Chapter 3: Daring the Dynamight
The air in the izakaya was thick with grilled meat and spilled beer. Sophia’s head swam, a pleasant, buzzing hum that softened the edges of the neon lights. Bakugou’s challenge hung between them, his crimson eyes locked on hers from across the low table. Four empty shot glasses sat in front of each of them. The fifth round was hers.
“Truth or dare, extra,” he repeated, his voice a low gravel that cut through the background chatter. “You win, you get to ask or demand anything. I win, I do.”
Kirishima’s hand, which had been a warm, steady weight high on her thigh, tracing the Japanese characters for ‘courage’ through the fabric of her jeans, went still. Mina, wedged cheerfully between Kirishima and a platter of edamame, watched with glittering, delighted eyes.
Sophia’s tongue felt heavy. The sake was cheap and warm, but Bakugou had drunk the same amount, his expression only growing sharper, more focused. He hadn’t slurred. Hadn’t blinked. He was a furnace beside her, radiating a tense, waiting heat.
“Dare,” she heard herself say. The word left her mouth before her cautious brain could catch it. A challenge for a challenge.
A slow, dangerous smile spread across his face. It wasn’t friendly. It was predatory. “Fine.”
He leaned in. The scent of him—ozone, spice, and sweat—wrapped around her. His mouth was close to her ear, his breath hot. “I dare you to get the fuck out of this shitty bar with me. Right now.”
Her heart slammed against her ribs. She glanced at Kirishima, who gave a minute, almost imperceptible nod, his expression unreadable. Mina winked.
Bakugou was already moving, tossing cash onto the table with a dismissive flick of his wrist. He didn’t look back to see if she followed. He knew she would.
The night air was a cold slap. Musutafu buzzed around them, a canyon of light and sound. He walked fast, his hands shoved in the pockets of his black jacket, shoulders tense. She hurried to keep up, her own footsteps echoing his.
“Where are we going?” she asked, her voice sounding small.
“My place. It’s closer.” He didn’t elaborate.
The building was sleek, modern, anonymous. The elevator ride was silent, charged with a pressure that made her ears pop. He stared straight ahead at the polished doors, his reflection a stern, unyielding line. She watched the numbers climb, counting her own frantic breaths.
His apartment was sparse. Not messy, but intensely utilitarian. A sleek couch, a massive entertainment system, a single framed poster of a mountain range. It smelled clean, like lemon and something faintly electrical. He locked the door behind them with a definitive click.
Then he turned.
All the controlled aggression from the bar was there, but it had been refined, distilled into a single, potent intention. He looked at her—really looked—from her tight curls down to her scuffed sneakers and back up. His gaze lingered on the hint of purple hibiscus visible at the collar of her shirt.
“You’re here,” he stated.
“You dared me to be.”
He closed the distance in two strides. He didn’t kiss her. He grabbed her face, his calloused fingers framing her jaw, tilting her head up to meet his eyes. “This isn’t a game anymore. You said dare. This is the dare. You can leave. Now.”
Her phantom sense was on fire. Every point of contact was a live wire. His thumb brushed the corner of her mouth. She saw the challenge in his eyes, the same one from the dojo, from the bar. The expectation of retreat.
She leaned into his hand. “I’m not leaving.”
Something broke behind his eyes. A crack in the controlled scowl. It was all the permission he needed.
His mouth crashed down on hers. It wasn’t gentle. It was claiming, hungry, all teeth and demand. He tasted like sake and fury. She kissed him back, matching his ferocity, her hands coming up to fist in the front of his jacket. He growled into her mouth, the sound vibrating through her whole body.
He walked her backward until her knees hit the edge of a low, wide sofa. He broke the kiss, breathing ragged. “Clothes. Off.”
He didn’t wait, yanking his own jacket and shirt over his head, tossing them aside. The reality of him, shirtless in the low light of his apartment, was different from the dojo avatar. More real. Old, faded scars crosshatched his torso. Muscle moved under skin with a lethal, coiled grace. She fumbled with her own clothes, her fingers clumsy. He watched, eyes burning, as she peeled off her shirt, her jeans.
When she was down to her bra and panties—simple, dark cotton—he closed the space again. His hands, rough and hot, skated over her hips, her waist, mapping the curves she usually hid in baggy clothes. He didn’t comment. He just absorbed the shape of her, his thumbs digging into the soft flesh of her hips.
“On the couch,” he ordered, his voice thick.
She lay back against the cool leather. He followed her down, covering her body with his, one knee slotting between her thighs. The weight of him was immense, pressing her down, anchoring her. He kissed her again, deeper, his tongue pushing into her mouth as his hand slid up her ribcage, over the lace of her bra, finding her breast. He squeezed, not gently, and she arched into the touch, a sharp gasp breaking from her lips.
He tore his mouth from hers, trailing wet, open-mouthed kisses down her neck, over the hibiscus tattoo on her chest. He took the lace of her bra in his teeth and tugged. “This is in the way.”
She reached back, unhooked it. He pulled it off her arms and threw it. His eyes darkened as he looked at her, his breathing harsh. He lowered his head and took her nipple into his mouth, sucking hard, his tongue flicking over the peak. Heat shot straight to her core, a pulsing, aching need. She cried out, her hands tangling in his spiky hair.
He switched to her other breast, giving it the same rough, attentive treatment, his free hand kneading the soft flesh he’d abandoned. She was moving under him, her hips rocking up, seeking friction against the hard muscle of his thigh.
“Fuck, you’re responsive,” he muttered against her skin, his voice a ragged approximation of his usual tone. He kissed down her stomach, over the slight curve of her belly, his teeth grazing her hip bone. He hooked his fingers in the waistband of her panties and pulled them down her legs. The cold air hit her wetness, a shocking contrast.
He settled between her thighs, pushing them wider with his shoulders. He didn’t speak. He just looked at her, his gaze赤裸裸的, intense. Then he lowered his head.
His tongue was flat and hot, licking a slow, deliberate stripe from her entrance to her clit. She jolted, a broken sound tearing from her throat. He did it again, slower, tasting her. Then he focused, his mouth closing over her clit, sucking with a ruthless, rhythmic pressure. His tongue circled, flicked, probed.
“Oh, god—Bakugou—” His name was a plea. Her heels dug into the leather of the couch.
He inserted a finger, then two, curling them inside her with no preamble. He worked her in a steady, driving rhythm, his mouth never leaving her. He was relentless, tuning his actions to her every gasp and twitch, pushing her higher with mechanical precision. It was overwhelming, a tactical assault on her senses. The room blurred. The only points of reality were his mouth, his fingers, the growling sounds vibrating from his throat into her flesh.
She came with a shattered cry, her body bowing off the couch, waves of pleasure crashing through her so violently she saw white at the edges of her vision. He didn’t stop, drawing out the spasms until she was whimpering, pushing weakly at his head.
He pulled back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He looked up at her, his lips slick, his eyes wild. “Good,” he rasped. It sounded like a critique of her form.
He stood, shedding his pants and boxers in one fluid motion. He was fully, impressively erect. He grabbed a condom from a drawer, sheathed himself with quick, efficient movements. He didn’t ask. He knelt on the couch, grabbed her hips, and pulled her to the very edge. He positioned himself at her entrance, the head of his cock pressing against her, slick with her own arousal.
He looked her in the eye, his gaze holding hers hostage. “This is the dare,” he said again, a final, graveled warning.
Then he pushed inside.
He was big, stretching her filled her completely. She gasped, her inner muscles fluttering around the sudden, thick invasion. He didn’t pause. He buried himself to the hilt in one long, ruthless stroke, seating himself deep inside her. The feeling was immense, a fullness that bordered on pain before tipping over into breathtaking intensity.
He swore, a filthy, guttural word. “Fuck. You’re tight.”
He began to move. There was no slow build, no gentle rhythm. It was a fuck, pure and simple. Deep, pounding strokes that drove the air from her lungs with each impact. He held her hips firm, controlling the angle, the depth. The slap of skin on skin, the creak of the leather couch, his ragged breaths filled the sterile room.
“Look at me,” he demanded.
Her eyes, which had squeezed shut, flew open. His face was a mask of fierce concentration, sweat beading at his temples. He was watching her, studying every hitch in her breath, every flutter of her eyelids.
She met his gaze, refusing to look away. She let him see everything—the pleasure, the overwhelm, the defiance. She rose to meet his next thrust, taking him deeper. A grunt of approval escaped him.
He shifted, lifting her legs over his shoulders, bending her almost in half. The new angle was devastating, hitting a spot that made her vision blur. A high, keening noise escaped her. He pounded into her, his rhythm becoming erratic, furious.
“You gonna come again?” he gritted out, his voice strained. “Do it. Come on my cock.”
The crude command, the sheer physical mastery, tipped her over the edge. A second, sharper orgasm ripped through her, clenching around him in tight, successive waves. She screamed, the sound raw and unfiltered.
It triggered his own release. With a final, brutal thrust, he buried himself as deep as he could go, his whole body locking. A raw, shattered sound was torn from his chest as he came, his hips jerking against hers through the pulses.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing. He slumped over her, his forehead coming to rest on her collarbone, his weight a heavy, damp warmth. He was still inside her.
Slowly, he pulled out. The loss was acute. He disposed of the condom, then stood there for a second, his back to her, hands braced on his knees.
He turned. He looked wrecked. Hair stuck to his forehead, sweat gleaming on his chest. His eyes were darker, the fierce blaze banked to a simmering ember. He looked at her, sprawled on his couch, exposed and glistening.
Wordlessly, he reached down, picked her