Work Text:
“What do you think the best record to have sex to is?” Denki asks out of the blue. He’s lounging across the sofa at the back of his office, the battered green-leather one she helped him liberate from a dumpster when they were drunk on a night out just a few months ago.
Kyoka blinks, then sets down her laptop. There are indents on her legs from where she has balanced it for the past half-hour. “This is out of the blue.”
“No, no, seriously!” he continues. “Like, what’s the quantifier? Is it beats per minute? Is it rhythm beyond that? Is it loud? Is it soft? Is it as a collective whole or is it something more specific?”
“You’re asking a lot of rhetorical questions here for seven in the evening,” she drily notes, glances at the clock. “But I’ll bite.”
She removes her spectacles, places them on the coffee table between them, atop the stacks of paperwork that remain. “What’s brought this latest edition of Denki Kaminari’s Questions About Life, The Universe and Everything to bear on my night?”
He flashes her a grin from where his head lolls across the armrest. “I prefer So Long and Thanks for All the Fish, y’know?”
She blinks. “I didn’t realise you read, let alone Douglas Adams,” she replies.
“Hey!” He mock-pouts and she snorts. “But no, it just kinda… came up in conversation, I guess?”
“I dare not think what kind of conversations you’ve been having behind my back again,” she notes, voice laced with affectionate sarcasm. He sticks his tongue out at her and she snorts again.
“It was with Tetsutetsu,” he continues. “Not that we were talking about sex! Like, I wasn’t talking about you and sex - I mean, unless you wanted me to, but I definitely wouldn’t if - ”
“Dude, you’re rambling,” she says, but the grin on her cheeks is a dead giveaway that she finds it so warmly endearing after all these years. “Focus.”
“OK, yeah, cool. I can focus. I can definitely focus!” he gabbles. “Focus is my middle name, and all that sweet potato jazz.”
“I don’t even think I know what sweet potato jazz is, and I have three top-ten singles,” she notes.
“Shush, I’m getting there, I’m getting there!” he exclaims. “But yeah, so, we were on a stakeout response, and he got into his gym routines for me - ”
“When does he ever not get into his gym routines?” she cuts across. The last time she’d teamed up with Tetsutetsu, her mind had just been filled with whey powders and protein shakes and raw broccoli.
“If you interrupt me, I’m going to lose my train of thought!” he groans, and she chuckles
“Sorry,” she adds, completely uncontrite. He pouts at her again, and it is maddeningly adorable.
“But yeah, he was talking about his routine,” he continues. “And then he started talking about his playlist, and he asked me what I had on mine for the gym.”
“Did you tell him you don’t go to the gym anymore and you’re just that naturally hench?” she quips, takes a slurp from her mug of lukewarm coffee as she does. It’s too bitter, and she feels herself pull a funny face at the taste.
“No, hell, Kyoka, I don’t have a fucking death wish,” he counters, and she snorts again at that. “But it got me thinking - what I would have on my playlist? And then I thought what would be best for a workout playlist? And then I thought - ”
“What would be best for a fuck playlist,” she finishes for him, and he nods, almost like an eager puppy. “I hope you’re not dropping hints about my choices, dude.”
“No, no, no, no!” he hurriedly says, arms cartwheeling in the air to protest. “Your tune picks are banging! I mean, not as banging as you are, if you get my drift, but - ”
“I get your drift,” she mumbles, feels the blush creep up the side of her neck. He drops the cheesiest wink he can at her - which, given he is Denki Kaminari, is saying something - and she lets herself swoon like an idiot for a moment.
“Hey,” he adds, preens at the realisation he’s got her bang to rights. “You’re hot. I like you.”
She groans, and then chuckles. “You’re hot. I like you too.”
That earns a beaming smile from him, the slightest smear of scarlet dusting his cheeks. Kyoka can feel a tingle below her navel, glances to the office door, wonders if Haneyama is still on the other side as she finishes up her clerical work for the day.
“So,” she continues instead, returning to the conversation at hand. “What exactly have you come up with in your research?”
“Well, myself, not much!” he asks, and she feels a slight dread settling like a stone at the bottom of her stomach.
“Denki,” she warns, but he already has his phone out, flips himself into an upright position to scroll across the screen.
“See?” he says proudly. “I asked the guys already!”
He pushes his phone into her hand before she can protest. There are almost a dozen answers from their friends, and she wonders why she has not heard all the notifications that will have rattled through her cell this afternoon.
DK: Whassup guys? Survey question: what’s your best sex record? Like, musically.
MM: Two hours twenty minutes. Why u ask?
IM: He said MUSICALLY, Mineta.
EK: DUDE!! WHAT KIND OF QUESTION IS THAT?!
MA: Like, are we talking a song, or an album?
DK: Either!
MM: oops
TI: Kaminari, I do not believe that a work reunion chat is the correct place for this conversation, particularly when there are professional matters to attend to.
MA: Cooleyhighharmony by Boyz II Men!! Absolutely dope record!
TA: Isn’t that Kirishima’s favourite record?
MA: Said what I said, gurl!
EK: MINA!! DUDE!!
IM: Flesh and Blood by Roxy Music is a good one?
OU: I love that one, Deku!
MY: Let the record show Kaminari that I will be having words with Jiro about this.
MY: But also Let’s Get It On.
MA: DAAAAMN, Yaomomo got moves! Todoroki must love that, gurrrrrl!
ST: Please never refer to me as “gurrrrl” again.
IM: Todoroki, Ashido is calling Yaoyorozu that, not you.
ST: Oh. That makes sense.
MM: Drive soundtrack
OU: That’s… also really good. Huh. I didn’t realise Mineta had taste.
KB: FUCK OFF AND DIE, SHIT FOR BRAINS
IM: Oh, wonderful, here comes Tokyo’s happiest top ten hero…
There then followed a string of obscenities and several emojis, with conversation seemingly moved on. Kyoka scrolls to the bottom and can see that, an hour later, Bakugo is still roaring away to a now-empty chat.
She hits three middle-finger gestures and sends before returning Denki’s phone to him. He gives her another pout in return and she smiles sweetly.
“Not much consensus so far then,” she notes, and he shakes his head.
“I don’t even know who Roxy Music are!” he says, and she pokes him with her jack. “Ow, hey! That’s not a bad one, right?”
“Eh, it’s pretty bad,” she tells him. “Might be worth a contribution to the Idiocy Jar.”
At the back of his office is a ceramic mug with a lid on. Everytime Denki does not know something, she makes him put a note or a coin in. When it’s full, she plans to use the money to buy him a new guitar strap and case - not that he knows it yet, of course.
“Damnit,” he mutters to himself, folds his arm petulantly. She snorts again, and is about to tell him that he’s her idiot when there’s a knock at the door.
Haneyama pops her head around the corner, pink locks pulled into a professional bun, fringe swept across her eyepatch. She spots Kyoka and gives a cheery wave.
“Hey,” she trills. “I’m gonna head, boss. You need any last paperwork before I go?”
Denki scrambles to his feet, brushes off his chinos. “Ah, no, Haneyama, thanks. Top job today again, couldn’t have done it without ya!”
She fixes him with a look. “Pretty sure you could have done with Earphone Jack,” she notes, and he sheepishly scratches the side of his head, which earns a laugh from both of them. “I’ll see you after the weekend.”
Then she’s gone, footsteps retreating down the stairs and towards the main foyer. He follows to the office door, then closes it gently.
He glances back at her, then very slowly, very deliberately locks it.
Kyoka swallows, throat suddenly dry.
She reaches for the remote in sat next to her case studies research on the table in front of her, flicks the button that draws the automatic blinds across the second-floor windows. The whirr of mechanical motors drowns out her thoughts temporarily, but only for a brief moment.
“So,” Denki says as he ambles back towards the sofa, face now shadowed in the half-light. Fractions of amber stream through the cracks between the material on the far side of the room, play off the low-level halogen strip-squares above them. “What would you say is the best record to have sex to then?”
She thinks he is going to pause in front of her, but instead he walks past, over towards the little kitchenette that takes up half the rear space of the office. Pressed up against the formica tile is his old iPod docking station, battered and bruised but resolutely unbowed.
His fascination with old technology, even beyond the vinyl-revival fad, is something she finds immensely attractive. She’s yet to tell him, of course - just fancying the pants off him is enough to make his head and ego grow three sizes of their own accord.
“Um,” she says. Damn his sexy distractions. “It’s cliche, maybe, but AM? That’s got, like, a really good rhythm and groove.”
“You got plenty of experience with that one?” he quips, and she blinks. Before she can ask if that’s a genuine question, he colours and turns away. “Eh, sorry. Shouldn’t pry.”
This is all still… new to them, almost eight-plus years of pining followed by three months of not-so-secret secret dating. They’re not official yet in the sense that there’s no labels, neither in a rush - especially her - to jinx it by jumping the gun.
But at least half-a-dozen people in their orbits already know; her parents, Kirishima, Mineta, Haneyama, maybe Haneyama’s boyfriend - an overseas pro she’s going long-distance with - and maybe a few others too, if that text chat is anything to go by.
She’d been tempted to keep it a secret, realised the futility with Denki as the other half of the equation, and then realised she didn’t actually mind all that much.
There’s a crackle, and then the desert-swagger stomp of Do I Wanna Know? emerges from the speaker stacks he has fitted near the yucca and weeping fig trees he has tucked in one corner.
He picks his way back over to her slowly, attempting to time his steps to the beat with what she assumes is some kind of seductive strut, but mostly just looks like he has shit himself. She feels the urge to laugh flee entirely when he reaches behind his head and pulls off his white tee in one move.
“God, that’s so fucking hot,” she breathes despite herself and he shoots her a lazy smile that melts into a sheepish grin.
“I used to practice in front of the mirror back at school,” he admits, and the way he confesses it, as if it is some shamefully dark secret, is so utterly endearing that she can no longer help herself.
She pushes herself up and meets him halfway, practically rushes into his orbit. He makes a surprised oof as their bodies collide, but then she has her lips on his, and all she can hear are his appreciative moans.
Denki is a fantastic kisser, the best she’s ever known by some margin. He once joked it was all the experience he’d got from clubbing in his early hero days, but she’d seen through the bravado and he had made a shy admission that he had watched old Hollywood romances instead to get his tips.
“You’re - mmm - wearing too many - ahhh - clothes,” he murmurs into her lips, Alex Turner’s lounge-lizard Elvis impersonation billowing around their embrace. She can’t argue with him there.
“Get your - ohhh - fucking pants off,” she mutters back, bits his lower lip and earns a groan. She swipes her tongue across it, then pushes him away so she can divest herself of her outfit too.
They’d hung their jackets hours ago when they’d returned to his office, hooked across the oaken coat stand by the door. That leaves her with just her pastel vest and combat trousers to strip, and she does so within twenty seconds flat as Denki tries to hop out of his flared pants, leg stuck fast as he swears profusely.
It draws a musical laugh from her. He looks up to presumably give a protested response of his own, but falls silent instead, eyes wide and pupils blown. She glances down, gives a mental double fistpump for past Kyoka and her decision to wear the coral-lace lingerie rather than a sports bra and gym gear.
“Holy shit,” he breathes, jaw slack. “That’s new.”
It actually isn’t - she bought the set a year ago under peer pressure from Momo, statuesque and fabulous as always, insistent that the next man or woman who saw her clad in them would lose their mind, crawl over hot coals and broken glass to please her.
She probably needs to send her a very large bottle of wine.
“New enough,” she replies, considers him as his half-flaccid cock strains against his boxers. “He seems to like it.”
“We both definitely like it,” he tells her, almost half-growls. Kyoka can feel her arousal pooling between her legs.
They stand apart for a moment, the jackhammer of the song’s riff washing over them, and then move as one, colliding together again in a whirlwind of limbs and lips and skin and underwear. They almost trip over the coffee table, topple on the sofa instead, and she finds herself caged against the leather, Denki letting his weight bear upon her.
She flicks her jack out, drags it down his sternum as she fumbles for his manhood, seizes it through the thin material. The sight of his Gromit-print briefs should be incongruous enough to kill the mood, but they’re so quintessentially him that she finds it all the more bizarrely erotic.
“Fuck,” he groans in her ear, almost drowned out by the guitar. “Fuck, Kyoka.”
“Yeah,” she gasps as he trails his kisses across her jaw, bites down on her clavicle. “Yeah, I know.”
She slips her fingers beneath the waistband, feels him velvet and heavy and hard in her palm. He stutters as she begins to jerk him off, lets out a sound like a wounded animal that shoots another bolt of arousal straight to her core.
“Shit, let me - ahhh - get my damn underwear - ughh off,” he chokes out above her, elbow braced on the very edge of the leather where it has dulled and faded. She chuckles against the side of his head as he pants.
“You should have - mmmm - been quicker,” she fires back, and he shuts her up with a kiss that makes her feel like her legs have turned to jelly.
He drags his hand from where he has carded her hair down her neck, knuckles skating with purpose and determination. The half-moon cup of her bra just does enough to cover her nipples, but allows him easy access to tug away the flowery filigree and clamp his fingers onto her breast.
“Oh, looooooooord,” she moans as he works his magic on the left, brings his other hand up to fondle the right. They have always been among her most erogenous zones, near-guaranteed to bring her to the brink of orgasm without the need to venture further south, and Denki is very good to them.
His head follows to her chest, flicks his tongue across one hand point as it pebbles beneath his palm.
“You’ve got great boobs,” he mumbles, and she flushes furiously, feels the heat rush further to her extremities.
“I knew you were a tits guy more than an ass man,” she says before a particularly teasing touch jerks her hips involuntarily. She grips his cock inside his boxers harder and he bucks against her touch.
“I’m just a you guy, Kyoka,” he replies, praise like silk against her skin, and she shivers as he rotates his grasp around her globes, massages them further, draws broken gasps and hoarse cries from the back of her larynx.
Her whimpers are throaty little things, each seemingly spurring him further on. Part of her will be damned if she does not match him blow-for-blow, but the louder slice of her lizard brain just wants him to make her come undone.
Alex Turner’s croon crashes through the end of R U Mine? and Denki takes her breast in his mouth. He needs only a moment to suck and tease on her areola before the familiar sensation of full-body convulsions erupts from between her legs.
“Fuuuuuuuuck,” she groans, feels the damp patches spreading as something trickles down the inside of her thighs.
“Yeah, I thought you might like that,” he breathes, and before she can either confirm or deny, swat him or snog him, he’s switched to her other nipple and she’s coming again, spasms that almost throw them both off the sofa. He flashes an arm out to the floor to steady himself, keeps her caged beneath him as the rhythm of her own hands falters on his manhood.
She’s panting and sweating, not sure if she could say what her own birthday is right now. She has no idea how he does this to her and how she lets him get away with it.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, and she almost comes for a third time at his tone, stormy and black with the promise of more.
She is a good girl. She deserves this.
“Let me - move off - Denki - ” And with strength she does not know she has at this point, she somehow manages to flip them up, and then back down, his shoulders left to hang off the arm of the couch, his boxers dragged down to his ankles and his cock between her lips.
He lets out a sound that could only be described as guttural, a kind of hoarse roar that starts as a low rumble and builds to a violent crescendo. On her tongue, he twitches under her ministrations, and she plants a hand on his hip to steady herself, grasps at the base with her other palm.
The fine hairs tickle her skin, but she does not let that distract her from the task at hand, nor the sound of Jamie Cook’s guitar as the riffs roar around her head.
“Fuck, Kyoka,” Denki stammers, one hand throwback to support his head, the other hovering just above her head. She grabs it, places it at the base of her skull, gives him the unspoken invitation.
He does, and she’s suddenly gagging, his cock brushing against her tonsils, eyes watering as she tries to take him deeper. The pressure is firm from his palm, but not insistent; she knows he would let her go in an instant if she was to push against him.
But she doesn’t want to stop, not when his voice is like a broken record, her name a prayer on his lips and he doesn’t seem inclined to let her go either.
The six-string squall that booms across the room helps her find rhythm, milking him as she bobs up and down. After a moment, he releases his hand with a groan, then cups her chin and lifts her off to her protests.
“You gotta stop,” he manages, panting. “Or I’m going to come so hard.”
She pouts, ignores him and darts her tongue out again, wraps it around the tip. He groans and then pushes her back, more insistently this time.
“Bad girl,” he tells her, and that sends a shiver down her jacks too. She’s so good, and she’s so bad too.
“You got any rubbers?” she asks him, and he shakes his head.
“I really should keep some around the office,” he murmurs. “Do you still want to?”
She nods. He’s clean and she’s safe. “Make me yours, Chargebolt.”
He bounds up, captures her lips again, and she returns fire, scratches her nails down the planes of his back as they try to disentangle their legs on the sofa again. She grabs a fistful of his ass and he groans appreciatively as she pinches it.
“What d’you wanna do?” he manages between breathy moans, thumb hooked beneath the clasp of her bra. No.1 Party Anthem sounds distant to her ears, almost as if she is underwater.
“Do me however the fuck you want,” she growls. “I’m fucking yours.”
He hums against her lips and then suddenly her underwear has vanished, panties flung onto the coffee table and her breasts freed to the air. He tosses the lingerie across his shoulder as he flips her, pushes her body into the leather so that she’s arched over the back cushions, knees apart and her rear in the air.
She feels his tongue as he kneels behind her, almost shrieks as he drags it across her ass and then to her pussy, probing for entrance. Before she can even steady herself to the sensation, he’s withdrawn, back to his feet and she feels his member nuzzling at her folds.
Kyoka cranes her neck, tries to get a glance, but then Denki’s hand is in her hair again and she loops her jack on instinct around his wrist, keeps his grip firm. With his other, he spreads her wider and pushes in, feels him fill her up all the way.
“Fuuuuuuuuuuck,” she manages, then yelps as he brings his hand down and slaps her right ass cheek.
“Too hard?” he asks concernedly, and something tender blooms in her heart, beneath the hard fog of lust.
She shakes her head. “Do it more.”
He obliges, spanks her at regular intervals as he settles into a slow, lazy rhythm, dragging himself back to almost the very edge before he slams back into her. It’s driving her insane, makes her want to spin around, flip him and ride fast, to reach the next cresting wave of her pleasure.
Instead, she surrenders to the sensations, lets him set the pace as he grooves in time to the music, the howl of the voice and the size of the riffs matched by his well-measured balance. She’ll get her chance next time, she knows.
It cannot last long, even as torturously drawn out as they might want it, and as her climax builds again, she feels him grow erratic behind her, the impact of his thighs against her butt more unsteady than they were.
“Are you sure I can - ” he says, breath already ragged, and she nods with fervour.
“Please,” she cries, and then he’s coming with a groan, his own vocal register somewhere an octave above where it normally sits, and she can feel herself clamp around him in a rush of absolute pleasure -
He slips a hand between her legs, finds her spot and her legs completely give out, mouth open in a silent scream suddenly filled as the noise rushes back in with the earthshaking force of her latest orgasm.
They’re knelt there, suspended in time, two bodies and minds joined by heart and soul, buck-naked and frozen atop this roughed-up couch, and Kyoka’s mind is only filled with love in all its many forms.
At some unspoken signal, he collapses against her, the fine hairs of his chest pressed between the curve of her shoulder blades, softly dropping kisses against her temple, her hairline, the shell of her ear.
“Holy shit,” he murmurs. “You’re fucking incredible.”
“You’re not so bad yourself,” she manages, still panting. She can feel him inside her, the last few throbs sending loose spasms through her navel. What was at first a trickle of something warm and sticky is threatening to become a veritable river down her legs. “That feels like a lot of come.”
“I didn’t think I - fucking hell, you’re right,” he exclaims softly as he withdraws, and she cannot help the little moan that escapes at the loss she feels between her thighs. “Shit, I need to find a towel or something, it’s a bitch to clean - mmph!”
She shuts him up, drags him back down to kiss her firmly on the lips, bruised and swollen and far too erotic for their own good. He gives a slight noise of surprise, but then lets her guide him atop her as she turns, sinks back into the cushions.
Denki breaks away. “You’re sitting in a pool of spunk, y’know.”
She grins. “And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
He stares for a moment, then chuckles and lets himself be pulled back in again. The sound of Arctic Monkeys continues to unspool around them.
“I think you might be right,” he mumbles against her a minute or so later. “This is a great sex record.”
She hums. “Told you so.”
“But,” he adds, and she frowns. “Just so we are completely sure… I think we may need to test it thoroughly against seven or eight other options.”
The glint of wicked mischief in his eyes is enough to flicker her arousal once again. Kyoka grins back at him.
“I think,” she says. “I think you might be onto something there, Denki.”