messy. . ⸝⸝ ＃katsuki bakugo 𝜗ৎ
⋆.𐙚 ̊ a messy, breathless, early-dating makeout session on bakugo’s dorm bed 𐦯
⊹ ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆ early relationship · fem!reader · messy kissing · lap-sitting · flustered!Bakugo · mutual pining · firsts · handsy · tension · suggestive
·̩͙ ･῾ ᵎ rq ⋆ „bakugou and his girlfriend … started to date … still new … in the dorm … a messsyyyyy makeout“
“You don’t have to, like… sit on me or anything.”
Bakugo said it while you were already halfway into his lap.
You froze—halfway between kneeling on his bed and planting your ass right on his thighs.
“…Should I not?” you asked, suddenly unsure.
He looked like he regretted speaking. “No—shit, no. I just—fuck, you can.”
You raised an eyebrow. “You sure?”
“Yes. Just—do it quick before I die or something.”
That made you laugh. You climbed the rest of the way onto his lap, settling carefully on his thighs with your hands braced on his shoulders. His arms stiffened at his sides. His entire body felt like a coiled spring—solid muscle, warm under his shirt, and completely overwhelmed.
“You okay?” you whispered, tilting your head.
“I’m fine,” he grumbled, eyes darting from your face to your mouth to the corner of the room and back again. “Totally fine. He was not fine. He was flustered as hell. The blush across his face was criminal.
You leaned in and kissed him. Just once. Soft and quick. And then again. And again, And suddenly, it wasn’t soft anymore.
He kissed you like his body caught up before his brain could—hands finally landing on your waist, gripping, like he didn’t trust himself to let go. His lips moved like he’d been thinking about this since your first date and trying not to. A little too rough, a little messy.
You gasped when his tongue brushed yours—and he immediately froze.
“I—shit,” he breathed, pulling back an inch. “Sorry. Was that—too much?”
You blinked. “No. No, it was good. You’re good.” He looked like he was short-circuiting. “Oh.”
You giggled. “You’re really bad at this, huh?”
“Shut up,” he muttered, trying to scowl, but he still had his hands on your hips like they were glued there and his ears were turning red. “I don’t do this shit.”
“You don’t kiss girls?” you teased.
“Not ones I like.” Your brain short-circuited. Before you could say anything, he muttered,
“Forget I said that—shit—fuck—”
You kissed him again to shut him up. This time he kissed you back with a little more confidence—not much, but enough to make you melt into him. His hands gripped your waist tighter, tugging you closer, and when your body pressed into his and your skirt slid a little too high, he made a sound in his throat that was pure, panicked arousal.
“You’re, like, really hard right now.”
“Don’t say that out loud—!”
You buried your face in his neck, laughing, and he groaned like he wanted to sink into the floor. But his arms wrapped around you anyway.
And his voice—muffled, mumbled against your shoulder,
“Can we just… do that again? The kissing part?“
You kissed him again, deeper this time. And something in him broke.
His hands moved like they were figuring it out in real time—gripping your hips, then sliding up your sides, then back down again, like he couldn’t decide what he wanted more: to hold you still or pull you closer.
Your fingers twisted in the front of his shirt as you tilted your head, kissing him harder now, mouths warm and open and clumsy. When your teeth bumped, you both flinched and laughed—but then he kissed you again before the moment could even end.
His breath was hot, ragged against your lips. “Fuck, you taste good—” You moaned softly, and he shuddered.
“Don’t make that sound,” he muttered, trying to pull back. “Seriously. I’ll combust.”
“Then don’t kiss me like that.”
“You kissed me like that—”
You rolled your hips just slightly, and he whimpered—an actual, involuntary noise punched out of his chest. His head fell back against the wall.
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