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It isn't that Atsuhiro has never kissed anyone before; he's kissed plenty of people, in fact.
He's just never kissed Aizawa Shota before.
He isn't entirely sure what he'd been expecting when he'd challenged him to put his money where his mouth was and wipe the smug grin off his face like Shota claimed he could, but it definitely wasn't a kiss.
Not that he's complaining.
He's vaguely aware of the fact that Shota is a pro-hero and a teacher at UA while he's a wanted member of the League of Villains, which meant not only is it wrong morally, but it's stupid and never going to work out.
He's far more conscious, though, of the way Shota tilts his chin up to brush their lips against each other, of the way his own hands have instinctively snagged handfuls of his black jumpsuit and dragged him closer, of the way long fingers slide into his hair as their lips press together more firmly. He's hyper aware of the slight scrape of a beard against his face and of how Shota's lips are dry and chapped against his own, of how he tastes of coffee and something slightly sweet that only makes him want to taste more. He's entranced by the way his bottom lip is caught between Shota's teeth and tugged ever so slightly, by how he has to suppress a shudder at the action. He's hypnotized by the way Shota's free hand cups his jaw like he's a fragile thing, like he's made of glass and not a criminal on the run, callused fingers gentle against smooth skin.
He's absolutely certain that he's addicted to the way their breath mingles when they part, foreheads resting against each other, slightly out of breath and panting for air.
"What the fuck," Atsuhiro whispers after a long moment, tightening his grip on Shota's jumpsuit, "you kissed me."
Shota snorts, eyes closed, and Atsuhiro has to bite back a whimper when his thumb oh-so-lovingly rubs his cheek, swiping along the skin there as he cups his face.
"Yeah. And you kissed back." He opens his eyes. "Looks like I won, then. You're not so smug anymore."
Atsuhiro sputters, has half a mind to shove Shota away from him out of spite and pettiness and mild annoyance, but he's caught by the idea of possibly kissing him some more, so he only scowls as the tips of his ears burn.
"You…you asshole! You kissed me!" He hisses, pulling Shota closer by his hero outfit. Shota lets him, and he tries hard not to get caught up in what that means—(does he want to be closer, too? Is he craving more of Atsuhiro the way Atsuhiro is already longing for him?)—and glares at him with no heat behind his eyes. "You can't just- you piece of shit, you can't just kiss me!"
Shota opens his mouth to speak.
"Do it again." Atsuhiro demands. The corner of Shota's lips twitch upwards, then he's leaning in again, his mouth on Atsuhiro's, and he melts into him, shoulders sagging. He relinquishes his grip on Shota's clothes, looping his arms loosely around his neck instead, and pink colors his cheeks at the pleased noise Shota makes against his lips.
His eyes are closed when they part this time, and he lets out a shaky exhale, flexing his fingers behind Shota's head.
Finally, finally, Atsuhiro opens his eyes and lets go of him, leaning back as Shota's hands drop away from him. They're still close, but they're not touching anymore, and Atsuhiro can breathe mostly evenly again.
"Shit." He runs a hand through his brown curls, flustered, then shakes his head. "Okay, just- what the fuck was that?" He questions, demands, pleads.
Shota puts his hands in the pockets of his jumpsuit.
"A kiss, or two."
Atsuhiro considers slapping him, but Shota continues before Atsuhiro comments on his smartassery.
"To be more specific, ah, I kissed you, because I wanted to kiss you, and have been wanting to kiss you for a while." In between glancing away awkwardly, Shota is watching Atsuhiro carefully for his reaction. He feels naked and briefly ponders if it'd be rude to put on one of his masks right now.
"You…"
"I have romantic feelings for you." Shota confirms. He's slouching, slightly ducking his head into his scarf, a very slight crease in his brow revealing his anxiety. The desire to kiss that little crease of worry and wipe away his anxieties nearly consumes Atsuhiro.
"Oh." He says brilliantly.
"Oh." Shota agrees.
Atsuhiro blinks at him, then crosses his arms.
"It'd never work."
"I know."
"You're a hero and I'm a villain."
"I know."
"I'm bad at this. I lie, I hide things, I steal, I've hurt people, I'm untrustworthy and unreliable. I run from my problems."
"I know."
Atsuhiro believes him.
"Kiss me again? Please?" He asks, softer. Shota's shoulders relax a fraction and he doesn't pull away when Atsuhiro steps close to him, close enough their chests are touching.
"Okay." It's hard to tell who's indulging who when their mouths meet, and Atsuhiro is pretty sure they're both trying to pour everything they feel about this into it—neither of them are good at vocalizing their feelings, something something actions speaking louder than words, Atsuhiro doesn’t really care. The way Shota's hands find his own and gently squeeze them, the way their fingers interlace with each other, the way they're leaning into the other now, though; it's enough, it says enough.