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Bakugo enjoys every kiss you share.
He adores the kisses you give him on his cheek.
The ones where you have to stand on your tip toes and he has to lean down, angling his cheek expectantly. Your lips land on his skin to give him a peck. The kiss is delicate and feather-like, as if all you did was brush over his cheeks with the strawberry waffles he cooked for breakfast and the coffee you brewed. He feels the smile on your lips and the way you breathe him in. Inhaling every inch until he's sure that all of him resides in you.
In your soul and under your care.
And it's what gives him the push he needs to head out. The reminder that there's something soft waiting for him after a day of hero-work.
But it leaves him craving for more. There's a fire that flickers over deep wanting, and he knows it can only be satiated by your lips on his.
So he enjoys the one that he gives you right after more. The one he steals from you when you're under the impression that he's already leaving. He doesn't know why you still yelp when he does it every morning without fail, but he swallows the sound and deepens the kiss nonetheless.
His hand starts wide on your upper back, fingers splayed out as they slide down until they find purchase on your waist. He presses on your skin through the fabric of his shirt that hangs on your frame. The neckline settles on the edge of your shoulder. He knows you stole this one again, probably rummaged through his dresser last night. But he doesn't mind. Not when it'll always smell a little bit like you after you've worn it.
He pulls at the hem of the shirt just enough to slip his hand under the fabric. Your skin is like velvet under the rough pads of his fingers. Under palms hardened by years of training.
But his touch is only soft for you. Firm, yes, because his eagerness gets the better of him and he wants to feel all of you so badly, but never to the point of hurting you. Never enough to bring any pain.
He moves away from your lips, reluctantly, but lingers on the very edge where he plants a final kiss before he opens the door and goes to work.
He chuckles to himself at the state he's left you, mouth agape and ears burning red.
--
He finds that your kisses right when he walks through the door of your apartment is enough to wash away the exhaustion in his bones.
The ones where you rush to move from whatever it is you were working on the moment you hear the locks of the door being fumbled with.
For the most part, it's him catching you in his arms as you run right towards him. It's him pulling you into his warmth after you've been stuck alone for hours in the cold of your apartment. The weighted blanket Ochako gifted you just isn't enough, so he knows you're eager to get some real heat from your own personal furnace.
But on other days, it's like you just know. He doesn't have to utter a single word about the day he's had because you seem to just sense it by the time he sees you walking to your small foyer. He's a little worse for wear on days like these. His knees buckle with each step he takes, arms sore that he struggles to take his coat off and hang it inside the cabinet.
The pain settles so deep in his muscles that it weighs him down.
He drowns, falls into the pain and fatigue.
And gladly, without a shred of hesitation, you pick him up every single time.
"Welcome home."
You take his hand in yours, knotting your fingers together. You smile with a certain shine that rivals the sun, and it eases him. It allows him to unwrap layers upon layers of himself until he's completely raw. Vulnerable and bare as the day he was brought into this world.
And this time, it's him who melts into your embrace. He lets himself be wrapped in your arms, as far as they could reach, and falls. Fast and hard that it's almost dizzying.
This time, he falls into you.
You place a hand on his cheek, thumb caressing his cheekbone and the new scar he's sporting. You inspect it with squinted eyes. For a moment, he thinks you might go on a rant about safety and getting—or at least, trying to—out of the field unscathed.
But you don't. Your lips are pursed in contemplation, still, so he's taken aback when you reach for his face.
You kiss him, fully on the lips.
It's short and sweet, as everything usually is with you. But he knows that it serves as a promise of comfort that's soon to come. Of dinner on the floor of your living room. Of your full and undivided attention on him. Of nuzzling into the crook of your neck until his hair tickles you and you burst into a fit of giggles.
"You go and wash up, I made your favorite." You tap his chest twice, grinning like a child.
He watches your figure get smaller until you fully disappear into the kitchen, and he's left stunned.
--
He relishes in the ones you share in the comfort of your bedroom, away from the prying eyes of the world.
It's dark without the lights on and the curtains pulled shut. He's practically blind, but he can feel you. Your hands and the way they're grasping for whatever part of him you can grab. Your neck and how his lips seem to gravitate towards it.
He knows you're with him. And in turn, he knows he is safe.
Here, he is the furthest thing away from pro hero Dynamight. Here, he exists as nothing but Katsuki.
Your Katsuki.
And the feeling is doubled down with you muttering his name between gasps and deep breaths. You say it directly to his ears. Repeatedly, like a mantra. Like Bakugo is some higher being and you are there to pray to his name.
Katsuki. Katsuki. Katsuki.
You say it until his name is the only thing you know, the only thought running though your muddled mess of a brain. You say it until bakugo truly feels it in the trenches of his bones.
He is yours. And when he feels you planting a kiss on his collarbone—mumbling sweet, sweet praises on flushed skin, he knows, too, that you are his.
--
But most of all, he enjoys the ones you share in the early hours of the morning.
The ones where he wakes up and is greeted by your back facing him, bare and freckled and covered with scars. He slings an arm over your torso and pulls himself closer to you until his lips are but a hair away from your skin.
He starts at the back of your arm. Kissing up the narrow patch of skin that leads him to the hill of your shoulder where he pours most of his attention to.
To him, it feels like forever and a lifetime of keeping his focus on your back. Of exploring the vast stretch of skin. Of finding new freckles and moles, scars and birthmarks. Your body is a treasure trove, and what good is he if he doesn't take the time to worship you.
He doesn't pause his ministrations even when he feels you stir against him. You stretch, ever so slightly with how Bakugo is clinging to you, but it's still enough movement that you're pulled away from him.
"Quit movin'." he groans, chasing after your skin with his lips.
"Good morning to you too." your voice is hoarse, muffled by the sheets and pillows.
He lets out a low hum when you turn to face him.
Neither of you move for a moment. It's rare for Bakugo to find the time to do nothing with you. To have each other to hold and simply bask in each other's presence as sunlight slowly seeps through your curtains. Not when your day only starts once he's already on his way back from morning runs.
So he takes this in. The sight of you with your hair messy and lips chapped, looking at him with all the love you can hold in your two eyes.
He soaks it all in until he knows there's nothing else he could possibly want than this.
No other lips to kiss and body to hold. No other skin to devote himself to. No other person to love, than you.