a/n: i’m finally back whores! & what better way to launch the end of my hiatus than with my og fave ♡
cw: dirty talk, hair pulling, (slightly) rough sex
The first thing you notice about Pro-Hero Ground Zero is that he’s insanely attractive. You’d be blind not to think so, what with his biceps bulging through the crisp white button up and the nonchalant tilt of his head—just far back enough so that he always seems to be looking down.
The second thing you notice is he’s a dick. One glance—one brief peek at the steel in his eyes—and you know he believes he owns the world. Perhaps it says something about you, that you pass judgment without a single word exchanged, but years in the entertainment industry means knowing how to read people. And with this man? There’s plenty to read.
He didn’t acknowledge the stage crew, didn’t so much as wave to the assistants strapping his mic in. Hell, he didn’t even offer you the slightest of nods or a blink in your direction. In the pre-interview brief, his manager cut you off before you could get a word out, a curt, ‘anything goes,’ tumbling from her lips before ushering him towards his dressing room. You’ve dealt with rude heroes before, sure, but never something as audacious as pure indifference.
Now, the cameras are a minute from rolling and the bulky blonde simply stares, mouth turned downwards in a gruff pout. You can feel the heat of his gaze, the movement of deep red pupils from your tight bodice to your sleek black skirt, while you look over your question cards. It’s intimidating to say the least, but you have a viewership of millions scrutinizing your every move on the daily—so, it’s just another interview.
“Places people! We’re rolling in 3….2….”
“Hello! Thanks so much for tuning in with us. We at JPTV hope you’re having a wonderful day.” A well-timed pause, a perfectly placed smile. “As usual, I’m here to bring you the inside scoop on your favorite heroes, and well, do I have a treat for you today!”
Affording yourself another quick glance at your hulking counterpart, you see he’s shifted his hands behind his head and turned that awful pout into a devilish smirk, but his eyes remained fastened on you. “I’m honored to welcome the number two pro-hero, Ground Zero!”
The cameras pan out to reveal your esteemed guest, but he doesn’t look away from you.
“Honored…” He snorts, grinning to reveal sharp canines. “You turn on the charm real quick, huh?” The hypocrisy throws you, but you don’t allow it to curb your enthusiasm.
“Not as quickly as you, it seems!” You throw in a wink, for good measure, though his vulgar smirk doesn’t drop. “Let’s get straight into it…Last week, we had the number one hero, Deku, on our channel. He had some great things to say about you. How does it feel to work with such a kind number one?”
Finally, his demeanor changes; you spot the quirk of an eyebrow, the rolling tick of his jaw. Whether it’s the mention of Deku or his fixed spot at number two, something in your question seems to piss him off. You give him props for keeping his tone even when he responds,
“Yeah, it’s all fine I guess, but this interview’s about me, isn’t it?” Within a second, he’s relaxed again, tree trunk thighs spreading and back sinking into your plush pink couch. “Could make it about us though.” He throws a wink right back at you that almost succeeds in making your cheeks heat and your legs cross. But now, he’s playing your game.
“Oh love, you couldn’t handle me. The national boyfriend poll’s results told me enough to presume that.”
He stiffens—and you’ve got him.
“The hah?” With his thick, blonde brows furrowing he looks a bit like a pomeranian, and you have to bite back a cruel laugh.
“Oh, you didn’t see the results? You scored 11th out of a possible 12, only beating out Grape Rush, of course.”
Here, you allow yourself a soft giggle, but quickly regret it once your attention settles on his arms—veiny and large and wholly unholy—as his palms grip the edge of his seat. His hands are entirely too large and– you’re still entirely on air. “Shouto, Deku, and Chargebolt were the top three, if any viewers at home were wondering.”
“Fuckin’ Pikachu? IcyHot? Listen, I—” His stare veers away from yours for a quick second, and he seems to think better of his little rant, choosing to scowl instead. It probably means he has a good—or rather, terrifying—publicist; and you let the expletive pass without remark, though it means more work in the post-edit.
Again, Ground Zero becomes the epitome of composure, that stupid, infuriating smirk plastered across his face once more. “I’m good where it counts.” You follow ruby eyes to the crook of his slacks—and realize exactly what he’s referring to.
Before you think better of it, and before you’re even able to take your eyes off his groin, you’re biting back,
“Are you now?”
And now, he’s got you where he wants you.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?”
Large as it is, the room begins to feel too hot, bright stage lights spurring beads of sweat to trickle down the back of your neck. There’s an electricity zapping through the studio, bouncing between Ground Zero’s arrogant, half-lidded eyes and your own—and settling somewhere between your ever-tightening rib cage.
But you won’t be caught dead baited by a bitter asshole on your own damn interview.
“What I’d like to know,” you think through the countless question cards you had prepared, taking care to keep your hands steady and a sultry smile on your face, “is whether the rumors I’ve heard are true. Were you really asked to leave Restaurant Passerini for being rude to the waitstaff?”
He doesn’t miss a beat,
“C’mon, princess.” The pet name is dizzying, gravelly and said with enough bass to make your grin waver and, yes, your legs finally cross. Does he not realize you’re on camera, in front of a studio of workers, recording for a platform of ravenous fans? “What you really want to know is whether the brunette paparazzi caught on my arm was my girlfriend.”
“I–”
“She’s not, so,” he crosses his bulky arms behind his head again, the undone button at the top of his shirt spreading to reveal a hint of his broad chest. Everything about him is just– broad. You’re so caught up in marveling at him that you nearly miss his next sentence, “If you want it, all you have to do is ask politely.”
The studio stills. Somewhere in the background, you hear the murmur of a few baffled interns, and honestly? You’re baffled yourself. The man went from ignoring your existence to chatting you up with the literal snap of a camera.
“Yeah?” You brace yourself for the words that are about to fall out of your mouth, “Well, I’m not so good at being polite.”
Whatever gets the people talking.
Instead of regret or sheepishness, amusement flashes through his darkened eyes. Ground Zero rewards you with a smile—not a smirk or a grimace—genuine and dazzling.
“My kinda woman.” His voice is low, meant for you and only you, despite the well-known fact that his microphone picks up the slightest of drawn breaths; you’re well aware it picks up yours.
“Ahem.” It’s impossible to refocus on the interview when your nails are digging into your sweat-soaked palms. He’s shifted closer, too close, and your space is filled with the sugary smell of caramel and the musk of a heavy, clean cologne. It’s enough to make you lightheaded—dyes the corners of your vision a sickly sweet pink—and ensures you can’t look anywhere but his eyes, ruby red waltzing between your own pupils and your bitten lips.
“Think we both know the interview’s over.”
With that simple statement, he’s won.
“I– um,” you turn towards the camera, but Ground Zero’s gaze is impossible to ignore, falling over you like you’re his next meal. “Thank you again to Ground Zero–”
“Katsuki. You can call me Katsuki Bakugō.” Another post-edit censor.
“Thank you to Ground Zero,” you won’t budge on this, at the very least, “for joining us today at the JPTV Studio! If you’re watching this, that means it’s Friday, and the newest Nike & Grou– ah!”
All at once, your body is lifted out of your chair and thrown over Bakugō’s massive shoulder. “What the hell?” The studio’s bustling with noise now, stagehands, assistants, and directors alike chattering, utterly confused on how to proceed. The commotion doesn’t stop him from walking off stage, your smaller body in tow.
“You don’t listen,” he calls over his shoulder to you, unphased by the crew attempting to strip you both of your mics.
“I– Katsuki!” You’re astounded at the brute, caught in a daze somewhere between offense and complete enchantment.
“Yeah, wasn’t too hard now, was it?” He struts towards his dressing room, calling a rowdy, ‘bring the cameraman,’ off to his right. And to your amazement, some poor fucker actually begins to follow.
“Do not! Absolutely not!”
Only when you’re in the dressing room, the door firmly shut, does he let you down. You’re stunned, watching with wide eyes while he simply sits on the dark leather couch—legs spread, hands behind his head once again.
“Great publicity stunt.” Composing yourself is difficult, but you move towards the mirror anyways, checking your lips for any smeared gloss; one man’s heathenry isn’t an excuse for ruined makeup. “Could’ve let me in on it, though. My people would’ve been all over it.” Katsuki doesn’t answer, and you’re too preoccupied to discover what stupid little thing’s caught his attention. “Don’t worry, I’m experienced enough to play along.”
Before you know it, he’s behind you, solid muscle pressing you further into the dressing table. You don’t overlook the bulge straining against your lower back, either.
“You were faking it?” He murmurs softly, teeth grazing your earlobe.
A rough palm travels your exposed thigh, gradually moving upwards until he’s skimming the hem of your skirt.
Your breath comes out in pants, leaving foggy reminders of your arousal in the mirror. “I wasn’t,” he sighs, free hand reaching around your waist and pulling you in so that you can feel every inch of him straining beneath his slacks. “But say the word,” he raises a single finger, letting it trace circles across the skin just under your skirt, “and I’ll stop.”
He lets go all at once, and you can’t help the soft whine that leaves your throat. When you turn your gaze upwards, his eyes bore into yours through the mirror. The smirk you found thoroughly aggravating is now extremely enticing, urging you to give in and drop to your knees.
You weigh your options. Keep your dignity—and the hard-earned respect of the horde of employees under your thumb—or allow this brute of a man to ravage you right here in his dressing room. Katsuki waits patiently, breathing ragged and heavy into your neck while never breaking eye contact, a feat that solidifies your decision.
To hell with dignity.
“Don’t stop.”
He tugs your skirt up in a flash, hands roaming you—thighs, waist, the globes of your ass—as though he can’t get enough. The brush of his skin on yours raises the hairs on the back of your neck, compels you to push your face into the vanity and grind against his large bulge.
“My turn to ask the questions,” he whispers into the crook of your neck, running his fingers against your drenched panties, before quickly moving them to the side. “Fuckin’ soaked. You’ve been thinking ‘bout this since you met me, huh?”
The obscenity sends a heated flush through your face all the way through your gut, one that settles right at your clit when he lightly grazes it with the pad of his forefinger. “Answer, or I’ll stop.”
“Maybe,” you whine, short and utterly ashamed by the state he has you in, “I’ve been thinking about it.” But his questions don’t end there; Katsuki mutters the next bit of his interrogation as soon as he sinks a finger into your tight cunt, two knuckles deep,
“Do you let every hero you interview fuck you, or is it just me?”
“You’re a bastard.” Try as you might to stifle it, a loud gasp leaves you.
“Yeah?” He’s pumping his hand now—in, out, repeat, a cycle that makes you hump against him without even meaning to.
“Narcissist.” The insult only makes him laugh cruelly,
“Keep ‘em coming.” When he adds a second thick, rough digit, your entire body jolts with pleasure. “At the end of the day, my fingers are still buried inside this tight little cunt.”
A blissful pain pricks your scalp the moment he grabs your loose strands, jerking your head back so that you’re face to face with him in the mirror. Katsuki’s eyes are still half-lidded, though his brows are obstructed by matted, sweat-soaked hair. “Look at yourself, panting like a bitch in heat.”
You can feel the coil in your gut pulling taut, and tauter still when you look into his eyes. It's the same glance he gave you on stage, a bloody red warning that tells you what you knew the moment you met him: he owns you.
With that thought, euphoria takes over,
“F-fuck! Only you– God, it’s only you!”
“Good fuckin’ girl.”
But the burly blonde doesn’t give you a moment to rest, instead pulling your back against his—perfectly sculpted—chest and hauling you up by your thighs to shift you to the large couch at the end of the room. You sigh when your knees hit cool leather, pulling down your tight tank top and bending over without a second thought.
One look back at Katsuki is enough confirmation for him to unzip his slacks and sink right in.
“Oh, fuck.” A large palm smacks your ass and you mewl against the couch; you could be fucking shrieking right now and you wouldn’t notice, head too filled with him—large, sweat-soaked biceps, clean cologne, the endless snap of his hips against yours—to acknowledge much else.
Soon, the pleasure renders you mindless, only registering flashes of heated skin against skin and the loud gasps and whines, curses and growls from you both. Your bodies are soaked in sweat, pressed hopelessly together and begging for reprieve.
Katsuki’s rhythm eventually slows, a hoarse warning of his impending orgasm leaving his lips. He pulls out, flipping your spent body and climbing over you on the couch so that his throbbing cock is level with your lips.
“Gonna cum on that pretty face,” he murmurs, pulling your hair by its roots, “and then I’m taking an even prettier picture, yeah?” Despite your better judgment, you moan, tongue lolling while your head nods. “Fuck.”
One, two, three pumps, and thick ropes of white are spurting out, coating your cheeks and lips in him. As promised, Katsuki whips his phone out—and the last thing you see is a flash of bright light.
When he’s finally cleaned you both up, he crawls over you on the couch, pulling you into his large arms and rubbing soothing circles into your own. You’ll need a week off just to recover from this little escapade. After a while, he breaks the peaceful silence,
“That interview’s not airing, is it?” You let out a breathless chuckle.
“Oh no, we’re definitely running it.” The studio would be stupid not to; it’ll go viral.
“Hm,” his voice softens, “fine, I guess—but only because I’ll be taking a lot more pictures of you.”
I HAD TO COME BACK HERE TO SCREAM ABOUT THIS . I HAD TO.
THERES NO FUCKXING G WAY JDMEJDJZK??!?????!!!!!??? ARE EU JCKF KIDDING ME THEY WHORWED HIM OUT CANON ???? V LINE??? THEY LIT??? HIS PANTS ARE SO L O W WHAT IS HAPEPEMOGNG GLSPVNELCOSO IWOO SMMD IM LITERALLY SWRAYING
2087
tangentwithtanner
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