THE UST HATH BROKEN!

it's sex all the way down, babies~ ;D

enjoy!

The kiss they share now bears no resemblance to any that have come before. There's no exigent circumstance to prompt the impetuous administration of restorative candies; and no crushing, impossible burden demanding frantic, last-ditch distraction. This is no inflammatory public stunt contrived to set off a media explosion, and neither is it a sad, clandestine affair, grasping contact stolen under cover of darkness, rent with longing and grief and quiet desperation. Gone, too, all traces of this morning's mutual frenzy.

This kiss is deliberate, slow and fluid and deep, meant for savoring.

This kiss is culmination, and commencement, and patent inevitability.

This kiss feels a fucking lot like winning.

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Ochako doesn't have time to process the miracle that is Bakugou, willingly surrendering, before his mouth descends on hers, heavy and all-consuming. She tastes her tears and his blood and the mingled sweat of several minutes' worth of intense physical exertion. She feels the heated press of his hands against naked skin: one at the curve of her waist to steady and support her, while the other grips tight around the base of her neck, possessive, predatory. She hears herself gasping in delighted shock as the hand at her waist skims up, grazing the underside of her breast before teasin' back, the tips of his fingers tracing the sensitive flesh just beyond the wire-in-fabric barrier. She opens her eyes to watch him break away, red gaze foggy with carnal focus, impious twist to his lips as he ducks to run his tongue up the column of her throat.

Her head spins with the delirious joy of conquest, her senses alight with the sharp scent of perspiration, cut at intervals by the rich fragrance of sugar burning. Dizzy pride surges through her, overpowering, stirring her to raise her hand to Bakugou's mouth as he angles up for another kiss. She feels light-headed, unsteady on her feet.

This's big, what's happening here. Monumental, even. Ochako needs a minute to breathe, to drink it all in.

Bakugou indulges her sentimental stay, tacitly sanctioning the recess even as he nudges tentative against the feather press of her fingers, assessing. Then, pinnin' her to the spot with a look foreshadowing all manner o' knee-knockin' depravity, he inclines his head just so, lips parting as they climb and crest the tip of her middle finger –which he promptly pulls into his mouth. Contrary to the purpose of her time-out, Ochako's breath quickens as Bakugou's teeth gently drag the length of her finger, and before she quite knows what's happening, she's pullin' him back in, hands wrapping the nape of his neck and haulin' him frantic toward her, sealing her mouth over his to stop him slickin' on any looming smug.

…turns out the smug's unstoppable, though, and they go thumpin' to the floor together through the haughty wedge of his smirk, falling with the easy grace of rigorous conditioning, and rolling out where the momentum carries 'em.

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Katsuki finds himself on his back, Urara—Ochako, that is, hovering over him, hands braced on the padded floor on either side of his head.

Past the point of caring that this technically counts toward the now irrelevant three-pin count, Katsuki stretches up, burying a hand in her hair to compel a continuation. Obligingly, Ochako drops her weight and –doesn't kiss him, though she teases down like she means to, the damn minx, skirting left at the last second to touch her lips to his ear.

With so much concentrated hauteur she's practically fucking purring, she breathes, "I win," and sinks her hips against him, firm, sinuous.

Helpless to stop himself arching up, from chasing that exquisite fucking pressure, Katsuki sucks in a lungful through clenched teeth, eyes screwing shut against the exhilarating agony of her fingers, fisted tight in his hair; synapses flashing wild at the wet warmth of her mouth, trailing kisses along the ridge of his bare shoulder.

It's already too much: the heat of her; the smell and feel and ragged-sonorous sound of her; the fucking friction as she continues rising and falling against him, helical, with hedonist languor.

And that's before she reaches between them and grabs him through his sweats, first squeezing hard, then kneading gently upward with calculated, excruciating slowness. All the while, a devilish smile on her angel face.

Katsuki bites the inside of his cheek at the sight of it, tasting blood, fighting to suppress whatever the hell cardiac fucking torsion is happening in his chest –and likewise fighting to keep his hands fisted and stationary at his sides, well the fuck away from her, afraid to touch her when it's suddenly fucking all he can do to keep a lid on his quirk.

He's poised precarious at the brink of his own failing self-control, fucking dying to tear Ochako out of his merch and map the battle-hewn expanse of her body with his fingers, yet unable to fully trust he'll be able to maintain focus well enough to continue rendering his sweat inert without the aid of his custom-made hand cream –which again, is at his apartment, fucking across town.

Under normal circumstances, the process of chemically deactivating his sweat is one Katsuki undertakes without difficulty –hell, without really even needing to think about it. Day-to-day interactions with persons or objects necessitating contact can be casually and safely handled without fear of leaving behind any residues which might later explode when exposed to shock or heat, even when summer is at its muggiest and most miserable.

Certain conditions exist, however, that compromise this hard-won mastery. Namely, any situation involving emotionally charged intersections of extreme physical activity and incredible psychological strain. Typically, these intersections only ever occur in combat encounters. Less frequently, he will lose finer control over his quirk if an interaction with Deku gets particularly fraught. And on a handful of occasions following Ochako's close call last year, he'd had a series of alarming slip-ups, once on the job, with near dire consequences –though at the time he convinced himself these were flukes, unrelated to the girl-shaped turmoil he'd been fighting bitterly to suppress and ignore.

Obviously, then, this has limited his options in terms of having a sex life, as well. Which isn't to say he's avoided the enterprise altogether: he has at least enough experience to know what he likes, it just ain't a thing he's ever really sought out. His professional ambitions have always been priority one, to the willing exclusion of all manner of 'leisure time' pursuits. And anyway, none of his past hook-ups have happened at work (nor would they have even if he'd had the opportunity), so far and so completely removed from the one thing he needs to do the damn thing without risking the untimely explosion-murder of his partner.

Until Ochako. Until today. Until right the fuck now. He wants her, badly, more than he can remember wanting almost fucking anything, ever, in his entire godforsaken life.

Except, he just as strongly refuses to risk slicking up her perfect skin with volatile chemicals.

Apparently perceiving his hesitation, and undoubtedly also his sudden unwillingness to touch her, Ochako releases him, pulls back slightly, earnest concern surfacing in her half-lidded gaze.

Then, a question he fucking hates, sandwiched between sweet kisses: "Are you okay?"

Katsuki glares up at her, frustrated, preparing to roll her off of him and drag her out of the agency and rocket them across the damn city to his apartment where they can finish what he started, his imminent patrol be damned.

Gingerly, Ochako sweeps her fingers upward, along the underside of his dick, "D'you wanna stop?"

An agitated 'Fuck no' sits heavy on his tongue, but he chokes it back with a strangled groan that is somehow even less dignified than his desperation would've been.

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Stopping is clearly not what Bakugou wants, which puts flight to Ochako's fear she's pushin' things too far, too fast, and gives her leave to mull over other explanations. Knowin' him and the particulars of his quirk as long as she has, and noticing, too, the white-knuckled clench of his fists on the floor, it doesn't take her overlong to conjure a likely reason for his sudden disengagement: he's probably worried about accidentally hurting her.

Which…isn't something she's ever thought to consider, actually, and opens up a whole bundle o' other, corollary considerations. For instance, how has he dealt with this problem before? And…has he dealt with this before? Has he done this…ever? It's surprisingly hard for her to admit she has no idea one way or the other, though she decides that's information she'd best let him volunteer in his own time, rather than pry.

Shakin' loose her astonishment, Ochako brings her hands to either side of his face, cradling it gently between her fingers.

With careful sincerity, "I trust you," she assures him, "you won't hurt me." Bakugou blinks up at her in that half-perplexed, all-irritated way he always does when she correctly guesses what he's thinking.

"Don't be an idiot," he chastises, "that's not how it fucking works."

Relaxing into the pleasant rumble of his chest beneath her, "Isn't it?" His expression sours. "And here I always thought if you really wanted to do something, you just…did it, an' figured the rest out along the way. No?" Her knuckles glide lazy across his collarbone, curve to slide the firm grade of his pec. She's fascinated by the fever heat of him, gripped by the stuttered catch of his breath under her ministrations. "Or are ya'…givin' up? Admitting defeat?" She leans in, holding just shy of touching her lips to his, smile widening as he stretches helpless for the kiss she ultimately denies him, "Again?"

Bakugou screeches to a halt, glower blackening fit to scorch the earth. Ochako bites back a grin, layin' her palms flat against his chest and leverin' herself up to a sitting position.

"This is different," he snaps, pushing up onto his elbows. "You know it's fucking different."

Ochako does know it's different. She understands what she's asking is both extraordinary and extraordinarily dangerous –which is why she wouldn't ask it of anyone other'n Bakugou Katsuki, who never balks at a challenge. Whose victory is assured, because he refuses to let it be otherwise. Who smiles as the sky falls and believes in her so implicitly he risked his very life on the gamble she could pull off the impossible.

It'd be rude of her not to reciprocate such categorical confidence.

Hence, when it becomes clear he means not to budge, instead of getting frustrated, Ochako gets…creative.

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"Fine," Ochako yields, as Katsuki braces himself for the inevitable dismount and runs the numbers in his mind, trying to determine whether or not he actually does have a large enough window to throw her over his shoulder, hail a cab home, and still make it back in time for his patrol shift.

But she doesn't get up.

Instead, she angles her arms up behind her back and unhooks her bra, sliding the fabric from her arms and dangling one strap from her finger briefly before letting it drop. Then, while Katsuki's eyes threaten to to bug out of his fucking skull, the girl of his goddamn dreams draws a hand between the valley of her breasts, breathing deep as she hinges slowly downward, fingers stealing ever closer to the upper hem of her shorts.

Holy shit, he thinks, unable to look away.

"If you won't do it," she drags her lower lip between her teeth as her fingers disappear beneath the waistband, "I'll just, mmmm, do it myself."

Holy shit, holy shit—

The sight of Ochako –head thrown back; tits on full, glorious display; the fingers of her right hand working deftly between them as she resumes rocking her hips above him—makes his balls clench so hard he almost comes on the spot. And the sharp, staccato shudder of her voice, drawn high with pleasure, isn't fucking helping. Neither is the way she leans back and squeezes the shit out of his thigh, gouging his flesh to brace herself; or the way her own thighs sporadically tighten around him as she races for a summit it sounds an awful fucking lot like she can already goddamn see.

He can't touch her, he can't fucking touch her, but he has to do something or he's going to fucking die, so he drops his elbows and reaches for her cloth-covered ass, meaning to tear the shorts away, or anchor and flip her, or grab her and grind her down harder –but no sooner do his hands stir fabric than Ochako abruptly stills, eyes fluttering open and flashing cold as she beholds him.

As if from atop a fucking throne, she commands him, "Hands off," and he complies without question, caught squarely between dumbfounded and awestruck.

Katsuki caught a glimpse of this self-same austerity back at the Registry, the first time they made out, and wondered then if it was more the result of extreme duress or if, as in combat, Ochako is simply disposed to taking the reins whenever the hell it suits her to do so. Right now, as she's lowering herself to lie flush against him, the softness of her chest pressed to his sternum, sly authority in the crease of her smile, the latter is looking far fucking likelier.

"Better safe than sorry, right?" She traces the raised skin of a scar he earned his first year on the job, one of three jagged, roughly parallel score marks where his neck meets his shoulder. "Since ya' can't control your quirk an' all." Katsuki thought he was close before, but it turns out he was nowhere fucking near the edge he's left barely gripping after Ochako coolly issues another fucking challenge. "So you just lie back," her nails steeple, glide, "relax," scrape gently upward, grazing his nipple, "an' keep your hands to yourself." Finally, as she lightly rolls the skin between the catspaw tips of her fingers, "Or else."

'Or else fucking what,' he demands –or would have demanded, if he weren't focusing his fucking entire existence on not going off, either prematurely or with a disastrous quirk-induced explosion.

Thereafter, any protest he might have lodged is stalled by Ochako sliding purposefully down his torso, brushing open-mouthed kisses over the planes of his chest and stomach as she goes, tugging with cheeky insistence at the dual waistband of his sweats and boxers.

"Ochako—" he grates, hands twitching at his sides as she bares him to her scrutiny with a single, swift pull.

Clinical as she is in her appraisal, Katsuki doesn't know what the fuck to think until she licks her lips and, before he can fully comprehend what's happening, wraps a pinky-popped hand around the base of his dick and swallows him down.

Through a sweltering haze of incredulous delirium: "Fuck—!" he chokes out, hating her, loving her, wanting this torture to end, wanting to fist his fingers in her hair and drive up into that wet heat and lose himself completely. He checks this impulse, however, body tense and teeth gritted against the blinding sensation of her hand, pumping upward as her mouth suctions free, then winding back like a fucking piston rod as she takes him once more between those pink fucking lips.

She breaks rhythm intermittently to tongue at the head and massage his balls (a sweet fucking torture all its own), but otherwise builds him steady toward that inexorable peak, increasingly, audibly enthusiastic as his every muscle coils so tight he's practically fucking seizing with the strain.

Still, Katsuki manages to hold out for another little eternity of seconds, determined not to make an over-eager damn fool of himself –until Ochako opens those big, brown eyes and flicks him a hooded glance from under thick lashes and murmurs an 'mmmmm' that hums through him like a fucking current and fucking destroys him.

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Katsuki's palms crack and spark as he groans his way through an orgasm that hits so hard it fucking hurts, yet –significantly, unbelievably—he contains the threat of a larger, deadlier detonation.

When he finally resurfaces, it's blearily, to the radiant spectacle that is Ochako, dabbing dainty at her lips and looking immensely pleased with herself. Dazed, it takes him another long moment to regain his senses and realize the mess he typically associates with this species of aftermath is missing, and that there can only really be one explanation for its absence. He looks wonderingly at Ochako as she finishes divesting him of his pants and boxers and whips them away, then crawls back on top of him to bury her face in the crook of his neck. Once situated, she makes no conversation, only relaxes, breathing deep and tracing lazy patterns on his shoulder.

She comprises a pleasant weight, and one which paradoxically untethers him, sets him floating off into space.

At length, Ochako lifts back to peer down at him.

"That was nice," she says, with airy coyness. Katsuki grins, and leans up to kiss her, tasting himself on her tongue. When they part, "Lookin' forward to round two –maybe Wednesday, after you cook me dinner?"

Katsuki blinks, caught off-guard, understanding only in stages that she thinks they're done here.

Which, for the record, they are definitely fucking not.

notes:

-don't y'all worry none, uraraka's gonna get hers. scout's honor. and then there'll probably be a round two. stay tuned.

-and: i'm already about a quarter of the way through the next chapter, and the end is finally, definitely in sight. i can confidently announce the sixth chapter will be the final installment in this series, and if my current pace continues, it'll be out well before christmas.

thank you, thank you, thank you, for real and for true~

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[last chapter: bakugou feasts, and the kacchako is consummated at last. ;D]