sincerelyyoursbee

[sincerelyyoursbee]

you hook up with izuku drunkenly at someone’s birthday party and it’s not even that you regret it in the morning it’s just that your post nut clarity hits that you slept with the boy you’ve known since pre-k all because of a couple of drinks and when he wakes up you’re still freaking out and you make him pinky promise that this won’t mess with your friendship, “izuku do you hear me? we are NOT going to be that pair of sad best friends that fucks everything up just because of sex. sex is nothing. we’re never gonna do it again, so we’ll be fine right?” and the whole time he’s nodding along with wide, glassy eyes not listening to a goddamn thing you’re saying because he’s been in love with you since middle school, and last night you said you loved him, too. granted he was inside of you, and he said it first, but you said it back, and by that point it was well after one in the morning so the only thing you two were drunk on were each other. it’s probably why the very next day he is at your doorstep with a notebook in hand and a grin on his face that’s something right in between cocky and sweet when he says “i think we should sleep together again. and before you say no, i made a list about why 😁 number one: we’re really good at it. number two—”

[sincerelyyoursbee]

Im working on it trust🤑🤑

no one writes deaf bakugou anymore :(

[sincerelyyoursbee]

I feel like a virgin when I search up “x Reader” with a new character I like

[sincerelyyoursbee]

Betrothed to the Dragon

King

Dragon King AU | Arranged Marriage I

Slow Burn | Enemies to Lovers

Part II Moonrise and Mockery

Synopsis:

You were promised to him before you could even walk-engaged to the Dragon King himself since you were three. Years passed, letters unread, portraits hung on palace walls. but now, for the first time, you're standing face to face.

The gown was heavier than expected.

Black velvet cascaded down your frame like shadow given shape, pooling just above your ankles where layers of gold ruffles peeked through. A pale, champagne-toned panel ran down the front, embroidered with delicate criss-crossing threads that shimmered like starlight when you moved.

The bodice—low and square-cut—was gathered in sweeping folds of gold silk, held at the center by a pearl brooch that seemed absurdly delicate compared to the weight of what it symbolized.

Duty. Alliance. Sacrifice.

You stood before the mirror, unmoving.

Behind you, one of your ladies-in-waiting—the youngest, a quiet girl from your homeland named Marelle—finished tying the last ribbon at your back. Her hands were trembling.

You caught her eyes in the mirror.

“What’s wrong, Your Highness?”

Her voice was soft, almost afraid to break the stillness.

You let out a quiet laugh. Bitter. Too sharp to be real.

“Well, let’s see…” you mutter, smoothing the front of your dress with gloved hands. “If I marry the king, my people will hate me.”

Marelle’s face fell.

You turned away from the mirror.

"But if I don't marry him," you continued, stepping toward the open balcony where red smoke curled in the distance, "then both our kingdoms will go to war. Countless lives lost.

Entire villages burned. Families torn apart."

She remained silent, gaze fixed on the floor.

"At this point," you said dryly, resting your hands on the stone railing, "I think my only option is to fake my own kidnapping and hope I think of something better while I'm gone."

Marelle's eyes widened. "You wouldn't..."

You turned to her, a crooked smile tugging at your lips-half humor, half despair.

"Wouldn't I?"

She said nothing.

You both knew the answer wasn't simple. There were no right choices. Only the ones you could live with... or not.

Behind you, the temple bells began to toll-deep, ancient, fire-wrought chimes that echoed across the palace like a call to arms.

Moonrise.

Time to meet the court.

Time to stand beside the man who scorched the earth under his boots.

You inhaled deeply, let the heat fill your lungs, and turned back inside.

Your gown whispered around your ankles as you walked, every step heavy with the weight of two kingdoms—and the heart you weren’t sure you could save.

They had cheered for her when she entered the court. But it wasn’t warmth. It was the kind of applause one gives to a condemned gladiator—beautiful, tragic, already doomed.

And the King—

She shut her eyes.

The image of him standing above her, molten and monstrous in his fury, would not leave her. Neither would the way he looked at her. Like he was trying to figure out where to sink his teeth.

She’d meant to fluster him.

Not awaken whatever that was.

"Present yourself," the steward barked, loud enough to echo.

She curtsied, spine perfectly straight. "Princess of the Western Reach. Daughter of House__”

Her voice did not shake.

The nobles murmured among themselves. Some raised brows. Others laughed.

"So this is the girl meant to keep the peace?"

"She's smaller than I imagined."

"Pretty, though. I suppose if she's clever, she'll stay that way."

The reader's jaw tensed-but she smiled, sweetly.

"It's a shame," she said brightly, "that the rest of you weren't chosen to marry him. I hear the competition must have been thrilling."

Silence.

Then-one sharp snort from the throne.

The silence that followed her quip stretched thin, taut like the string of a bow.

From the throne, the sharp snort twisted into a low, amused chuckle.

It was a strange sound coming from the Dragon King—humor edged with something dangerous, like steel dipped in flame. The nobles froze, unsure whether to follow his lead or pretend they hadn’t heard. But Bakugou rose from his seat in a single fluid motion, the dark leather of his robes creaking softly as he descended the marble dais.

The hall held its breath.

You didn’t move.

Your pulse beat like war drums beneath your skin, but you remained perfectly still, every instinct screaming not to flinch as he drew near. His presence consumed the space—commanding, scorching, impossible to ignore.

He stopped before you.

Tall. Towering. Unsmiling now, but curious, like a beast circling something unfamiliar.

“Tell me, Princess,” he said, voice low and coiled, “are you always this mouthy in foreign courts, or am I just special?”

You tilted your head. “Only for kings with tempers worse than mine.”

A few startled gasps. One poorly-stifled cough of laughter. You didn’t look at the courtiers. Your eyes stayed on him.

Bakugou’s lips twitched. “Careful. The last person who talked back like that lost their eyebrows.”

You smiled sweetly. “I have better bone structure. It’d be a shame.”

That earned a few more shocked murmurs—and then, unexpectedly, a laugh. From him.

Just once. Brief. But real.

He stepped closer, gaze dragging down your form like heat pressing into your skin. “Well,” he murmured, almost to himself. “At least you’ll keep court interesting.”

The steward cleared his throat, voice echoing: “Let it be recorded—the Princess of the Western Reach is officially received and acknowledged by His Majesty the Dragon King.”

Bakugou turned and strode back to the throne without looking at you.

You were dismissed.

But you didn’t flee.

You curtsied, turned, and walked the length of the hall with your head high and your heart slamming against your ribs. It wasn’t until the heavy doors closed behind you that you let your shoulders sag—only a little.

Marelle waited just beyond, eyes wide.

“You’re not dead,” she whispered.

“Not yet,” you said, exhaling slowly. “But I think I just challenged a dragon to a duel.”

—

The summons came less than an hour later.

You were to attend the High Council.

You nearly laughed when the steward said it—as though it were a jest. But no, he was quite serious. “His Majesty commands your presence.”

Marelle fretted as she fixed your hair. “They’ve never allowed outsiders into council. Not even other nobles.”

“Then I’ll just have to pretend I belong.”

You wore a dark crimson overdress this time—quieter, but no less stately. When you entered the council chamber, you understood why Marelle was nervous.

The room reeked of smoke and old power.

Ten dragons sat in half-circle formation around a crescent-shaped table of onyx, each clad in courtly attire that shimmered faintly with magic. They watched you enter like wolves waiting to see if the prey would run.

Bakugou sat at the head.

He didn’t speak when you entered—just gestured with two fingers for you to stand beside his chair. You did, carefully smoothing your skirts.

“Begin,” he barked.

They launched into matters of defense, trade, and border disputes. You listened, saying nothing. But you watched—studied.

One lord, older than the rest, leaned back in his chair. Lord Sareth, if you recalled correctly. He regarded you over steepled fingers. “And what does Her Highness think,” he asked smoothly, “of sending dragons into the Ashlow Mountains? Surely her noble sensibilities find such violence distasteful.”

The room quieted.

You inclined your head. “I find unprovoked violence distasteful, my lord. But cowardice masquerading as peace is worse.”

Sareth’s brows rose.

Bakugou tilted his head toward you, smirking.

“I wonder,” the older man mused, “how long you’ll survive in a court where even the walls have claws.”

You offered him a honeyed smile. “Long enough to learn which ones bite and which ones just bark.”

The King chuckled.

It was the only sound of approval that passed his lips all meeting.

—

They let you leave early.

Not out of kindness—you could tell—but to test you. To see how much of their venom you could stomach. You walked with careful grace back through the palace corridors until—

“Stop.”

The voice was low, behind you.

You did.

Bakugou’s footsteps followed, slow and measured, until he stood at your shoulder.

“You’re not what I expected.”

“Neither are you,” you said without turning.

Silence.

“You should be careful, throwing around sharp words like that in council.”

“Will it get me killed?”

“No,” he said. “But it might make them think you’re trying to be Queen.”

You turned then. “Isn’t that the point?”

His eyes flared gold for a moment. “They’ll eat you alive.”

“Then they’ll have to chew.”

A muscle in his jaw ticked.

He stepped forward—close enough that the warmth of him pressed into your skin. His eyes raked over your face, intense and unreadable.

“You’re not afraid of me.”

You shook your head. “Not yet.”

His mouth twitched—half smile, half snarl. “Careful, princess. If you stare into a dragon’s eyes long enough, it might start thinking you want it to burn you.”

You stared back.

“Maybe I do,” you whispered.

For one breath, the air between you went molten.

Then he stepped away.

“Be ready for the wedding rites,” he said, already walking. “The next court will expect something far more convincing than sarcasm.”

—

That night, you couldn’t sleep.

You sat by the window in a robe, bare feet tucked beneath you, staring at the moon. Marelle dozed nearby, curled on a fainting couch with a book half-open on her chest.

The moon hung pale and heavy, wreathed in clouds.

Everything about Draconfell pressed down like weight—its fire, its secrets, its King.

You flexed your fingers and saw the red line where your fan had bitten into your palm.

You didn’t regret your words in court. You regretted how much they’d meant.

“Are you afraid?” Marelle asked softly, half-asleep.

You didn’t answer at first.

“I think I’m more afraid of what will happen if I don’t succeed,” you said finally.

She nodded, and her breathing slowed again.

You looked back to the moon and whispered, “I just don’t know if I can win.”

Author’s note!!!

Hey everyone! I hope you enjoyed this chapter — I know it’s not much, but I really wanted to get something out there for you. Thank you so much to everyone who’s been reading, liking, and supporting the story so far. It truly means a lot and keeps me motivated to keep writing. <3

[sincerelyyoursbee]

Betrothed to the Dragon

King

Dragon King AU | Arranged Marriage |

Slow Burn | Enemies to Lovers

Part I The Dragon Throne

Synopsis:

You were promised to him before you could even walk—engaged to the Dragon King himself since you were three. Years passed, letters unread, portraits hung on palace walls… but now, for the first time, you’re standing face to face.

The air reeked of fire.

Not the pleasant kind, the hearth-warmed smoke curling from a winter chimney, but ancient fire—raw, scorched earth and sulfur, molten rock and ash. It clung to your throat as your carriage trundled along the black stone road that led to the heart of the mountain: Draconfell, the capital of the Eastern Dragonlands.

You lifted your veil to peer outside, swallowing against the weight of the heat. The world beyond the window was carved in obsidian and steam. The sun, so bright when you left your homeland, was nothing more than a red smear behind plumes of smoke that rose from unseen vents. Lava flowed like rivers through the canyons below—tamed only by ancient magic and even older power.

Your hand clenched in your lap.

Today, you would meet your betrothed. For the first time in your life.

You had been promised to Katsuki Bakugou, Dragon King of the East, since the age of three. A bond struck between bloodlines to end the Crimson War. You had grown up with his name on your tongue, the way other children learned nursery rhymes.

You were schooled in dragon customs, in old draconian etiquette, in the handling of flame-touched politics. And, of course, in portraits.

Paintings of him—dozens, perhaps hundreds over the years—had been sent to your estate. Most featured him standing in armor atop a battlefield of bones, eyes glowing, smoke rising from his clenched fists. His expression had never changed: stone-carved, proud, utterly impassive.

He was the monster you were meant to marry.

He was also the king who had not written a single letter in twenty years.

The carriage slowed, and your heart quickened. Draconfell Palace loomed above you—an impossibly tall fortress, carved from the mountainside itself, its spires like jagged fangs piercing the clouded sky. Black stone. Red glass. Iron gates with sigils of fire and winged beasts.

The driver came to a halt and dismounted. You heard his boots crunch against the obsidian gravel. He opened the door with a bow.

You stepped out into a kingdom that did not want you.

The heat hit you like a blow to the chest. You straightened your spine regardless. A dozen guards waited in formation, dressed in scaled armor, spears like claws at their sides. None greeted you. None bowed.

“Lady Y/N of House L/N,” announced your steward behind you, his voice carrying. “Betrothed of His Majesty, King Katsuki of the Draconian Crown.”

Silence.

And then the great doors creaked open.

You stepped into shadow and flame.

⸻

The palace was alive.

That was your first thought. The black stone walls breathed heat. Torchlight flickered with unnatural steadiness—too still to be wind, too synchronized to be coincidence. Magic. The floors pulsed faintly beneath your heeled boots, as though the mountain’s heart beat far below.

Your footsteps echoed in the grand hall. Your retinue followed in silence. They would not stay long. Draconfell allowed no foreign servants to remain.

At the end of the hall, a figure awaited you.

He did not sit upon the throne.

He stood before it—one hand resting on the pommel of a curved blade at his side, his head slightly bowed, eyes unreadable beneath the gleam of a fiery red. He was taller than the portraits, broader of shoulder, and much, much more terrifying in the flesh.

Bakugou Katsuki.

He wore no crown.

He did not need one.

His hair was tousled in a wild, flame-touched mess, gold as firelight. His eyes—dear gods, his eyes—were not the golden-brown you’d expected, but blazing red-ringed amber, like magma frozen mid-boil. His skin bore faint scars, faded burn marks crisscrossing his arms. A long cloak swept behind him, black with a lining the color of blood.

He stared at you.

You stared back.

The room was silent but for the hiss of flame in the sconces.

And then, before you could stop yourself, the words slipped free, soft but clear: “Your portraits did not do you justice.”The silence deepened.

Something flickered behind his gaze—not surprise, not quite. Something sharper. He raised an eyebrow.

His voice, when it came, was low and rough. “That’s the first thing you choose to say?”

You inclined your head, refusing to look away. “You expected fawning?”

“I expected silence.” He looked you up and down. “Or tears.”

You smiled thinly. “Disappointment, then.”

He stepped down from the dais. Slowly. Like a beast circling prey.

“Do you speak so boldly to all your kings, Lady L/N?” he asked, voice edged with amusement—and something else.

“Only the ones I’m to marry.”

His lips twitched.

You couldn’t tell if it was irritation or intrigue.

“I suppose the years have done little to temper your kind,” he muttered.

You stiffened. “My kind?”

“Humans.” He said it like an insult. “Soft little things. Fragile. Foolish.”

“I am right here, you know.”

“Oh, I’m well aware of your miserable existence.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Speaking about someone like they’re not present is terribly rude.”

“You offend me by suggesting I might care.”

Gods. This man. Arrogance incarnate. But behind that venom-tipped tongue was a mind that gleamed like a blade in the dark—and it made your blood hum.

He circled you once before speaking again.

“You’re smaller than I thought,” he said, as though weighing a horse at market. “But there’s fire. I see it.”

You held his gaze. “Did you expect me to arrive trembling?”

He paused, then: “I expected you to arrive broken.”

The words hit harder than you expected.

You drew in a breath. “I am not broken.”

“Yet.”

You swallowed. “Tell me, is this your idea of a welcome?”

“I don’t recall asking for a bride,” he said simply. “But here you are. A peace offering from cowards who fear the fire.”

“I did not ask for this union either,” you replied, voice hardening. “But I will honor it.”

Something changed in his posture. His head tilted, expression unreadable.

“Will you?” he murmured.

You lifted your chin. “If it brings peace between our peoples, yes. If it eases the suffering of innocents, yes.”

A beat.

Then he laughed. Low and sharp. “That is—without question—the worst marriage proposal I have ever heard.”

You flushed. “What would you have me say?”

His eyes glittered.

“That you long for me,” he said quietly, mockingly. “That my face haunts your dreams. That you cannot live another breath without my flame keeping you warm at night.”

You froze.

The audacity. The sheer, maddening confidence—

But still, you forced your voice to remain calm. “Would that change anything?”

He blinked.

“What?”

“If I said it,” you continued, stepping closer, “If I told you I’d dreamed of this moment, of your eyes, your voice, your hands—if I said the silence of your letters haunted me more than your portraits ever did—would it change your heart?”

A pause.

Then, lower, rougher:

“…What would you have me say?” His voice was a rasp now. “That I love you? That I cannot live without you? That I have dreamed of this union since I was but a child, and have been too much of a coward to admit I wanted you?”

Your breath caught in your throat.

You had meant to provoke. You had not expected honesty. Not even a shred of it.

But something flickered in his gaze again—regret? Pain?

It vanished as quickly as it came.

He stepped back, expression stone once more.

“This union will go forward,” he said coldly. “You’ll be presented to the court at moonrise. Until then, you will be shown to your quarters. Do not wander. This palace is not kind to outsiders.”

You bowed, slow and deliberate. “As you command, Your Majesty.”

He turned his back to you.

But as you walked away, you could feel his eyes burning into you still.

Author’s note!

Helloo! This is my first official fanfic, so I’m both excited and kind of nervous to share it. I’ve had this story in my head for a while and finally decided to put it into words. Hopefully, it’s not as bad as I think it is.

Thanks so much for taking the time to read—whether you’re here out of curiosity, boredom, or genuine interest, I really appreciate it. Feedback is totally welcome (but please be kind—I’m in college for creative writing!).

[sincerelyyoursbee]

I can’t do it

(Warnings: strong language, adult themes, toxic relationship dynamics, emotional vulnerability, implied sexual content, mutual pining, unresolved feelings)

Bakugou Katsuki x FWB!Reader Angst / One-shot

The sheets are still warm when you turn over and find the other side of the bed empty.

Again.

You knew he wouldn’t stay. He never does. But that doesn’t stop your chest from tightening the way it always does—quiet and sharp, like a bruise forming just beneath the skin.

The clock says 3:47 a.m., and his hoodie still smells like him when you pull it over your shoulders. You shouldn’t wear it. It blurs the lines. But so does kissing him like it means something. So does the way he touches you like it always means something.

You pad into the kitchen, the tile cold beneath your feet, and you pour a glass of water with trembling hands.

Don’t say you need me…

That’s what he told you the first time. That this thing between you—whatever it was—wasn’t about need. It was about want. About convenience. About knowing someone well enough to fuck without fumbling over clothes or names or expectations.

But he’s the one who knocks on your door when it’s raining.

He’s the one who leaves his toothbrush by your sink like it’s nothing.

And he’s the one who pulls you close afterward, kisses your temple like you’re something fragile—like he doesn’t break you a little more every time he goes.

You finish the water. The silence is heavy.

Your phone buzzes.

Katsuki [3:49 a.m.]:

Didn’t wanna wake you. Had a call.

Of course.

You type back, but delete it twice.

“Come back.”

“I hate when you leave like this.”

“Why do you always run?”

You settle on:

You always leave.

No response.

⸻

It’s been three days.

You’ve gone longer before, but this time feels different. This time, the silence feels like it might swallow you whole.

You keep busy. Patrols. Reports. Hero meetings. You’re damn good at what you do—stronger than half the men you work with, sharper than most—and yet…

Except for him.

Katsuki Bakugou is your weakness, and you hate yourself for it.

You don’t tell your friends. Mina thinks you’ve been distant lately. Kirishima keeps asking if everything’s okay. Even Denki, sweet, oblivious Denki, keeps inviting you to group hangouts like you aren’t slowly unraveling under the weight of pretending nothing’s wrong.

The truth is: you’re not together, so you can’t fall apart.

Not publicly.

Not where it counts.

Not where he might see.

⸻

It’s after midnight when he shows up again.

You open the door, and there he is—hands in his pockets, head down, jaw clenched like he’s been arguing with himself all the way over here.

“Katsuki.”

His eyes flick to yours. Red. Tired.

“I had a rough fuckin’ week.”

You lean against the doorframe, arms crossed. “And?”

“I wanted to see you.”

He says it like it costs him something. Like it’s the closest he can come to I missed you without choking on the words.

You don’t move. “You always want to see me when you’ve had a rough week.”

“So?”

“So what do I get? Just the bad parts of you?” Your voice wavers. “You don’t call when things are good.”

He flinches. Just slightly. You’re learning to recognize the cracks in his armor.

“This is what we do,” he mutters. “You knew that.”

You laugh, bitter. “I thought I did.”

A beat of silence.

“I didn’t know I’d start waiting for your name to pop up on my screen.”

He looks away.

“I didn’t know it’d hurt when it didn’t.”

His jaw tightens. “Don’t do this.”

“Don’t say you need me,” you snap, voice low, shaking, “when you leave—and you leave again.”

The air between you sharpens like glass.

“You think I don’t feel it too?” he says, stepping closer. “You think I don’t lie awake wondering what the fuck we’re doing?”

“Then stop leaving.”

“I can’t.”

And there it is.

There’s the truth.

“I can’t,” he says again, quieter now. “Because if I stay, it stops being just this. It becomes something else. Something I don’t know how to handle.”

You take a step back.

His voice follows you.

“I’m not good at this. You know I’m not. But I—” He swallows. “I don’t do this with anyone else.”

“You don’t do anything with me,” you whisper. “You fuck me and leave. You kiss me like you mean it and then pretend it didn’t happen.”

“I never pretended it didn’t happen.”

“Oh no?” You laugh bitterly. “Tell me when the last time was that you stayed. Not just physically. Really stayed.”

He looks at you, and it’s the first time you see it—regret.

“I always come back.”

“Yeah,” you say. “But only after you’ve already left.”

⸻

That night, he stays.

He doesn’t touch you at first.

You sit on opposite sides of the bed. The distance is loud.

Eventually, he reaches for you. Hand on your waist. Thumb brushing your ribs. Mouth pressed to your collarbone like an apology.

When he’s inside you, it’s not urgent the way it usually is. It’s slow. Careful. His forehead rests against yours, and for a second, just one, you swear the world goes quiet.

You let him hold you afterward. Let him breathe against your neck like it means something.

And maybe it does.

But you don’t ask him to stay.

And he doesn’t say he will.

⸻

When you wake up, he’s gone.

Again.

Your phone lights up on the nightstand.

Katsuki [5:07 a.m.]:

I can’t do it.

You stare at the screen.

Then you turn it over, bury your face in the pillow he used, and try to pretend it doesn’t smell like goodbye.

[sincerelyyoursbee]

Haven’t Burned Out Yet

(Mature — sensual detail, explicit language/situations)

Katsuki x Reader one-shot

The city felt the same, but colder. Grayer. Even though the skyline shimmered like always and the pro hero rankings glowed from every billboard, nothing cut through the noise like the sound of your name in his voice.

“Didn’t think you’d show.”

Bakugou leaned against the balcony railing, arms crossed, city lights flickering in the gold of his eyes. He looked broader than you remembered, more tired too—but still every inch the explosive force of nature he’d always been.

You crossed the rooftop slowly, the wind tugging at your coat. “Didn’t think you would invite me.”

“Didn’t invite anyone else.”

His words hit like a punch to the chest. You stood shoulder to shoulder in the dark, the hum of traffic below like static between your ribs. You hadn’t spoken in years—not since that mission overseas, not since everything went sideways and time pulled you apart.

“You look good.” It came out quieter than you meant it to. But it was true. His jaw was sharper now, stubble along his cheeks, hands scarred and twitching like they always did when he was holding back.

Bakugou exhaled through his nose. “You look better than I remembered”.

You laughed, a little breathless, and the sound seemed to crack something in him. “You still pissed at me?”

“Yeah.” He turned to face you fully, jaw clenched. “Still fuckin’ pissed. You left.”

“You told me to.”

“I didn’t mean it.” His voice was raw now. Low. “I was scared.”

You blinked. Katsuki Bakugou—scared?

“I thought I’d come back stronger,” you murmured. “Be someone who could actually stand beside you. Not behind.”

“You already were.” He stepped closer, so close you could feel the heat radiating from his skin. “You always fuckin’ were.”

Your breath caught. “Then why did it take this long?”

He didn’t answer with words.

His mouth was on yours before you could even think, hands rough at your waist, gripping like he was scared you’d vanish again. The kiss was fire—urgent, teeth clashing, like the years apart had done nothing to cool what burned underneath your skin. You tangled your fingers in his hair, tugging, and he growled into your mouth like it drove him mad.

“Say you missed me,” you gasped against his lips.

“Missed you every fuckin’ day,” he rasped, pressing you against the brick wall with a hunger that made your knees weak. “Thought about you every damn time I came home to an empty fuckin’ apartment.”

You wrapped your legs around his waist as he lifted you effortlessly, the rough fabric of his hero costume brushing against your thighs. His hands gripped tighter, dragging you closer like he needed the contact to stay grounded.

“You gonna leave again?” he asked against your throat, voice tight.

“Not if you keep touching me like this.”

He chuckled, low and dark, lips trailing down your neck. “Then I’m never fuckin’ stoppin’.”

The second his mouth found yours, it wasn’t soft. It wasn’t gentle. It was everything the years apart had stolen.

Bakugou kissed like a man drowning — desperate, demanding, starved for the taste of you. His hands gripped your waist like he could hold the clock still if he just pressed hard enough. Your fingers curled into his hair, tugging him closer, swallowing his low, gravel-thick groan.

“You have any idea,” he growled between kisses, “how fuckin’ long I’ve wanted this again?”

Your back hit the wall, rough brick scraping your shoulder blades as he pressed into you. You could feel every inch of him — solid muscle, heat, tension wound tight like a grenade waiting to go off.

“I had nights,” you breathed, dragging your nails down his chest, “where I swore I could still feel your hands on me.”

He laughed low in his throat, voice wrecked. “Bet you touched yourself thinkin’ about me.”

Your eyes fluttered. “Katsuki—”

“I fuckin’ knew it.” His lips were at your throat now, teeth grazing that sensitive spot beneath your jaw, tongue following. “Thought about it every time I couldn’t sleep. What your face looked like when I had you under me. Screamin’ my name.”

You moaned, his words punching heat straight to your core. “Say it again.”

He chuckled, dark and pleased, one hand sliding under your shirt, calloused fingertips dragging up your stomach. “You want me to talk dirty to you after all these years, baby?”

You nodded, breathless.

“I thought about you spread out for me,” he murmured against your neck. “Every fuckin’ time I got home, sweaty and pissed off, I’d close my eyes and picture your thighs around my face. That needy little whimper you’d make when I started slow, when I teased you.”

“Katsuki,” you gasped.

His hand dipped lower, slipping under the waistband of your pants. “God, you’re already wet.”

You gripped his shoulder hard. “You gonna just talk, or are you gonna do something about it?”

That feral look in his eye returned. “Take those off. Now.”

You obeyed, letting your pants fall to your ankles, heat pooling as he dropped to his knees in front of you. The sight alone — Bakugou, pro hero Dynamight, kneeling for you with blown pupils and a hunger that could shatter glass — made you dizzy.

“Hold onto the railing,” he said, voice guttural. “And don’t even think about running.”

Then his mouth was on you — hot, hungry, ruthless. His tongue licked a slow stripe before sucking your clit between his lips like he’d missed the taste more than air itself. You choked on a moan, hips bucking, one hand flying to his hair as he devoured you like a man possessed.

“F-Fuck, Katsuki—!”

He didn’t stop. Didn’t ease up. He kept going, licking, groaning into you as your thighs trembled and your breath hitched. And when your orgasm hit — sharp and blinding — he kept licking through it, like he was trying to drag another one out of you just to hear how you sounded.

When he finally stood, his lips glistened, his smirk cocky and wrecked. “Still taste better than I remembered.”

Your legs were shaking. “You’re such an asshole.”

“Yeah?” He grabbed your chin, tilting your face up. “But I’m your asshole.”

Then he was kissing you again, hot and wet, letting you taste yourself on his tongue before grinding against you, thick and hard through his pants. You reached for his belt, and he growled against your lips.

“Fuck the bed. I’m takin’ you right here.”

You smirked. “Then stop talkin’ and fuck me already.”

And god, did he ever.

I might post a part 2 depending on how well this one does!! Im in college for creative writing so hopefully my work is up to that standard! Please feel free to correct me on anything or feel free to ask anything!!:3

୨⎯ sincerelybee ⎯୧