Katsuki Bakugo

The penthouse is a cavern of glass and steel thirty stories above Tokyo’s electric bloodstream—neon veins of magenta and cobalt bleeding through floor-to-ceiling windows, strobing across the kitchen island in restless pulses. The air is thick with the metallic bite of rooftop tar still clinging to Katsuki’s boots, the ozone sting of spent nitroglycerin crackling from his palms, and the low, predatory hum of the city far below. His agency jacket hangs open, black tank plastered to every ridge of muscle with dried sweat, and the faint scent of smoke and gunpowder curls from his skin like a warning.

He doesn’t speak. Just drops the duffel; the zipper’s metallic rasp slices the silence. You’re still toeing off your shoes when his hand clamps around your wrist—calloused, furnace-hot, sparks spitting from his knuckles in tiny, sizzling pops that kiss your skin with pinprick heat. He drags you past the kitchen’s cold steel counters, past the leather couch still warm from the day’s sun, straight into the bedroom where the city lights paint the walls in shifting grids of violet and gold. “Strip.” The word is gravel ground under a tank tread. You obey, fabric whispering to the floor in a hush of cotton and lace, until you stand bare under the neon wash; goosebumps rising on your skin from the chill draft from the AC, nipples pebbling against the sudden exposure. Bakugo’s smirk is a blade: sharp, hungry, crimson eyes raking over you like he’s memorizing every tremor.

He backs you against the bed, soft silk cool and yielding at your spine. One gauntlet-scarred hand pins both your wrists above your head, the rough texture of old burns scraping your pulse; the other drags the buzzing wand down your sternum with deliberate slowness.

His free hand rummages through the draw by your bedside, emerging with a black vibrating wand clutched in his fist; he flicks it on with a thumb snap, the low buzz filling the air like an ominous promise. The toy’s silicone head is warm from his grip, humming like a live wire, leaving a trail of electric tingles that make your ribs flutter. When it settles between your thighs, the first press against your clit is a shock—vibration so intense it feels like a detonation against swollen nerves, ripping a sharp, wet gasp from your throat that tastes of copper and adrenaline.

“Quiet,” he snarls, but his own breath hitches, a crack in the armor, the scent of his arousal sharp and smoky. “You’re gonna come when I say, and you’re gonna keep coming ‘til I’m done.”

The wand circles with surgical cruelty, vibration climbing in cruel, stuttering increments—low growl to teeth-rattling roar. Your knees buckle; he wedges a muscular thigh between them, the coarse weave of his cargo pants scraping your inner thighs raw, the heat of his skin searing through fabric. Sparks pop from his free palm in rhythmic bursts, lighting the room in strobes of orange and gold, enough to catch the sheen of sweat beading between your breasts, the way your hips jerk helplessly into the toy, slick smearing over the wand’s head in glistening trails.

He leans in, teeth grazing the shell of your ear, the scrape of stubble sending shivers down your spine.

“Look at you, already dripping down my fucking hand.”

The wand shifts lower, parting your folds with a slick, obscene sound, pressing inside with a buzzing stretch that makes you cry out—raw, broken, the vibration thrumming against your walls like a second heartbeat. Bakugo swallows the sound with a bruising kiss, tongue demanding, tasting of smoke and mint and the faint metallic tang of blood where he’s bitten his own lip. His thumb finds the button again, you hear a series of clicks until the toy is a screaming blur inside you, dragging you toward the edge with ruthless precision.

The first orgasm hits like a shaped charge: sudden, violent, your whole body seizing as pleasure detonates behind your eyes in white-hot flashes. Your walls clamp around the wand, slick gushing in a hot rush that drips down his wrist, the scent of your arousal thick and heady. The toy stays buried, buzzing mercilessly against oversensitive nerves, dragging you through the aftershocks into a second, sharper peak before you can even breathe—your scream muffled against his shoulder, teeth sinking into muscle hard enough to bruise. Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, salt stinging; your legs give out entirely, but his thigh and the wall hold you up, his grip unyielding as iron.

“Again,”

he growls, voice shredded now, pupils blown wide, the city lights flickering in his eyes like distant explosions.

“You don’t get to tap out.”

He cranks the wand to its highest setting. Pressing it hard against your clit while it’s still inside you, the dual assault ripping a scream from your throat that echoes off the glass. Your third climax crashes over you in waves, each one stronger than the last, until you’re shaking, sobbing, clenching around the toy in helpless, broken pulses—slick pooling on the sheets beneath you, the air thick with the wet, obscene sounds of your body betraying you. Sparks flare from his palms in rhythm with your cries, lighting the room in strobes of orange and gold, the heat of his quirk kissing your skin in tiny, stinging bursts.

The wand never stops. It pulses inside you, against you, a relentless engine of overstimulation as your fourth orgasm begins to coil—tighter, crueler, your vision spotting with black. Bakugo’s smirk is feral, sweat beading on his brow, voice a ragged rasp against your ear.

“That’s it, keep fucking cumming. I’m not done ruining you yet.”