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[werediabla]

teaching katsuki how to dance bachata.

tw // nsfw, sexual tension.

author’s note: as a latina, i just couldn’t get the concept of teaching him how to dance bachata out of my head 😩 iykyk. (i dropped a link if you don’t know what it looks like).

if ares ever dropped his sword from the heavens and lost it to the coil of the mortal world, you’re certain you’re staring right at it. there’s no other metaphor to describe the way katsuki moves; sharp, slick, and decisive — with the one-track intention to tear everything that stands between him and victory asunder.

you’ve never even openly admitted that he reminds you of some mythical weapon meant to be wielded by nothing less than the hand of a war god (not if you want to avoid the following protest of “huuh?! what the fuck are ya talkin’ about?! i’m the only great explosion murder god around here, damn you!”) but it’s true.

his physical prowess leaks out of every pore even where it doesn’t count.

like now, as you try to teach him how to follow the sensuous beat of your favorite bachata song, but he continues to move like he’s cutting through a damn battlefield rather than the dance floor.

“you’re stiff!” you huff for the fifth time, pausing the music to adjust his stance. “loosen your hips, kats.”

“that’s exactly what i’m fuckin’ doin’—“

“—feel what i’m doing and try to follow my lead, yeah?” you intercept. to his credit, he pays rapt attention to the way you let his knee melt between yours, keeping you anchored chest to chest as you roll your hips with that little bounce that’s been pissing him off since he agreed to go through with this.

well—

pissing him off might not be the right word for it.

it’s more frustrating than anything else. downright distracting. absolutely unfair. stupidly — hot.

“this ain’t workin’.” he blurts out, brows furrowed into that severe frown you’ve grown tender to.

“it’s because you’re overthinking it,” you reassure softly, continuing to break him into rhythm with gentle nudges meant to guide him into a steady beat. he picks up on it almost instantly, but the fluid motion of your hips is something he just can’t seem to replicate no matter how hard he tries.

“just grind. it’s a natural instinct between couples, why do you think the genre is so popular?”

that seems to snap something into perspective because the next four-steps, katsuki works you against his thigh like he was born and bred for it. it cuts your breath short as the two of you pace around the terrace, watching your shadows flicker under a canopy of fairylights.

“like this?” he asks gruffly, one arm curled around your lower spine and the other keeping your hand trapped in his. you can smell the faint traces of smoke and nitroglycerin clinging to his skin like this — it reminds you of fireworks in summer festivals, when the air is heady and sweet.

“yes.” you murmur more airily than you meant to, squealing when he lifts you into an improvised spin and sets you down far too slowly to fit the choreography. you practically glide down his front, letting him feel every inch of your body on the way down until you come face to face with him again.

for a moment, neither of you say anything. you’re too lost in the stillness of his scarlet gaze to break the impasse between you.

he puts an end to it when his lips capture yours with an irritated growl, feeding you slurred complains that sound suspiciously like “damn brat.” and “you’re so annoyin’.”