Work Text:
You get paged at 9:00 PM on a Saturday night, your phone buzzing in your clutch barely loud enough to turn your eye from the awards ceremony playing out on the brightly lit stage at the front of the atrium. You fish your phone out, ducking it down onto your lap below the table so the light from the screen doesn’t draw eyes, and see that you’re being summoned to work.
You barely manage to stop the rough exhale of relief that puffs from your lungs, shoving your phone back into your clutch and excusing yourself as you stand in the dark from your table near the back of the room.
If they really wanted to Honor the Heroes of the Health and Quirkcare Industry , they could do so in a way that wasn’t so mind-numbingly boring, you think, as you slip your way through the dark towards the coat check. Eager for the opportunity to cut the evening short, to be spared from the inevitable party after and the party after that, when all you wanted to do was change out of your slinky gala dress and heels and become one with your couch and a pint of ice cream.
You’re not particularly in the mood to be fucking anyone right now, but it’s not often you are anyway, and at least this means you can go home straight away after.
You slip your coat over your shoulders as you step out into the chill outside, breath fogging as you thumb back a quick affirmative to the page from work, an assurance you’re on your way to assist the hero in need, and tap at your screen until you’ve ordered an uber. Offering a smile to the doorman who stands vigil in the bright lights outside the venue entrance, curling your toes in your heels as the cold begins to set in around you.
It takes a minute but your car arrives, coming around the bend of the drive as the headlights cut over your form, and you shiver in gratitude when you slip into the backseat and find it toasty warm. You confirm the address with the driver, pointedly ignoring the intrigue plain in his voice when he pulls it up and sees your destination, because you’re used to just about every reaction to your profession by now.
Sex work is a polarizing thing in the simplest of circumstances and what you do goes a bit beyond even that. Most people don’t understand why you do it - why you offer your body to satiate the needs of compromised heroes - but you think they don’t actually give a damn that the pay is fantastic and the benefits are killer and that there’s nothing more degrading to you about offering your body in this way than any other type of service a person can provide. They never seem particularly interested in your explanations when you offer them, choosing instead to sit back and make contemplative sounds and judge you behind the veneer of distant politeness.
You don’t give a shit, truly, so when the driver makes a quiet huff when the destination pops up on his phone, you barely even hear it. Focused instead on logging into your work app on your phone as the car hits the freeway, wanting to know as much as possible about what you’re walking into before you actually do.
Between the prevelance of sex frenzy quirks and the apparent constant human desire for chemical compounds to inspire the same, you find yourself plenty busy at your work. The quirks seem like they’ve gotten intense over time and the chemical compounds definitely have, to the point now where if a hero is hit with one and isn’t able to find a specific kind of release within a certain period of time, they can face real, catastrophic harm that the hero agencies and society at large are eager to avoid.
You scan through the file that was attached to the text message alerting you to your assignment and nod to yourself when you see the listed compound - a long, drawn out scientific name you never managed to learn to pronounce - but one with which you have ample experience. It’s a routine compound, well-studied and known, and it means all you’ll have to do to satisfy your assignment is some good old fashioned intercourse with whatever poor bastard was unlucky enough to get sprayed with the stuff late on a Saturday night.
Nothing weird required, which you find a bit of a relief. You’re down for weird, and it’s often part of the job, but all you can think of as the car finally pulls up to your work building is of the Netflix dramas waiting for you when you finally get home, and you’ll take an easy win when the universe deems appropriate to offer it.
You slip out of the back of the uber, rating the driver five stars though you don’t think he really earned it, and shiver as you trot up to the dark doors of the building. Breath fogging up in the air, goosebumps prickling down your arms as you regret, not for the first time that night, your choice of dress for the evening. The satin of your dress clinging your frame with thin straps over your shoulders and a fur shawl draped across your back and over your elbows had seemed both a little old fashioned and a little scandalous in a very fun way when you’d picked it out last week, sending selfies to coworkers who had insisted you wear it, but it does nothing to protect you from the biting chill in the air now, and your teeth chatter together helplessly as your heels click on the concrete.
The front doors are lit by a single security light overhead, looking, honestly, sketchy as hell, as you press your clutch against the key reader beside the door and the card buried deep in there somewhere registers with a flicker of green light. The door unlocks and you tug it open, stepping through the threshold and following the faint light from the elevator bay across the foyer and around the corner. Knowing the layout like the back of your hand from both your years in this job and from the frequent late night calls you get bringing you here after hours.
The perverts like to strike heroes after dark, you’ve found, and that just about figures.
You punch the number for your floor as the elevator doors close, body warming on the ambient air as you scrub a distracted wrist over your chest where your nipples have peaked beneath the silky fabric, still scrolling the case file on your phone. There’s details from the incident, the time and location of the attack, how long you have to work until the hero is in dire straights, and you’re honestly feeling pretty optimistic about the odds of you finishing the night with a pint of Rocky Road when your eyes land on the name at the bottom of the file and all of the goodwill you’d felt gifted by the universe sucks out of the elevator like a vacuum into space.
Bakugo Katsuki - Pro Hero Dynamite
You’re alone in the elevator as it climbs so you don’t bother to stop the messy mix of a sigh and a groan that falls from your lips as you scroll your screen up and down a little to be sure you didn’t miss something.
You’ve never worked with him before but that doesn’t mean you don’t know him. Everyone knows him. His power out in the field is matched only by the flaring edge of his cutting personality and you’d considered yourself lucky for having never crossed paths with him. He’s never even been to your agency, as far as you know, maybe because no one had ever dared to try something as degrading as an unstoppable sex quirk on a hero so explosively tempered.
Well. He’s here now , you think, chewing on your lower lip as the elevator continues to climb.
It’ll be fine. It’ll be fine because it always is, the appropriate security measures are in place to be sure no harm comes to you even when offering yourself to a hero as volatile as him. You brace yourself for the inevitable anyway, as the elevator finally reaches your floor high up in the building, because you’re just...not everyone’s cup of tea.
Most heroes are too far gone to care by the time you enter the room, too eager for the promise of relief from the stifling cloud of arousal and panic pulsing through their veins in equal measure, to make any sort of real judgements about your appearance.
It happens, though, sometimes. Sometimes you come through the door and see the twist of their features as they see that you’re not the perfectly sculpted model your agency promises on the glossy brochures.
You’re curvy and usually, it suits you just fine. You like the shape of your own body, the thickness of your hips and the curve of your waist, the weight of your breasts and the plush of your skin, but you can’t help but notice the disappointment that colors the expressions of some heroes when you enter the room, too far gone to care to school their face into something more polite.
It’s a part of the job you don’t love but it happens rarely enough that you don’t need to get used to it. Able to compartmentalize that little hurt the few times it happens, to put on a smile, and to take care of the hero in need the way you’ve been brought there to do.
Still, though. Your hopes for a gracious acceptance of offered assistance are thinned to the point of breaking when you see that your client for the night is Bakugo fucking Katsuki.
You’re met by a lab assistant when you step off the elevator, someone new whose name you haven’t yet committed to memory, and you can’t miss the lift of their brows when they take in the outfit you’re in as your heels click across the tile towards them. As they catalogue the way the satin slips over your skin and clings to the curves of you.
“I know, I know,” you tell them, waving a hand. “I was at a thing. How is he?”
That’s what matters, what the both of you are here for, and it seems to shake her loose a little. She shakes her head and sputters an apologetic little laugh, handing you a physical file and keeping pace with you as you make your way down the fluorescent-lit hall towards the room at the end of it and to the right. The room where you see all of your clients.
“Uhm,” she says, a little breathless as she struggles to keep up with you. “He’s okay. Pretty agitated, but I think that might be normal for him.” You snort softly as your eyes scan the file in your hands and she continues on. “The compound appears to be affecting him in the standard way - elevated heart rate, increased perspiration - lowered speech inhibition - ”
You come to stand before the door to your room, flipping the pages of the file to see if you missed anything, and you cut the girl beside you a look when you see she’s stopped at your side and clasped her hands in front of her. Like you’re not the only one unsure what’s going to wait for you on the other side of that door and damn if that doesn’t ease the little trill of nerves in your belly any.
“How long do I have?” you ask, and it makes her startle as she pulls her wrist up to her face and checks her watch.
“Uhm,” she says again, doing some mental math. “Thirteen minutes until he hits the red zone.” When the compound is going to turn on his body if he doesn’t satisfy it, she means.
You let out a tight sigh. That’s...not ideal.
“Yeah,” she says, having the decency to sound a little apologetic. “He, uh. Resisted being admitted, I’m told. Pretty strongly.”
“Super,” you mutter to yourself, flashing her a flat smile and handing her the file, because he doesn’t have much time before his cells start to self-destruct and as much as you’re dreading whatever waits for you on the other side of the milky white door, you know that society can’t lose a hero like him. There are times when your job is something much bigger than you as a lone person, and this is one of them.
So you gather your strength and the fur shawl draped over your elbows, and let yourself into the room.
The room is familiar to you, having spent nearly as much time in it as you have your own bedroom in your apartment, and the sight of it has the knot of tension in your chest loosening just a touch as you let the door shut softly behind you. Letting your eyes drift across the room to ground yourself, taking in the muted, neutral colors, the couch and chairs on one end of the room and the expansive bed in the other. Lit by yellowed lamplight and covered in soft things, throws and pillows and furs, in a meager attempt to provide some comfort to the heroes who feel their hearts beating out of their chests and typically possess a very distinct awareness of their impending demise.
He’s standing in the center of the room, still dressed in the base layer of his hero uniform. Arms folded over his chest with apparent displeasure, the gauntlets you’re used to seeing him in thankfully absent from his look. Still practically smoldering from the fight, soot slashed dark over the exposed skin of his throat and up the side of his face. He smells like gunpowder and blood, though you don’t see any on him, and when his eyes track your entry into the room, he glares.
You expected as much and move slowly. Deliberately, as you let the door slip shut behind you and hear the lock turn. Glancing up out of habit to the cameras stashed in every corner of the room and seeing the familiar, comforting green blink there. You’re not alone with him here, not really. Not as alone as you feel, at least, as you take in the size of him. Standing in the middle of your room like he’s more animal than man, his eyes hard garnet as they track you walking slowly across the far wall of the room.
He doesn’t make a move towards you, not even when you know the compound is coursing thick in his blood and making every ounce of him crave you, so you let yourself turn slowly to face where he’s standing, leaning back to rest against the waist-level cabinets along the wall behind you. To level with him, while you still have him in his right mind. He seems the type to appreciate that.
“Good evening, Dynamite,” you say, schooling your voice to something steady and practiced. Something soothing and grounding, something sure for the hero to cling to when the world feels like it’s shifting beneath their feet. “I’m sorry we couldn’t have met under different circumstances, but I’ve been brought here to help.”
He says nothing but you see his jaw work even at your distance. A grind of teeth you feel in the tension in the air between you. You look to the clock ticking on the far wall, a rhythmic reminder that you don’t have any time to waste, so you skip your usual pleasantries and lay it on the table.
“Do you know why you’re here?” you ask, and he scoffs. Rolls his eyes, bright like blood behind the dark shred of his eye mask, and he cuts you a look so withering you feel it on the surface of your skin like prickles of ice.
“I know why I’m fuckin’ here,” he says.
You’ve only ever heard him in interviews on television and aren’t prepared for the gravel of his voice. How it drops from his lips and drags across the ground on it’s way to where you’re standing. It makes the hairs on your arms stand, and you cross your arms over your chest. Mirroring him as he watches you with barely concealed distaste. Though, you think, that might just be his face.
“Good,” you say. “We don’t have much time before the compound starts to turn, so we should begin. You were briefed on the conditions of my service, correct?”
No use of force from either participant. Protection will be provided and must be used. The room will be monitored and any infraction of these rules will result in immediate detention, regardless of the medical consequences.
His mouth is a downturned slash on his face as he watches you. Playing at unimpressed, if annoyed, as if you can’t see the sweat glistening in the hollow of his throat in the low light.
You’ve been in the job long enough to know what he’s feeling, and in spite of the edge of his tone with you, you find yourself feeling for him a bit as you push yourself up and to your feet. Slipping the fur over your forearms and leaving it on top of the cabinets as you cross the room slowly towards him.
It’s a delicate and essential line to tread, this portion of the encounter. It’s the most dangerous to you, when the hero is typically so blind with arousal that they can scarcely breathe while still chained by whatever propriety remains in their heat-addled mind. It can make even the most trustworthy of heroes lash out, that stewing, gripping mess of internal conflict, and you don’t consider Bakugo Katsuki to be particularly trustworthy.
You approach until you’re stood before him, your eyes only reaching the level of his chin even in your heels, and you suppress a shiver at the blister of his gaze when his eyes meet yours, then rove lewdly down your form. Not bothering to hide it, his eyes lingering on the flirt of your cleavage, on the cling of satin to your hips, and you watch, in the low light of the room, as his pupils expand like a drop of ink into a pool of dark blood.
His arms uncross over his chest, haltingly, like it’s taking considerable effort, until he curls his hands into fists on either side of his thighs. He breathes out through his nose, snorting almost like a bull, and you can feel the conflict radiating from the tight, coiled lines of his body. Holding himself back from you not for any worry for your virtue, you think, as much as he is for his distaste with the entire process.
Regardless of the reason, the pressure of making the first move typically falls to you, so you’re accustomed to the thrill you feel tickle up your spine, nerves mixing with something a little darker, when you slowly lift a hand and bring it to curve around the strength of his bicep. Stepping closer, your eyes trained carefully on his. Watching, for any sign he’s about to explode, to lose control, but finding only the sharp flint red of his gaze and the hard grit of his jaw as you step deliberately into his space.
You breathe out through your lips to steady yourself, your skin prickling with some distant feeling of being in the presence of a predator, and then you say, “Touch me, Dynamite.”
Air rushes from him like you punched him in the solar plexus, his nostrils flaring just from your words, and you see his hands flex tight at his sides before they lift. Slowly, in a jerking motion, like he’s grappling within himself to maintain control, but any ounce of awkwardness evaporates the moment his hands meet your hips.
He grunts, a low, rich sound, as his hands slide over the satin of your dress and settle over your body on what feels like instinct. An arm curving around your waist and tugging you close as one of his hands spreads over the base of your spine.
Your heart spikes in your chest, the initial thrill of contact known to you from your years in this role but there’s something else, here, too. Something that has your lungs gripping tight and your hands coming up between you to rest on his chest to keep yourself steady as your entire body ripples on a curling tendril of heat you feel beneath your skin.
He’s fever hot where you’re pressed against his chest. To be expected, considering the compound, but it has sweat prickling beneath your arms as you draw in a shaky breath and pull back to look up at his face. Needing to see him, to try to read him as his broad hands grip so tightly at your body they’ll leave the faint smudges of bruise.
This close, the sight of his face makes your breath catch. Staring up at him a little helplessly, gripped tight between his hands as he looks down at you with eyes that cut, the masculine edge of his jaw clenched tight beneath the skin stained dark with soot from a battle. He looks wild, a far cry from the polished images you’ve seen of him plastered over magazine covers, and you feel caught in his gaze as he tugs you tight against his chest. As his lips part and he wets them, breathing a little heavy, like he’s winded just from looking at you.
You can’t see the clock with how he’s holding you, but you know you don’t have time. You swallow heavily, heart kicking in your chest when you find your mouth strangely flushed with saliva, and you reach between the two of you. Your hand drifting down his chest until your palm smooths over the hard ridge beneath his suit over his abdomen.
He lurches softly, his lip lifting in a silent snarl, breathing out ragged when your palm curls around the heavy girth of his cock beneath his uniform and squeezes. You feel an answering pulse from somewhere deep in you, a hollow little aching clench, and a rush of light headedness takes you when you realize that you’re feeling it, too. That you’ve begun to tremble in anticipation same as he is as his hands tighten sharply around your waist.
The motion jostles you lightly, tugs you against his chest again, and it causes the strap of your dress to slip. Slipping off your right shoulder and down and his eyes jerk to the bared skin of your chest as he wets his lips again on a shuddering sound.
You can feel the air rush over you as the fabric slips lower, shivering when you feel your nipple pebble and peak where the fabric over it has begun to pool, and you watch as his pupils expand like a depth charge. A rush of black, pulsing hard, as his lips form around the word fuck that hangs heavy in the air betwene you.
You’re grateful for his arms around you, a little worried it’s the only thing keeping you upright as you feel your blood heat. Gripping at his cock through his suit, needing to move this along as the clock ticks ever steady on the wall. Wanting to , you realize, your heart beating up somewhere tight in your throat.
You tilt your face towards his. A dangerous game to play but unable to stop yourself, reaching a hand towards an open flame, touching your nose beneath the line of his jaw.
“Want you, Dynamite,” you confess on a whisper. Low enough that the cameras won’t pick it up but your entire body flushes with heat regardless. Shivering at the thrill of realizing that you do , somehow.
He curses lowly and turns his face to yours so fast that you collide, bone knocking softly against bone, and your mouth drops open on a quiet gasp only to moan softly when he reaches up between you and takes your chin between his fingers. Gripping either side of it tightly, growling low in his chest when he guides you to him.
Your fingers grip tight in his suit at the first taste of him. A curtain of heat washing over you when the touch of his mouth to yours isn’t bruising and hard but open and wet. Teasing, as he pants against your mouth. Nipping at your lower lip as he holds your face in place by your chin, his tongue touching to yours in a heated slip that has you shivering against him.
You squirm, feeling a little breathless, and it makes you shift against him. Makes his thigh slip between yours and your hips to slot together, and he grits out a wounded sound as his hand on your lower back slips down and grips tight at the curve of your ass.
You gasp, head tilting back on a soft groan as the broad of his hand squeezes tight at the fat there, and he makes an answering sound as his mouth abruptly leaves yours and he ducks down to nip hard at your neck.
His other hand joins his first, slipping down your back and gripping at your ass, and you groan in breathless tandem as he jerks your hips against his. As he grinds you together, pressing the hard bulge of his clothed cock against your belly, panting as he palms roughly at the flesh of your rear.
“Fucking christ,” he mutters against your neck, sucking over your pulse, and your hands lift between you to touch heavily at his suit. Feeling blindly for a zipper or closure, panting into the open air as his teeth close around the skin of your throat and his hands clutch at your ass tight enough to push all the air from your lungs.
There’s no time. Even in your mind that’s begun to dip into hazy heat, you know there isn’t time for this. That he needs to be inside of you, to find his release, or risk the compound going toxic in his blood and it shoves you headlong and forward. Your mind reeling, gone stupid already with some strange, intoxicating desire, as you finally find a seam and manage with some effort to pull his cock out through the slit in the fabric.
He hisses against you at the first grip of your palm around him. Loud and angry sounding beside your ear as one of his hands leaves your ass and comes around the front of your body. Finding your breasts where they’ve become exposed, your dress dipping low down your sternum. Gripping them tight, a possessive, tight hold that has your back arching and your hand clenching tight around his cock as you begin to work it in your palm.
Your fingers barely close around the girth of him and it makes your lungs hitch, your breath thickening at the sharp pulse you feel between your legs at the promise of it as you work him in your hand.
He’s fever hot and drooling steady prespend against your wrist, silken and rigid in your fist as you begin to pump your hand. Knowing that this, a release like this, won’t be enough to get him out of the woods, but will be enough to take the edge off. To give him more time before he’s in danger of harm.
“Wanna fuck you,” he slurs against your throat as his palm drags rough over the pebble of your nipple and makes you shudder. Sounding out of his mind, the compound undoubtedly at work loosening his lips as his inhibitions begin to slip. “Gonna ruin you, gonna fuckin’ ruin you on my cock, so fucking - ”
He pinches your nipple between his thumb and forefinger, a little sharp and cruel, and it makes you moan . Makes your head tip back and your hips to stutter helplessly forward as you pump his cock and encourage him with breathless whispers that don’t make sense even to your own delirious ear.
You’re wet , you realize. Soaking the panties beneath your dress, a drip of slick rolling down your inner thigh, and it’s as if he can sense it, because he breathes out in a rush and his hand on your ass grabs at your dress and yanks it. Jerks it up and over your ass, catching on the curve of it, before his hand slips back over the round globes of your cheeks and delves in. His cock lurching in your hand, spitting hot prespend out when his seeking fingers find you soaked between your thighs.
“Want you to, please - ” you breathe, senseless, keening when his fingers press deep into the soft flesh of your thighs and find your soaking center. Dragging roughly through the slick of your folds before slipping inside of you.
Heat cracks over you like an electric bolt, scorching you, making your voice break as two of his thick fingers fill you up tight. Squelching as they slick into you, making your eyes roll back in your head at the snug press of them deep in your cunt.
“Want your cock,” you babble, the words coming from you without thought, without reason, because the fact that his cock is sliding hot and wet and rigid in your fist and not pressing inside of you is suddenly unbearable . “Oh my g-god, I - Dynamite - ”
His thumb brushes at your clit, a wet, firm stroke as his fingers bury deep, and you feel his entire body go stiff as he comes. His cock kicks in your grip as he does, lashes of feverish spend coating up between you both. Burning your skin, making you clench helplessly down around his fingers that are still pressed in you to the hilt.
He moans through gritted teeth, ragged sound as the compound surges in his blood, and you feel his body shudder against yours as you work him through the ripples of his release.
You stand there for a moment, breathing heavy together in the dim lamp light of the room, and it’s only then that you realize you didn’t even take a single step with him. Still standing there in the middle of the room with his hands buried in your cunt, his cock spitting the last of his release up over the rumpled satin of your dress.
You manage to find the clock on the wall and let out a shuddering breath of relief because there were minutes to spare. The reality of that, that you were moments from failing, from him crumpling to the ground in agony sobers you a touch. Has your fogged up mind clearing a little as you lift his head from where his forehead had fallen to your shoulder with your hands on his cheeks, murmuring to him when he snarls silently at the touch on some sort of instinct.
“Come on,” you urge him. Winded and breathless, nodding when he picks himself up a touch and his eyes meet yours.
He looks drunk, looking down at you. His cheeks flushed and shiny with sweat, the compound coursing through his veins even if momentarily abated. You reach up with a shaky hand to where his eye mask has lifted from his cheek, and when you pull at it, he doesn’t stop you.
You drop it to the floor once it’s free and allow yourself to look at him, as he holds you close and breathes like he’s just fought for his life.
He’s...stunning. There’s no other word for it as you touch gently at his jaw, whimpering when he straightens himself up and his fingers slip wetly from your sex. Smeared with soot, with eyes wide and burning deep with need, he looks as if he would devour you whole. Some distant part of you needs to commit it to memory, the broad strength of his body, the handsome planes of his face, and you find yourself staring a little helplessly. Your head tilted back to look up at him, his arm tight around your waist the only thing keep you from crumpling to the floor.
He’s hard, still, in your hand, leaking and silky hot and that’s what stirs you from your reverie.
You wet your lips and shake your head lightly. Feeling like you’ve lost yourself somewhere, not recognizing this version of you as slick beads between your legs from so little touch from his hands.
“Come on,” you tell him. Voice coming out a whispered rasp. “We’ve got to - the bed, you’ve got to - ”
What matters now is keeping him safe. Keeping him whole, neutralizing the toxin in his blood, and to do that, he needs to find his release inside of you. To fill your cunt with his cum.
He nods after a moment, his breathing ragged and deep from his chest, growling almost as he looks down at you and his eyes linger and catch on your breasts. He huffs softly, an unconscious sound, and then he reaches low and scoops you up into his arms.
You gasp, squealing when your center of gravity swims, but he simply walks three steps and deposits you onto the flat surface of the bed. No romance in the action but no malice either, watching as your body lands on the mattress, his eyes hot and dark on your breasts as they bounce freely with the motion.
He comes to stand between your legs where your thighs have spread over the bedding, and the sight of him looming over you, knocking your knees open as he gets close, has your head pressing back against the bed on a soft groan.
He’s ready for you, again. Still, really, still aching hard and leaking, his cock an angry red and shining in the low light with the steady spill of prespend down its length, and you gather your dress up around your waist. Nodding to him, swallowing heavily. Feeling your gut clench in anticipation as your eye lingers on the heavy girth of his cock, feeling over your head blindly for the condoms you know they have splayed over the sheets.
Your fingers find one finally, a little foil square, and you drop it to the bed beside your hip as you draw your knees up. Exposing yourself to him, feeling the cool air catch on the copious slick coated between your thick thighs. Shivering when you see his eyes drift over your sex and linger there, his mouth dropping open to breathe from deep in his chest at the sight.
“Here,” you tell him, patting at the condom wrapper resting on the comforter beneath you. “You can - you - oh - ”
Your voice stutters when his palms smooth over your thighs and he tugs you closer to the edge of the bed. Closer to him, closer to his leaking, aching cock.
His eyes travel over you as his hands slide up. Gripping at the meat of your thighs before slipping up to your belly. Gathering the soft slip of your dress where it’s bunched there and pushing it up farther until it rests just below your breasts. Exposing all of you to the air, to the heated touch of his gaze, save for the small bunch where the fabric of your dress is gathered just over your ribs.
He wets his lips as his hands begin to roam over you. His pupils blown out, eyes dark as one of his palms curves around your breast and the other drifts lower to palm at your belly.
“Christ. Fuckin’ - look’t you,” he mutters, like he doesn’t realize he’s saying it. “So fuckin’ - gorgeous - ”
The words make you flush hot all over, because this particular compound makes the victim’s lips looser, but it doesn’t make them lie . Whatever you hear spilled from the lips of affected heroes as they battle against the toxin is the truth, their truth, even if they’d never speak it aloud in their right mind.
You have just a moment to suck in a surprised breath before he leans his body down over yours and his mouth closes around your right breast. Sucking your nipple into his hot mouth and making you keen softly, your legs spreading to let him in as he settles his weight over you.
His hands continue to move over you. Greedy, as he sucks at your breast, then pulls off to nip softly at it. Parting his lips, wet and heated over that tender skin as his other hand feels at your belly. At the thickness of you there, the plush of your skin and your weight, and he moans softly against you as he feels you. Sounding almost overwhelmed as his other hand spans over the width of your thigh and grips at it.
His face begins to travel down, smearing his saliva down over your sternum before he begins to nip and suck at your belly. Nudging his nose against it, his brows drawing down on his face, his eyes squeezed closed as he pants lightly. Getting his hands around your waist and squeezing, feeling how you squish and move between his hands, and he groans quietly at the feeling. Sounding like he’s drowning in the plush of your body, drunk off the luscious richness of it.
It’s all you can do to lay there beneath him. Your skin whisper-sensitive, every hair on your arms standing on end as he lavishes your body with praise in the form of wet, reverent smears of his lips. Whimpering his name, your hands itching at your sides to bury themselves in his hair but terrified of breaking whatever spell he’s under, because the compound usually makes heroes frantic. It doesn’t make them do this .
He curls a hand around each of your thighs and presses his face against the underside, below your knee. Tasting at your skin, squeezing the meat of you there. Muttering to himself, so softly that you miss most of it. Feeling like you’re swimming in your own body beneath him, your blood heating slippery and thick with arousal, with want , aching hollowly at your center for the press of his cock into you. Hazy and drifting, the cameras in the corners of the room for your safety gone from your mind, wrapped up entirely in this devotion he is pressing into every inch of your bared skin.
“Never,” he slurs against your knee, his fingers slipping down and finding your soaked sex, making you exhale shakily and open for him. “Never - seen a woman like you, fuckin’ shit, you’re - so - ”
His fingers slip again into your tight heat and the two of you groan in breathless tandem.
“Gonna feel you on my cock,” he murmurs, his eyes crimson black in the low light as he looks up at you from between your thighs. “Gotta feel you, gotta fuck you - gonna - devour you - “ He crooks his fingers and makes your back arch from the bed, the thick press of his fingers making your sex clench around him.
He turns his face against your inner thigh and begins to suck on the skin there. Catching it between his teeth, pulsing hard and drawing blood to the surface. A cruel hickey sucked into the skin, making you squirm beneath him and whimper. Throwing a desperate look over his body to the clock on the wall, willing your syrupy mind to calculate the time. To remember what you have left.
You can’t figure exactly, mind gone too slippery with desire, but you feel a hard kick of your heart in your chest and know that whatever time you have left isn’t enough. Fear is a strange sensation to you, in this room. A fear of failure, of what that would mean. Of the harm it would bring, and the touch of your palm to his cheek is the only thing that has his mouth popping off the skin of your thigh, a bruise sucked dark and brutal and wet there from his teeth and tongue.
“Inside,” you breathe. Your eyes locking to his and shivering at the intent you see there in his gaze. The possession. The promise. “I need you inside, please.”
He breathes through parted lips and you feel his cock against the crease of your thigh, then. Iron hot and firm, slicked and gliding against your skin, and your head reels as you realize, truly, that he’s held himself back from the one singular driving force in his body to do this. That he’s delayed his release, his salvation from the poison in his veins, to worship you. As if he had no choice, as if he isn’t the only hero in your years in this work to do anything but stick their cock in you the very moment you allow it.
He breathes heavy as he presses another soft nip to your inner thigh and then straightens up. His eyes staying locked to yours as he grabs the hem of his long sleeved top, the base layer of his uniform, and draws it up over his head in one smooth motion. Revealing a broad expanse of skin beneath, tanned and bunching with muscle, scarred and thick and devastating, that has you aching to reach out and touch .
He shifts himself closer, panting lightly through parted lips, his eyes looking possessed as he stays with you. He shoves at the waist of his suit, paws down at it until his cock bobs free, nearly slapping up against his abdomen when he pushes the tight fabric down his thighs and steps free from it.
You have to remind him of the condom when he presses close between your legs once more. Kicked free of his suit and bared to your eyes, miles of battleworn skin and muscle and bone, and he makes a frustrated, low sound when you press the foil packet into his palm that you feel in a pang deep in your gut.
“They’ll take you away if - ” you manage, your head tilting against the bedding as you look up at him. “The rules, you - have to - ”
He tears the packet with his teeth on another low sound and you can’t tear your eyes away as you watch him work it down the thick of his length. Slicking his fist over his cock once it’s done, then reaching for you again.
He taps on the side of your thigh, a soft pat of his broad palm, and it takes you a moment to understand that he’s encouraging you to scoot up, towards the center of the bed. It takes nearly all of your strength and he helps you. Hands on your waist, fingers sinking into the plush of you there as he works you up until he can kneel on the bed after you. Fitting himself between your knees, his eyes cutting to yours, ruby dark in the dim light.
He presses on the backs of your thighs. Opens you to him, makes you whimper softly at the rush of cool air against your soaked sex as he presses your knees towards your chest. Shuffling closer to you until the tops of his thighs bump against your ass, and you have one stifling moment to get lost in the fierce of his gaze before you’re throwing your head back and keening at the press of the fat head of his cock into your cunt.
He seats himself in you with a hard slot of his hips, breathing ragged as his hips clap softly into the cradle of yours. Sounding wounded as he fills you, his cock thick and heavy as he presses into every part of you. Fills you deep and true, pressing against parts of yourself you’d forgotten, making your eyes roll back in your head when he draws back and then forward again on a roll of his hips.
He shifts himself closer to you, breathing through parted lips, eyes like a knife’s edge as he spreads your thighs down over his and begins to move. Making you cry out, making you shake and moan, when he begins to fuck you.
The feeling drowns everything out. Pushes all the breath from your lungs, little desperate whimpers knocked from you with every slap of his hips to yours. He’s impossible inside of you, pressing deep and plugging you thick. Taking up every inch, making space within you with every rut against you. Filling you so tight you could burst, so full that you see lights floating in the edges of your vision as you cling to him and your voice breaks on his name.
The slap of skin on skin is lewd and echoing, wet and sloppy, and it makes your belly cinch up tight. Makes a honeyed sort of spark light up your spine as you realize you’re leaking all over him. Making a mess of the bedding, your body opening to his again and again. Taking him, wanting him, begging for every ounce he has to give to you as he lays claim to you.
His eyes rove over you and you feel them like a brand. You struggle to keep your eyes open, around every little moan he knocks from you, because seeing him like this is a drug. Watching the way his eyes track the movement of your body beneath his, feeling the grip of his hands on your breasts. Teasing your nipples peaked against his palm, rolling the weight of them in his hands. Groaning as he grips at your belly. As he feels it jostle with every rut of his hips, as he sees your body ripple and take him. Take the heavy plunge of his cock, the weight of his body against yours. As the wet, tight heat of you swallows his cock again and again. Squeezing him on every thrust, wanting, desperately, for him to find his release inside of you.
Through it all, he’s muttering. Rough growls of sounds dropping from his lips, “So fuckin’ perfect...look at you. Taking me like this - like you were made to - made for my cock, made for me - ”
Something comes over him, a dark look crossing his features, and it has him shifting against you. Quickly, all the sudden, like he’s chasing a feeling, and then he gets a hand on each of your legs. Presses his palms on the backs of your thighs, just behind your knees, and presses down. Folds you near in half as you moan and thrash weakly beneath him. Feeling him plunge deeper into your cunt like this, the hard press of his hipbone to yours grinding tight against your clit.
He puffs out a sound, a snort, and then you see something wild in his gaze and he begins to snap his hips to yours. Hard and fast, a steady, rhythmic slap slap slap slap that has you nearly wailing. Your back arching up off the bed because with you bent like this his cock is pressing against a part of you that’s making you see stars. That’s making your breath catch in your throat and your hands grip helplessly at the bedding around you.
You only have a second of warning, gone too far in your mind to a place of hazy, honeyed pleasure to recognize the clenching coil in your belly. Spiraling up through you like a knife, a slice of heat through you from root to tip, before your eyes are flashing open and you’re gasping, frantic, hands scrabbling, “ Dynamite - ” as you begin to come.
Your back bows from the bed, a sound coming from you that you don't recognize as your pleasure spikes so bright in you that it feels like it’s taking something from you. Wringing you dry as your cunt pulses hard around his cock, greedy, hard clenches as your body uses him to ride out the waves of your release.
He fucks you through it. Winded, his hands gripped vice tight around your waist as he shoves you back onto his cock again and again. Gritting his teeth, growling low and deep in his chest when he feels you flutter around his cock. When he sees your head tip back and your eyes closed, your lips parting around breathless praise, and it only spurs him further.
His movements become more frantic, his grip around you tighter still, and it draws your eyes open from where you’d squeezed them shut. Finding his in the dim lamplight, barely able to resist reaching for his face. To touch and the tension you see in the corners of his eyes, the veins in his throat throbbing as his heart races, sweat glistening over his brow.
Your head tips weakly against the bed to the side, gazing up at him as he fucks you hard and fast, his thrusts deep and primal, and it’s when you nod to him, when you murmur, yeah, yes, give it to me - that he finally groans and goes rigid over you.
He sounds like an animal as he comes. A roar barely contained in his throat as his body locks tight over yours and you feel his cock jerking inside of you as he shoots off into the condom. Hot, thick lashes of spend that your gut aches for, that you chew your lower lip and try not to imagine filling you up instead, as you let out another weak groan and your body trembles beneath his.
Silence falls, after. The sounds of you breathing, ragged and rasped, as he holds himself up over you, looking down at your face as you shiver and shake beneath him.
It’s this way that you see him come back to himself. You watch, your heart beating so hard in your chest that it aches, as the haze that had clouded his expression since you’d first laid eyes on him begins to slowly clear. As you see him return to his body, the toxin of the compound in his blood thinning to nothingness, as he holds himself over you and breathes in deep, heaving pulls.
Your mouth drops open, wetting your lips when his eyes track the movement, and you almost reach for him. Wanting to comfort him, stupidly, like this isn’t your job, but then you flinch at the sound of the door to the room banging open, and are reminded, all at once, how these encounters always end.
Several people rush into the room, dressed in crisp white linens and holding a few pieces of equipment, and you and Bakugo separate without a word. Rolling away from each other, whatever spell had fallen over the both of you dissipating at the arrival of the agency staff. Trained medical personnel who rush past you and straight to Bakugo. Fussing over him, one nurse checking his eyes with a pen light while the other pricks his finger with a punch needle and carefully scoops a drop of his blood onto a test strip.
He grunts, “I‘m fine,” and barely tolerates it, his whole body going stiff as the group hovers over his nude form. Checking his vitals, asking him questions about the date and the prime minister that he answers a little rudely, an edge to his tone that you don’t recognize.
You lay there on the bed beside him. Breathing deeply, curled up on your side. Your hands working numbly to pull your dress back up over your chest and down over your waist as you watch them tend to him. Nerves a sudden bundle in your throat as you find yourself glancing to the clock again and again. Unable to remember what time you’d needed to make and more than a little mortified at your complete and utter lack of professionalism.
You startle softly when your eyes drop from the clock on the wall and return to him, because his eyes are on you. Watching you on the bed beside him as the nurses check his pulse and his breathing, an expression in his vermilion eyes you can’t quite place.
There’s nothing to be said, so you simply lay there and watch each other. Eyes searching for something in the other’s gaze, until one of the nurses holds up the test strip to the light and announces, “Clear,” and the collective tension rushes from the room.
You did it, then. Nothing left to do but gather yourself, which you do more slowly than usual. Your body aching in a sweet way, the way that makes you want to press on a bruise, and when you finally make it to your feet, you find your knees pathetically wobbly.
He dismisses the nurses from the room with an annoyed grumble, or tries to, because they insist on lingering. Watching him as he stands and begins to pull his uniform back on, one of them writing diligent notes in the paper file while another spouts off a continuous stream of aftercare instructions, telling him to go straight home and to rest, and to check with his primary care doctor first thing in the morning, to be sure none of the compound remains in his blood.
They insist on walking him out, agency policy to be sure he doesn’t collapse in the lobby or something, and you get the distinct pleasure of watching him incredulously reject a blanket to wrap around his shoulders, his face contorting in a look something like disgust at the offer.
They begin to usher him out, refraining from touching him when he cuts them a sharp look and repeats, for the tenth time, that he’s fine and doesn’t need any fucking help, but he pauses when he passes where you’re positioned yourself near the door. Waiting for them to clear him, to be sure he’s discharged and alright, and the feeling of him slowing as he passes you draws your eyes to his.
He’s giving you that look again. The one you can’t read, can’t decipher, a soft twist to his brow that doesn’t match the hard downturned frown of his mouth. He opens his mouth like he means to say something to you, then closes it. Looks you over one last time, a long, lingering beat of silence, then grumbles to the nurses, “Alright, get me the fuck out of here,” and goes.
You stay long enough to make sure he’s discharged without issue. It goes faster than normal because he’s such a bad patient, impatient with their continued poking and prodding and questions, and as you watch from across the lobby as they bring him to the front door, you can’t believe you’re finding him somehow charming , when before you’d been convinced he was just a colossal asshole.
The lab tech from before finds you a minute or two later, a little pep in her step as if she’s relieved you didn’t die in there, and, same, honestly. You answer her standard questions about your experience that go into internal review at the agency, eager yourself to get the night moving.
When you’re finally cleared to go, nearly another hour has passed and you find yourself stepping out into the dark outside the front of your building into the frigid night air.
You pull out your phone to order an uber home, tugging your jacket closer around yourself to stave off the cold, when the reflection of light off a surface catches your eye.
Your step falters, your heart beating behind your ribs, because there’s a car parked out front and running. Windows tinted dark, exhaust coming from the tailpipe, and every stranger danger story you’d ever heard making you want to turn and jog back to your building, to wait for your ride behind a secured glass door.
“You’re fuckin’ jumpy,” a voice says and you nearly tip over when you see Bakugo there, leaning against the rear passenger door of the car. So dark in his uniform that you hadn’t seen him, and relief and annoyance spike in your chest in equal measure as he pushes himself from the door and stands to his full height.
All you can think as your mind whirls, as you register that for some reason he’s still here , is that something is wrong and you find yourself trotting over to him on your stupid heels before you can think better of it.
“Is something wrong?” you ask, touching your fingers to the hollow of your throat. He looks alright, staring at you in the faint light from above the door of the building with a fairly unimpressed look. “Do you need one of the nurses?”
He huffs, scoffing. “I had my fucking leg sewn back onto my body last week, I’m fine. Christ.”
He scratches a hand over his head, through his hair, and you find your mind stalling a little.
“What...are you doing here, then?” you ask, your phone still gripped in your hand as your breath fogs in the air.
He looks at it, brows drawing at what he sees on the screen. “They make you work in the ass hours of the night and don’t get you home after?”
You shiver, standing before him. Confused and cold and more than a little tired. Not able to track this conversation or where it’s going.
“The train doesn’t run this late,” you say, because what else are you supposed to do?
He watches you for a moment and you have a second to realize that he’s nothing like you’d thought he’d be. Nothing like his reputation led you to believe he’d be. He’s calm as he stands before you, his hands shoved in the pockets of his suit. Looking at you with a discerning eye, even if his face is twisted in what seems to be a perpetual frown.
He mutters something you don’t quite catch, and he turns to car. “Agency’s making me take this fuckin’ thing home,” he says over his shoulder. “Worried I’ll drop out of the sky or some ridiculous shit. They’ll drop you off, too. Come on.”
Your brain jams like a stuck gear, watching as he opens the rear passenger door and looks at where you’re standing there looking at him like a deer caught in headlights. Because this doesn’t make any sense. No heroes do this, certainly not him. Certainly not the guy you’d been told over and over was the biggest asshole in the top 20 rankings.
He lets out a tight breath through his mouth when he sees you frozen in place. Annoyed, clearly. “You’re fucking shivering, I can see it from here. I’m not going to kidnap you, I’m a hero for fuck’s sake.”
It takes you a minute but you take a halting step forward, not sure how this is a trap but convinced it is, because nothing about it makes sense. But then he heaves a sigh like finally , and gestures for you to get in when you approach.
You slide over the leather seats and shiver instantly at the rush of warm air around you. Curling around you like a blanket, settling in your bones, and you barely hear the sound of him climbing in after you and shutting the door.
“Hey,” he calls, his voice a deep rumble in the dark. “Tell him your address before you go passing out.”
You do, telling the driver your apartment address and then repeating it back before you let yourself sink back into the seat. Shifting on your hip so you can look at him where he’s sat on the other side of the passenger bench, his elbow resting up on the windowsill of the door.
The car pulls away from your agency, the engine a soft purr as it’s steered out of the lot and onto the connecting road, and you allow yourself to relax when you see the driver turn in the direction that will take you home.
The ride passes in silence, and you simply watch him, because he doesn’t tell you not to. He stares out the window, chin propped up on his hand and ignores you, while you lean heavily against the seat and watch the street lights as they flash over him.
He looks every bit the hero that he is, like this. Doing something as mundane as sitting in the backseat of a car as the night passes in flashes of light and darkness. Taking up all the space in his seat, his body broad and thick, the line of his jaw sharp where it disappears into his hand. Dressed still in the base layer of his uniform, all dark, sleek fabric over his frame, and it’s easy for your eye to get lost in it as the tires whirr softly beneath the car and you sink into the feeling.
Later that night, you’ll let yourself into your apartment with bones that feel like lead and a odd feeling in your chest that will remain with you when you wake the next morning. Not sure exactly what happened or what it all meant, if it meant anything at all.
For now, though, you sit. Slumped against the leather seat of an overpriced town car, wrapped in your jacket and cozy from the warm air pumping in from the vents. Watching the lights flicker over the face of a man you don’t know, yet feel like you do, and try not to let yourself overthink the strangeness of that feeling and instead let yourself settle in. Giving into the exhaustion in your bones and the comfort you find in the steady hum of the tires on the freeway and the quiet, strong presence of him in the car with you. Just inches away from him that feel like an entire world, somehow, as the car drives you through the night and the moon shines bright and peaceful overhead.