The afternoon sun filtered through the blinds of your home office, casting stripes of light across the hardwood floor. Izuku sat at his desk, looking professional even in his own home with a button-up shirt and his reading glasses perched on his nose. He was reviewing student progress reports when you entered, carrying two glasses of iced tea.
"Taking a break?" you asked, setting one glass on a coaster beside his keyboard.
He glanced up, a tired but grateful smile spreading across his face. "Trying to. These mid-term evaluations are killing me. I swear, some of these kids write longer reports than my old mission debriefs."
You leaned against his desk, peering at the screen. "Still better than grading practical exams, right? At least there's no property damage to assess in a Word document."
"True," Izuku chuckled, leaning back in his chair and stretching. "Though I did have to write a strongly worded note about someone using their quirk to microwave their lunch in the cafeteria. Again."
His computer chimed with a notification, and he sighed. "And speaking of work, I have a video conference with the department heads in ten minutes. Something about budget allocations for next semester's training equipment."
You straightened up. "I'll let you get ready then. Want me to bring you a snack before it starts?"
Before you could leave, Izuku's hand shot out, wrapping around your wrist. His grip was firm but not painful, and there was an intensity in his eyes that went beyond simple fatigue.
"Stay," he said, his voice lower than before.
"Izuku, you have a meeting," you reminded him gently.
"I know." He pulled you closer, his free hand sliding up the back of your thigh, disappearing under the hem of your sundress. "That's why I need you to stay."
Your breath hitched as his fingers traced patterns on your skin. "But they'll see me..."
"Camera's off," he countered, his eyes darkening with desire. "And even if it wasn't, they'd only see you from the waist up if you stay right here." He patted his lap invitingly. "Come on. It'll be more interesting than budget allocations."
You hesitated for only a moment before giving in, straddling his lap as he requested. His hands immediately went to your hips, pulling you flush against him as he captured your lips in a deep, hungry kiss.
"I've been thinking about this all day," he murmured against your mouth. "Ever since you left for work this morning."
"You saw me an hour ago," you reminded him, though your body was already responding to his touch.
"An hour too long," he growled, his hands roaming your curves possessively.
The computer chimed again, a more insistent alert this time. Izuku pulled back just enough to click the accept button, his expression shifting seamlessly into something calm and professional.
"Good afternoon, everyone. Thanks for joining," he said, his voice warm and steady. Then he muted himself and turned back to you, the mask slipping just enough to reveal the hunger beneath. "Now. Where were we?"
His fingers worked quickly, unbuttoning his fly and freeing his already hard length. He positioned you above him, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance through the thin fabric of your underwear. With one deliberate motion, he pushed the damp cotton aside and pulled you down onto him in a single, smooth thrust.
You gasped, the sound escaping before you could stop it.
Izuku's hand came up immediately, one finger pressing gently against your lips. "Shh," he breathed, his eyes locked on yours. "Not a sound. Can you do that for me?"
You nodded, biting your lip hard as he began to guide your hips into a slow, deep rhythm.
"Good girl," he murmured, and the praise sent a shiver down your spine.
The meeting continued in the background, but Izuku's attention was split with practiced ease. He unmuted himself briefly to greet another arriving department head, his voice betraying nothing. "Tanaka-sensei, good to have you with us. We were just about to discuss the preliminary budget proposals."
Then he muted again, and his eyes were back on you—dark, focused, hungry.
His hands slid up your thighs, gathering the fabric of your sundress as it bunched around your waist. He watched intently as the material rode higher with every movement of your hips, revealing more of your skin inch by inch. The contrast was intoxicating—his expression calm and composed above the collar, but below the desk, he was buried deep inside you, his fingers gripping your hips with bruising intensity.
"You're doing so well," he whispered, his thumb finding your clit and pressing down in slow, deliberate circles. "Staying so quiet for me."
You whimpered, the sound barely audible, but his eyes flickered with warning.
"I said not a sound," he reminded you, his voice soft but firm. He unmuted himself again, responding to something said on the call. "I agree that the first-year students would benefit from more durable equipment. The repair costs have increased significantly this past year."
Muted. His attention snapped back to you, and the shift was dizzying.
"Look at you," he breathed, his eyes trailing down to where your bodies joined. "Riding me so perfectly while I'm trying to work. You wanted this, didn't you? Wanted me to take you right here where anyone could catch us?"
You couldn't form words, could only nod as you continued to move above him, the pleasure building with every deep stroke.
His hands moved from your hips to the hem of your sundress, slowly pushing it higher. Up over your stomach, over your ribs, until the fabric bunched above your breasts, exposing them completely. His eyes drinking in the sight of you—flushed, trembling, barely holding yourself together.
"There," he murmured, his gaze dropping to your bare breasts, watching them bounce with every movement of your hips. "That's what I wanted to see."
He reached up to cup one breast, his thumb brushing over the hardened nipple. "But you're struggling to stay quiet, aren't you?"
Before you could answer, he gathered the bunched fabric of your sundress and brought it to your lips.
"Bite," he said, his voice low and leaving no room for argument.
You opened your mouth and sank your teeth into the soft cotton, the fabric muffling the moan that escaped as he thrust up into you particularly deep.
"Better," he said, satisfied.
He unmuted himself again, his voice shifting effortlessly back to that warm, professional tone. "Before we move on to the second-year training proposals, I'd like to revisit the urban simulation course requirements. The current program doesn't adequately prepare students for high-density environments."
His thumb returned to your clit as he spoke, rubbing tight circles that made your thighs tremble. You gripped his shoulders for support, the sundress still clamped between your teeth as you rode him faster, desperate for release.
"The collaboration between hero and support students has shown promising results," Izuku continued on the call, his voice never wavering even as his hips rose to meet yours. "But we need more structured opportunities for them to work together."
Muted. His eyes met yours, and the raw desire in them made your breath catch.
"You're close," he observed, not a question. His hand left your clit to grip your chin, tilting your face toward him. "I can feel it. You want to come so badly, don't you?"
You nodded frantically, the fabric still muffling any sound.
"Then come for me," he commanded, his thumb returning to your clit with renewed pressure. "Right now. While I'm still on this call. Let me feel you fall apart around me."
The command was all you needed. Your orgasm crashed over you in waves, your body clenching around him as you bit down hard on the sundress to keep from crying out. Izuku watched every second of it, his eyes dark with satisfaction as you trembled and shook above him.
"That's it," he breathed, his hips thrusting up to meet yours as he chased his own release. "So perfect. So—"
His words cut off as he found his own climax, his fingers digging into your hips hard enough to leave bruises as he spilled inside you. For a brief moment, his composure cracked entirely, a low groan escaping his lips before he caught himself.
He took a breath. Then another. Then he unmuted himself.
"My apologies," he said smoothly, his tone perfectly measured. "Technical difficulties with the microphone. Could you repeat that last point?"
You stayed in his lap as the meeting continued, his softening cock still inside you, your sundress still clutched between your teeth. His hand moved to your bare back, tracing lazy patterns on your skin as he discussed curriculum changes and budget allocations with the same gentle, kind tone he always used.
When the call finally ended, he let out a long breath and gently pulled the fabric from your mouth. He tugged the sundress back down over your body, the soft cotton settling against your skin like a gentle exhale.
"You did so well," he murmured, cupping your face in both hands and pressing a tender kiss to your forehead. The contrast was almost jarring—the dominant man from moments ago replaced by your sweet, caring husband. "Are you okay? Was that too much?"
You shook your head, still catching your breath. "No. It was... intense. But good."
His smile was soft, almost shy, as if he hadn't just taken you apart on a work call. "I love you. You know that, right?"
"I know," you said, leaning into his touch. "I love you too."
"Good." He pressed another kiss to your lips, gentle this time. "Now go take your shower. I'll clean up here and maybe actually finish those evaluations."
You laughed, climbing off his lap on unsteady legs, smoothing the sundress over your thighs as you steadied yourself. "Try not to start any international incidents while I'm gone."
"No promises," he called after you, his eyes following you appreciatively as you left the room.
-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈ -ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈ -ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈
(A/N): if you guys see this, please request more trope that you want to see. i'm running out of idea huhuhuuuu....T_T T_T
i posted a new work on AO3:
Rite of Desecration — Epiclesis
⊹₊⋆ likes, reblogs, replies, and follows are appreciated!
⊹₊⋆ if it could help me write better, please don't be shy to let me know!
⊹₊⋆ requests are open for now!
guys if you're interested in my other works and looking to commission a personalized fics, please check below:
HELLOOO ANGEL!!!
i love your writing so much! i would like to request a short fic. i was thinking of teacher!izuku x wife!fem reader! she could be visiting his workplace because he forgot something!
hello love! yes yes yessss! i was actually already writing something for teacher izuku i just havent finished it yet! and thank you for requesting!
Teacher!Izuku Midoriya x Fem Reader - Smut
cw: NSFW! MDNI! teacher-husband!Izuku Midoriya x Wife!Fem Reader. explicit sexual content, smut, oral sex (female receiving), p in v, unprotected sex, semi-public sex, workplace intimacy, Izuku is a great husband.
The morning sun cast long shadows across the UA campus as you stood at the main gate, clutching the bento box in your hands. You had noticed Izuku's lunch on the kitchen counter just as you were about to leave for your own work, and decided to make a quick detour to deliver it.
Checking your phone, you saw his reply to your text: "You're at the gate? Now? I have a break in 10 minutes, just wait there!"
True to his word, less than ten minutes later, your husband jogged toward the gate. His green hair was slightly tousled, and he wore UA's professional teacher attire—dark trousers and a button-up shirt with the school's emblem.
"I'm so sorry," Izuku said immediately, catching his breath as he reached you. "I can't believe I forgot it. You didn't have to come all this way."
You smiled, handing him the bento. "It's no trouble. I was already heading out anyway."
He frowned slightly, glancing back at the hot pavement outside the gates. "But you've been waiting out there? In this heat? Let me get you a visitor's badge. There's a small teacher's lounge that's usually empty this time of day. We can at least sit somewhere comfortable while I eat."
After quickly signing you in at the main office, Izuku led you through the familiar corridors of UA. Even after years of him working here, you still felt a thrill walking through the halls where heroes were trained.
The small teacher's lounge was indeed empty, with a modest sofa, a low table, and a small kitchenette. Izuku gestured for you to sit while he placed the bento on the table.
"Make yourself comfortable," he said, loosening his tie slightly. "I'm really glad you came, even though I feel guilty for making you travel all this way."
"It's not that far," you replied, watching as he opened the bento. "Besides, it's nice seeing you during the day sometimes."
Izuku began eating, his eyes closing in appreciation at the first bite. "This is amazing, as always. I don't know what I'd do without your cooking."
"You'd probably survive on convenience store food and protein bars," you teased.
He chuckled, swallowing before responding. "Probably. But I'd much rather have your cooking." He paused, taking another bite. "How was your commute? The trains weren't too crowded?"
"Surprisingly manageable today," you said, leaning back against the sofa cushions. "Though I did get stuck behind a group of tourists who couldn't figure out how to use the ticket machines."
Izuku laughed, a genuine sound that always made your heart flutter. "Sounds about right. Nothing compared to my morning, though. One of my students accidentally set off their quirk during a training exercise, and we had to evacuate the grounds for twenty minutes while the cleanup crew dealt with... well, let's just say it involved a lot of slime."
"Slime?" you raised an eyebrow. "That's new."
"Not really," Izuku sighed dramatically. "But you'd think after three months of me telling them to control their output, they'd remember not to get overexcited during sparring matches."
"You love them though, don't you?" you observed, watching the fond expression that crossed his face despite his words.
"Of course I do," he admitted, finishing half the bento already. "They're brilliant, really. Just... energetic. Very, very energetic. Sometimes I think Aizawa-sensei purposely gave me the class with the most powerful quirks just to test my patience."
You reached over to wipe a bit of sauce from the corner of his mouth. "You're a good teacher, Izuku. They're lucky to have you."
He caught your hand, bringing it to his lips for a soft kiss. "I'm lucky to have you." His eyes lingered on yours, and you noticed the shift in his expression—the change from husband-teacher to just husband.
"I don't want you to leave just yet," he said softly, his thumb stroking the back of your hand. "My next class isn't for another forty minutes."
"Izuku," you began, though you made no move to pull away, "I should probably get going soon. I have that meeting at two..."
"It can wait," he murmured, leaning closer. The scent of his cologne mixed with something distinctly Izuku—something you'd always associated with home and comfort. "Just stay a little longer."
His free hand moved to your waist, pulling you closer on the sofa. The bento lay forgotten on the table as he pressed his lips to yours. It started gently, almost chaste, but quickly deepened as his fingers tangled in your hair.
"I've missed you," he breathed against your mouth between kisses. "Even though I see you every morning and night... I still miss you during the day."
Your arms wrapped around his neck, responding to his growing need. "I miss you too," you admitted, as his lips traveled to your neck.
Izuku's hands roamed your body, reacquainting himself with curves and lines he knew so well yet never tired of exploring. "Remember when we used to sneak around like this in high school?" he whispered, his voice husky with desire.
"Except now we're married and you're a teacher," you reminded him, though your body responded eagerly to his touch.
"Even better," he grinned, his hand slipping beneath your blouse to trace patterns on your bare back. "No risk of detention anymore."
You laughed softly, but it turned into a gasp as his mouth found a sensitive spot on your collarbone. "Izuku... we're at your workplace..."
"Locked it when we came in," he reassured you, already working on the buttons of your blouse. "And the lounge is empty. We still have plenty of time." He paused, looking into your eyes. "Unless you really want to leave?"
In answer, you helped him with the remaining buttons, your own hands beginning to unbutton his shirt. The air in the small lounge grew warmer as skin met skin, familiar yet always exciting.
Izuku's lips claimed yours again as he laid you back against the sofa cushions, his body covering yours with a weight that felt like home. "God, I've wanted this all day," he murmured against your mouth.
Your hands explored the muscles of his back and shoulders, stronger now than when he'd been a student but still the same Izuku you'd fallen for years ago. "You always want this," you teased, though your breath caught as his hand moved to unfasten your bra.
"Can't help it," he grinned, his eyes dark with desire. "I'm married, aren't I? Married to the most beautiful woman in the world... what's a man supposed to do?"
His mouth descended to your newly exposed breasts, and any coherent response you might have had dissolved into a soft moan. Izuku took his time, as he always did, worshipping your body with an attention to detail that still sometimes overwhelmed you.
"Still so sensitive here," he observed, his fingers tracing the goosebumps that rose on your skin. "After all these years..."
"Some things never change," you managed, arching into his touch.
His hand drifted lower, unfastening your trousers with practiced ease. You lifted your hips to help him remove them, along with your underwear, until you lay bare beneath him on the sofa.
Izuku paused, simply looking at you for a moment. "Perfect," he whispered, before lowering his head to taste you.
Your fingers tangled in his hair as his mouth moved with practiced precision, finding all the spots that made you gasp and writhe. Years together hadn't diminished his skill—if anything, he'd only gotten better at reading your body's responses.
"Izuku," you breathed, your hips moving instinctively against his mouth. "Please..."
He lifted his head, a wicked grin on his face. "Please what?"
"You know what," you half-moaned, reaching for him.
He chuckled but obliged, quickly shedding his own clothes until nothing separated you. His erection pressed against your thigh, hard and ready. "Like this?" he teased, positioning himself at your entrance.
"Stop torturing me," you begged, wrapping your legs around his waist.
With a slow, deliberate thrust, he entered you, filling you completely. Both of you sighed in satisfaction at the familiar sensation of joining together.
"Never gets old," Izuku murmured, beginning to move in a rhythm you both knew by heart.
Your bodies moved together, a dance perfected over years of lovemaking. The small lounge filled with soft sounds of pleasure—the slide of skin against skin, whispered words of love, breathy moans.
"Faster," you urged, meeting his thrusts with equal enthusiasm.
He complied, his pace increasing as his control began to slip. The sofa creaked softly beneath you, but neither of you cared. All that mattered was the building pleasure, the connection between you that transcended the physical.
"Izuku," you gasped, feeling yourself approaching the edge. "I'm close..."
"Let go," he urged, his voice strained with his own impending release. "I've got you."
With a final, particularly deep thrust, you tumbled over the edge, waves of pleasure washing over you. Izuku followed moments later with a guttural cry, his body tensing before collapsing against yours.
For several minutes, you lay tangled together, hearts racing and breathing heavily. The air in the lounge was thick with the scent of sex and satisfaction.
"We should probably get dressed," Izuku eventually said, though he made no move to leave your embrace.
"Probably," you murmured against his chest, feeling the steady, rhythmic thump of his heartbeat finally beginning to slow. Neither of you made any actual effort to separate, content to linger in the heavy, comfortable silence of the small lounge.
Eventually, the ticking of the clock on the wall broke through the haze. Izuku let out a reluctant sigh, pressing one last, lingering kiss to your temple before forcing himself to sit up.
"I really do need to eat the rest of that," he said, reaching for his discarded trousers and handing you your clothes. "If I pass out from exhaustion during afternoon heroics training, Aizawa-sensei will never let me hear the end of it."
You laughed, quickly redressing and smoothing down your hair in the small mirror above the kitchenette. By the time you turned around, Izuku was sitting back on the sofa, happily devouring the remainder of his lunch as if he hadn't just completely derailed your morning.
He walked you back to the main gate ten minutes later, his hand resting warmly on the small of your back. At the gate, he pulled you in for a quick, chaste kiss—perfectly appropriate for a public setting, though the look in his green eyes promised otherwise.
"Good luck with your two o'clock meeting," he teased, stepping back onto the campus side of the gates. "And thank you. For the lunch... and everything else."
"Anytime," you smiled, adjusting the strap of your bag. "Just try not to forget it tomorrow."
"Never again," he vowed, waving as you turned to head toward the train station, the lingering warmth of his touch carrying you through the rest of the day.
-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈ -ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈ -ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈
(A/N): if you guys see this, please request more trope that you want to see. i'm running out of idea huhuhuuuu....T_T T_T
i posted a new work on AO3:
Rite of Desecration — Epiclesis
⊹₊⋆ likes, reblogs, replies, and follows are appreciated!
⊹₊⋆ if it could help me write better, please don't be shy to let me know!
⊹₊⋆ requests are open for now!
guys if you're interested in my other works and looking to commission a personalized fics, please check below:
cw: NSFW! MDNI! bf!bakugou x fem reader, nipple play and chest worship, breast and pec fondling, oral stimulation of nipples, dry humping and clothed grinding, p in v, unprotected sex, possessive language, crude sexual dialogue, teasing and banter during intimacy, sensory-focused body appreciation, depictions of a consensual established relationship with playful competition over physical attributes.
The evening light filtered through the blinds of Katsuki's apartment, casting golden stripes across the living room floor. You were curled up on the couch, watching him stretch after a long patrol. His hero costume lay discarded in a heap by the door, and he was wearing nothing but a pair of loose sweatpants that hung dangerously low on his hips.
Your eyes couldn't help but drift to his chest—broad, muscular, but with a softness that made it look almost plump. It wasn't the chiseled, rock-hard physique of some heroes; Katsuki had substance, a solidness that made him feel real and warm and utterly irresistible. His pecs were full, almost like they could pass for breasts if you squinted, and you'd been obsessed with them for weeks.
"Like what you see?" he grumbled, catching your stare as he reached for a water bottle. His voice was rough, but there was no real heat in it.
You smirked, pushing yourself up to crawl across the couch toward him. "Oh, I do. They're staring at me, you know."
Katsuki paused mid-sip, narrowing his eyes. "The hell are you talking about?"
"Your boobs," you said, reaching out to poke his left pec. It was firmer than it looked, but still had that delicious give, that softness that made your fingers linger. "They're always staring. I'm just staring back."
He snorted, but there was a faint blush creeping up his neck. "You're insane."
"Am I?" You leaned in closer, your breath warm against his skin as you squeezed gently. "Or am I just appreciating the view? Look at them. So plump. So squishy." You gave another squeeze, this time with both hands, and he let out a low groan.
"Oi, cut it out," he muttered, but his hands didn't move to stop you. In fact, his head tilted back slightly, exposing the line of his throat.
"No way," you murmured, your thumbs brushing over his nipples. They hardened instantly under your touch, and you felt a surge of triumph. "They're too perfect to ignore. Like ripe peaches."
"Peaches?" He scoffed, but his voice was strained. "The fuck kind of comparison is that?"
"A delicious one," you purred, leaning down to press a kiss to his sternum. "Want me to taste?"
He didn't answer, but the way his breath hitched was all the permission you needed. You took your time, tracing the curve of his pec with your tongue before closing your lips around his nipple. He tasted like salt and sweat and something uniquely Katsuki, and you moaned against his skin.
"Fuck," he breathed, his hands finally moving to tangle in your hair. "You're such a tease."
"You love it," you shot back, switching to the other side. Your teeth scraped lightly against his nipple, and he shuddered.
"Maybe," he grumbled, but there was no denying the way his body responded to you. His back arched slightly, pushing his chest deeper into your mouth, and you smiled against his skin.
You spent what felt like an eternity worshiping his chest, squeezing, kissing, and nibbling until he was panting beneath you. His hands tightened in your hair, guiding you, urging you on, and you could feel the hard line of his cock pressing against your thigh through his sweatpants.
"Enough," he finally growled, pulling you up to crash his lips against yours. The kiss was hungry, desperate, and you melted into it, your hands still roaming his chest.
"Never enough," you whispered against his mouth, and he groaned, flipping you onto your back with surprising speed.
"Brat," he muttered, but there was a grin playing on his lips as he settled between your legs. "You're gonna pay for that later."
"Looking forward to it," you shot back, wrapping your legs around his waist. "But for now... can I keep playing with your boobs?"
He rolled his eyes, but the fondness in his gaze was unmistakable. "Fine. But you owe me."
"Always," you promised, already reaching for him again. And as your hands closed around his perfect, squishy, plump chest, you knew you'd never get enough of this—of him.
Katsuki's weight was a delicious, grounding pressure on top of you, his hips settled firmly between your thighs. His hands, which had been tangled in your hair, slid down your sides, leaving a trail of heat in their wake. He broke the kiss, his breathing ragged, and his red eyes bored into yours with an intensity that made your core clench.
"Payback time," he growled, a predatory smirk spreading across his lips. Before you could even form a witty retort, his hands moved to the hem of your thin tank top. With a rough tug, he yanked it down, exposing your breasts to the cool air of the room. Your nipples pebbled instantly, aching for his touch.
"Hey!" you protested playfully, though you made no move to stop him. "No fair, I was enjoying the view."
"My turn now," he rasped, lowering his head. He didn't waste any time, his hot mouth closing over your right nipple. He sucked hard, his tongue swirling around the sensitive peak, and you cried out, your back arching off the couch. His other hand came up to roughly knead your left breast, his thumb flicking over the nipple in time with the pulls of his mouth.
"Katsuki," you gasped, your hands flying to his broad shoulders. You dug your nails in, holding on as pleasure shot through you.
He switched sides, giving your other breast the same thorough, hungry attention. You were writhing beneath him now, your hips grinding up against the hard bulge straining against his sweatpants. He groaned against your skin, the vibration sending another jolt of pleasure through you.
"Fuck, you taste good," he muttered, lifting his head slightly. His lips were swollen, his eyes dark with lust. "So much better than mine."
You let out a breathless laugh, your chest heaving. "Oh, I don't know about that. Yours are bigger."
He pulled back, a genuine look of disbelief on his face. "The hell they are."
"They are!" you insisted, pushing yourself up on your elbows. "Look!" You reached out and gave his chest another squeeze, then gestured to your own. "Yours are definitely bigger."
He stared at you for a moment, then a slow, wicked grin spread across his face. "Bigger, maybe. But mine aren't soft like yours. And they sure as hell don't bounce when you ride my cock."
Your breath hitched at his words, a fresh wave of arousal flooding your system. "That's... a fair point."
"Damn right it is," he growled, and then he was moving, shifting his weight. He leaned down, pressing his chest against yours. The feeling was electric. Your soft breasts flattened against his firmer, plumper pecs, and your nipples brushed against his, sending sparks of pleasure through both of you.
"Oh god," you moaned, your head falling back against the couch cushions.
"Feel that?" he rasped, his voice thick with desire. He began to move, a slow, deliberate grind of his hips against yours. The friction was maddening, even through the layers of clothing. Every rock of his hips sent your nipples sliding against his, a delicious, teasing stimulation that had you seeing stars.
"Katsuki, please," you whimpered, your hands roaming over his back, feeling the muscles flex and shift under his skin.
"Please what?" he taunted, his breath hot against your ear. "Tell me what you want."
"You," you gasped. "I want all of you."
He groaned, his movements becoming more urgent. "Then take it."
You didn't need to be told twice. Your hands slid down his back, hooking into the waistband of his sweatpants. You tugged, and he lifted his hips just enough for you to pull them down, freeing his hard, thick cock. He kicked them away impatiently, then turned his attention to your shorts, making quick work of the button and zipper.
He didn't bother taking them all the way off, just pulling them down enough to expose you. He settled back over you, his bare chest against yours, his cock hot and heavy against your dripping core. The feeling of his skin on yours, the friction of his chest against your breasts, the heady scent of his arousal—it was almost too much.
"Ready?" he asked, his voice a low rumble.
You answered by wrapping your legs around his waist and pulling him down, guiding him to your entrance. He sank into you with a single, deep thrust, and you both cried out at the sensation. He filled you completely, stretching you in the most delicious way.
He started to move, his hips pistoning against yours, his chest rubbing against yours with every thrust. Your nipples, already sensitive from his earlier attention, were now being constantly stimulated, brushing against his with every roll of his hips. The dual sensations were overwhelming, pleasure building deep in your core, coiling tighter and tighter.
"Look at you," he grunted, his pace quickening. "So fucking beautiful. Your tits bouncing for me."
You couldn't form a coherent response, could only moan and hold on as he drove into you, harder and faster. His hands gripped your hips, holding you in place as he took you, his own breathing harsh and ragged in your ear.
"Katsuki," you gasped, your nails digging into his shoulders. "I'm gonna—"
"Come for me," he commanded, his voice thick with his own impending release. "Come all over my cock."
That was all it took. The pleasure crashed over you, intense and all-consuming. You screamed his name as your orgasm ripped through you, your body convulsing beneath him. He followed you over the edge a moment later, his own release pulsing deep inside you.
He collapsed on top of you, his weight a comforting, grounding presence. You lay there for a long time, tangled together, your bodies slick with sweat and satisfaction. His head was nestled in the crook of your neck, his breathing slowly returning to normal.
"Okay," he finally mumbled against your skin. "Maybe yours are better."
You laughed, your hand stroking his hair. "Yeah, definitely."
"Shut up," he grumbled, but there was no heat in it. He lifted his head, his eyes soft as he looked down at you. "But you're still a brat."
"And you love it," you shot back, leaning up to kiss him.
"Yeah," he sighed, his lips curving into a smile against yours. "I really do."
-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈
i posted a new work on AO3:
Rite of Desecration — Epiclesis
⊹₊⋆ likes, reblogs, replies, and follows are appreciated!
⊹₊⋆ if it could help me write better, please don't be shy to let me know!
⊹₊⋆ requests are open for now!
guys if you're interested in my other works and looking to commission a personalized fics, please check below:
The first time you noticed Katsuki's habit, you were at a crowded hero gala. His palm settled at the small of your back, fingers splayed wide as he guided you through the crowd of reporters and sponsors. You'd assumed it was just for navigation—until you realized his hand never left, even when you paused to speak with someone. It stayed there, a warm, possessive weight that made your skin tingle beneath the silk of your gown.
"You know," you murmured later that night as you slipped off your heels, "if I didn't know better, I'd say you were afraid someone might steal me."
Katsuki snorted from where he was already in bed, shirtless and glorious. "Don't need to be afraid of shit when you're already mine." His eyes closed, but even as sleep claimed him, his hand found your thigh beneath the sheets, fingers curling around it like he'd die without the contact.
The mornings were worse—or better, depending on your perspective. You'd wake to his fingers tangled in your hair, his thumb stroking your scalp while he was still deep in dreams. Sometimes his hand would drift lower, palming your breast or hip with an unconscious possessiveness that made you ache.
"You're like a human octopus," you teased one Sunday morning as his fingers traced circles on your stomach. "Can't go two seconds without touching me."
He cracked one eye open, crimson glinting with amusement. "You complaining?" His hand slid lower, fingers dipping beneath the waistband of your pajama bottoms to stroke your hip bone. "Didn't think so."
The grocery store became your favorite arena for his silent claims. As you compared nutritional labels, his thumb would rub back and forth over your knuckles. When you reached for something on a high shelf, his entire hand would span your waist, steadying you long after you'd regained your balance.
"Katsuki," you giggled as he pressed against you from behind, nose nuzzling your neck while you tried to choose between two brands of coffee. "People are staring."
"Let 'em," he growled against your skin, teeth grazing your pulse point. "They should know who you belong to."
His possessiveness intensified during your periods. Not in a gross way—just... more. More touching, more hovering, more of that intense focus that made you feel like the only person in his universe. When cramps had you curled on the couch, he'd settle behind you, one hand massaging slow circles into your lower back while the other stroked your hair, his body a solid wall of warmth against your spine.
"Does this help?" he'd ask, voice uncharacteristically soft as his palm pressed against your abdomen, his quirk warming just enough to ease the ache without burning.
"You're too good to me," you'd mumble into the cushion, fingers reaching back to trace the scars on his arm.
"Nah," he'd grumble, but his hand would keep moving, never stopping. "Just keeping what's mine comfortable."
The night you finally called him on it changed everything. You were at some hero charity function, dressed to the nines, and his hand had been glued to your ass for the last hour. Not subtly either—full palm, fingers curved around one cheek like he was weighing it.
"Bakugou," you hissed through a gritted smile as yet another sponsor approached, "your hand is permanently attached to my butt."
He didn't even have the decency to look embarrassed. "Problem with that?"
"Yes," you snapped under your breath, smile still plastered on for the room. "We're surrounded by half the hero industry and every major sponsor—"
"So?" His grin sharpened, and before you could stop him, his palm squeezed shamelessly. "Let 'em look."
You grabbed his wrist and yanked him toward the hallway, heart hammering. "Not here. Now."
The powder room was small but elegant—marble countertop, gilded mirror, a single locked door. The moment the bolt slid home, you whirled on him.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" you demanded, back pressed against the sink. "We're at a gala, Katsuki. Anyone could have seen—anyone could walk by and hear—"
He backed you against the counter, both hands gripping your hips. "They all know you're with me. What's the big deal?"
"The big deal is that you're marking territory like a dog!"
His eyes darkened, and suddenly the air thickened. "Is that what you think this is?" His voice dropped to that low rumble that always made your knees weak. "Marking territory?"
When you didn't answer, he leaned closer, lips brushing your ear. "Maybe I am. Maybe I like knowing everyone can see you're taken. That this," his hand slid down to cup your ass again, squeezing possessively, "is mine. That these," his other hand moved up to palm your breast, thumb stroking your nipple through the silk, "are mine. That this," he nipped your earlobe, "is all fucking mine."
Your breath hitched, and he knew he had you. "You like that, don't you? Being mine so completely that everyone knows it."
"Katsuki," you breathed, but it was more surrender than protest.
"Say it," he demanded, fingers tightening. "Tell me you're mine."
"I'm yours," you whispered, and that was all it took.
His mouth crashed against yours, hungry and claiming. One hand stayed on your ass while the other fisted in your hair, tilting your head to deepen the kiss. His tongue invaded, tasting and taking, and you melted against him, hands gripping his shoulders.
"Wanted you all night," he growled against your lips, grinding his erection against your hip. "Watched you in this dress, knew everyone was looking, and all I could think was how badly I needed to be inside you."
"Katsuki," you gasped as his hand slid under your dress, fingers finding the edge of your panties. "Someone could hear—"
"Let 'em," he insisted, teeth scraping your neck. "Now." His fingers pushed aside the fabric, finding you already slick. "Fuck, you're so wet. Been thinking about this too, haven't you?"
You could only moan as two fingers pushed inside, curling immediately to find that spot that made your toes curl. Your free hand flew to your mouth, stifling the sound, but he caught your wrist and pinned it to the mirror.
"Don't," he growled. "I want to hear you."
His thumb found your clit, rubbing in tight circles that had you seeing stars. His fingers pumped faster, relentless, and your hips bucked involuntarily, seeking more.
"Greedy little thing, aren't you?" His free hand slid up to pinch your nipple through the dress. "Want more? Want my cock filling you up?"
"Yes," you choked out, head falling back against the mirror as pleasure coiled tighter in your belly. "Please, Katsuki."
"Since you asked so nicely." He withdrew his fingers, and you whined at the loss, but the sound turned into a gasp as he freed his cock. Thick and heavy, it curved up against his stomach, already beading with precum.
He lifted you onto the counter, your legs wrapping around his waist as he positioned himself at your entrance. "Look at me," he commanded, and your eyes locked with his as he pushed inside.
The stretch was exquisite—painful and perfect all at once. He filled you completely, bottoming out with a groan that vibrated through your entire body.
"Fuck," he breathed, forehead pressed against yours. "So tight. Always so fucking tight for me."
You could only moan as he began to move, shallow thrusts that gradually deepened until he was pounding into you, the sound of skin slapping skin echoing off the marble walls. His hands gripped your ass, holding you open for his possession, and you knew this was it—this was what his constant touching had been building toward.
"Katsuki," you gasped as he hit that perfect angle, sending sparks through your veins. "Right there—don't stop—"
"Never," he growled, teeth sinking into your shoulder. "Never stop fucking you." One hand moved between your bodies, thumb finding your clit again. "Come for me. Let me feel you come around my cock."
That was all it took. Your orgasm crashed over you, waves of pleasure so intense they left you trembling. He followed immediately, burying himself deep as he spilled inside you, a guttural cry tearing from his throat.
For a long moment, you stayed like that—him still inside you, bodies pressed together, breathing ragged in the sudden silence. The mirror behind you was fogged, the counter slick with sweat.
"See?" he murmured against your hair as he finally helped you down, but didn't let go. "Marking territory isn't so bad, is it?"
You laughed weakly, leaning against him. "No, I guess it's not."
His hand found its usual place on your lower back as you straightened your clothes. "Good. Because I'm never stopping."
And he didn't. Not that night, not the next morning, not ever. His hands were always on you—a constant, possessive presence that became as natural as breathing. Sometimes you teased him about it, sometimes you bickered, but always, always, you secretly loved it.
Because you were his. Completely. Utterly. And his hands on you were just proof of that fact—a claim as real as the ring he'd one day slip on your finger.
-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈
i posted a new work on AO3:
Rite of Desecration — Epiclesis
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⊹₊⋆ if it could help me write better, please don't be shy to let me know!
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cw: nsfw, mdni, explicit sexual content, ex-relationship dynamics, themes of a toxic on-and-off relationship cycle, stalking-adjacent behavior, emotional vulnerability, crying and emotional distress during intimacy, biting, rough/dominant sexual content, and depictions of an unhealthy inability to let go of a past relationship.
Your phone buzzed on the nightstand, the screen lighting up the dark room. 2:17 AM. You knew who it was without looking. Only one person still had the audacity to contact you at this hour.
Katsuki: You awake?
You stared at the message, thumb hovering over the screen. It had been three months since you'd ended things. Three months of no contact, of healing, of trying to remember what life was like before Bakugou Katsuki had consumed it entirely.
Your phone buzzed again.
Katsuki: I know you're awake. Your light's on.
Your head snapped toward the window. Sure enough, across the street, a figure stood in the window of his apartment, phone in hand. Dynamight, watching you like some kind of stalker.
You: Go away, Katsuki.
Katsuki: Can't. Thinking about you.
You: We're not together anymore. You need to stop.
Katsuki: I'll stop when you stop looking so fucking good in those shorts you wear to sleep.
Your cheeks burned. You were wearing his old t-shirt and a pair of sleep shorts — the ones he'd always loved because they showed off your ass.
You: How do you know what I'm wearing?
Katsuki: I have binoculars. And a great memory of how you look naked.
You should have blocked him. Changed your number. Moved to another country. Instead, you found yourself getting up and walking to the window, pulling the curtain aside slightly. He was there, shirtless, sweatpants hanging low on his hips, phone in hand.
"Put your phone down," you said, your voice barely audible through the glass.
He grinned, holding up his hands in surrender before setting his phone on the windowsill. Then he tapped his ear, indicating he was calling you.
Your phone rang. This time, you answered.
"What do you want, Katsuki?"
"Want to hear your voice," he said, his voice deeper than you remembered, rougher. "Been too long."
"It's been three months," you reminded him. "That's not long enough."
"Three months too long," he countered. "Miss you."
"You don't miss me," you scoffed. "You miss having someone to come home to. Someone to warm your bed."
"I miss the way you laugh," he said, and the sincerity in his voice caught you off guard. "I miss how you hum when you cook. I miss waking up next to you and knowing that no matter how fucked up my day was, you were there waiting for me."
Your heart ached despite yourself. "That's not enough, Katsuki. It was never enough."
"I know," he admitted, his voice quieter now. "I know I fucked up. But I'm trying. I'm really trying."
"Trying what? Stalking me from across the street?"
"Trying to figure out how to get you back," he said simply. "Without losing my mind in the process."
"There's nothing to get back," you said, though your resolve was weakening. "We're done."
"Are we?" he challenged. "Because from here, it looks like you're still wearing my shirt. Still sleeping in the bed I picked out. Still living in the apartment I found for you."
"You don't live here anymore," you reminded him. "You don't get to have a say."
"Then why are you still there?" he asked. "Why haven't you moved? Changed your number? Made it impossible for me to find you?"
You had no answer for that. Because the truth was, you hadn't wanted to make it impossible. A part of you had always left the door open, just a crack.
"I'm coming over," he said suddenly.
"No," you protested immediately. "Katsuki, no."
"Ten minutes," he said, ending the call before you could argue further.
You should have locked the door. Called security. Done something to prevent this inevitable disaster. Instead, you found yourself waiting, your heart pounding with anticipation and dread.
The knock came precisely ten minutes later. Soft, almost hesitant — not the Bakugou you remembered.
You opened the door to find him leaning against the frame, looking more exhausted than you'd ever seen him. He'd thrown on a black t-shirt before coming over, and there were dark circles under his eyes, his usual confident posture slumped with fatigue.
"You look like hell," you said, crossing your arms over your chest.
"Been working double shifts," he replied, his eyes roaming over your body. "Trying not to think about you."
"Clearly failing," you noted, though you couldn't deny the thrill that ran through you at his obvious desire.
"Can I come in?" he asked, his voice softer than you expected. "Just to talk?"
You should have said no. You knew you should have said no. But instead, you stepped aside, allowing him into the apartment you'd once shared.
The air was thick with unspoken words as he moved past you, his shoulder brushing yours in the narrow hallway. You watched as he walked into the living room, his eyes taking in the changes you'd made — the new throw pillows, the rearranged furniture, the absence of his personal belongings.
"You painted," he noted, glancing around the room. "It's nice."
"Thanks," you replied, keeping your distance. "What do you want, Katsuki?"
"Want you," he said simply, turning to face you. "Always wanted you."
"That's not enough," you reminded him. "It wasn't enough before."
"I know," he admitted, running a hand through his hair. "I know I was an asshole. I know I didn't appreciate you like I should have. I know I took you for granted."
"So what's different now?" you challenged. "What's changed?"
"I have," he said, taking a step closer. "Being without you… it's made me realize things. About myself. About what's important."
"And what's important?" you asked, though you already knew his answer.
"You," he said, closing the distance between you. "You're what's important."
His hands came up to cup your face, his thumbs stroking your cheeks. "I miss you," he murmured, his eyes searching yours. "I miss us."
"Katsuki…" you began, but he cut you off with a kiss.
It was desperate, hungry, all the things you remembered about being with him. His tongue explored your mouth with possessive intensity, his hands moving from your face to your waist, pulling you closer until there was no space between you.
You should have pushed him away. Ended this before it went any further. But instead, you found yourself kissing him back, your hands tangling in his hair as you lost yourself in the familiarity of his touch.
"Bedroom," he growled against your lips, already steering you in that direction.
You let him lead you, your mind screaming warnings that your body chose to ignore. This was a mistake. A terrible, wonderful mistake that you'd regret in the morning.
But as he lowered you onto the bed, his body covering yours, you couldn't bring yourself to care. All that mattered was the here and now — the feel of his hands on your skin, the taste of his mouth, the weight of him pressing you into the mattress.
"I've missed this," he murmured, his lips trailing kisses along your jawline. "Missed you."
"Katsuki," you breathed, your hands roaming his back, feeling the muscles tense and relax under your touch.
"Tell me you want this too," he said, pulling back to look at you. "Tell me this isn't just me."
You looked up at him, at the raw vulnerability in his eyes, and made your decision. "I want this," you admitted. "God help me, I want this too."
That was all the encouragement he needed. His hands moved to the hem of your shirt, pulling it over your head in one fluid motion. His mouth found your breast, his tongue circling your nipple before he took it into his mouth, sucking gently.
"Fuck," you moaned, your back arching off the bed. "Don't stop."
He didn't. His mouth continued its exploration of your body, his hands working to remove the rest of your clothes until you were completely naked beneath him. When his fingers found your clit, you cried out, your hips bucking against his hand.
"Always so responsive," he growled, his thumb circling your clit. "So fucking perfect."
You reached for him, your fingers hooking into the waistband of his sweatpants. "You're still wearing too much," you complained.
He chuckled, standing up to pull his shirt over his head and shove his sweatpants and boxers down in one motion. His cock sprang free, hard and ready for you. You licked your lips, anticipation building as he rejoined you on the bed.
"Condom?" he asked, though he already knew where to find one.
"Nightstand," you replied, watching as he retrieved one and rolled it on.
He positioned himself between your legs, his cock nudging at your entrance. "Last chance to back out," he said, though his eyes told you he was hoping you wouldn't.
"Fuck me, Katsuki," you replied, wrapping your legs around his waist. "Now."
He entered you slowly, giving you time to adjust to his size. The initial stretch was intense, a delicious burn that gave way to pleasure as he began to move. His thrusts were deliberate at first, then faster as his control began to slip.
"You feel so good," he groaned, his hips snapping against yours. "So fucking tight."
"Harder," you urged, your nails digging into his back. "I can take it."
That was all the encouragement he needed. His pace increased, his movements becoming more erratic as he chased his release. The familiar rhythm of your bodies together was intoxicating, a drug you'd been detoxing from for three months and now overdosing on in seconds.
Pleasure coiled tight in your stomach, hot and demanding. Your breath hitched, a moan building in your throat, raw and unrestrained. No. You wouldn't give him that. You wouldn't let him hear how much you needed this, how desperately your body had craved his. You pressed your lips together, sinking your teeth into your bottom lip, the sharp pain a welcome distraction from the overwhelming pleasure. You tasted blood, coppery and familiar.
He noticed immediately. His rhythm faltered for half a second, his crimson eyes narrowing as he watched you. "Don't you fucking do that," he growled, his voice a low rumble against your ear. He recovered in an instant, his hips still driving into you with punishing force.
"Shut up," you gasped, the words muffled by your own flesh.
"Let me hear you," he demanded, his hand leaving your hip to grip your jaw, his thumb pressing against your chin, trying to force your mouth open. "I want to hear what I'm doing to you."
You shook your head, stubbornly keeping your lip trapped between your teeth.
"Fine," he grunted, a frustrated sound. He shifted his weight, leaning down until his face was inches from yours. His bicep flexed beside your head as he braced himself. Then he pushed his shoulder against your mouth. "Then bite me instead."
It was an insane request. But everything about this was insane. You hesitated for a second, then sank your teeth into the hard muscle of his shoulder. His skin was hot against your tongue, and you bit down hard, pouring all your anger, all your frustration, all your goddamn longing into the act.
He hissed, a sharp intake of breath that was all pain and all pleasure. "Fuck, yes," he groaned, his hips stuttering for a moment before resuming their brutal pace. "That's it. Mark me."
The dam inside you broke. With his flesh in your teeth, you couldn't hold back the sounds anymore. A guttural moan tore from your throat, followed by another, and another. Each thrust punched a new sound out of you, a symphony of pleasure and hate.
"I hate you," you sobbed against his shoulder, the words muffled by his skin. You bit down again, harder this time. "God, Katsuki, I fucking hate you."
His rhythm didn't break. He just took it, his hips hammering into you, his hand gripping your ass so hard it would leave bruises. "I know," he panted, his voice ragged in your ear. He didn't flinch, didn't try to defend himself. He just accepted your declaration like it was the weather. "I know."
Tears leaked from the corners of your eyes, hot and humiliating. You hated him for this, for reducing you to this writhing, sobbing mess. You hated yourself for wanting it so much. "I hate you so much," you repeated, your voice cracking. "I hate what you did to me. I hate that I still want you."
"I know," he said again, his voice impossibly deep. He shifted slightly, changing the angle, and his cock hit that spot inside you that made your vision go white. "I know, baby. I know."
You came with a silent scream, your entire body convulsing, your teeth clamping down on his shoulder one last time as waves of pleasure so intense they were painful washed over you. Your nails raked down his back, leaving red welts in their wake.
He followed you over the edge a moment later with a guttural curse, his body going rigid as he emptied himself into the condom. His weight collapsed onto you, heavy and solid and suffocatingly familiar.
For a long moment, the only sounds in the room were your ragged breaths and the distant hum of the city outside. You could feel his heart pounding against your ribs, a frantic rhythm that matched your own.
Finally, he pushed himself up, his arms trembling with the effort. He looked down at you, his expression unreadable in the dim light. He reached out, his fingers gently tracing the bite mark on your lip.
"You're bleeding," he said, his voice quiet.
You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, smearing the blood across your skin. "So are you."
He glanced down at his shoulder, where the bite marks were already darkening, a faint spot of blood blooming against his skin. "Good," he said, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. "Means I'll remember this tomorrow."
You should have pushed him off. Told him to get out. But instead, you just lay there, your body spent and your heart aching. Because you knew, with a certainty that terrified you, that this wasn't the end. It was just the beginning of another round of the same old cycle — the fighting, the fucking, the inevitable heartbreak.
And as he leaned down to kiss you again, you let him. Because you were weak. Because you were addicted. Because, despite everything, you still wanted him. And that, you realized, was the most fucked up part of all.
-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈
i posted a new work on AO3:
Rite of Desecration — Epiclesis
⊹₊⋆ likes, reblogs, replies, and follows are appreciated!
⊹₊⋆ if it could help me write better, please don't be shy to let me know!
⊹₊⋆ requests are open for now!
guys if you're interested in my other works and looking to commission a personalized fics, please check below:
The bell above the shop door chimed as you pushed it open, a wave of antiseptic cleaner and something vaguely floral hitting your senses. Bakugou followed you in, his expression a mixture of skepticism and resignation.
"You're really going through with this?" he asked, his voice low as he scanned the walls covered in tattoo flash and piercing portfolios.
"I've been talking about it for months," you replied, already bouncing on the balls of your feet with excitement. "I want it. I really want it."
He sighed, running a hand through his spiky blond hair. "I know. Just... make sure you're not going to regret it when your nipples are screaming at you tomorrow."
"I won't," you promised, turning to face him. "And you're here to support me, right?"
"Right," he agreed, though his tone suggested he still had reservations. "Which is why I'm here instead of training with Kirishima like I'd planned."
A woman with vibrant purple hair and more metal in her face than Bakugou had in his entire hero costume emerged from the back room. "Hey there! You must be our 2 o'clock. I'm Mika."
"That's me," you said with a bright smile. "This is my boyfriend, Katsuki."
Mika's eyes flickered between you two, recognition dawning in her expression. "Dynamight, right? Wow, didn't expect to see you in my shop today."
"Just here for moral support," Bakugou grumbled, crossing his arms over his chest.
"Well, welcome to both of you," Mika said, her smile never wavering. "Come on back and we'll get you set up."
The piercing room was cleaner than you expected, with a leather reclining chair that looked more like something from a dentist's office than a tattoo parlor. Mika pulled out a tray with sterile packets, laying out the jewelry and tools with practiced efficiency.
"So, what are we getting today?" she asked, snapping on a pair of black gloves.
"Nipple piercings," you said, already shrugging off your jacket. "Horizontal barbells, if that's possible."
"Totally possible," Mika nodded, examining your breasts with a professional eye. "You've got good anatomy for it. Nice and perky, which will help with healing."
Bakugou shifted uncomfortably beside you, his eyes fixed on a poster of aftercare instructions on the wall. "How long does this take?"
"The actual piercing? Just a few seconds each," Mika replied, selecting a pair of forceps from her tray. "But the whole process with setup and jewelry insertion will be about twenty minutes. Are you planning to stay for the procedure?"
"Yeah," Bakugou said immediately. "I'm staying."
You looked at him in surprise. "You are?"
"Someone's got to make sure you don't pass out or change your mind at the last second," he said, though his eyes softened when they met yours.
"Alright then," Mika said with a warm smile. "Why don't you take off your shirt and bra and have a seat? You can hold your boyfriend's hand if you need to."
You did as she instructed, the cool air of the room raising goosebumps on your bare skin. Bakugou sat in the chair beside you, taking your hand in his. His grip was firm, grounding you as Mika prepared the first piercing.
"Okay, deep breath in," she instructed, positioning the forceps on your left nipple. "And out."
You felt a sharp, intense pinch as the needle went through, followed by a burning sensation that made you gasp. Bakugou's hand tightened around yours, his other hand coming up to stroke your hair.
"You're doing great," he murmured, his voice low and steady. "Almost done."
Mika worked quickly, inserting the jewelry and securing the ball on the end. "There we go. One down, one to go. How are you feeling?"
"It stings," you admitted, your voice shaky. "But not as bad as I thought it would."
"Second one is usually easier," Mika said, already preparing the other side. "Ready?"
You nodded, bracing yourself. This time, you knew what to expect, though the sensation was just as intense. Bakugou continued to hold your hand, his thumb rubbing soothing circles on your palm.
"And... done!" Mika announced, stepping back to admire her work. "What do you think?"
You sat up slowly, looking down at your chest. Two silver barbells now adorned your nipples, catching the light with every small movement. They were swollen and red, but already looked beautiful.
"They're perfect," you breathed, turning to catch your reflection in the full-length mirror on the wall. "Katsuki, what do you think?"
Bakugou's eyes were fixed on your chest, his expression unreadable for a moment. Then, a slow grin spread across his face. "Damn," he said, his voice slightly hoarse. "They look... really fucking good."
Mika beamed with pride. "I think so too. Now, let's go over aftercare instructions..."
As Mika explained the cleaning routine and what to expect during the healing process, Bakugou listened intently, asking questions that surprised you with their thoughtfulness.
"How long until they're fully healed?" he asked, his eyes still occasionally flicking to your chest.
"Anywhere from six months to a year, depending on your body," Mika replied. "The initial healing period is about 6-8 weeks, but they'll still be sensitive for a while after that."
"And no... you know," Bakugou gestured vaguely, "no touching or anything?"
"No rough handling for at least the first few weeks," Mika advised. "Gentle cleaning is fine, but you'll want to avoid anything that might irritate the piercings. No swimming, no hot tubs, and definitely no oral contact until they're fully healed."
You caught Bakugou's eye, a mischievous glint in yours. "Guess we'll have to get creative for a while."
He smirked back at you. "Challenge accepted."
By the time you left the shop, your nipples were throbbing with a dull ache, but you were riding high on adrenaline and excitement. Bakugou kept glancing at your chest as you walked, a predatory look in his eyes that made your stomach flutter.
"They really do look good," he said again, as if trying to convince himself. "But you're going to be in pain tomorrow."
"Worth it," you replied confidently.
The next morning, you woke to a sharp, stinging sensation in your chest. Your nipples were swollen and tender, the slightest movement of the bed sheets sending waves of pain through them.
"Fuck," you muttered, trying to sit up without aggravating your new piercings.
Bakugou was already awake, watching you with concern. "Hurting, huh?"
"It's not terrible," you lied, wincing as you finally managed to sit up. "Just... sensitive."
"Come on," he said, getting out of bed. "Time for your first cleaning."
He led you to the bathroom, where he'd already laid out the saline solution Mika had recommended. "Lie down on the towels," he instructed, gesturing to the bath mat he'd covered with clean towels.
You did as he said, your bare breasts exposed to the cool morning air. Bakugou knelt beside you, his expression serious as he unscrewed the cap on the saline solution.
"Okay, Mika said to soak them for about five minutes," he said, carefully pouring the solution over your chest. The cool liquid provided immediate relief, soothing the burning sensation.
"How does that feel?" he asked, his eyes focused on your face rather than your breasts.
"Better," you admitted, relaxing slightly as the pain began to subside. "Much better."
After the soak, he gently cleaned around the piercings with a cotton swab, his touch surprisingly light and careful. "Don't want any crusties building up," he muttered, more to himself than to you.
"Crusties?" you laughed, the sound slightly breathless.
"That's what the piercer called them," he defended, though a faint blush colored his cheeks. "Lymph fluid and dead skin cells can dry around the jewelry. Need to clean it off so it doesn't irritate the skin."
"You've been doing your research," you teased, though you were touched by his attentiveness.
"Just want to make sure you heal properly," he said, finishing the cleaning and patting the area dry with a clean paper towel. "There. All done."
Over the next few weeks, this became your morning routine. Bakugou would help you clean your piercings, his touch growing more confident as he learned exactly how much pressure he could apply without causing pain. He was surprisingly diligent about aftercare, often reminding you when it was time for a cleaning or suggesting you avoid certain foods that might increase inflammation.
The biggest challenge was adjusting your sex life. Bakugou, who loved to play with your breasts and nipples during foreplay, now had to restrain himself. His hands, which usually roamed freely over your body, now skirted carefully around your chest.
"No pressure on the girls," he'd remind himself aloud sometimes, making you laugh.
But he found other ways to pleasure you, focusing more on oral sex, manual stimulation, and positions that didn't put weight on your chest. If anything, the restrictions made your encounters more creative and intense.
One evening, about a month after the piercing, you were lying in bed after another thorough cleaning session. The piercings were healing well, no longer constantly painful, but still incredibly sensitive to the touch. The swelling had gone down significantly, and the silver barbells gleamed against your skin, a permanent addition that Bakugou seemed to appreciate more each day.
"They're really settling in nicely," he observed, his eyes tracing the line of the jewelry as he dried the last of the saline solution with a fresh paper towel. "The redness is almost gone."
"They still ache if I bump them," you mentioned, sitting up carefully. "But it's getting better."
Bakugou's fingers hovered just above your breast, not quite touching but close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from his skin. "Can I...?" he began, then stopped. "Never mind."
"What?" you asked, catching his hesitation. "What were you going to ask?"
"I was just wondering if it would hurt if I... you know," he gestured vaguely. "Touched them. Gently."
You considered this for a moment. "Maybe? We could try, but you'll need to be really careful."
Instead of answering with words, Bakugou leaned down, pressing soft kisses along your collarbone, working his way slowly toward your breast. His breath was warm against your skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake. When his lips finally brushed against the sensitive skin surrounding your nipple, you gasped softly.
"Too much?" he asked, pulling back slightly.
"No," you breathed. "Just... sensitive. Keep going."
"We probably shouldn't," he murmured, though he didn't stop. "Mika said no oral contact until they're fully healed."
"I know," you admitted, your fingers threading through his hair. "Just... be careful. Don't touch the jewelry directly."
He continued his exploration with his mouth, his tongue tracing circles around the piercing without actually touching the nipple itself. It was exquisite torture—the near-contact sending sparks of pleasure through your body while avoiding direct stimulation that might cause pain.
"God, Katsuki," you moaned, your hands tangling in his hair. "That feels... incredible."
He looked up at you, his crimson eyes dark with desire. "I've been waiting weeks to do this properly," he admitted, his voice husky. "You have no idea how much self-control it's taken not to just... have my way with you."
"I have some idea," you laughed breathlessly. "I've been dealing with the same frustration."
His hand moved to your other breast, mimicking the movements of his mouth with his fingers, tracing the outline of the piercing without making direct contact. The dual stimulation was overwhelming, pleasure building deep in your core.
"I want to taste you," he murmured against your skin. "All of you."
"Then do it," you urged, pulling him closer. "Please."
He needed no further encouragement. His mouth moved lower, trailing kisses down your stomach, his hands exploring your body with a reverence that still surprised you sometimes. When his tongue finally found your clit, you cried out, your back arching off the bed.
"Easy there," he chuckled, looking up at you from between your thighs. "Don't want to hurt yourself."
"Shut up and make me come," you retorted, though there was no real bite to your words.
He obliged, his mouth working magic on you, his tongue alternating between broad strokes and focused flicks against your most sensitive spots. His fingers joined in, sliding inside you, curling to find that spot that made you see stars.
"Katsuki," you gasped, your hips bucking against his mouth. "I'm close."
"Come for me," he commanded, his voice vibrating against you. "I want to taste you."
That was all it took. Your orgasm crashed over you, waves of pleasure so intense they left you trembling and breathless. Bakugou continued his ministrations, drawing out your pleasure until you were completely spent.
When he finally moved back up your body, his face glistening with your arousal, you pulled him down for a deep kiss, tasting yourself on his lips. "Your turn," you murmured against his mouth.
He rolled onto his back, his erection straining against his boxers. You wasted no time, freeing his cock and taking it in your hand. He hissed as your thumb circled the tip, spreading the pre-cum that had gathered there.
"I want you inside me," you said, stroking him slowly. "Now."
"In a minute," he groaned, his eyes closing as you continued your ministrations. "Let me enjoy this."
You leaned down, taking him in your mouth, swirling your tongue around the head before taking him deeper. His hands tangled in your hair, guiding you gently as you found a rhythm that had him panting and cursing under his breath.
"Fuck, that's good," he moaned, his hips thrusting slightly to meet your movements. "So fucking good."
You could feel him getting close, his cock twitching in your mouth. But before he could reach his release, he pulled you away, rolling you onto your back and positioning himself between your legs.
"I need to be inside you," he said, his voice rough with desire. "Now."
He entered you slowly, giving you time to adjust to his size. The initial stretch was always intense, a delicious burn that gave way to pleasure as he began to move. His thrusts were deliberate at first, then faster as his control began to slip.
"Harder," you urged, wrapping your legs around his waist. "I can take it."
That was all the encouragement he needed. His pace increased, his hips snapping against yours with enough force to make the bed slam against the wall. But he was careful to keep his weight off your chest, his arms braced on either side of your head.
"Touch yourself," he commanded, his voice strained with effort. "I want to watch you come again."
You did as he asked, your fingers finding your clit, rubbing in time with his thrusts. The added stimulation was exactly what you needed, pleasure building rapidly once again.
"Katsuki," you cried out as your second orgasm hit, even more intense than the first. "Don't stop."
"I won't," he promised, his movements becoming erratic as he approached his own release. "Fuck, I'm close."
With a final, powerful thrust, he came, filling you with his warmth. He collapsed beside you, both of you panting and sweaty, the room filled with the sounds of your breathing.
"Damn," he said after a moment, turning to look at you. "That was... intense."
"In a good way," you replied, snuggling closer to him. "Very good way."
He propped himself up on an elbow, his eyes tracing the lines of your body, lingering on your newly pierced nipples. "You know," he said, his fingers gently tracing the outline of the jewelry. "I was skeptical at first. But now... I'm really glad you did this."
"Me too," you agreed, though your mind was already drifting toward sleep. "They look good, don't they?"
"They look fucking amazing," he corrected, leaning down to press a soft kiss to your lips. "But you'd look amazing no matter what."
You smiled at that, your eyes closing. "Smooth talker."
"Just honest," he replied, pulling the blanket over both of you. "Now get some sleep. We've got cleaning to do in the morning."
As you drifted off to sleep, wrapped in his arms, you couldn't help but feel grateful for this man—this explosive, temperamental, surprisingly caring hero who had somehow become your everything. And as you felt his breathing even out beside you, you knew that no matter what challenges came your way, you'd face them together, piercings and all.
-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈
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The conference room on the forty-second floor of the Dynamight Agency smelled like stale coffee and artificial enthusiasm. Floor-to-ceiling windows lined one wall, offering a view of the city skyline that Katsuki couldn't give less of a shit about at nine in the morning on a Monday.
The PR team had been droning on for forty minutes. Something about his "public image" and "media relations" and how his last press conference had generated a forty percent spike in negative social media sentiment because he'd told a reporter to "stop asking dumbass questions and maybe I'll stop giving dumbass answers."
He didn't regret it. He never did.
At the head of the table, a woman named Haruno—his lead PR strategist, mid-forties, wearing a perpetual tight smile like she was holding back a migraine—clicked to the next slide. A blown-up screenshot of his face mid-scowl filled the screen, captioned with a tabloid headline: DYNAMIGHT DOES IT AGAIN: HERO TELLS FAN TO "BACK THE HELL OFF" AT AUTOGRAPH EVENT.
"The fan was grabbin' at me," Katsuki said flatly, arms crossed over his chest, his chair pushed back from the table like he was ready to bolt. "I told 'em to back off. That's not a scandal."
"The optics, Bakugou-san—"
"Fuck the optics."
Haruno's smile tightened. She exchanged a look with her colleague, a nervous man with glasses who'd been taking notes and hadn't made eye contact with Katsuki once since the meeting started. Smart man.
Katsuki's phone buzzed in his pocket. He kept his movements subtle, sliding the device out just enough to rest it on his thigh, tilting the screen to glance down.
It was you. A simple text: You alive?
Something in his chest loosened. Just a fraction. Not enough for anyone to notice, but enough that the rigid set of his shoulders eased by a single degree. He thumbed a quick reply beneath the desk. Barely. Stuck in some PR bullshit. Might kill someone.
The response was almost immediate. Lol what did you do this time?
He smirked, killing the twitch at the corner of his mouth before anyone caught it. Told a reporter his questions were stupid. 'Cause they were.
Shocking. The world is stunned.
He exhaled through his nose—almost a laugh. Almost. What are you doin'? he sent back.
The reply took a few seconds. Just got out of the shower.
His thumb hovered over the screen. The room around him faded—Haruno's voice became white noise, the slide presentation blurred into meaningless shapes. All that existed was the glow of his phone. And? he typed.
And nothing. Just thought you should know I'm standing in your bathroom. In your shirt. With nothing else on.
Katsuki's jaw tightened. His grip on the phone shifted, fingers pressing harder into the case. He didn't respond for a moment, just stared at the text, letting the image form in his head—the oversized black t-shirt hanging off your frame, hem barely grazing mid-thigh, your skin still damp and warm from the shower, the steam still clinging to the mirror behind you. In his bathroom. In his apartment. Where he should be right now instead of sitting in this glass-walled hellhole listening to someone explain Twitter metrics.
You're doin' this on purpose, he sent.
Doing what?
He could practically hear the innocence in that single word. Fake as hell. You knew exactly what you were doing.
"Don't fuck with me," he muttered under his breath, low enough that only the guy with glasses heard and flinched.
"Bakugou-san?" Haruno asked from the front. "Did you have input on the—"
"No."
She blinked. "Then if we could—"
"Keep goin'. I'm listenin'."
He wasn't.
His phone buzzed again. Miss you.
Two words. No emoji, no teasing follow-up. Just that. And it hit him square in the sternum like a fist he wasn't bracing for. He stared at it, reading it again. His throat worked, and he swallowed down whatever stupid, soft thing had tried to crawl up out of his chest. He typed back, deleted it, typed again, and hit send before he could overthink it. Tch. Yeah. Whatever. Miss you too or some shit.
Immediately, he wanted to throw his phone out the window.
"Or some shit." So romantic, Katsuki. Put that on a greeting card.
Shut up.
Make me. I'm in your apartment. Wearing your shirt. Smelling like your soap. You could come home and do it yourself.
His hand tightened around his phone so hard the case creaked.
"Bakugou-san, the engagement metrics from your last interview show a concerning—"
"Can we speed this up?" Katsuki cut in, his voice sharp. "Some of us have actual hero work to do."
Haruno's smile became a thin, brittle line. "This is your hero work, Bakugou-san. Public perception is—"
"Public perception doesn't stop a building from collapsing."
The room went quiet. The guy with glasses stopped writing. Haruno took a breath, held it, and clicked to the next slide with the controlled patience of someone who'd had this exact argument six times before.
Katsuki's phone buzzed. He looked down instantly. Then he stopped breathing.
It was a photo. You, in his bathroom mirror, phone raised in one hand, his black t-shirt hiked up to expose everything below. Your other hand was between your thighs—fingers pressed against yourself, glistening, spread open for the camera. The angle showed everything: the wet shine on your fingers, the swollen pink of your cunt, the way your entrance was already clenching around nothing, aching and empty. Your face was half-visible in the mirror—cheeks flushed, lips parted, eyes heavy-lidded and looking right into the camera like you'd been thinking about him the entire time.
The caption underneath read: Wish this was your hand.
Katsuki's vision went white at the edges. His whole body locked up. Every muscle, every nerve, every synapse fired at once. His blood redirected so fast and so violently south that he felt lightheaded. His cock, already half-hard from the texts, swelled against the fabric of his slacks so suddenly it was painful. He shifted in his chair, jaw clenched so tight his molars creaked, and thank god the table was wide enough to hide his lap because the tent in his pants was obscene.
"Fuck," he breathed. Barely a sound. Barely a breath.
The guy with glasses glanced at him nervously. Katsuki didn't notice. Didn't see him. Didn't see anything except the afterimage of that photo burned into the back of his skull. He forced his eyes up. Haruno was still talking. Something about "rebranding" and "softening his public persona." He didn't hear a single word. All he could think about was the slick on your fingers, the flush on your skin, the way your cunt looked swollen and desperate for something that wasn't your own hand.
He looked back down and typed with hands that were almost shaking. You're gonna fuckin' kill me.
Then come home and die happy.
I'm in a goddamn meeting, woman.
And I'm wet and alone in your bed. We all have problems, Katsuki.
He pressed his tongue against the roof of his mouth, hard, trying to ground himself. It didn't work. His cock was throbbing against his zipper, and every time he shifted, the friction made it worse. He could feel the precum already leaking, dampening the fabric of his boxers.
What are you doin' right now? Exactly. Tell me, he sent.
Her reply came in a quick succession of bubbles. Lying on your bed. Shirt pulled up. Two fingers inside me and it's not enough.
His hand shook. Actually shook. He pressed his palm flat against his thigh under the table to steady it, but his pulse was hammering so hard he could feel it in his wrists, his throat, the base of his skull.
"Bakugou-san, we'd like to propose a series of controlled media appearances—"
"Yeah, fine. Whatever. Just—" He waved a hand without looking up. "Just send me the details. I'll read it later."
Haruno paused. "You'll read it?"
"I said I will."
She looked skeptical—and rightfully so—but she moved on. Katsuki didn't care. He was already looking back down at his phone. Send another one.
Another what?
Another picture. Now.
A pause. Demanding. What's the magic word?
Please. Then, after a second: I'm not gonna say it again.
The photo came ten seconds later. This time, you were on his bed. His black sheets, the ones you'd complained were too rough but always slept on anyway because they smelled like him. You were on your back, his shirt pushed up above your ribs, head thrown back against his pillow, mouth open, eyes half-closed. One arm was extended above you, holding the phone at a high angle to capture the shot, while your other hand was between your legs—two fingers buried deep inside yourself, slick coating your inner thighs, your cunt stretched and clenching around your own fingers. The angle showed everything from your flushed face to the wet mess between your thighs.
Katsuki had to physically bite the inside of his cheek to keep from making a sound.
"Fuckin'—" he started, then caught himself. The guy with glasses looked over again. Katsuki pinned him with a glare that could curdle milk, and the man's eyes snapped back to his notepad so fast his glasses shifted.
His phone buzzed with a follow-up text. Thinking about you. About your hands. Your mouth. How you'd hold me down and just take what you want. About how you'd pin my wrists above my head and not let me move while you fuck me so deep I can't think. That's what I'm doing right now. Thinking about you. While I fuck myself on your bed.
Katsuki set his phone face-down on the table. Slowly. Deliberately. Like it was a loaded weapon he needed to handle with care. He pressed both palms flat on the table surface.
Haruno stopped mid-sentence. "Bakugou-san? Are you—"
"Meeting's over," he said.
Everyone blinked.
"We still have thirty minutes of—"
"Meeting's. Over." He stood up, his chair scraping back with a sharp screech against the floor. "Send me the slides. I'll look at 'em tonight."
"Bakugou-san, this is the third time you've—"
"Fourth," he corrected, already walking toward the door. "And it won't be the last. Deal with it."
He was out of the conference room before anyone could argue further, scooping his phone from the table as he went. In the hallway, away from the glass walls and the judgmental stares of his PR team, he finally let his composure crack. He looked at the photo again. Full screen. Zoomed in on the way your fingers disappeared inside yourself, the glistening slick, the swollen flesh around them. His cock was so hard it ached, straining against his slacks with every step he took toward the elevator.
He typed with one hand, the other jabbing the elevator button. I'm leaving the office. I'll be there in twenty minutes.
Take your time. I'm not going anywhere.
Don't you dare finish without me, he sent, his jaw tight.
A pause. No promises.
His jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached. That wasn't a suggestion. You come without me and I'll make you regret it. Keep those fingers where they are but don't you come. Not until I'm inside you.
The elevator doors opened. He stepped in, alone, and hit the button for the parking garage. As the doors closed, he looked down at the photo one last time—your flushed face, your parted lips, the desperate grip of your fingers inside yourself—and felt the last thread of his patience snap.
I'm gonna ruin you when I get home, he typed, hitting send just as the elevator began to descend.
Looking forward to it, Dynamight.
Katsuki's hand was already on his car keys, his pulse pounding in his ears, the image of you burned so deep into his mind that he could already feel you—warm, wet, trembling beneath him.
Twenty minutes. He'd make it fifteen.
-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈
a/n: im half asleep writing this
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cw: mdni, nsfw, bakugou x fem reader, rope bondage/shibari, dominance, submission, rough sex, praise kink, mild degradation, dirty talk, p in v.
Katsuki steps back after tying the final knot, palms a little rough from how tightly he’d pulled the ropes. He’s meticulous, precise, and lowkey obsessed with how damn beautiful you look all trussed up like that. The delicate lingerie peeking through the ropes? Your thighs trembling just slightly from anticipation? He stares—really stares—for a second longer than he should, eyes dark and blown out.
He doesn’t touch you immediately—oh no, he makes you wait. He just stands there and drinks you in like a man starved, jaw clenched, trying to keep his composure but failing miserably. And when you squirm a little, thighs pressing together in response?
He grins, dangerous. “You wanna move in those ropes? Nah, sweetheart—you asked for this. Now take it.”
That center line of rope? The one running right between your legs, pulled taut and snug right against your clit? Yeah, it’s doing things to you.
You’re trying to keep your cool—you always do—but the second he finished that last tie and stepped back, you were already halfway gone. That rope’s been teasing you for the last ten minutes, shifting just right every time you breathe too deep or flex your thighs. It’s not just pressure—it’s intimate, deliberate, like the rope itself knows your body better than anyone.
You’re bound and trembling, and Katsuki sees it. Of course he sees it. The way your hips twitch forward ever so slightly, how your breathing picks up, how your thighs are doing that instinctive little squeeze around the rope. Your nipples are hard under the lace, and your eyes—normally so sharp, so fierce—are already glassy.
He finally closes the distance, his voice low and hoarse as he drags a hand up the rope along your stomach, thumb grazing the knot above your navel. “Fuckin’ hell… You’ve never looked so goddamn good. Look at you, baby…”
Katsuki smirks, cocky and feral. “Rope hittin’ you just right, huh?” he murmurs, running his fingers just beside the rope without touching it. “Bet it’s drivin’ you crazy. All that attitude, and now look at you, desperate without me even touchin’ you.”
You let out a shaky breath, cheeks pink, biting your lip.
“Say it,” he growls, crouching down to eye-level with your pussy, his thumb hovering right next to that tight stretch of rope. “Tell me it feels good.”
Katsuki doesn't wait for you to say it—doesn't need you to. He sees it all written in the way your body trembles under the ropes, the way your lips part like you’re trying to hold back a whimper. And he’s not having that. Not tonight.
“Use your words, sweetheart,” he murmurs as he slips two fingers under the crotch rope, just enough to nudge it aside. You're already dripping, soaked through the lace and down the ropes. He groans. “Fuck. This pussy’s beggin’ for it.”
You’re too far gone to pretend otherwise. “I need you,” you breathe, voice breaking as you arch helplessly against the tension of the ropes. Your hands are bound behind your back, chest pushed out, body vulnerable and offered to him. “Please—Katsuki—please—”
He doesn’t even tease you this time. He’s too hard, too fucked up from the sight of you. He stands, shoves his boxers down, lines himself up, and pushes into you in one slow, brutal stroke. You cry out—sharp, head tipped back, the ropes creaking with how tightly they’re holding you.
The sound you make? Oh, it hits him hard. You crying out in that high, shaky voice, hips twitching under him, arms still tied behind your back while he keeps you pinned by the hips? That’s it. That’s the fucking moment that does it for him.
“Holy shit,” he groans into your neck. “You’re takin’ me so good, fuckin’ perfect—tied up like this, cryin’ for it, my fuckin’ girl.”
Tears streak down your cheeks, hot and quiet. Not from pain—from how overwhelmed you are, how good it feels, how full you are. You can't touch him, can't move, can't even hold on—but you feel everything. And Katsuki?
He licks them.
Straight off your cheeks, low and deliberate, groaning against your skin. “So fuckin’ pretty when you cry for me,” he pants. “This what you wanted? All tied up, used like this?”
You nod frantically, unable to form words, just moaning his name like a prayer while he ruts into you—hard and deep, the ropes creaking, his hand wrapped around your throat, controlling your every breath, every angle, every damn movement.
And you love it. You live for it.
-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈
(this was my first time writing shibari)
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NSFW!! bf!bakugou katsuki x fem!reader | katsuki loves the way his girl appreciate his food. love language, acts of service. MDNI!
The kitchen was his sanctuary, a place of controlled chaos and precise, simmering alchemy. Katsuki moved with an economy of motion—a sharp chop of the knife, a sizzle of garlic hitting hot oil, a graceful toss of the pan. He wasn't just making dinner; he was performing a ritual. A ritual he’d learned from his mother’s tough love, a lesson carved into him: This is how you care for someone. This is the proof.
You slipped into the kitchen, drawn by the aromatic symphony. You leaned against the doorway, watching him. His back was to you, muscles shifting under his tight shirt as he worked. You didn't speak, just observed the focused set of his shoulders, the way his hands—usually instruments of violence—cradled a tomato with surprising delicacy.
He knew you were there. He always knew. "Don't just stand there gawking. Set the table," he grunted without turning around, but there was no real bite to it.
You did as you were told, the clink of plates a soft accompaniment to his cooking. When you finished, you returned to your spot, this time venturing closer. "It smells incredible, Katsuki."
"Damn right it does."
Finally, he plated the food—a perfect, seared salmon fillet with a ginger-scallion sauce, atop a bed of rice that steamed fragrantly. He set it before you with a quiet thud, his eyes flicking to your face, waiting.
You took the first bite.
And you couldn't help it. A low, involuntary hum of pure pleasure vibrated in your throat. Your eyes fluttered closed for a second. "Oh my god," you breathed around the fork.
Katsuki froze, his own fork halfway to his mouth. His gaze was locked on you, intense, laser-focused.
You took another bite, this time a little dance of your shoulders accompanying the hum. "This is… Katsuki, this is amazing. The salmon is so tender."
He just grunted, shoving a large bite into his own mouth, but he didn't taste it. He was tasting your reaction. He watched, mesmerized, as you ate with unabashed joy. Every moan, every little sigh, every time you closed your eyes in bliss was a direct strike to his nervous system.
You were halfway through, eating with a focused pleasure that was almost sensual, when you paused. "Is there more rice? I want to make sure I get all this sauce."
Something in his chest tightened, then dropped like a stone, landing hot and heavy in his groin. His cock, which had been stirring since that first hum, thickened abruptly, straining against the confines of his jeans. It wasn't just the sounds you were making. It was the totality of it. The appreciation. The fact that you finished what he gave you. That you wanted more. It was the ultimate validation of his care, and it was the most potent aphrodisiac he’d ever encountered.
He stood up abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. He walked to the rice cooker, his movements stiff. He piled a generous second helping onto your plate, his knuckles white around the rice paddle.
"Here," he said, his voice rougher than usual.
You looked up at him, your eyes wide and happy. "Thank you." You dug into the new portion with the same relish, and a particularly loud moan escaped you as you tasted the combination again.
That was it. The last thread of his control snapped.
He dropped his own fork with a clatter. You looked up, surprised. He was just staring at you, his chest rising and falling rapidly, his eyes dark with a hunger that had nothing to do with food.
"Katsuki? What's wrong? Is something—"
In two long strides, he was around the table. He didn't say a word. He simply hauled you up from your chair, his hands gripping your hips. His mouth crashed down on yours, tasting of ginger and soy and pure, unadulterated need. It was a desperate, claiming kiss, all tongue and teeth.
You gasped against his lips, your hands coming up to clutch his shoulders. He pulled back just enough to breathe, his forehead pressed to yours.
"The fuck are you doing to me?" he rasped, his voice raw. "Sitting there… making those fucking sounds…"
"W-what sounds?" you stammered, dazed.
"Those," he growled, and he captured your mouth again, swallowing the confused sound you made. One hand slid from your hip to your ass, squeezing roughly. "Moaning… over my food… like it's my cock in your mouth."
The crude words, so at odds with the tender act of cooking, sent a shockwave through you. You finally understood. A slow, warm flush spread across your skin.
He spun you around, pressing your front against the cool kitchen counter. The edge dug into your hips. His body was a solid, heated wall behind you. "You enjoyed your meal that much, huh?" he whispered hotly in your ear, his hands pushing your leggings and underwear down in one rough motion. "Finished every last bite."
You could only nod, your breath catching as you felt the hard, thick length of him press against your bare skin.
"Good," he grunted. "Now it's my turn to eat."
He entered you in one deep, relentless thrust, filling you completely. A choked cry was torn from your throat—a sound very much like the ones you’d made over dinner. He set a pace that was just as masterful as his cooking: rhythmic, powerful, knowing exactly how to elicit the best reactions.
"Moan for me like that again," he commanded, his voice a harsh groan next to your ear. "Let me hear how much you like it. How much you… appreciate… my cooking."
And as he moved within you, the kitchen still smelling of garlic and ginger, you did. Your cries of pleasure mingled with the memory of your praise, and Katsuki knew, with every thrust, that this was the most profound way to say "I love you" he would ever know.
He didn’t ease into a rhythm; he set one, deep and punishing, a chef’s precise tempo meant to reduce you to your essence. His body weighed you against the counter, his front to your back, his hands gripping your hips with a possession that felt both frantic and absolute. Each thrust was a deliberate, measured act, a completion of the ritual he’d begun at the stove.
“That’s it,” he grunted, his breath hot against your ear. The scent of ginger and seared salmon clung to him, a dizzying perfume mixed with the musk of his sweat and your shared arousal. “Make those sounds again. The ones you made for my food.”
You were past embarrassment, past thought. A high, broken moan escaped you as he angled his hips, hitting a spot that made your knees buckle. He held you up effortlessly, his grip tightening. “Yeah, just like that. Fuck… feel how much I love it. How much I love… this.” He emphasized the word with a particularly deep, grinding thrust that had you seeing stars.
He was everywhere—the rough fabric of his jeans against your bare thighs, the heat of his chest searing through your shirt, the sound of his ragged breathing in your ear. But most of all, he was inside, stretching you, filling you, stoking the heat he’d ignited with his cooking until you were nothing but a raw, pleading nerve.
“Katsuki… please…” you begged, unsure what you were asking for. More. Less. Everything.
“Please what?” he demanded, his voice a harsh rasp. He slowed his movements, torturously so, pulling out almost completely before sinking back in with an agonizing slowness that made you whimper. “Tell me what you want.”
“Don’t stop,” you sobbed, your nails scraping against the countertop. “I’m so close…”
A low, triumphant sound rumbled in his chest. “Me too, princess. Me too.” He shifted his grip, one hand sliding around your waist, fingers splaying possessively over your lower stomach, holding you steady as he began to move again, faster now, losing the last vestiges of his controlled rhythm. “Gonna come with me. You understand? Don’t you fucking dare come without me.”
It was a command you were powerless to disobey. The pressure built, coiling tight in your core, a simmering pot about to boil over. You could feel his own release approaching in the tightening of his muscles, the desperate, jerky quality of his thrusts.
“Look at me,” he growled, his voice strained. He somehow maneuvered you, turning you just enough so your eyes could meet in the dark reflection of the kitchen window. Your face was flushed, tear-streaked, utterly his. His eyes were black with need, fixed on your reflection. “Look at me when I fill you up.”
The sight of his raw, possessive gaze was the final spark. Your orgasm crashed over you, a seismic wave of pleasure so intense it was almost pain. A broken scream was torn from your throat as you convulsed around him, your body seizing in his arms.
Seeing you, feeling you shatter, shattered him. With a guttural roar that was pure, unadulterated victory, he buried himself to the hilt, his own release pulsing deep inside you, hot and endless. He held himself there, his body trembling with the force of it, his forehead pressed against your shoulder as you both rode out the storm together.
For a long moment, the only sound was your synced, ragged breathing, slowly softening into the quiet of the night.
Then, Katsuki, still buried inside you, nuzzled the sweaty juncture of your neck and shoulder. His voice was a wrecked, smug whisper.
“So… still hungry?”
A breathless laugh hiccoughed out of you. “Shut up.”
He chuckled, the vibration travelling through both of you. He pulled out slowly, hissing at the sensitivity, and gently turned you in his arms to face him. His hands came up to cup your face, his thumbs stroking your cheeks. He looked… peaceful. And unbearably smug.
“Admit it,” he said, a slow, cocky grin spreading across his face. “Best meal you ever had.”
You swatted his chest, but you were smiling too, boneless and sated. “You’re impossible.”
“Yeah,” he agreed, leaning down to press a surprisingly soft kiss to your forehead. “But I’m yours. And I’m still a better cook than you.”
“Debatable,” you mumbled against his chest, letting him hold you up.
He just held you tighter, the tease hanging in the air, a new secret ingredient to the quiet, satisfied aftertaste of the night
-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈
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bf!bakugou katsuki x fem!reader, ANGST, hurt-comfort
The silence in the apartment was a stark contrast to the cacophony that had been inside Katsuki’s head all day. He’d fumbled with the lock, his movements heavy and clumsy, his body screaming for rest. It was 9 PM. He was home. He had tomorrow off. The relief was a physical weight lifting from his shoulders, but it left him hollowed out, raw.
He beelined for the kitchen, his vision tunneling. All he could process was the need for a glass of cold water and the sweet nothingness of the bed. He didn’t see the way you’d straightened up from the couch, your face brightening at his return. He just heard the faucet, felt the cool glass in his hand.
Then he felt your touch. Your hands, gentle and seeking, landed on his biceps, squeezing the rock-hard tension there. Your voice, soft and concerned, cut through the static in his mind.
“Hey… you’re home late. Are you okay? You look so tense,” you murmured, your fingers working at the knotted muscles. “I missed you. Come on, let me help. Do you want me to run a bath? You can just relax…”
It was too much. The touch, the questions, the simple, loving care—it was sandpaper on his exposed nerves. His exhausted, overstimulated brain couldn't translate it as love. It registered it as noise, as pressure, as one more damn thing he had to process.
The glass of water slammed onto the counter, water sloshing over the edge. He recoiled from your touch as if it burned him, twisting around to face you. The look on his face wasn’t just irritation; it was a flash of unchecked, primal anger.
“Would you just back off?” he snarled, his voice a low, venomous whip. “Stop meddling! I don’t need a fuckin’ bath, and I don’t need you clinging to me! I’ve been working my ass off all goddamn day, and I don’t need a whiny bitch adding to the damn noise!”
The words hung in the air, sharp and ugly.
The effect on you was immediate and devastating. It was as if he’d struck you. You physically flinched, your hands flying back to your chest as if shielding your heart. The light in your eyes—the concern, the love—guttered out, replaced by a wound so profound it made your breath catch. You took a stumbling step back, your lower lip trembling.
And in that horrifying instant, the red haze shattered. The anger evaporated, leaving behind a cold, sickening dread that drenched him like a bucket of ice water. He saw what he had done. He saw the hurt he had caused.
“No,” he breathed, the word a choked whisper. All the fight drained out of him, his shoulders slumping. “No, baby, wait—”
But you were already turning away, a single tear tracing a path down your cheek.
“Wait, please,” he begged, his voice cracking. He moved faster than he thought possible, his own exhaustion forgotten in the face of his monumental mistake. He dropped to his knees in front of you, his hands clutching at your hips, his forehead pressing against your stomach. It was a gesture of utter submission, of desperation.
“I’m sorry,” he gasped, his voice muffled against your shirt. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean it. Not a fucking word.” He was trembling, his whole body shaking with the force of his regret. “You’re not… fuck, you could never be that. I’m so sorry, honey. Please.”
He looked up at you, his crimson eyes wide with a terror he’d never felt in a fight. They were bright with unshed tears. “I’m a piece of shit. I’m so fucking sorry, sweetheart. I’m so sorry I took it out on you. I love you. Please, please look at me.”
He was groveling, and he didn’t care. The Pro Hero Dynamight, brought to his knees not by a villain, but by the crushing weight of his own failure to protect the one person who mattered. The fact that his own exhaustion had been the weapon he’d used against you made him sick to his stomach. He would have rather taken a dozen villain hits than see that wounded look in your eyes.
He was prepared to stay there all night, begging, if that’s what it took. He had messed up, and he would move heaven and earth to prove to you that you were his entire world, and that his words were a lie he would spend the rest of his life making up for.
Your heart was a bruised, aching thing in your chest. The shock of his words was a physical wound, and the sight of him on his knees, begging, was a different kind of pain entirely. You were hurt, deeply, but you were not broken. You would not let a man speak to you like that, not even the man you loved more than anything.
You took a slow, shuddering breath, your voice coming out firmer than you felt. "Katsuki. Let go of me."
His grip on your hips tightened, his knuckles white. "No," he pleaded, his voice ragged. "Please. Don't pull away. I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry, baby. I didn't mean it."
"You need to let go," you repeated, your tone leaving no room for argument. "And you need to go cool off. Somewhere else. Right now."
His head snapped up, his eyes wide with a fresh wave of panic. "Cool off? Where? You want me to leave?" The very idea was a terrifying abyss opening up beneath him.
"No," you said, trying to be clear through your own hurt. "I'm not telling you to leave. I'm telling you to go to the bedroom, or the balcony. Just... go cool off. We can't talk like this."
But his brain, fried from exhaustion and now white-hot with fear, couldn't process the nuance. All he heard was the distance you were creating. He shook his head frantically, his hold becoming almost desperate. "I can't. I can't walk away from you. Not after what I said. Please, honey, just let me fix this. I'll do anything. Don't send me away."
Your own frustration began to mix with the hurt. He wasn't listening. He was spiraling, and you needed a moment to breathe, to let the sting of his words fade. "Katsuki, if you won't do it," you said, your voice trembling but resolute, "then I will."
You placed your hands over his, trying to pry his fingers from your hips. It was like trying to bend steel. "Let. Go."
The physical act of you trying to remove his hands was the final trigger. It was the confirmation of his deepest, most illogical fear. In his mind, you weren't just creating space; you were removing him from your life. A broken, choked sob escaped him.
It wasn't a quiet tear. It was a strangled, gut-wrenching sound that seemed to be torn from the very core of his being. A tear, then another, carved hot paths down his cheeks, dripping onto your shirt. He crumpled forward, his forehead pressing hard against your stomach, his whole body shaking with silent, violent sobs.
"I'm sorry," he wept, the words mangled and wet. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Please don't leave me. Don't go. I'll do anything. I'll be better. I'll never... fucking never talk to you like that again. Just please, sweets, please don't leave me."
The sight of Katsuki Bakugou—the strongest man you knew, the unbreakable hero—reduced to a sobbing, terrified mess at your feet, shattered your resolve completely. Your own tears began to fall freely. All you had wanted was a moment of space to collect yourselves. You understood he didn't mean it. You were just shocked, hurt. But his panic had translated your request for a pause into a permanent ending.
Your hands, which had been trying to push him away, now flew to his hair, cradling his head. "Katsuki," you whispered, your voice thick with your own tears. "I'm not leaving you. I would never leave you."
He shook his head against you, not believing. "You were... you were pushing me away..."
"I was trying to get you to breathe!" you cried, stroking his hair. "I was hurt! What you said... it shocked me. But I know you, Katsuki. I know you didn't mean it. I just needed a minute. Just one minute to let the hurt pass."
He finally looked up, his face a mess of tears and anguish. His eyes searched yours, desperate for the truth in your words. "You... you're not leaving?"
"Never," you said, sinking to your own knees so you were level with him. You cupped his wet cheeks in your hands, forcing him to look at you. "I am hurt. And we will talk about this. But I am not going anywhere. You're stuck with me, you idiot."
A shuddering breath wracked his frame. He leaned forward, his forehead resting against yours, his breaths mingling with yours in the small space between you. The storm of his panic began to gradually recede, leaving behind a devastating wreckage of regret and relief.
"I'm so sorry," he whispered again, the words now filled with a weary, profound sorrow. "I love you so much. The thought of you... of losing you because I'm a fucking idiot who can't control his mouth... it makes me want to die."
"You're not an idiot," you murmured, wiping his tears with your thumbs. "You're exhausted. You're human. But you can't ever call me that again. Do you understand?"
He nodded frantically, his eyes squeezing shut. "Never. I swear on my life, never."
You stayed there, on the floor, holding each other for a long time. The anger was gone, replaced by a deep, aching tenderness and the slow, painful beginning of healing. He had made a terrible mistake, but his love for you, and your love for him, was the anchor that would keep you both from drowning in it.
The cool, wooden floor was beginning to seep into your knees, a dull ache that finally pierced the bubble of raw emotion. You shifted slightly, and Katsuki flinched, his grip on you tightening as if you might vanish.
"Hey," you whispered, your voice hoarse from tears. "Let's... let's go to the bedroom. We can't stay on the floor."
He nodded slowly, reluctantly loosening his hold. He rose with you, his movements heavy with exhaustion and remorse. He kept one arm firmly around your waist, a silent anchor, as you both walked the short distance to your bedroom. The world outside the windows was dark, the only light a soft glow from the hallway.
You sat side-by-side on the edge of the bed, not facing each other directly, but angled slightly inward. The space between you was charged, but no longer with anger or panic. It was filled with a fragile, aching tenderness.
You were the first to reach out. Your hand found his, where it rested on his thigh. You laced your fingers through his, feeling the rough calluses and the residual tremble. He turned his hand over, gripping yours back like a lifeline.
"I'm sorry I scared you," you began softly. "When I said I would... when I tried to make you let go. I just... I was so hurt, Katsuki. You rarely raise your voice at me like that. It felt like a stranger was yelling at me."
He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. He couldn't look at you yet, his gaze fixed on your joined hands. "It was a stranger," he rasped. "Some... tired, fucking asshole who doesn't deserve you. I never want to be him again. I never want you to look at me like that again." His thumb stroked the back of your hand, a repetitive, soothing motion. "I should have... fuck, I should have just said I needed quiet. I should have used my words instead of... exploding."
"And I should have seen how far gone you were," you added, your other hand coming up to gently turn his face towards yours. His eyes were red-rimmed, vulnerable. "I was so happy you were home, I just wanted to take care of you. I didn't realize I was crowding you when you needed space."
"It's not an excuse," he stated firmly, his gaze finally locking with yours. There was a fierce determination there, a vow. "There is no excuse for what I said. But... we need a signal. Or something. For when I'm like that. So I don't... so I can't..." He couldn't finish the sentence.
"A signal," you repeated, nodding. "Okay. That's a good idea. Something simple. So we both know to pause."
The conversation was a balm, slowly stitching the tear in your trust. The touching became more deliberate, more healing. Your hand moved from his jaw to his hair, combing through the spiky strands. His free hand came up to cradle your cheek, his thumb stroking away the last traces of your tears.
"We'll figure it out," you whispered, leaning into his touch. "Together."
The look in his eyes shifted then, from pained regret to a deep, overwhelming surge of love and gratitude. The verbal bridge had been built. Now, words were no longer enough.
"Together," he breathed, the word a vow.
He leaned in, and the first kiss was not hungry or passionate. It was soft. A question. A gentle pressing of lips, a silent apology and acceptance all at once. It was sweet, and heartbreaking, and full of so much unspoken emotion that it made your chest ache.
When he pulled back, only an inch, his eyes searched yours. You answered by closing the distance again.
This kiss was different. It was deeper, more desperate. It was a confirmation of survival. His arms wrapped around you, pulling you flush against his chest, and you melted into him. The careful caresses became more urgent. Your hands ran down his back, feeling the powerful muscles shift under his shirt. His hands moved from your face, down your spine, pulling you even closer as if he could fuse you into one being.
You were lying back on the bed now, him half over you, supported on one elbow. The kisses grew hungrier, more insistent. Tongues met, not in a battle, but in a frantic, grateful reunion. The emotional intimacy was igniting a physical one, a natural, desperate need to reconnect in the most fundamental way possible.
His hips settled against yours, and you could feel the hard ridge of his erection through his pants, pressing against your core. It wasn't an aggressive grind at first; it was a slow, rhythmic rocking, a physical echo of the words you'd just spoken. A silent communication that said, I'm here. You're here. We're okay.
The air filled with the sound of ragged breaths, soft moans, and the rustle of clothing. It was a slow burn, not of lust, but of love reforged in the aftermath of a storm. Every touch, every kiss, was a promise to do better, to be better, to never take this—each other—for granted again.
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cw: mdni, nsfw, bakugou x fem pro hero reader, post-mission care, showering together, body worship, oral, cunnilingus, p in v, creampie, gentle, emotional intimacy
The shift had been brutal. A chemical plant incident that had required a delicate, exhausting combination of your Quirks—his explosions for precise demolitions of compromised structures, your blue flames to incinerate the toxic leaks without igniting the whole facility. You were both covered in grime, sweat, and the acrid stench of chemicals. The ride back to his apartment was silent, a heavy fatigue settling over you both.
You were leaning against the passenger window, your usually pristine posture slouched with exhaustion. Your eyes were half-lidded, staring out at the passing city lights without really seeing them. There was no sharp remark, no analytical debrief. Just quiet depletion.
Katsuki stole glances at you. This wasn't the fire-and-brimstone hero he usually sparred with, or the brilliantly sharp-tongued strategist. This was just you. Stripped bare by fatigue, vulnerable in a way you never allowed yourself to be in the light of day. And something in his chest, a part he kept locked down tighter than any villain, tightened painfully.
He didn't say a word when you got inside. He just took your gear bag from your shoulder and dropped it next to his by the door. The usual post-mission adrenaline was absent, replaced by a deep, weary ache. He expected you to head straight for the shower, to begin the process of rebuilding your composure.
But you didn't. You just stood in the middle of his living room, looking lost.
"Come on," he grunted, his voice softer than he intended. He gently took your elbow and guided you toward the bathroom.
He started the shower, testing the water until it was hot, steam beginning to fog the mirrors. He began undressing you with a practicality that held no lust, only a quiet, fierce need to take care of you. He unbuckled your utility belt, unzipped your soiled hero suit, peeling the fabric from your skin. You were pliant, letting him move your arms, stepping out of the legs of the suit. He did the same for himself, shedding the layers of the day's fight.
Under the spray, the grime and stench began to wash away. He picked up a washcloth and soap, and with a reverence that would have shocked anyone who knew him, he began to wash you. He started with your back, working the lather over the tense muscles of your shoulders, down the elegant line of your spine. His touch was firm but careful, methodical. He washed your arms, your stomach, your legs. When he moved to your front, you finally looked at him, your eyes clear now, searching his face.
He met your gaze, his own red eyes uncharacteristically calm. There were no teasing words, no filthy promises. Just silent acknowledgment. He washed your breasts, your neck, your face, wiping away the last traces of the battle. He even carefully soaped your hair, massaging your scalp until you let out a soft, almost imperceptible sigh and leaned into his hands.
This was the worship. Not with words, but with action. The temple was your body, strained and weary from protecting others, and he was tending to it.
When you were both clean, he turned off the water and wrapped you in a large, fluffy towel, doing the same for himself. He led you to his bed, the sheets cool and clean. You sat on the edge, and he fetched another towel to gently dry your hair, the strands slipping through his fingers like silk.
He pushed you back onto the pillows, and you went without resistance. The towel fell away. The steam from the bathroom had left a warm flush on your skin. In the dim light of the bedroom, you looked ethereal. Not a weapon, not a hero. Just a woman. His woman.
And his worship began anew.
He started with your feet, his hands kneading the arches, his thumbs pressing into the soles. He heard your breath hitch. He massaged up your calves, your toned thighs, working out the deep-seated tension. His hands were calloused and strong, but his touch was infinitely patient. He kissed the inside of your knee, a soft press of his lips.
He moved over you, bracketing your body with his arms. His eyes drank you in—the curve of your hip, the plane of your stomach, the rise and fall of your chest. He leaned down and began to trail kisses up your torso. Not hungry, devouring bites, but slow, open-mouthed kisses that tasted of clean skin and shared warmth. He worshiped at the altar of your navel, the undersides of your breasts, the sensitive spot at the base of your throat.
"Katsuki..." you whispered, your voice a shaky exhalation. It wasn't a plea for more, or a challenge. It was a recognition. An acceptance of this sacred space he was creating for you.
He finally took a nipple into his mouth, sucking gently, his tongue circling the peak until it was hard and pebbled. He gave the same attention to the other, his hand cupping and weighing your breast. He was building a different kind of fire now, a slow, smoldering heat that started in the depths of your belly and began to spread.
His journey downward was a ritual. He kissed a path over your hip bone, down the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. He nudged your legs apart, and you opened for him without a hint of your usual defiance. You were offering yourself to his devotion.
When his mouth found your cunt, it was with the same reverent intensity. He didn't ravage; he savored. His tongue explored your folds with agonizing slowness, learning every contour, every hidden sensitive spot. He licked into you, tasting your clean, essential flavor. He focused on your clit, sucking it gently, flicking it with the tip of his tongue, building the pressure so gradually it was almost torture.
Your hands came up to tangle in his damp hair, not to guide him, but to hold on. Soft, broken sounds were falling from your lips—little moans, his name. The intelligent, analytical part of your mind was peacefully silent, lost in the sensation he was weaving around you.
When you came, it was not a wild, shattering explosion, but a deep, pulsing wave that rolled through your entire body. You arched off the bed with a low, throaty cry, your thighs trembling around his head.
He rose above you, his own need a hard, demanding ache. But his movements were still slow, controlled. He guided his cock to your entrance, slick from your release and his attentions. He pushed inside in one smooth, deep stroke, burying himself to the hilt. You both groaned at the feeling of complete fullness.
He began to move, a steady, rocking rhythm that was about connection far more than conquest. He held your gaze, his red eyes burning with an emotion too vast to name. He leaned down to kiss you, a deep, soulful kiss as his hips continued their timeless cadence.
This tenderness, this worship, was its own kind of power. It was the foundation that made those more frantic, brutal couplings so potent. He was showing you that he saw all of you—the warrior, the genius, the weary woman—and he cherished every part.
But, as always with the two of you, the gentle pressure eventually had to break.
The slow, deep thrusts began to stoke the embers back into a blaze. His control started to fray at the edges. Your calm moans became more urgent, your nails digging into his back. The worship became a possession again.
"Fuck, baby..." he grunted, his pace quickening, becoming harder, more primal.
"Yes... right there, please," you begged, your head thrashing side to side, the last vestiges of tranquility burning away in the rising inferno.
He drove into you, now with the familiar, desperate intensity you both craved. The temple was sanctified, and now it was time for the offering. He chased his release, pounding into you until your second, much louder cry echoed his own guttural roar as he spilled inside you, his body shuddering with the force of it.
He collapsed onto you, breathing heavily. For a long time, you just lay there, tangled together, skin to skin. He nuzzled into the crook of your neck, pressing a final, soft kiss there.
He would never say it out loud. But in the quiet aftermath, as he held the most formidable person he knew—clean, sated, and peacefully quiet in his arms—he knew it with every fiber of his being. He'd carve your statue a thousand times over. But this, right here, was the only worship that truly mattered.
-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈
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cw: mdni, nsfw, semi-public sex, mirror sex, fingering, p in v, creampie, mild degradation, hair pulling, possessive behavior
You'd been out for hours, and Katsuki hadn't made a single complaint. Which, honestly, was shocking.
Usually he was quick to bark if something annoyed him. But today? He was on his best behavior—or rather, his spoiling-you-rotten behavior.
Every time you stopped in front of a store window, he immediately clocked it. The way your steps faltered, the way your eyes lingered on something shiny, delicate, or pretty. He didn't even give you a chance to say I'm just looking before his hand was already on your lower back, steering you inside.
And once inside, you barely had time to browse before he was shoving things into your arms, making you pick sizes. When you tried to argue—"I wasn't planning on buying anything, Kats"—he gave you the sharpest side-eye, swiped the items from you, and marched them straight to the register. Card out. No hesitation.
By the third store, you stopped trying to fight him.
He carried all the bags, too—designer totes dangling from both arms, tissue paper puffing out like clouds. He wouldn't let you hold even one, not when his grip dwarfed the thin handles so easily. He looked every bit the picture of irritation, jaw tight, shoulders tense, but you knew better. If he really hated it, he wouldn't be doing it.
The little huffs, the muttered "damn extras in the way" as he maneuvered you through crowds, the scowl that deepened when you tried to thank him—yeah, that was just him. The fact that he was willingly trailing after you for hours, loaded with shopping bags, and buying you whatever you glanced at? That said more than any "you're welcome" ever could.
When you passed a boutique with velvet curtains and mannequins draped in lace lingerie, you instinctively slowed.
The display was soft and elegant: pale silk sets paired with thin satin robes, sheer lace in blush, black, and cream. You lingered by the window, admiring the embroidery, the way the light caught on delicate details.
You didn't even realize Katsuki had stopped until you felt his hand press against your back.
"Go," he said simply, chin jerking toward the entrance.
Your head whipped toward him. "What? I wasn't—I was just looking."
"Didn't ask," he cut in, already nudging you through the glass door.
The store smelled faintly of vanilla and roses. The lighting was soft, golden, the kind of glow that made everything look more expensive than it already was. Racks of silk and lace hung neatly, and mirrors glinted faintly from the corners.
You wandered between them, fingertips brushing delicate straps and smooth fabric. You hummed lightly under your breath, caught between curiosity and guilt.
"I'm just browsing," you repeated, as if reminding yourself. "I wasn't planning to buy anything."
Katsuki's voice was low and steady behind you. "Pick a few. Try 'em on. If you like 'em, I'll pay."
You turned, a small smile tugging at your lips, half teasing. "You're serious?"
He gave you a look that was all sharp edges and certainty. "You think I'm gonna let you look at this shit and not walk out with it?"
Your face warmed despite yourself. With a little shrug, you reached for a black lace set first, delicate and strappy. Then a soft blush one, embroidered with floral patterns. You hesitated at the third before grabbing it too—a deep burgundy, sheer cups with thin ribbon ties.
An attendant appeared, polite smile in place, and led you toward the dressing rooms. Heavy velvet curtains instead of doors, a little more private, a little more luxurious.
You stepped inside, turning to hang the sets on the hooks. You expected Katsuki to wait outside, maybe lean against the wall with his arms full of bags like he usually did.
Instead, he followed.
The attendant blinked, clearly about to object, but froze when he pinned her with a glare sharp enough to kill. You didn't stop him either—you knew better. He slipped in after you, pulling the curtain closed with one hand.
The space was bigger than a typical stall: mirrored walls, a plush bench, enough room for two people to move comfortably. The air felt warmer already.
You laughed lightly, shaking your head. "You could've waited outside, you know."
"You'd just call me in anyway," he said simply, leaning back against the wall. His arms crossed over his chest, bags set neatly on the bench, eyes already fixed on you.
You rolled your eyes but didn't push it. He wasn't wrong.
Reaching for the black lace set first, you slipped your shirt over your head and tossed it onto the bench. Katsuki's gaze in the mirror was heavy, tracking your movements like a predator. Your skirt came next, sliding down your hips until it pooled around your ankles.
You stood in just your panties, back straight, eyes on your reflection.
Katsuki didn't move. Didn't speak. But the air around him thickened, and you could feel the weight of his stare even without looking.
Slowly, you hooked your fingers into your waistband and slid your panties down too. The thin fabric fell soundlessly onto the pile of clothes at your feet.
You picked up the bra, delicate lace dangling from your fingertips, and lifted it against your chest, trying to adjust the straps over your shoulders.
That's when Katsuki finally spoke.
"Don't put it on yet." His voice was gravel and heat, low and unhurried.
You froze with the straps in your hands, the black lace resting against your chest. In the mirror, you met his eyes—dark, steady, seated in pure control even without lifting a finger.
You let the fabric fall from your hands, the bra dropping lightly onto the bench beside the other sets. Katsuki didn't move from where he stood, arms still crossed, broad shoulders relaxed like he could stay there all damn day just watching.
"Turn around," he said, calm like he was asking you to pass the salt.
You did—slowly, bare feet silent on the floor, body fully exposed under the soft boutique lighting. His gaze followed the movement like heat trailing over skin.
He didn't reach for you. Just looked.
From your collarbone, down the curve of your breasts, over the dip of your waist, the swell of your hips, the subtle twitch of your thighs as you held still. He dragged his eyes over every inch of you like he was memorizing it—or reminding you whose you were.
After a moment, he nodded once toward the first set.
"Put the bra on. But don't fasten it."
You swallowed and obeyed, lifting the lace back to your chest and slipping the straps over your shoulders. It hung open in the back, barely clinging to you. You reached behind to clasp it out of habit, but his voice cut in again.
"Ah-ah." Sharp enough to stop your hands mid-reach. "Leave it."
Your arms dropped to your sides.
He pushed himself off the wall finally, slow steps closing the space between you. He didn't touch you yet—just circled you, his reflection still visible in the mirror over your shoulder.
His voice was quiet, but close enough that you felt it ghost across your spine. "Pick up the bottoms."
You bent down to grab them, and he didn't bother hiding the way his eyes dropped to watch the motion. You stepped into the lace, pulling it up over your thighs and hips, settling the thin band into place. The set looked delicate against your skin, barely there.
You turned slightly to face the mirror again.
Katsuki stood just behind you now—close enough for his breath to fan the back of your neck but not close enough to touch. One hand lifted, fingers grazing the end of the dangling bra clasp but not fastening it.
"Look at yourself," he murmured.
Your eyes met your own reflection.
"You were just gonna try these on alone?" he asked, voice low and almost mocking in amusement. "Come out and ask me after?"
You didn't answer.
He leaned in, lips near your ear. "You know damn well you're not puttin' on shit like this without showin' me first."
His hand finally settled on your hip—warm and firm, thumb stroking once before stilling.
"But I'm not done lookin' yet."
Katsuki let his hand rest there a moment longer, thumb dragging along the lace like he was testing the quality. Then he gave a light tap against your thigh.
"Take it off."
No heat in the tone—just command. You didn't argue. You slid the panties down first, stepping out of them carefully, then slipped the bra straps off your shoulders and let the set join the pile on the bench.
He didn't help. He just watched.
When you reached for the second set—the blush lace one—he tipped his chin toward the bench.
"Not that one. The other."
You knew which one he meant.
The deep burgundy set. The one with the sheer cups and fine lace detailing like watercolor on skin. Thinner straps. Softer fabric. Less forgiving. More revealing.
You picked it up, and even the way his eyes tracked the movement felt heavy.
You stepped into the panties first, pulling them up slowly. The lace hugged your hips perfectly, the front panel mostly sheer, just patterned enough to tease. Katsuki's jaw flexed.
Then you lifted the matching bra—if you could call it that. The cups were nearly transparent, lace tracing the edges and leaving the center of each breast exposed to the light.
You slid the straps over your shoulders, the material molding to your chest, but didn't fasten it until he gave the nod.
He didn't nod.
He didn't say anything.
He just stared at your reflection like he'd gone still on purpose.
The silence stretched, thick and charged. You shifted slightly, the unfastened cups shifting with you, nipples faintly visible through the fabric. Katsuki's gaze dropped to your chest, slow and hungry, then dragged back up to meet your eyes in the mirror.
This time he stepped closer—close enough that his chest nearly brushed your back, close enough that you could see the faint rise and fall of his breath in the reflection.
His voice was rougher when he finally spoke.
"Turn around."
You did, bare feet silent against the carpet. The bra was still hanging open down your back, loose against your skin.
Katsuki's eyes swept from your face down to your thighs and back up again, slower this time. Like he was deciding something.
One hand came up, fingers hooking the back clasp of the bra—but instead of fastening it, he let it fall open even more, sliding the straps off your shoulders so it dropped to your waist.
His other hand lifted to trace the top edge of the lace on your panties, knuckle brushing skin at your hip. He didn't push lower, didn't squeeze—just touched, deliberate and claiming.
His voice dropped to something darker. "Now this…"
He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to.
His eyes said the rest.
Katsuki's thumb dragged slow along the lace at your hip, like he was testing how much longer his patience would hold.
Answer: it didn't.
Without warning, he grabbed the loose bra and tossed it aside, letting it fall somewhere near the bench. His hand came up to cup your breast fully, skin to skin now that the fabric was gone. His palm was hot, fingers rough as they closed around you like he owned every inch of you—and he did.
A low sound rumbled in his chest. "You're walkin' around in shit like this and think I'm just gonna look?"
You opened your mouth to say something smart, but he didn't give you the chance. His other hand slid around your stomach, pulling you back against him until your spine met the solid heat of his chest. His breath hit your ear, uneven and heavy, and you could see his expression in the mirror over your shoulder—eyes dark, jaw tight, restraint crumbling by the second.
His hand on your breast squeezed once, thumb brushing over your nipple with intention. The lace panties sat high on your hips, thin enough that he could feel the heat through them when his fingers moved lower.
Two fingers dragged along the front of the panties—slow, then firmer—pressing the fabric against you just to see you shiver. He watched in the mirror as your thighs pressed together instinctively.
"Nah," he muttered, nudging your feet apart with his leg. "Keep 'em open."
You obeyed, breath catching when his hand slipped between your legs again. This time, his fingers pushed the lace aside, knuckles brushing bare skin.
The first touch was light. Testing. The second was deliberate.
His fingers slid through your slick slowly, like he was confirming what he already knew. His voice came out rough.
"You were wet in the first set too, weren't you?"
You didn't answer.
He didn't need you to—he pressed his fingers against you again, slow, dragging the sound out of your throat.
"Look at yourself." His tone sharpened.
You met his eyes in the mirror—your chest bare, his hand between your thighs, your mouth parted and cheeks flushed. He looked like he'd been starving for this all afternoon, and just now realized how much.
He kissed the side of your neck—open-mouthed, biting just enough to make you gasp—then growled against your skin, "I'm buyin' every fuckin' thing you try on. And I'm ruining this one first."
His fingers slipped inside you.
Not teasing. Not testing. Claiming.
Filling you so suddenly your knees buckled, and he had to tighten his arm around your waist to hold you upright.
"Already drippin' all over me," he muttered into your ear, teeth grazing the shell. His tone was low, smug, but thick with hunger.
Your breath stuttered as he set a steady rhythm, dragging in and out of you with rough precision, curling his fingers just right until your whole body jolted against him.
"K-Katsuki—"
"Shh. Just feel it. Don't wanna get caught now, do we?" He pressed his thumb against your clit, rubbing circles that made you gasp. In the mirror, you saw yourself writhing against him—hair falling forward, chest flushed, panties pushed aside and doing nothing to hide how his fingers disappeared inside you.
He was watching too. He didn't even blink, eyes locked on your reflection falling apart in his grip.
"Look at you," he rasped. "So fuckin' pretty when you're comin' apart on my hand."
It didn't take long. His fingers knew every angle, every rhythm that undid you. You gripped his forearm, moaning against his shoulder as the heat coiled sharp and fast inside your belly until it snapped.
Your body shuddered, thighs trembling as you came hard around his fingers, clenching tight. Katsuki didn't let up until he dragged every wave out of you, your voice breaking on his name.
By the time he pulled his hand away, your head was tipped back against his chest, breathing ragged, eyes glassy in the mirror.
He smirked, licking your slick off his fingers without shame. "Pathetic. You're gone from just that?"
You whined, weakly shaking your head, but your hips pressed back against him anyway—seeking more.
His tone shifted, darker, deliberate. "You want my cock now, don't you?"
"Yes—"
"You want me to fuck you right here in this dressing room," he murmured against your throat, voice gravel and smoke, "or are you gonna be a good girl and wait 'til we're home?"
Your breath hitched, body twitching with need, and for a second you tried to find words—but you were too far gone, pupils blown wide, lips parted.
"Katsuki… please…" Your voice cracked, desperation bleeding through. "I can't… I can't take it anymore."
He tsked softly, hand gripping your jaw and turning your face toward the mirror so you had to look at him. "Not good enough. Use your words."
You whimpered, thighs pressing together, then forced the words out. "I want you to fuck me. Right now. Please, Katsuki."
The growl that tore from his chest was feral.
He spun you to face the mirror, kicked your legs apart, and yanked your panties down to your knees. His belt hit the floor with a sharp clink, and his cock was out before you even caught your breath.
"Good girl," he muttered darkly, lining himself up and pushing the blunt head against your soaked entrance. "Now take it."
He buried himself inside you in one hard, claiming thrust that knocked the air from your lungs.
Katsuki didn't ease you in—he shoved deep, hips slamming flush against your ass, forcing a broken cry out of your throat. The mirror rattled faintly with the impact. His chest pressed against your back, hot and solid, his grip biting into your hips like he had no intention of letting go.
"Fuck," he growled, forehead pressed to the curve of your neck. "You're so wet it's disgusting."
Your hands scrabbled against the glass, searching for balance as he set a brutal rhythm—hips snapping forward, pushing your body flush into the mirror with each thrust. The cool glass against your chest and stomach contrasted with the molten heat burning through your veins.
Your reflection stared back: flushed face, lips parted, eyes blown wide. Katsuki caught your gaze in the mirror, teeth bared in something between a smirk and a snarl.
"Look at you," he rasped, hand sliding from your hip up to your throat. He tightened just enough to tilt your chin higher, forcing you to see yourself. "Don't fucking close your eyes."
A moan spilled out as he thrust deeper, angling up until you almost folded.
"Katsuki—!"
"That's right. Say my name. Say who's makin' you this fucked out."
Your knees buckled, and he caught you easily, pressing you harder into the mirror. His hand left your throat to fist in your hair, tugging your head back just enough to expose your neck.
"You wanted this here, didn't you? Couldn't wait like a good girl?" His voice was a growl, hips still driving into you relentlessly. "Had to get fucked where anyone could hear if they walk by."
"Katsuki… please—"
"You're lucky I want you just as bad," he snapped, releasing your hair to flatten his hand against the small of your back, bending you slightly forward. "You gonna come again for me? Right here, where you can't look anywhere but at yourself gettin' ruined?"
You nodded frantically, tears threatening at the corners of your eyes.
"Use your words." His thrusts slowed, punishingly deep, making you whimper.
The sound he made was pure satisfaction. His hand left your back to grip your hip hard, pulling you into every thrust until your body shook.
"Good fucking girl."
His pace turned ruthless, every thrust hitting so deep your breath came out in broken sounds. His hand slid down between your thighs, two fingers finding your clit and circling with firm, unrelenting pressure.
"Come on, baby. Make a mess on my cock."
Your vision blurred. The pressure snapped so hard your knees buckled, your cry muffled against the back of your hand as you came—shaking, clenching around him, your slick dripping down the inside of your thighs.
Katsuki groaned, the sound low and feral. "Fuck—look at that. Drippin' all over the floor, dirty girl."
He didn't stop. He held you steady, thrusting into you through it, using the aftershocks to fuck deeper, harder.
"Katsuki—too much—" you gasped, nails scraping the mirror.
"You can take it."
His voice was tense now, breath uneven, muscles drawn tight. He grabbed your hair again, pulling you up just enough so your reflections lined up perfectly. His hips snapped into you, brutal and hungry, chasing his end with no attempt to hold back.
"You didn't wanna wait 'til we got home, remember?" he rasped against your neck. "Don't tell me I fucked you stupid and you forgot already."
You shook your head, barely able to breathe between moans.
"That's right," he growled, one hand sliding up to wrap around your throat. "'Cause you're not fucking leaving this room until I fill you."
He slammed into you one last time—deep, burying himself to the hilt—and his breath caught in his throat. His grip tightened at your hip as he spilled inside you, heat flooding deep, his groan rough and ragged right against your ear.
You stayed like that for a long second—his forehead pressed to your shoulder blade, your chest heaving against the glass, both of you panting.
Finally, he pulled back just enough to look at the mirror again—at the foggy glass, the flushed skin, the streaks of moisture, the mess between your legs.
Then he bent down and murmured into your ear, voice still dark and thick:
"We're buying and you're wearing this set out of the store."
And there was no room for argument.
-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈
⊹₊⋆ likes, reblogs, replies, and follows are appreciated!
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Have you ever thought about Bakugou being completely feral for a woman who's just as much of an arrogant, stubborn brat as he is? Like, his exact female counterpart?
Because honestly, if you're that woman, he'd be so crazy over you. He spoils you absolutely rotten, sure, but you don't just quietly accept it. You'll demand the more expensive version, or roll your eyes and say, "You bought the wrong color, Katsuki. Do I look like I would wear that?" while you're wearing the necklace he just bought. And instead of getting mad, he just scoffs, mutters, "Greedy fucking brat," and immediately takes you back to the store. That friction gets him rock hard. He doesn't want someone who just lies back and quietly takes whatever he gives.
He wants a fight. When you're bratting off at the mouth, talking back, and making him earn every single touch instead of just handing it over—that's his favorite kind of foreplay. Brat-taming with him isn't about breaking your spirit; it's a physical wrestling match of wills. He pins you down, you buck against him, you bite his shoulder until he hisses and yanks your hair to pull you off. You'll look right up at him and smirk, "Is that all you got? Getting slow in your old age, Kats?" And his eyes just darken with this feral, hungry glare before he growls, "Say that again and see what happens."
It's a messy, aggressive clash of two people who refuse to yield, and the fact that you make him work for every inch of you is exactly what keeps him coming back. He loves the struggle, making him grip your hips so hard it leaves bruises just to hold you still long enough to fuck you.
And here's the kicker—he's not obsessed with always being the one in control. He gets off on the power struggle, not just his power.
When you get fed up with his teasing and just shove him flat on his back? When you climb on top of him, pin his wrists over his head, and sink down onto his cock exactly how you want, at the brutal pace you want? He is in absolute heaven. If he tries to buck his hips up to take over, you immediately slam your hand on his chest, glaring down at him. "Did I say you could move?" you snap. And the sound he makes—this gravelly, frustrated groan—is pure arousal. "Fucking bossy," he mutters, but he stops moving, letting you ride him exactly how you want. He loves watching you be greedy and selfish with his body, using him like a toy because you're just as insatiable as he is. He gets off on watching you chase your own orgasm, grinding your hips down hard enough to make him swear under his breath, making him fight every instinct to flip you over and take over.
He wants an equal. He wants someone who will tell him to shut the fuck up and ride him until he's the one whining your name. When you finally let him finish, he'll pant against your throat, "You're a goddamn nightmare." And you just grin, kissing his jaw, "Yeah, but you love it." For a guy whose whole life is about conquering, there's nothing more intoxicating than a woman who conquers him right back.
-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈
⊹₊⋆ likes, reblogs, replies, and follows are appreciated!
⊹₊⋆ if it could help me write better, please don't be shy to let me know!
⊹₊⋆ requests are open for now!
guys if you're interested in my other works and looking to commission a personalized fics, please check below:
Bakugou taking care of you after Pap Smear - Fluff
The clinic door opens with a soft chime, and you emerge, your face a thundercloud of irritation. Bakugou, who's been slumped in one of the ridiculously uncomfortable waiting room chairs, straightens immediately, his phone forgotten in his hand.
"Took you fuckin' long enough," he says, but there's no bite to it. His eyes are scanning your face, assessing.
"Shut up," you snap, walking past him toward the exit. "My vagina feels like it's been inspected by a crime scene unit."
He follows, falling into step beside you. "That bad, huh?"
"They used that duck-billed thing of Satan," you grumble, pushing the clinic door open with more force than necessary. "Then the Q-tip that felt like it was scraping my cervix for DNA samples. I swear I could feel them tickling my kidneys."
Bakugou's lips twitch, but he wisely suppresses the smile. "Sounds like a blast."
"Oh, it was," you say sarcastically as you head toward the parking garage. "Nothing says 'good morning' like having your feet in stirrups while someone asks about your sexual history with their hand inside you."
"At least you're all clear, right?" he asks, pressing the button for the elevator.
"Yeah, 'all clear' and 'slightly violated'," you mutter, stepping inside the elevator. "I need food. And painkillers. And maybe a new vagina. This one's been compromised."
He snorts at that. "Pretty sure that's not how it works. Plus, I like this vagina."
"Well, it should be," you grumble as the elevator descends. "They should give you a voucher for a spa day or something after. 'Thanks for letting us invade your cervix, here's a complimentary massage.'"
"I'll give you a massage when we get home," he offers, his hand finding the small of your back. "No weird duck bills involved."
"You say the sweetest things," you deadpan, leaning into his touch despite your foul mood. "But if you try to put anything inside me for the next 24 hours, I'm setting your hands on fire."
"Deal," he agrees immediately. "No penetration. Just external stuff."
The elevator doors open, and you head toward his car. "I might bleed a little," you warn as he unlocks the doors. "They said that's normal."
He freezes with his hand on the driver's side door. "What? Bleed? Like how much?"
"Relax, explosion boy," you sigh, sliding into the passenger seat. "Just spotting. Not like I'm hemorrhaging or anything."
"That's not fucking reassuring," he mutters, starting the car. "Why didn't they tell me that when I asked what to expect?"
"Because HIPAA or whatever," you reply, buckling your seatbelt. "They can't discuss my cervix with you without my permission."
"They should make an exception for concerned partners who might set the waiting room on fire with anxiety," he grumbles, pulling out of the parking spot.
You can't help but smile at that. "You were anxious? A bit dramatic."
"Of course I was fucking anxious," he snaps, glancing at you before focusing back on the road. "It's a medical procedure. They're poking around in there with metal shit. And I know how you are with doctors."
"I'm fine with doctors," you protest weakly.
"No, you're not," he counters. "You white-knuckled my hand so hard during your last flu shot I thought you were going to break it."
"That was different," you mumble, sinking lower in your seat.
"Yeah, well, next time I'm going in with you," he declares, changing lanes. "I don't care what HIPAA says."
"They'd never allow that," you say, though the thought is oddly comforting. "It's a private examination."
"Then I'll become a gynecologist," he retorts. "How hard can it be? Look at vaginas, tell people they're healthy, go home."
"I'm pretty sure there's more to it than that," you laugh, the tension finally beginning to ease. "And I'd rather you didn't look at other vaginas all day, professional or not."
He smirks at that. "Just yours then?"
"Just mine," you confirm, reaching over to rest your hand on his thigh. "But if you start calling it 'my vagina' in a clinical voice, I'm breaking up with you."
"Noted," he says, covering your hand with his. "So what do you want to eat? My treat for being a trooper. We can hit that burger joint you love."
The thought of sitting in a noisy restaurant, surrounded by people, suddenly feels exhausting. "Actually," you say, "can we just go home? I don't want to be around people right now. I just want to collapse on the couch and not move for a week."
Bakugou glances at you, his expression softening. "Yeah, of course. Home it is. What do you want me to make you?"
"You don't have to cook," you protest weakly. "We can order something."
"No way," he shakes his head firmly. "You're not eating takeout after what you've been through. I'm making you something. How about that creamy mushroom soup you like?"
Your stomach rumbles at the thought. "God, yes. That sounds perfect."
"Okay," he nods, taking a different turn toward home. "And then I'm giving you that massage I promised."
"You're too good to me," you murmur, leaning your head against the window.
"Nah," he disagrees. "Just taking care of what's mine."
When you arrive home, he helps you out of the car, his arm steady around your waist. "Easy does it," he says as you wince slightly while walking. "Don't want to aggravate the traumatized cervix."
"You're never going to let that go, are you?" you ask with a small smile.
"Not a chance," he grins, unlocking the front door. "Now go change into your comfiest pajamas while I get started on that soup."
You do as he says, changing into a soft fleece set that feels like being hugged by a cloud. When you emerge, the delicious aroma of cooking mushrooms and garlic fills the apartment. Bakugou is standing at the stove, stirring something in a pot, wearing one of your aprons over his clothes.
"Need any help?" you ask, leaning against the doorframe.
"Nope," he says without turning around. "Go lie down on the couch and look pretty. I'll bring it to you when it's ready."
"You don't have to serve me," you protest weakly.
"I want to," he insists, finally turning to face you. "Now go. Before I pick you up and carry you there."
You raise your hands in surrender. "Alright, alright. I'm going."
The couch is as comfortable as you remembered, and you sink into it with a grateful sigh. Within minutes, Bakugou appears with a tray containing a steaming bowl of soup, a glass of water, and a small plate of crackers.
"Careful, it's hot," he warns, setting the tray on the coffee table. "Do you want me to help you sit up?"
"I can manage," you say, pushing yourself into a sitting position. "But thanks."
He watches as you take the first spoonful, his expression anxious. "How is it?"
"Perfect," you murmur around a mouthful of creamy, earthy goodness. "You're a god among cooks."
"I try," he shrugs, sitting beside you. "Eat as much as you want. No pressure to finish it if you're not feeling up to it."
You eat in comfortable silence for a while, the warmth of the soup spreading through your body and easing some of the tension. Bakugou just sits there, occasionally adjusting your blanket or refilling your water glass.
"This is really nice," you say when you're about halfway through the bowl. "Thank you for taking care of me."
"Always," he says simply, taking your bowl and setting it back on the tray. "Now let's give it a bit before that massage. Don't want you cramping up right after eating."
He settles back on the couch, pulling you gently against his side. You rest your head on his shoulder, your body molding to his. His arm wraps around you, his hand resting on your hip.
"Better?" he asks, his voice a low rumble against your ear.
"Mmm," you hum contentedly. "Much."
His free hand comes up to stroke your hair, fingers gently combing through the strands. "You did good today," he says quietly. "I know that shit isn't easy."
"It wasn't so bad," you lie, nuzzling closer. "Not with you waiting for me."
"Always," he repeats, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. It's not his usual rough, demanding kiss, but something gentler, more tender.
Another kiss follows, this one to your cheek, then your jaw. They're light, almost tentative, as if he's afraid of breaking you. When he reaches your lips, it's just a brush of his mouth against yours, soft and questioning.
You turn your head slightly to deepen the kiss, and he responds immediately, his lips parting slightly. It's still gentle, but with more purpose now, more reassurance. His tongue traces your lower lip before retreating, leaving you wanting more.
"Katsuki," you breathe against his mouth, the name a quiet plea.
He pulls back just enough to look at you, his crimson eyes dark with concern. "Too much?"
"No," you whisper, shaking your head. "Never."
A low growl rumbles in his chest as he leans in again, capturing your lips with more confidence this time. His hand slides from your hip to the small of your back, pressing you closer without being demanding. The kiss deepens, slow and thorough, tasting of comfort and home.
When he finally breaks away, both of you are breathing a little heavier. He rests his forehead against yours, his thumb stroking your cheek.
"Okay," he murmurs, his voice rough. "Massage time. Before I forget my promise."
He helps you shift positions until you're lying face down on the couch, your head resting on a pillow. You hear him move away briefly, returning with a bottle of massage oil. The cap clicks open, and then his warm, oil-slicked hands are on your shoulders.
You can't suppress a groan as his strong fingers work into the knotted muscles of your neck and shoulders. "God, that's good."
"Told you," he says, his voice laced with satisfaction. "Just relax."
He works in silence for several minutes, his touch firm and knowing. He finds every spot of tension and coaxes it loose with a practiced ease that always surprises you. His hands move down your spine, careful and respectful, avoiding the area that's still tender from the exam.
"You're really good at this," you mumble into the pillow, your body melting into the cushions.
"Tch. Of course I am," he scoffs, but there's no real arrogance in it. "I pay attention."
His hands slide lower, working the tension from your lower back. The pressure is perfect, and you feel the last of the day's stress bleeding out of you under his touch.
"Turn over," he says softly, helping you flip onto your back.
His expression is focused as he looks down at you, his gaze sweeping over your face. He doesn't move to continue the massage immediately. Instead, he brushes a stray strand of hair from your forehead, his touch impossibly gentle.
"You're beautiful," he says, the words gruff but sincere.
A warmth that has nothing to do with the massage oil spreads through your chest. "Even after my vagina's been 'compromised'?"
"Especially after," he says, a smirk tugging at his lips. "You're tough. I like that."
His hands return to your shoulders, moving to the front now. His thumbs press gentle circles into your collarbones, then down your arms. When he reaches your hands, he takes them in his, massaging each finger with careful attention.
"You don't have to—" you start to say, but he cuts you off.
"I want to," he insists, his gaze locking with yours. "Every part of you."
He continues his ministrations, moving to your legs and feet. By the time he's finished, you're boneless and relaxed, floating on a cloud of contentment.
"Better?" he asks, wiping his hands on a towel.
"Perfect," you sigh, reaching for him. "Now come here."
He doesn't need to be told twice. He stretches out beside you, pulling you against his chest. You nestle into him, breathing in his familiar scent of caramel and smoke.
"I love you," you murmur, already half asleep.
His arms tighten around you. "Love you too. Now rest. I've got you."
And as you drift off, safe in his embrace, you realize that despite the uncomfortable procedure, the violation of stirrups and speculums, you've never felt more cherished.
-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈
⊹₊⋆ likes, reblogs, replies, and follows are appreciated!
⊹₊⋆ if it could help me write better, please don't be shy to let me know!
⊹₊⋆ requests are open for now!
guys if you're interested in my other works and looking to commission a personalized fics, please check below:
hii i was wondering if you use ai in any of your works? i’ve read a few and noticed each time that some parts do kinda sound like ai. no hate, just wondering!
hi thank you for reaching out and i will try to answer in the best of my ability. i do not use AI for my writings. i do believe that i still lack some skills to write properly. one of the main problems is because english is not my first language language.
so i often ended up writing somethings that sounded off, weird, and repetitive, even if try to make them sound like they made sense. and because of that i also feel insecure in how i write. it is something that i still struggle with and still try to work on. that’s why im always open for constructive criticism.
i also have a poor management skills, i usually plan before i write, to keep track of what i exactly want to write. but many times i ended just throwing them out of the window and just write whatever comes to mind.
many of my fics are also very old. they’re like short fics i’ve written throughout the years and only decided to post recently. i try my best to improve my writings everyday as well. and i also have my friends irl who help me revise.
im pretty sure it is really a skill issue for me and i will continue to write better in the future.
