Chapter Text
You’re sitting against your dorm room window, one knee pulled up to your chest, looking out at the sprawling, neon-lit campus under the pale glow of the moon. The low hum of music bleeds through your headphones as you hold an advanced quirk-mechanics textbook open in your lap.
The university is packed with thousands of students, but somehow, your path is constantly crossing with Katsuki Bakugo’s. You are both twenty-one, both ruthlessly fighting to hold the number one spot in every single grade, and you even survived the exact same brutal hero internship. He’s brilliant, impossibly strong, resilient, and undeniably top-tier material, but god, is he fucking annoying. Every single time your paths cross in the halls, your immediate, automatic reaction is to roll your eyes so hard it hurts.
Your phone buzzes against your thigh, shattering your focus. It’s your newest boyfriend of two months. Lately, he’s been starting to rub raw on your nerves with how insufferably egocentric he’s becoming. You had a bitter fight today about splitting the bill for lunch; he’d been cheap as hell, a total shift from how he used to act, so you completely iced him out for the rest of the day.
True to form, the asshole is trying to bypass it with zero accountability. You sigh, leaning the back of your head against the cool glass of the window, staring down at the screen.
Boyfriend: Send pic baby
He pulls this stunt often to short-circuit any argument, and usually, it works. You like each other well enough, and honestly, the physical side of things is great.
You swipe out of the chat and look over the other notifications you missed while losing yourself in your reading.
Tsuyu: Where are we meeting up again ? You seemed distant ? :(
Denki: It'll be great tomorrow, I'll bring the beer
A small, genuine smile touches your lips as you look at their names. You completely forgot about the party tomorrow.
Then, right below them, a notification pops up that instantly makes your jaw tighten.
Katsuki Bakugo: How tf did you solve number 7?
You roll your eyes so hard at his screen name that your head throbs. Unbelievable. Even off-hours, the explosive pain in the ass can't escape your academic rivalry.
You push yourself up and wander into your bathroom, your mind drifting back to your boyfriend's demand. You stare at your reflection, trying to find a decent angle, but you hate the way you look in the harsh light. Impatient, you decide to change into a nice white ensemble, a sweet, delicate nuisette trimmed with lace and featuring a cute ribbon right in the middle. It’s brand new, something pretty and soft you’ve never worn for him before, though you bought it with him in mind.
You spend entirely too long trying different angles in the mirror, finally finding one that looks appealing enough. With a heavy sigh, drained of energy after all that forced effort, you slouch backward onto your mattress, flat on your back.
To clear your social obligations, you frantically answer every single pending DM, the simple act of socializing feeling like a heavy tax on your soul. Completely exhausted, you drop your phone onto the duvet and close your eyes.
Is this relationship actually going anywhere? Honestly, you mostly liked the distraction. The psychological toll of the horrors you see happening out in the field is always a massive weight for future pro heroes to carry. Your metal-bending quirk is versatile and powerful, but trying to manipulate high-density alloys under lethal pressure isn't always easy to handle, and the mental fatigue is real.
Suddenly, a double-tap notification breaks through the silence, pulling your attention back to the screen to see if your boyfriend sent a snarky reply.
You look down at your phone, and your brain stalls. You blink once, twice, needing a few seconds for your vision to adjust, half-convinced you’re seeing double or going completely blind.
Boyfriend: Fym use a calculator ?
Katsuki Bakugo: My room. Think you can stay quiet ?
You look at the top corner of your screen. 11:00 PM.
Oh my god.
Panic hits you like a physical blow. You didn't just accidentally send the new, lace-trimmed nuisette, the one bought with entirely different intentions, to your insufferable, hyper-competitive academic rival. You sent it to Katsuki Bakugo.
What the hell did you just do? Your brain short-circuits, completely bypassing panic and looping straight into a state of sheer horror.
And why the hell did he answer that?
Your boyfriend’s text, clueless, dense, and completely irrelevant, blinks mockingly on your screen. You completely ignore it, leaving him on read without a second thought as your wide eyes remain glued to Bakugo’s reply.
Katsuki Bakugo: My room. Think you can stay quiet ?
Your chest heaves as the catastrophic weight of the situation settles over you. There is no un-sending it. There is no claiming it was a glitch.
He saw the photo. He saw the lace, the ribbon, the cut of the fabric, and the absolute mess you made by blindly switching your DMs in the dark.
And instead of mocking you, instead of calling you out, his immediate response was an invitation.
Your fingers tremble slightly as you stare at the glowing screen, your mind racing a million miles an hour. Do you ignore him? Do you make up a pathetic excuse? Or does a reckless, defiant spark, the exact same competitive fire that drives you both to fight for the number one spot every single day, flare up in your chest?
Definitely the second one.
The reckless, defiant spark that constantly drives you to clash with him wins out over your panic.
But you aren't about to just walk through the dorms in lingerie.
You scramble to your closet, yanking out the biggest, most obnoxious clothing you can find. You throw a massive, oversized graphic tee over your head to completely swallow the delicate white lace and ribbon. Next comes a pair of giant, baggy basketball shorts. You look in your full-length mirror, taking in the sheer, chaotic Adam Sandler aesthetic you've just created to act as armor over your nuisette.
"What am I doing?" you ask your reflection, your voice dripping with absolute, clueless horror.
A second later, a manic, adrenaline-fueled grin twitches on your lips. "What am I doing?!" you repeat, this time buzzing with reckless excitement.
You point a shaking but determined finger directly at your reflection in the glass.
"Oh my god, I am actually doing it." You take a deep, grounding breath. "Be brave."
Shoving your feet into a pair of beat-up sneakers, you slip out of your room into the quiet, dimly lit halls of the Heights Alliance dorms. Your heart hammers against your ribs as you cross over to the boys' wing, navigating the familiar, empty hallways. You climb up one flight of stairs, your footsteps muffled, until you find yourself standing dead center in front of Bakugo and Kirishima's door.
You freeze.
Your hand hovers in the air.
Are you supposed to knock? Or do you text him that you're outside? A text feels too cowardly, too hesitant for the competitive game you two are playing.
Bracing yourself against your own common sense, you rap your knuckles against the wood.
The lock clicks almost instantly. The heavy door swings open, but the ash-blonde hair and crimson eyes you were bracing yourself for aren't there.
"Yeah, yeah, I'm going!" Kirishima yells over his broad shoulder back into the room, flashing you his signature shark-toothed grin as he steps into the doorway.
"Hey! What's up?"
You stare at the Red Riot, completely paralyzed, your brain grinding to a devastating halt.
Wait.
Your mind races back to the text glaring on your phone screen: My room. Think you can stay quiet?
Absolute, bewildering confusion washes over you. Why the hell would Katsuki Bakugo invite you over, knowing exactly what you were wearing underneath this giant shirt, if Kirishima was literally still in the room?
"Wait..." Kirishima’s red eyes widen as they drop from your face down to your giant, oversized Adam Sandler tee, before flicking back up to meet your gaze with sudden, absolute realization.
"Are you the friend Bakugo needs to work with? You? His academic rival is studying with him? Together?"
Before you can even scramble for a halfway decent excuse, a furious roar echoes from deeper inside the suite.
"RED-HEAD!" Bakugo yells from wherever he’s stationed in the room, completely hidden from your view by the partition wall.
You flinch, clearing your throat, and offer Kirishima a tight, painfully awkward smile.
"Um... yeah. It's just for... math," you lie, your voice cracking slightly on the last word.
A knowing, deeply amused grin spreads across Kirishima’s face. He leans down, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper right beside your ear.
"Alright, then I'm out, but good luck. He's in a really rough mood today," Kirishima whispers, patting your shoulder encouragingly before snagging his denim jacket off the back of the couch.
He slips past you into the hallway, giving you a thumbs-up just as he pulls the door shut behind him, leaving you completely trapped in the lion's den.
Should I just turn around and run back to my room right now?
The sudden silence in the common area is deafening, heavy with nothing except the faint, muffled thump of music bleeding through the walls. You stand frozen in the middle of the spacious suite, because calling this a mere "dorm room" is an insult. It’s practically an apartment, featuring a massive, lived-in living room complete with a high-end couch, a flat-screen, and study gear scattered everywhere, flanked by their respective private bedrooms.
Your eyes sweep over the organized chaos, thoroughly impressed despite yourself.
"Is this what you get when you're two boys living together?" you murmur out loud, shaking your head.
"Because damn, I might need a roommate."
"In need of a roommate?" a low voice cuts through the quiet.
You jump, your gaze snapping toward the hallway. Katsuki Bakugo pushes off the frame of his bedroom doorway, stepping slowly out into the dim light.
"Um... hi," you tell him, your voice sticking slightly in your throat.
He approaches you ever so slowly, his eyes locked onto yours with a heavy intensity. He doesn't look like the manic Bakugo you usually trade insults with in the halls, this version of him is dangerously quiet, coiled tight like a spring.
He stops just a few feet away from you, looming over your oversized, ridiculous t-shirt, before a knowing smirk edges onto his face.
"Care to explain that fucking text, princess?" he murmurs, his voice dropping rough and dripping with raw challenge.
"Just felt like it," you tell him, refusing to shrink back despite the way he’s towering over you.
He lets out a harsh, humorless scoff, his eyes narrowing as they rake over the oversized shirt you're wearing to hide what's underneath.
"You hate me," he says, his voice a gravelly accusation as he looks down at you.
You tilt your chin up, matching his unrelenting glare with a sharp edge of your own.
"Especially," you snap back, the word dripping with all the bitter venom you've spent the last three years building.
His gaze drops slowly down your frame, taking in the absurd, baggy silhouette of your clothes before rising back to meet your eyes.
"Did you come to help me with math, or are you the one in need of a lesson?" he rasps, stepping that much closer until the air between you hums with static and sheer tension.
"You are in need of help if you can't find the answer to number 7 you know"
A feral spark flashes in his crimson eyes. Instead of backing down, he steps right into your personal space, the sheer heat radiating off him making the air feel suddenly too thin.
"Is that right?" he murmurs, his voice dropping an octave, deliberate against your skin.
"Then prove it. Show me how smart you really are."
The air in the room turns instantly charged with enough static to make the hair on your arms stand up. You hold his gaze, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird, and in one motion, you undo the button of your baggy basketball shorts and let them drop to the ankles of your sneakers. You kick them aside, leaving you standing in just your socks and the enormous, knee-length graphic tee that serves as your disastrous armor.
His crimson eyes, previously locked on your face with dangerous intensity, snap downward instantly. They track the movement of the shorts hitting the floor, and then slowly, they rake upward over your bare legs. You feel the heat of his gaze tracing the defined curve of your calves and the taut, athletic shape of your thighs, muscles built from years of ruthless quirk training and metal-bending under high pressure.
His breath hitches, a barely perceptible sound in the heavy silence. The cocky smirk slips from his face, replaced by something darker, hungrier, and far more intense. His jaw sets tight, a muscle twitching in his cheek as he fights to process the sudden visual shift from 'academic rival' to... this.
He doesn't say a word, but the darkening flush creeping up his neck and the sharp flare of his nostrils tell you everything you need to know.
You tilt your head, a trembling smile touching your lips as you meet his dilated gaze head-on.
"Do you wanna remove the t-shirt for me?" you whisper, the challenge hanging in the air between you.
His throat works as he swallows hard, his eyes snapping back up to yours with a gaze so hot it practically burns. For a split second, the overconfident hero-in-training vanishes, replaced entirely by a guy whose brain has completely short-circuited.
Then, a low growl vibrates deep in his chest.
"You're playing with fire, princess," he rasps, closing the final inch of distance between you so fast it makes your breath hitch.
His large, calloused hands, rough from endless explosions, weightlifting, and relentless combat drills wrap firmly around the hem of the oversized graphic tee. He doesn't hesitate. With one sharp, fluid yank, he hoists the fabric up and over your head, tossing it carelessly aside onto the living room floor.
You stand exposed before him in just the delicate white lace nuisette, the thin straps sitting tight against your shoulders, the sweet ribbon right between your collarbones drawing his eyes downward like a magnet.
Bakugo goes dead still. His breath catches, his chest rising and falling in sharp, heavy rhythm as his eyes devour the sight of you, completely stripped of your academic armor, standing right here in his dorm.
"Fuck," he breathes out, the curse rough and breathless, totally stripped of its usual volume.
His hands pause halfway up your ribs, the rough of his palms dragging against the delicate lace of the nuisette. He freezes, his brain slamming into a brick wall as the reality of who is standing in front of him finally registers.
This isn't some distant fantasy on a cracked phone screen. This is you.
For three years, your entire dynamic has been defined by chalk dust, lecture halls, furious shouting matches across the quad, and the deafening roar of quirk training. You are the sharp-tongued rival who steals his placement scores, the one person matching him blow-for-blow in every single combat drill, the stubborn force he refuses to lose to. Seeing you standing here, stripped of your oversized armor, vulnerable, and wearing something so breathtakingly soft is a cognitive dissonance so violent it leaves him momentarily speechless.
His red eyes roam over you, tracking the way the thin straps bite into your shoulders and how the pale fabric catches the dim light of the room. A muscle jumps violently in his jaw as he tries, and utterly fails, to reconcile the ruthless, metal-bending prodigy with the vision right in front of him. It’s a sight his hyper-focused, competitive mind genuinely could not have ever imagined.
You tilt your head slightly, blinking up at him with a look of wide-eyed, disarming innocence, the sheer audacity of your own words hanging thick in the heavy air.
"Is it better than the picture I sent?" you whisper, a wicked, teasing glint breaking through your feigned innocence.
The words drop into the heavy silence between you like a lit match hitting a pool of gasoline.
Bakugo’s breath stutters. For a beautiful second, the absolute whiplash of your question short-circuits every single defensive instinct he has. His eyes flare wide, locking onto yours with a sudden, searing intensity that makes the air feel paper-thin.
"You're out of your fucking mind," he breathes, his voice rougher and lower than you've ever heard it.
Instead of answering your question with words, his hands finally move. The feigned hesitation shatters completely. His large, heavy palms slide up from your waist, gripping your hips with an arresting, bruising possessiveness that leaves zero room to breathe. He steps forward, backing you up step-for-step until the back of your knees hit the edge of the living room sofa, trapping you right where he wants you.
His gaze drops hungrily to the sweet ribbon between your collarbones, tracing the delicate lace before snapping back up to meet your defiant, mocking stare.
"Photos don't do shit," he snarls, the fierce, arrogant edge of his voice laced with a hunger.
"I don't remember telling you you could touch me yet Bakugo" you tell him
A defiant spark flashes in your eyes as you press your hands flat against his chest, right where his hero uniform collar usually sits. You don't push him away, you couldn't even if you tried, but the barrier of your palms serves as a clear, taunting line in the sand.
Bakugo halts.
His hands remain glued to your hips, his fingers digging deep enough against your skin to bruise.
He looks down at your hands resting against his chest, and then his eyes snap back up to your face.
"Is that right?" he murmurs, his voice dropping to a vibrating whisper that sends a shiver straight down your spine.
"You walked into my room, half-naked, and dropped your clothes on my floor. You lost your right to set rules the second you hit send, princess."
Before you can fire back a retort, his grip tightens, effortlessly lifting you up just enough to shift your weight backward as the back of your thighs hit the cushions of the sofa. He looms over you, his body trapping you completely between the heavy cushions and the solid, radiating heat of his chest.
"So don't test me," he snarls, his gaze burning into yours with a fierce, possessive intensity that makes your breath catch in your throat.
"You wanted this. Now deal with it."
"Do I have a choice?" you whisper, your voice dropping to a challenge as you look down at him from the cushions.
The heat between your legs is already burning, an ache that makes your skin sensitive to the air shifting around you. You are trapped beneath his weight, his broad chest blocking out everything else in the room, and every single defensive instinct you possess is screaming that you are way, way past the point of no return.
Bakugo goes completely still.
His eyes flare with a predatory triumph. He doesn't answer with words. Instead, his gaze drops deliberately, slow and agonizing, tracking the way your breath hitches and the subtle, betraying shiver that racks your frame.
He knows.
He can see the exact physical proof of what his proximity is doing to you, and the knowledge makes a wicked grin pull at the corner of his mouth.
"No," he murmurs
"You lost that choice the second you opened my DMs."
His hands slide up from your hips, his large, calloused palms finally gripping the delicate straps of the white nuisette. .
"Let's see if you're loud when you're losing, princess."
In a sudden, fluid shift of momentum, you grip his broad shoulders and shove hard, catching him entirely off guard. Bakugo stumbles backward, dropping heavily onto the cushions of the couch.
Before he can even recover his footing, you swing your leg over his lap, straddling his waist. The white lace nuisette falls gracefully down your thighs, pooling against your skin. You stand a little taller, shifting your weight so that you are hovering directly over him, putting your chest right in front of his face.
Bakugo’s head falls back against the top of the couch. His eyes snap upward, tracking the movement, completely mesmerized as he takes in the view from beneath you.
"Fuck, you look good in this," he breathes, his voice thick. His gaze is locked onto you.
A slight smirk plays on your lips as you look down at him, resting your hands flat against his chest.
"Thanks," you murmur, your voice dripping with sweet, unbothered sarcasm.
"It's my first time wearing it."
"Yeah? Never wore it for that boyfriend of yours?"
A sharp edge cuts through the rough rasp of his voice, his eyes narrowing as the reality of who you were supposed to be wearing it for finally catches up to his competitive streak.
"Never really deserved it anyway," you shrug casually, leaning in close until your lips are hovering a mere fraction of an inch from his, deliberately withholding the contact.
"Be grateful, I never wear this type of shit," you whisper against his mouth, letting your breath fan across his skin.
"I'm aware," he murmurs, a dry, knowing smirk pulling at the corner of his lips. He’s picturing your usual off-duty uniform, the massive, swallowed-up graphic tees, the beat-up sweatpants, and the total lack of effort you give anyone else outside of class.
His large hands, which had been resting loosely at your waist, suddenly slide down and clamp firmly around your ass, his long fingers pressing right through the delicate lace of the nuisette to anchor you flush against him.
"I'm the only one that gets to see it?" he rasps, his voice dropping an octave as a possessive heat floods his expression.
"Fine by me."
"You know this won't happen again, right?" you warn him, your voice laced with a defiant edge as you look down at him.
Bakugo rolls his eyes, a dismissive scoff vibrating in his chest.
"Whatever you say, princess," he murmurs, his hands tightening possessively against you.
You don't give him another second to speak. You crash your lips down onto his.
The kiss is hard, fast, and entirely fueled by the three years of suppressed tension, academic rivalry, and explosive chemistry you've both tried so desperately to ignore. He groans against your mouth, his hands moving with urgent, heavy heat as he pulls you flush against him, finally breaking down every single wall you built between your lockers, your classrooms, and the rest of the world.
"I had a pretty rough day," he says in between ragged breaths, his voice dropping into a rough rumble.
One of his large, calloused hands sweeps up your bare back, pressing you flat and impossibly tight against his chest.
"I got a lot to relieve tonight..."
He trails off as you lean in, your teeth grazing sharply over his lower lip. An involuntary moan slips past his teeth before you pull your face back just an inch, chests heaving as you look down at him, completely out of breath.
"Up for it?" he asks.
The question is an uncharacteristic flash of vulnerability hidden beneath his arrogant exterior. In his own deliberate way, he’s laying his boundaries bare and asking for yours, checking how he's allowed to handle you, whether you want it rough, if he can finally go all out, or where the hard lines are that he isn't allowed to cross.
An untamed thrill surges through your veins, matching the violent heat of his own.
"Damn right I'm up for it," you answer.
He nods sharply, a grin pulling at his mouth before he crashes his lips back onto yours.
In one effortless, explosive display of strength, his hands slide down to grip your hips and he lifts you straight off his lap.
He stands up from the couch with you still wrapped around him as if you weighed nothing at all.
As his hands shift across your spine, you can feel the heavy, corded muscles of his back rippling beneath his shirt, the exact physique you've spent countless restless nights secretly craving every time your body hummed with pent-up frustration in the dark.
He carries you swiftly down the short hallway toward his bedroom, his mouth never leaving yours, tasting like pure adrenaline.
Reaching the room, he steps inside and slowly lowers you down, letting your bare feet touch the floor before he finally breaks the kiss, both of you gasping for air in the dim light.
You don't give him a second to catch his breath.
You reach out, your fingers curling firmly into the hem of his black t-shirt.
"Take your shirt off," you order him.
A gravelly huff of amusement vibrates in his chest at the demand. His eyes flare down at you. He loves that you aren't hesitating, that you're matching his demand for demand.
Without breaking eye contact, he grabs the hem of his black t-shirt and yanks it up and over his head in one fluid motion, tossing it blindly aside.
The dim light of his room hits the broad expanse of his chest and shoulders, highlighting the heavy definition of his torso, the stark lines of his collarbones, and the thick muscles corded across his arms, scars and all, hard-earned from years of relentless, explosive training. He looks lethal, completely unhinged, and entirely focused on you. Before you can even fully register the sight, his hands move instantly, his warm palms gripping your bare hips and hauling you straight against him so there isn't a single inch of space left between your bodies. The friction of his bare chest against your skin sends a jolt straight down your spine.
"Done staring, princess?" he rasps, as his thumb drags a slow, agonizing circle against the exposed skin of your waist.
"Or do you want a closer look?"
"Don't flatter yourself" you roll you eyes.
"Right. Keep telling yourself that," he mocks.
Before you can fire back another insult, his hands shift from your waist, gripping the back of your thighs as he effortlessly hoists you up. Your legs automatically wrap around his waist, locking you tight against him.
He doesn't waste another second. In two strides, he backs you up against the edge of his unmade mattress, letting you tumble backward onto the sheets. He follows you down instantly, planting his hands on either side of your head and caging you beneath him. The weight of his broad frame blankets you entirely.
His eyes roam over your face, taking in every single defiant expression, before dipping down to the delicate lace of your nuisette.
"Show me how much you don't care, then," he rasps.
"Now why do I have to do all the work ? You're the one who wanted me here"
He pauses just an inch away, his hot breath ghosting over your skin as he looks down at you with a predatory gleam in his eyes.
"Who said you were doing all the work?"
His hands shift from the mattress, sliding down your body with agonizing slowness until they grip the hem of the white lace nuisette. With one swift, calculated motion, he hoists the fabric up, stripping it away entirely and tossing it off the bed into the shadows of the room.
He cages you completely beneath his heavy frame, his gaze burning over every inch of exposed skin.
"Consider this your pop quiz, princess," he murmurs against your ear, his teeth grazing just a little too sharply over your lobe before his lips trail down your jawline.
"Let's see if you pass."
"What type of quizz ? How is the grading ? What's the reward ?" you ask, wanting to mess with his composure even thought you're completly bare under him.
He stops cold, his lips hovering right above the sensitive skin of your collarbone as the sharp, teasing challenge hits him.
His eyes snap back up to yours, burning with a mix of utter disbelief and unadulterated heat. The sheer audacity of you lying completely bare, completely vulnerable beneath him, and still having the absolute nerve to talk to him like you're sitting across from him at a desk in homeroom makes a muscle in his jaw twitch violently.
"You've got a real smart mouth on you tonight, don't you?" his voice dangerously low, thick with a mix of frustration and desire.
Instead of answering your questions, his large hand slides up your ribs, his thumb brushing deliberately over your skin just to feel your pulse spike before cupping the back of your neck. He anchors you in place, his fingers tangling roughly in your hair as he leans down, his lips brushing against yours with deliberate friction.
"The grading is simple," he murmurs against your mouth, his breath hot and ragged. "You survive it, you win. The reward..."
He pauses, a smirk pulling at his lips as his gaze drops down your body and then back up to meet your defiant stare.
"...is whatever's left of your pride by the time I'm done breaking you."
"Ask away then"
He shift his weight slightly on his elbows so he can look down at your face, pinning you beneath him.
"First question."
He pauses.
"How long?" he demands, his jaw tightening as he glares down at you.
"How long have you been driving me out of my fucking mind physically? Don't leave out any details."
Your brain stalls.
Wait.
What game was he actually playing here? A quiz? If you passed, you win, does that mean you have to be brutally, humiliatingly honest? Or does he only count it as passing if he actually likes the answer? This is infinitely more confusing than Advanced Calculus, and your thoughts are scattering too fast to form a coherent defense.
Before you can scramble for a sarcastic exit strategy, his hand grips your chin, tilting your face up so you have nowhere to look except straight into those demanding eyes.
"Tick-tock, princess," he murmurs, his thumb brushing roughly over your bottom lip. "Start talking."
"You've been a pain in my ass since high school," you start, a slow, mocking smile tugging at the corner of your lips as you hold his heavy gaze.
Bakugo's jaw tightens, a muscle ticking in his cheek, but he doesn't interrupt. He just waits, his eyes burning into yours with undivided focus.
"But physically?" You let out a honest breath, deciding that if he wants the truth, you'll give him the unfiltered version, no sugarcoating, no pride.
"I'd say for about a year. You've been keeping in shape for a long time, and... well, you look good."
You don't bother hiding it. You never had any romantic illusions about him, he was still the loud, obnoxious, hyper-competitive rival who drove you up a wall. But denying the fact that the guy was drop-dead gorgeous was impossible. Watching him push through grueling combat drills, seeing the sweat drip down his neck in class, or catching the sharp definition of his back muscles under his uniform had been a constant, highly irritating distraction for months. It was annoying as hell, and you hated every second of it.
Bakugo goes completely still.
For a fraction of a second, the harsh, arrogant edge of his expression shatters, replaced by a flash of absolute triumph. A predatory grin spreads across his face.
"A year," he repeats, the gravel in his voice dropping an octave as he lets the confession sink into his skin. "Is that right?"
He leans down, his chest pressing heavy against yours, the heat of his skin radiating through you as his lips brush the shell of your ear.
"Consider that question one passed. Ready for the next?"
Your hands slide down the hard expanse of his chest, tracing the corded muscle and sharp lines of his ribs in a teasing counter-attack.
"Can I get a prize for every good answer?" you murmur, your voice dripping with faux-innocence as your fingertips graze the waistband of his pants.
A low hum vibrates in his chest at your bargaining.
In a sudden, fluid drop of his weight, his head dips down and his teeth sink sharply into the sensitive skin of your neck, right over your pulse point. You gasp, your back arching off the mattress as a sharp jolt of heat shoots straight through you.
"No," he growls against your skin, the vibration of his voice sending a shiver straight down your spine.
He pulls back just enough, his hot, ragged breath fanning over the newly sensitized mark on your neck.
"Now," he rasps.
Slowly, deliberately, he shifts his weight, sliding his knee up and pressing it firmly between your legs, parting you with agonizing precision. The friction of his knee against the heavy heat already dampening your skin makes your breath hitch violently. He brings his face back up, hovering inches from yours.
"Question number two," he taunts. "Why the hell are you here tonight... when you've got a perfectly good boyfriend?"
For a split second, you’re genuinely taken aback, your gaze darting away toward the dark corner of the room.
It’s a terrifyingly valid question, one you’d been quietly avoiding asking yourself.
The truth? Your boyfriend was fine in bed, but outside of it, he was getting less tolerable by the minute. You hadn't been together long, but the honeymoon phase had dissolved almost instantly, leaving you with the bitter realization that he was mostly using you for your body. Which, fine, you could tolerate on a purely physical level, mutual objectization was whatever. But the real problem was how he treated you: he was an absolute asshole to you behind closed doors while playing the charming, decent guy for everyone else.
At first, it had actually stung. In the beginning, back when you were just awkward crushes eyeing each other across campus, you'd caught yourself wondering if you just didn't deserve to be treated nicely, if his coldness was somehow your fault. But you knew your own worth now. You refused to internalize his garbage or feel bad for an arrangement that was rapidly souring.
You snap your eyes back to Bakugo, your jaw tightening as you refuse to let him see you fluster over a loser.
"Because he's an exhausting, two-faced prick who only keeps me around when it's convenient," you snap, your voice sharp with a sudden flash of defensive pride.
"And honestly? I was bored of him."
The dark, teasing amusement vanishes from his fac. His eyes narrow as he processes your unfiltered answer, reading right past the defense mechanism straight into the quiet frustration that had been eating at you.
Instead of mocking you. His hand moves up, his fingers tangling firmly in your hair as he forces you to keep looking right at him.
"Then why the hell were you wasting your time with a clown like that?" he demands. "If you knew he was garbage, why stay?"
You shrug, a casual, indifferent motion beneath his heavy frame that completely undercuts the weight of the question.
"Physical distraction, I suppose," you reply, your tone flat and unbothered, as if you were talking about a mediocre cup of coffee.
The air in the room instantly shifts, growing thick and heavy. His eyes flare, a volatile spark igniting deep within them. The idea that you had been keeping some generic, two-faced loser around just for physical convenience, while all the while he had been burning a hole through his own self-control trying to keep his distance, hits a nerve.
A gravelly growl tears from the back of his throat.
"A distraction?" he repeats.
Before you can blink, his knee presses harder between your legs, and his free hand locks around your jaw, his thumb digging into your cheek just enough to demand your complete, undivided attention. The playful interrogation is officially over; the predator has taken over the lesson.
"Let's see how much of a distraction I am compared to him," his mouth crashing down onto yours with a punishing intensity that completely robs you of your breath.
A muffled moan slips straight into his mouth, lost against the aggressive friction of his lips.
As he breaks the kiss, tracing a wet, burning path down your jaw and across the sensitive skin of your collarbone, you tilt your head back, your fingers clenching into the sheets.
"Hate is good fuel for sex, right?" you breath out, your voice trembling slightly as you look down at him, testing him one last time.
Bakugo halts.
He lowers himself further down, the rough heat of his chest scraping against your torso until his eyes level right with your chest. He pauses there for a fraction of a second, glaring up at you from between your breasts.
"You talk too much," he growls against your skin.
Without warning, his mouth wraps hot and heavy over your left nipple, his teeth grazing just hard enough to send an electric shock straight through your core.
A high, breathless whimper instantly tears from your throat, your back arching off the mattress as your fingers tangle blindly into his blonde hair, holding him desperately against you as all coherent thought completely evaporates.
As his mouth pulls a fresh, ragged gasp from your lips, his left hand slides down from your hip and traces a slow, burning path over your bare thigh. He gently eases his knee away from your center, pulling you closer to the edge of the mattress until your hips tilt instinctively toward him.
Instead of pushing forward, his long fingers drag upward along your skin, sliding deliberately past your entrance.
Your breath stutters in your chest, anticipation spiking as you wait for the heavy pressure you're craving. But he stops just short. His thumb finds your clit, moving with an agonizing, feather-light precision, barely brushing against the sensitive bundle of nerves, just enough to tease the friction you're desperate for.
A whimper breaks from your throat, your hips twitching upward on the sheets, chasing a touch that refuses to give you what you want. Every single nerve ending in your body lights on fire, leaving you completely undone beneath his heavy frame.
He shifts upward, his hot breath brushing against the shell of your ear.
"Remember that time you stole my spotlight in the first-year entrance tournament?" he murmurs, his thumb pressing just a fraction harder against your sensitized skin, ramping up the friction with absolute, calculated cruelty. "Winning right out from under me."
A sharp gasp catches in your throat at the memory, and at the torturous rhythm he’s suddenly starting to build.
"God, you pissed me off that day," he rasps, a dark satisfaction bleeding into his voice as his thumb begins to rub in slow, maddening circles, driving you straight up the wall.
"Fuck," you swear, your eyes slamming shut as your back arches hard off the mattress, your hands flying up to grip his shoulders as your body betrays every single defense you tried to keep.
He tracks the exact sound of your breaking composure with a groan. He trails his tongue lazily over the lobe of your ear, tasting your shuddering breath before sliding up, his lips brushing heavily against yours as you open your eyes to glare at him through a haze of need.
His lips soften against yours, turning the frantic tension into a deep, slow-burning kiss that steals whatever air you have left.
At the exact same moment, his fingers slide deep inside you. He buries them slow and steady, filling you completely, and then he stops moving them entirely, holding his hand still inside your heated core while his tongue tangles lazily with yours, swallowing your breathless gasp. His free hand travels up, cupping your breast with a firm weight before his thumb drags across your nipple. Then, with agonizing deliberation, he starts to move his fingers inside you. It’s an excruciatingly slow, torturous pace. His thumb maintains its maddening, feather-light rhythm against your clit, refusing to offer any quick release.
He keeps your mouth locked to his, completely trapping your voice as wave after wave of intense, dizzying heat washes over you. Saliva smears between your lips, a messy, breathless testament to how thoroughly he’s dismantling you.
Finally, just as your chest is burning for oxygen, he pulls back an inch, letting you gasp for air as a thin silver thread of saliva breaks between you.
His crimson eyes gaze down at you, heavy-lidded and utterly merciless.
"I'm going to do this for hours, you're aware of that right?" he murmurs, tilting his head keeping the slow, driving motion inside you steady and unyielding.
"You do this often then" you ask out of breath
A warning growl rumbles deep in his chest.
"Careful, smartass," he rasps, his eyes narrowing with a flash of amusement.
Before the words can even fully leave his mouth, his thumb and forefinger clamp firmly around your nipple, pinching it with just enough sharp friction to tear a loud, breathless moan straight from your throat. Your hips jerk upward on the sheets, chasing his fingers inside you as your entire body flinches against the sudden spike of pleasure and pain.
"Only for people who manage to get under my skin for a whole damn year," he answers, his voice dropping an octave as he resumes that slow, agonizingly deliberate pace inside you.
He leans down, pressing his forehead against yours, his hot breath mingling with yours as his thumb returns to its steady, maddening circles against your clit.
"Keep testing me," he murmurs, a jagged smile pulling at the corner of his mouth, "and see how long you actually last."
"Don't play with me Bakugo, because you'll loose. We both know how we work" you tell him
The arrogant challenge in your voice only feeds the fire burning in his chest. A low chuckle vibrates against your skin.
"On the field? Yeah, you're a fighter," he admits, his tone dripping with a hard-earned respect that he rarely gives anyone.
Then, his eyes darken into something consuming.
Slowly, deliberately, he slides his fingers out from deep inside you, the wet sound of his withdrawal making your stomach flip. Without breaking eye contact for a single second, he brings his hand up, his gaze locking onto yours as he slowly slips his fingers into his mouth. He sucks them clean with deliberateness, his tongue tasting every trace of you off his skin while his expression remains entirely unyielding.
He lowers his hand, resting it heavily against your hip as he leans back in, his voice dropping to a rough, low growl right against your ear.
"Right now? Under me, completely fucking naked and dripping on my fingers..." he rasps, his warm breath sending a fresh shiver straight down your spine. "...you're going to be a fucking mess."
"Answer me," you tell him, your voice cutting through the charged air of the room.
Bakugo freezes, his eyes blinking in sudden, genuine confusion.
He tilts his head slightly, glaring down at you as if trying to calculate what ridiculous angle you're trying to play now.
"How many partners did you have?" you ask, your tone completely deadpan, stripped of any coyness.
It wasn't jealousy. And it certainly wasn't idle curiosity. You were both rapidly climbing the ranks as pro heroes, living high-stress, high-exposure lives; you just wanted to make sure the practical, health-related boxes were checked before things went any further.
He just stares at you. Then, the perceptive edge of his mind catches the exact insinuation behind your question. A low huff of amusement, half-offended, half-impressed by your coldness in the middle of a make-out session, escapes his throat.
"One or two girls the first year, and one guy in the beginning of last year," he answers, his voice dropping into a straightforward, unbothered rumble.
He doesn't hesitate, meeting your gaze with total transparency.
"Lately? No one," he adds, his eyes narrowing slightly as he looks down at you, the intensity ramping right back up.
"I don't have the time or the patience to deal with anyone else's bullshit."
"You?" he fires back, the question sharp and heavy with a sudden, possessive edge as he pins you down.
"A girl in first year. And this year... just my boyfriend," you answer smoothly, holding his burning gaze without a flinch.
A slow, dry smile cuts across his face, not a warm one, but a smirk that tells you his competitive brain just locked onto a brand new target. He can't help it; the thought slips right past his guard and claws its way out of his mouth.
"Was your boyfriend your first time with a guy?" he asks, his voice dripping with a toxic mix of arrogance and a thinly veiled curiosity.
You let out a short, melodic chuckle, tilting your chin up.
"What's it to you?" you tease, your eyes sparkling with amusement as you watch the gears turn in his head.
"Nothing. From what I've seen, he's no competition," Bakugo shrugs, dismissing your boyfriend with a flick of his wrist as if swatting away a particularly annoying gnat.
You let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh, a bright challenge flashing in your eyes. "What, are you trying to compete with him now?"
An arrogant smirk spreads across his face, pure ego bleeding into his expression.
"Nah. I just like protecting my reputation."
"Cocky much?" you snap, raising an eyebrow at his sheer audacity.
"You tell me," he murmurs.
In one swift, fluid motion, he backs up from you, shifting his weight off your frame. Before your brain can fully catch up, his hands hook into the waistband of his pants, dragging them down and kicking them away until he’s left wearing only dark, form-fitting boxers.
The heavy, corded muscle of his thighs and the sharp V of his hips loom over you as he immediately crowds back into the space between your legs, pressing his heat flush against your center. He props himself up on his hands, caging you in completely as his crimson eyes burn down into yours, daring you to deny what’s right in front of you.
"Puts your hand under your back" he orders
For a second, your breath catches in your throat, completely rendered speechless by the dominance radiating off him.
You don't argue.
You don't offer a smartass comeback.
Slowly, your hands slide down, slipping underneath the small of your back to arch yourself just a fraction higher toward him.
Bakugo tracks the movement, his eyes darkening to a near-black intensity as he watches you submit to the command.
He shifts forward, settling heavily between your thighs. His hand wraps around himself, guiding his heat right against your entrance, but he holds back, keeping you suspended on the edge of anticipation.
He leans down, his voice dropping into a rough, commanding growl directly against your lips.
"Now. I'm going to fuck you, and none of us is going to come for a while until I say so. Clear?"
Your breath hitches, the heavy authority in his voice sending a violent shiver straight down your spine. The control he's demanding, and the thought of being forced to ride that excruciating edge for as long as he wants, makes your head spin.
You grip the sheets beneath your back, your jaw tightening as you meet his burning gaze head-on.
"Try and keep me from it," you challenge, your voice a defiant whisper.
A feral grin breaks across his face.
Without another word, he slides forward, filling you completely in one slow, devastatingly deep thrust.
The sheer size and heat of him makes your back arch off the mattress, a sharp gasp tearing from your throat as your hands clutch tightly at your own lower back.
He groans low in the back of his throat, his forehead dropping against your shoulder as he buries himself to the hilt. The friction is immediate, heavy, and slow.
He doesn't rush.
He holds you trapped beneath him, letting you feel every single inch of him before he pulls back just enough to drive forward again.
"You asked for this, princess," he murmurs against your skin, his voice rough as he sets a relentless, agonizingly controlled pace.
"I hope for your sake that you're taking the pill," he warns against your ear, his voice a low, gravelly rasp as he maintains that excruciatingly slow rhythm inside you.
One of his heavy hands grips your thigh, anchoring you to the mattress, while the other plants flat beside your head, caging you in completely.
"Obviously, asshole," you hiss back, refusing to let him have the last word.
The moment the insult leaves your lips, his hand snaps away from the mattress. His fingers lock firmly around your throat, pressing in with just the right amount of calculated pressure to spike your adrenaline and leave you breathless.
A sharp gasp catches in your throat, your eyes flying wide as you stare up at him through the sudden rush of heat and panic.
Bakugo leans down, his eyes burning into yours with dangerous satisfaction as his thumb brushes your jawline.
"Can't keep that mouth shut, huh?" he murmurs, his pace stuttering for a fraction of a second before he drives forward again, heavier and deeper than before.
The shift is abrupt and entirely effortless. Before you can even catch your breath, his hands grip your waist and flip you over onto your stomach, moving you like you weigh nothing at all. You're completely at his mercy, speared open, trapped beneath the heavy weight of his body as he settles right behind you.
One of his large hands anchors you firmly by the hip, pressing you down into the mattress while his other hand strokes slowly, heavily against your lower back.
"Hands in the pillow," he orders, his voice rough and vibrating with absolute authority. "Keep one hand to hold you up, and give me the other one."
An arm lock wraps tightly across your back, pinning you down as you bury your face half into the soft cotton of the pillow, trying to muffle the erratic sound of your breathing.
"Don't fucking dare hiding that face away from me," he warns, a dangerous edge to his tone as he shifts his weight.
He presses forward, sliding into you once more with an agonizing, torturous slowness. A low, ragged groan tears from his throat as your fingers instantly clutch and tear at the sheets, your breath hitching violently at the sheer stretch of him.
"If you need to breathe, tap my leg," he mutters, lowering his chest flat against your back, trapping you completely in his heat.
With a slow, deliberate shrug of his shoulders, he pulls almost entirely out, letting the empty ache make you whimper into the pillow, before driving right back in with ruthless precision.
"Or don't," he rasps against your shoulder blade.
The slow torture snaps in an instant, replaced by a punishing rhythm.
He grabs a handful of your hair, yanking your head back just enough to expose your throat and force a sharp, breathless gasp from your lips. He’s slamming back into you with relentless force, every heavy thrust hitting your cervix with a bruising, dizzying impact that blurs the line between pain and absolute pleasure. The wet, slapping sound of his skin against yours echoes through the quiet room, drowned out only by your ragged breathing.
Inside, the friction shifts. The initial tight, agonizing stretch melts away as your body surrenders, your core flooding with slick heat to chase the brutal punishment he's dealing out.
"Fuck, Bakugo," you swear, your voice cracking into a desperate, ruined moan against the sheets as your fingers claw blindly into the mattress, completely losing whatever remaining control you had left.
"Do you know how fucking long I've been wanting to do this?" he growls against your shoulder blade, his breath ragged against your skin.
"If I had known you wanted to... fuck," he trails off, pressing a burning, possessive kiss into the sensitive skin of your spine as he abruptly breaks his punishing rhythm.
He slows down to a crawl, dragging every inch out with deliberate cruelty, intentionally stepping on the brakes to keep you both from tipping over the edge. He refuses to let you have the release you're clawing for, holding you right on that agonizing precipice.
Then, the sudden, involuntary shift happens beneath him.
Your walls contract, your inner muscles clamping down hard and fast around his length in a sudden, violent spasm as a wave overtakes you entirely.
Bakugo freezes. A harsh gasp rips from his throat as the intense, squeezing heat of your climax wraps completely around him.
"Did you just fucking come?" he demands, his voice cracking into a raw, disbelieving groan as his head drops heavily onto your back, completely undone by the sudden, traitorous betrayal of your body.
Your hips twitch involuntarily against his, the residual aftershocks of your first climax still rippling through your system. That faint, sensitive friction is all it takes to snap whatever restraint he had left.
The low, rumbling groan in his chest turns feral.
"Fine," he snaps, the word tearing out of him as he abandons all thoughts of slowing down.
Horrified, you feel the spiraling heat of another orgasm clawing its way back up your spine before you've even recovered from the last one. Your nervous system is completely overloaded, every nerve ending stripped raw.
"Bakugo, wait-" you gasp, trying to twist away, but he doesn't give an inch.
He grabs your waist, hauling you back flush against him as he rams his way inside with relentless, punishing speed. Every single thrust slams directly into your G-spot, striking that hyper-sensitive cluster of nerves with mechanical precision. Hot, syrupy pleasure pools instantly in your lower belly, heavy and overwhelming.
Sensing you're unraveling too fast and determined to drag his own climax out, his free hand slides down between your thighs, his fingers finding your slick, throbbing clit and working it with rough, demanding circles.
Uncontrollable, violent full-body tremors take over. You can't breathe, can't think, can't do anything as your pussy clenches down tight around his rigid length, once, twice, over and over again in rapid, agonizing succession. Your clit feels like a live wire, sparking white-hot fire with every merciless rub of his thumb as he drives you straight off the edge all over again.
A dark, low chuckle vibrates through the mattress as he slows his pace, the heavy friction tapering off into lazy, deliberate strokes before he finally pulls out of you entirely.
The sudden, hollow ache in your core makes you gasp, your limbs instantly turning to dead weight as you collapse face-first against the rumpled sheets. You are completely spent, every muscle in your body trembling from the overload.
Before you can even catch your breath, Bakugo moves with efficient motion. In a single fluid sweep, he is off the bed, grabbing the discarded sheets and tossing them over your shivering, exposed frame to cover you up.
"I'll be right back," he mutters, his voice still rough and edged with lingering adrenaline.
Without waiting for an answer, he turns on his heel and strides toward the bathroom, heading in to wash the evidence of you off his hands and thighs.
You lie there face down in the pillows, chest rising and falling in ragged, uneven gasps, looking like an absolute, thoroughly dismantled mess. By the time the bathroom door clicks open and his heavy footsteps pad back across the floor toward the bed, you barely have the energy to lift your head.
The soft, heavy rise and fall of your breathing fills the quiet bedroom. By the time he steps back into the room, dressed and armored in his usual detached composure, you're already half-gone, completely drained and dead to the world beneath the rumpled sheets.
Bakugo pauses at the edge of the mattress, his eyes lingering on your exhausted form for a silent beat. A faint, reluctant smirk touches the corner of his mouth, half-mocking, half-satisfied.
He pulls his underwear and pants back on. He has zero intention of spending the night tangled up in bed next to you; that kind of lingering, domestic intimacy is a line he refuses to cross, a vulnerability he won't allow himself to indulge in.
With one final glance, he turns his back, slipping out of the bedroom and pulling the door firmly shut behind him.
The apartment is dead silent as he walks back into the living room. The glow of the desk lamp cuts through the dark, illuminating the scattered papers and textbooks left abandoned on the table. He drops heavily into his chair, rubbing the back of his neck as his eyes fall back onto the unfinished physics problem staring up at him from the page.
"She never gave that answer to number seven," he sighs aloud to the empty room, shaking his head as he picks up his pen and forces his mind back to work.