#How does someone forget to go into work? | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

mephisto-reporting · 8 months ago

Text

Husband?

About: How does he react when you accidentally call him your 'husband'? Pairing: Reader x Xavier, Zayne, Rafayel, Sylus (Seperate) Note: Reader and the men are in a relationship. My inbox is open for prompts and requests :)

RAFAYEL

The evening was going smoother than expected, considering Rafayel had dragged you along to one of his many gallery showings. He had made a big deal about how you should be the one showing off his work to the public, claiming he didn’t want to deal with the “art-snobs." Yet, the second you both arrived, he quickly preoccupied himself on his phone, leaving you to handle most of the small talk.

One of the visitors, a curious older woman, was admiring a painting of his, a chaotic burst of color with soft hints of golden light. You were discussing Rafayel’s "creative process" (whatever that was—he hadn't told you much before retreating to his phone), when she asked how long you’d been working with him.

“Oh, it’s been a while now. It’s honestly amazing seeing him grow like this—my husb—” You froze mid-sentence, realizing the slip just as it left your mouth.

"Husband?"

The word hung in the air for barely a second before you felt Rafayel’s presence shift. His head shot up like a bolt of lightning, his playful, cunning eyes locking onto yours. You could practically feel his grin before you even dared to glance over. You didn’t even need to turn around to feel his gaze burning into you, practically shouting, Oh? Husband, you say?

“Husband, huh?” Rafayel drawled, pocketing his phone and sauntering toward you with that signature smirk of his. “I didn’t realize we were making things official tonight. If I’d known, I’d have worn something even more dazzling.”

You flushed, attempting to stammer out a correction, but he was far too pleased to let you off the hook that easily. He leaned casually against the gallery wall, one arm crossing his chest as he dramatically placed a hand over his heart.

He gently took your hand in his, his dramatic flair dialed up to maximum as he pressed an exaggerated kiss to your knuckles, clearly relishing the moment. "I mean, I can’t say I’m surprised. Who wouldn’t want to marry someone as charming as me?"

The visitor chuckled awkwardly, clearly not sure whether to stay or go, but Rafayel was already having way too much fun. “Of course, as your loving husband,” he continued, drawing out the word in a singsong voice, “it’s only fitting that I’m showered with even more attention now, isn’t it? I expect lots of praise, darling. I mean, just look at me." He struck a faux thought-provoking pose, tilting his head and flipping a lock of his perfectly tousled hair.

You felt your cheeks burn with embarrassment, but at the same time, his antics made you laugh. “I didn’t mean to—"

"Oh no, no,” he interrupted, wagging his finger playfully. “You can’t take it back now. The word’s out, Miss Bodyguard. You’ve called me your husband. That means you’re stuck with me. Forever.” There was a mischievous glint in his eyes as he leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a teasing whisper. “Does this mean I get to cheat at board games forever too?”

You groaned, rolling your eyes as you playfully swatted at his shoulder. “As if you needed a reason to cheat more!”

Rafayel laughed, that familiar bratty grin plastered across his face. “Well, if I’m your husband now, I think it’s only fair I get first dibs on everything. Cards, claw machines—oh, and don’t forget, I demand the comfiest seat when we binge-watch our shows.”

Despite his teasing, the warmth in his eyes made your heart skip a beat. You could see the genuine delight he took in your slip-up, how pleased he was at the thought, even if he’d never admit it outright.

“Fine, fine,” you sighed dramatically, playing along. “But don’t expect me to let you win at everything, ‘husband.’”

Rafayel beamed, and for a moment, that bratty, carefree mask of his slipped, just a little. He tugged you closer, his voice softening as he murmured, “Deal.” Then, just as quickly, he switched back to his usual, cheeky self. “Now, let’s go, wife. You’re required to be by my side while I survive this boring night. ”

Shaking your head, you laughed, unable to hide the smile creeping onto your lips. “You’re impossible.”

The woman, watching the scene unfold with a warm smile, laughed. “You two make quite the pair.”

“Oh, we do, don’t we?” Rafayel quipped before lowering his voice just enough for only you to hear, leaning in ever so slightly. “You’ve really outdone yourself, calling me that in front of witnesses. Now they’ll all expect a wedding invitation.”

Your face burned as you tried to shush him, but he was loving every second of it. He tilted his head, his hair catching the light as his smile softened into something more genuine, the bratty exterior fading just a bit. “Still… I can’t say I hate the sound of it,” he murmured, brushing a finger lightly under your chin before pulling back with a playful wink. “I might just get used to hearing it.”

You could only manage a huff of exasperation, but deep down, you couldn’t help but feel a flutter at the way his teasing had just a hint of sincerity behind it.

Rafayel, always dramatic, and yet somehow, just when you least expected it, a little bit sweet.

ZAYNE

You and Zayne were in the middle of your usual weekly grocery run, efficiently dividing and conquering your list to save time. He’d taken off towards the produce section while you headed for the rice aisle. As you browsed the different varieties, a middle-aged man beside you struggled with lifting a heavy bag of rice.

"Need a hand?" you asked, stepping in to help. The man smiled gratefully as you hoisted the bag into his cart with ease.

"Thank you, young lady," he said, rubbing his wrist. "My arthritis is flaring up today. Getting old’s no fun."

You offered him a sympathetic smile. “No problem at all. My husband’s a doctor, actually. I’m sure he’d tell you to take it easy on that wrist."

The man nodded in agreement, offering you one last thanks before heading off. You turned back to your cart, completely unaware of the word you had just let slip—husband—or the fact that Zayne had returned in time to hear it.

You felt him step up behind you, his presence calm yet undeniably magnetic. When you finally glanced over, he was standing there, hands in his pockets, a small, amused smile playing at the corner of his lips.

"Husband, hmm?" he said softly, his tone more curious than teasing. "That's... new."

You froze for a second, eyes widening as you realized what you’d said. You opened your mouth, the words tripping over each other in a rush. “I didn’t— I mean, it just—slipped out. We’re not actually—I mean, obviously, we’re not—” You could feel the heat creeping up your neck, and no amount of backpedaling was helping.

Zayne didn’t seem in a rush to let you off the hook. His hand found yours, fingers intertwining with an ease that made your heart stutter. “You know,” he said, voice as calm as ever, “if this is your way of bringing it up, there are smoother ways to do it.” His teasing was subtle, barely perceptible if you didn’t know him well, but it was there in the gentle tug of his smile.

You groaned, pressing a hand to your forehead. “Zayne, I didn’t mean to—”

But Zayne, ever level-headed, merely took your hand in his, his thumb gently brushing against your knuckles. “Relax,” he said, his voice low and soothing. “It’s not like I mind the idea.”

Your heart skipped a beat at that, and you looked up at him in surprise. There was a softness in his usually stoic gaze, the kind that made your stomach flip. He continued, his voice measured but affectionate, “Seems like the next logical step, doesn’t it? My parents have been asking me when I’m going to take that step with you for a while now.”

His calm tone made the statement feel both casual and monumental at the same time. “Wait, your parents…?” you started, blinking as your brain processed this new information.

“Mhm,” Zayne replied, still holding your hand as though it was the most natural thing in the world. “They’ve been pretty vocal about it, actually. But I’ve been waiting for the right moment.”

The right moment. Those words hung in the air, and you could feel the weight of what he was saying. He was serious—calm and casual, as always, but serious. Your breath caught, and for a moment, the world around you seemed to fade into the background. It was just you and Zayne in that grocery aisle, hands linked, talking about a future you hadn’t even realized you both wanted.

“Only if you wanted to, of course,” he added, his thumb still tracing soft circles on your hand. “I wouldn’t do anything unless we both agreed.”

You stared at him, a smile slowly spreading across your face despite the initial shock. “You’re really suggesting this now? In the middle of a grocery store?”

Zayne smirked, his usual pragmatic self. “Well, we’re already talking about it. Might as well make use of the time.” He glanced down at your joined hands, his tone softening again. “Besides, I think it’s worth discussing what our future looks like, don’t you?”

Your heart swelled at his words, and the warmth of his hand in yours was enough to make you feel grounded, no matter how your emotions were spinning. “Yeah,” you said, smiling as you squeezed his hand gently. “I think it’s definitely worth talking about.”

Zayne leaned in closer, his lips brushing your temple in a rare public display of affection. “Good,” he murmured, his voice filled with a quiet kind of affection that made your chest tighten. “We’ll talk more later.”

He pulled away just as smoothly, picking up the cart with a practiced ease, as though he hadn’t just suggested the two of you start planning your future together. His eyes twinkled, a subtle tease hiding behind that usual calm exterior of his.

“And for the record,” he added, as the two of you moved on to the next aisle, “I wouldn’t mind hearing you call me ‘husband’ again.”

Your cheeks heated again, but this time, you didn’t bother trying to hide your smile. “Guess you’ll have to earn it first, doctor.”

Zayne chuckled softly, that familiar, grounded confidence in his voice. “I’ll be sure to work on that.”

SYLUS

The desert sun was relentless, and you could feel its heat pressing down on you as you stood beside Sylus, waiting to be seated inside the restaurant. He had dragged you out of Linkon on one of his mysterious ventures—no explanation, no warning, just the two of you thrust into the desert with little more than his cryptic directions. And while Sylus might have thrived in the N109 Zone's shadowy world, he was decidedly out of place here in the glaring sunlight,already starting to show hints of discomfort.

You glanced over at him, squinting slightly under the bright light. His expression was carefully controlled as always, but you noticed how his hand twitched subtly as if annoyed by the heat. The two of you had been waiting to be seated inside for a while now, and you decided it was time to speed things up.

Catching the attention of a passing waitress, you waved her over, putting on your best expression of concern. “Excuse me, my husband and I were hoping to be seated inside. I’m feeling a little faint under the harsh sun,” you said smoothly, the lie of you feeling faint rolling off your tongue with ease.

The word husband had slipped out so naturally, you didn’t even realize your mistake until the waitress nodded sympathetically and promised to get you a table indoors right away. As she walked off, you felt a cold gaze slide over you, and you turned to see Sylus staring down at you, one brow raised, a slow, dangerous smile creeping across his face.

“Husband?” His voice was smooth, but there was a teasing lilt beneath it. “Did I miss a wedding, wife?”

Your breath caught in your throat. "Wait—no, I didn't mean—" You started to stammer, heat rising to your cheeks, but before you could backtrack any further, Sylus’ arm slid around your waist, pulling you closer to his side. His grip was firm, possessive, and you could feel the smug amusement radiating off of him.

“I like the sound of that,” he murmured, leaning in just close enough for you to catch the scent of the desert air still clinging to his clothes. His lips ghosted near your ear, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. “Maybe this is a sign I should make it official.”

You swallowed hard, heart racing as you tried to keep your composure. “Official?” you echoed, your voice coming out a little more breathless than you intended. “What—what are you talking about?”

Sylus’ smirk widened, his amber eyes gleaming in the sun. “Oh? Cat got your tongue, Sweetie?” he teased, his tone dripping with amusement as he let his fingers trace a light circle on your hip. “You seemed so sure a moment ago, wife. But now? Speechless.”

You blinked, trying to gather your wits, but the sheer cockiness in his tone was making it hard to think straight. “I…I was just…helping us get a table,” you protested weakly, trying to pull away from his grip, but his hold only tightened.

“Oh, I’m sure you were,” he drawled, clearly reveling in your flustered state. “But now that you’ve set the bar so high, don’t tell me you’re going to back out on me. After all, you made quite the declaration back there.”

“I wasn’t—” You huffed, narrowing your eyes at him as you regained a sliver of your usual confidence. “You know it was a slip-up, Sylus. Don’t start getting ideas.”

He chuckled darkly, the sound sending a shiver down your spine. “Ideas? Sweetie, I live for ideas.” His grip loosened just enough to let you step back, but the way he looked at you made it clear he wasn’t about to let you wriggle out of this one easily. “But let’s be honest, you didn’t hate it. Calling me your husband.”

Your face flushed again, but this time, you managed to meet his gaze without faltering. “I didn’t hate it,” you admitted, folding your arms, “but don’t go thinking you’ve won. I’m not about to sign any papers just because you liked hearing it.”

Sylus tilted his head, the playful smile never leaving his lips. “We’ll see about that, kitten” he said, the threat—or promise—hanging in the air between you as the waitress returned to guide you inside.

You rolled your eyes, trying to ignore the butterflies in your stomach. “Please, Sylus. You couldn’t handle being married to me.”

He raised an eyebrow, leaning in with that infuriating smirk. “Oh, I think I could handle you just fine, sweetheart. You’re the one who might need to keep up.”

You shot back, “Keep up? I’d be carrying you the whole way.”

“Careful, Sweetie. That sounds an awful lot like a challenge.” He chuckled, his hand brushing against yours again. “Now that’s a tempting thought.”

“Tempting? Try exhausting,” you quipped.

As you walked beside him, you felt his arm brush against yours, and the sensation lingered far longer than it should have. Sylus, of course, said nothing, though the smug expression never quite left his face.

This was clearly far from over. And judging by the glint in his eye, Sylus was going to make sure you never forgot your little slip-up.

XAVIER

The café was quiet, filled with the soft murmur of patrons and the comforting smell of fresh pastries. You and Xavier had settled in for a peaceful afternoon, your table already adorned with a delightful array of treats. He had requested a simple drink—no whipped cream. The barista returned, placing his drink in front of him with an impressive mountain of whipped cream on top. Xavier, as calm and indifferent as ever, simply blinked at it, showing no signs of complaint. He wasn’t going to say a word about it, but that didn’t mean you were going to let it slide.

Excusing yourself, you raised a hand and called over a passing staff member. “Excuse me,” you began, with a polite smile. “My husband asked for no whipped cream on his drink, but it looks like there’s some here by mistake. Would it be alright for us to get it changed?”

The words tumbled out so smoothly that you didn’t even realize your slip-up until the staff member nodded apologetically and hurried back to fix the order. It was only when you turned back around that you saw Xavier sitting there, looking unusually... stunned.

He was blinking slowly at you, his expression softened by a hint of confusion and—was that amusement? “Husband?” he repeated, his soft voice barely more than a murmur.

Your face flushed as you fumbled for an explanation. “Oh, no, wait—! I didn’t mean—” You stammered, desperately trying to backtrack. “That just slipped out! I meant to say…uh my boyfriend? Partner? Date? Not—well, not husband, obviously…”

Xavier continued to blink, his face now showing just a little more expression than usual. The faintest curl of a smile played on his lips, and he tilted his head, considering your words. “I must’ve missed that chapter in the 'Guide to a Healthy Relationship,'” he said in that calm, unruffled way of his. “I didn’t know we’d moved on to the husband-and-wife stage.”

You groaned inwardly, burying your face in your hands. “I swear, it was an accident. Just ignore what I said.”

But Xavier was clearly in no mood to let it go. “So, dear wife,” he continued, completely unfazed by your protests, “do you think we’ll have matching mugs in our future? Maybe get a nice house, with a small garden and a picket fence?”

You shot him a playful glare, but the way he was looking at you made it impossible to stay annoyed. “Very funny,” you muttered, though your lips were twitching at the corners, betraying your amusement.

“I think it has a nice ring to it,” Xavier said, leaning back in his chair, clearly enjoying this far more than you expected. “I wonder how long it would take for people in the association to start sending us wedding gifts. Or perhaps they'd just send weapons... you know, as a gesture of goodwill.”

You couldn’t help but laugh. “I don’t think wedding gifts are really their style, Xavier.”

“Hmm, you’re probably right,” he said thoughtfully, then leaned in slightly, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “But you did call me your husband in public. Shouldn’t we at least play the part now?”

Your cheeks were burning, but you couldn’t resist playing along with his ridiculousness. “Fine,” you said, crossing your arms and raising an eyebrow. “But just so you know, dear husband, you’ll be the one doing the dishes.”

Xavier chuckled softly, the sound rare and surprisingly warm. “As long as you take care of meals. A fair trade.”

You were about to retort when the waitress returned with Xavier’s newly corrected drink—this time, free of whipped cream. She set it down with a smile, glancing between the two of you as if she’d picked up on the playful atmosphere. “Here you go,” she said. “No whipped cream this time, sir.”

Xavier’s eyes glinted as he thanked her with a nod, and after she left, he looked back at you with a satisfied expression. “See? Husband perks,” he teased, taking a sip of his drink.

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t hide the smile spreading across your face. “You’re an idiot.”

“And you’re adorable when you’re flustered,” he said, the teasing lilt in his voice gentler now. He took your hand under the table, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “But... thank you,” he added after a beat, his voice softer and more sincere. “For speaking up for me.”

You blinked at him, momentarily thrown off by the gratitude in his tone. “Of course,” you said, squeezing his hand in return. “That’s what wives do, right?”

Xavier let out a soft laugh. “I suppose so,” he murmured, his lips quirking into a rare, genuine smile that made your heart skip a beat.

In that moment, with his hand in yours and the gentle teasing in the air, it was easy to forget the world outside the café. Just the two of you, playing pretend—but maybe, just maybe, something more.

AN: reblogs, feedback and opinions are appreciated!

7K notes · View notes

sincerelyneo · 4 months ago

Text

i’m not gonna teach your boyfriend how to fuck you | l.mk

“you are the girl that i’ve been dreaming of”

📀now playing: i’m not gonna teach your boyfriend how to dance with you by black kids

❯ summary: Asking your best friend to take your virginity because you have a crush on someone else and want experience is totally normal, right? Mark doesn’t think so. If he’s taking your virginity, it’s not for practice—it’s for him. He’s nobody’s wingman—especially not when it comes to you.

❯ pairings: mark x virgin fem!reader

❯ genre: smut, friends to lovers

❯ words: 5.6k

❯ tags: 18+ minors dni!, corruption kink, loss of virginity, nipple play, fingering, hand jobs, praising, body worship, protected sex, back scratching, brief possessiveness, pet names, reader uses she/her pronouns, swearing, love confessions, just fluffy smut because it’s what i do best lol.

Mark swears he’s a good listener. Considering he’s been friends with Zhong Chenle for years, the world’s most dedicated yapper, he doesn’t really have a choice. He has to be a good listener. But Mark almost does a double take when he hears the words ‘my virginity’ and ‘you’ come out of your mouth.

His best friend. With the biggest, prettiest, most innocent eyes and sweet little mouth that could barely stammer through conversations about flirting—asking him about sex. No. Not just asking. Wanting him.

After nearly choking on his own spit, Mark tries to regain his composure—but fails miserably. Especially when your cheeks flush, and you start chewing on your bottom lip. It’s a crime. No, worse. It’s sin in human form. You’re sin in human form. Looking this cute, blushing like a maniac, like you didn’t just drop that question on him.

“You want me to take your virginity, Y/N?”

You cringe the second he repeats your question back to you. It sounded a lot better in your head—practical, reasonable, totally fine. But now, with his brows furrowed and that ‘are you insane?’ look on his face, you’re starting to think maybe you are insane.

But when you came up with this plan last night, none of that crossed your mind. All you knew was that Mark never says no to you. Ever. Not when you asked him to be your first kiss in middle school. Not when you made him take you to your first frat party. Not even when you guilt-tripped him into helping with your dissertation.

"Look, forget it—" you say, pushing to your feet, desperate to escape your shared living room that suddenly feels way too hot under Mark’s stare. "I totally crossed a line by asking. I’m sure I can find someone on Tinder—"

"No."

You blink. "No?"

Mark wants to curse himself for the hasty reply, but who could blame him? There’s just no way he’s letting you swipe right on some douche bag looking for a quick fuck—some guy who’ll take you to a lousy bar, probably make you pay for your own drinks, and then expect to take your virginity like it’s nothing.

It’s ridiculous. It’s not happening.

Not when you just handed him the opportunity on a silver platter.

“What I meant to say was,” Mark rubs the back of his neck, “Don’t you want to lose your virginity to someone you trust—someone you love?”

You nod without hesitation. “That’s why I asked you. There’s not a single man I trust more than you. And I love you—platonically, yeah, but it’s still love.”

Platonic.

If Mark could rip that word out of the dictionary, set it on fire, and launch the ashes into space, he would. Anything to stop you from thinking whatever he feels towards you is platonic. Was it platonic when he kissed you when you were eleven? No. Was it platonic when he drove ten miles just for your favourite snack on your birthday? No. Was it platonic when he worked on your final thesis at the same time as his own? No.

And if he’s going to be the first one to have you, it sure as hell won’t be platonic. That’s for damn sure.

His eyes squeeze shut as he sits forward, clammy hands rubbing up and down his jeans. "Okay, so you want me, your best friend, to take your virginity? Why?"

You chew your lip. This was the part of the scenario that kept you up at night—explaining why. How the hell are you supposed to tell someone you want them to take your virginity just so you can be ready for someone else? There’s no handbook, no online forum, for this kind of thing.

So you settle for:

“It’s stupid. A dumb reason. Don’t even worry about it. Will you do it or not?”

Mark gives you a knowing look, exactly like you knew he would. He’s one of those perspective fuckers, especially when it comes to you. Normally, you love it. Right now, not so much.

“Y/N,” he draws out your name, “What happened to me being one of the most trusted men you know? Tell me.”

You suck in a breath, trying to steady yourself. After all, it’s just Mark. Sweet, kind, nonjudgmental, Mark.

“I have a crush on my co-worker, Xiaojun,” you blurt out. Mark just blinks, completely still, like he’s trying to process. You, on the other hand, keep rambling. “And there’s rumours that he’s amazing in bed, and he asked me out for drinks this Friday, and I just feel really…unprepared.”

Mark feels his blood pressure spike—because fuck your co-worker, fuck those rumours and fuck that little date your planning to gone on this Friday night. Look, he’s not a prude or anything. Mark knows people fuck on a first date—but not you. At least not you with some asshole making you think you need to be prepared for him.

"If that asshole makes you feel less than just because you're a virgin, Y/N, he’s not worth your time."

You narrow your eyes. "I don’t think your opinion holds any weight here, considering you don’t think any guy is worth my time."

Mark relaxes slightly and smiles at that—because it’s true. No man deserves to talk to you, touch you, kiss you—no one but him.

“Besides,” you perk up again, trying to sound more confident. “This isn’t about what Xiaojun or any other guy thinks. This is about me… being comfortable having sex with someone that isn’t myself.” You chew your lower lip. “I want to be comfortable having sex with other men.”

Mark almost growls, a caveman-like urge pounding in his chest at the thought of you wanting to be comfortable with other men. He’s changed his mind. He’d take the word platonic any day over hearing other men leave your mouth.

“Let me get this straight—you want me to teach you how to fuck, to please other men?”

Your cheeks flush, not just because the idea sounds so ridiculous when he puts it like that, but because it’s the first time you've ever heard him talk like that. Mark is always so careful, so delicate with you, keeping his foul mouth and sex life locked away. But hearing the phrase "how to fuck" leave his mouth in that deep, husky drawl, sends a pulse right through you, straight to your clit.

You chew your lip again, hesitating. “I don’t know… I just wanna be good... at it… at sex.”

Mark’s head tilts back as he stares at the ceiling, a string of mumbled curses slipping out before his Adam’s apple starts bobbing against his throat. He pauses to think—and so do you. You can’t figure out why he’s interrogating you like this. The proposition is a lot, yes, but if you’d crossed a line and made him uncomfortable, he could’ve just said so, you wouldn’t have taken it personally. There’s no reason for him to poke and prod like this.

Just as you're about to squash this whole thing, Mark speaks again. He looks up at you from his spot on the couch, his brows furrowed like he's still deep in thought, but his eyes, dark and blown wide, pin you in place.

"I'll teach you, Y/N," he says, standing up slowly. "I'll fuck you if that's what you want and if that’s what you're asking me for," he continues, moving closer until he's right in your personal space. "But I won't fuck you just to get you ready for someone else."

"Mark—"

"No, Y/N, I’m talking," he cuts you off, his long, tantalizing finger tracing from your cheek down to your neck before he whispers, "I don’t mind teaching you how to be good at sex with me, angel, but I’m sure as fuck not teaching you how to be good at it for someone else. If I finally get to fuck you, I’m gonna teach you how to be good for me."

Your mouth parts in a soft gasp, just from his words and that innocent touch alone. Mark’s eyes track the movement, and his irises darken with something you can’t quite name—want, lust, need... you don’t know. All you know is that it’s fucking hot, and it almost makes you miss what he just said.

"Finally?" you breathe out.

The corner of Mark's mouth twitches into a smile, and a low, silky laugh slips from him. "Don't pretend like you don't know I want you." His finger slides to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “You’re too fucking smart to be playing dumb with me, Y/N. You know you could have me on my knees if you just asked. I’d do anything if you just asked.”

You always knew you had Mark wrapped around your little finger, but you never realized it was because he wanted you the same way you’ve wanted him. Yes, you’d only asked him to help you with this plan because you know he struggles to say no to you; but a small, twisted part of you wanted Mark to be the one to take your virginity. Because he’s him—hot, lean, experienced, sweet, loyal Mark. Your Mark.

It’s all too much. His breath is too warm on your skin, his words too heated, his proximity too hot—he’s too hot. You whimper, and you watch as his pupils soften in response.

“Y/N,” he says softly now. “I need you to use your words to tell me what you want. If you don’t want to do this anymore—because, to me, it’s more than just practice—that’s fine. But if we do... this, us, it becomes real.”

Your mind goes fuzzy. Words? He thinks you have words after just confessing that this—that you—are something he wants? Almost like he senses your hesitation, he nuzzles deeper into your neck, his lips feather-light, dusting over your skin in a way that sets your nerves alight. It’s erotic, it’s intimate, it’s so damn sexy.

“I’m serious, Y/N.” His voice is soft, breath scorching against your skin, thumb grazing over your collarbone like he’s memorizing you. “I’ve imagined you—craved you—for years. If you want me to take your virginity, I’ll do it. Happily. But I’ll be your first and your last—not Xiaojun.”

The mention of your coworker feels irrelevant now—a distant, meaningless fantasy compared to this. The stupid office daydream you’d clung to seems laughable because the man you thought only saw you as a friend is standing right here, offering himself to you. Completely. Utterly asking to be yours. And who are you to deny him?

“I want this—”

Mark doesn’t waste another second, doesn’t let you finish your sentence—because he’s wasted too much damn time already. Too much time waiting, hoping, aching to hear you want him. Not just need him for something, but actually want him. Crave him. Desire him.

He has to kiss you. Now.

It starts slow, soft, and sweet. Both your mouths take their time exploring one another as his hand tenderly cups your face, holding you to him. But in no time at all, the heat builds, kisses stretching longer, deeper, until it’s not enough for him. Not nearly enough for you. A hum of approval slips from you the moment his tongue grazes yours, and he takes it as permission, sweeping in and taking control.

“I have fucking dreamed about this,” he pants against your lips. “About kissing you. About touching you. Tell me to stop if it’s too much, Y/N.”

Stop? He’s out of his damn mind if he thinks you want to stop. You shake your head against his lips, legs winding around his, and he takes the hint without hesitation. His hands find your waist, lifting you with ease until you’re resting around his hips. His eyes are fully dark now, black, and locked onto you. They never waver as he carries you both to his bedroom.

Mark lays you down carefully, like you’d break if he was any rougher, but his gaze tells a different story—intense, burning, desperate. You prop yourself up on your elbows to look at him, and he just stares, eyes roaming every inch of you like he’s savouring the moment before he ruins you completely.

You’ve never been this intimate with a man before. Sure, you’re no stranger to your own fingers, to vibrators, and okay—maybe you don’t mind the occasional steamy make out session at a party. But this? In his room, under his stare, is different. You’re not even naked yet, and somehow, you already feel so bare, so exposed.

“I want to take my time with you, Y/N,” Mark murmurs, as he climbs onto the bed, positioning himself between your legs. He gently pushes you back so you’re lying flat, his body hovering over yours. “I want to savour every inch of this pretty little body of yours... and you’re going to let me, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” you pant, nodding at the same time, and Mark smiles, a slow, satisfied curve of his lips.

His hands slide up your legs, gliding over the fabric of your sweatpants, until they reach the hem. His eyes search yours, silently asking for confirmation, and you nod, breath catching in your throat. He tugs at your pants, so slow, so deliberate, and when they finally slip off, he lets out a low, groggy "fuck" at the sight of the pink lacy panties you’d chosen for this—for him.

You suddenly feel self-conscious, heat creeping up your chest.

"Knew I'd say yes, huh?" Mark coos, his hand tracing the band of your panties as he looks over your body, studying it because it's the first time he’s seeing you like this. Displayed for him.

You blush, squirming beneath him, overwhelmed by how new, how unfamiliar this all feels. Mark senses your discomfort and smiles softly.

"Don’t go shy on me now, pretty girl," he murmurs, "I’m losing my shit knowing you wore this with me."

His hands graze over your hip bone, fingers brushing gently, soothing as they explore the small hint of flesh you're revealing to him. The softness of his touch, of him, makes you ease up just a little.

“I wore the matching bra too,” you say on an exhaled breath.

Mark groans, his eyes closing as he takes in a slow, intentional breath of his own, nostrils flaring slightly. “Did you? Can I see, baby? Please?”

You nod, and those exploring hands of his glide up your stomach, fingers brush over your skin as he tugs the tight fabric of your tank top over your head. When it falls away, you're left in nothing but the matching set. The pink bralette, almost see-through, giving him a clear, vivid view of your pebbled nipples.

"So fucking beautiful, Y/N," he says, his voice strained, almost painfully. "Can you take it off for me?"

You smile, teasing, as your hands find the clasp at the back. "After I went through all this effort to put it on for you?"

He shakes his head with a small scoff of laughter, the sound easing your nerves a bit. That familiar banter, the playful back-and-forth, reminds you why you asked him—why you wanted him to do this in the first place. You trust him.

“Is this the part where I learn that you’re a fucking brat?” he mutters, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips.

“I can be, if you want me to be.”

Something flashes in his eyes—dark, predatory—and he leans in closer, his tone dropping an octave. “Take the bra off. Now, Y/N.”

And you do, the flimsy fabric slipping from your breasts and meeting the same fate as your sweats and tank. You feel so exposed, which is ridiculous considering how little modesty the bralette was offering in the first place. Still, your hands instinctively cross over your chest.

"Hey, don’t," Mark murmurs, his hand gently reaching up to move yours, his thumb rubbing soft, soothing circles around your wrist to reassure you. "You don’t ever have to be embarrassed with me, Y/N. If you want to stop—”

"No," you interrupt. "I mean, please... I want this... I want you, Mark. I’m just nervous."

His eyes soften at your words, and he licks his lips. "Can I touch you?"

You nod, and his hands steadily, gently travel up and down your stomach, hovering around your sternum before they rest beneath your breasts. You suck in a breath as his touch lingers. "Can I touch you here?" he asks, and again, you nod.

Mark’s hands gently cup your chest, the softness and weight of your tits filling his palms. The pad of his thumb teases over one of your nipples (pretty peaked nipples that are practically begging for his mouth) in a steady rhythm that has you arching into him. He continues, flicking over the sensitive bud until he elicits the reaction he wants: quiet, breathless whimpers and tiny darling moans from your mouth.

“You’re so damn perfect, Y/N,” he mutters, his eyes glued to your body as he tests his touches, watching in awe as your eyes flutter, roll, or widen. “So damn perfect for me.”

You moan, and his head dips to the valley between your breasts, his tongue flicking out to trail a slow, heated path up your skin. His mouth, warm and wet, captures your pebbled nipple, sucking and licking with a hunger that makes your body shiver. It’s then that you remember why Mark is perfect for this—he’s experienced.

“Pretty fucking tits,” he groans, “I’ll fuck these one day. Promise.”

He focuses entirely on your nipples, squeezing your breasts, and you swear you're already on the verge of coming undone for him, writhing beneath him. Terrified it’ll end too soon, your hands cup his cheeks, pulling him away from your chest to capture his lips in a desperate kiss.

His chest hovers over you, so close to you, but still hidden beneath layers of fabric. His jeans, too tight, too impeding. You want to feel him—skin to skin. It’s not fair. You’re lying here in nothing but your underwear, exposed and vulnerable, while he’s still fully dressed—his clothes a frustrating barrier that keeps you from feeling him the way you need to. You can’t stand it anymore.

Your fingers dig into his shirt, tugging at the fabric, desperate to rip it off and close the damn distance. "Mark," you breathe. "Take it off. Please."

“You want it off, huh?” He teases.

You’re beyond patience now, body aching for him. “Yes. I do.”

Mark’s eyes darken at the desperation in your voice. He sits up slightly, pulling away from you just enough to shed his shirt, the fabric tugging over his head and revealing the toned muscles of his chest. You can’t help but watch, your eyes glued to the way his hands move, but he’s taking his damn time. Frustrated, you reach for his belt, but he stops you, his hand brushing yours as he undoes it himself. The sound of it unbuckling makes your breath hitch.

Finally, his jeans slip down, revealing the taut curve of his thighs before he kicks them aside, leaving him in nothing but his black boxers. His bulge is prominent, straining against the tight material, and you swear you can’t take it any longer.

But before you can pounce, before you can touch him and feel him the way you want to, he’s hovering back over you, his body pinning you down, forcing your back flat against the bed.

“So eager, pretty girl,” he muses with a teasing smirk. “But you asked me to teach you, didn’t you? I’m in charge.”

He’s so controlled, so assertive, it sends a flood of need coursing through your body. His hands are back on you, gliding over your now fully exposed body. Well, not entirely exposed—his fingers toy at the edge of your panties, tracing, testing, taunting, as if waiting for your permission. And you’d give him it immediately, only he wants to ride this out, prolong it.

His fingers move to dip just beneath the fabric, but then he stops.

“I know you said you wanted to be good at this, Y/N,” he hums. “But I want to be good for you. Tell me what you like. Tell me how to touch this pretty pussy.”

Heat floods your cheeks and pools between your legs. From the way Mark smiles, and the fact that he’s cupping you through your underwear, you know he can feel it too.

“I-um—”

“I already told you to stop being shy with me, Y/N,” he says. “Don’t think I overlooked that comment about you getting yourself off. You wanna learn, so do I. Let me be a good boy for you.”

Your eyes lock onto his, and you can see the seriousness. He wants to know what makes you tick, what works for you, what gets you off—wants to be the one to do it. His breath hitches as he studies you, chest contracting with focus.

“I-I start with my clit,” you instruct, and his fingers follow suit, finally dipping under the fabric he’s been teasing for the last ten minutes right to the spot. You want to feel embarrassed telling him all the dirty ways you play with yourself, but you can’t. He won’t let you feel that way, because, like you said, he’s him—sweet, loyal Mark.

“Fuck, Y/N, you’re dripping for me,” he groans, voice thick with need. “Aching for me, aren’t you, baby?” You nod pathetically. “Then tell me, what do you do to your clit? Teach me.”

“I like small circles,” you whisper, your breath shaky.

“Like this?” he asks, his voice low as he carefully follows your instructions. It’s almost too careful. Too slow. You need more—so much more.

“Faster, Mark.”

His fingers speed up, the circles on your clit growing faster, the pressure he applies intensifies with each stroke. You moan, squirming beneath him, your hips shifting in desperate need for more—more of him.

"Can I try a finger, baby?" he asks, and you nod, wanting everything he has to give right now.

Mark shifts his gaze from your face down to where his hands are stuffed inside your panties. He watches as he trails his index finger up and down your slit slowly until it’s circling around your entrance before finally easing it inside. You gasp, feeling the initial stretch, and his eyes lock back onto yours, waiting for the sting to fade and the lust to take its place again. Once it does, he begins to move, his finger sliding in and out, in and out, faster and faster until your breaths come heavier.

“Mark,” you gasp on a moan, a thrill coursing through you as he picks up the pace.

Mark adds his thumb back to your clit, the combination of his fingers easing in and out of your drenched pussy and the attention to your sensitive nerves send waves of pleasure crashing over you. Because cumming has never felt like this—so close, so quick, so desperately needed. Mark must sense your closeness too because his lips quirk, devilish and taunting.

“You gonna cum on my fingers, pretty girl?” he asks, but it’s clearly not a question. The cocky bastard knows you are. “Or should I say finger? Think you could handle two?”

Your mind is incoherent from the pleasure, the foreign stretch of his fingers. Any thoughts you have dissolve into a haze of need, only capable of a frantic nodding at him because you want more, need more, need to cum. He eases in his middle finger, both digits slowing down as you adjust to him. Then, the world around you blurs; all that matters is the rhythm of his fingers and the growing knot forming in your stomach as his pace picks up. Each thrust pushes you closer to the edge, and you can feel the waves of your orgasms building, until it finally, deliciously, crashes over you.

Your vision blurs, and sounds you didn't even know you could make slip from your lips. All you can hear is Mark's incoherent, muffled praise—telling you how pretty, how perfect, how good you are for him.

When you come down from your high, he’s watching you intently, his hand running through your hair as you refocus back on him with hazy eyes. You’ve never experienced an orgasm like that, and as you notice the strained bulge in his pants, a surge of eagerness wells up in you. You want to return the favour, to please him, to learn how to be good the way you asked him to twach you.

You reach for his boxers, fingers trembling as you strip them off, revealing the thick hard length of him. Your breath catches at the sight of his cock, angry and needy and desperate. Mark looks down at you with his own haze-induced eyes.

“Please, Y/N.”

The heat radiating from him ignites a fire within you. You take a moment to admire the way he looks at you—hungry, eager. With a newfound confidence, you lean closer, your lips brushing against his skin, ready to give him the pleasure he’s so generously given you. You press soft, delicate kisses to his abdomen, watching as his stomach flexes in response.

You know you probably should suck his cock right now; that’s what you’re supposed to do, right? Almost as if he can sense your hesitation, Mark’s fingers clamp around your chin, forcing you to meet his eyes.

“You don’t have to, not yet, not ever if you don’t want to,” he says softly. “But you can touch it. Touch me, Y/N, please.”

That feels more like your speed, so you wrap a firm hand around his cock, giving it a slow, steady long tug. Mark's head rolls back from where he sits on the bed. Your hands tremble with nerves, this is all so new to you, and you desperately want to please him. But before you can overthink it, Mark’s words soothe your insecurities.

“Yeah,” he breathes out, “Just like that... so fucking good, Y/N.”

He's like a fucking mind reader, because that one comment, that small ounce of reassurance, has you stroking him faster. Your hand moves in a messy rhythm, feeling the weight of his cock in your palm.

As you continue to stroke him, you start to experiment with different techniques, trying out gentler touches and firmer grips. Mark's reactions are your guide, and you watch as his face contorts in pleasure, his eyes screwing shut as he lets out low groans. He sounds so sexy, you like it, you want more of him like this.

You feel a sense of power, knowing that you're the one bringing him to the edge. Your strokes become more insistent, your hand moving faster as Mark's breathing quickens. You can feel his cock throbbing in your hand, the veins standing out as he gets closer. Mark's body tenses, his muscles straining and that’s when suddenly, his eyes snap open.

“You gotta stop, Y/N,” he growls, his voice low and husky as he pulls your hands off his length. For a moment, you almost feel scorned, but then he adds, “I want to last until I’m at least inside of you...”

You both laugh, Mark's eyes crinkling at the corners as he chuckles, and you feel a flutter in your chest. He gently lies you back on his bed, grabbing a pillow and placing it underneath your hips. As he fumbles with his nightstand, he rips open a condom and slides it along his cock. You can't help but watch, mesmerized by the sight. It’s oddly sexy. Your body responds instinctively, your hips arching upwards as if seeking him out.

As Mark positions himself between your legs, his head dips down to kiss you. It’s sweet, like the first time, and you think you could get used to them—you want to get used to them. The feeling of his lips on yours, on your cheek, the top of your head.

When your lips finally break apart, he holds eye contact with you, aligning himself with your pussy. He teases you, brushing against your folds, occasionally grazing your clit—his eyes watching your reaction, a smirk on his lips. Sensitive, he notes. And he has to note because there will be a time for more, a time where he’ll make you work for it. But today isn’t that day. Today is about you and him—together.

“Tap my arm if it’s too much. If you want to stop—”

“Mark,” it’s your turn to be stern now. “Please, just fuck me.”

He smirks, liking this side of you—the impatience, the newfound dirty mouth of yours. Something else to note for next time, he thinks.

Rubbing himself up and down your slit for a final time, Mark presses the head of his cock to your entrance, hips shifting forward to slowly push into you. His nostrils flare, and his teeth clench because he has to be careful, he has to be in control. He cannot—he will not—hurt you any more than he has to.

So, slowly. Torturously slowly. Mark eases into you, inch by tantalizing inch, until his tip coaxes past the small ring of resistance. You’re so tight—so impossibly tight—that he almost regrets letting you jerk him off before hand, because he’s already teetering on the edge of cumming from merely the first few inches. He’s waited far too long for this moment; the last thing he wants is to blow his load before he’s even begun to move.

He shifts his focus from his own pleasure to your face, keenly observing for any signs of discomfort. When he catches the slight scrunch of your nose, he leans down to kiss you, wanting to distract you from the sting of you stretching around his cock for the first time.

“You’re doing so good, pretty girl. You were made for me.”

He feels your body relax into the mattress at the praise and your hands wrap around his back, pulling him closer. It’s a silent invitation, a clear signal that you’re okay with more—that you need more.

His hips finally press flush against yours, your legs spreading wider to accommodate him, all of him. Your fingers dust up and down his spine as you get used to this, how full you feel, how complete.

“Move, Mark,” you whisper barely above a whisper. “Please.”

And he does. He rolls his hips, pulling out of you completely before sinking back in, slow and sensual. You moan—right into his ear, because he’s buried in your neck—and he nearly loses the last thread of control he’s holding onto. Mark quickens his pace, keeping his body flush against yours—like he needs to be as close as possible. Needs to consume you the same way you’ve consumed him for years.

“Yes, Mark,” you cry, your nails raking down his back, scratching, digging, marking into his skin.

“Fuck, Y/N. You feel so good. You have no idea how fucking perfect you are.”

He reaches for your hand, prying it from his back to lace his fingers with yours, pinning them to the mattress. It’s gentle, it’s sweet—it’s so Mark. He fucks you slowly, his hands holding yours as he kisses you. Intimate, tender, and so fucking hot.

You tighten around him, and the squeeze makes something flicker in Mark’s eyes—something determined, something feral.

“I’m gonna cum,” you whimper between ragged breaths.

“Fuck, yes—please,” he groans. “Cum around my cock, pretty girl. I need it. I want it.”

Hearing him just as desperate, just as needy as you, sends you over the edge. Your lip trembles, your lashes flutter, and then—your second orgasm takes over you, ripping a scream of his name from your throat.

It’s the prettiest thing Mark’s ever seen, ever heard—the best thing he’s ever felt. And he swears this moment will be etched into his memory until the day he dies. He holds you close to his chest as you ride your high, feeling every desperate breath you take, swallowing every moan with wet open mouth kisses. And when he senses you’ve finally come down, he chases his own orgasm—greedy for it, for you.

He becomes ravenous for his own release, his hips pistoning faster, harder, as he drives deeper into you. His breaths come in ragged gasps, his chest contracting as his fingertips anchor your hips in place. With every thrust his cock throbs with an almost unbearable intensity until he lets out a low, guttural groan, his body shuddering with pleasure.

He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his lips brushing against your skin as he whispers your name, over and over again, like a mantra and he spills inside of the condom.

The room fills with a silence, punctuated only by the sound of your mingled breaths as he comes down. Your hands are still entwined, hearts still racing, and you both can’t do anything but look at each other. Eventually, Mark leans in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your lips before pulling away. He eases out of you, removes the condom, and tosses it into the nearby trash can.

You watch him as he moves, and when he turns back to you—his gaze a mix of awe and satisfaction—you can’t help but smile.

“You know when I said I loved you platonically?” you ask, and his brows knit together. He looks like he’s about to have a full-blown panic attack, so you quickly put him at ease. “I lied. I actually just love you.”

Relief washes over his face before it melts into a smile. He presses a gentle kiss to your forehead.

“Good. Because, I love you too. Always have.”

#nct smut #nct 127 smut #nct dream smut #mark lee smut #nct x reader #nct dream x reader #nct 127 x reader #mark lee x reader #nct scenarios #nct hard hours #kpop smut #nct oneshot

6K notes · View notes

edenarchives · 3 months ago

Text

♯┆𝐅𝐀𝐊𝐄𝐃 𝐈𝐓 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝟐 .ᐟ — 𝐁𝐀𝐊𝐔𝐆𝐎 𝐊𝐀𝐓𝐒𝐔𝐊𝐈

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: After one unforgettable shoot with Bakugo, you’re left unable to finish with anyone else—on or off camera. He’s the only one who’s ever made it real. When you run into him at a party, the sexual tension explodes, leading to a filthy, passionate reconnection that neither of you can shake.

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: MATURE CONTENT 18+ Explicit sexual content, unprotected sex, oral (f receiving), face riding, fingering, public sex, overstimulation, squirting, rough sex, degradation + praise, light dom/sub dynamics, breeding kink references, creampie, soft aftercare, strong language, alcohol mention, sex industry themes.

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 8.2k (omg)

𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐄𝐄

You haven’t cum in weeks.

Not on set. Not in the shower. Not with the $300 vibrator your manager sent as a “self-care” gift. Not even with that one video you shot with Keigo—the one that used to always do the trick.

Nothing works anymore.

Every orgasm you fake now feels like a cheap knockoff. Just muscle memory. Fake moans, fake trembling, fake gasps as the camera zooms in on your face like it’s catching something real. You used to be good at this—great, actually. Made your name off it. You could sell pleasure better than anyone. But now?

Now it’s all broken.

Because Katsuki Bakugo had the audacity to actually make you finish. Not once. Not twice. But over and over until your voice was hoarse and your legs wouldn’t stop shaking. And the worst part wasn’t even how good it felt—it was how real it was. He didn’t just make you come, he pulled it out of you. Like he knew exactly what buttons to press, what noises made you unravel, what rhythm would keep you teetering right on that edge. And then he’d tip you over it like it was nothing.

And ever since then?

Every other guy has felt like cardboard. Even the good ones. Even the pros. You tried not to be obvious about it on set, but your heart’s not in it. Your body’s not either. You’re back to acting, and that just makes it worse. Because now you know what it’s like to actually feel it. To lose control. To not have to fake it.

He ruined you.

And you hate him for it.

Kind of.

Maybe.

You dream about him. That same low, hungry growl in his voice. The weight of his hands on your thighs. The way he looked at you after the cameras cut, like he knew. Like he’d figured you out and wasn’t gonna let you forget it.

And you haven’t.

You still haven’t.

Which is why this fucking party is the last place you want to be.

You stand outside the mansion in heels that and a dress that hugs you like sin, arms crossed and jaw clenched. Your manager’s text is still glowing on your lock screen:

Be nice. Good networking. Smile.

Yeah, whatever.

Keigo’s place is massive. Of course it is. He’s been in the industry since forever, and he’s got that kind of charm that makes people want to party with him. His invite list is basically the who’s who of adult film, plus a few influencers trying to act like they belong. You hate these things. Too loud. Too fake. Everyone pretending to be friends, pretending they don’t judge each other for who they’ve worked with or how many followers they have. It’s all for show.

Still, you walk in. You know how to play the game.

The place is packed. Low red lighting makes everything look softer, sexier. Music pulses through the floor, the bass low and smooth. You’re barely through the front door before someone offers you a glass of champagne. You take it and downs half in one go.

A few people wave at you. A few others eye you up and down, probably checking who you came with. You fake a smile, offer a nod, and keep moving. You’re not here to socialize. You’re not here to flirt or network or play nice.

You’re here because your manager told you to be.

You end up leaning against the edge of a fancy-ass velvet couch, letting the music drown out your thoughts. The champagne doesn’t help much. Neither does the way some guy you vaguely recognise is trying to start a conversation with you, talking about some upcoming project and how “you should totally collab.” You tune him out.

And that’s when it happens.

You feel it before you sees it. Like something in the air shifts. Like static on your skin.

Your spine straightens. Your fingers tighten around the glass.

And then—there he is.

Across the room. Leaning against the wall like he owns the place. Dressed in black, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, rings glinting on his fingers. Blonde hair messy in that perfect, careless way. His eyes scan the crowd, bored and sharp all at once.

And then they land on you.

The breath catches in your throat. For a second, the music fades. The party disappears. It’s just him.

Bakugo.

His eyes narrow just slightly. Like he’s surprised to see you here. Like he’s not surprised that you look this good.

He pushes off the wall.

Starts walking.

Right toward you.

Your heart is beating way too fast. You hate that it is. You want to look away. Pretend you don’t care. But you can’t.

Because even now—especially now—your body remembers exactly what he did to you. The way he touched you. The way he looked at you. Like he wasn’t playing a part. Like it was real.

And worse—you know he remembers, too.

He stops in front of you. Doesn’t say anything at first. Just look’s at you.

Up close, he looks even better than you remembers. Like he’s been working out more. Like he hasn’t lost a second of sleep over you even though you haven’t stopped losing it over him.

“Didn’t think you’d be here,” he says finally, voice low and scratchy.

“Didn’t think you’d be,” you shoot back, arms still crossed. Your tone is cool, but your pulse is sprinting.

He smirks. That same damn smirk that used to drive you crazy. Still does.

“Keigo dragged me,” he says. “Said it’d be good to ‘be seen.’ Whatever the fuck that means.”

“Sounds familiar.”

You stand there in silence for a second. The air between you is thick. Heavy. Loaded.

He tilts his head slightly, eyes drifting down to the drink in your hand. “You good?”

“Peachy.”

“Mm.”

Another pause.

Then he leans in—just a little.

“You fake it again today?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper.

Your breath hitches. You hate that he knows. Hate that he’s right.

You don’t answer.

He chuckles under his breath. Not mean. Just… smug. Like he knew it. Like he never had a doubt.

“I did,” you admit finally, voice tight.

He steps in just a little closer. Not touching you. Not yet. But you can feel the heat coming off him. The way his presence wraps around you like a damn trap.

“You try with someone else yet?”

You swallow hard. Your eyes flick away.

He already knows the answer.

“No one’s been good enough, huh?” he murmurs.

You wants to slap him. Or kiss him. Or both.

Instead, you down the rest of her champagne in one go.

He watches you the whole time.

Still smirking.

Still standing way too close.

“Why are you here, Bakugo?” You asks, voice low.

His eyes drop to your lips. Then back up.

“Maybe I missed you.”

He says it so casually.

Maybe I missed you.

Like it’s no big deal. Like he hasn’t completely wrecked your life and walked away with a goddamn smirk.

You set your empty glass down, not caring where it lands. Your heart’s still hammering in your chest, but it’s not nerves—it’s need. Hot and bitter and building in your gut like it’s been waiting for this exact moment.

You don’t look away. Don’t soften. You just say it—because fuck it. What’s the point in pretending anymore?

“I haven’t cum since you.”

His smirk falters. Just a little. But enough.

“I’m serious,” you add, stepping closer, voice low. “Nothing works. Not my hands. Not toys. Not other guys. I film a scene and fake it like always, but it’s worse now. So much worse. Because now I know what it’s supposed to feel like.”

Bakugo’s jaw tenses. His hands curl slightly at his sides, like he’s holding himself back.

You lean in, close enough that your words are only for him.

“You ruined me.”

His breath comes out sharp. Controlled—but barely.

“You think I don’t know that?” he mutters. “You think I haven’t been fuckin’ losing it, thinking about that day?”

He looks down at you, eyes dark and burning.

“You were the best thing I ever had in front of a camera. Fuck—probably the best I’ve ever had, period.”

Your stomach flips. Heat flashes under your skin.

“Every time I close my eyes,” he goes on, voice getting rougher, “I see you. Bent over, whimpering, beggin’ for it. You remember that? The way you sounded?”

You swallow, throat tight.

He leans down, lips brushing just behind your ear.

“Do you remember how wet you were when I spread you open?” he whispers. “How your thighs were shaking so bad I had to hold you down?”

Your knees nearly buckle. You grip the edge of the couch behind you, the only thing keeping you upright.

“I remember,” you breathe. “I can’t stop remembering.”

His nose grazes your jaw, not quite touching your mouth, but close enough that the air feels electric between you.

“I jerked off to that shoot so many times I lost count,” he says. “Watched it back with the volume turned all the way up. Had to bite my fuckin’ fist just to keep quiet.”

Your thighs press together. Everything in you is throbbing.

“I tried,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. “I tried to fuck it out. Tried to touch myself. Tried to forget it.”

Bakugo pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes heavy, lips parted.

“And?”

You shake your head slowly. “Didn’t work.”

His chest rises and falls a little faster now. You can see it. Feel it.

“I need you,” you say, honest and raw and a little unhinged. “Not even just your cock—you. The way you touched me. The way you talked to me. My body remembers you like muscle memory.”

He groans, low and quiet, like it slips out without his permission.

“You know what that does to me?” he mutters. “Hearin’ you say that? Standin’ here in that tight little dress, legs pressed together like you’re already aching for it?”

You don’t answer. You don’t have to.

“You want me to remind you what it feels like?” he asks, stepping in close again. His hand hovers near your hip, not touching, but so close. “Want me to bend you over that couch right now and make you scream my name again?”

Your breath shudders out of you.

“You want me to tell you all the things I’d do to you if we weren’t in the middle of this fuckin’ party?”

You nod. Slow. Deliberate.

“Say it.”

You look up at him, eyes sharp. “I want you to ruin me again.”

His control shatters for half a second. His tongue runs across his teeth. His hands twitch at his sides like they’re desperate to grab you.

“You want my fingers down your panties, feelin’ how wet you are just from talking to me?”

“Yes.”

“You want my mouth on your neck while I tell you how I’m gonna fuck you so good you’ll forget every other name you’ve ever moaned?”

“Yes,” you whisper, voice wrecked.

“You wanna know what I’d do to you if I dragged you into one of those empty rooms upstairs?”

“Tell me.”

He leans in again, mouth right at your ear, his breath hot and filthy.

“I’d eat your pussy until your legs give out. I’d make you ride my face until you’re crying. And then I’d bend you over the bed and ruin that tight little cunt all over again. No cameras. No crew. Just you, screamin’ my name into the pillow like you need me.”

You whimper. Actually fucking whimper. Your knees almost give out.

He pulls back just enough to look you in the eyes again, and his voice drops to a growl.

“Tell me to stop, or I’m taking you upstairs right now.”

Your eyes burn into his.

“I’m not telling you shit.”

He grabs your wrist—gently, but with purpose—and starts walking.

The music fades behind you as you two leave the main room, his fingers wrapped around your wrist, warm and rough and so sure. It’s not forceful—never forceful—but it’s firm. Intentional. Like he knows exactly where he’s taking you, and you’re not even thinking about stopping him.

You follow.

Of course you follow.

The air in the hallway is cooler, quieter. Dim lights line the walls, casting long shadows, the bass of the party now just a distant thump behind closed doors. Every step echoes in your ears. Your heels click against the tile, but you barely hear them. All you can feel is his hand. His grip. The burn of his touch where your skin meets.

He’s walking fast. Focused. Like he’s barely holding himself together.

But then—he pauses.

Right in the middle of the hallway, without a word, he stops. Still holding your wrist, but frozen in place.

And then he looks back at you.

And fuck.

Your cheeks are flushed, eyes wide and glassy with heat. Your lips are parted, and you’re biting the bottom one like you don’t even realize it. Your breath is shallow. Your chest rises and falls way too fast. And you look—

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath.

It just hits him all at once.

The image of you like that—flushed, dazed, following him willingly down some dim hallway in a dress that barely covers your ass. Your mouth red from chewing on your lip, eyes shining like you want to be devoured.

It’s too much.

It’s way too much.

Bakugo turns around in one sharp move and pushes your back against the wall.

You gasp, more out of surprise than anything, and your back hits the cool plaster with a soft thud.

He doesn’t give you time to speak.

His mouth is on yours before you can breathe.

It’s not gentle. It’s not sweet. It’s a claim.

His lips crash into yours like he’s starved. Like he’s been dying for this. His other hand finds your waist, squeezing tight, pulling you flush against him until there’s not an inch of space left between your bodies.

And fuck, you melt.

You kiss him back with just as much heat, fingers curling into the front of his shirt, tugging him closer like you want to climb inside him. His mouth moves against yours with wild precision—like he knows exactly what you need and he’s giving it. All tongue and teeth and soft, filthy groans that vibrate against your lips.

His hand slips down to your hip, gripping tight. Your back arches. You moan into his mouth when his tongue brushes yours, and he growls—a low, guttural sound that sends heat straight between your thighs.

He pulls back for just a second, breathing hard.

“Been wantin’ to do that since the fuckin’ shoot,” he mutters, voice rough and wrecked.

You grab his shirt tighter, dragging him back in.

“Then shut up and do it again.”

And he does.

He kisses you like he needs it to survive. Like your mouth is the only thing that’s going to keep him sane. His hand slides up, fingers brushing under the edge of your dress, just a taste of skin, and you gasp into his mouth. He swallows the sound greedily.

Right now, it’s just him and you and all that fucking need you’ve both been drowning in for weeks.

Your hands are in his hair now, tugging, and he groans like you’re driving him insane. His lips trail down to your jaw, your neck, kissing and biting and licking like he wants to leave a mark—something real. Something that says mine.

“You feel that?” he growls against your skin, grinding his hips against yours. “That’s what you fuckin’ do to me.”

You whimper.

“You think I haven’t been aching for this? You think I don’t wake up hard, pissed off, because it’s not you under me?”

“Bakugo—”

“Say it,” he growls. “Say you missed me.”

“I missed you,” you breathe. “So fucking much.”

He grabs your face, tilts it up, and kisses you again. Harder. Deeper.

He’s losing it. Right here, in the middle of some stupid hallway, with your hands on his chest and your mouth so fucking soft and perfect under his.

Fuck he was gonna wait. He really was.

One more hallway, maybe two. Find a room, lock the door, throw you on the bed and wreck you the way you’ve been dreaming about. But then his hand drifts lower, just a little. Just enough to feel the hem of your dress under his fingers. His palm slides up, slow and sure, bunching the fabric higher and higher until—

He groans. Loud. Filthy. Like it physically hits him.

“No fuckin’ panties?”

You flinch, just a little. Lips parted, eyes dark.

“Were you expecting something to happen tonight, baby?” he breathes, voice thick with heat. “You showin’ up like this just for me?”

You don’t answer.

You don’t have to.

Bakugo presses his forehead to yours for a second, breathing hard.

“Goddamn,” he mutters, voice low and ragged. “You’re my dirty little whore, aren’t you?”

You whimper.

“You come to this party all dressed up, no fuckin’ panties, already wet for me…”

His hands are on your thighs now, spreading them just a bit. Your backs against the wall, breathing like you just ran a mile.

“You wanted this,” he growls. “You needed this.”

And then—he drops to his knees.

Just like that.

Right there in the middle of the hallway.

The air leaves your lungs in a gasp. Your back hits the wall harder this time, legs shaking, heart pounding in your throat.

“Bakugo—” you hiss, panic in your voice. “Someone could see—!”

He looks up at you, eyes dark and fucking wild.

“Baby,” he says, voice calm and sinful. “You’re a pornstar.”

He licks his lips.

“Let them see.”

And then he’s between your thighs.

One of your legs stays planted on the ground, barely holding you up. The other—he lifts and hooks it over his shoulder, gripping tight behind your knee with one hand, keeping you open for him. Exposed. Spread. His other hand pins your hip to the wall like he’s afraid you’ll float away.

Then—

Then his mouth is on you.

He groans the second he tastes you, like he’s been dreaming of this moment. Like the taste of you is everything he’s been starving for. His tongue is hot and greedy, licking through your folds, lips sealing around your clit as he sucks, hard, and you cry out, hand flying to his hair for balance.

“F-fuck—Bakugo—”

He growls against your pussy, the vibration shooting up your spine like lightning.

“Been thinkin’ about this pussy every fuckin’ day,” he mutters between licks. “You taste even better than I remembered.”

Your head falls back against the wall with a soft thud, mouth open, chest heaving. You can’t breathe. You can’t think. All you know is his mouth—his tongue flicking and licking and circling your clit just right, dragging slow, wet moans from your throat that you couldn’t fake if you tried.

His fingers dig into the back of your thigh, holding you still. Your other leg trembles, barely keeping you upright. Your dress is bunched around your waist, forgotten, as he devours you like a man possessed.

“You hear yourself?” he growls, voice muffled against your soaked cunt. “You hear how fuckin’ wet you are?”

“Y-yes—fuck—”

He flattens his tongue against your clit and drags it, slow and firm, and you nearly collapse.

“You gonna cum for me like this, baby?” he asks, licking up your slit, tongue dipping in like he wants to taste every part of you. “Gonna make a fuckin’ mess on my face?”

You’re nodding, eyes wide, lips parted in silent gasps. Your hand’s gripping his hair so tight it must hurt, but he doesn’t care. He loves it.

“Thought about this every night,” he mutters. “Me on my knees. You fallin’ apart. No cameras. No crew. Just me eatin’ you out like it’s the only thing I’m good at.”

And it is.

God, it fucking is.

Your thighs are shaking. Your stomach’s tight. You’re right there, and he knows it.

So he goes harder.

Sucks on your clit like it’s the only thing keeping him alive, tongue flicking fast and filthy, relentless. Your legs nearly give out.

You scream his name.

And then you’re gone.

Your orgasm hits like a truck, ripping through your body as you cry out, nails digging into his scalp. Your leg twitches in his grip, your body writhing against the wall as you cum for the first time in weeks—for real.

Bakugo doesn’t stop. Not until he’s sure you’re done. Not until he’s sucked you through every last wave, tongue gentle now, soft little licks that make you squirm from the sensitivity.

He pulls back, panting.

His chin’s shiny. His lips are swollen.

And he looks fucking proud.

“Goddamn,” he mutters, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “You taste like fuckin’ heaven.”

You can’t speak. Can barely breathe. Your legs are jelly, your face flushed, your dress still hiked around your hips.

And he’s still on his knees.

Looking up at you like he owns you.

Like he always has.

You’re still trembling.

One leg weak, back still pressed to the wall, dress bunched around your hips and mouth parted in a breathless, wrecked little gasp. Your head’s spinning, body soaked in sweat and pleasure, but it’s not enough. Not for him.

Bakugo stays on his knees for a second longer, just staring up at you like he’s watching the aftermath of his own destruction—and loving every second of it. His jaw’s tight, eyes wild, chest rising and falling with every ragged breath.

Then he moves.

He rises slowly, all smooth, deliberate heat, and crowds you against the wall again, towering over you. His hand slips behind your neck and pulls you in, and his mouth crashes into yours—hot and messy, all tongue and teeth and need.

You moan into it. Loud. Desperate.

He doesn’t give a shit if anyone hears.

His tongue sweeps into your mouth, making you taste herself. He kisses you like a man obsessed, like he needs you in his lungs to fucking breathe. His hands are everywhere—sliding over your hips, your ass, up your back, gripping tight like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you all over again.

“You feel what you do to me?” he growls against your lips.

You whimper when his hips roll into yours, and fuck—he’s hard. So fucking hard it feels like it’s about to tear through his pants. Thick and heavy and ready, pressed right up against your soaked heat.

Your whole body jolts at the contact, and suddenly something shifts in you.

You’re not just trembling anymore—you’re burning. You grabs him by the front of his shirt and pushes off the wall, stumbling forward on shaky legs.

“Where’s the room?” You pant.

He grins, drunk on the sound of you.

“End of the hall. Second door.”

You don’t even wait.

Bakugo catches your wrist again as you try to walk, sees your knees still unsteady, and without saying a word—he scoops you up. Hands under your thighs, body flush to his, carrying you like you’re light as air.

You gasp. “I can walk—!”

He growls, “Don’t care.”

He carries you like you weigh nothing, like you belongs in his arms. Your legs are still trembling from the orgasm he just pulled out of you in the hallway, but your hands never stop moving—gripping his shoulders, playing with the hair at the back of his neck, dragging your lips along his jaw just to feel him shiver.

He kicks open the door, steps inside, and shoves it shut with his foot. The lock clicks.

He sets you down—not on the bed. He pins you against the wall again, just for a second, breathing hard, eyes locked on yours. His hands are all over you, sliding down your body, squeezing your hips like he’s still trying to convince himself you’re real.

And you’re looking up at him with that same fucked-out, fire-in-your-veins look that’s been haunting his dreams since your shoot.

And then—slowly—you start to sink to your knees.

His breath catches.

“Wait,” he mutters, chest heaving, “you—fuck—what’re you—”

You’re already looking up at him through your lashes, fingers tugging his belt loose with quick, desperate movements.

“You ruined me,” you say, voice low and dangerously sweet. “Let me return the favor.”

Bakugo swears under his breath as you pull his cock free—hard and leaking, twitching in your grip. Your fingers wrap around him, slow and teasing, and he shudders.

And then your mouth is on him.

“Fucking hell,” he chokes out, his hand flying to your hair, not pushing, just holding, gripping tight like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.

Your lips wrap around the head, tongue swirling in slow, wet circles, tasting him like you’ve been waiting for this moment since the second the cameras cut. You slide down his length, inch by inch, until your lips are stretched around him and your throat is already working to take more.

“Jesus fuck, baby—”

His voice is raw. Wrecked. You moan around him and his hips jerk.

“Just like that,” he groans, jaw tight. “That’s it. My perfect fuckin’ mouth.”

You hum, sending vibrations through him that almost make his knees buckle. Your hand strokes what you can’t fit, your spit coating him, dripping down your wrist. You’re relentless—pulling off to lick the tip, spit pooling on your tongue before you sink back down again.

Bakugo’s head hits the wall behind him with a soft thud. His eyes flutter shut, mouth open, breathing hard.

“You know what you fuckin’ do to me?” he growls, voice shaking. “You know how many nights I’ve jerked off thinking about you like this?”

You pull off, slowly, dragging your tongue up the underside of his cock as you go.

“Tell me,” you whisper.

He grabs your jaw, tilts your face up toward him, cock resting against your cheek.

“I’d picture this mouth every fuckin’ time,” he breathes. “Your lips all shiny, tongue out, eyes begging. Just like this.”

You moan and take him back into your mouth deep, throat fluttering around him, and he loses it. His hand tightens in your hair as his hips stutter forward, fucking into your mouth once, twice—then forcing himself to stop.

“Fuck—stop,” he groans, pulling you off with a shaky hand, even though it kills him. “Gonna blow if you keep that shit up.”

Your lips are swollen, spit dripping down your chin, eyes glazed and smug.

“Good,” you purr.

He yanks you up off the floor and spins you, pushing your back toward the bed.

“You wanna ruin me?” he growls, voice low and filthy. “Let’s see if that pretty little cunt can finish the job.”

He manhandles you onto the bed like he owns it.

Like he owns you.

You land on your back, dress still hiked up around your waist, thighs spread open without shame. Your chest is heaving, lips wet, eyes locked on him like he’s the only thing you see.

And fuck—he might as well be.

Bakugo shrugs off his shirt in one smooth pull, muscles flexing, abs on full display, veins in his arms popping from how hard he’s holding himself back. His cock’s still out, thick and leaking, twitching with every step closer.

“You sit there lookin’ like that,” he growls, crawling up onto the bed, “and expect me to take it slow?”

You grin. Daring. “I don’t expect you to do anything except ruin me.”

He laughs—dark and mean—and grabs your ankles, dragging you down the bed until your ass is right at the edge, legs hanging off, wide open for him.

“You’re fuckin’ insane,” he mutters.

And then he’s on you.

One hand hooked under your knee, pushing it back toward your chest, the other lining himself up. His eyes are locked on your soaked cunt like it’s the only thing he’s ever wanted. The tip of his cock brushes your entrance, and you both moan.

“You feel that?” he mutters, dragging it through your folds, teasing your clit. “You’re fuckin’ dripping for me.”

“Need you,” you gasp, already trembling again. “Bakugo, please—”

“Please what?” he growls, leaning over you, tip just barely nudging inside. “Say it.”

“Please fuck me.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice.

He slams into you in one deep, smooth thrust, burying himself to the hilt. Your back arches off the bed, mouth open in a silent scream as he stretches you—thick and deep and perfect.

Bakugo groans, eyes rolling back. “Fuck—this pussy missed me, huh?”

“Yes—fuck yes—”

He pulls back and thrusts again, harder this time, making the bed creak under you.

“I can feel it,” he pants. “The way you’re squeezing me. Your cunt’s starving for it.”

His pace builds—relentless, deep, every thrust angled just right to hit that spot that makes you sob. One of his hands grabs your throat, not squeezing, just holding, thumb brushing over your jaw like he owns you.

“You like that, baby?” he growls. “You like bein’ fucked stupid?”

You nod, gasping, eyes rolling back. “Yes—yes, fuck, harder—”

He gives it to you.

Hips snapping into yours, the sound of skin on skin echoing off the walls, your moans getting louder, messier, realer. Your nails drag down his back, your thighs locked around his hips as you cling to him like you’re about to fall apart.

“Gonna cum for me again?” he mutters, leaning down, forehead pressed to yours. “Gonna cream on my cock like a good fuckin’ girl?”

“I—I can’t—” you whimper.

“You can. You will.”

He reaches between them and rubs your clit—fast, tight circles—and you scream.

Your entire body locks up, and then you break.

You cum hard, legs shaking, mouth open, nails digging into his shoulders. He doesn’t stop—keeps fucking you through it, eyes locked on your wrecked, blissed-out face.

“Goddamn,” he grits out. “You’re fuckin’ unreal.”

His thrusts get rougher, deeper, like he’s chasing the edge—but then, suddenly, he pulls out.

You let out a broken whine, head thrown back against the mattress, body still twitching from your orgasm. Your pussy clenches around nothing, fluttering in the absence of him, wet and ruined and aching for more.

“N-no,” you gasp. “Why’d you—why’d you stop—”

Bakugo’s hovering over you, chest heaving, every muscle in his body tight like a live wire. His cock is soaked, twitching as it rests against your thigh, flushed and throbbing with the need to be buried again.

“Could’ve fucked blown in that pretty pussy just now,” he growls, voice wrecked. “But I’m not done with you yet.”

He leans down, kisses you hard—filthy and deep, tongue licking into your mouth like he owns it. When he pulls back, his voice is rough, laced with heat and control.

“Don’t wanna cum yet,” he pants. “Wanna watch you fall apart again.”

His fingers trail between your thighs, sliding through the slick mess he left behind. You gasp, hips twitching, eyes rolling when he pushes two fingers into you without warning—slow and deep.

“Still so fuckin’ tight,” he mutters, voice low as he watches your face twist in pleasure. “So wet for me. You like bein’ stuffed full, huh?”

You nod frantically, legs spreading wider, hips grinding down into his hand like you’re starved for it.

“Good,” he says, curling his fingers just right, pressing into that soft spot that makes your legs jump. “You’re gonna cum on my fingers now.”

“*Fuck—Katsuki—”

“Yeah?” he smirks, eyes locked on where his fingers disappear inside you. “You close again, baby? Didn’t even give you a break.”

He keeps rubbing your clit with his thumb, fingers stroking in and out slow and deep, dragging slick sounds from between your thighs that make him groan under his breath.

“You’re so fuckin’ messy already,” he says, voice tight. “Look at you. All wrecked for me.”

You sob, head tossing back, hand fisting the sheets.

“Cum again,” he whispers, mouth brushing your ear. “Wanna feel you squeeze my fingers. Wanna make a mess before I fuck you proper.”

And you do.

Your body jerks, thighs clenching around his wrist, another orgasm ripping through you so fast and hard you nearly scream. Your cunt pulses around his fingers, clenching down with each wave, slick gushing down to his palm as you trembles through it.

Bakugo watches you lose it, feels your walls fluttering around his fingers, and his cock twitches, aching with the need to be back inside you.

But not yet.

He pulls his hand out slow, dragging it over your swollen, soaked folds, and brings his fingers to his mouth.

Sucks them clean.

“Sweetest fuckin’ thing I’ve ever tasted,” he mutters, eyes never leaving yours.

You look wrecked—eyes glassy, chest heaving, lips parted like you’re still trying to breathe.

He leans in, kisses you slow, and lines himself up again.

“You ready for more?” he murmurs against your lips.

You nod, barely able to speak.

He smirks, voice dark and low.

“Good.”

He slides back into you slow. Painfully slow.

His cock pushes in deep, stretching your ruined cunt all over again, and he groans at how wet, warm, perfect you still are—even after two orgasms and his fingers inside you. You’re flushed and boneless beneath him, lips parted, hair stuck to your face, eyes barely open.

Cockdrunk.

And he knows it.

He watches your face twist as he sinks in fully, his hips flush against yours, but doesn’t move.

Just stays there. Buried to the hilt.

You whine.

He pulls back, just a little.

Thrusts again—slow, deep, teasing. Like he’s savoring every inch. Your walls flutter around him, still clenching like you can’t let go, and he groans through gritted teeth.

“You feel that?” he pants. “How tight you still are?”

You nod, whining, legs twitching.

He does it again.

Slow.

Deep.

Unbearable.

You cry out, hips jerking up toward him, trying to chase more—anything—but he holds your hips still, smirking down at your wrecked face.

“Aw, what’s wrong, baby?” he coos, breathless. “Not enough for you?”

You whimper. “Suki—”

He grins. “Tryin’ to fuck yourself on my cock now?”

And you are—rocking your hips up in tiny, desperate motions, your hands gripping the sheets, voice a string of needy little noises that go straight to his dick.

“You’re such a desperate little whore,” he groans. “Can’t even wait for me to fuck you proper, huh?”

“Suki—please—please—”

Your voice is high, slurred, half-sobs and gasp, like you’re not even forming real words anymore. Your cunt squeezes him so tight he nearly loses it.

“Oh my fucking god,” he mutters, shaking his head like he’s in pain. “You sound so fuckin’ wrecked—‘please, Suki’—you know what that does to me?”

You nod, tears pricking the corners of your eyes. “Need it—need you—need more—please—”

And then he snaps.

His grip on your hips tightens, and he slams into you.

No mercy. No hesitation.

Just filthy, hard, deep thrusts that rock the bed against the wall.

You scream, your hands scrambling for something to hold onto, but there’s nothing—just his body, his cock, him, pounding into you like he’s trying to bury himself in your soul.

“You want more?” he growls, voice wrecked. “Take it. Take every fuckin’ inch.”

You’re so loud now—moaning with every thrust, your back arching, body jerking with the force of it.

“I—I’m cumming—” you cry, body locking up again, cunt fluttering like you’re gonna break.

But he doesn’t stop.

He won’t stop.

“Yeah, baby? Already? Barely even started.”

Your third orgasm crashes through you like a wave, soaking him all over again. Your body trembles under his, and still—still—he doesn’t let up.

He grabs your legs, throws them over his shoulders, and folds you in half.

Then leans forward.

His body presses into yours, hands braced on either side of your head, his cock now driving in deeper than ever before, dragging against your walls in a way that makes you sob.

The angle is brutal. Relentless.

You gasp—eyes wide, mouth falling open. Your whole body freezes.

“Suki—!” You squeal. “Wait—wait—I think—I think I’m gonna pee—!”

He knows.

He fucking knows.

And the second you say it?

Bakugo groans. Loud. Wrecked. Ferally turned on.

“Oh fuck, baby,” he pants. “You’re gonna squirt for me?”

You’re panicking now, overwhelmed, the pleasure too much, too fast, building into something different.

“I—I can’t—Suki—Suki—!”

“Yes you can,” he growls. “Let it go. It’s okay. Fuckin’ do it.”

And you do.

Your body jerks once—twice—and then you scream, back arching off the bed as a gush of slick explodes from between your thighs, soaking both of them, soaking the sheets. Your legs shake violently. Your pussy clenches and flutters and gushes, and he pulls out just in time to watch it all.

“Holy fuck—” he groans.

He’s panting, cock dripping, and you’re still shaking, still coming, body twitching like you’ve been electrocuted.

He doesn’t even give you a second.

His hand dives down, fingers rubbing your clit fast—tight circles, no mercy.

“Gonna make a mess all over me, huh?” he pants. “Gonna soak my fuckin’ cock next?”

You’re sobbing, overwhelmed, body still spasming as more slick gushes out of you, squirting again, harder, soaking his hand and the sheets and your thighs.

“You’re such a dirty fuckin’ slut,” he groans, mouth open, watching you fall apart. “Look at you—fuckin’ look at you—”

When you finally start to come down, body trembling, tears slipping down your cheeks, Bakugo grabs your hips and slams back inside.

No pause.

No recovery.

Just more.

More of him.

He fucks you through the overstimulation, pounding into your soaked, sensitive pussy, growling every time your cunt clenches around him.

You’re babbling again, sobbing out moans and whines, brainless.

He’s close now. So close. His thrusts get sloppier, deeper, hips stuttering.

And then—

You grab his face, eyes barely open, voice slurred and high and ruined.

“Cum inside me,” you beg. “Please, Suki—want it inside—need you to fill me up—please—please—”

His whole body locks up.

His eyes roll back.

And he blows.

“Oh fuck baby, yes yes yes, FUCK—!”

His cock pulses inside you as he empties out, the hardest orgasm of his life, ropes of cum shooting deep into your twitching cunt. He groans through his teeth, forehead pressed to yours, body shaking as he keeps thrusting, slow now, drawing out every pulse, every drop.

You moan at the feeling—full, warm, messy.

“You take it so fuckin’ well,” he pants, kissing you hard. “Made for me, baby. Fuckin’ made for this.”

His cock finally softens inside you, and he collapses onto your chest, both of you panting, soaked in sweat, slick, and cum.

You’re trembling. He’s still groaning.

And neither of you can speak.

Bakugo’s chest is still heaving as he lowers himself onto his elbows, careful not to crush you. His cock slips free, spent and messy, and you wince from the overstimulation. He’s already watching you—eyes dark, but softer now. More present.

“You okay?” he murmurs, brushing sweat-damp hair from your face.

You nod slowly, eyes fluttering shut, voice hoarse. “Yeah… just—holy shit.”

He lets out a quiet, breathless laugh and presses a kiss to your forehead. “Yeah. No kidding.”

You’re still trembling beneath him, body twitching with aftershocks. Your skin’s flushed and glowing, your chest rising and falling fast, and for a moment he just stares. Watches you breathe. Watches you try to come back to yourself.

He reaches for the edge of the bed, grabs the nearest towel—probably Keigo’s fancy ass silk robe or something, who cares—and gently wipes between your thighs. You twitch, gasps softly, but doesn’t stop him.

“Sorry,” he mutters, voice low. “I know you’re sensitive. Just wanna clean you up a bit.”

His touch is careful. Gentle. Like you’re made of glass now, even though he just had you screaming his name with your legs over his shoulders.

You watch him through half-lidded eyes. “Didn’t think you’d be the sweet type after railing me like that.”

He smirks, eyes flicking up to yours. “Shut up. You’re lucky I didn’t pass out.”

He finishes wiping you down, tosses the towel to the floor, and climbs back onto the bed beside you. One arm snakes around your waist, pulling you into his chest. You hum and bury your face into his shoulder, breathing him in.

It’s quiet now.

Just the sound of your breathing. The faint music still thumping somewhere in the house. His heartbeat under your cheek.

Bakugo presses his lips to the top of your head and holds you close.

“You really didn’t wear any panties tonight?”

You giggle sleepily. “Hoped you’d be here.”

His chest rumbles with a laugh, but there’s something else in it too—something warm. Dangerous.

“Next time,” he murmurs, voice low, lips brushing your temple, “just tell me what you want.”

You shift, just slightly, enough to look up at him.

Your voice is quiet.

Real.

“You,” you whisper. “I want you.”

He stares at you.

Heart pounding.

And says nothing.

Because there’s nothing left to say.

A few months later you’re standing outside.

The air is warm. Quiet.

No cameras. No script. No fake moans echoing off studio walls. Just the sound of a car pulling away from the curb, leaving behind nothing but soft tire tracks on the gravel and a sudden, still silence.

You exhale.

It’s done.

Your manager waved goodbye with glossy eyes and a box of farewell cupcakes like it was some emotional graduation ceremony. And maybe it was. A part of your life—the biggest part—is officially over. No more lights. No more contracts. No more “one last scene” promises.

You’re out.

Retired.

And free.

Your fans had been devastated, of course. The internet flooded with edits, fanpages posting heartfelt tributes, DM requests piling up asking if you were okay, if you’ll ever return. But you were calm about it. Because you had made your money. More than enough. Enough to buy three lives if you wanted. Yours, your future kids’, and their kids.

And for the first time… you didn’t feel like you owed anyone anything.

The gravel crunches under your feet as you walks up the driveway of your new house. It’s not huge. Not flashy. Just a little white-brick home with a cracked front step and windows that let the morning sun spill inside. There’s barely any furniture yet. The walls are still too clean. But you open the front door and walk in anyway, because it’s yours.

You walk through the living room. Kicks off your shoes. Run your fingers along the kitchen counter. There’s a faint smell of fresh paint and wood polish and something warm. Like home.

And then—warm arms wrap around your waist.

You’re startled for a second.

Until he nuzzles into the side of your neck, all soft breath and scratchy stubble, and you relax instantly.

“Hey,” Bakugo murmurs against your skin.

You let out a breathy laugh. “You scared me.”

He hums. “You’re the one who snuck in without saying hi.”

“I live here,” you tease.

“Hey,” he says. “We live here.”

His arms tighten around your middle. His hands are calloused and warm, and he smells like clean linen and cedarwood shampoo. He presses a lazy kiss to your shoulder and then another behind your ear.

“You know,” he says, voice low and teasing, “we gotta christen all the rooms.”

You snort. “You’re horrible.”

“Yeah, but you like it.”

You turn in his arms, facing him now—barefoot and smiling, cheeks warm, heart full.

Because this is the part no one saw coming.

After that night at Keigo’s house—after the hallway, after the bedroom, after you whispered “I want you” like it was the most honest thing you’d ever said—Bakugo was done.

He left the industry the next day.

Didn’t tell anyone at first. Just walked off set, deleted the shoot schedule, and never looked back. He didn’t need the job. Didn’t want it. Not if it meant being surrounded by people who weren’t you.

He pursued you properly after that. Not with half-assed flirty texts or casual hookups. He showed up for you. Asked you out. Cooked for you. Slept next to you, not just with you. You thought it would feel weird—awkward, even. But it didn’t.

It felt easy. Natural. Real.

You left the industry a week later. For yourself. For him. For whatever this life was becoming.

Now?

Now you’re here.

In a half-empty house with your names on the mortgage and a stupid list of furniture you still need to buy, and for the first time in forever, you feel like you can just breathe.

Bakugo kisses you softly. Just once.

Then he smirks.

“Bedroom’s still got space on the headboard for scratches.”

“Bakugo.”

“What?” he shrugs, already lifting you up by the thighs. “I’m sentimental.”

You laugh, cling to him, and let him carry you down the hallway, your new life unfolding behind every door.

Your bedroom’s bathed in soft afternoon light when he pushes open the door with his foot.

It’s nothing fancy—white walls, wooden floors, a tall dresser with half the drawers still empty. The bed’s made, kind of, one corner of the blanket folded back like it’s been waiting for them. A single mug sits on the nightstand. Your side.

He lays you down gently, like you’re something delicate. Like he hasn’t already had you screaming into his pillow a dozen times since you moved in.

You pull him down with you, fingers hooked in the collar of his shirt.

Your mouths meet in a slow, lazy kiss. It’s not heated or rushed—it’s warm. Familiar. The kind of kiss you only give to someone when there’s no performance behind it. No pretending.

Just love.

He crawls over you, one hand braced beside your head, the other on your hip, thumb brushing circles into the soft skin there. You exhale against his lips, smiling.

“You gonna make good on your promise?” You tease, eyes fluttering open.

“Which one?”

“‘Christen all the rooms.’”

He grins, teeth and cocky heat.

“Yeah,” he says. “Thought I’d start with this one. Seems the most important.”

Your heart thuds. You try to act unbothered, but his weight on top of you, the way his hand slips under your shirt, palm warm on your stomach—it makes your stomach flutter.

“But we’ve already-,” you laugh, running your fingers through his hair.

“Shut up,” he mumbles into your neck, kissing there slowly. “I know.”

You laugh.

“You make me crazy,” you whisper.

His mouth stills.

He pulls back, looking down at you.

And there’s something in his face that wasn’t there before.

Something quiet. Serious.

“I think about it,” he says softly. “The future.”

You stare up at him, breath caught.

“You ever do that?”

You nod, slow. “All the time.”

He leans down, presses his forehead to yours.

“I want it all,” he murmurs. “With you.”

Your hands slide up his back, feeling every tense line of muscle under your palms. You pull him closer. Your noses bump. Your lips brush.

“Me too.”

He kisses you then—not playful, not teasing. Just real. Long and deep. Like he’s telling you something in a language only your mouths understand.

When he pulls back, he whispers against your lips, “I love you.”

You exhale and smile. “I love you too.”

His hand slips between you, fingertips ghosting down your stomach, between your thighs. He touches you like he’s got all night. Like there’s nowhere else you need to be. Like loving you isn’t something he wants—it’s something he needs.

You gasp softly, hips shifting under his touch.

“You always get like this when you talk about the future?” You whisper.

He laughs quietly. “Only with you.”

Your thighs part for him. You’re already wet. Already aching.

“Then don’t stop,” You breathe.

He doesn’t.

He makes love to you slow. Hands in your hair, forehead pressed to yours. No loud moans. No biting. No rush. Just the steady rhythm of your bodies moving like they were made to fit.

After, you lay tangled together, half under the blankets, half on top of each other. Skin warm. Hearts steady.

He runs his hand down your spine. You hum.

“Hey,” he murmurs after a few minutes.

“Mm?”

“If we ever have a kid,” he says casually, “we’re not naming them after Keigo. I don’t care how much that bastard tries to bribe us.”

You bark out a laugh, pressing your face into his chest. “I wasn’t going to!”

“He’s already been hinting. You know he has.”

“I’m naming our first kid after someone normal, like—Ida or something.”

Bakugo looks physically pained. “Absolutely not.”

You laugh until your stomachs hurt, until your eyes sting with leftover tears, and then he kisses you again—slow and sweet.

“You really want all that?” You ask later, voice small.

He nods.

“You and me,” he says. “Little monsters running around. A house full of loud shit and chaos and love.”

You bite your lip. “And a couch that doesn’t suck.”

He smirks. “Yeah. That too.”

You fall asleep like that. Wrapped up in each other. Wrapped up in something soft and real and permanent.

Something that, for the first time in both your lives, has nothing to do with being watched.

And everything to do with being seen.

TAGS <3

@2elusional @cosmicaoii @kizsuki @kodzubaby

#bakugo katuski #smut #my hero academia #bakugo smut #bakugo x reader #bakugo fic #bakugou x reader #bakugou x y/n #edens archive #katsuki bakugo x reader #mha #mha bakugou

3K notes · View notes