꒰ synopsis ꒱ ✶ it’s been a rough night. your heart is still recovering from being broken, you need an uber home, your phone is dead, and everyone else has already left the class a yearly reunion. well—everyone except bakugou. he gives you not just a ride home, but a solution to your lonely predicament
── ✶ word count: 12.0k words ; give it a chance plssss
── ✶ before you read: female reader ; pro hero bakugou + pro hero reader ; reader was in class a ; reader has a quirk (she's stretchy - think like elastigirl from the incredibles LOL) ; reader gets her heart broken by an unnamed random guy + has insecurities ; bakugou is silently pining (and quite good at hiding it tbh) ; friends (sort of) to lovers ; cunnilingus ; p in v ; creampie ; morning after ; confessions (sort of. its bakugou ok) ; getting together ; the class a girls are gossips ; masterlist.
꒰ commentary ꒱ ✶ hi my name is riv and i am going thru mental breakdown after mental breakdown about my life but it wont stop me from writing about letting bkg hit
Class A is trauma-bonded for life—it’s this invisible, untraceable, yet undeniable thing.
Sure, years pass. Adulthood kicks in. Lives become busier, more hectic, more demanding. Time is a funny thing—nine years ago, you were sitting in a classroom with these people, learning how to be a hero. Nine years later, you’re sitting in a rented-out bar, sharing a drink with them as they trade hero stories like it’s part of the average day.
Then again, you suppose it is the average day for pros. Wake up, go to work, save people, crack cases, go on patrol, and go to sleep. Repeat.
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 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 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 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 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?
yeah i wrote this in one day. this asshole has taken over my life yet again 6 years later i feel like history always repeats itself
warnings: suggestive, sexual content mentioned, mentions of killing, toji is kinda crazy, use of foul language, and etc.
author note: part 1. y’all are lucky to get a part two smh. came from this request!! here you go bby :) it’s thanks to them y’all get fed again, also i chose random ass characters so..
ꉂ ᵎᵎ cw/tw: suggestive jokes, poly!kiribaku, cute girly fem!reader, fluff, crack maybe, weed mention, non serious threats/jokes of violence, jokes of death, there may be some typos but. do you text perfect 24/7?!
ꉂ ᵎᵎ a/n: idk why this is longer than the bkdk one seeing i like. deku... i think i just didn't feel that confident in this so i had to overcompensate... ermm this was requested ^_^ i decided to do a cutesy reader because. it’s fun and i think she uses light mode and decorated the gc and yeah… also sorry if the conversations are cropped funny. thats just how the dice roll
ꉂ ᵎᵎ synopsis: SMAU conversations about baking, makeup, and video games with poly!kiribaku
ꉂ ᵎᵎ a/n: for those who don't play marvel rivals, you need to level up your account to a certain level before you're allowed in comp, and depending on whatever rank eijirou and you are, there is a possibility that katsuki has to grind by himself until he can play with you guys... it's an act of service <3
Storyline- Just some silly texts with your lovers Shota and Hizashi
CW- Nothing to explicit, but at the end there is mentions of inappropriate/ spicy images being sent. Fluff, may be a bit OOC. Bad language
Authors Note- First time doing something like this so I hope it isn't too bad or cringe. Also, the first little scenario takes place during the sports festival and the second one is supposed to be another day but it kind of seems like it's the same- it's not. Hope y'all enjoy, and make sure to have a lovely day and take care of yourself.
In which after getting your little heart broken, you get passed around your local University’s hottest friend group! Everyone needs those slutty College years!
Smut Series! Pt 2 here
A/N: I would just like to make it clear that I do not condone some of the behaviors in this series! It is a bit problematic, but it is all just for funsies! Solely for entertainment purposes so just keep that in mind. Also i love sero can you tell. Anyways, enjoy!
Cw: SMUTTT!, lots of different kinks n stuff, sub! Denki, name calling, p in v, reader has female anatomy, reader essentially gets passed around
Katsuki Bakugo as The Shit Talker!
- Katsuki Bakugo is the one who started it all, your hot neighbor who threw parties your ex boyfriend never let you go to. Bakugo always gave you shit for it, saying you were ‘too young and pretty to be tied down’.
- As fucked up as it sounds, he gets excited one day when he spots you getting home super late one night in an oversized hoodie with mascara stained cheeks. And he considers just marching right across the hall when he notices you took all the posts and highlights of that fucker down on your insta.
- He’s even more excited when you finally show up to one of his parties. That is until you get wasted way too fast because you haven’t been out in years and end up crying over your shitty ex boyfriend.
- Katsuki Bakugo, who lets you make it up to him the next day by using you like a toy.
- Bakugo, who says the nastiest things when he’s deep inside of you.
“All my friends wanna fuck you, you know? But I get to go first”
“Can’t believe you were hiding this slutty pussy from us this long”
“Always knew you were a fucking slut”
“Your loser boyfriend ever fuck you like this?”
“Stop mph! fucking running from it!”
-He has your face pressed into the mattress, a hand on your head and one of his feet planted flat on the cushion. You’re drooling due to the way he drills into you, fucking you like he hates you.
- You guess you should have expected him to be so rough. Tough exterior and all but this is so much more than you could have ever imagined. He does not even give you a second to breathe, constantly snatching every bit of air from your lungs with each powerful thrust.
-His headboard bangs against the wall obnoxiously, he warns you not to hide your pretty little noises either or else says he’ll fuck them out of you. He even tells you to shut the fuck up when you whine about your neighbors-or Kiri.
-Katsuki Bakugo who has you in a headlock when you finally cum, back pressed tightly against his front as he thrusts up into you. His free hand pinching and rubbing your clit furiously. “Cum f'me pretty, then I can fill you up till it's coming out yer fucking mouth". His words are enough to make you gush around him, tight pussy squeezing him like a vice. But he’s not done talking shit yet, of course not.
"Better not waste a fuckin' drop. Maybe Kiri'll wanna fuck it back into you. He’s into nasty shit like that"
- Your cry out at his words, his finger remains at your clit but now rubbing at a much slower pace which ensures you let out small whines every few seconds. Still fucking into you so brutally your body begins to tremble. "You like that? Dirty fucking girl, want us to share this sloppy pussy?"
"Mm yes! P-please! Won't tell anyone" You nod frantically, a part of you so fucked out you are unaware of what you're saying. This is so unlike you, truly.
Bakugo's dick made you go dumb, fucking stupid actually. It sets the catalyst for a series of the most unhinged decisions of your life.
-It feels like little explosions eat up his entire body as his seed finally shoots inside you, there's so much it has already begun to leak out. "No, no, no! Keep it in there!" He slaps your ass and lets you finally fall back down into the mattress.
You're a crying mess, you don't even notice it. But he does, of course. Grabbing your (face) cheeks and squeezing with one hand. "Aw pretty girl, you cryin already?"
- Katsuki Bakugo, who is being a complete hypocrite, he's fucked out already too, fucking himself into overstimulation currently as he fucks his own cum back into you. "Such a crybaby. M'not even done with you yet"
Ejirou Kirishima as The Big Boy!
-Ejirou Kirishima-Katsuki’s roomate who invites you over to his parents house (who are out of town) so the two of you can ‘workout’ in their home gym. One month after what took place with his best friend.
-You can’t help but remember the blonde’s words, something about the red-haired man fucking his cum back into you. He wouldn’t, would he?
-He’s such a sweetheart! He opens and closes the car door for you, makes you a protein shake with his own recipe! Even brings you a little snack and tells you how pretty you look in your gym set! The man has even offered to take you and your roomate’s trash out before because ‘ladies shouldn’t be walking around by themselves at night’. He’s just such a gentleman, you can’t imagine him doing anything nasty in his life.
-Ejirou Kirishima who works out for all of about twelve minutes before lifting you up against the wall and gives you the most passionate and sensual make out session you have ever experienced.
-He moans against your lips sweetly, going down to kiss every inch of skin within reach.
-Ejirou Kirishima-who has the biggest, fattest cock you have ever seen in your life. It almost scares you because how the hell is that going to fit?!
He notices your worries, softly smooching the corner of your lips. “You can do it pretty girl, I know you can” His hand gropes your ass, a harsh contradiction to his sweet voice. “Bakugo says you’re a good girl, huh?”
-He manages to bully his fat member inside of you. The stretch is delicious yet painful. You squeal as he sinks deeper, nails digging into his bare shoulder.
“Shit baby you’re so tight for me” The man exhales loudly, hot breath hitting your bare skin. “Wanna hear you scream”
-Ejirou Kirishima, whose wish is answered when he finally picks up the pace. The ease in which he fucks you, holding your weight up entirely only adds to the experience.
-He’s just so strong and big. It makes your ankles cross and eyes roll to the back of your head. He’s so proud of it too-as he should be. He works very hard to maintain such a physique, he does it not only for himself but for pretty girls like you.
It’s obviously working, whimpers and whines escape your lips. Mouth stuck in a constant ’o’ shape and eyebrows furrowed. “S-so big! Fuck!” You cry, giving your very best attempt to bounce back on him. But it’s hard, almost every signal in your body is telling you to push away. It’s too much, the pain of his fat tip smushing against your walls. Yet another part deep within had you convinced that you can take it.
-You open your eyes to catch a glimpse of the sinful sight through the wall length mirror. His frame is so large you are hardly able to make yourself out, whole body covering yours. His back muscles on full display, you watch them move under his skin. The back of his bulging biceps accompanied by little grunts. “So strong Kiri ohmygodd! So good so good, so big!”
-“You like when i use you like a little dolly?” You nod, unable to speak even if you tried. “Love this big dick, huh?”
“Yes! Yes!” You are screaming at this point, in a way you have never done before. You had no idea this amount of pleasure was even possible. You should have been single a looong time ago. “Love it s’much!”
-“Cum on this dick gorgeous! Make a mess please!” He’s so cute, he still says please.
And you’re such a good girl that you just have to do what you’re told-juices gushing all over his abs and dripping down his thighs.
-Ejirou Kirishima who kisses the ache in your thighs before fucking you again in the hot tub. And then in his childhood bedroom.
Hanta Sero as The One Who Talks You Through It!
- Hanta Sero, who somehow becomes your smoking buddy after being paired up with you on a project. He was so funny and cute and you just had to get his snapchat!
-Hanta Sero, who knows his friends had already fucked you but doesn’t really care who came first or second. He just wants you…..bad.
- After a couple smoke sessions he decides to just go for it, glossy red eyes taking in your entire figure as he moves closer. Grabbing your chin and kissing you skillfully, tongue rolling against yours.
- Hanta Sero, who has you in his lap, chin resting on your shoulder with your legs spread wiiide. His legs trap you on either side so you are unable to move and squirm away the way your body tells you to. You have no choice but to take his long digits that are furiously fingering your cunt.
You’re a moaning mess, head thrown back against his chest as he coos in your ear, talking your head (more like pussy!) off. “Ahhh does it feel good mamas?”
Brushing a piece of hair out of your face he continues, strong thighs still keeping yours in place. “Such a pretty little princess pussy”
- Most moments you have no idea what he is even saying, every single one of his words goes straight down there. “So messy” His hand places a firm, wet smack! against your soaked core. “Hear how wet you are for me?” He continues to finger you, picking up the pace with an almost obnoxious squelching noise that accompanies his every move.
The vibrations of his movements shoot up your body, his fingers feel robotic with the way they do not falter. And then he starts curling them to brush against that sweet spot.
It’s not much longer after when you squirt all over his fingers and sheets with a loud cry. And he is sure to maintain eye contact when he brings his hand up to lick clean of all your juices, muttering something about how sweet you taste.
- Hanta Sero, who has you on your back a minute later-one hand on the headboard and the other keeps him steady as he pounds into you, lazy red eyes stuck on all of the faces you make. The way your titties bounce with his thrusts. You’re driving him crazy.
-“Fuck, Fuck princesa. You feel how deep I am?” You only nod, his long curved dick takes the words out of your mouth. “M’in your fuckin’ guts”
-He brings his body down to get closer to you, arms hooking beneath your shoulders to bring you closer to him. One of his hands pushes your head down to force you to watch his sloppy thrusts with the way he slams! you down on his cock.
-Hanta Sero who gets excited when you finally have the energy and brain capacity to talk, telling him all about how good he is. “So deep Hanta….can feel you in my tummy” You pout and it makes his dick twitch. You’re too fucking cute.
He almost regrets putting a condom on, he wishes he could feel the real thing. Make no mistake though, he is enjoying himself to the point where his toes begin to curl as he blabbers nonsense. “Taking it so good for me baby, such a good princess”
-His dick is firmly pressed against the spot you need it the most. You are unable to stop the squeals and whimpers coming from deep within, sloppily rocking your hips against him. He takes notice of this, locking his hips to continue to rub against the spongy walls that make you cry out like this. “Let it out mamas, wanna see you cum again”
- You don’t need much encouragement to coax the orgasm out of you-one that is mind-melting and makes your insides feel fuzzy. “Mm Hanta! Cumming f’you baby”
- Hanta Sero, who moans so loudly when he feels your walls spasming around him. He has to grab onto your hair for comfort-you’re practically choking his dick.
- Hanta Sero, who leans in close to whisper in your ear as you flutter around him. “Just like that baby” He kisses your cheek, a sweet gesture which is quite opposite to the mean snap of his hips. “Come on, come on give me more”.
- He’s practically snatching your soul out of your body, your mouth agape and wide as your body trembles, listening to his words. “Just a lil bit more mama, I know you can do it”
“C-cant!” You squeal but your legs betray you, locking themselves around his hips, he couldn’t move much even if he wanted to. So he uses the opportunity to do slow, exaggerated thrusts into you.
Tears prick your eyes as you do nothing but take it and whine. Hanta keeps on talking though. “Shhh it’s okay mamas….I know you can take it” And then he squishes your cute little face in his hand. “Right? You gonna take more f’me?”
-“Y-yeah”
- Hanta Sero, who is such a blabbermouth that you should not be surprised to find out how talkative he is during sex. Who continues to let you know you are welcome over any time and sends you the filthiest text messages. Ones you respond to with cute little emojis letting him know you’ll be on the way.
Denki Kaminari as ‘The Munch!’
- Denki Kaminari, who feels left out as he is the only one in the friend group who hasn’t fucked you! The other guys have nothing but good things to say about you and even still consider you to be a friend! So why can’t he have a taste? He’s the one who pointed you out to them in the first place!
- Denki Kaminari, who finds himself sitting next to you one night at a end of year party. The two of you being DD’s for the night, which means you are the only sober ones. And you talk for hours, seeing as you’ve known each other since freshman year and have remained relatively close since then. Which means he’s not afraid to ask.
“So what’s wrong with me?”
“Huh?”
“You fucked all my friends and not me? I’m hurt!” He sounds genuine, a hand placing itself atop his chest in offense. “Is it something I did?”
“Shut up!” You grumble, taking a hit off of his puff. “And no! Of course not!” You chuckle, blowing out the smoke directly in his face. “Just didn’t know you even thought of me that way”
- Denki Kaminari, who scoffs at your words. And here he was thinking it was obvious. Even back when you had a boyfriend he would always tell you that he could treat you better but you always thought he was joking! He was a jokester, that was like his thing!
- Denki Kaminari, who is deadly serious when he leans in closer to ensure you hear his every word perfectly.
“M’not hotheaded and ripped like Bakugo. Or big and strong like Kirishima. Or as tall as Sero or nearly as charming”
“You think Sero’s charming?” You laugh.
“Dude’s got game” Denki loves the way you giggle. “But I got something none of those fuckers do”
“Mm?” You raise an eyebrow curiously, a sweet smile on your face as you lean in closer. Lips mere inches away from him. “What’s that?”
“Promise my tongue is better than any of those assholes. Can make you see stars using just my mouth” He speaks so smugly, so confident.
It’s the most attractive he’s ever looked.
- You take him up on his offer, letting him lead you to an empty room upstairs where he doesn’t even wait for the door to click before smashing his lips against yours. Hungry hands grab at your waist and ass, then your tits and hair.
-Denki Kaminari, who keeps true to his word and has you seeing stars in a matter of minutes. Whose hands are holding yours as his face is nuzzled into your heat, breathing in your scent as his tongue works its magic Whose dick twitches every time you squeeze his hands and every time you try to let go he grabs it back, interlocking your fingers with his.
- His tongue swirls circles around your clit, causing your hips to bump up against his face-which makes him moan into your folds. Pulling apart for a second to admire the glossy mess before diving right back in
-Denki Kaminari, who is almost pathetic with the way he slurps you up like he is starving for your pussy. Constantly moaning into it as if he is getting any kind of relief out of it. Oh but he is, he could stay between your thighs for hours.
Whose skilled tongue somehow knows all the right places, eventually he has you rocking against his face as the only thing audible besides your loud desperate moans are the even more desperate slurps coming from him.
- He fucks you with his tongue until he is so deep that it makes him gag. But he does not stop, not even when his dick begins to ache from how hard it is. He fucks you with bis tongue until it hurts and you are a shaking mess, having finished three times already. No fingers involved.
-Denki Kaminari, who somehow convinces you to ride him into oblivion afterwards, shaky legs and all.
- His whines are so pathetic and hot that it unlocks something deep within you. A feeling you had never experienced before. Causing you to go rough on him, pulling his hair and whining when he begs you to do it harder! You aren’t sure who’s moaning more between the two of you.
- Denki Kaminari, who has shivers go up his spine whenever you dig your nails into his biceps, hips bouncing up and down as if your life depends on it. “Please scratch me up baby! Feels s’good”
- You even choke him a bit which is a thing you had never done before but just felt so right in the moment. The way he moans confirms that he enjoys it just as much as you did.
- When he cums, he cums hard, thick ropes spurting out into the condom as he moans freely. His hips rock up into you for more stimulation as he rides out his high.
“Oh shittt didn’t know you were such a freak Y/N!” Denji jokes, poking you in the side and you giggle.
He moans at the way you clench around him when you laugh. It makes him want to make you laugh more.
- Denki Kaminari, who showed you just how much you enjoy whiny subby men!
- And even to this day the whole friend group does a double take when you walk by, always offering to do stuff for you or hold open doors. (Except Bakugo of course). But they all make it more than obvious you are welcome into their beds anytime.
mha boys fucking a fan! reader
cw: f!reader, vaginal sex, p in v, oral sex
🌊: deku, bakugo, shinso
a/n: hope u all have a nice night! this was sitting in my drafts for a while now. Enjoy!
deku:
Deku wasn't getting laid. EVER. And he blamed hero work for this misfortune. He blamed the stacks of papers, the early morning and late night patrols. He blamed the fights that leave him collapsing into the soft sheets of his bed, utterly spent.
He has to keep reminding himself of the effect he has on people. Deku has to remind himself of all the people he saves, really take those "thank you"s to heart or he will go insane.
Or rather, his sexual frustrations will make him go insane. And its not like his hero work is getting him laid, is it?
Deku has you deep in a mating press as your hands glide along the backside of his hands. You're trying to commit the scars to your memory.
It's no wonder that you're trying to remember every second of this divine pleasure, if you take the fact that you were laying beneath the person you admired most into account. You had always known that you were charming, but being charming enough to have pro hero deku practically fucking every last braincell out of you? You hadn't ever even dared to dream of this.
"D-deku~ aaaahh~"
Dekus rhythm faltered as he heard you moan his name. He had told you to call him izuku but somehow his hero name slipped past your lips accompanying every moan of yours.
And deku couldn't help but chuckle. The way you cling to him, the obscene sounds of your pussy swallowing him whole, pulling him in made him grip the headboard until his knuckles turned white.
And suddenly your phone chimed. You groaned in annoyance.
Who the fuck was texting you at this time of night?!
But when the notification lit up your screen and deku saw your lockscreen background? A new type of vigour flowed through his veins.
He pressed a sloppy kiss against your soft lips before letting your tongues battle briefly. The mind-blowing kiss accompanied by dekus cock dragging against your throbbing walls had you clutching at his muscular arms for support.
Gasps were leaving your lips until deku swallowed them as he kissed you again. And again. And again. Until something new sneaked into those kisses. Something beyond physical needs.
And when you dared to open your eyes the intensity of dekus gaze threatened to blow you away. You couldn't help but smile, a heartfelt grin spread across your face. And when deku flashed you the same smile back? Your heart did thirty consecutive backflips.
You really had to thank your fan behaviour (and especially that deku fanart u have set as your lockscreen) for this night.
And you both knew this wasn't going to be the last night.
bakugo:
Bakugo was wondering how his bed frame hadn't given in yet. And how you hadn't given in yet. The way your hips were smashing together and how your pussy squelched with every move of his? This must be the thing people referred to as truly animalistic sex.
But when a moan slipped out of your mouth carrying his hero name? He knew what this was about. And his dick got harder with every time a perfect "dynamight"-cry fell from your lips.
The cocky smile on his face was every bit justified as he pressed his cock into your pussy until you were seeing stars. Pistoning in and out of you with alarming speed, his cock throbbing inside of you. He's reduced you to a mess of whines and whimpers.
And an unusual feeling of pride welled in his chest. Pride on account of someone else...
He was fucking you silly and yet you were completely present. That's the kind of determination he loves to see from his fans.
So when he sees your tits jiggling with every thrust and your sanity slipping away little by little, he can't stop himself from tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. You were so goddamn beautiful.
He already knew that he needed to see you again, the next time by daylight and in a fancy restaurant.
shinso:
He notices the pin on your bag as soon as he sees you. All cheery, wide eyes and rosy cheeks? Fuck, he has to have you.
You really hadn't expected him to recognize the pins on your bag. You were already used to them so the subtle hint at you being a fan went unnoticed by you and you expected the same from him.
What you hadn't known is that shinso not only noticed and recognized it but even more than that it quadrupled the want to have you writhing beneath him.
You were alternating between admirable boldness and shyness so cute it made him want to punch someone. You thought you were sooo slick. But when he noticed the pangs of conscience you were clearly battling, he couldn't help but loop you in and show you that he already knew you were a big fan of his.
"It's what your favorite pro hero would want"
And before you knew it his tongue was buried in your cunt. He was looking up at you through hazy lidded eyes, watching for every little reaction. Your gasps, whines and moans were stringed together to the most beautiful song he ever heard
And it was true. At first he wanted to fuck you for purely selfish reasons. He wanted to fuck you so good that you forgot your own name. He wanted to make you orgasm so hard that you'd go posting thirty different posts detailing how amazing it was to spend the night with him.
But as he was in the process of making you lose your mind and your hand clawed at his torso, something else flooded his body.
Something that didn't want you to share this experience with anyone else. Something that wanted to keep you by his side even when this night fades into the fog of a distant memory. Something that wanted you all to himself.
sending a saucy late night text to the timeskip!bnha boys
ft. bakugo, kirishima, midoriya, todoroki & kaminari
notes: mdni! everyone is 18+ (including you 🫵), suggestive to spicy, poor taste jokes of specific kinks (somno/psuedo-incest) (bro gender neutral?) and unaliving self in the pursuit of pussy, mentions of 'girl' in denki's, deku's a lil dom, shouto is Official Baby Girl™, many mentions of oral, denki is in his usual down bad hours
── .✦ katsuki bakugo
── .✦ eijiro kirishima
── .✦ izuku midoriya
── .✦ shouto todoroki
── .✦ denki kaminari
ˋ°•*⁀➷ an: lore is that shouto realized much sooner than he let on what was going on he just likes to be a little cheeky about it
Hii... scray but ur text fics are so silly and awesome, could I get a newbie and energetic fem pro hero reader x aizawa pre-relationship ans during relationship?
I love him sm hes so The Guy
HE'S SOOO VERY THE GUY YES YES YES
erase me ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚
s.aizawa x fem!proheroreader | lowkey jealous eraserhead... | pathetic flirting attempts! from both sides :3 | like one suggestive joke | progression is kind of strange but you can def notice it lol!
It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. Things between you two were already falling apart before the test turned positive. He messed up—like really messed up—and you walked away before it could hurt even more.
[ SYNOPSIS ] — When a careless comment triggers your eating disorder relapse, Megumi is left confused as to how to approach the situation until you leave him with no choice. w.c: 8k
[ PAIRING ] — bf!megumi fushiguro x ex-ballerina!reader
[ TAGS ] — fem!reader, non-sorcerer au, they are adults.
TW: eating disorder, body dysmorphia, food restrictions, guilt tripping (from reader), toxic ballet culture, angst w a happy ending, hurt/comfort, relapse and recovery, emotional confrontation, therapy is mentioned. art by: @/sa2men on twt.
[ A/N ] — THIS FIC IS A REQUEST! However, a similar idea has been sitting in my drafts for a very long time, I wrote it for myself first to help me with recovery, so I would like apologise to anon first if it doesn't match their request 100%. Thank you to however reads this, and for those that also struggle with their eating disorders, I want you to remember that you are worth more than your ed, it is difficult to navigate through life with it and I am very proud of those that continue to go on despite it. You matter and I love you.
If you liked this, consider joining my taglist!
The lights were always too hot. That’s what you remembered most. Not the ache in your calves or the pinch of toe shoes, but the way the stage lights bore down on your shoulders like a judgment. You could feel them even before the curtain rose, a warmth that made your leotard feel two sizes too small.
You were the tallest in your class that year, which should have been an advantage. Long lines, your first instructor had said when you were six, pressing down on your shoulders to lengthen your neck. You have the bones for it. But somewhere between ten and eleven, your body had decided to curve in ways the other girls' hadn't yet. Your thighs thickened. Your hips spread just slightly, and suddenly your lines weren't so clean anymore.
"Again."
Madame Dupont's voice cut through the rehearsal studio like a blade. You were at the barre, sweat cooling on your neck, one hand resting on the wood that was slick from the last hour of work. The other girls had moved to their water bottles. You were supposed to join them.
"Just you," she clarified, and the room went quiet; it always did when someone was about to be made an example of. "The développé. I want to see it."
Your stomach clenched. The extension from passé to full arabesque required your leg to lift and hold, floating up as if it weighed nothing at all. The other girls could do it with a kind of effortless grace, their legs rising as if pulled by strings. Yours fought gravity every inch of the way.
You returned to the barre. You set your feet in fifth position and felt the tremor that was already starting in your standing leg. You lifted into passé, felt your thigh burn, and then extended.
You saw it in the mirror before you felt it, saw the slight wobble in your supporting ankle and the way your extended leg didn't quite reach the height the others achieved. Your hips tilted, compensating. Wrong. It was wrong.
"Enough." Madame Dupont didn't raise her voice. She never did. That was almost worse. "You see the problem, yes? The line breaks here." She pointed with her cane vaguely toward your thigh, toward your hip, and you felt your face flush hot. "It disrupts the whole silhouette. You are fighting your own body. A dancer cannot fight her body. A dancer's body is her instrument, and yours is… resistant."
You lowered your leg. The silence in the room was sticky, uncomfortable. You could feel the other girls not looking at you, which was somehow worse than if they'd stared.
"We will continue to work on this," Madame Dupont said, already turning away. "But you should consider whether the corps is perhaps a better fit for your physique. Skip dinner today; breakfast tomorrow too."
You nodded because that was what you did. You nodded and you didn't cry, not there, not until later in the bathroom stall with your hand pressed over your mouth so no one would hear.
The role was Giselle. The peasant girl who dies of a broken heart and becomes a spirit, all gossamer and grief. You wanted it so badly you could taste it, something metallic and desperate at the back of your throat.
You started skipping breakfast because it was the easiest meal to miss. Your mother left for work early, and she never checked the trash to see if you'd actually eaten the toast she laid out. Lunch was harder—the school cafeteria had monitors—but you learned to push food around your plate, to take bites so small they barely counted, to wrap things in napkins, and to bury them at the bottom of your bag.
The weight came off slowly at first, then faster. Your thighs stopped touching at the very top when you stood with your feet together, and you would stare at that gap in the mirror like it was proof of something. Proof that you could do this. Proof that your body wasn't resistant after all, that you could mold it into whatever shape you needed it to be.
Your développé improved. Madame Dupont noticed. She didn't praise you—she never praised anyone—but she stopped correcting you, and that felt the same. Better, even.
When the casting went up, you found your name at the top of the list. Giselle. You stared at it for so long that the letters started to blur and you had to blink hard to bring them back into focus. Your heart was pounding so fast you felt dizzy, but it was a good dizzy, a victorious dizzy.
You called your mother from the studio phone. She cried. You didn't.
The week before the performance, you stopped eating almost entirely. Just water, just black coffee, just the occasional apple cut into slices so thin you could see light through them. You were still hungry—you were always hungry—but hunger had started to feel like something else. Like discipline. Like control. Like the only thing standing between you and the corps, between you and Madame Dupont's dismissive cane waving at your unacceptable body.
Performance night. The theater was full. You could hear the murmur of the audience through the curtain, hundreds of people settling into velvet seats, program pages rustling. You stood in the wings in your white peasant dress, your heart hammering so hard you could feel it in your temples.
The first act went well. Your feet found their marks, and your arms traced the air the way you'd practiced a thousand times. The hunger was a hollow ache in your stomach, but you were floating above it, running on adrenaline and terror and the blinding heat of the lights.
And then, during your solo—the famous mad scene, Giselle's heart breaking—something went wrong.
It started as a lightness in your head, a kind of fizzing at the edges of your vision. The stage tilted. You tried to compensate, tried to keep dancing, because that was what you did; that was what Madame Dupont had drilled into you: you danced through pain, through exhaustion, through anything. The show didn't stop.
But your body stopped.
You didn't feel yourself fall. You only heard the collective inhale from three hundred people, a sound like all the air being sucked out of the room at once. And then nothing.
You woke up backstage. Someone had put a cold cloth on your forehead. Your mother was there, which didn't make sense because she was supposed to be in the audience; she was supposed to be watching you be brilliant. Her face was pale, and her eyes were red, and before you could ask what happened, you heard Madame Dupont's voice from somewhere above you, clipped and cold.
"This is what I was afraid of. I knew she wouldn't be fit for the role."
You closed your eyes again. You wished you hadn't woken up at all.
You quit ballet that summer. You told your mother it was because you'd lost your passion for it, and she believed you because she wanted to. She'd been scared by the fainting, scared by the sharp lines of your collarbones that had started showing through your skin. She took you to a doctor, then a therapist, then a nutritionist. You learned words like "disordered eating," "restriction cycle," and "refeeding," and you hated all of them because they made your control sound like illness.
But you got better. Sort of. You stopped counting calories and started counting other things—steps on your phone, laps in the pool, and miles on the treadmill. It wasn't the same, you told yourself. It was healthy. Everyone should exercise. Everyone should stay in shape. You ate three meals a day, reasonable portions, nothing extreme. You didn't weigh yourself more than once a month. You were fine. You were absolutely fine.
And then you met Megumi.
Megumi was quiet in a way that made you feel quiet, too, like his presence turned down the volume on the anxious voice that usually whispered in the back of your mind. He didn't talk much, but he listened, and he watched, and he noticed things. The first time he kissed you, his hand had come up to cup your jaw so gently that you'd almost cried. No one had ever touched you like that before, like you were something precious instead of something to be managed.
For two years, you were happy. Genuinely happy. You moved in together. You adopted a cat and rented until you could find an affordable apartment to buy; you lived in the same city as your friends, and work was close by. Life was great; it was supposed to be great. A life where food was just food, where your body was just your body, where the ghost of Madame Dupont's voice had faded to a whisper so faint you could almost forget it was there.
Almost.
Until one particular day, when Megumi left his phone unlocked on the kitchen counter while he was in the shower. You weren't snooping. You were looking for a takeout menu he'd mentioned saving, and his messages were right there, and you saw your name in a thread with one of his coworkers.
Megumi's girlfriend is sweet. She's a little bigger than I expected, though. I thought you only dated skinny girls lol
Your thumb had frozen over the screen. You read the message four times, each word burying itself into your chest like a splinter. The coworker who'd sent it—some guy named Tanaka who you'd met exactly once at a work happy hour, who poured you a drink and chatted your ear off until Megumi had to take you away—had probably forgotten he'd even typed it. It was a throwaway comment, the kind of casual cruelty people deployed without thinking.
Megumi's response had been immediate and cold: Don't talk about her like that. What the fuck is wrong with you?
But you barely registered his defense. All you could see was a little bigger than I expected, and suddenly you were twelve years old again, standing at the barre, Madame Dupont's voice in your ear. Your body is resistant.
You closed the phone. You put it back on the counter exactly where you'd found it. When Megumi came out of the shower, hair damp and all over his face, you smiled, asked if he still wanted Thai food, and walked towards him to dry his hair properly.
You ordered a salad. No dressing.
It crept back in slowly, the way it always did. You started by cutting out snacks, the mindless eating that happened while you and Megumi watched movies on the couch. He'd offer you a handful of popcorn, the bowl balanced on his knee, and you'd shake your head. "Not hungry." He'd frown, just slightly, but he wouldn't push. That was the thing about Megumi—he noticed, but he trusted you. He didn't know what to look for.
Then came the smaller portions. You'd cook dinner and serve yourself half of what you used to, pushing the rest around your plate until it looked like you'd eaten more than you had. You started skipping breakfast again, telling Megumi you'd grab something at work. You never did.
The hunger came back like an old friend. You'd missed it, in some twisted way you couldn't explain. The clarity it brought. The sense of control. Every time your stomach growled, it felt like one step closer to the finishing line.
Megumi started watching you more closely. You caught him tracking your plate with his eyes, noticing the way you cut your food into smaller and smaller pieces, the way you chewed each bite for too long. He didn't say anything, but his silences had always been louder than other people's words.
The dress was for Megumi's work gala, a formal thing at a hotel downtown that he'd been dreading for weeks. You'd offered to skip it, but he'd asked you to come—actually asked, his hand finding yours across the dinner table, his dark eyes serious. "I don't want to go alone," he'd said, and that was as close to "I need you" as Megumi ever got.
So you went shopping. Alone, because you wanted it to be a surprise.
The boutique was one of those places that smelled like expensive perfume and judgment, the kind of store where the saleswomen looked you up and down before deciding whether to help you. This one was young, maybe twenty-two, with a sleek ponytail and a name tag that read KARIN.
"Can I help you find something?" she asked, her tone suggesting she'd already decided you were a waste of her time.
"I'm looking for a formal dress. Cocktail length, maybe. Black or dark blue."
She nodded and pulled a few options from the racks. Most of them were fine. Nothing special. And then she held up a dress that made your breath catch—deep emerald green, silk, with a neckline that plunged just enough to be interesting and a skirt that would hit just below the knee. It was beautiful. It was exactly the kind of dress that would make Megumi's eyes go soft and startled the way they did when you surprised him.
"Can I try this one?"
Karin glanced at the tag, then at you. "We have it in a six. What size are you usually?"
"Eight, I think."
She looked at you again, longer this time. Her mouth pursed slightly at the corner. "This brand runs small. You might want to try the ten."
The ten. You felt heat crawl up the back of your neck. "I'd like to try the eight, please."
"Sure." Her shrug was almost imperceptible. "Just so you know, our return policy on formal wear is strict. If you rip a seam trying to force it…"
She let the sentence hang. You took the dress from her hand.
In the fitting room, you pulled the dress off the hanger and stepped into it. It got stuck at your hips. You tugged, harder than you should have, and heard the awful sound of fabric straining. You tried the zipper. It wouldn't go past your ribs. You sucked in hard and pulled, and the zipper moved another inch before it jammed completely.
You looked at yourself in the mirror. The dress was half-on, bunched around your waist, the zipper gaping open over your back. The silk was creased from your efforts. Your face was flushed and your eyes were bright, which warned of tears. You looked exactly like you felt: like a failure.
You couldn't get the dress off fast enough. You practically tore it over your head, not caring about the seams, and shoved it back on the hanger. You pulled your own clothes on with shaking hands. When you pushed through the curtain, Karin was there, one eyebrow already raised.
"Not quite right," you managed, your voice tight. "I'll keep looking."
"Of course." She took the dress from you, and you didn't miss the way her eyes flicked down your body and back up. "Let me know if you want to try any of our extended sizes. We keep them in the back."
You left without buying anything. On the sidewalk outside, the sun was too bright and the air was too warm, and you couldn't breathe properly. You pulled out your phone and texted Megumi with fingers that still trembled.
Didn't find anything. The dress wasn't really my style anyway.
His response came quickly, because Megumi always responded quickly to you: We can look somewhere else this weekend.
It's fine, you typed back. I'll figure something out.
You stopped at the gym on your way home. You ran until your legs burned and your lungs ached and the voice in your head finally, mercifully, went quiet.
For the next two weeks, you ate less than you ever had, less than you had even during the ballet years. You started tracking again, not calories but something simpler: how long you could go between meals, how light you could make each plate, and how many times you could say I'm not hungry before Megumi stopped believing you, because now you had Megumi to worry about too.
He stopped believing you around day four.
"You didn't eat lunch," he said one evening, leaning against the kitchen counter while you washed dishes that didn't need washing. It wasn't a question.
"I had a big breakfast."
"You had black coffee."
You scrubbed harder at a plate that was already clean. "I wasn't hungry."
"You're never hungry anymore." His voice was level, controlled, but you could hear the worry underneath. You'd known him long enough to recognize the signs—the slight tension in his jaw and the way his hands were shoved deep in his pockets like he was trying to keep them still. "What's going on?"
"Nothing's going on. God, Megumi, can't I just not be hungry sometimes?"
He didn't answer. When you turned around, he was still watching you, his dark eyes unreadable. But he didn't push. He never pushed, not then.
You wished to God he had.
The dress from the boutique haunted you. You dreamed about it—the emerald silk, the way it had refused to close over your body, Karin's knowing look. You started visiting the boutique's website late at night when Megumi was asleep, scrolling through the product photos, reading the size chart over and over until the numbers blurred together.
And then, the light at the end of the tunnel. The scale—the one you'd bought in secret and hidden under the bathroom sink—showed a number you hadn't seen since you were seventeen. Your stomach was concave in the mornings. Your hip bones jutted out just slightly, a silhouette you'd almost forgotten you could achieve. You were tired all the time, and your head ached constantly, and you felt like you were made of glass, but the number on the scale kept dropping, and that was the only thing that mattered.
"The boutique got a new shipment," you told Megumi one morning, your voice carefully casual. "They have a dress I want to try. Can we go before dinner with Yuuji and Nobara?"
He looked at you for a long moment. "The place you went before?"
"Yeah."
"I thought you said the dresses there weren't your style."
"They got new things in. Please? It won't take long."
He agreed. You could tell he wanted to ask more, but you were already pulling on your coat, already moving toward the door, and he followed because he loved you. That was the problem. He loved you enough to trust you even when he shouldn't.
The boutique was the same. The same perfume-scented air, the same whisper of judgment. Karin was there, too, her ponytail as sleek as ever, and she recognized you immediately.
"Back again?" she asked, and there was something almost amused in her voice. "Looking for anything specific?"
"The green dress. The silk one. I want to try it again."
She retrieved it from the rack without comment. The same dress. The same size. Eight. You took it to the fitting room with your heart hammering so hard you could feel your pulse in your throat.
The dress slid over your hips like water. The zipper pulled up smoothly, without resistance. You stood in front of the mirror and stared at your reflection, at the way the emerald silk draped over your collarbones and skimmed your waist and fell to just below your knees. It fit. It fit perfectly. It fit better than perfectly—there was room to spare.
You pushed open the heavy, stepping out onto the showroom floor. Megumi was standing near the register, scrolling through his phone, looking deeply out of place among the tulle and chiffon. When he looked up and saw you, his expression went through a rapid series of micro-expressions you couldn’t quite track. Surprise. Shock. And then, something else. Something dark and devastating that should have been happiness but wasn’t.
Before he could even open his mouth to speak, Karin appeared at your elbow.
“Oh, wow,” she said, and her voice was entirely different now—warm, enthusiastic, the sycophantic voice of someone who saw a fat commission check. “That looks amazing on you. I told you this brand runs small, right? You’ve clearly been putting in the work since last time. It’s really paid off.”
You preened. You couldn’t help it. The validation from this stranger was like a drug. You’d done it. You’d proven her wrong. You’d proven Tanaka wrong. You’d proven Madame Dupont wrong.
You turned to Megumi, beaming, expecting to see the awe you felt. “What do you think?”
He was staring at you. But he wasn’t looking at the beautiful dress. He was looking at you. He was looking at the bruised hollows under your cheekbones, the sharp, jutting angles of your shoulders, and the way your wrists looked so thin and fragile hanging out of the short sleeves. His face was pale, his jaw was clamped tight enough to crack his teeth, and his eyes—
His eyes looked horrified.
"Can we talk outside?" he asked, his voice very quiet.
Your smile faltered. "What's wrong? Doesn't it look good?"
"We'll talk outside." He turned to Karin, and his expression was so cold that she actually took a step back. "We're not buying anything. Thank you."
He walked out. You had no choice but to change back into your own clothes and follow, your cheeks burning, confusion and anger already starting to curdle in your stomach.
He didn't say a word in the car. The silence was thick and suffocating, and you spent the whole drive working yourself up, building a case for yourself, preparing for the fight you could feel coming. By the time you got home, you were almost vibrating with defensive fury.
He threw his keys into the bowl. You whirled on him before he could even take off his jacket.
"What the hell was that?"
"You know what that was." His voice was still quiet, still controlled, but there was a tremor underneath it now. "How much weight have you lost?"
"I don't know. A few pounds. Why do you care?"
"A few pounds." He repeated the words like he couldn't believe you'd said them. "You've lost more than a few pounds. Your clothes don't fit anymore. You don't eat. You haven't eaten a real meal in front of me in weeks."
"I eat. I just—"
"You just what? Push food around your plate? Tell me you're not hungry? Hide in the bathroom after meals?" He stepped closer, and you saw that his hands were shaking. Megumi's hands never shook. He was the calmest person you ever knew. "I'm not stupid. I've been watching this happen for weeks, and I didn't say anything because I thought—I don't fucking know what I thought. That you'd talk to me. That you'd trust me."
"This has nothing to do with trust. This is my body." You heard your voice rising, cracking, but you couldn't stop it. "I'm allowed to lose weight if I want to. I'm allowed to want to look good. You don't get to control what I do with my body."
"Control?" He looked like you'd slapped him. "You think this is about control? You're starving yourself. You're literally disappearing in front of me, and you think I'm trying to control you?"
"You're not happy for me! I finally fit into that dress, and you couldn't even pretend to be happy for me. You dragged me out of there like I'd done something wrong. You're supposed to support me. You're supposed to be on my side, and you're not! Some kind of boyfriend you are"
The words left your mouth and landed like a physical blow. Megumi's face went blank for a second, completely blank, and then something behind his eyes seemed to splinter.
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" he repeated, his voice dangerously low. "I'm a terrible boyfriend because I don't clap and cheer while you starve yourself into a dress size?"
"You don't get it—"
"No, I don't get it!" His voice finally rose, cracking through the apartment like a whip. "I don't get how you can look at yourself and not see what I see. I don't get how you can think this—" he gestured disapprovingly towards your hips, the same Madame Dupont did"—is something to be proud of. And I sure as hell don't get how I'm the villain for being terrified that the person I love is killing herself right in front of me."
"I'm not killing myself! God, you're so dramatic! I lost some weight. People lose weight all the time. That just shows I have discipline. It means I set a goal and I reached it, and you can't stand that because it wasn't about you."
"About me?" He let out a laugh that had no humor in it, sharp and jagged. "You think any of this is about me? I don't care what size you are. I have never cared what size you are. I care that you're lying to me, hiding from me, flinching every time I touch you because you're afraid I'll feel your bones. I care that you can't eat a meal without looking like you're about to cry. But sure, I'm the terrible boyfriend. I'm the one who's wrong here."
"You are wrong! You're wrong to make me feel like this—like I'm crazy. I'm finally happy with how I look. I'm finally in control. And you want to take that away from me because it makes you uncomfortable."
"Because it's not control!" He was almost shouting now, his composure completely gone, his dark eyes blazing. "You're not controlling anything; all you're doing is punishing yourself for something that was never your fault, and you're so deep in it you can't even see it anymore. You think that saleswoman's compliment means something? She's a stranger. She doesn't give a shit about you. I'm the one who's been here, every day, watching you vanish. I'm the one who loves you. And you're calling me terrible?"
You opened your mouth to fire back, to say something cruel and cutting that would make him hurt the way you were hurting, but before you could, your phone's ringtone echoed over the room.
Nobara's contact photo lit up the screen, her grinning face an absurd contrast to the anger crackling in the room. You grabbed the phone with shaking hands.
"Where are you guys?" Nobara's voice was full with impatience. "Yuuji's been waiting for like twenty minutes, and the waitress keeps giving us dirty looks."
You couldn't speak for a moment. Your throat was too tight. Megumi was still standing across from you, his chest heaving, his hands clenched into fists at his sides so tightly that his knuckles turned white.
"We're on our way," you managed, and hung up before she could ask questions.
The silence that followed was heavy enough to crush you. Megumi stared at you for a long, awful moment. His anger hadn't cooled—if anything, it had settled into something more brittle. Something that looked like hurt dressed up as fury.
"We're going to this dinner," he said, his voice flat and cold in a way you'd never heard directed at you before. "And when we get home, you are going to tell me exactly what's going on."
He grabbed his jacket from the hook by the door. He didn't even look at you.
"Fine," you bit out, even though nothing about this was fine. Nothing had been fine for weeks, and you were both too angry and too scared to admit it.
The restaurant was one of those cozy ramen shops that Yuuji had discovered and then insisted everyone try, the kind of place with steam-fogged windows and the smell of pork broth so rich it made your head swim the moment you walked in. Your stomach cramped at the smell—hunger, always hunger—and you pressed your hand against your abdomen like you could quiet it through sheer force of will.
Yuuji and Nobara were already at a booth near the back, Yuuji's pink hair sticking up in its usual disarray. He had already ordered an array of appetizers, little plates spread across the table like a buffet, and his face lit up when he spotted the two of you walking toward him.
"Finally!" He was already scooting over to make room, patting the booth seat enthusiastically. "I was starting to think you guys got abducted by aliens or something. Sit, sit—I ordered like half the menu; we're gonna feast."
You slid into the booth across from him and Nobara. Megumi sat beside you, close enough that his shoulder could have brushed yours, but he kept careful distance. The cold fury from the apartment still radiated off him in waves you could almost feel, and you were still simmering with your own anger, your own hurt. Neither of you had spoken in the car. Neither of you looked at each other now.
Nobara, sharp-eyed as ever, clocked the tension immediately. She looked from your tight expression to Megumi's rigid jaw, and something flickered across her face—recognition, maybe, or concern—but she didn't say anything. She just took a pointed sip of her drink and let her gaze slide over to Yuuji, who was blessedly, mercifully oblivious.
"So," Yuuji said, pushing a plate of gyoza toward the center of the table, "I've been thinking about this all day. The pork ramen here is supposed to be life-changing. Like, actually life-changing. The guy who owns this place trained in Sapporo for like twenty years. I'm gonna get the big bowl. Who's with me?"
"I'll stick with the miso," Nobara said.
"Lame. What about you?" He looked at you, eyes bright with expectation. "You always get the good stuff. Remember that time we split the tonkotsu at that place in Shinjuku and you ate like three quarters of it? I was so impressed."
The memory hit you like a punch to the chest. That had been over a year ago, before the message on Megumi's phone, before Karin and the emerald dress, before the hunger had crawled back into your bones and made a home there. You'd laughed that night, laughed so hard you'd snorted broth out your nose, and Yuuji had nearly fallen off his chair, and Megumi had watched you both with that quiet, soft expression he got when he was looking at his favourite people.
Now you couldn't even look at the menu without your stomach twisting into knots.
"I'm not super hungry," you said, your voice too bright, too brittle. "I'll probably just get a salad or something."
"A salad?" Yuuji looked personally offended. "At a ramen place? That's like going to a sushi restaurant and ordering chicken nuggets. Come on, at least get the small bowl. We can share!"
He was already pushing a menu toward you, grinning, and the gesture was so warm, so Yuuji, so completely unaware of the landmine he was stepping on—and still the panic rose in your chest. The thought of a full bowl of ramen, rich and heavy and swimming with oil, of putting that much food into your body, of undoing weeks of work in a single meal—
"I said I'm not hungry." The words came out sharper than you intended, an edge of warning.
Yuuji blinked, his grin faltering just slightly. "Okay, okay, no pressure. But if you change your mind, you can totally steal some of mine. I always order too much anyway." He nudged the plate of gyoza closer to you. "At least have one of these while we wait. They're the garlic kind you like."
It was such a small thing. Such an innocent, generous thing. A friend offering to share his food, the way he'd done a hundred times before, the way you'd always accepted before. But now the sight of the gyoza—golden and glistening with oil—made your stomach heave with a mixture of hunger and revulsion and fear so intense it felt like drowning.
"I don't want one," you said, your voice tight.
"Are you sure? They're really good—"
"I said I don't want one, Yuuji!" Your voice cracked across the table like a slap. "Why can't you just leave me alone? Why does everyone keep trying to force food on me like I can't make my own decisions?"
The silence that followed was deafening. The couple at the next table turned to look. Nobara's drink paused halfway to her lips. And Yuuji—sweet, kind, wonderful Yuuji, who had never done anything but try to make you smile—looked at you with an expression of such genuine, wounded confusion that you felt something inside you shatter.
"I was just…" He trailed off, his hand still hovering near the gyoza plate, his brow furrowed. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to push. I just thought… you always liked sharing food with me before…"
The hurt in his voice was unbearable. You couldn't sit there another second. You couldn't look at his face or Nobara's sharp eyes or the plate of gyoza that was still steaming innocently between you. You shoved yourself out of the booth so fast you nearly tripped, your hip catching the edge of the table and rattling the glasses.
"Bathroom," you choked out, and fled.
The bathroom was small and brightly lit and smelled like cheap floral air freshener. You locked yourself in the stall and pressed your back against the door and slid down until you were sitting on the floor, your knees pulled up to your chest, your hands pressed so hard against your mouth you could feel your teeth through your lips.
What had you done? What had you done?
Yuuji's face kept replaying in your mind—the way his smile had crumbled, the way he'd apologized even though he hadn't done anything wrong, the way his hand had hovered there, frozen, still trying to give you something you'd thrown back in his face. He was the kindest person you'd ever met. He was Megumi's best friend. He was your friend. And you'd just humiliated him in the middle of a restaurant for offering you a dumpling.
Your breathing was coming in ragged, shallow gasps now, your vision blurring at the edges. You were ruining everything. You were ruining your relationship, ruining your friendships, and ruining yourself. You couldn't eat, and you couldn't not eat, and either way, you were failing. Either way, you were too much and not enough at the same time.
You didn't know how long you sat there. Time had gone strange. But at some point, you became aware of voices outside—not in the bathroom, but somewhere nearby, muffled through the wall. One of them was Megumi's.
"…didn't do anything wrong. She's going through something. It's not about you." His voice was low and steady, but there was a protective edge to it, a warning.
Yuuji's voice, still sounding small and confused: "I know, I just… is she okay? What did I say? I don't know what I said, I didn't mean to upset her."
"It's really nothing to do with you,". Megumi's tone softened, just slightly. "You didn't do anything wrong, Yuuji. I mean it. I'll go check on her. Just… give us a minute."
You heard footsteps. Then a knock on the bathroom door, firm and familiar.
"It's me." Megumi's voice, closer now, right outside. "Open the door."
"Go away." Your voice came out raw and scraped, barely recognizable.
"You know I'm not going to do that."
You pressed your forehead against your knees. You could feel the cold from the tile seeping through your jeans. You didn't answer.
A pause. Then, quieter: "Yuuji's not upset with you. He's worried. Nobara too. They're not mad. They just want to know you're okay."
"They should be mad. I yelled at him for no reason. I'm a terrible person."
"You're not a terrible person. You're going through shit, they understand." The door creaked slightly, like he was leaning against it. "Do you want to leave?"
The question was so soft, so careful, that it cut through the spiral of panic in your head. You lifted your head from your knees. The fluorescent light was too bright, making spots dance in your vision.
"Yes," you whispered.
"Okay. I'll talk to them. Meet me outside in five minutes. Can you do that?"
You nodded, even though he couldn't see you. "Yeah."
"Okay." His voice gentled even further, the anger from earlier completely absent now, replaced by tenderness wrapped in exhaustion. "Five minutes. I'll be waiting."
You heard him push away from the door. You heard his footsteps retreat.
You sat there for another minute, maybe two, until your breathing evened out and your hands stopped shaking enough that you could unlock the stall. You splashed cold water on your face. You looked at yourself in the mirror—really looked—and for the first time in weeks, you saw what Megumi saw. The hollow cheeks. The sharp collarbones. The way your eyes seemed too big for your face, too bright, too hungry.
You looked like you did back then, standing in the wings, about to faint on stage.
You looked like you needed help.
Megumi was waiting outside, leaning against the wall with his hands in his pockets and his face tilted up toward the dark sky. The night air was cool, a welcome relief against your flushed skin. He didn't say anything when you appeared. He just pushed off the wall and started walking toward the car, and you followed him, and the silence between you was different now. Heavier. More honest.
He drove. You didn't ask where you were going. You didn't care. You watched the streetlights pass and tried to find the words for what you needed to say. The fight replayed in your head on a loop—the things you'd thrown at him, the accusations, the way he'd finally broken and yelled back. And then the dinner. Yuuji's face.
"Megumi."
"Yeah."
"I'm sorry." Your voice was small, raw. "What I said back at the apartment—implying you are a terrible boyfriend—I didn't mean it. I was angry. I was defensive. But I shouldn't have said it. And what I did to Yuuji… God, Megumi, I yelled at him for trying to share his food with me. What is wrong with me?"
He didn't look at you, but his jaw tightened. "You really think I want to control you?"
"No. I know you don't. I just… I couldn't see past myself. I couldn't see what I was doing to you. To us. To everyone." Your voice cracked, and you had to pause and swallow hard. "I'm sorry I made you feel like you were the problem. You're not. You've never been the problem."
He exhaled slowly, a long breath that seemed to carry some of the tension out of his shoulders. "I shouldn't have yelled at you either. I just… I've been so scared. For weeks, I've been watching this happen and feeling completely helpless, and today, seeing you in that dress, seeing how happy you were about something that's hurting you so badly… I didn't know what to do with that. I handled it wrong."
"We both did."
Silence again. But it was softer now, less jagged. He pulled the car over to the side of the road, a quiet residential street lined with dark houses and sleeping trees. He killed the engine and turned to face you, and in the dim light from the streetlamp, you could see the exhaustion in his face, the shadows under his eyes, the redness around them.
"Talk to me," he said. "Please. What's going on?"
So you told him.
You told him everything. The ballet. Madame Dupont. The fainting. The way the audience's gasp had echoed in your dreams for years afterward. The slow, painful process of trying to fix your relationship with food, and how fragile that fix had always been, how it had only ever been held together with discipline and denial and the refusal to look too closely at your own thoughts.
You told him about the message on his phone. A little bigger than I expected. You told him about Karin, about the dress, about the way her look had gutted you. You told him about the scale hidden under the bathroom sink and the hunger that felt like an achievement and the way you'd convinced yourself that disappearing was the only way to be worthy of him. You told him about the voice that lived in the back of your head, the one that sounded like Madame Dupont, the one that whispered not good enough, never good enough, resistant, too much, take up less space, be less, be less.
By the time you finished, you were crying. Ugly, messy sobs that made your chest heave and your nose run. Megumi had pulled the car over fully, and now he was just sitting there, his face pale and stricken.
"I didn't know," he said, his voice hoarse. "I knew something was wrong. The message on my phone—I could never tell you about it, I didn't want to upset you, so I just deleted it and moved on, and all this time you knew."
"It wasn't your fault. It wasn't about you. It's this… thing in my head. It never really went away. I just got better at ignoring it, and then I couldn't anymore."
"I don't know how to stop. I don't know how to eat like a normal person. Every time I try, it all comes back, and I can't—I can't do it alone, Megumi. I've been trying to do it alone and I can't."
"Tell me what you need. Tell me what to do."
"I don't know what I need."
"Okay. Then we'll figure it out together." His hand catching yours in a warm grasp, "I'm not going anywhere. I don't care how long this takes. I don't care how hard it is. I love you. Not some version of you that fits into a dress or some version of you that doesn't eat. You. All of you. The one who watches bad reality TV and steals the blankets and makes fun of me for using too much conditioner. The one who shared tonkotsu with Yuuji and laughed so hard broth came out her nose. That's who I want. That's who I've always wanted."
You were crying again, harder now, but it felt different. More like relief than heartache.
"I'm scared," you whispered.
"I know." He pulled you against his chest, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other wrapped around your waist. "But we can find a professional if you want; we can look. If you don't, I'll look for how I can help from here. Whatever needs to be done, we will do it. I just want you to know that I love you no matter what, it doesn't matter how much you eat or even less. I could not care about it, I just want you to be safe, and healthy and actually live for yourself, that's all I ever wanted."
You stayed like that for a long time, wrapped around each other in the front seat of his car while the streetlights flickered overhead. You could feel his heartbeat against your cheek, steady and solid and real. You could feel his hands on your back, gentle but grounding, like he was afraid you'd disappear if he let go.
When you finally pulled back, your face was a mess and your head ached and you were so tired you could barely keep your eyes open. But something in your chest felt lighter. Something that had been wound tight for years and years had loosened, just a little.
"Megumi?"
"Yeah?"
"Can we go home?"
He kissed your forehead, soft and lingering. "Yeah. Let's go home."
He made you food when you got back to the apartment. Nothing complicated—rice and steamed vegetables and a piece of salmon he'd been saving for tomorrow. He put the plate in front of you and sat down across the table and waited.
You stared at the food. Your stomach clenched. Every instinct you'd been feeding for the past month screamed at you to push it away, to make an excuse, to retreat.
Megumi reached across the table and took your hand. His fingers were warm and steady.
"Just one bite," he said. "That's it. Just one. You need to start slow since your stomach most likely shrunk.
You picked up your fork. Your hand was shaking, but his hand was steady, and when you lifted the first bite to your mouth, he squeezed your fingers.
"Good," he said, his voice soft and certain. "That's good. You're doing so well. Keep going."
You took another bite. And another. The food felt heavy in your stomach, foreign, but Megumi didn't let go of your hand the whole time. He kept murmuring quiet encouragements, little things like I'm proud of you, and just one more bite, and you're so strong, you have no idea how strong you are. And when you finally put down your fork with half the plate still uneaten, he didn't push. He just brought your hand to his lips and kissed your knuckles.
"I'm proud of you," he said again.
And for the first time in a very very long time, you believed it.
Later, curled against his chest in bed, the cat purring at the foot of the duvet, you felt his hand trace gentle patterns on your shoulder blade.
"We'll call someone tomorrow," he said quietly. "A therapist. Someone who knows how to help with this. I'll go with you if you want. I'll wait in the lobby. Whatever you need."
You didn't answer. You weren't sure you could. The words were there somewhere, tangled up behind the exhaustion, but before you could force them out, Megumi was already moving.
He shifted onto his side and pulled you with him, settling you against his chest like it was the most natural thing in the world. One arm slid beneath your head, the other wrapped around your waist and tugged you in until there was no space left between you. He tucked his face into the crook of your neck and stayed there, his breath slow and even against your skin.
"I mean it," he said, quieter now. "Whatever you need."
A kiss, pressed just below your ear. Then another, softer, at the curve of your jaw. His hand moved up your back in a slow line, palm warm through the thin fabric of your shirt.
"You don't have to say anything right now," he murmured. "Just… stay here. Let me hold you. Okay?"
You managed a small nod, your throat too tight for words. He felt it. His arms tightened around you in response, solid and steady.
"I'm not going anywhere," he said. "This—us—it's not conditional. It never was. You don't have to be fine for me to love you."
You turned your face into his chest, and he let you. His hand came up to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading gently through your hair. He didn't shush you. He didn't fill the silence with empty comfort. He just held you, anchored you, while your breathing slowly steadied against his heartbeat.
After a long moment, his lips found your forehead. The kiss was unhurried, deliberate, like he had nowhere else to be.
"You ate tonight," he said quietly. "It was a start. That's all that matters, and I am really happy you did."
He shifted, pulling the duvet up around your shoulders and tucking it in with one hand while the other kept you pressed firmly against him. His leg hooked over yours under the covers, tangling you together in a way that felt less like restraint and more like a promise.
"Get some sleep," he said. "I've got you."
You felt his hand resume its slow pattern on your back, tracing absent shapes through the fabric of your shirt. His chin rested against the top of your head. His heartbeat was steady beneath your ear.
"I love you," he said. Simple. Certain. Not a reassurance he was waiting to have validated, just a fact he needed you to know.
You closed your eyes, and let yourself get lulled to sleep by the sound of his heartbeat.
sundress season. nsfw. fem!reader. | not proofread.
sundresses hit different when he can't keep his hands to himself in the grocery store (but you're not exactly complaining).
cw; mature content, smut, fingering. wc; 2.1k
more of your favorite boys!
more reads!
a/n; Hello hello! I'm sorryy for slow updates again. busy bee once more... hope everyone is doing great and thank you for reading!! (we are overdue for some freaky cough cough wink wink in honor of spring season here hahah ⸜( *ˊᵕˋ* )⸝
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The dress was a mistake.
Not because it's not cute—it is. And not because it's inappropriate—it's perfectly modest, sweet even, and makes elderly shop owners smile at you.
It was a mistake because he’s losing his goddamn mind.
He's been half-hard since you left the apartment, since he caught sight of you smoothing the fabric down over your thighs, adjusting the ribbon at the waist. It makes you look soft and untouchable all at once.
You're ahead of him now, standing on your toes to reach something on a high shelf. The dress rides up just slightly, exposing the backs of your thighs. He stops walking in the middle of the aisle and stares, because what the fuck else is he supposed to do?
"Babe, can you—"
You turn, catching him frozen, and raise an eyebrow.
"Can I what?" His voice comes out rougher than intended.
"Grab that?" You point to the shelf. "The rice crackers."
He moves forward and reaches over your head easily, but instead of stepping back, he stays there, crowding into your space, one hand braced on the shelf above you. You tilt your head back to look at him, and he watches your throat work as you swallow.
"Here." He drops the package into your hands, but doesn't move away.
"Thanks," you whisper, and something in your eyes tells him you know exactly what you're doing to him.
He lets you slip past, but his hand catches your hip briefly, fingers pressing into the soft fabric, into the softer skin beneath.
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The dairy aisle is his downfall.
You're reading the label on a container of Greek yogurt, completely absorbed, and he’s standing behind you trying to remember how to act normal, trying not to think about how the dress clings when you bend slightly or how he can see the outline of your underwear when the light hits just right.
"Hey."
He blinks. You're looking at him over your shoulder, concern creasing your forehead.
"You okay? You look weird."
"I'm fine."
"What're you staring at?"
"I'm thinking."
"About yogurt?"
"Very deeply about yogurt."
You turn fully, and he's forced to confront how close he's gotten.
"What's wrong?" you ask quietly, and the genuine care in your voice does something catastrophic to his chest.
"Nothing's wrong." He reaches out before he can stop himself, fingers catching a strand of hair that's fallen across your face. He tucks it behind your ear, lets his hand linger against your jaw. "You just look pretty today."
Your breath hitches, and then—god, help him—you smile. That sweet, utterly oblivious smile that makes his brain short-circuit.
"Oh! Is it the dress?" You do a little spin, completely uninhibited, and the fabric flares out around your thighs. He's going to have a fucking aneurysm. "Yuki and I got matching ones when we went shopping last weekend! She got the pink version, but I liked the cream better, and she said it would look good on me, so we both got one, and I wasn't sure about the length at first because it's a little shorter than what I usually wear, but the lady at the store said—"
You're rambling. You do this when you're excited or nervous, words tumbling out in that animated way that's so fucking cute he can barely stand it. Your hands are gesturing as you talk, eyes bright, completely unaware that he's having very detailed, very filthy thoughts about bunching that dress up around your waist and—
"—and the fabric is so light, which is perfect for this weather, right? I was worried it might be too see-through, but it has a lining, so—babe? Are you listening?"
No. He's thinking about how easy it would be to slide his hands up under that "light fabric." How you'd sound if he pressed you against the shelves and kissed you until you forgot about everything except his name. How fucking perfect you'd look with those innocent eyes all wide and dazed while he—
"Bubs?"
"Yeah." His voice comes out strained. "Listening."
You tilt your head, studying him with that open, trusting expression that's going to be the death of him. "You sure? You look kind of..."
"Kind of what?"
"I don't know. Intense?" you giggle. "It's just a dress. You're acting weird."
Just a dress. Just a dress. Just a dress, his fucking ass.
You're standing there looking like every fantasy he's ever had.
"It's a nice dress," he manages, thumb brushing your cheekbone.
"Awh, baby!" You beam at him, and then—because you're completely innocent and have no idea what you're doing to him—you lean into his touch. "I'm glad you like it. I almost wore a different one, but—"
Fuck.
He can't take it anymore.
"Come here." He moves, fingers wrapping around your wrist, pulling you to follow him.
"What are you—babe, where are we going?"
He finds what he's looking for, a narrow space between the refrigerated section and the endcap display, hidden from the main aisle.
It's ridiculous. You’re both in a grocery store, but he can't think about that right now, can't think about anything except getting his hands on you properly and ruining you in the best way possible.
Your back hits the wall gently, and he presses close, one hand planted beside your head.
You're breathless, eyes wide with confusion and something else, something that makes his blood run hot. "We're in public."
"I know." He dips his head, nose brushing your temple. "I know, pretty girl."
The pet name makes you shiver.
"You’re so crazy," you whisper, but your hands are curling into his shirt, pulling him closer instead of pushing away.
"No." His lips find your forehead, pressing a kiss there that's too tender for what he's thinking. "You're driving me crazy." His other hand finds your waist, fingers spreading over the fabric, over your ribs. "In that fucking dress."
"Baby, seriously, we're at a grocery store—" Your voice is getting breathier, even as you try to sound rational. "There are people—what if someone sees—and we still need to get the eggs, remember? You literally finished the last ones this morning, and I wanted to make that frittata tomorrow, the one with the—oh—"
He's not listening. He's too busy kissing down the column of your throat, finding that spot just below your ear that makes you melt. Your skin is so soft, tastes faintly of that lotion you use, and he wants to mark you up, wants everyone to know—
"—and we're in the dairy section, this is insane, what if we bump into—"
"Shut up, baby," he mutters against your skin, and you let out a cute moan that goes straight to his cock.
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He's gone.
He’s so gone.
His hand slides down, over your hip, gathering the fabric of your dress slowly. You're trembling against him, fingers tight in his hair, and he wants to memorize this: the way you look flushed and wanting, the little sounds you're making, the trust in your eyes even as they flicker with nervousness.
"Is this okay?" he asks, palm flat against your thigh now, thumb stroking small circles. "Tell me if it's not."
"It's—" You swallow hard. "Yes. But we're in a—"
"I know." He kisses you again, softer this time. "I've got you. Just be quiet for me."
Your eyes roll slightly at that. His hand moves higher, and your head falls back against the wall, lips parting on a silent oh.
He watches your face as he touches you over your underwear, learning what makes your breath catch, what makes your hips cant forward seeking more. You're so responsive, so perfect, and he has to kiss you again to muffle the sounds you're making.
"Ah, please—"
"Please what, baby?" His fingers slip beneath the fabric, and you keen softly. "Use your words."
"I can't—we can't—" But you're moving against his hand, desperate and needy, and he loves you like this, loves seeing you unravel.
"Yes, we can." His voice is low, commanding in that way that makes you shiver. "You're going to be quiet, and I'm going to make you feel good. Okay?"
You nod frantically, and he rewards you by sliding two fingers inside, slow and careful, watching your face the entire time. You're so wet, so ready, and it takes everything in him not to groan out loud at how you feel.
"Fuck," he breathes against your ear. "You're soaking, baby."
You whimper at his words, hips rolling forward to take his fingers deeper, and the movement is so needy, so fucking perfect that his cock throbs painfully against his shorts. He sets a steady rhythm, curling his fingers just right; you respond immediately, grinding down on his hand, unable to help yourself.
"That's it," he murmurs, his free hand gripping your hip to steady you. "Take what you need."
And you do. Your hips are moving in small, desperate circles, riding his fingers while trying to stay quiet, and the wet sounds are obscene in the quiet corner. He can hear it—the slick slide of his fingers inside you, the way you're dripping down his palm—and it's driving him fucking insane.
Your voice breaks on his name, barely a whisper. "Oh fuck, I—"
"Shh, pretty. I know." His thumb finds your clit, circling with the same maddening patience he uses for everything, and you bite down on your lip so hard he's worried you'll draw blood. "You're being so good for me. So fucking perfect."
You're babbling now, soft little nonsense sounds and broken fragments of his name, your inhibitions melting away as pleasure builds. "Please—I need—please—more—"
He gives you more, adds pressure, keeps the rhythm steady while you grind shamelessly on his hand. His mouth finds your throat, teeth scraping over your pulse point before biting down gently, and you keen, the sound muffled only by your hand flying up to cover your mouth.
"That's my girl," he growls against your skin, sucking a mark into the soft flesh just above your collarbone. He'll have to be careful—can't mark you anywhere visible—but fuck, he wants to, wants to cover you in proof that you're his. "Look at you, grinding on my fingers in the middle of a grocery store. So desperate for it."
The filthy words make you clench around him, and he grins against your throat, teeth tugging at your skin again. You're so close. He can feel it in the way you're tightening around his fingers, in the desperate rolls of your hips, in how wet you are—god, everything is so fucking wet, his fingers sliding easily, your arousal coating his palm.
"You're making such a mess, baby," he whispers, and the words are barely out before you're whimpering again, hips stuttering. "Can you hear how wet you are? How good you sound taking my fingers?"
"Ah—mm—I'm—" You can't even finish the sentence, too far gone, and it's the hottest thing he's ever seen.
"I know. I've got you." He increases the pressure slightly, keeps the pace steady, grinding the heel of his palm against your clit with each thrust of his fingers. His teeth find your earlobe, tugging gently. "Come for me, baby. Lemme feel it."
It's the command in his voice combined with one more curl of his fingers that does it. You break, shaking apart in his arms, face buried against his neck to muffle the sounds as you pulse around his fingers. He works you through it, gentle now, kissing your hair and murmuring praise while you ride out the aftershocks, still grinding weakly against his hand.
"So perfect," he says, over and over. "So fucking perfect for me."
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For a moment, neither of you moves. You're still trembling slightly, forehead pressed against his shoulder, breathing hard. That is until reality crashes back: the fluorescent lights, the hum of refrigeration units, the distant sound of a shopping cart squeaking past the aisle.
"Eggs," he says suddenly.
You blink at him. "What?"
"You wanted eggs. For your frittata." He steps back, adjusting himself discreetly, still painfully hard.
"Oh. Right. Eggs." You sound dazed, and he has to resist the urge to kiss you again. "Yes. Eggs. That's—that's why we came here."
"Among other things," he mutters, and you turn bright red.
The egg section is mercifully close. You grab a carton with shaky hands, barely looking at it, and practically throw it into the basket. "Got them. Okay. Good. Let's go."
"What about the vegetables?" he asks innocently, and you shoot him a look that could melt steel.
"We have lettuce. That's vegetable enough. We're leaving."
"I thought you also wanted—"
"Leaving."
He grins, satisfied, because you're adorable when you're flustered. "Yes, ma'am."
LISTEN HERE READER THIGH RIDING DADZAWA AND SHE CANT HELP BUT ENJOY IT OMG IT WOULD BE SO HOT AF FKFLGL
Mm
It’s cause he’s got thick-boy thighs, I’m convinced.
It’s also because he’ll be sitting back the entire time, maybe nursing a glass of wine, hair pulled back in a bun as he watches you get yourself off.
Aizawa won’t touch you, won’t dip his hands into the pool of dangerous sin. You’re his daughter, after all.
But he’ll watch, and he’ll flex his thigh to watch you moan, eyelashes fluttering softly against your cheeks. You really look like your mother with your eyes closed like that, lips berry-red and parted on a sigh.
Your hands will be anchored on his chest, firm muscles beneath your palms flexing as he takes another sip of his wine, lets it sit in his mouth as he savors it before swallowing, adam’s apple bobbing slowly.
No matter how much you beg - “Dad-daddy please, touch me, need you so much. Wanna cum daddy-” Aizawa will never lay a finger on you. Even if he wants to - and by the bulge in his pants, he does - your father won’t.
You have to do all the work, dragging your cunt along his thigh and shivering from the friction, reaching a hand to your chest to grope at the meaty flesh there, roll a nipple through your shirt and pretend the hands on you are bigger, more calloused, experienced.
You know daddy would touch you so nicely, thick fingers and wide palms, perfect for spreading you open, or abusing your tits. You wouldn’t even mind getting spanked, but daddy doesn’t do that anymore, not since he found out it was less a punishment for you and more a reward.
He’s a good father, no one can say he isn’t.
Sometimes you wish he wasn’t though. Wish he would give in and bend you over the counter when you parade in front of him wearing tiny shorts that you’re sure press snug against the lips of your pussy. Wish he would fuck you dumb, make you drool all over his fingers, give you insistent kisses and tell you how much of a stupid little slut you are, practically gagging for his cock.
Wish he’d use his capable hands on you, rub your clit and finger you till you squirt and make a mess. It’d be nice to hear his baritone as he talked you through it, disappointed in the slut of a daughter he’s raised.
At least you aren’t whoring yourself out to any boy that looks your way. (although... would it get daddy to touch you if you did?)
He barely talks to you now, just enjoys the view as you get louder, gasping for him, almost hyperventilating as you force your hips to go faster and faster as you chase your release.
When you cum all over his thigh, you know he’ll gently usher you off his lap, get you a drink of water before sending you off to shower and clean yourself up. He’ll do the same, but you know, you know he touches himself under the warm spray of the water.
Runs his hand over his dick, forms a tight hole to fuck with his fingers, hisses out your name when his abs tense and he cums. You’ve peeked through the door before, seen it all.
He’s a good father, but you wish he’d be bad.
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