꒰🫧꒱ 𝐀 𝐍𝐄𝐖 𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐃 𝐎𝐅 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 ⟢ Ft. Katsuki Bakugo ‧₊˚

꒰🫧꒱ 𝐀 𝐍𝐄𝐖 𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐃 𝐎𝐅 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 ⟢ ft. Katsuki Bakugo ‧₊˚ . ꣑୧

sypnosis ☆ prince bakugo was known for his fiery temper and hotheaded nature. but.. when he met the princess of dawn her calm beauty had an unexpected effect on him ⸝⸝ ᰔ ̫ ᰔ⸝⸝

content warnings ☆ long fic! multiple parts, fluff, angst, fantasy, no quirk au but some powers here and there, super cute, bakugo has anger issues ( of course ) fighting, mentions of wars, reader is a black female, threatening, black mailing, arranged marriage ( ? ), suggestive but no smut until later in the story, bakugo is 23, reader is 20, mentions of murder, suicide, & death, honorable mentions- prince! todoroki, prince! izuku, prince! kirishima, knight! tenya, knight! shinso, princess! ochaco, princess! yaoyorozu (::̲̅:̲̅:♡::̲̅:̲̅:̲̅) ⭐️

word count ☆ 2.4k

part 1 | …

the people of ashira feared their prince.

they feared the fire in his blood, the sharpness in his tongue, the way he looked at the world like it owed him something. bakugo katsuki had never been taught softness. he had been raised on war reports and swordsmanship. his hands were meant for battle, not bouquets.

so when word came that he was to marry — and not just marry, but marry the princess of dawn — he nearly shattered the goblet in his hand.

“this is a joke,” he spat.

queen mitsuki didn’t flinch. “this is a treaty.”

“i don’t need peace. i need my sword.”

“you’ll need a wife more. dawn controls the eastern trade, and their princess is the key.”

he scoffed. “what’s she like? cold? cruel? spoiled?”

the queen just smirked.

“you’ll see.”

the ride to solara took three days. the air smelled of oranges and salt. dawn’s lands were prettier than he’d expected — soft, golden, sun-warmed hills. the castle sat high on white cliffs above the sea, all pale marble and gold-veined towers. delicate. peaceful.

he hated it already.

the arrival was formal. guards lined the stone courtyard, trumpets echoed through the arches, and then—

you stepped forward.

bakugo blinked.

you were nothing like he imagined.

you wore a gown the color of blush roses, with lace at your collar and a ribbon in your hair. your skin shimmered in the sunlight, rich and warm, and your eyes— gods, your eyes. calm. kind. curious. like they saw everything and judged none of it.

you stepped lightly down the steps, hands folded in front of you. you curtsied low.

“welcome, your highness,” you said, your voice soft as silk. “i hope your journey was comfortable.”

bakugo stared at you like you were a ghost.

“…it was fine.”

you smiled, gentle and sweet, and he nearly forgot how to breathe.

☁️

that night, there was a formal supper in the high hall. candlelight danced off the crystal, and violins played low in the corners. you sat beside him, your gloved hands resting on your lap, posture graceful.

you didn’t speak much at first. just listened. watched.

then, quietly, you turned to him.

“i know this wasn’t your choice,” you said, “but i hope we might still learn to trust each other.”

he glanced at you.

you were so… gentle. so open. not a trace of mockery in your voice. and for the first time in years, he didn’t know what to say.

he cleared his throat.

“we’ll see.”

you didn’t press. just gave him a soft smile and returned to your meal.

he stared at his plate, scowling, but something inside him twisted strangely. it wasn’t anger. it wasn’t annoyance.

it felt almost like guilt.

the next morning came quietly, wrapped in sea mist and the scent of blooming myrielle flowers. dawn’s castle didn’t wake with noise — not like ashira’s. there were no harsh barks from generals, no echo of boots across stone, no alarms sounding drills. only the call of birds and the distant hush of waves breaking far below the cliffs.

bakugo hated it.

he stood by the wide glass doors of his guest chamber, shirt half-buttoned, watching sunlight spill across the tiled floor like it belonged here. he didn’t.

he hadn’t slept. couldn’t. too much silence. too much calm.

and you — you were worse than all of it.

you haunted his thoughts like perfume.

he could still hear your voice in his head, soft as silk and sharp in a way that didn’t wound — it disarmed. you weren’t demanding. you weren’t proud. you weren’t trying to win him over.

you were just… real.

and he hated that it bothered him.

he clenched his jaw, turned from the window, and grabbed his sword from where it leaned against the chair. if nothing else, he could still practice.

☁️

you found him in the training yard that afternoon.

he was drenched in sweat, muscles flexing as he dragged the blade across the dummy again and again — not practicing anymore, but punishing. the dummy was splintered down the middle, straw guts spilling across the cobblestones.

you didn’t speak.

you stood quietly by the arched entryway, hands folded, your skirts trailing behind you like mist. you didn’t announce yourself. didn’t offer pleasantries.

you just waited.

and when he finally noticed you — breathing hard, chest rising and falling, hair stuck to his temple — he didn’t shout.

he just looked at you.

“…what?”

“i thought you might want something to drink.”

you stepped forward, lifting the silver pitcher in your hands. two glasses sat on the tray. one for him. one for you.

he stared at them like they were some kind of trap.

“…you didn’t have to.”

“i know.”

you poured the water slowly. not like a servant. like a queen in her own right — steady, sure, unbothered by his bristling energy.

he took the glass from you with a grunt. your fingers brushed. he pretended not to feel it.

“you always this calm?” he muttered.

“no,” you said. “just with you.”

his brows lifted slightly. “why?”

“because if i’m loud, you’ll be louder. and i don’t think the walls can take it.”

it was meant as a joke. not cruel. not sharp. just soft truth, wrapped in silk.

he huffed — almost a laugh.

“you’re not scared of me?”

you looked up at him, eyes full of something steady and warm.

“should i be?”

he held your gaze.

longer than he meant to.

“…probably.”

but you only smiled.

“then you’ll just have to prove me wrong.”

☁️

that evening, you walked the gardens with princess ochaco and knight shinso. you spoke of the upcoming ball, of the treaty’s terms, of the possibility of rain next week. normal things. light things. but your thoughts weren’t light.

you kept thinking about the way he looked at you.

like he was trying to figure you out and didn’t like that he couldn’t.

like he wanted to be angry, but didn’t know where to aim it anymore.

like he wanted to say something, but didn’t know how.

“you’re quiet tonight,” ochaco said gently, linking her arm with yours. “is it him?”

you didn’t deny it.

“he’s not what i expected,” you said.

shinso hummed. “i doubt he expected you either.”

☁️

across the castle, in the council chamber, bakugo stood with his hands behind his back, staring down at a map of the continent. red pins marked ashira’s defenses. gold ones for dawn. too many pins. too many dead.

prince todoroki leaned against the table beside him, silent for a moment before saying,

“she doesn’t deserve your temper.”

bakugo tensed.

“i never said she did.”

“then don’t give it to her.”

bakugo glared. “why do you care?”

todoroki met his eyes — calm, cool, unreadable.

“because this is the first time i’ve seen you shut up and listen.”

bakugo scoffed, but didn’t argue.

because he was right.

☁️

the next morning, a letter appeared on your pillow.

sealed with plain wax. unsigned.

“call off the wedding. you don’t know what he’s done.”

your heart beat slower as you read it. then faster. your fingers curled tight around the paper.

you read it twice. then a third time. then folded it neatly, rose from bed, and dressed yourself with care.

you didn’t go to the queen.

you didn’t panic.

you went to him.

☁️

he was in the hall outside the library, arguing with one of his knights — tenya, if you remembered correctly. something about patrol routes, about defensive formations. he was sharp, animated, his hands moving as he spoke.

then he saw you.

and he stopped.

“you,” you said softly, holding up the folded letter. “we need to talk.”

tenya bowed and left without a word.

you stepped into a side room. he followed, closing the door behind him.

you handed him the letter.

he read it once, jaw tight. read it again. then crumpled it in his fist, eyes dark with something colder than fire.

“you got one too, didn’t you?” you asked.

he nodded.

you watched him for a moment.

then, gently,

“are they right?”

his head snapped up.

you held his gaze.

“have you done something terrible?”

his throat worked as he swallowed.

“…yeah.”

your chest ached, but your voice didn’t waver.

“do you regret it?”

“…some of it.”

you stepped closer.

“then it matters. and we can deal with the rest.”

he blinked.

like he didn’t understand you.

like no one had ever said something like that to him before.

“you’re not leaving?” he asked.

“no,” you said. “i made a vow. even if it’s not official yet.”

a pause.

then softer, “and i think there’s good in you.”

he stared at you like you were a dream.

then, slowly, he said,

“i don’t know how to be soft.”

“i don’t need soft,” you said gently. “just honest.”

the look in his eyes shifted.

like something was cracking.

like something old was letting go.

and for the first time, he stepped closer without anger in his chest.

just… something warmer.

something dangerous in a completely different way.

the sun was high and lazy when you spread the blanket across the grass the next morning.

soft white linen, pinned down at the corners with smooth river stones. the garden around you buzzed quietly — bees in the lavender, birds in the cherry trees, wind rustling through leaves like gossip. and above it all, the sky stretched wide and blue.

you were already barefoot, skirts lifted just enough to keep them from the dirt, a little flower tucked behind your ear. you’d packed the basket yourself — fruit, little cakes, iced tea, lemon biscuits.

and bakugo?

he showed up late.

scowling, of course.

he had a branch stuck in his hair.

“what is this?” he muttered, hands on his hips, eyeing the blanket like it had personally offended him.

“a picnic,” you said cheerfully, patting the spot beside you. “don’t look so scared.”

“i don’t do picnics.”

“you do now.”

he muttered something under his breath but sat anyway, arms crossed, legs stiff.

you offered him a peach.

he glared at it.

“…it’s fruit.”

“yes.”

“not meat. not bread. fruit.”

“that’s what makes it fun.”

he snatched it from you and took a bite like it owed him money.

juice dripped down his wrist. he wiped it with the back of his hand, scowling deeper. you tried not to giggle.

“you know,” you said, leaning back on your elbows, “for someone so scary in battle, you’re really bad at relaxing.”

“i relax fine.”

“you’re sitting like the picnic is a trap.”

“it could be.”

you rolled your eyes, grinning.

he watched you from the corner of his eye, then slowly — very slowly — eased his arms down and leaned back beside you.

your elbows touched.

he didn’t move away.

“see?” you said. “not so bad.”

he grumbled. “still dumb.”

but he took another bite of the peach.

and when your skirt brushed his leg, he didn’t flinch.

☁️

after a while, you passed him a slice of cake — soft vanilla with orange cream, baked fresh that morning. he bit into it like he expected poison and blinked in surprise.

“…this is good.”

you smirked. “you’re welcome.”

“you didn’t make it.”

“i picked it.”

“barely counts.”

you gasped, mock offended, and tossed a grape at him. it bounced off his shoulder.

he blinked.

“…did you just throw food at me?”

“what are you gonna do about it?” you teased, eyes twinkling.

he grabbed a handful of berries and chucked one back. it hit your sleeve.

you both stared.

and then, you laughed — head tilted back, mouth wide, full of joy.

and bakugo…

bakugo didn’t laugh.

but he smiled.

not the crooked smirk he gave enemies before burning them alive. not the sneer he wore at court.

a real one.

small. quiet. almost shy.

you caught it.

you didn’t say anything — just tucked your legs under yourself and leaned a little closer.

“have you thought about the wedding?” you asked after a minute, brushing crumbs from your lap.

he snorted. “what about it?”

“what it’ll look like. where we’ll have it. what we’ll wear.”

he gave you a sideways look.

“…you care about that?”

“of course i do.”

you plucked a daisy from the grass and twirled it between your fingers.

“i know this wasn’t either of our choices, but… if we have to do it, i want it to be beautiful.”

he watched the way your fingers moved over the petals. the way your eyes softened when you talked about beauty like it was a language. like it was something worth believing in.

“…i thought you’d want something huge. full court. big ballgown. glitter.”

you wrinkled your nose. “i want music. and food. and flowers. but not the rest.”

“what color flowers?”

you blinked. “what?”

“for the wedding.”

you hesitated.

“…pink. and gold. maybe some cream roses. and sunlilies.”

he nodded slowly.

“sounds like you.”

your heart did a little skip.

you picked at the hem of your sleeve. “what about you? what would you wear?”

he shrugged. “black.”

“obviously.”

“…maybe red. just a little.”

you smiled. “and the cake?”

“it better be big.”

“you’re so romantic.”

he smirked again. “i’m hungry.”

you both laughed.

and then it quieted.

not awkward. just still.

you looked at him, the way the light kissed his skin, the way the shadows danced under his lashes. and softly,

“i think i’m glad it’s you.”

he turned to you.

eyes wide.

unsure.

“…what?”

“i’m glad it’s you,” you said again. “i thought it would be someone who didn’t care. someone who’d pretend. but you… you don’t pretend. and you do care. you just don’t know how to show it yet.”

he stared at you.

and for once — no walls. no fire. just something raw and quiet in his eyes.

“you really think that?”

“i do.”

a long pause.

then he reached out — slow, like he was afraid you’d disappear — and brushed a petal from your shoulder.

his fingers lingered.

“…you’re too good for me.”

you smiled, soft and steady.

“lucky for you, i don’t believe that.”

and in the hush that followed, he leaned in just enough for your shoulders to touch again. for your knees to knock. for your hearts to start syncing up — not by force, but by choice.

and neither of you said another word.

you just watched the sky together, side by side, under the warmth of a sun that had finally stopped feeling so far away.

author’s note: hello! i hope u like it.. i was high as ever writing this and its been in my drafts since feb so sorry for grammar mistakes!