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Bakugou’s mind fills with a haze the more syllables that tumble from your lips.
Your lips part and it’s like heaven spills out from your honeyed tongue. He could get lost in the way your words wrap around his heart like a vice, the organ beating so intensely beneath his rib cage that he fears he might bruise his very bones. His eyes find your mouth, your teeth and tongue and gums, and he memorizes the way you spell out each syllable.
Praise does not stop with your words, though, that would be far too insufficient.
Your hands find his body in every different way, mapping out the muscle and sinew as if it were to be your lifeline one day. The protruding veins against his forearms and waistline and neck bulge underneath your touch, as if they are only there for you to see.
The first time you did not recognize it for what it was – instead believing that it was his arrogance incarnate in the way he moved his body, the way his tongue practically lolled from his mouth as you continued to praise him for his hard work.
When you met him for the first time, there were clues of it spread throughout your conversation like clues you would eventually pick up on when the time was right.
“Wow,” you run your fingertips over the muscles of his shoulders, watching as they ripple with each movement he makes.
You’re here to repair a gash in his skin – simple, only requiring a few stitches, but enough to get him sent to the agency’s hospital ward. He’s sitting on a tabletop right now, insistent on the lack of anesthesia. You tilt your head, readying the needle to start into his marred skin, “Are you-“
“Yes, I’m sure,” he spits out the words, turning to look at you from his uninjured side. Bakugou grits his teeth and wraps his hands around the edge of the surface, knuckles turning white from the force alone. “Now just fuckin’ get on with it.”
You swallow the lump of pure desire sitting on your tongue like sandpaper. It grates your throat as it goes down but does not blur your vision to the point where you can’t see the few freckles dotting his skin, tanned flesh maneuvered just so it might steal your attention. You have to blink a few times so your gaze will settle on the flayed wound on his shoulder, reminding your body why he’s here.
“You must be pretty good,” you manage, “I haven’t seen you in this wing before.”
Bakugou’s chest puffs up, his shoulders straightening. The shift forces you to adjust your positioning, but you don’t mind the way his back becomes more rigid at the compliment. You push your fingertips into the skin to keep him still as he speaks.
“Damn right.”
A light laugh falls from your lips, “Well, I guess that makes me your first.”
The phrase is more suggestive in it’s receipt than you mean by your delivery. Your eyes go wide and you pray that he does not hear you, that he will not respond or react.
Your whole world lights on fire when he murmurs, “Oh, does it?”
Now, after much time has passed, you find yourself searching for his skin every time you are close enough.
You pass him by in the kitchen and are sure to touch his hips to let him know that you’re walking behind him. You swear that it’s just so he won’t accidentally burn you with a pan or so you won’t frighten him and cause him an injury. Deep down you know it’s so you can feel his obliques underneath his tank top, thumbs buzzing off the heat of his skin, even if it’s only for a fleeting second.
And when you see him stood over the counter, going through mail or paperwork, you always make sure to slap his ass.
“Shitty woman,” he growls, looking up at you from a particularly riveting coupon page, “stay the fuck away from my ass.”
He never means it, though. In fact, after observing him for enough time, you know that he enjoys it. You know that in every kind, complimenting word, he finds some kind of ecstasy with the knowledge that you appreciate his body.
And you know this, of course you do.
When he’s fresh out of the shower is when it’s easiest to prey on his body, to litter praise like confetti down over the top of him. He’s leaned towards the mirror, the only thing barring him from the steam of the bathroom is a pair of briefs covering his ass.
You press a kiss to his shoulder blade, hands trailing over the corded muscle of his abdomen and lower back. Your thumb dips under the band of his underwear, dangerously close to the curve of his ass. Bakugou turns to face you, face still half-covered in cream, one hand clasped around a razor, “Can I help you?”
“You know how much I love your body, fucks sake Katsu’,” you press your mouth to his bicep, nudging your nose over the pinkened skin, still hot from his shower. “Can’t expect me to keep my hands off you when you’re all out in the open like this.”
He growls but there is no malice behind it, “Fuckin’ perv.”
You smirk, tilting your head, “And?”
Bakugou’s face burns crimson so he turns away from you, muttering under his breath as he continues shaving the remainder of his face. You take the moment of fragility to dance your fingertips over the bumps of muscle, digging your hands in and pressing your hips to his ass. You kiss between his shoulder blades, running your nose up the column of his spine. Bakugou grunts as his body careens forward, but he catches himself by shifting his feet and leaning his waist against the countertop.
“God, you’re so fuckin’,” you nip at the tip of his shoulder as you slip from your robe, “fit.”
The bristling of his muscular frame only hardens further at the sound of your words, the ghost of your touch. Bakugou acts as if he’s not paying you any mind, continuously dragging the razor against the shadows on his face. And yet, as the sinew of his thighs strain against the fabric of his briefs, you know he’s feeding off of your words, using them to fuel his self-confidence.
When he bends over to run clean water over his face, you take advantage of the position to dip your hand beneath the waistband and take his cock in your fist, swirling your thumb against the head. Your breasts push against the center of his back, mouth leaving sloppy, wet kisses over his warm skin. Bakugou’s throat bobs as a whimper bubbles up in his throat, parting his lips, “Shit.”
He rests his head against the mirror, eyes screwed shut, “Fuck, babe-”
“Katsuki, I love your shoulders,” you use your free hand to ghost over the plane of flesh and bone, hovering when you find freckles and scars. You roll your hips up against his ass, groaning when you feel the way his muscles contract. You whine, pressing kisses all over the expanse of skin, “They look so good when you move.”
“Shitty woman,” he grumbles, finally able to turn so he’s facing you, hands yanking your face unceremoniously so he can kiss you full on the mouth.
You pump his cock between your fingers, loving the way his whines vibrate your throat. His tongue slips through your mouth, running along your gums. You moan, finding his thigh and brushing your hips against it, using the thick muscle at the center to stimulate your clit. The hand that isn’t preoccupied with his dick starts to roam over every inch of his torso – finding curves of bicep and pectoral and abdomen. You show him appreciation and reverence by drawing your fingerprints against his skin, pawing at him like an insatiable animal.
“Bakugou,” you murmur as his mouth trails from your lips to your jaw, nose nudging against your cheek, “p-please-”
He chuckles, the sound turning into a wave of warm air washing over your neck, sending a patch of goosebumps over your forearms. You whine when his tongue darts to your jugular, a wet warmth pooling between your thighs at the feeling of his mouth. Your thighs clench together, knees knocking at the motion.
Bakugou nips at your earlobe, “Whaddaya want, Princess? You already got me by the cock.”
If you weren’t so enamored by the heat of his tongue on your neck, you might be able to come up with a better retort, something much more intelligent than, “You, please, just you.”
He pulls on your wrist, yanking you away from his cock so he can pull his briefs down to his ankles, stepping out of them swiftly. Bakugou grabs you by the hips, swiveling both of you so now you’re bent at the waist, hands on the countertop as he presses into you from behind. His cock is clamped between your thighs, the tip of him parting your slick folds just enough to make you cry out.
“You got me, baby,” he murmurs into the skin of your shoulder, open-mouthed, wet kisses making a trail up to the curve of your jaw. He nudges his nose over the shell of your ear, “Look at us,” referring to the both of you reflected in the mirror, bodies joined together at the hip. When you look at him through the mirror, you see your eyes half-lidded and his cheeks tinged red, a wave of slick coats his cock, your cunt fluttering around nothing.
You drop your head but Bakugou is quick to wrap a hand around your hair, pulling your attention back to the mirror, “Uh uh, Princess. You’re gonna watch me destroy that pretty little pussy of yours.”
The sound that parts your lips is nothing short of sinful, and what comes next isn’t any closer to holy.
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And then there are other times when you’re casually affectionate towards him, running your hands over his torso while being tucked into his side on the couch, a film playing in the background. Bakugou makes some offhanded comment about you distracting him, but he lifts his arm and welcomes you closer nonetheless. His hands raises the hem of your shirt before slipping beneath the fabric, thumb tracing over your ribs.
Of course he’s distracted by the way your hands find every patch of skin on his upper body, even dipping beneath his waistline to marvel at his thighs. You kiss his jaw, “Katsuki,” another kiss planted on his cheek.
Bakugou grunts, “Hm?”
A smile tugs up your lips, “Have I ever told you how handsome you are?”
His face burns crimson but he doesn’t tear his eyes away from the television, unwilling to relent and allow you the satisfaction of making him distracted. Despite his reluctance, he still squeezes your side in recognition, tucking you closer to him.
You always try to tell him how much you love his body; he’s worked hard for it, years in the making, blood and sweat and tears forged the bonding of muscles to sinew to bones and you’ll always be there to remind him that it was worth it in the end.
“I just think you’re amazing,” you whisper into the skin of his neck, fingerprints memorizing the pattern of muscle on his lower abdomen.
Bakugou flexes when he hears you talk about his body; not on purpose, but more of as a reaction, as if his body is in tune with your praise and wants you to continue. When you casually grab his arm when you’re walking home, he tenses his bicep so your palm will have more difficulty wrapping around the circumference of his arm. If you’re wrapped around his torso for a piggy-back ride, his shoulder muscles are rippling beneath your body, hardening to the point you wonder if he could rival Kirishima.
You press a kiss to the base of his throat, “I’m really lucky to know you.”
And that’s when Bakugou just can’t take it anymore, when your praise becomes too much and he has to do something about it but he can’t return it. He’s never been good with words, always much better by proving to you that your sweet syllables do reach his ears and have an impact.
So he turns his face as you try to kiss his cheek, mouth colliding with yours. He uses a large palm to press against your cheek, holding you in place like an anchor so he can kiss the breath right out of you.
Bakugou does nothing in half-measures, and that includes kissing you. He’s always sure to pull a sweet sound from your throat, a gentle caress of his hand on your thigh to make your whole body shudder. You can’t help yourself when you straddle him, pulling your weight forward so you can settle into the natural dip his body creates at the waist.
“’Suki,” you murmur into his mouth, “I love you.”
He doesn’t respond at first, but you don’t expect him to. You know superfluous words are not his strong suit, so you feel his love through every tender touch, every hitched breath and starry eyed gaze. You cup his face in your hands, thumbing over the cut of his jaw, sharp edges leading to his neck.
The nipping of your lower lip makes you gasp and whine, hands drifting further down his body to make sure and appreciate his pectorals, thumbs grazing over his nipples to draw out a sound from his own set of lungs.
Bakugou grunts, sitting up so his back is against the arm of the couch, “I love you more,” he manages through strangled breathing.
The simple exchange of too to more makes your heart soar.
His hands are on your thighs when you lean forward to whisper, “I love you most,” into the shell of his ear, hot breath making his flesh pebble with goosebumps. Bakugou groans at the mix of your challenge and the stimulation of your hands and mouth. He lets his hands travel up under your shirt to palm at the base of your spine and further up your shoulders. His touch is warm, painfully obvious due to his quirk, and when his fingertips dig into your skin it’s massage-like in nature and you find yourself feeling delirious every time he graces your body with his caress.
Bakugou is growling at you, turning his hips just enough to careen you off balance, catching you easily with the way he’s already wrapped up in you. His eyes are narrowed and it’s like you’re going off to war with his stare.
“Oi, Shitty Woman,” he uses his quirk just enough to get your attention, tickling you at the center of your spine, “I love you more than most. End of discussion.”
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And then, even when he has you under his thumb, you still can’t stop singing his praises.
“Tell me, Princess,” he’s knuckle deep in your cunt, dragging another wave of pleasure out of you in the form of a writhing moan parting your mouth and echoing off the walls. Bakugou knows that you’re incapacitated, but that does not deter him from begging for your affirmation.
You nod, blubbering out syllables that you pray are somewhat coherent, “Y-Yes, please, ju-just like that!”
Bakugou has memorized the tones of your voice, the way that you keen whenever he’s hitting that specific spot in your pussy, middle finger curling and stimulating while his thumb works at your clit. His mouth is sloppy on your chest, lips finding your nipple and sucking.
“F-Fuck, Katsuki,” you whine, “you feel so good.”
He parts from your nipple with a skinny string of saliva from his lip to your chest, brazen eyes glowering up at you in the best way. He cocks his head and the string breaks, cool air washing over your wet chest and your skin pebbles.
“Shit your fuckin’ arms.” You pant and attempt to open your eyes to look up at him from where he’s loitering over your, his body weighty like a comforting shadow. He kisses your mouth and you traipse your hands up and over his forearms towards his biceps, squeezing as he flexes.
The praise only encourages him further, his fingers somehow fitting further into your pussy, stretching you wide as he prepares you for his cock. Bakugou opens his mouth to swallow your moans and tongue, licking over your gums and teeth as you continue to whine kind words into the void.
“Please, Katsuki,” you peel your eyelids back so you can look him in the eyes, finding comfort in the carmine irises. “I-I need you.”
He chuckles, curling his digits harshly within you so your walls flutter around his knuckles, “You’ve got me, baby, what else do you need?”
You shake your head and kick your feet, scraping your ankles against his thighs, “Y-You know!”
“C’mon, pretty girl, tell me what you want,” he nudges his nose against your collarbone, breathing slow so you writhe beneath him at the feel of his breath on your skin. Bakugou’s hand is still buried in your pussy, working you up to another orgasm, the wash of your slick coating his palm and sticking to your thighs. He kisses the curve of your neck and your hands find the dips of his shoulders, digging your fingernails harshly into the tanned skin.
“Want your cock,” you pant, “please, want you to fill me up with your perfect, thick cock, please, please, please!”
Bakugou’s laughter drifts over your throat like a shadow, hot breath and tantalizing tone curling around your neck and squeezing. You gasp, hips canting forward, “Please, I just want your cock in me, please! I-I can’t-”
The sudden loss of heat at your core makes your throat shudder in a whimper, “Katsu-oh.”
He interrupts your plaintive mewling with the tip of his cock butterflying the lips of your cunt wide open, teasing your slit with his dick. Your hands slap his arms, curling desperate fingers round his biceps. You buck your hips forward but the way his thumb is rested around the head of his cock makes it difficult for you to try and pull him further into you.
“Love it when you talk to me, Princess,” Bakugou kisses the inner part of your knee, using his free hand to cup your thigh, pushing your leg back into your chest. “You’re such a good girl for me, yeah?”
You nod fervently, eyes blown to hell as you gaze up at him, “Y-Yes, Katsuki. Please.”
The heat of your touch only serves to further pinken his body, blush taking over every inch of him as he tries to resist fucking you senseless; taking your body and ravaging it with his mouth and hands and cock.
Bakugou takes your neck in his hands, slowly and teasingly dragging the length of his digits over the thin, sensitive skin of your throat. You struggle to keep your eyes open as the pressure of his palm increases, stars dancing behind your half-hooded lids, irises swallowed by your intense pupils.
Your mouth is muted by his own set of lips taking you captive, cock slipping forward slowly so the stretch of your cunt is drawn out, only growing in fervor with every centimeter of him that dives deeper into you. You try to release some of your pent up tension in the form of a cry or a moan, but Katsuki’s tongue dominates your mouth, running along the curve of your teeth and pressing your tongue down against the base of your throat. You feel tears form in the corner of your lids from the pure ecstasy of his thick cock sliding into your dripping pussy.
“Good girl,” he mumbles, “take my cock so good.”
He’s close to the base of his cock now, your legs wrapping around his waist in a flurry of limbs, attempting to pull him as far as he can go. Your cunt flutters, clamping down on his length as it throbs within you. The feel of him nipping your lip is there, but it’s dull, all of your senses focused on the thickness of his cock and how it supersedes every other capacity you have.
You manage to blurt out something akin to praise, syllables in high pitches turning your mouth into a sanctuary. You hold him in such reverence, every bit of him, and that only pushes Bakugou to fuck into you harder, better. He wants to draw out those elicit sounds from you, the ones that make his stomach stir and his chest tighten.
“So pretty,” Bakugou grunts as he starts to retract from you.
You believe that he means to leave you so you start to claw at his chest and shoulders in a feeble attempt to keep him close to you, a tear slipping down from each eye, “P-Please Katsuki, please-I want your cock so bad, please. You make me feel so good, please.”
He’s kissing over your face, “Hush, Shitty Woman. I’m gonna give you my cock, just want to feel you beg for me a little.”
You’re clamping around him, trying to trap his cock deep in your pussy, holding him there like a captive until you’ve worked yourself up using the thickness of him as friction. Bakugou kisses between your furrowed brows in an attempt to force you into a calm stupor, his gentleness in stark contrast to the inevitable frenzy you will feel between your thighs. And with the way he’s speaking to you, words delicious and teasing of what’s to come, your cunt desperately cries for him, which you suppose is close to the truth. Waves of silvery slick are already dripping from your pussy, evidence of his hard work so easily on display, shining in the light of your bedroom.
Still, somehow you force yourself to listen to him, to calm the raging sea in your body. You relax your back so you aren’t arched against him, pressed up from every joint and bone, and your chest bobs as you settle back into the mattress.
Bakugou takes advantage of your openness to latch his mouth and hands onto your chest. His fingertips tweak one of your nipples while his mouth begins to torment the other. He slips his index and thumb between his teeth and laps his tongue around the digits before returning them to your nipple not currently occupied by his teeth. You whine at the wetness, the cool current from the air conditioner only heightening your sensory overload.
“I love you, Katsuki,” you whisper with your eyes closed, cheek smushed by the pillow under your head, “Fuck, I don’t deserve you.”
To accent your keening, Bakugou pulls out just a few inches before ramming his cock back into you, bottoming out on this stroke. He snaps his hips into you, forcing you to stay close with his free hand dug into your hip bone, fingertips acting like an anchor.
As much as the words send a shot of adrenaline-induced pride straight to his head, Bakugou knows they are false, “Shut up, dumbass. You’re fuckin’ perfect.”
You allow other sentences of praise to fill the room, words echoed against the walls until you’re lightheaded as he fucks you deeper into the mattress. Bakugou is bucking into you with intent – you know he’s never satisfied until your cunt is dripping around his cock, the threat of your release making you clench every part of your body to stave it off until he’s closer.
Your words act like a drug to him – clouding his mind, turning his body into something like a receptacle, drinking in each syllable as if it were his lifeline. He thinks that he might prefer this over hero work. Being able to make you come undone in the best way, knowing that he’s the only one who has this type of meticulous control over your body. The sounds that slice open your throat until you are raw with want are for him and only him, and he knows that that’s enough.
It’s a high he chases each time he parts your pretty pussy; the reality that there are certain sounds that mean you are on a different plane of reality, experiencing the currents running up your spine in such a way that leaves your pupils blown wide and jaw hung open. Bakugou sometimes doesn’t even care if he comes, so long as he gets the privilege of hearing the beautiful sounds that rip your chest open and echo against the walls of your shared home.
The familiar moan that vibrates your throat sparks something in his stomach, his cock twitching within the tight brace of your cunt, “Katsuki, fuck, your cock-”
You can’t finish the sentence because your eyes roll back in your head and a wave of pleasure captures your body and you’re a slave to riding the high until the coil wound tight in your core unravels. Shocks of intense pleasure make your thighs slick as you come onto Bakugou’s cock, combined wetness making the sound of his hips drilling into yours much louder as he continues his motions.
There is an intensity that comes naturally with Bakugou in the bedroom – as if he’s always on a mission, another part of his life that he wants nothing more than to excel at. You are his sole focus, the one thing on his mind in these moments, and all he can think about is the best angles and pressures and words that will make your body coil until you snap, pleasure washing over you like a wave at sea. He wants to pull as many orgasms from you as he can, until you’re a writhing mess, he knows his job isn’t done.
After all, just one is never enough.
Bakugou brushes the heel of his palm against your belly, just under your navel, “Can’t wait to fill you up,” he mumbles, eyes glazed over with thoughts of seeing your stomach bulging with his come. His mouth is rough on your shoulder and collarbone, biting kisses into your skin until you’re blooming red, “Gonna stuff you full of my come, isn’t that what you want?”
You can’t form words, but he knows this. And yet, this is the most exciting time for him. As he attempts to get you to respond with syllables instead of sounds, Bakugou teases your body even further, pushing you into the realm of overstimulation.
“C’mon, baby,” his voice is patronizing, free hand brushing knuckles against your jawline, “talk to me, isn’t that what you want?”
If you could, you’d glare at him, but your mind has entered that subservient space that makes you putty in his hands, uncaring to the tone of his voice being denigrating. Your hands reach for him, begging for patches of his skin to feel under the pads of your fingers. Bakugou leans closer, encouraging you to grope his arms as he flexes his muscles, digging fingers into the sheets to use like an anchor.
“Katsuki,” your eyes split open and your jaw quivers, “p-please, I-I…”
Even in this state of mind, you are aware that Bakugou is close to coming, his cock hardening to full length within your cunt, the tip of him brushing against the spongey spot hidden away. You keen when you feel him continue to wreck into you, that sensitive part of you that he knows so well beginning to enflame at the repeated stimulation. Your fingernails dig deep into his biceps, half-moon shapes cut into his tan skin.
Bakugou winces, “Baby, hey-”
Your heels bore into the base of his back, begging him to stay close to you. Your eyes struggle to find his face, but once you can focus on his eyes, you don’t waver.
“Shit,” he curses, hips stuttering at the sight of your fucked out eyes. He licks his lips and takes a deep breath, “You’re so pretty, baby, so sweet when I fuck you like this.”
You nod, eyes wide and voice desperate as you beg him for more. Every syllable is not your own, your body speaking on your behalf as you careen forward to try and take more of him, to pull him closer with your hands on his shoulders. You want to feel the weight of him like a security blanket, to know that he’s yours and yours alone, and he’d give you anything you wanted if you’d just ask.
“Y-Yes, yes please,” your tone is wanton, edged on the precipice of release and words not your own, “Katsu’, c-come inside me, wanna make you come.”
The begging words that reverberate in his ears are the final straw, coaxing thick ropes of come from his cock as he continues to fuck you through the aftershocks of both of your orgasms. You don’t stop there, though, your mouth finding purchase on his collarbones and pectorals, kisses laced with kindness.
“Feels so good, Katsu,” you whine into his skin, hot breath making his chest tighten, “you feel so good in me, want more of you-”
Bakugou chuckles, rolling his hips forward again as he leans to kiss your temple, “You already got all of me, baby. I don’t have anything left to give you.”
The sentence and it’s weight pry your eyes open and you are staring up at him like he hung the moon. Bakugou sometimes finds it difficult to shoulder the weight of your gaze and what it means. He knows that you can’t control the way your irises gleam, or the little shimmering stars that light up your pupils even in the dark. It’s second nature to you, to behold him in such a way.
And at some level, it stimulates him, forcing him to be the best he can, to earn that look in your eyes. The motivation to see the pride in your irises whenever he returns home after a long day on the job, or even just a day spent doing monotonous paperwork and training, is all he needs. It fills his veins, overtaking his blood and pumping the adrenaline straight to his head.
Reality that he will be able to see this look of reverence settle in your gaze every day for the rest of his life is so overwhelming that he can’t do anything but surge forward and kiss you directly on the mouth.
Because yes, Bakugou is prideful and arrogant, but it is all a mask to hide the utter insignificant being he’s so frightened of becoming. What day will be his reckoning, when he’s exposed as a phony, an imposter only attempting to prove themselves worthy of the public affection he’s received thus far.
And yet, when you tug him close and cover him in the shroud of your kindness, the veil of your love, Bakugou considers that maybe he wouldn’t mind spending the remainder of his days sprinting towards the idea you have of him, the version you’ve pushed up onto an angelic pedestal.
Bakugou discovers that in your arms, he’s found a version of reality where he does not have to be arrogant to conceal the prideful deceptive self he’s built over the years. Instead, he can rely on you to remind him that his broken soul is every bit as beautiful as he’d like to fool himself into believing.