BAKUGOU X FEM!READER

BAKUGOU x FEM!READER

♫ ⏯︎ Innerbloom (What So Not Remix) - RÜFÜS DU SOUL

☆IT’S A PARTY! REQUEST EVENT | MASTERLIST

BAKUGOU (BNHA) x WORK PARTY ☆NYE EDITION☆

REQUESTED BY ☆ @i-hate-your-guts-babydoll

LENGTH ☆ 3.2k

CONTAINS ☆ NSFW! Fuck buddy Bkg, mutual pining, office sex, creampie, alcohol mention, dubcon (alcohol), a single ass smack, fingering, light degradation, use of “slut” and “brat”, slightly rough sex into more meaningful sex, bkg puts his hand over your mouth to shut you up lol, it gets hot and heavy (and sappy) at the end, reader and bkg are both idiots who are bad at feelings (:

AN ☆ Happy New Year’s! Let’s pretend I didn’t finish this a week after actual NYE lol. Katsuki held me hostage and made me write him just a little softer — it was completely against my will and not indicative at all of how much I really do love him. Anyways, thank you so much for sending in this request and I hope you enjoy! <3

“If you want me, if you need me, I’m yours…”

You don’t really like fireworks.

That’s what you’re thinking to yourself as you lean against the side of the building, head tilted upwards. Soon the sky above will be filled with sparks of color, faraway specks of firelight that burst and dance through the air before making their descent down to earth. But for now, there is only darkness; There are no stars in the vast ocean of black, every little twinkling light chased away by the cruel brilliance of the city. You miss the stars, but you much prefer the empty sky to one filled with fireworks. You’re savoring the silence for now — well, the closest thing you can get to silence in the city on a night like this. 

Milky white wisps and curls around your face as you take another drag of your cigarette, cherry tip sizzling in agreeance. Excited squeals and boisterous laughter leaks out from the office building behind you, a reminder of the work party you’re trying to escape for a moment. The smoke in your lungs blows out on a long sigh. 

New Year’s is not your favorite holiday. It’s not even your second favorite, or your third. You’d hardly even count it as a “holiday” in your mind. Really, it’s more of a marker, a white line painted on the cement that somehow signals both the finish and the start all at once. Feet step over the thick strip of paint and cheers ripple through the air – and then you blink, and the pop of a gun startles you. You’ve finished the race, made it through the year, but the race simply begins again. And in that maddening loop you are forever caught. Forever running the same circular stretch of pavement. Over and over, year after year. 

And the waving flag just up ahead also reminds you of all of the loose ends you’ve left to flutter in the wind behind you. Some have called you cynical, many have called you negative, but the truth of the matter is that you don’t really see New Year’s as sweet opportunity. The New Year is sour, stale. Another year, another rotting pile of the unfinished, the unfulfilled, the unanswered. 

And then one of those unanswered questions saunters right out into the courtyard with you, heavy footsteps reverberating in the night.

“Y’really shouldn’t smoke those.” The voice is deep, gruff. From that, and the annoyed click of his tongue when you take another drag, you know exactly who it is. 

“Oh really?” You look down at the cigarette between your fingers, and feel a warm body settle in next to you. “Why’s that?”

“‘s’bad for yer health.”

You swivel your head, eyes finding your nag. Sharp features, piercing crimson, and ash blonde hair that, despite the clean-cut dress shirt and slacks he’s wearing, is still undeniably wild. 

“So is picking fights with violent criminals,” you quip, tilting your face up towards his defiantly, “but you don’t see me telling you how to live your life.”

Amusement spreads slowly across his face, a smile pulling up at the corners of his mouth. He turns his head and snorts a small laugh, trying his best not to give you the satisfaction. Noticing the pink dusting his cheeks and the drink in his hand, you realize — he’s drunk. It’s a rare occasion to see Dynamight drunk.

Dynamight is the most successful sidekick at the agency. Fresh out of college, he’s made a name for himself quickly. As the agency’s head dispatcher, you work closely with the team of sidekicks, serving as their coordinator and reliable point of contact when they’re out in the field. Surprisingly to many, you and Dynamight work well together. He’s a hard worker and a quick thinker, which makes your job easier. And you have thick skin and a sharp tongue, which comes in handy when dealing with him. Ultimately, a mutual respect had eventually settled between you. 

Among other things.

Flicking the butt of the cigarette to the floor, you extend your foot to stamp it out under your heel. You can feel his eyes on you, his gaze always so damn heavy.

“I like that dress,” he tells you, tipping his glass to his lips, regarding you over the edge of it.

“I’d offer to let you borrow it,” a small smile to accompany the playful lilt in your voice, “but I don’t really think it’s your color.”

He rolls his eyes. “Stop bein’ a smartass, you know what I mean.”

Turning to him, you cross your arms loosely over your chest. This is your favorite game to play with him, especially when he’s in a good mood — like after a successful capture, or when alcohol has loosened his usually tight demeanor.

“I don’t think I do know what you mean.”

He pushes himself off the wall and is in your space in a moment, eyes narrowing, a smirk on his lips. “I like that dress on you,” he says, a low growl that makes your heart flutter in your throat, “But I think I’d like it better on the floor. Or ripped to shreds. I’ll let you choose how I take it off you, just this once.”

“Mighty generous of you, Dynamight.”

A sneer, and his eyes bounce down below your nose. “Keep up that little attitude and I’ll ruin more than just your dress.”

The unanswered question that hangs heaviest between you was born from the fact that you and Bakugou have been regularly hooking up for four months now, and you haven’t the faintest idea what the fuck he really wants from you. 

It had started a lot like this – a night warmed by alcohol and a budding sexual tension. You had been surprised when your coworkers told you Bakugou would be tagging along to happy hour after work, and you were even more surprised when he’d drunkenly insisted on walking you home after. (“‘s’not safe,” he’d drawled, hands stuffed stiffly in his pockets.) A slightly awkward kiss in front of your door had turned into many heated kisses through the doorway, and down the hall, and into your bedroom, and tangled in each other until the sun peeked through your curtains.

But he was gone when you woke up. The only evidence that he had been there at all was a plate of food set neatly on the counter with a scrawled note that told you to “go buy some real groceries”. When you next saw him in the office, it was like nothing had happened. He strapped on his hero uniform, and you perched yourself in front of your web of monitors, and neither of you even so much as stole a knowing glance. But when his voice crackled through your headset, deep and rough and spitting curses, you could feel the heat simmer beneath your skin. What you didn’t know was that he felt the same – until he confronted you weeks later at another office outing about ‘avoiding him’. He fucked you hard in an alleyway near the bar that night, a leg hiked up roughly around his hip after you both realized you couldn’t keep your hands off of each other long enough to make it to your apartment. 

The hookups became regular after that, the flirting more brazen. But the nature of your relationship remained a mystery. One that became more and more perplexing with each note left on your counter, each lunch that appeared on your desk, each cigarette snatched from your grasp and stomped into the pavement.

Those questions itch at the back of your neck but, when Bakugou brings his lips closer to your ear, the warmth of his breath and the rumble of his voice always has a way of soothing them. “The conference room is unlocked. Go in there and wait for me.” 

And when he has you turned around with your hands braced against the long conference desk, his chest pressed to your back and his hard cock rubbing against the curve of your ass, any doubts that may have plagued your mind suddenly fizzle out completely. Each kiss sucked into your neck, each curse breathed into your hair, each spark of frustration squeezed into your hips – it all empties your mind of any logical thoughts and leaves behind nothing but a burning stretch of need.

His palms are rough but his touch is tender as he feels you, explores your dips and swells with equal parts care and hunger. It’s like they can’t choose a spot to settle on, running over your arms, kneading at your tits, digging into your waist. You push back into him, reveling in the feel of his thick cock trapped between your body and his. And his hands finally find purpose, one coaxing your face to turn and meet with his for a sloppy kiss, the other snaking under the hem of your dress to grip at the fat of your ass. 

“I like this dress,” he breathes against your mouth.

You chuckle, “You told me that already.”

“Well I’m tellin’ ya again,” he grumbles, “fuckin’ brat.”

He grips your hip hard, forcing you to grind back on him. You peer at him over your shoulder, rolling your hips against him, grinding harder, and watch his lids droop and his jaw slacken at the pressure. There’s an inky darkness cast over the empty conference room, but the glitter of the city is spilling through the high windows just so, highlighting the mist of lust in his eyes. 

He’s perfectly disheveled in his formal attire, suit jacket abandoned, sleeves rolled up on his muscular forearms, tie loosened and slightly askew. It makes your chest ache to see him like this, makes something bubble up in you that you’re inclined to swallow back down. And you think you see something on his face that mirrors your thoughts, something in the way his gaze softens when he’s looking you over in the dim light. 

You gasp when you feel his fingers against your clothed pussy, and he snickers, a cocky expression back on his face in an instant. “You’re soaked already,” he notes with a laugh, “I can feel it through your panties.”

Matching his energy, you reach back to palm at his cock through his slacks, smiling when you hear his sharp inhale. “You gonna keep talking shit all night, or are you gonna fuck me?”

The heavy weight of his hand between your shoulder blades forces you down, bending you over the desk until your chest is smooshed against the cold surface. He yanks your dress up, pushing the slinky fabric until it’s gathered around your waist, exposing your ass to the cool air. Blunt nails dig into your flesh, then a harsh swat to your cheek makes you yelp and snicker.

He’s grumbling under his breath as he fiddles with his zipper, complaining about your smart fuckin’ mouth and telling you how he’ll shut you the fuck up. You peek back and bite down on your lip when you catch a glimpse of his cock being pulled through the open zipper of his slacks, so hard that a vein bulges along the side and a glistening bead of pre drips from the tip. 

And then his finger is hooking under the thin fabric of your thong, knuckle brushing against your pussy as he pulls it to the side. An anticipatory shiver rolls down your spine as you watch his neck crane down, and then you feel a warm drop of spit hit the tight ring of your ass. It drips through your folds, until two fingers catch it at your clit, running back up and gathering wetness to push back into your dripping cunt. 

“Fuck, you’re so fuckin’ wet,” he says as he works his fingers into you, a domineering hand on your back keeping you bent over the desk, “This how wet you get thinkin’ about me railing you in the middle of the office?”

His fingers curl into you, the pad of his thumb coming to rub at your clit, and your back arches, a whine escaping you. “Got nothin’ to say now, huh?”

You grit your teeth, shooting a glare back at him. “Bakugou, if you don’t just fuck me already I swear to—“

His hand clasps firmly around your mouth, fingers digging into your cheeks as he turns your face forward. The tie around his neck tickles at your back when he arches his hulking form over you. 

“Shut. The fuck. Up.” His growl sends a shiver down your spine, and you can hear the smirk in his voice when he continues, “Or else the whole office is gonna hear what a slut you are for me.”

He withdraws his fingers from your cunt to grasp his cock at the base. He swipes it along your folds, gets the head coated in your juices. You’re holding your breath, feeling the familiar push of his tip against your entrance, and then he’s finally sinking into you, groaning along with your muffled exhale. 

He fucks you hard and deep, pulling on your hip to force you back and meet his sharp thrusts. The moans he punches out of you are caught in the shell of his palm, your muted cries and snorts of breath sounding downright animalistic mixed with his grunts of pleasure. It’s so good, the way he’s manhandling you, the way his cock drills into you, the way his hand feels hot and dominant wrapped around your face – you can feel your core tightening, ready to burst and spill all over him.

But then you hear excited yells coming from down the hall, and your eyes widen. 

Your hand slaps frantically against his arm, and he quickly releases you, hips stalling as his mouth opens to ask if he’d hurt you. 

“They’re about to start the countdown!” You exclaim, breathless.

A pause. “So?”

“So…” The end of your thought hangs heavy between you. 

Why does that matter to you suddenly? You don’t even care for New Year’s, would go so far as to say you dislike it. So why does the symbolism of counting down the hour suddenly feel so important to you?

Bakugou is perceptive, and the answer comes to him before it does you.

“What, ya worried about a New Year’s kiss? I’m literally fucking you in the office, I think we’re a little further along than that.” 

He snorts, expecting you to find the thought funny. But you don’t laugh. Crimson bores into the back of your head, willing his gaze to penetrate and unveil what you’re thinking. He takes a deep breath, and then softens a bit.

“Fine, c’mere.” 

And then you’re being whipped around to face him. Fingers splay across the base of your neck, his hand strong and sure as it cradles you there, and he steps forward into you until the backs of your thighs are pressed against the side of the desk. His other hand helps you settle yourself on top of the surface, and then he’s slotted between your thighs, sticky cock resting against your mound. Your noses nestle together, so close his warm breath ghosts against your mouth when he parts his lips to speak. 

“Three…” He murmurs against your mouth, joining the raucous counting just outside the door. His voice vibrates your lips, and when his tongue flicks out to wet his own you feel it graze you. You can smell the alcohol on his breath, can practically taste it. 

“Two…” Your gaze flits up from his mouth, and you find that deep carmine is already waiting there for you. Burning hot, piercing right into you like a blade from a fire. His hand slips to the small of your back, pressing you even closer against him, and your bodies mold together like well warmed clay.

“One…” And as the world erupts around you, his lips find their place pressed against yours. It’s soft, but full of an intensity that rings so much louder than the cheers that bleed through the walls. The boom of a firework echoes through the city, then another, but you don’t notice. Everything around you is muffled, the celebration light years away. In your world it’s almost silent – save for the soft sounds you swap between you, and the deafening beat of your heart.

You kiss again, and again, lips and tongues chasing after each other in a rhythmic dance. It’s different, the way you’re clinging to each other and losing yourselves on each other’s breath. The change is palpable, the tension so thick that it seems to dunk you both beneath it until you’re gasping for air. The question is there again, but this time it’s more than just an itch, not something you can swallow down. It’s trembling, shooting up towards the heavens, on the verge of bursting into a million flaming pieces. 

In the heat of it all, you find yourself angling yourself on the edge of the desk, him grabbing hold of his cock to line it back up with your entrance. He presses forward, sinking into you again with a sigh that you eagerly swallow. He fucks you deeply, kisses you deeply, never fully leaving you as he rocks into you and tangles his mouth with yours over and over again. 

There’s no room for words between you, no air to form them with, until your head finally falls back and your legs wrap themselves around his hips. Only then does he press his forehead to yours, holding you firmly by the back of your neck, and speaks to you with a hungry rasp you’ve never heard before. 

“You’re so fuckin’ gorgeous,” he tells you, brows knitted together, pupils bleeding into the deep sea of red, “Look so fuckin’ gorgeous tonight – fuck, I wanna see you cum – ngh-need you to cum with me.”

He’s not fucking you hard, or fast, but he’s massaging into you with a different kind of intensity, carving a meaningful space for himself inside of you that your body welcomes with equal parts desperation and passion. The heat of it all is so strong, so bright, that it ignites you in an instant. Your orgasm rips through you, separates every tiny piece of you and sets it ablaze. Bakugou holds you tightly against him the whole time, head damp where it’s connected to yours, talking you through it in a pleading voice, “So fuckin’ gorgeous — god, look at me, keep your eyes on me, baby fuck gonna cum with you, gonna—“

And then his hips stutter, and he’s spilling over inside you, panting and swearing as he follows you over the edge. He unloads himself completely into you, and a heady warmth radiates deep in your gut as you both breathe deep, ragged breaths together. 

The pop of a firework startles you both, and your heads turn together just as a supernova of color fills the darkness. It dances across your face and glitters in your eyes, and you don’t notice the way Bakugou watches you, don’t see the way you’ve eclipsed everything else in sight. 

“Y’know, I didn’t think I liked fireworks, but now I’m not so sure,” you hum thoughtfully as you watch another pretty one explode in the distance. And Bakugou laughs, small and dry. Because he’s always been sure. He’s always loved fireworks.