𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐁𝐨𝐦𝐛 [𝘬. 𝘣𝘢𝘬𝘶𝘨𝘰𝘶]

『22 → 𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐖𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐬 𝐂𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐃𝐨𝐰𝐧』

💗💥

His question hung in the air between you, a vulnerable, raw thing. For a moment, fear and desire warred within you—the instinct to retreat clashing hard with the deep, aching need to be as close to him as humanly possible. 

You wanted to feel him, to be anchored by him, to have the memory of his touch overwrite every ghost that lingered on your skin.

And then it hit you—the sheer, dizzying improbability of this moment. Your high school senior self, who had admired Dynamight from afar, would never have believed that the man under the rough exterior could be this: patient, reverent, and so devastatingly focused on you. 

Your throat was too dry for words, so you gave a single, decisive nod.

It wasn't enough for him.

In one fluid motion, Katsuki snaked a hand under the small of your back, arching you into the solid heat of his body. His other hand cradled your jaw, his thumb stroking your cheek, holding your gaze captive. 

His eyes were dark pools of desire, and you could almost see the filthy, beautiful thoughts playing out behind them—thoughts of you, unravelling for him.

He leaned in, closing the distance between you. Neither of you blinked, the tension a palpable, living entity. He stopped a breath away from your lips, his intense gaze making you feel both incredibly powerful and devastatingly small.

"Use your words, baby," he whispered, the sound of a rough caress. "Say 'yes'."

"Yes," you breathed, the word a surrender and a victory all at once.

It was all the permission he needed.

His lips crashed against yours, not with bruising force, but with a claiming dominance that stole the air from your lungs. He nipped and soothed, his kiss a language of passion and possession that made your head spin. You fisted your hands in his sleeveless shirt, the only anchor in a dizzying sea of sensation.

When he pulled away, your hot breaths mingled in the space between you. You felt utterly undone—eyes glazed, lips kiss-swolled and glistening, chest rising and falling in frantic rhythm.

The sight of you flipped a primal switch in him. "Fuck," he cursed, the word a reverent prayer.

He pulled his shirt over his head in one swift motion, revealing the well-sculpted landscape of his body—a testament to years of gruelling training. You drank in the sight of him, the deep collars of his collarbones, the defined planes of his abdomen.

He pushed himself up just enough to help you out of your sleep clothes—his t-shirt and your shorts. His movements were deliberate, not rushed. 

He watched you, his eyes seeking any flicker of hesitation, ready to stop at a moment's notice.