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At first, it hadn’t been on purpose.
The first time, you happened to catch several very excellent shots of Bakugou’s fight with Molten Surge—red-hot action shots bright with the heat of Bakugou’s explosions and the liquid glow of Molten’s lava quirk. Your favorite shots were those of Bakugou’s handsome face set in grim determination, framed by the smoke coming off his charred gauntlets and his crumbling hero suit.
You had felt sure that if anything, those shots were your best work as an amateur hero photographer. You couldn’t believe you had been lucky enough to be near the fight, nevermind to capture pictures like those. Those shots spoke volumes about the difficulty of the fight, the blood and sweat that Bakugou, as pro hero Dynamight, had shed keeping Tokyo safe.
Those were not the shots, however, that set everything off.
Shortly after you’d uploaded the pictures of the fight to your Twitter, your notifications exploded. Retweet after retweet of one set of pictures in particular—Bakugou, mid-flip, the shirt of his hero costume burnt away by Molten’s lava, one arm thrust out behind him, crackling with the beginnings of his next explosion. And there, in the center of the shot, Twitter’s fixation—a tensed set of hard abs, every divot shadowed deeply in the orange glow of Molten’s quirk.
It was a shitstorm.
Dynamight more like DADDYMIGHT @mmmf__908
the only thing harder than those abs is my dick rnYuki Nakamura @ladyybird123
I want to lick the ash out from between every single muscle in that six packJanuary @filthyfebbu
God bless OP for this bountiful feast
You watched, mortified as your follower count exploded and the commentary in the retweets reached previously unknown levels of human thirst. For several days, you had to mute your notifications as the constant stream of horny retweets flooded your mentions.
It took several weeks, but things eventually calmed down. And you thought that might be the end of it.
Until the second time.
The second time, it was a fight with a villain whose skin could turn to knives. Bakugou’s costume had once more charitably shredded in the line of duty, and you managed to snap a shot of it. You might have learned from the last time, but you honestly thought not much was to be made of it. Bakugou’s costume had torn across the chest, enough to bare most of his abs, but it still clung to one arm and fit snugly around his trim waist. The composition of the shot drew the eye more towards the glint of the sun on the villain’s steely skin, the swirling burst of the explosion in Bakugou’s hand, and the white of Bakugou’s feral smile as he caught the villain in the blast.
And yet, Twitter could be relied on to spot anything.
Mrs Dynamight @bkgs_right_nipple
i want bakugou to shred my insides like that knife villain shredded his shirt:| @feny_right
are we supposed to be focused on the fight orMika @97yukimura12
i fuckin knew following OP was the right move
And then the third time happened, and then the fourth, your camera invariably drawn towards Bakugou’s abs like a magnet to a pole.
After that, you started to do it purposefully. Bakugou’s abs were doing numbers on your timeline, drawing more and more followers to your Twitter. With those followers came media attention, and you’d started to get royalty checks from publications who used your shots in their articles. You even got a hold of a graphic designer and started slapping those abs onto commemorative t-shirts.
Soon, the proceeds were enough that you were able to buy better equipment and scale back some hours at work to spend more time focusing on finding fights and honing your skills as a photographer.
And the more fights you attended, the more ab shots you caught. The more ab shots you caught, the more fights you were able to attend. The cycle might have continued that way forever, if you hadn’t gotten just a little too close to the frost villain.
The fight had been mere blocks away from your apartment, so you managed to make it on scene in record time, grabbing your camera, stomping on your sneakers, and booking it out the door before the public safety alert had even finished sounding on your phone.
Bakugou was already there, hard at work destroying the enormous ice wall the villain had erected to keep away from his pursuers. Ragged chunks of ice flew everywhere, kicked up by the force of Bakugou’s explosions, and a little thrill of excitement went through you. Those were some sharp shards, and Bakugou’s costume likely wouldn’t withstand.
You ducked behind a parked car, assured of the potential for another ab shot.
It was barely three minutes before Bakugou delivered.
As soon as he managed to get in close, a hard hit from the ice villain sent Bakugou rolling across the craggy surface of an ice spire. Even from where you hid, you could hear the catch, pull, and rip of his costume, his shirt and one knee of his pants tearing straight open.
Bingo.
You shifted forward out of your crouch, propping an elbow up on the hood of the car. The metal burned a little under your forearm, hot from the sun, but you ignored your discomfort. You wanted a steady shot for this.
You caught sight of that famous six-pack in the viewfinder, made a quick adjustment on the zoom lens, and snapped a shot.
And that’s when it happened.
The click of your camera shutter filtered through the air, louder than you had realized it would be. As one, two heads snapped towards your hiding place.
Your heartbeat stopped as your gaze flicked between the villain’s icy blue gaze, and the twin pinpricks of Bakugou’s red-eyed glare. The air held still, and you sucked in a nervous breath.
That’s all you had time for before a tidal wave of ice was crashing towards you, ripping up pavement and crumpling a traffic post in its wake. You scrambled to your feet, biting back a swear, and leapt back from the car. You bolted, just as the car crunched under the weight of the ice, and a scream tore from your throat.
Your shoes scrabbled on the pavement, and you pushed yourself faster, faster.
But the ice was already on you, so close the cold bit into your back. You weren’t fast enough, you were going to—
A hand closed around your upper arm, ripping you off the street just as the ice crashed down on where you’d been.
Someone let out a grunt, and there was a crackle followed by a burst of heat. Then you were being hefted over a strong shoulder, literally in mid-air. A shout of terror left you, and your hands clawed into the fabric of a hero costume, like a terrified kitten clinging for dear life on the bough of a tree.
“Shut the fuck up,” a rough voice growled, and you turned your head, catching a mouthful of blonde hair.
You knew that voice, and that hair.
Bakugou.
“If I hear you scream again, I’m gonna drop you,” the hero spat, and another boom echoed beneath you.
You shot forward, propelled by the force of Bakugou’s explosion, vaulting over a rooftop. Your camera dug into your ribcage, wedged between you and the slope of Bakugou’s shoulder, burrowing so deep you thought it might need to be surgically removed.
Another explosion brought you clean over another rooftop, and Bakugou dropped down into an alleyway. A quick shrug and you were off him, but no sooner had your feet touched the pavement than you were shoved up against the wall, Bakugou’s face looming alarmingly close.
“What the fuck do you think you were doing?” he demanded.
The words registered dimly, but your brain was having trouble catching up to their meaning. Bakugou was close, so close, his face scant inches from your own. This near, he was disarmingly handsome, all burning hot eyes, a sharp jawline, and sensuous mouth, which was all twisted up in something like a snarl.
What was he saying again?
“I said what the fuck do you think you were doing,” he growled. “Were you trying to die?”
You shifted under his molten stare.
“Uh, no, I—” you gestured vaguely with your camera, “I was taking—pictures—”
Bakugou’s features shifted into disbelief. “Pictures,” he uttered. “You were taking fucking pictures.”
You nodded, swallowing. It was seeming more and more irresponsible the longer he glared at you. You were starting to feel less like an ambitious, intrepid hero photographer, and more like a puppy caught peeing on the carpet.
“Unbelievable,” Bakugou rasped.
He looked like he wanted to say more, but the crackle of ice nearby caught his attention, drawing his gaze out onto the street. He turned back to you, pointing a gloved finger in your face.
“Stay here and stay low,” he said, “Don’t you dare move or try to take any more damn pictures. And don’t think I’m done with you yet.”
Then he was gone, slamming back up into the air with another hot explosion that kicked the dust up around you.
You stood frozen against the wall for a moment, heart still pounding against your ribcage. Trash swirled gently in the breeze kicked up by Bakugou’s departure, old flyers and crumpled receipts skittering over the cement like leaves in the fall. Outside the alley, you could hear the thunderous boom of Bakugou’s explosions growing farther away, like he was leading the villain away from where he’d stashed you.
Your heartbeat slowed, and you let out a careful breath. A quick glance at your camera confirmed it was intact, despite its best efforts to fracture your rib cage, and it hung uncomfortably on your neck now, heavy with the weight of Bakugou’s judgment.
Okay, so it had been slightly stupid to get as close as you had, but it wasn’t your fault the villain had no qualms about taking a human life. Your career depended on the quality of your shots, and you needed to be close to deliver that.
So it had been great of Bakugou to save you, but you were not going to accept any attitude from him on the subject of your pictures. You weren’t the only hero photographer out there, and you certainly were not the most irresponsible.
Mind made up, you stashed your camera away in your backpack, patting yourself down to make sure you hadn’t lost anything in your wild escape. Bakugou had asked—well, demanded, to be more accurate—that you stay put, but you were not taking any flack from him. And you did not want to be around if he discovered that you’d camped out just to snap a shot of his abs.
You laced up your sneakers again and adjusted your bag over your shoulder, moving briskly towards the mouth of the alleyway.
You skidded to a halt when a boom sounded overhead, and Bakugou dropped back down in front of you, face set in a snarl.
“And where the fuck do you think you’re going, you fuckin’ sneak?” he demanded, stalking closer.
His shirt was fully shredded down the middle now, held together by a thin, strained seam at his waist. Both sides of his signature orange X flapped in the breeze like twin flags, heralding the emergence of those abs.
You fixed your eyes resolutely to his face, channelling all your willpower into not looking down.
“I was, um, evacuating. Because—the villain—you know—”
Bakugou snorted, raking a gloved hand through that blonde shock of hair. Some of it stayed up, plastered in place by his sweat. “Yeah, you’re real careful alright. Maybe you shoulda friggin’ done that in the first place.”
You took a step back as he drew nearer, bringing with him the scent of gunpowder and something strangely hot and sweet, like melted caramel.
“Listen, about the pictures—” you started, trying to explain yourself, but Bakugou was having none of it. He stalked over and snatched your bag off your shoulder, tearing your camera out.
“Let’s see what was so worth making trouble over,” he said. “You a hero photographer or a villain fan, sneak?”
Your heart jumped into your mouth as he pressed a gloved finger down on the power button, the little electronic beep answering him. You would rather die than let him see what you had just risked both of your lives for.
You grabbed wildly for your camera, but Bakugou held it up out of reach, pressing you back with a strong arm on your collarbone.
“Wait, don’t, just give it back—” you panted, but he just smirked wickedly, a blonde brow raised over those scarlet eyes.
“Something you don’t want me to see, sneak?” he asked. You jumped for the camera, but he held you back, gloating.
Above his head, you could see the traitorous home screen flicker to life, flashing up the last picture you had taken.
The money shot.
Bakugou’s expression shifted into something like shock for a moment, and he choked off mid-laugh.
He whirled on you. “You’re the fucking ab Twitter?” he demanded, in the tones of someone interrogating a war criminal.
His grip fisted in your shirt, and you swallowed nervously. “Ab Twitter? I mean, there are a lot of ab Twitters. You’re going to have to be more specific—”
“You fucking are!” he said incredulously. Suddenly you were being pulled closer instead of pushed away, until Bakugou’s face was right in front of yours. This close, you could count every single one of his golden lashes, and see flecks of deep purple in the red of his irises.
Your mouth started forming words, as if you might excuse yourself, but you had no idea what you were even saying.
It definitely wasn’t anything coherent, as the entirety of your brain had rerouted to Bakugou’s face, scant inches away from you. He was so stupidly handsome up close, it was doing weird things to your ability to think straight. And also your ability to breathe, and regulate your temperature, and stand up straight…
“Are you fucking listening, sneak?” Bakugou demanded.
Your eyes flicked down to his mouth without your say-so, fixating on the flash of a white canine, the smug pull of his lip.
“Distracted by something?” he asked, though you could hear the self-satisfaction in his tone. It suggested he knew exactly what you were suddenly preoccupied with.
“Listen,” you managed, your voice a dry rasp. “It’s not my fault.”
Bakugou arched a brow. “Not your fault? You keep fuckin’ taking pictures of me!”
“If you could keep your shirt on we wouldn’t have a problem here,” you blurted.
Bakugou stared at you for a moment, like you had rendered him speechless.
“Fucking unbelievable,” he muttered, and your eyes flicked back to his mouth again, helplessly drawn like a moth to a flame.
Whatever else Bakugou might have said died on his lips, and he eyed you speculatively for a moment.
“You know,” he growled, stepping into you, sending you scrambling backwards, “You’re not completely unappealing, for a little pervert.”
Your back met the wall for the second time today, thumping a little oof noise out of you as you stared up at him in shock, mouth open like a caveperson. That had sounded dangerously close to an implication that Bakugou found you somewhat attractive, which was so wildly out of left field, you had to have misheard him.
“I—what?” you asked.
Bakugou pressed closer, the heat of his chest bleeding through your shirt. You caught that scent of smoke and sweetness again, hot and buttery in your nose.
“Tell you what, you little sneak,” he said. “I think you owe me for all the profits you’ve made off of me.”
You blinked up at him, bewildered. He couldn’t be saying what you thought he was saying...right?
“You don’t like it, you tell me no,” he said, leaning in. “But from all the staring you’ve been doing I’m gonna guess you want this. Time to pay up, sneak.”
You had mere milliseconds to wonder who in their right mind would ever want to stop Bakugou Katsuki from exacting this specific kind of payment. And then his mouth met yours, and you had zero capacity to wonder anything anymore.
Bakugou’s kiss was hot and demanding—exactly like he was, so sure of himself, commanding complete attention. You shivered under his mouth, letting out a little squeak when he licked across your lower lip, opening your mouth to him. There was a clatter at your side that was undoubtedly your camera being dumped to the ground, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care.
“Fuck, sneak,” Bakugou said, groaning as he pressed you harder into the wall. “Gonna enjoy making you pay up.”
You could feel evidence of his excitement firm against your thigh, and he shifted you higher, getting a thigh in between yours. Calloused hands slid up the sides of your shirt, thumbs skimming up over your ribs. His fingers brushed higher, higher, up against your nipples. You moaned into his mouth as he swiped the pad of his thumb over one nipple again, smirking.
“Like that, sneak?” Bakugou said, kissing a hot path down your neck. One of his hands slid back down your waist, dipping below the waistband of your jeans. You jerked against him when he found what he was looking for, long fingers slipping into your underwear and pressing right up where you wanted him. You shuddered again as he pressed up inside you with two fingers, carefully, groaning at what he could feel there.
“So fucking hot,” he breathed, biting a mark into the place where your neck met your shoulder. “Gonna be good for me, sweetheart?”
You nodded, straining closer to him, needing to be pressed up against him everywhere, feeling the heat of him all over you.
You heard the crunch of his boot in the gravel as he readjusted himself, hiking you higher on his thigh. He tugged at the waistband of your jeans, peeling them down until they sat just underneath your ass, gathering up the folds of your underwear and pulling it with them.
Then he worked at the waistband of his own pants, freeing himself. He pressed right up against you, warm and velvet-soft.
“Hold on for me, angel,” he said, and a corded arm came up under your knee, pulling your thigh over his forearm.
Your fingers scrabbled at the torn neck of his hero costume, clenching in the dark fabric to pull him closer to you.
Bakugou didn’t waste any time. In the next moment he was sliding in, his hips fitting flush with the bottom of your thigh. A shivery little moan escaped you at the feel of him inside you, hot and thick and exactly right.
His hips snapped up again, forcing himself even deeper, and that was it.
After that, everything was frantic, pure ecstasy. There was the puff of his breath on your shoulder, the grit of the wall at your back, the slide of him inside you, so good and so hot. There was the caramel-sweet scent of his sweat, the rasp of calloused fingers over your nipple, the heat of a warm mouth mapping its way up your throat, biting and kissing and licking.
Bakugou kept up a stream of obscenities, working you up with ruthless efficiency. He set a punishing pace, taking you apart like you were a villain in need of defeating. It was all you could to tip your head back against the wall and take it all—every hard thrust, every stinging bite, every growled word of praise until you couldn’t contain yourself anymore.
A particularly wicked thrust from him had you writhing against him, gasping out his name, and he snarled, following you into climax. He covered you completely, pressing you into the wall hard enough to force the breath from your lungs, pinning you there as you both came down from your high.
The two of you stood there, huffing and catching your breath, as Bakugou slowly lowered your thigh again, swearing his appreciation as he helped you pull your jeans back up.
“That was a good start, sneak,” he said finally, flashing you a sharp grin.
It took you a moment to catch up to his words, and you looked up at him, feeling your brow wrinkle. “Start?”
Bakugou’s grin sharpened, and he leaned down to bite under your ear, the feeling of his mouth starting to cloud your thoughts again.
“This Saturday. You can take me on a date,” he said, sounding smug. “You still owe me for saving your life.”
Then he moved in to kiss you again, and you couldn’t help but grin against his mouth.
A date. With Bakugou. Despite the fact that you’d been peddling his abs on the internet for months.
Well, all things considered, you had to admit.
That had been absolutely worth it.
