#i understand you're my favorite character king leave me alone dsfjks i cant take it!!!!

[prettyboykatsuki]

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shoujo manga | k. bakugo 

➳ tags ;; fluff, angst/injury, very midly nsfw towards the end, kisses (?), pro-hero!bakugo 

➳ wc ;; 1.5k

➳ plot ;; how bakugo kisses you differently. 

➳ a/n ;; might do this for other characters? idk.. katsuki brainrot haunts me everyday of my life.. 

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Bakugou speaks more than one language. 

Japanese, English, Spanish, and a little bit of Arabic and French. He’s fluent in the first three and conversational in the last - but the words still feel slick on his tongue. He’s the type of person that knows things well, when he can. He can curl around the syllables easily with enough patience - practice and time. A language is tool - or a love letter or a hopeless romantic. 

It’s something we never tire of listening too. 

For Bakugo Katsuki, the language he speaks to you in is kisses. It’s the one he feels best at, rolls of the tongue and mouth easiest. He’s well-versed in the foreign tongue of affection. It used to be.. choppy to say the least. But these days, Bakugo can tell you anything with nothing more than a few pressed lips and tongue-tied exchanges. 

It starts with a morning kiss. For it to be perfect, the sun has to hang just barely beneath the clouds. It can be any color out, blue, or orange, or grey - the sky just has to have light in it. He wakes up with a grunt, always before you - vermillion eyes peering open at your unconscious state. The verbs in his sentence are his hands, large palms that smooth down your hair. He nudges his nose against your jaw before his lips pucker against your cheek - travel down to your mouth until your eyes flutter open. 

“Wake up, brat,” with another kiss, this time on the corners of your lips. He waits for a while, sometimes letting you sleep for another ten minutes before his heart decides he’s running on empty time. Then he kisses you again, along your jaw like he’s tracing the lines of your art-work. 

“Oh? G’morning, Kat,” 

And he presses his cheek against your shoulder, kisses the edge with another grunt. These kisses always mean good morning, I’m happy we woke up together. In his language of love they mean, I like being here with you. 

Some kisses come after work - especially on those days where he’s working and you’re not. Bakugo dreads leaving you alone during the day, has to force himself out of bed and into his work clothes. It’s easier to be gone but always so hard to leave. When he comes home from work, he finds you in the living room with your legs propped up on the ottoman. Your laptop is on your lap and your head rests 

You can feel his presence before you see him. A warm hand, calloused and a hot, wraps around your throat and pulls you back to look upwards at him. He looks down at you with something unreadable in his expression - his thumb running against the column of your throat. He can feel your pulse under his fingers when he looks down on you - bows his head to kiss like an act of respect. This kiss is slow but deep - like a large wave crashing against the sand. His gravelly voice leaves you with a hum before he pulls away. 

This kiss means he’s missed you much more than you know. That’s why he stares at you for so long right after - why his fingers linger against your neck. 

“Whaddya want for dinner, huh?, is the only words he’ll say in the whole exchange but he looks like he’s gonna kiss you again. He wants to kiss you so many more times but he knows you’ve forgotten to eat so he just asks you what you want. He’ll make it for you. 

Other times, he kisses you in public. They’re not the kinds of kisses you can predict, you have to admit to yourself. It’s thee Dynamight afterall, and he rarely takes you anywhere the paparazzi can see. But you have to do normal things together sometimes - like grocery shopping. Even so, he always keeps his mask on up under his eyes, his sunglasses and army green hat and baggy clothes all covering him up.

But you mention it to him off-hand while you’re looking at salad dressing that you miss looking at his face when you’re out. A wistful, cheeky smiling on your lips as you tell him that you don’t mind if the world knows who you’re with. He scoffs, like always, and tells you to pick the spicy one for him. 

When he takes you outside, the sun falls over your skin like a halo. He’s sure there’s someone trailing him and watching from afar - some obsessed photographer examining his every move. Yet you look like gold, look like magic in the middle of this parking lot - packing groceries into the trunk of your car. 

He pulls his mask down just below his face, and takes his glasses off and pulls you toward him when the last of it’s over. Your hip bumps the shopping cart clumsily as his hands finds themselves under your jacket. His mouth melts against yours - this kind of kiss is searing against your lips Your hands are gripping the front of his shirt at first, but then they lay flat against his chest. It’s the kind of kiss where you let it happen, let it overwhelm your senses till your stomach turns. 

You leave it in a dazed and return to see him smirk, grin cocked like a pistol. He kisses you again, much softer as confusion dances along your face. 

“What? I thought you missed my face?” 

This kind of kiss is a reminder that your his and he’s yours. Nothing in the whole world could come between that, not even some shitty gossip column. When you laugh against him breathlessly, his expression melts into the most tender smile. You miss it - too busy laughing, but it might be better that way.  

Then, there are kisses that are desperate. Not sinful but somber. When you’re rushing to a hospital in the middle of September with a prayer clamped desperately between your tongue and teeth. You don’t really feel like you know yourself anymore, hands clasped around the steering wheel like religion. Your feet are the weight of crucifixion on the gas and it seems like you cannot go fast enough. 

You rush and rush and rush until the air in your lungs feels like it’s stomping at your chest. You wind up in a sterile white room, and he’s there. He’s alive and you know you should be grateful for that. Yet there’s a gash on his cheek and eyebrow, a wound in his side that makes everything in your knees feel weak. You don’t walk towards him, but stumble to where he’s sitting. 

“I fuckin’ hate hospital food,” 

He pushes the peas around the tray and you’re crying - shaking like a leaf in the wind as you cling to him. He lifts his arm and let’s you in. You sniffle against his shoulder and cry like a baby. You weep for the love you haven’t lost. You hear the plastic clink on the plate as he lifts his hand, brushes any stray hairs from your face. He tugs on your ear and makes him look at you, and kisses you. 

This kind of kiss is placating for certain. A warm mouth, not a hot one. His lips are so gentle, touch effervescent. When you hiccup a sob in his mouth, he nudges his forehead against yours and mumbles something incomprehensible.

You can hear his kiss before he speaks it.  

“I’m fine, dumbass,” but there’s no bite, no malice - just a hand wrapped in yours “I’m gonna be fine,” 

There are also times where he kisses you hotly. It’s the kind of kiss you wouldn’t want your children to see. When he comes home from a long day of training but the energy is still burning in his head. He’s sweaty, skin glistening and glazed. His teeth seem so sharp when he enters the threshold of the door. You can feel him pressed against your spine, the thick print in his basketball shorts. When his hands come up underneath your t-shirt and dance along your stomach. These times - he kisses you twice. Salacious and unrelenting. 

Once just like that in the kitchen. It’s all too much tongue and teeth that way - but god it feels so right. Makes you squirm, makes you hold the counter top to keep steady. You tremble before he even touches you. 

The second time is right in the middle of the fire, when he’s inside. Slow, sensual and needy - his tongue finding it’s way in your mouth like you’re a fountain. 

Both kisses speak the same words, the same desperation. It’s always the same with him, the inevitable scorching that bruises your lips and turns them red and swollen. 

“I want you. I want you. Give it to me, Give all of yourself to me” 

His kisses so harshly you can’t breathe, like even the breath in your lungs has to be his or he won’t stay still. These kinds of kisses always happen when you two touch. He can’t help but keep you all to himself. 

After all, in this language that only you two can speak, who else would he tell his secrets to?

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