucking see it.”

“What do you mean?”

He doesn’t answer. But he does open his eyes—deep and sharp vermillion eyes that are looking at you, and he seems to have made a decision that he’s almost a little hesitant with. Like he’s reluctant to fully go through with it, but still. He’s determined. That much you can tell—you know what a determined Bakugou looks like, and this is it. This is it if you know it, and you know that you know it. 

And then he leans in.

He leans right in, pressing his lips to your and kisses you softly. It’s so soft—softer than any touch you’ve ever felt. So careful and considerate, as if you’re a fragile petal that’s on the verge of falling off the stamen, and he’s taking every ounce of willpower to keep you tethered to where you are. Keep you from falling away. Keep you there and whole and pieced together so that even the most delicate of touches doesn’t ruin you. 

You almost wonder if he thinks he would—ruin you, that is. You wonder if all that careful consideration is because Bakugou believes you’re a fragile petal that could blow away, and he’s nothing but a harsh, cold wind that would blow you off your balance and carry on like it’s just his nature to do so. 

And then he pulls back just as fast as it happened to look at you, brows furrowed slightly like he’s bracing for you to shove him off or yell at him.

Your brain is still catching up. He just kissed you. Bakugou Katsuki just kissed you. You stare at him, wide-eyed, and for once, he actually looks uncertain. Nervous, even—almost disappointed. And it does something weird to your chest.

“Fuck, I shouldn’t have done th—”

“You just kissed—” 

You both speak at the same time. You pause, he does too, and then his jaw tightens. “Yeah. I…that was stupid. Sorry—I…fuck, I don’t know what I was think—”

You don’t know why you do it, but you lean forward and kiss him again. It just happens before you can process it—some invisible, untraceable, yet undeniable force that makes you just do it.  

And instantly, without even questioning it, his hand comes up, quick and certain, as it grips lightly at your jaw to steady you so he can kiss you properly. 

It’s slower this time. More deliberate. Less like he’s being careful and more like he’s trying to savor it now that he knows that he can. His lips press into yours as if they fit like puzzle pieces, and his tongue slides past your parted mouth to press against your own. Your breath catches, fingers curling slightly into the fabric of his shirt without you meaning to.

It’s weird, but it’s not—kissing Bakugou. He’s the last person you ever expected to kiss tonight, maybe even ever, but fuck does it feel like it’s the rightest thing you’ll ever do. 

“How the fuck do you think no one wants you?” he grumbles between kisses, like he’s personally insulted by the idea. It’s starting to occur to you that perhaps he is just a little insulted by the idea. “You’re so…so fuckin’ dense.”

“No one has ever made it clear,” you snap, bringing your hands around his neck and tugging on his hair as he kisses you deeper.

He hisses, but it only eggs him on to kiss you harder, more fervently. “You want it clear? Then here the fuck you go.”

He kisses along your jaw. Down your neck. Across your collarbone. When your shirt slips off, you don’t even have the clarity to stop and think about what it is you’re doing—it just feels that natural and right to let him do it. He takes in the sight of your tits in your bra, grabbing a handful of them with large, warm hands as he scoffs.

“These the tits that small fry didn’t wanna see? I’m fuckin’ glad—I’d be pissed as hell if he got to see these.” 

He pulls off your bra. Rips it right off your back and makes you gasp as you feel the claps fly clean off somewhere in the distance. 

“Hey—”

“Oh, shut up,” he huffs, “it’s a fuckin’ bra. I’ll buy you some more if you’re that pressed over replacing one.”

Before you can even scold him for tearing your undergarments and being so nonchalant about it, his mouth latches onto a nipple, sucking and rolling his tongue over the nub as it hardens under his touch. You gasp, arching into his touch, whining when one of his hands moves to cup your other breast and use his fingers on the neglected nipple. 

“Oh my—fuck,” you breathe, your heart rate getting faster as your breaths come out more labored. 

Bakugou grins against your tit, still sucking and licking—and when you feel the faintest pressure of teeth around your nipple while his fingers pinch around the other, you let out a sound that you’d be mortified about if your mind wasn’t so stuck in the clouds, hazy and unclear.

He kisses down the valley of your breasts when he finally pulls away—right down your belly and right above the waistband that’s sitting against your skin before he looks up at you for permission. “This okay?” he grunts. 

You nod quickly as you breathe heavily. 

He gives you an unimpressed look as he raises a brow. “Use your words,” he says firmly, “I know you can—can’t you?”

“Yes,” you whine, “yes, this is okay. J-just…get on with it.”

That satisfies him enough, it seems, because he’s pulling all the cloth that separates your core from him down, revealing your dripping cunt as he lets you kick off the cloth that pools at your ankles. 

“Look at you,” he coos, grinning smugly at the sight of your arousal smeared along your folds and your skin. He leans closer to get a better look, and you whine in shame. “Fuck,” he grunts, parting your legs with strong hands along your inner thighs as you try to close them from embarrassment. “Quit that,” he hisses. For whatever reason, you obey. “Fuck, you are so wet.”

“Bakugou,” you whine again, horrified, “what is wrong with you?”

He gives you a deeply bothered look. “Katsuki,” he snaps.

“What?” You furrow your brows. Why is he introducing himself to you as if you’ve never met him before—does this man forget that he and you not only shared a class for three fucking years straight, but you fought a war side by side? Of course, you know his first name is Katsuki—

“For fuck’s sake, Stretchy,” he says in pure exasperation, “you’re so dense, you make rocks seem weightless. Say Katsuki, not Bakugou—s’weird to hear that during sex. That’s my fuckin’ mother’s name, too, y’know.”

“Thank you for that mental image,” you fix him with a glare, “and I’m not denser than a rock—”

He licks a stripe along your pussy to shut you up, and fuck does it work. Bakugou—or…well, Katsuki, you correct in your head—is so good at everything he does, it’s almost infuriating. But you aren’t a liar, and you would be lying if you said you weren’t grateful for him being so good at eating you out. It’s like his life depends on it, the way he laps away at your folds, pressing his tongue into your cunt and pulling back away to roll over your clit. It’s so…so fucking good.

It feels good. Feels right. Somehow, it feels like this is natural and like he’s supposed to be there between your thighs. You’d expected yourself to be a bit more self-conscious about him seeing you like this, doing things to you like this, for a bit longer. But you’re not.

Instead, you’re throwing your head back into the couch as you moan, “Katsuki—mmhhh.”

“Yeah?” he grins, so smug and handsome at the same time. Just unfair. “You like that, huh?”

“B-be quiet,” you huff, whimpering when a finger sinks past your folds and stretches you open, “you always talked too much.”

“And you always talked too little,” he counters, “tell me how good you feel and say my name like that again while you do it,” comes his blunt demand.

And he earns what he asks for, of course, because a second finger follows that first, and it makes you whine out his name in response like it’s an inevitable chain of events. He’s pumping his digits into your wet cunt and pressing into your sweet spot like it’s that simple. His mouth closes around your clit, and he sucks, his tongue working some sort of unearthly magic along the bundle of nerves as you practically sob in pleasure.

Good, good, good—everything that Katsuki does is so good. He’s so good at everything, it blows your mind. Literally. You can hardly think as he fucks his fingers into you and builds that familiar pressure up in your lower belly. They’re longer and thicker than your own—and all those years of explosives at his fingertips have really roughened up the skin. They’re calloused and scarred. And they feel amazing when they glide along your walls. The friction is so different when it’s his fingers and not yours—they hit angles and stretch places you never hoped to do so yourself.

Like he can read your mind, he asks, “Feels nice?” with a low voice.

You can barely think, let alone form a proper response. Everything feels too sharp, too overwhelming—your breath catching, your body reacting before your brain can keep up. You roll your hips into his fingers as they thrust into you, grinding down onto his mouth so his tongue can lap away at your clit.

“Yeah—” you manage, voice uneven, “so…so good, Katsuki—”

“I know, baby,” he murmurs. Baby—he just called you baby. And it’s…sweet. He says it oddly sweet and oddly gentle as he kisses your clit and smiles into your thigh when the kisses trail along the insides of them. His fingers are still pressing into that soft, sensitive spot in the back of your walls, still applying pressure exactly where you see white every time, and all the while, he seems to be so unexpectedly happy to be doing it.

You stare down at him, watching him between your legs, and when vermillion eyes intensely stare right back, piercing and calculating and yet so…so soft, you can’t look anymore. Just close your eyes and let it happen as your body starts to creep towards that familiar sensation of euphoria.

“Katsuki,” you whine, voice cracking.

“Jus’ let it happen, sweetheart,” he hums, “gonna cum for me?”

“Yeah,” you whine some more, “yeah—fuck. M’gonna cum.”

“Then do it, baby.”

You do. Katsuki is there to work you through it. Your walls spasm as you fall—no, plummet—off the edge, and he doesn’t hold back for an instant. His fingers are fucking into your tightness, the squelching sound of them gliding against your wet folds invading your very good hearing. His tongue is rolling back and forth against your swollen clit—so unforgiving and ruthless in his pace.

You can feel your back arch off the cushions of your couch, your hips working on their own accord as they move and grind down into his touch. Katsuki devours it all—laps away at your juices and groans at the taste of you. Groans right into your pussy and leaves you shuddering at the vibrations his gruff voice leaves against where you’re most sensitive.

“So fuckin’ tight,” he mutters, “driving me crazy here, y’know—sucking my fingers right in, I don’t even have to do much myself.”

When you’re done chasing your high, chest heaving as you catch your breath and slump back against your couch, his mouth doesn’t stop. He just stays there, pressing his lips where he can along your thighs, kissing and sucking into your skin, leaving blossoming marks in his wake while you try to gather some coherence in your mind.

“Fuck,” you say breathlessly. “I…just…yeah. Fuck.”

He snorts. “You’re too easily impressed,” he mutters.

“Yeah, well,” you glare, not meeting his gaze, “it’s not like I’ve ever done…this—” you vaguely gesture at him between your legs, “—to have a proper assessment of your skills.”

He looks at you. Bewildered. “Wait—you’ve never been fucked?”

“I’m not a virgin!” you sputter quickly, “not…not that there’s no reason why I can’t be a virgin—but I’m not, okay? I’ve been fucked.”

“So what is it then?” he raises a brow.

“I’ve never had someone do…this,” you gesture again.

“Eat you out?”

“Why do you have to go and say it like that?” you whine, covering your face with your hands—you’re sure said face is bright red and flushed.

He’s always been so vulgar. Even when you were kids. At least then, he was just vulgar with his language and not the connotations, but right now, he’s being vulgar about everything. And it’s seriously fucking with you right now—in more ways than one, evidently.

Katsuki only snorts, looking at you in mild amusement. “If you can’t say it, you got no business doing it. And you gotta have better standards, too—the fuck do you mean you never been eaten out before?”

“Men are not so giving,” you glare at him, “they’re in it for themselves. You’d know that if you weren’t a man.”

“Well, I am a man,” he shoots back, “and as a man, I know I’m pretty fucking giving. Cause I got standards and shit for my performance, and you should fuck people who have standards. And while you’re at it, you should get some god damn standards yourself, too.”

“I think you should take off your clothes instead of sitting there and lecturing me,” you huff. 

To your mild surprise, he stands up and pulls you into his arms, lifting you up easily—seriously, what is he built from?—before mumbling, “Where the fuck is your room?”

You mumble out, “Hall to your left—s’the door on the right at the end.”

In what feels like record time, he’s there, tossing you onto the mattress softly enough that you don’t feel the recoil of impact harshly, but hard enough that you do a little bounce. He chuckles as you glare, easily lifting the black t-shirt he’s wearing over his head. It reveals his bare torso and…shit.

It’s not as though you’ve never seen Katsuki shirtless. Of course, you have. You’ve trained with him and battled alongside him, and more than once has he been shirtless, or even had his shirt burned clean off. It’s nothing new to you that he’s muscular and well-built and so fucking broad—but fuck. He’s really bulked up since you last saw him shirtless. The biceps you can see from his short-sleeved shirt were already proof of that, but seeing him now without it, seeing his pecs and the clear indents of every ab while the broadness of his body is on full display, is just something else, entirely. 

And you’re staring. Because how could you not? Of course, you’re staring. You’re only human, no matter how superhuman this society is—you can’t help it that you’re simply in awe as you look at him. 

And he seems to notice it instantly, because he gives you a teasing grin as he murmurs, “Likin’ what you’re looking at, huh? Makes sense.”

“Would you be quiet?” you huff. You sit up as he unbuckles his belt, watching as he strips himself of his pants and boxers in one go, easily revealing his erection as if there are no second thoughts. 

It must be nice being so easily sure of yourself, you think. Everything about Katsuki’s life seems like it must be so nice. Good quirk. Good intuition. Good looks and an equally good body. Good everything—he must never overthink things. He must never overthink if the person in front of him likes what he has to offer and if it’s good enough to like for longer than one short instance. Of course, it’s good—it’s him. 

It must be nice being Bakugou Katsuki, born to be so confident and so great at everything. 

At least that’s what you think until he mutters, “Quit starin’, you freak,” with a huff. His ears are pink at the tips, and he doesn’t meet your eyes, and…it’s weirdly adorable that he’s shy. 

You smile, endeared as you reach over, grabbing his hand, pulling him down to hover over you in bed, his arms caging you while his nose bumps against yours. You can see his eyes better from here. Closer than you’ve ever seen them. His lashes are darker than the rest of his hair—almost a light brown that flutter so beautifully when he blinks. 

You hum, kissing his mouth with a soft peck, there one second and gone the next. He frowns, almost pouts, at how quickly it’s over. 

“Don’t get all shy on me now, Blasty,” you murmur.

“I’m never shy, Stretchy,” he shoots back. 

Your hand moves between your bodies, hesitantly reaching for his hard, swollen length. There’s a blonde patch of hair between his thighs that is neatly trimmed, and he’s got a small birthmark at his hip bone. As for his cock—it’s…well, it’s big. Thicker than it is long, but no less impressive. You figured it would be. Of course, just like everything else he’s got, he’s blessed to be impressive. 

You wrap a hand around his cock, stroking slowly as he shudders and lets out a soft, breathy groan. Your hand barely wraps around the girth of it, fingers just shy of meeting, and you look down to watch your fist slide up and down the length of him. He’s slick with pre cum that dribbles from his tip, twitching a little when you squeeze at the base experimentally as you stroke him. 

“S’that even gonna fit?” you gape at the sheer size of him, and that’s all it takes for that minimal shred of shyness to leave him. He has the nerve to look at you smugly—so wholly amused. 

“Course it is,” he snorts, smirking slyly. “Got you all nice and prepped, didn’t I? B’sides—isn’t bein’ stretched out and all kinda your thing?”

You give him a dirty look. Your quirk doesn’t work that way, and he knows it, but you suppose it’s naive to expect anything less from Bakugou. Of course, he’d throw in a cheeky, asshole-kind of poke at your meta abilities when he sees fit. 

“Be quiet,” you warn.

“If that’s what you want,” he hums, “then you should fuckin’ do something about it.”

You wrap your arms around his neck and pull him in, kissing him hard and rough, earning a deep, satisfied rumble from his chest as you do. His cock nudges against your inner thigh, grinding against you for a short moment before he stills, jaw gritting tightly as he forces himself to be patient and mutters, “You got a condom?”

“On the pill,” you peck the corner of his lips, “so just fuck me—fuck me, Katsuki.”

That’s all he needs to hear. His tip is nudging against your entrance, sliding along your folds, and gathering the slick that’s practically dripping so he can coat himself in your mess. It’s filthy, and it makes you shudder as you feel the hot, heavy weight of him simply brush against you. 

“Fuck,” he groans, “gotta feel you—m’gonna go insane.”

He’s pushing past your folds, sinking inch after agonizing inch so slowly, so carefully, you almost want to hiss that you won’t break. But something stops you—the way he stares between your bodies, that dazed look in his eyes with wide pupils as he watches himself sink into you is enough to force you into submission and be patient. 

For him—just for him, you’ll be patient. 

“Baby,” he drawls, his voice a low, rough purr, “baby, you’re so fuckin’ tight—god.”

“Fuck, Katsuki,” you whimper. He stretches you out good—fills you up and then some as he presses into all the right spots. “S’so deep—need more, please.”

“Whatever you want, sweetheart,” he presses a soft kiss between your brows before his hips are moving. 

It’s slow at first, like he’s testing the waters, and when your head throws back into your pillow as you whine in pleasure, it’s like every worry in his head about hurting you flies out the window. His hips snap faster into you, his thrusts go a little deeper, his movement a little more frenzied. By the time he sets a fluid pace, it’s quick and rough and so fucking good. 

“Wanted this for so long,” he grits his teeth, letting out a long moan as you clench around him. “Shit, wanted this for so fuckin’ long you wouldn’t believe—wanted you for so fuckin’ long.”

“More,” you whine, “p-please—give it to me, Kats.”

Oh. Oh, he likes the sound of that—there’s a deep, almost animalistic groan in the back of his throat that erupts before he goes impossibly faster, bullying his cock into your walls and slamming into that soft, sensitive spot he did so easily with his fingers, too. Something in his brain is almost rewired, you think, when he hears the nickname fall from your lips. 

Something that makes him bury his face into your neck and nip and bite at the skin hungrily. 

“Say that again,” he demands. “Say it.”

“Kats,” you sob, “mmhh—s’good, baby. Feels so good.”

“Yeah? Bet no one’s ever fucked you like this, huh? Like you mean something?”

“No,” you shake your head, “no one.”

“Only me, huh?”

“Only you,” you whimper, nodding along as your hips roll as much as they can into his own, trying to match his movements so he can press even deeper into you. 

Katsuki does fuck you like you mean something. No one’s ever really done that. You’ve always had sex just for the sake of sex. It’s never been anything more outside of that—sure, you’ve had your eye on a guy, or two that you wished maybe would look at you as something more than a good fuck. But they don’t make a lasting impression to keep you wanting more. Keep you craving more. Keep you hoping that maybe, just maybe, there could be more. 

Somehow, Katsuki makes that possible. He grabs your hips softly, rubs his thumb back and forth like he’s worshipping the skin when he angles you down on his cock for deeper access to your cunt. He kisses your jaw and cheeks with soft, wet pecks instead of just shoving his tongue down your throat. He bites his lips and looks at you with soft, dazed eyes and not the usual dark, lust-filled ones you’re used to. 

You never really minded being used. Never minded being more than an easy fuck if it meant you could get something out of it, too. But he makes you feel wanted—and you like being wanted. You like being something worth coming and staying for. 

“Fuck, m’close, sweetheart,” he rasps, sweat collecting on his forehead as his pace gets sloppier. The thick head of his cock slams roughly against your walls, and a thumb finds your clit to bring you closer to your peak with harsh circles against the sensitive bundle of nerves. 

You can feel it—can feel the slow build of pressure in your belly, that familiarly delicious ache between your thighs as the friction of his cock sliding in and out of your pussy accumulates in every nerve. You’re close too, and Katsuki can tell—it’s so fucking easy for him to read your body. Like he was made to understand it. 

“Close too, huh?” he pants, “you almost there?”

“Yes,” you wail, “yes—fuck, yes! Wanna cum.”

“Then do it,” he hums, “cum with me, baby.”

He rolls his hips into you once—then twice, and you feel it snap. That coil in your belly that was tight and waiting to burst. It makes your mind go blank and your lips part, and a cry of his name rings in your own ears loudly. You can feel the way you contract around him, spasming and squeezing and pulling him in as your orgasm hits you like a tidal wave.

It makes his cock twitch before he tenses and stills—his own orgasm hits him just as hard. Hot, white ropes of his release fill you up, the messy, sloppy pace of his thrusts fucking his load into you as he works you both through your highs.

It’s good—not just because it’s pleasurable, but because you feel important. You feel like only you could give him this, and only you could be the one he wants it from. He leans down and kisses you, slow and messy, drinking in your moans as he pours his own into your mouth. He says your name so pretty when he’s like this—so breathless and soft, you feel like your ears are ringing just listening to the sound of him. 

“You’re so good, baby,” he mumbles, “so good for me.”

“K-kats,” you whimper—it’s all you can even say. 

“I know,” he moans, “I know, sweetheart.”

And then it’s over. You finish, and so does he, and then it’s just the two of you tangled like that while you both pant and catch your breath. Sweaty skin on sweaty skin, lingering touch on lingering touch. Your fingers weave through his blonde locks, tracing along his scalp and fiddling with the small baby hairs at the nape of his neck. His fingers are wrapped around your hips, digging softly into the plush skin and making home in the warmth of it. 

“People want you, dumbass,” he mutters, leaning and kissing your cheek. “You’re just an idiot who doesn’t know how to look.”

“Be in my line of sight next time, and maybe I will,” you mumble. 

He laughs as he slumps down next to you, pulling your body into his as he wraps you up with his body and the sheets on your bed—it’s the softest sound you’ve ever heard from him, and fuck, do you want to hear it more. 

You wonder, as sleep creeps up on you, if this will all be an odd, weird, crazy dream when you wake up.

—

When you wake up, it is not an odd, weird, crazy dream.

Well, it’s definitely odd and weird and crazy. But it’s not a dream, that’s for sure. A sleeping, clearly bare Katsuki is in your bed, right beside you, and you’re in his arms. He’s holding you close and tight, and there would be no chance of escape if you wanted to leave his embrace (which you don’t really think that you do).

One minute turns into two. Two turns into three. And eventually, after a few agonizing minutes of trying to slowly inch away just enough to get a closer look at his sleeping face, Katsuki says without opening his eyes, “Quit squirming.”

You still. And then, you huff, squirming around just to annoy him. 

“Oi!” he glares, opening two sharp, yet sleep-hazed red eyes. “I just said stop.”

“Well, I don’t answer to you,” you scowl. “How long have you been awake?”

“Since you decided to stare at me like a creep.”

“I was not staring,” you say, giving him a scandalized look.

He only grins, giving you a sly look as he yawns and mumbles, “Yeah. Whatever you say, dumbass.” Then he pulls you closer, bringing your cheek to lie on his chest while his chin props itself over the crown of your head. “You okay? From last night, I mean?”

“Yeah,” you say softly. “M’fine.”

“Not hurt? Wasn’t too rough?”

“Nope,” you answer easily. 

You realize this position might have less to do with the fact that he wants to hold you rather sweetly, and more to do with the fact that he might not really want you to look at his face when he asks his next question. 

“You uh…you regret it? Or some shit?”

You pause, taking in the odd, rare moment of…vulnerability in his voice. Like he’s scared to hear your answer but needs to know desperately. You find yourself answering rather honestly when you say, “No. I don’t. Last night was really nice—I liked it.”

“Yeah?” he breathes.

“Yeah,” you mumble. 

“Great. Go out with me, then.”

You do a double-take as you pull away and look at him in equal parts disbelief and equal parts irritation. He has the nerve to look rather expectant. “What?”

“What do you mean, what?” he huffs. “Go out with me—exactly what I said.”

“You can’t just throw that out there randomly!”

“Randomly?” It’s his turn to be shocked and irritated. “The fuck do you mean? I was balls deep in you last night, and this is random?”

“Yeah b-but…” You sputter, smacking his chest. “First of all, don't say it like that! And second, I had no idea until last night that you even thought I was attractive, let alone likable. Now you want to date me out of the blue?”

“I don’t ask shit for no reason out of the blue,” he grumbles, “of course I think you’re attractive and likable if I’m asking you out. You think I’d waste my time with just anyone?”

“Usually,” you give him a flat look, “when you ask someone out, some sort of confession comes first. You know? Like, hey—I think you’re pretty cool. Or you’re really beautiful. Or even, hey, I think we get along nicely, don’t you? Do you wanna go out sometime?”

Katsuki closes his eyes and sighs exasperatedly. “Hey, loser,” he smiles tightly. It’s rather petty, honestly. “I think you’re cool and beautiful—thought it since we were fuckin’ brats in school. We get along nicely for the most part, too, when you’re not a pain in the ass. Let’s go out.” 

“That was a demand, not a question.”

“You are so fuckin’ difficult for no reason,” he groans, digging the palm of his hand into his eyes tiredly. “Holy fuck—you’d say no, or somethin’? That why you need it to be a question?”

“Well, no, I wouldn’t…but it’s the principle of things—”

“Fuck your principles,” he mutters, pulling you close and planting his lips onto yours. You melt rather instantly, kissing him right back without hesitation. He grins against your mouth and pulls away, leaving you breathless. “The only damn principle you need to know is that you and I are good for each other. And that means we should go out.”

Class 1-A is trauma-bonded for life—it’s this invisible, untraceable, yet undeniable thing. You think it’s a good thing that you are, because it leads you straight to Bakugou Katsuki. 

—

One new message from: ♡ PLUS ULTRA GIRLIES ♡

Mina: sooo can we talk about last night? SOMEONE was def giving us the cold shoulder

Toru: ^^

Kyoka: ^^

Momo: Come on, guys. I’m certain there’s a reasonable explanation. We should be ready to listen whenever she’s ready

Ochaco: absolutely! 

Tsu: but we do want to hear the reason asap

Mina: yeah it better be good bc that was just mean

Toru: ^^

Kyoka: ^^

You: i promise i’ll tell u everything soon ok? but guys. You: holy fuck. guys… You: i slept with bakugou last night

Mina: WHAT?

Toru: WHAT?

Tsu: WHAT?

Kyoka: WHAT?

Momo: WHAT?

Ochako: WHAT?

Mina: I KNEW HE HAD THE HOTS FOR YOU I KNEW IT Mina: THIS NEEDS TO BE A GROUP CALL RIGHT NOW

You: I CAN’T TALK RIGHT NOW HE’S LITERALLY IN FRONT OF ME MAKING BREAKFAST IN MY KITCHEN

Ochako: aw wait that is sooo sweet of him. he’s a great cook too

Toru: proof or it didn’t happen :P 

You: [ one attachment ]

Kyoka: HOLY SHIT THAT’S DEFINITELY HIS BACK

Momo: Well…As long as you’re happy!

Mina: LMAOOOOO STOP YAOMOMO

Ochaco: bakugou can be nice when he wants to be!! don’t be so hard on him

Tsu: when has he ever wanted to though…?

Toru: never lol let’s be real

You: he has a soft side OKAY? ochako is right u guys are being way too hard on him

Mina: oh god it begins

Toru: she’s already making excuses for him

Kyoka: the sex was that good huh??

Momo: Make sure you pee so you don’t get a uti ok?

The air in the bar drops ten degrees. Sukuna marches over, his boots heavy on the floorboards. He shoves the booth away from the wall with one hand, glaring at you the entire time, his fingers flying over the internal wiring and the interface.

About ten minutes later, the monitor flickers to life with a triumphant hum.

“Go take your stupid pictures, princess,” he bites out as you beam, making his eye twitch. He swears it never used to do that before he met you.

The group cycles through, pairs of friends giggling as the “Smart Pose”—a bizarre, experimental feature from the early 2000s—scans their faces and projects red wireframe outlines of suggested poses.

Eventually, the bar grows louder, the drinks flowing faster. Then only the two of you remain at the booth while everyone else is getting sloshed and laughing inside.

“I’m not taking a photo with you,” you click your tongue, though you step inside the cramped, velvet-curtained space anyway.

Not because you wanted to but he's like a damn bodyguard behind you, ushering you inside with his solid front pressed to your back, his heat engulfing you, tingles spreading over your bare skin.

“Afraid the camera will catch your bad side? Don't worry, you're only ugly on the inside,” he retorts in a dry, unconvincing tone, crowding into the booth.

His sheer bulk forces you against the other end, your thighs brushing against his denim-clad legs.

A cocktail of heady mint, smoked cherry and something woodsy swirls in the air. You want to take a deep breath of it but refrain since it's coming from him. It's borderline suffocating, choking you and making your stomach churn for the wrong reasons—making you want to throw up, not lean into him.

Sukuna's jaw clenches as his knees bumps yours, and the smell of your perfume—something floral but edged with a musky base—fills the tiny space.

The screen flashes: SCANNING SUBJECTS.

A green beam bounces up and down as the machine whips, analyzing the two of you squashed together and clearly wanting to be anywhere else.

Ink cuts down the sides of his face in harsh lines, his scowl more severe thanks to it as he stares into the camera, boredom etched on his face and weighing you down as you see it on the grainy screen. You're not much better, insolence set in your features, made sharper by your makeup and arched brow, daring him to talk shit.

Then, the pose appears. It isn't a hug or a high-five or one of those you'd see in your parents’ old photos from their youth.

No, this can't be right. You squint, wondering if you need a new prescription of contact lenses even though these are only three months old.

As you stare longer, the outline coalesces like pieces of a puzzle the further you lean back.

The red wireframe depicts an outline of a side profile of a man kneeling, his head buried between a woman's spread thighs as her hand is in his hair.

The silence is deafening as the words “ASSUME THE POSITION” blink back at you both on the screen in bold red.

Sukuna recovers first, full lips that are usually thinned and downturned curling with a slow, predatory grin. “Well. You were so insistent I fix it. I guess we have to follow the instructions. Logic dictates it, right, Professor?”

Cutting him a withering glower when he uses your work title, your jaw ticks as you roll your tongue in your cheek, watching his scarlet gaze track the movement then drag back to yours, molten and dark.

“Fat chance, Ryomen,” you scoff, your breath hitching as his smirk widens and you stand up, exiting the booth. “In your dreams.”

Moments later, after an agonizing game of eye tag and cocked brows, the “fat chance” comment is a memory lost to the sound of a locking door in the back hallway’s single-occupancy bathroom.

This was inevitable, really. A couple of years too late if you asked any of your friends. Ever since you were roped into this group, Sukuna and you would clash in a smothering exchange of insults, nasty looks and incomprehensible muttering. A boiling point was bound to be reached with how you both bubbled and rattled with each and every interaction recently. It was overflowing.

Despite the hostility that makes others squirm, it's no secret that you two want to fuck. Violently, at that. Some even think it would be cathartic.

The opportunity never seems to arise though with your revolving door of crappy boyfriends and his roster of flings who make it painfully obvious that they want to be more.

Fret not though, because as of a couple of months ago, you'd sworn off dating and he called it quits with his not-so-girlfriend, you both using the sore spot of your love lives as new jabs for each other.

Can it really be called animosity when the smart remarks are merely appetizers to the main course of you eye fucking each other across the room all night?

Probably not.

Ever the blunt one, Satoru has always said you two would be on much better terms if you fucked it out. No one ever listens to his ridiculous advice.

Well, until tonight—

The light is a flickering, sickly white. Sukuna drops to his knees and sits back on his calves, hauling you toward him with a burly arm around your waist. You yelp, heels clicking in panic as you almost tumble but he holds you steady with a mean chuckle.

“Been a while?”

“Fuck off, no,” you snap.

His hands are huge, his calloused palms dragging against the sides of your skirt as he bunches the fabric up to your hips, cool air caressing your skin.

“You always have something to say,” he grits out, his voice thrumming against your stomach as he tugs off your lace panties and tosses them toward the sink. “Say something now.”

“You're an asshole,” you breathe, your fingers knotting into his thick, coral hair as he pries your legs apart, draping one over his broad shoulder.

Humming, his crimson eyes peer up at you as you brace a hand on his shoulder for leverage. “And this asshole is about to lick your neglected pussy in a bar restroom.”

Diving in, his tongue is a blunt, debilitating weapon, mimicking the way you use words to cut him down—precise, overwhelming, and utterly dominating. The hot, wet muscle swipes upward, catching your puffy clit between his teeth, a sharp nip that makes your back arch and your head thud against the tiled wall.

A startled cry rips from your throat at the sudden lick, his eagerness causing your brain to stutter.

“Keep it down,” he warns against your skin, his teeth grazing your inner thigh, sending a jolt of electricity straight to your clit. “Don’t want your loud voice alerting the whole bar, do we?”

“No,” you agree in a meek voice that would piss you off under any other circumstances.

He knows it too, a mischievous gleam in his eyes as he smiles. “Good.”

The scent of him—cedarwood, expensive tobacco, and whiskey—fills your lungs. He's greedy, devouring mouthfuls of your swollen pussy with the enthusiasm of a cannibal, groaning into your cunt.

“Fuck, your pussy's so sweet. If only you were too.”

His cock kicks in his jeans as his fingers find your fluttering hole, pushing through the puddle of slick there, two of them sliding inside with a wet squelch that echoes in the small space, stretching you with a delicious burn while his mouth sucks and smacks loudly between your quivering thighs.

“Ryo,” your gasp is punctuated by your fingers tangling in his hair and tugging, hips bucking against his face, drenching his tanned skin and tattoos in your slippery arousal, his head bobbing with each frantic grind.

“Fat chance, Ryomen,” he mocks in an exaggerated impression of you, his voice muffled against your sopping pussy that clicks with the words he mutters.

Drawing back for a second, his chin glistening, his pupils blown with a terrifying, obsessive hunger. “Tell me again how I don't know what I'm doing.”

The fucker doesn't offer you the chance to answer when his lips capture your clit again, pulling the bundle of nerves taut and rolling it like it's a lollipop. Your knees wobble and almost give out then and there.

A broken, whiny keen pours spills from you as he buries his face back into you, nosing at your flickering nub. His tongue pushes inside you with a lewd slurp then curls back to lash at your nub in long, dragging licks, his thumbs pinning your thighs open so you can't escape the overwhelming sensation.

He's trying to eat you, you're sure of it and you're presenting yourself on a silver platter as you feed him more of your aching cunt, feverish to get more of it inside his mouth. And he's tasting every bit of the friction that had been building between you for years.

It's tarty and sweet with hints of something metallic like the blood he's fantasized of drawing from your plump lips when he gets to kiss you and sink his teeth into them.

Every nerve ending in your body slides to your clit as he wraps his lips around it and suckles harshly, a glob of arousal seeping out of you and your stomach dropping.

The grit of the bathroom tiles, the hum of the pipes, and the merciless assault of his mouth is all your scrambled thoughts can string together, incoherent noises and nonsensical words pouring from your mouth as he pants like a dog.

Sukuna responds to each one even though you're a hundred percent sure neither of you understand whatever the fuck you're drunkenly babbling about as your hips roll against his swirling tongue and ride his thick, long pumping fingers.

When you finally come, your orgasm punching you in the chest as you cry out, muffling your scream into your shoulder, he doesn't stop. He drinks you in, swallowing your cries and your cum, holding you steady until your tremors subside into a dull, buzzing ache.

Sukuna stays there for a moment, his forehead resting against your soft tummy, breathing heavily.

He pulls away slowly, biting down on your doughy thighs and licking over the bruising indents of his teeth with a content sigh, wiping his mouth with the back of a hand, looking up at you with a look of pure, smug triumph.

“There,” Sukuna whispers, his voice a dark caress as he rises to his dizzingly towering height, dotting a kiss to your damp temple. “Can't have the last word now, can you?”

You think he's going to wash his face and leave but a finger taps your cheek and you look up through half-lidded eyes to find him gazing down the line of his nose at you.

Pointing to his face, he ducks. “Clean up your mess, big mouth.”

Stomach flipping, you comply, cupping his face and licking at his skin. The pool of heat in your belly coils again, clit pounding as you taste yourself on his damp flesh and he groans a low, drawn out sound when your tongue laps a flat stripe up his cheek before he turns and kisses you stupid.

Sticky and wet is what you are when you join your friends once more as if nothing was amiss, using the excuse that you were touching up your makeup. Sukuna doesn't bother making up a story and no one questions him.

The man must've worked up an appetite after making you come on his mouth until you tapped out because his gaze is boring into yours as he takes a big bite of his burger. Desire pricks at your abused clit as arousal sloshes in your stomach once again.

You don't have to wonder if he eats other things like that because you fucking know he does. It's an Olympic sport trying to avoid his piercing eyes and ogling his bulging forearms and the ink crawling up his tawny skin.

His knee does press insistently against yours under the table now though and Suguru's serpent-like eyes bounce between you two now and then but he says nothing.

Later, the pink-haired bastard will demand that you let him drive you home since you're “too drunk” and it's on his way anyway. You'll refuse but relent when he flashes you a knowing look.

Then he'll make you apologise for being a difficult brat by eating you out for hours until you're blabbering sorry's and begging him to fuck you on his cock.

note: i know y'all know that art trend on tiktok hehe. art by mizuart_bolillo on x <3

You quickly put your car in park, unbuckle your seatbelt and jump out. The man is already yelling, arms gesturing wildly as he rounds the driver’s side of your car.

“—fuckin’ IDIOT, what are ya fuckin’ BLIND?! Don’t know how to use your damn signal, or are ya just STUPID?!”

You put your hands up in surrender as the man continues his ascent, “I-I’m sorry,” you squeak, “I didn’t see you—“

“No shit sweetheart, ya didn’t even fuckin’ look!!”

He’s in your face now, your back pressed against the side of your car as he towers over you. You’re not exactly a tiny person — you’re pretty average sized, actually — this guy is just huge. The sleeves of his black t-shirt strain against his bulging muscles as he points sharply behind your car. “Look at what you did to my car,” he growls, his face inches from yours as you flinch away from him.

You turn your gaze towards where he’s pointing and finally see it — an expensive looking dark green sports car with bright orange racing stripes decorating its side. It’s parked slightly perpendicular to the road, the front of it angled downward, having been driven into a ditch. The driver’s side door is still ajar from when the man had thrown it open, and music blares over the car speakers — angry rock music that’s all rolling drums, gravelly guitar rifts, and deep guttural vocals. This car looks luxurious next to your weathered Honda Civic, all suited up and shiny — except, of course, for the gnarly scratch all along the driver’s side. You wince at the sight, and the man in front of you laughs, but there’s no humor in it.

“Yeah, see that shit? I should wring your little fuckin’ neck!”

You look back at him, the adrenaline rush kicking in again. This man has some audacity. You stare him defiantly in his crimson eyes, straightening up with new-found courage. Cowering under an asshole man was not like you, after all.

“What the fuck is your problem?! The ‘roids really hittin’ today or what?”

“You little —“

“You need to fucking relax dude. And back the fuck up off me!” You emphasize the end of your sentence with a shove, planting both palms on his firm chest and pushing as hard as you can. All your strength barely moves him, but his eyes widen for a split second in shock and he takes a small step back.

You’re able to get a good look at him now that he’s given you some distance. His ash blonde hair is unruly and dense, sticking up at odd angles. His facial features are angular and cat-like with high cheek bones and an intensely sharp jawline. He is very muscular, his shirt pulled so taught against his chest that you can see the definition of his pecs. His biceps have to be about the size of your head and his forearms are thick, tattoos covering his left arm down to the elbow, protruding veins running down to his clenched fists where silver rings decorate his fingers.

Your eyes travel lower. He’s wearing gray joggers that hang low on his hips, and even though they’re slightly loose you can still tell how muscular his legs are underneath. He moves to adjust his sweats, and down his right pant leg a faint outline bobs against the fabric.

You snap your eyes back up to his face and are met with an infuriating smirk. His red eyes look down at you, still filled with fiery rage — and something else you can’t quite place.

And that’s when you recognize him.

“You’re Dynamight.”

His resolve cracks, his smirk turning down into a grimace.

“You’re fucking Dynamight,” you continue with your own smirk now spreading across your face, “Mr. golden boy pro hero Dynamight! Holy shit — I wonder how the commission would feel about you threatening a civilian. I wonder how the internet would feel about you threatening a woman!”

“Look, lady —“

“No, fuck you! I’m sorry I hit your fuckin’ car, but you have no right —“

“Yeah, you hit my car,” he barks at you, rage taking over once again, “so don’t get all fuckin’ high and mighty with me! D’you know how much that custom paint job is gonna cost to fix?!”

Your face falls and he sneers, lip curling up to reveal a sharp canine as he continues berating you.

“You wouldn’t fuckin’ know with your shitty little beater! So I suggest you shut your fuckin’ mouth and get me your insurance and ID, now! And don’t make me ask twice.”

You’re biting the inside of your cheek now, taking in just how royally fucked you are. Your insurance payments are already almost more than you can afford, an incident like this was sure to really screw up your finances. You could try to leverage exposing him and putting in a complaint with the commission again to get him to let it go but, if you were being honest with yourself, you knew it wouldn’t really be that much leverage. You knew about Dynamight — how he was notorious for being a huge dick, to say the least. He must already have a phone book full of complaints, and yet he was still one of the top pros in the nation. The commission clearly didn’t care enough to properly discipline him, and no matter how many videos of him cursing out civilians surfaced on Twitter, his merch still always sold out in minutes. The man was damn near untouchable.

“Well?” he says gruffly, pulling you out of your thoughts, “I’m waiting.”

“I…” you trail off, looking down at the floor as you deflate, “would rather not get insurance involved. Can we settle this between us? I’ll pay for the damages out of pocket?”

Dynamight laughs that unhumorous laugh again. “Oh yeah? Gonna pull ten racks out of your ass to fix that custom paint job? That orange color was formulated especially for me — they call it Dynamight Fuel Orange. Costs a pretty fuckin’ penny. You got that kinda money lyin’ around?”

You’re looking at him now, eyes wide, and he’s crossing his arms over his chest with a smirk. That stupid fucking smirk, it makes your blood boil — but you have to negotiate with him, try to be nice about it. Maybe he’ll take pity on you.

“Look, Dynamight, sir…” you say softly, noticing his eyes darken a bit at the moniker, “you’re right, I don’t have that kind of money. But I also can’t afford to have my insurance go up right now….”

He snorts, not faltering as he starts to pull his phone out. “Not my problem, sweetheart. If you don’t wanna give me your information, I’ll just call the cops —“

“Please, no!” You’re invading his space before you realize what you’re doing, putting your hand on Dynamight’s forearm to stop him from fishing his phone out of the pocket of his sweatpants. He looks at you wide eyed, surprised by the intrusion, but doesn’t pull away from you. You stay there like that, your small hand gripping his taught forearm as you crane your neck to look up at him. “Please, Dynamight. There has to be something else I can do. I can work off the debt somehow…”

Bakugou looks you over as you prattle on, listing ways in which you might be able to exchange free work for his mercy. Your boldness has surprised him twice now — how fearlessly you had yelled at and pushed him earlier, and now, how easy it was for you to get in his space and grab him. You were a fiery little thing and your insolence infuriates him, but it also makes him a bit curious about you.

He takes in your face — the way your eyes look at him with such conviction, darting around when you’re trying to gather your thoughts, then looking up into his eyes again without fear. He watches your tongue dart out to wet your plump lips, the way you take your lower lip between your teeth when you’re trying to choose the right words. He notices the slight blush on your cheeks, whether it was from your closeness or the summer heat he wasn’t sure. He hadn’t noticed before, completely blinded by his own anger and adrenaline, but you are… honestly cute.

He looks down further, taking in the slope of your neck and the way your collarbones are only partially visible, disappearing under your shirt. Where he’s standing, he has a perfect view down your v-neck top. Your breasts are sitting pretty, skin glistening from the light sheen of sweat that’s developed, protruding then receding slightly as you take quick breaths. He can see your bra from this angle, the way it hugs your chest and hides away more than he wants it to. Your bra is black, lacy.

He wonders if your panties match.

Something you’re saying grabs his attention, making him turn his gaze back to your face.

“I’m a teacher. That’s why I can’t afford —”

Bakugou snorts, “They let you teach kids dressed like that?”

You look down at yourself, confused. What was so offensive about your v-neck and jeans? “Yeah? It’s Friday, we’re allowed to dress casually on —“

“Your tits are practically fallin’ out of that shirt,” he says, his lips curling up into a smug smile as your head snaps back up, mouth agape. You finally let go of his arm, moving your hand to cover your chest.

“Y’know what, fuck you,” you’re turning back towards your car now, fuming again, “I don’t need your misogynistic bullshit. You can just have my insur—“

Bakugou grabs your wrist suddenly, pulling you along as he stomps back towards the front end of his car, which is still sitting in a ditch. You claw at his grasp, stumbling along behind him. “Let me go, asshole!” you screech, unable to shake his vice-like grip. He pulls you down into the ditch with him, then reels on you, a crazed look in his eyes that makes your breath hitch in your throat.

“Looks like my front bumper’s dented too,” the blonde says, voice low and gruff. Your eyes dart over to his bumper — but there is no dent. “W-where? I don’t see a —“

Without letting go of your wrist, Bakugou turns, brings his knee up high towards his chest, then launches his foot down onto the shiny front bumper of his own car. The metal crunches under the force, leaving behind a brand new dent as his foot returns to the dirt floor.

“See it now?”

His expression is different from the anger you’d seen earlier — it’s completely unhinged and it’s scaring you now. The wild look in his eyes paired with the menacing grin spread across his face is making your skin crawl. You shrink under his gaze, trying again to pull from his too-tight hold on your wrist.

The way you’re trembling and pulling away has Bakugou stiffening. The pure unadulterated fear he can see in your eyes as they widen, replacing the defiant gaze you had had just moments ago — it was absolutely delicious. He was just going to let insurance handle this little mishap, but you just had to be a brat, thinking you could stand up to him. Now he was going to put you in your place, and Gods know he was going to enjoy it.

“Looks like the bill just went up, sweetheart,” he spits the pet name, like it tastes bad in his mouth. “Your insurance ain’t gonna like that. Do you even have a plan that will cover this much?”

You’re stammering now, eyes welling up with tears as you try to push his hand off of your wrist. He’s gripping you so hard you’re certain his fingertips will leave bruises in your skin, his hold temporarily immortalized on your body. He pulls your wrist into his chest, and you’re forced to step forward into him. You’re so close now that you can feel the heat coming off of his firm body, you can smell the musky-sweet scent wafting from his skin — his face so close that you can see the gold specs littering his crimson irises, his breath fanning across your face.

“You said you want to work off the debt,” he lowers his lips to your ear, his voice reduced to a breathy growl, “I can think of some work for that bratty little mouth.”

With that, Bakugou’s grip snaps from your wrist to the back of your hand and he pulls it down towards his crotch, closing his hand over yours and forcing you to grab onto his half-hard cock through his sweats.

A sound of protest starts to leave you but gets caught in your throat when you feel it — the action so swift and so bold that your brain can’t fully process. You look down at where your hands are joined, as if to check if this is really happening, then back up at the red eyes that are boring into your own. Dynamight’s pupils are blown out, dark voids starting to overtake the crimson, and a fiendish smile plays on his lips. The look in his eyes is wild, hard, cocky — you realize he’s fully enjoying this display of power and he’s daring you to defy him. Something about him leering over you, making you feel like nothing more than prey to this well-trained predator, has you… completely turned on.

He’s moving your hands around slightly now, pushing and rubbing at his dick through the cotton fabric. You can feel it starting to stiffen, growing in your hand. It’s not even fully hard yet and you can tell that it’s big — bigger than you’ve ever had. You know you should pull away, scream at him, jump in your car and take off, but you just can’t. You’re frozen there, entranced by the feeling of him growing in your palm and completely hypnotized by the sadistic gleam in his feline eyes. Your body is starting to heat up, your face flushing, a familiar tension growing between your thighs that makes your head fuzzy.

“Well?” Comes Dynamight’s gruff voice, ripping you from your thoughts. “I ain’t got all day. Want me to let the damages go or not?”

Your voice comes out small, weak. “H-here? Right here?” Your eyes dart around at the road, half expecting to see cars lined up on the side of the road, a crowd forming silently to watch you defile yourself for this asshole. But there’s nobody, no cars as far as your eyes can see.

Bakugou grunts in response. “Did I stutter? Get on your knees.”

You know you shouldn’t do this. This road was usually pretty desolate, yes, but there was still the occasional car or semi-truck that blew through. Who’s to say they wouldn’t see? Who’s to say they wouldn’t slow down and snap a picture? Somehow the thought, as mortifying as it was, had a knot forming deep in your core — was it humiliation you felt, or arousal? Or was it the dizzying combination of both?

You don’t protest, your mind swimming with desire and the possibility of getting out of this situation scott-free. You just lower yourself, eyes on his as your knees come to rest on the hard ground. Dynamight snickers — there’s nothing he loves more than winning. “That’s what I fuckin’ thought,” he breathes, “What are ya waitin’ for? Pull my dick out.”

His harshness is a spell and you are fully enchanted — if he told you to throw yourself into traffic in that voice, with that look in his eyes, you might just do it.

You mutter an “alright, asshole”, but move to follow his orders anyways. You hook your fingers into the stretchy waistband of his joggers and pull down, his half-hard cock bouncing up at you with new found freedom — he isn’t wearing boxers. His dick is so pretty (because of course it is), sitting long and weighty between his shredded legs. The white shaft has faint blue veins running along it, the light pink head smooth and shiny in the sunlight. He’s well groomed, his balls hairless and taught against his body, the dark blonde curls above his shaft trimmed and trailing up delicately to disappear under the hem of his shirt.

“Ya ever sucked a dick before?” comes the snide voice above you, “Gotta do more than just look at it, princess.”

You glare up at him, snatching his dick up in your right hand and giving it a sharp tug. He lets out a small groan, stepping forward a bit involuntarily. His cock is now right in your face, so close you can smell his musk and see a bead of pre cum leaking from his tip. He’s hardening quickly in your hands — he must have enjoyed the mean treatment, that bit of pain. You smirk to yourself.

You stroke him a few times, feeling the smooth skin in your hand, and look up at him through thick eyelashes — he still has the same hard expression on his face, but he’s watching you intently, taking in how small your hands look around his cock. You stick your tongue out and lean forward, giving his tip an experimental lick, tasting the saltiness of his precum as you swirl your tongue around the head.

He’s fully hard now, standing at attention right in your face, so big in your hands that you can’t fully wrap your fingers around it — and it’s curved slightly upwards. You can’t help but imagine how well that curve would hit your g-spot as he’s fucking you deep, his palms pressed against the back of your thighs as he pushes you open wide. You’re aching between your thighs now, and your face flushes as if he can somehow tell — the battle between wanting to hate this asshole pro hero and wanting him to fuck you senseless is raging in your mind.

You pull his dick upwards so you can press your tongue to the underside, giving his shaft a long, wet lick from the base to the tip. Once you get to the tip, you angle it back down and take him into your mouth in one swift motion. He lets out a groan, brows furrowing slightly as he watches his dick disappear between your lips. “There you go — ah fuck — knew you were a slut,” his voice rumbles low in his belly as you begin bobbing your head back and forth at a steady pace, massaging him with your tongue and slurping shamelessly. You’d sucked a dick before in your day, you knew that if you set a good pace and made it sloppy that it would be over with quicker, easier. If only you’d known that Katsuki Bakugou would not be the type to make anything easier for you.

A strong hand on your head makes you stop and peer up at its owner. The giant man leers over you, his hulking form blocking out the sun as he casts a shadow down on you, and his domineering presence somehow feels stronger now, more menacing. He’s smirking down at you, eyes blown and dark — filled with something you can only describe as predatory. The hand on your head grips your hair, pulling back so his cock pops out of your mouth and your neck strains backwards. His other hand finds your exposed neck, wrapping around it possessively.

“Open that little whore mouth.”

His voice is low, quiet, but you hear him loud and clear. You oblige, eyes wide, and feel the hand on your throat move to grip your cheeks. He leans over you, eyes on your tongue, and purses his lips. You’re too entranced by how pretty he looks leaned over you like this, blonde hair falling forward around his face, eyelids low, plump lips pressed together. Before you can even register what he’s doing, Bakugou spits into your mouth, a long string of clear liquid falling from his lips onto your tongue.

You gasp and the man above you laughs, gripping your hair hard in his hand and pulling it back down then swiftly shoving his dick back into your spit-filled mouth before you have time to react. He ruts into your face hard and fast, holding your hair tightly so you can’t pull away. The head of his dick bullies the back of your throat, his length moving in and out of your mouth with each relentless buck of his hips.

He’s panting and grunting with each thrust, filth falling from his lips as he begins letting his primal urges take over. “God yeah — fuckin’ whore — lettin’ me use your mouth like this — fuck — just keep that bratty mouth open —“

You don’t know if it’s his words or the way he’s using you so roughly, but you can feel your whole body heating up from the fire that is burning deep inside you. Your pussy feels painfully untouched and slick between your legs. You can feel it clenching around nothing as this handsome hero degrades you — bullies you in the most hypnotic way. You want to know how he’d bully your insides.

The way he’s abusing your throat is causing it to produce an uncomfortable amount of thick saliva. You gurgle around him, spit bubbles forming at the corners of your mouth and overflowing so your drool is dripping slowly down your chin and onto your chest. It feels like you’re starting to drown yourself, more and more thick spit pooling in your mouth and the back of your throat as he shoves into it ruthlessly.

As if he can hear your thoughts, Bakugou pulls himself out of your mouth and puts his hand palm up in front of your face, just below your chin. “Spit,” he commands. You look up at him confused, and he cocks an eyebrow, giving his hand a small shake. Finally understanding, you collect the saliva pooling in your mouth and reluctantly spit it into his open palm. A wicked grin spreads across his face and, with his other hand wrapped tightly in your hair to keep you from pulling away, he roughly rubs his spit-covered hand all over your face. You gasp and squeeze your eyes shut, surprised by the feeling of the thick fluid being rubbed over your mouth, cheeks, forehead, eyes — you know your makeup must be smearing around as it mixes with your spit.

Bakugou chuckles darkly, squeezing your jaw between his thumb and forefinger and moving it around so he can take in his handiwork — your skin glistening with spit and black makeup smeared around your eyes, your cute little face ruined. He’s drunk off of your destruction. He wants to ruin you more, reduce you to a sloppy mess and make you lose every ounce of that infuriating attitude and dignity until you’re nothing more than a used up whore. Nothing made his dick harder than being the one to destroy a pretty little bitch with an attitude — a pretty little bitch like you.

He finally wipes your eyes with his dry thumb and you blink, peering up at him through wet lashes.

“You look so much prettier like this.”

He straightens back up and tangles a hand back in your hair, gripping his dick in his other hand and rubbing it over your ruined, slippery face. The action feels so nasty — so degrading — and yet you’re panting below him, feeling your arousal radiating at your center. You just know that if you stuck your hand down into your panties that you would be completely soaked — and you’re almost tempted to, the need to feel friction between your legs getting stronger as the sensation of Dynamight’s weighty cock dragging along your face taunts you.

He can see you squeezing your thighs together, the way lust makes your eyes glaze over, and he snickers. “This turnin’ you on? Nasty bitch.” He grabs the base of his thick cock in his hand and brings it down on your cheek with a wet thwap thwap thwap.

“Open.”

You obey, and he shoves his length back down your throat in one swift motion, holding your head down, your lips pressed against wet blonde curls, until you’re gagging around him. You try to pull away, pressing your palms to his thighs and pushing, but he’s so much stronger than you.

“Stay there,” he grunts, “Ya wanna pay me back right? ‘m takin’ your breath as payment.”

You still, finding your body automatically going along with his sadistic little game. It was like your brain was hard-wired to want to please him — or maybe the mix of arousal and oxygen deprivation swirling around in your head was making you more pliable. You hold yourself there as long as you can, his cock filling your throat so full that he’s blocking your airways completely. You furrow your brows, trying your best to hold your breath and keep your throat from rejecting him, but you’re not able to hold him there for long before you’re choking around him and trying to pull away again.

He lets you, pulling your head back with his hands, and you take in a deep, raspy breath. As quickly as he’s gone, he’s back again, the familiar feeling of rigid, wet skin against your tongue returning as the blonde slides himself back down your throat. He fills your mouth up easily, his tip pushing past something hard in your throat until he’s blocking your airways again.

He bottoms out in your throat again with a groan. “Take it — fuck — take it all,” he moans as he wraps his hands up in your hair and starts moving your head back and forth against him shallowly. You’re gurgling around him, making lewd, wet sounds involuntarily as he uses your head like his own personal toy.

The panicked feeling from being deprived of air for too long returns and you slap his thigh twice, to which he groans and pulls your head off of him again. You’re gasping, sputtering, coughing, saliva covering your face, dripping down your chin and neck, globs of it rolling down the slopes of your breasts.

Wet sounds fill the air as Dynamight strokes his cock in your face, so much spit covering it that it’s gathering in his hand and dripping onto the dirt floor in fat globs. With his free hand he lifts his shirt up, ducking his head down slightly to bring the front of it over until the fabric is resting behind his neck, half removed so the sleeves are still wrapped around his brawny arms. Your eyes rake up his body, appreciating the way his abs tighten as he pleasures himself, the light sheen of sweat that makes his pecs glisten, the way his strong arm flexes with each stroke of his hand.

He was the closest thing to a God you had ever witnessed, and you were so captivated that you were ready to lay all of yourself at his feet.

You stick your tongue out and press it to his tip as he jerks himself off, looking up at him innocently to let him know you’re ready for more. He growls at your expression, how much of a mess you are covered in spit, makeup ruined, hair askew, and his slick cock jerking over your desperate face. The hand that isn’t pumping is brought up to your face, cupping your wet cheek as Bakugou looks down at you intently. He hasn’t even properly touched you and you look like this. He runs his thumb over your tongue, which is dripping spit onto your heaving chest, then pushes it in further, prodding at your mouth and pulling at your cheek. You swirl your tongue around his thumb before closing your lips and sucking with an approving hum. A husky moan is pulled from deep within him, overwhelmed by the feeling of his own slick hand, your mouth on him, and, especially, the sight of you. “Mmm messy fuckin’ slut…”

He thinks this is the best you’ll ever look, and he wants to see you look like this all the time — no, he wants to see you look even more used up. He wants to be your undoing.

“I might just have to keep you…”

He pulls his thumb out of your mouth with a pop and leans down as he strokes himself, his lips finding yours in a sloppy kiss. Slippery lips, spit, teeth — his tongue explores your mouth in the same way he does everything: unabashed, feverish, domineering. Even his mouth is a bully, tongue strong, teeth nipping at your lower lip. You respond with a fire of your own, sucking his lower lip into your mouth harshly and biting down hard enough to draw blood. He growls and pulls away, but instead of anger on his face there’s a sly smile, his mouth and chin slick with saliva. His eyes are glowing as he straightens back up, bringing his pulsating dick back to your face.

Bakugou puts his hands on either side of your head, easily encasing it, and lines himself back up with your lips. With a low moan, he’s pushing himself back into your mouth. You take him willingly, tongue out, eyes trained up on him, and you moan around him, appreciating the way his girth fills your mouth up and makes your jaw ache.

He ruts into your throat, wet sounds filling your ears as he fucks into your face fast and hard. Your throat is burning, jaw sore, your chin wet from his balls smacking into it over and over. You focus on breathing through your nose when you can as he continues his assault on your throat. He’s groaning, his head thrown back and eyes squeezed shut, fingers splayed out on the sides of your head as he loses himself in your warm, wet mouth.

You can’t look up at him now, too focused on trying not to drown in spit and dick, but if you could you’d see how beautiful he looks like this — his eyebrows furrowed and his pretty lips open slightly as he lets pleasure overcome him, his cheeks slightly flushed from the physical exertion. He doesn’t look angry or annoyed like this — he looks angelic, euphoric, like he’s in the most beautiful pain.

You know it before he tells you, the way his pace becomes erratic and his hands grip your head a little too hard — he’s nearing his end. He’s panting and grunting and babbling over you, his balls tightening as he quickens his thrusts even more. “Shit — so fuckin’ good — filthy fuckin’ bitch — ah yeah — yer such a mess for me — you like that shit huh — ugh gonna blow my load all over your face — bet you’d love that shit huh slut?” You moan your agreement, but the sound is lost around his cock, coming out as more of a high-pitched gurgle. He chuckles, but it turns into a long, low groan when you bring one of your hands up to massage his spit-soaked balls.

“Ngh-nasty bitch…” He moans, voice losing its edge as you work your hand over him, coaxing his orgasm out. And then he falls apart — head thrown back, brows stitched together, face flushed, sweat beading on his forehead and chest. With a flex of his abdomen and a final push into your throat, he’s cumming. Hard. You feel him pulse in your throat, feel heat on your tongue, taste bitter saltiness — then you feel hot, wet ropes falling over your face, one after another. He’s practically whining as he squeezes his spasming dick, releasing rope after rope of white-hot cum all over your already ruined face. His hand is wrapped up in your hair, keeping you in place for him as he comes down, squeezing the last bit of spunk out of his softening dick and letting it fall onto your outstretched tongue with an unceremonious flick of his wrist.

Even though it wasn’t your orgasm that had just happened, you’re completely high, eyes glazed over and panting, tongue still stuck out and absolutely covered in spit and cum. Your mind is so hazy and your cunt is aching something fierce, you simply can’t focus. Bakugou laughs as he’s pulling his sweats up.

“God, look at you.”

You’re coming back down to earth just in time to see a phone in your face — Dynamight snaps a picture of you as he laughs.

You’re suddenly painfully aware of how you look and where you are, the arousal that had previously had an otherworldly grip on your consciousness finally dissipating. You swallow and it burns the back of your throat, the smell of cum filling your nose. You feel slimy, your throat aches, your knees hurt. “What the fuck are you doing?”

He grins at you, leaning down until you’re practically nose-to-nose. “I said I’d let the damages go. Not that I’d let you off the hook. Now I have this —“ He turns his phone around, the screen lighting up with the picture of your ruined face. “— to keep you on my leash. And it’s a tight one, sweetheart.”

With that, he turns on his heel and starts walking towards the road, his thumb tapping on his phone. “Better get out of here before the tow shows up. Unless you want the driver to see what a whore you are.”

—

After taking a particularly long shower and pouring yourself a hefty glass of wine, you finally settle into your couch. You’re trying to shake away the shame that’s beginning to snake it’s way into your mind. How could you let a man — especially a man as fucking douchey as pro hero Dynamight — bring you to your knees like that? You’ve now realized that there was no way he hadn’t been driving way over the speed limit (how did he sneak up into your blind spot like that?) so the accident most likely wasn’t completely your fault. That means that you probably would have shared mutual blame and you would have been off the hook anyways… right?

The accident aside, your stomach is twisting just thinking about how depraved you had been. You let that man use you in every sense of the word and it made you feel dirty. But what was making you feel even more dirty was the fact that your mind was completely fixated on him, even now, and the feeling in your stomach was definitely something more than just disgust. The image of him hunched over you, sweaty and panting, with a cocky smirk on his face every time your eyes met — the sound of his grunting, the way he cursed at you and let the filthiest, meanest things you’ve ever heard just fall from his lips like it was nothing — the smell of his musk, sweet with a hint of spice, engulfing you more and more as he worked up a sweat — all of these things are like heroin to you; You hate yourself for it, but you want more.

Your body heat is rising again as the images of him flash through your mind. That sickeningly sweet twisting of your gut that radiates all the way up your body until it settles in your neck and face — maybe you were just sexually frustrated, needed a release and then he’d fade from your mind. You start to fish in your bedside table drawer for your vibrator as you pull your phone out for something other than him to get you going, but freeze when you notice an unread message on your lock screen. It’s from an unsaved number. You slide your thumb up on the screen, tap in your passcode, and click the familiar green icon. The message is sitting right at the top, waiting for you, taunting you. The text in the message preview makes your heart drop: Attachment: 1 image. You hold your breath and click — and it feels like your insides have dropped fully out of your body and onto the floor.

Looking back at you in the message thread is you — well, a version of you. You barely recognize yourself, your eyes glazed over, unfocused, and your mouth wide open, tongue stuck out in a heinously lewd expression. Your eye makeup is smeared and your features are obscured by the slick all over your face — spit — and the globs of white that are mixed in, covering your cheeks, your lips, sitting on your tongue, reaching all the way up to your forehead and in your hairline. Can this fucked out, messy, cum-covered person really be you? You know it is, because the memory of it is making your cunt ache.

Your breath hitches in your throat as you watch the dreaded 3 dots pop up below the photo — the person on the other end is typing. You wait for what feels like hours before the dots disappear and are quickly replaced with a new message:

“Better answer when I call, princess.”

your nails clawed at his back. “s-satoru—!”

he groaned at the way your voice cracked, the way you clenched down on him so tight the second he said something nice. “mm? what was that? you like that? like being told how good you are for me?”

your walls fluttered around him. violently.

his eyes widened.

“oh my god,” he said, stilling completely inside you. “no fuckin’ way.”

you were already whining, shifting your hips to chase friction, but he grabbed your wrists and pinned them above your head with one hand, staring at you like he just struck gold.

“you’re gonna cum, aren’t you?” he whispered, breathless. “you’re gonna cum just from that.”

your face was burning. “shut up—”

but he didn’t. of course he didn’t. this was gojo.

“ohhh, no no, now i have to test it,” he grinned, the corner of his mouth twitching with mischief. “you like being praised, baby? does it make that pretty pussy all messy?”

you whimpered as his free hand slid down, thumb circling your clit in slow, teasing strokes.

“you’re doing so good for me. such a good girl—letting me fuck you like this, letting me ruin that smart little college brain. i know you’ve been working hard all week, haven’t you?”

your hips bucked hard.

“ah—there it is,” he laughed, almost mean. “my filthy little overachiever. studying all day just to get ruined by my cock at night.”

his strokes picked up. so did his words.

“so proud of you, baby. so proud of this body—these thighs, this tight little cunt that’s soaking for me. you’re just perfect. my perfect, obedient, desperate girl—”

your orgasm hit like a truck.

you cried out, back arching violently, legs locked around him as your whole body seized beneath him. your walls clamped around his cock so hard it knocked the air out of him, and for once, satoru gojo was left speechless.

“f-fuck—holy shit—”

he collapsed on top of you, still twitching inside, and laughed breathlessly against your neck. “you just came from that,” he murmured, grinning like he just won the lottery. “from me telling you how good you are.”

you were still trembling.

“i’m never shutting the fuck up again,” he whispered, kissing your jaw. “you’re so screwed, baby.”

and he meant that in every way possible.

GETO SUGURU

it was late—past midnight kind of late—and you’d just finished a soul-sucking group project that left you drained, grumpy, and snapping at anyone who looked at you sideways. which is why, when suguru showed up unannounced, you didn’t even question it. you just fell into his chest with a soft sigh, letting him carry you to the bed like he always did when you were too tired to move.

he kissed you like he missed you. slow and deep, tongue gliding past your lips like he had nowhere else to be. you didn’t even realize when he’d slipped your shirt off, or how your panties were already pushed to the side, or how the heat of his cock was nudging at your folds, thick and pulsing.

“tell me to stop,” he murmured against your lips.

you didn’t.

so he sank in slow, the stretch burning just right, your thighs wrapped tight around his waist, your fingers knotted in the strands of his hair still tied back lazily. he hissed through his teeth as he bottomed out.

“fuck, baby—you’re always so tight for me,” he groaned, his pace steady and firm, hips slapping into yours with a controlled rhythm. “even after all this time.”

you bit your lip, already feeling your body light up like a fuse had been lit in your spine. but you didn’t say anything. not yet.

he noticed it right away—how you squeezed around him the moment his voice dropped, all deep and sweet.

his brows lifted, that soft, wicked smile tugging at his lips.

“wait,” he said, rocking into you deeper. “you like that?”

you tried to look away.

“no, no—don’t hide,” he chuckled, catching your jaw and turning your face back to his. “you’re telling me you get off on a little praise?”

you shook your head. a clear lie.

“liar,” he murmured, leaning down to whisper against your lips. “you’re such a good girl for me. always so wet. always so eager to be filled up.”

you gasped—your body jolted—and your cunt squeezed around him so tight it dragged a curse from his throat.

“oh my god,” he laughed, unhinged now. “you’re fucking serious.”

he started fucking into you harder, deeper. his hand slid down your body, resting on your stomach, pressing there so he could feel how deep he was.

“i’m gonna ruin you with this,” he said, gaze dark with something close to awe. “just words, baby? just a few sweet nothings and you’re this close to cumming? fuck—look at you.”

you couldn’t hold back the noises anymore. every time he praised you—every filthy compliment, every soft ‘good girl’—your moans got louder, your legs shook harder, and your nails dug into his arms like you were holding on for dear life.

“such a perfect little thing,” he whispered, face buried in your neck. “taking me so well. doing so good, baby. you’re so beautiful like this—messy, fucked out, desperate.”

your body locked up.

he felt it, smirked, and gripped your hips tighter. “that’s it. cum for me. show me how much you love hearing how proud i am of you.”

and with a shattered whimper, you came. violently. full-body trembling, eyes rolling, breath stuttering as you soaked his cock.

he groaned into your mouth, slowing down just enough to ride you through it, kissing your lips softly like he hadn’t just broken you in half with his voice.

“mmm, my girl’s got the cutest kink,” he murmured, brushing your hair out of your face as you struggled to catch your breath. “you just gave me a fuckin’ god complex.”

you blinked up at him, dazed.

he grinned, leaned down, and whispered, “don’t worry. i’m gonna make you cum every single time i call you my good girl.”

and the worst part? you knew he would.

NANAMI KENTO

you didn’t expect him to show up at your dorm this late. he rarely came over without warning—he was punctual, predictable, always so polite about it. but tonight, something in his voice over the phone had made your stomach twist with anticipation. his “i’m coming over” had been low, firm, and left no room for argument.

so now you were here. back pressed against your desk, your shirt halfway open, your skirt bunched up around your waist, and nanami on his knees in front of you like a man starved. his tie was off, sleeves rolled up, glasses long forgotten on your nightstand, and you were struggling to breathe through the way his tongue moved over you—slow, devastating, focused.

“you’ve had a long week,” he murmured between licks, his voice thick with restraint. “thought i’d help you relax.”

your legs were already shaking, and you barely managed to stutter his name before he stood, towering over you, fingers ghosting over your trembling thighs. you could see it in his face—the slight pink in his cheeks, the tension in his jaw—that he was holding back.

and when he slid inside you?

oh god.

the stretch was perfect, deep, almost too much. you moaned openly, arms wrapping around his neck, eyes fluttering as he started thrusting into you slow and controlled, like he wanted to memorize the way your body reacted to each push.

and then—you clenched around him. tight.

the second he muttered, “you’re doing so well, sweetheart.”

he paused, eyes flicking up to your face. “...was that because of what i said?”

your mouth parted. you hesitated.

he stared for a beat, and then—something in him changed.

“interesting,” he breathed, voice suddenly darker. “so that’s what gets you dripping like this.”

he pulled out halfway, slammed back in, hard enough to knock a choked moan out of you.

“you want to be praised, is that it?” he murmured, brushing his knuckles along your jaw as he fucked you into the desk. “want me to tell you what a good girl you are?”

you whimpered.

he caught your face in his hand, made you look him in the eye. “you’re such a good girl for me. letting me have you like this. always so polite, so obedient—until i get you alone.”

you broke. you fucking broke.

your body went stiff, orgasm ripping through you before you could even warn him, clenching and throbbing so tight around his cock that his next groan sounded almost pained.

“fuck,” he muttered, hips stuttering. “you just came.”

you hid your face in his neck.

he didn’t stop.

he fucked you through it, whispering into your skin, “you did so well, darling. came so beautifully for me. i didn’t even have to touch you.”

and then, very softly: “what a filthy, perfect girl you are.”

you nearly sobbed.

he wrapped his arms around you, lifted you like you weighed nothing, and laid you on the bed—still inside you, still throbbing hard.

“don’t think we’re finished,” he said, sliding out slow, teasing, only to push back in and make you gasp. “not when i’ve just discovered how to ruin you.”

he kissed your forehead, lips soft and reverent.

“i’m going to praise you until you can’t walk tomorrow.”

and knowing him? he meant it.

TOJI FUSHIGURO

you knew what kind of night it was going to be the moment toji showed up at your door, leaning against the frame like he owned the place, shirt already unbuttoned halfway down and a smug glint in his eyes that said trouble. the man had no business looking that good at midnight.

"heard you’ve been stressin’ over your exams," he said, stepping inside without waiting. "figured i’d help you take the edge off."

“oh?” you quipped, cocky—until his hand gripped your throat lightly, tilting your head back just enough for his mouth to meet yours. and like always, he didn’t ease into it. his kiss was tongue and teeth and a little bite to your bottom lip that made your knees weak.

you didn’t even know when your panties came off. or when he bent you over your desk, your cheek pressed against open textbooks and crumpled lecture notes. all you felt was the heavy drag of his cock, thick and slow, sliding inside until you were full—so full you whimpered.

“fuck, always so tight,” he groaned, pressing his chest to your back. “like you’ve been waiting for me.”

he set a brutal rhythm, fucking into you like he was mad, like he missed you, like he needed this. every slap of skin echoed through the room, and your voice broke with every thrust. but then—

“such a good girl,” he muttered, not even thinking. just slipped out like it was instinct.

and your body snapped. you clenched around him hard, nearly choking on your moan.

he paused.

“…no fuckin’ way,” he breathed, pulling your hair to lift your head. “say that again.”

you stayed quiet. trembling.

he slammed back into you so hard your legs buckled.

“nah, princess. don’t hold out on me. you like that, huh? like bein’ called my good girl?”

you whined, breath hitching, face burning.

toji let out the filthiest, cockiest laugh. “holy shit,” he whispered, licking a stripe up the side of your neck. “you’re tellin’ me you cream the second i open my fuckin’ mouth? shit, baby—you’re so easy.”

his hand reached around, rubbing tight circles on your clit. “go ahead then,” he rasped. “cum on my cock. be my good fuckin’ girl.”

and just like that, you shattered.

you came so hard your thighs trembled, knees giving out under you. and toji? he just held you up, praised you through it, voice low and ragged in your ear.

“atta girl… so fuckin’ pretty when you cum. makin’ a mess on me already?”

he flipped you over like you weighed nothing, lifted your leg, and slid right back in.

“oh, we’re not done,” he grinned, breathless now, pupils blown wide. “you think i’m lettin’ this kink go to waste?”

you barely had the strength to answer, still shaking.

he leaned in, kissed you like he was mocking how ruined you looked. “you’re gonna cum for me again,” he promised. “and again. and again. until you’re cryin’ from bein’ called a good girl.”

and you knew—knew—he meant every word.

RYOMEN SUKUNA

it was late—quiet. the kind of silence that presses in on you thick and slow, where even the smallest sound feels amplified. sukuna’s apartment was dimly lit, just the soft, golden glow from the single lamp in the corner casting long shadows over the room.

you were straddling his lap, completely bare, thighs draped over his, your arms loose around his neck. his back rested against the couch, body warm beneath you, and his eyes—those deep, dark red eyes—never left your face. not even when your hips moved. not even when your breath hitched.

he had you seated right where he wanted you, hands gripping your waist, guiding your rhythm—slow, deep, unrelenting.

and you were a mess already.

“look at you,” he muttered, voice a low, amused rumble. “bouncin’ on my cock like you’re made for it.”

your breath stuttered, thighs twitching.

his fingers tightened on your waist just slightly. “you like that, huh? being told you’re good?”

you didn’t answer fast enough, but your body did—your eyes fluttering shut, hips stuttering, your moan nearly breaking apart in your throat.

and that was all he needed.

sukuna leaned in, mouth brushing your ear with a grin that you felt more than saw.

“ohhh. so that’s what this is.”

his tone dipped—taunting, smug. “my little girl gets off when i talk to her nice.”

you squirmed, half-mortified, half turned on beyond saving.

he tilted his head, watching your tits bounce with every needy rock of your hips. then he slipped a hand up, dragging his thumb lazily across your nipple, his other hand gripping your ass tight enough to bruise.

“you want me to keep tellin’ you how perfect you feel?” he whispered, suddenly more serious. his voice still laced with heat, but there was something darker behind it now. possessiveness. awe. “how tight this pussy is, how it sucks me in like it can’t breathe without me?”

your head dropped to his shoulder with a broken whimper.

“fuck—look at you.”

he let out a shaky breath, hips jerking up. “you’re gonna cum already, aren’t you? just from me talkin’?”

you nodded, desperate, babbling nonsense against his skin.

and then he said it—soft, low, raw:

“that’s my good girl.”

you shattered.

back arching, fingers clawing into his shoulders, your entire body went stiff before it trembled against his. you came so hard around him, so violently, it knocked the breath out of you—and sukuna just held you, smirking against your throat, murmuring filth between kisses.

“knew you were filthy for me.”

kiss.

“but this? fuck, baby. that’s dangerous.”

kiss.

“gonna use that mouth of mine to ruin you every night now.”

you didn’t doubt it for a second.

and from that night on, every time his voice dropped just a little, every time he muttered good girl into your ear—you remembered exactly how it felt to lose yourself right there on his lap, under the glow of that lonely little lamp, with praise melting off his tongue like sin.

SHIU KONG

it was supposed to be just a drive. just a night cruise with the windows down and your hand resting lazily on his thigh, music low and city lights flashing by. but shiu had always been the type to snap once something got under his skin—and you? dressed like that, soft thighs bare and eyes teasing him from the passenger seat?

you knew what you were doing.

that’s why you weren’t surprised when he suddenly pulled into some dark, quiet parking lot and killed the engine without a word.

his voice was low, rough when he spoke, hand gripping your chin as he leaned over.

“get in the back. now.”

you didn’t argue.

the car door slammed, and the moment you slid into the backseat, he followed—tall frame looming, heavy with intent. he didn’t give you time to process, to breathe—just pushed you down until your back hit the leather, and his mouth was already on your neck, hands everywhere.

“you always this bratty?” he growled against your skin. “or are you just desperate to get fucked like a little slut?”

your answer was a gasp, knees spreading on instinct. he chuckled low—one hand pushing up your skirt, the other unbuckling his belt in a way that felt both urgent and terrifyingly controlled. he wanted this, but he wanted to savor it.

his fingers slid between your legs, felt the mess there already.

“fuck—this wet already?” his brows twitched, head tilting. “just from me tellin’ you what to do?”

and then, a little slower:

“…do you like that?”

your breath caught in your throat.

“do you get off on being told you’re a good girl?” he murmured, right by your ear now, voice like hot velvet dragging across your spine. “is that what this is?”

you whimpered, body twitching, thighs tightening.

his grin was all sharp teeth and danger.

“well shit. that’s easy, sweetheart.”

he lined himself up, still fully clothed, only his zipper down, and pushed in with one long, slow stroke. you cried out—sensitive, overstimulated, and shiu loved it. he leaned over you, one hand gripping the seat above your head as he began thrusting, rough and deep, the car rocking with every snap of his hips.

“fuck, you feel good like this,” he panted, watching your eyes roll back. “so goddamn tight. takin’ me so well.”

then—he tried it.

soft, breathless, dangerous:

“good girl.”

your whole body clenched.

he stilled.

“…no way.”

he looked down at you, your chest heaving, face flushed, mouth open in a silent moan, your walls fluttering around him just from those two little words.

“you’re fuckin’ kidding,” he breathed, voice shaking. “you’re actually about to cum just from that?”

you nodded, whining—too far gone to be shy.

he groaned, forehead dropping to your shoulder. “oh, i’m gonna ruin you with that.”

and he did.

over and over, thrusting deep, whispering it like it was sacred.

“good girl.”

“such a perfect fuckin’ thing.”

“look at you, clenching around me so sweet just ‘cause i’m praising you.”

he made you cum so hard, you cried—shaking in the back of his car while the windows fogged and your voice echoed against the leather.

and after? when you were still trembling, body boneless under him?

he kissed your cheek, still inside you, and smirked against your skin.

“next time, i’m doing this with the windows down,” he whispered. “wanna see how many people can hear you fall apart when i tell you you’re mine.”

HIROMI HIGURUMA

the city outside was still alive—lights flickering against the windows, muffled car horns somewhere in the distance—but in his office, it was nothing but dim lamps, the soft creak of the floor beneath the blanket he laid out, and the sound of your breathless gasps echoing off his walls.

he was above you. hands planted firm on either side of your head, body stretched long and tense, every muscle in his arms flexing with control as he moved inside you—slow, deep strokes that made your whole body tremble beneath him.

his tie was still on, his shirt half-unbuttoned and sleeves rolled to his elbows. he looked down at you like he was trying to memorize every single twitch of your face, every broken sound you gave him.

“you’re taking me so well,” he murmured, voice rough, reverent. “fuck—you feel incredible.”

and you whimpered.

he paused—just slightly—but his hips didn’t stop.

his brow furrowed, mouth parting as his eyes locked onto your expression.

“…was that it?” he asked softly, his pace slowing, hips dragging almost teasingly deep. “did that do it for you?”

your face was flushed, mouth open, eyes wide—betraying everything.

he let out a low breath of laughter, something between awe and amusement, and leaned down closer, his mouth brushing against your ear.

“oh, you like being told that. don’t you?”

your hands gripped his biceps, nails digging in.

“god, of course you do,” he whispered, hips thrusting again, more deliberate now. “you’re such a good girl for me. lying here, letting me fuck you slow—just like this. perfect.”

your whole body jerked, breath catching. and he felt it—your walls tightening, the tremble of your thighs pulling him in closer.

his voice dropped lower, rougher.

“gonna cum, sweetheart?”

you nodded helplessly.

he smirked—something lazy, dangerous—and dragged his hand down between your bodies, fingers brushing right where you needed them.

“do it. cum for me.”

then, slower—deeper—hot breath against your lips:

“be a good girl and cum for me.”

you broke.

your back arched off the floor, thighs shaking around his waist as your orgasm tore through you—so hard it hit like a wave, full-body and overwhelming. you cried out, clinging to him as your body clenched tight, trembling under his weight.

and higuruma—he didn’t stop. he kissed your temple, dragged his fingers along your cheek, whispered praises while you came undone beneath him.

“you’re so beautiful like this,” he murmured, almost too tender for how deep he was still inside you. “so sweet. you always fall apart for me when i say it, don’t you?”

you nodded again, breathless, dizzy.

his lips curved into something between a smirk and a soft smile, brushing his mouth against your cheek as he pushed his hips in deep again.

“i’m never shutting up again, then,” he said, almost like a vow.

“you’re gonna cum from my voice alone by the time i’m done with you.”

Someone chokes; you’re pretty sure it’s Iwaizumi. 

A garbled noise leaves Makki’s mouth.

Oikawa is suspiciously silent.

Now it’s your turn to blink. “Excuse me?”

You wonder if Matsukawa can hear it—just how hard your heart is racing. 

He shrugs, putting the lollipop in his own mouth, and something shivers inside of you at the way he briefly rolls it on his tongue. “Show Makki what he’s asking for?”

Nobody asks why Mattsun doesn’t suggest that you spit in Makki’s mouth.

Because the thing is—this is inevitable. It’s always been inevitable. This moment. Every fucking goddamn moment between you and Matsukawa Issei. Every little morsel of maddening sexual tension that’s reached an unstable boiling point over the past seven or so odd years since you were enveloped into this friend group.

As of a month ago, you’re both single at the very same time since the first time that you met. 

And it’s incredibly, painfully obvious—how badly you want to fuck each other. 

The fact that you’ve yet to. 

That you’re still subjecting your friends to whatever this eye fucking thing is that you’re doing right now in public in the middle of a bar. 

“Right in front of my salad?” Iwaizumi deadpans. 

Oikawa looks over at him. “Iwa-chan, I thought you said you were ordering the fries—”

You lose track of their conversation, lose track of everything but the challenge that’s flashing in Mattsun’s hazel eyes. Which is how you find yourself in the throes of an out-of-body experience as you drop yourself into his lap, straddling him.

“Oh you guys are really gonna—”

“Hey Makki?” Mattsun says coolly. 

“Mmm?”

He drags the lollipop out of his mouth, tilts his head to hold your gaze. “Shut the fuck up.”

Matsukawa’s hands are warm as they come up to grasp your hips, and it’s impossible to ignore the fact that you can already feel the outline of his dick through his pants. The golden glow of the light that hangs above your table reflects in his eyes, and a rogue black curl sits across his forehead.

“How should I do this?” you ask him quietly, your heartbeat that of a nervous rabbit.

His thumb briefly strokes your waist. Once, twice. 

“Well,” he muses, eyes crinkling at the corners. “I’m going to do this.”

He parts his lips briefly, as if for emphasis, tongue sliding along his bottom lip.

“And then you’re going to spit in my mouth.”

“And then…”

Mattsun’s laugh is low, quiet. Something only for you. The arousal stirring inside of you coalesces in your veins. 

“And then, if I’m lucky, you’ll do it again.”

It feels appropriate—to cup Matsukawa’s jaw. The hand that ends up grasping the dip between his shoulder and neck is a byproduct of you steadying yourself at the feeling of one of his hands slipping beneath your sweater to hold you squarely at the small of your back.

His eyes are half-lidded as his lips come apart, head tipping back just a little further.

But for all that you’ve thought of him, all that you’ve fantasized. All that you’ve touched yourself and moaned his name and imagined his hands and his tongue and his co—

You still couldn’t have anticipated it, this.

The thrill that zips down your spine as you drop your spit into his waiting mouth. 

The way he immediately pulls you further into the cradle of his lap. How his hips twitch the moment your saliva hits his tongue. The feeling of his hard cock pressing into the heat between your thighs. The way his eyes fall shut. The quiet groan you’re not even sure he meant to let slip out. 

The way his lips fall open again after he swallows—

You don’t even hesitate. You spit in his mouth again. And this time, Mattsun’s hand slides up your back, cups the back of your head just as his lips come crashing into yours in a rough, wet, messy kiss. 

“Is this gross?” Oikawa asks.

He yelps as someone—presumably Iwaizumi—smacks him.

Mattsun tastes like beer and cherry candy.

“It’s kind of hot,” Makki says.

Matsukawa’s mouth engulfs yours, tongue stroking the seam of your lips before slipping into your mouth, deepening the kiss in a way that has you gasping into his mouth and unconsciously seeking friction in his lap. Middle finger hooked in the belt loop above the center of your ass, he tugs you against him, lets you feel the thickness of his cock pressing right up against your sensitive cunt. 

It’s only once Iwaizumi clears his throat that you remember you’re making out and dry humping Matsukawa in the middle of a bar, and you clumsily spring backward into your own seat, pussy throbbing through your jeans.

(Mattsun makes it up to you later, when he tugs off your pants and eats you out till you see stars on his couch. 

“is this what psychotic girls like you fantasize about..? huh..?”

spencer’s chest pressed against your back, your saliva coating his fingers as he curled them against your tongue. how ironic was it that he was fucking the criminal that had cost him hours of sleep right on his personal desk?

you were what the BAU ranked a “stalker” class unsub. an erotomanic individual who had convinced themself that someone completely out of their grasp was head over heels for them. not particularly dangerous, but more than desperate to get a taste of what you had been longing for for countless years.

you had watched him in action for as long as you had served the fbi. every worthless factoid and obsolete piece of information he spat out tattooed itself in your brain, making you more whipped for him with each passing day. and by the time you got caught for your criminalistic tendencies, you wanted nothing more than to have his body against yours.

earlier in the day, he had asked you to stay late at the office with him, said it was private stuff that he wanted to discuss with you. but surely, the BAU’s boy genius had used his skills to see through your semi-flawless facade. and now he was dealing with you the only way he knew how.

and you had gotten exactly what you wanted, but at what cost? 

spencer’s cock slipped out of your hole, the tip swollen and red with anger as he teased your puffy entrance with it. he reentered with a deep groan, your pussy making an audible squelch sound as you toyed with your clit.

“i-i’ve always noticed you…” he started, “...giving me those eyes of yours during conferences… trying to get me alone at any possible chance…”

your face pressed into a pile of paperwork, mewls and moans and little sobs slipping from your parted lips. a harsh slap landed on your ass, making you squeal.

“...and you really thought you’d get away with it, huh? or maybe you just wanted this outcome. smart girl…”

the rapid, almost painful rhythm of his thrusts adjusted to a softer pace, the brutal abuse on your cervix reaching a halt. you panted greedily, arching your back against him in an attempt to feel him stretch you out again. he pulled his fingers out of your mouth, drawing sloppy threads of saliva from your lips.

“i wonder how the team’s gonna feel about this. i’d be a real shame if they found out about this little game you’ve been playing…”

your blood ran cold. it hadn’t even occuured to you that you had gotten caught in this scheme of yours. and now spencer had the power to ruin your life right in his hands. you opened your mouth, starting to beg and plead for his forgiveness, but his lips found yours and shut you up immediately.

he moved himself against you, feeling the vibrations of your whimpers jittering through his veins. he pulled away, taking your pretty face into his firm grip and staring daggers at you.

“then i guess they’ll just never find out… ”