Katsuki Bakugo

The bedroom is drenched in molten amber and violet neon bleeding through half-open blinds, strobing across the black sheets in restless pulses, the air thick with the lingering bite of nitroglycerin smoke that still clings to Katsuki’s skin. He sits propped against the headboard, shirtless, sweatpants slung obscenely low, every ridge of muscle catching the light, crimson eyes burning with a hunger that makes your stomach flip.

You’re curled against his furnace-hot side in one of his old black tank tops, threadbare cotton so soft it feels like a whisper, loose enough that the neckline gapes with every breath, cool air kissing the tops of your breasts. You wanted warmth after your shower, but the moment the swell of one breast brushes the bare skin of his arm, his entire body goes rigid. A low, animal growl vibrates in his chest, his calloused palm sliding up your spine, cupping the side of your breast through the cotton, thumb pressing deliberately, testing the weight, the give. The fabric is so thin you feel the heat of his skin like a brand. As you try to shrink away, he moves, pushing up the black, worn cotton. In one brutal tug, the tanktop is shoved up and bunched by your neck.

The cool air slams against bare, sensitive skin, nipples tightening instantly into aching peaks. You instinctively cross your arms to cover yourself, but he catches both wrists in one large, scarred hand and pins them high above your head against the headboard. The stretch makes your back arch, breasts thrust forward, utterly exposed under the flickering neon. His gaze is feral, reverent, pupils blown so wide the crimson is only a thin ring. His thumb drags slow across one nipple like rough callus scraping velvet-soft skin, watching it pebble harder, the friction sending lightning straight to your core. A broken whimper tears from your throat; your thighs clench involuntarily, slick already gathering.

Then his mouth descends: wet heat engulfing the peak, tongue rough and relentless, swirling, flicking, sucking hard enough that the pull echoes deep in your belly. Every drag of teeth, every low growl rumbling against your skin vibrates through bone. His free hand kneads the other breast, fingers sinking into soft flesh, rolling the nipple between them until it throbs, swollen and oversensitive.

The room fills with obscene sounds: the wet pop when he releases one nipple only to latch onto the other, the sharp crackle of sparks kissing your ribs with warm static, the ragged hitch of your breathing and the slick drag of his tongue. Saliva cools on flushed skin the instant he pulls away to watch them bounce with every tremor that wracks your body, a thin strand still connecting his bottom lip to the glistening peak.

He grips your hips, pulling you on top of him. When he speaks, his voice is hoarse with arousal. “Wanna see ‘em fuckin’ bounce while you ride me.”