i really think having an emotional connection is so important to bakugou sexually.
like, i think he has to be in the exact right mood in order to get off by himself at home alone. can't be too tired, can't be too stressed out, can't have too much on his mind regarding work or other things, and even if it's been a while and his body is sensitive and wanting for it—if his head is not right, he can sit there for hours and never reach his peak.
which is why i think ultimately he doesn't do it that often, because it pisses him off to waste the time and not find the release. makes him more agitated. i think porn for the most part doesn't help him because he's too picky, literature probably helps a bit more, but he's still picky, and his imagination can get him there, but his headspace has to be right.
i think he's slow to hands-on stuff, when your relationship starts, and you can tell he's going to be like that pretty quickly. he responds to your touch like it's an accident; you reach out to hold his hand and he pulls his back like your knuckles have knocked by chance, like you're too close. it's not meant to be a rejection of any kind, it's just—he doesn't want you to touch him if you don't want to. if you don't mean to.
but when he realizes that you mean to, that you want to—
it has him skyrocketing. surprises him terribly, the affect you have on his body, and how quickly, because not even he can always have that affect on his own body.
you reach up to push some hair out of his face and your fingers skirt his cheekbone and he feels like a stupid gross disgusting puddle of mush. you loop your arm through his and lean into him while you're walking and he feels like a prize, like he's yours and you're his and you want everybody to know and that gives him a rush of pride that makes his head woozy.
he's dropping you off at home after date number he-doesn't-know and you're staring up at him outside your front door and he knows he should kiss you so he does and his whole body lights up with a heat he doesn't recognize at all. just from that.
and then he finally gets it: that heart-aching, stomach turning, body shaking want he's only ever heard about, and now finally feels.
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prompt: reader is a large animal vet making a house call to a certain ex-SAS member's ranch.
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It’s the first time you’ve been called out to this ranch.
You’ve been to some others in the surrounding area—just last week you stopped by a ranch just half an hour away—but never this one. It’s far out of the way, almost tough to find—you miss the turnoff twice, each time forced to turn back around and squint to find the poorly marked dirt road leading to the ranch. Your shoulders only unclench when the ranch house finally crests over the horizon and you spot the horses milling around in the fenced-off enclosure.
They must have had an in-house vet prior to calling you out. None of your colleagues remember ever visiting and the ranch is big enough to necessitate one. It sprawls across the landscape, acres upon acres. The kind of ranch that deals in thoroughbreds, horses that go on to graded stakes races. In the pen already, you can pick out Thoroughbreds and American Warmblood, the distinctive spotting of an Appaloosa, even a couple Hanoverians.
There are men working around the ranch outside of the main enclosure that you park just a dozen or so yards away from, but something about the man standing by his lonesome with the horses makes you pause.
A head taller than the rest, and built like a redwood. Bandana affixed around the lower half of his face, almost bandit-like. You shake those thoughts out of your head. You’re not here to pass judgement on people; you’re here for the horses. Whatever scars mar his face are hardly your concern (still, rugged, you think, a bit breathless even sitting in the front seat of your truck).
When he turns in your direction, eyes locked on your truck and then locked on you when you pop into the back to grab your bag, your back straightens. Imperceptibly, yet still. Compelled to measure up somehow, to whatever standard he expects.
He strikes you as the man in charge. “Mister Riley?” you call out, shielding your eyes from the sun.
He beckons you over with a gloved hand. Even from the distance, he leaves you unsure of yourself, quick to stumble when his stare starts to burn.
“Doc,” Riley greets you when you’re close enough, and you fight back a shiver. His voice rumbles like thunder, like hooves pounding into the freshly tamped earth, into the dirt.
“You called about a pregnant mare,” you remind him.
The bag in front of your legs puts a bit of distance between the two of you, a needed buffer. Up close, he towers like sequoia, in fact, sleeves rolled up past his forearms, old tattoos on his left arm faded like beaten leather. He holds out a hand though, forcing you to take a step forward out of politeness and shake it. Your lips tighten at the touch of his skin. It’s weathered too, coarse palms and fingertips; there’s dirt caked around his nail beds, the kind that never comes out, the world’s indelible mark on the skin.
He stares at you for a moment without speaking. There’s no helping the way you squirm under his gaze.
“The horse,” you remind him, cheeks hot.
“She’s in the stables; I’ll bring ya to her.”
You struggle to keep up with him, bag bumping against your leg as you haul ass after him. Big as he is, he moves quickly, fast on his feet—used to quick beasts, you know, probably used to anticipating their movements, always one step ahead. Your last shred of decency keeps you from staring at his ass the entire walk to the stables.
Her coat is a rich coal colour, mane sun-bleached. Inky eyes peer back at you when Riley lets you into her stall. It’s cooler inside somehow, out of the inescapable glare of the sun; the sweat on the back of your neck stays wet under Riley’s eyes though, nervous rather than weather-born.
She’s gorgeous though, the mare. Pretty as can be. Heavily pregnant too, you can see. Obviously well taken care of too, still decently muscled like she’s still been taken for walks and rides during her pregnancy.
“She’s too far along now to ride,” he tells you when you remark on that, his voice carrying in the confined space. He doesn’t raise his voice, but it makes you perk up again, at attention, head whipping over your shoulder to look at him.
“I can tell. A little over two months ‘till she delivers,” you say with a nod, looking down at the chart you have on her. “I can come back for her last deworming before she foals, if you want.”
He grunts, doesn’t answer. You take it as an affirmative.
It doesn’t take you long to run through her check-up. A docile girl, you coo when she lets you touch her without any sign of aggression, sweet-tempered thing. It’s second nature after all, at this point in your life.
Still, you find yourself watching Riley out of the corner of your eye, careful under his watchful gaze. Not that you usually aren’t, but still. Your movements feel intentional, precise.
When he walks you out, you get a bit bolder in the sunlight. Freer to pester him with questions.
“Did your last vet retire or something?” you ask, fishing for information. It’s probably none of your business, but you find yourself curious anyway. There are a few different vet practices operating in the area, so it’s always helpful to know who’s going to your competitors.
He shakes his head. “Friend of mine went to school for this—been with me as long as I’ve had the ranch. He got hitched a couple weeks ago though.”
“Moving away?” you guess.
“Opening up a practice,” he corrects, making you frown. That’s worse, at least for you. “On his honeymoon this month though, so he gave me your name.”
“My boss’ name, you mean.”
“That’s right,” he says, and you realize that he’s walked you all the way to your car, half-pinning you to the door of your truck. Just close enough that a new layer of sweat breaks out on the back of your neck. You have to crane your neck to meet his eyes. “Don’t know if I caught yours, little filly.”
Now that makes you stutter over your name, confidence finally failing you. When he hums like he’s caught your name in his head now, mapped it to you with his sharp eyes, you feel yourself swallow reflexively.
“Not like you’ll need it for long,” you tease, trying to gain back some semblance of control. “Just until your friend gets back and sets up his practice, at least.”
“Not sure about that. Might find some use for you yet,” Riley says, close enough now that you can tell he smells of hay and silage, peppery when you breathe in too heavily.
And you breathe too heavily. Hard not to when he crowds you up against the truck, hand laying flat on the roof, boxing you in. You wonder if any of the ranch hands are looking over at the two of you, curious.
“What do you mean?” you ask, head empty. Mouth dry enough now that it hurts a bit to swallow.
His brown eyes glint in the sun. Honey gold under the light. “I can think of a few reasons to keep you around.”
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