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No one talks about how hard kissing is.
Sure, Denki’s had the conversation about the birds and the bees (on multiple counts too—the one with Aizawa, Midnight, and the banana is a hard one to forget). He’s been privy to chick-flick movie nights with Ashido and Hagakure, an unfortunate witness to the beginning of Bakugou and Kirishima’s relationship, and on more than one occasion, the law enforcement against public indecency.
It’s not an unfamiliar concept, nor is he a stranger to a good makeout session: he’s almost eighteen, after all. He’s no school prince, but he has been in a relationship or two. He enjoys it too—the connection and the sweetness of someone’s mouth and the humming anticipation of something more.
But sitting on the kitchen counter, watching Shouto as he stirs their mac and cheese in the pot, the idea of kissing suddenly feels horribly foreign.
It’s not that he doesn’t want to kiss his boyfriend. Shouto has the prettiest lips Denki’s ever seen—kinda like if peach skin became a pair of human lips—and he’s written mental fanfics about how their first kiss would go.
“What are you thinking about?” Shouto looks over from the stove, wooden spoon in hand. It’s tipped with residue cheese and bits of macaroni noodle, and the whole thing looks surprisingly intact (Shouto’s yet to cook a meal without burning something or another, and after three years of dorm living, Denki’s hopeful that this 3 a.m. mac and cheese attempt will be the one).
Denki kicks his feet against the cabinet thoughtfully. They haven’t been dating for long—going on a month now, if he recalls correctly, but it’s not like they’re strangers. They’ve been friends for the last three years and he’s pretty sure Shouto won’t spay him over asking about kissing. Probably.
(As Ashido’s always told him: nothing ventured is nothing gained. And Denki’s never not been a pioneer.)
“You ever think about kissing?” he asks, and Shouto drops the spoon. “Aw, I was gonna ask if I could lick it when you were done.”
“Sorry,” Shouto says, bending at the waist to collect it. “I—You startled me, that’s all.”
Denki raises his hands in surrender, smiling sheepishly. “Yeah, that’s my bad. My fault for dropping that on you, all of a sudden. I was just curious, but you don’t have to answer if you don’t wanna, or—”
“I have.”
He blinks rapidly as Shouto pads over to him, nudging himself in between Denki’s thighs. Since their first year, Shouto’s been practicing looking friendly to kids—kind smiles, gentle gaze, the works. Class 3-A has made it into a game: every so often, they’d hit Shouto with “smile!” and for every bad reaction, he’d have to buy post-training snacks. He’s gotten quite good at his reaction time, so they’ve been treating Shouto more often instead, and Denki’s more or less accustomed to his boyfriend’s instantaneous smile.
But there’s a difference between those smiles and Denki’s smile. His smile for the kids and the general public plays into his charming ‘princely’ stereotype: bright eyes and a gentle, upturn of his lips. He’s every part the perfect Prince Charming of Japan’s dreams, but the smile that haunts Denki’s waking moments is crooked, as if he’s playing the wily hunter leading the protagonist off path instead.
It’s this smile now that crescents over Shouto’s mouth, and Denki locks his legs around his boyfriend’s back, tugging him in close.
“You have?”
Shouto nods, his eyes glittering. Between the two of them, Denki’s the one charged with more electricity, but he feels his skin arc with it as Shouto reaches up to thumb over his cheek.
“Every day, Denki. It’s distracting, really, how badly I want to kiss you.”
Denki grins, leaning into his touch. “How often do you think about it?”
He gets a noncommittal shrug, but everything Shouto does is anything but. His fingers rub circles against his cheek, and his free hand traces down to Denki’s thigh, pulling him ever closer.
“In class,” Shouto hums, “When you’re cracking jokes with Kirishima and Sero. During training, whenever you’re sparring against Jirou and Momo. When you feed me pieces of takoyaki at lunch. Whenever we study in my room and you’re tapping your pencil against your mouth.”
His mouth is dry as he feels himself leaning closer, his heart stuttering like the wingbeat of a hummingbird. “I do that?”
“A lot,” his boyfriend confirms. “Every time. Drives me crazy, Denki.”
“Sorry,” he mumbles and there’s a blush creeping down his neck and to the tips of his fingers to his toes like hot chocolate. “I’ll stop.”
His heart all but stops when Shouto’s fingertip grazes his lips. “Don’t. I like everything you do. I like seeing you smile. I like seeing you study, and watching you fight, and I—” He shakes his head, but when he meets Denki’s gaze again, he’s nothing but utterly, impetuously fond. “You wanna know one more time?”
They’re only centimeters away. Denki can feel Shouto’s breath waft across his lips and he doesn’t think he has to guess. But—
“When?” he whispers, and Shouto’s eyes—bright and warm and gentle, always so gentle—are all he can see. “Tell me.”
“Right now.”
The last thing he thinks is, god, my fanfics are gonna be so accurate after this, and then they’re kissingkissingkissing. Shouto’s mouth is warm and sweet against his, tasting faintly of mac-and-cheese and it should be gross, but Denki finds himself deepening it, craving it. Shouto’s hands rub circles against his back, and Denki tightens his legs around his boyfriend as he licks into his mouth, sighing as Shouto’s smoky fragrance—
Wait. Smoke?
He breaks the kiss and Shouto blinks up at him, dazed and so lovely. “Denki? Are you—”
BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!
Denki kicks off the counter with a yelp as the sprinklers start raining on them, and Shouto falls back with a startled “oof.”
“What the—”
“Shouto! The stove is on fire—”
Shouto whips back towards the stove, where, indeed, the pot of mac-and-cheese sat, engulfed in flames. He looks back at Denki, his eyes the size of saucers, his cheeks flushed, and his mouth (pretty, red, and swollen. He did that. He did that, and his heart swells three sizes) open.
“Denki—”
Denki hauls himself to his feet, heart pounding. “I’ll get water, can you turn the stove off and freeze—”
“TODOROKI! I’LL FUCKING KILL YOU!”
(The stove is beyond ruined. They’re outside in the cold past three in the morning, while the teachers put out the fire, and the fire alarm doesn’t stop blaring until at least four. Shouto is getting whaled on by Bakugou, Sero, Uraraka, and Ashido, but in the midst of it all, their eyes meet and Denki feels fifteen and in love, all over again.)
(No one gets back to bed until nearly four thirty, but maybe, just maybe, a little part of him thinks it’s all worth it.)
(From Shouto’s enthusiastic greeting at his door the next morning, he’s pretty sure his boyfriend agrees too.)
***
Denki finds out the hard way that apparently, kissing isn’t an endeavor for everyone.
“They were kissing!” he exclaims, waving his hands. He throws himself onto the couch next to Shouto, draping himself dramatically across his boyfriend’s crocheting. Shouto’s hook doesn’t stop moving, but his arm props over Denki’s chest: a surefire prompt for him to keep talking. “Bakugou and Kirishima were making out in the laundry room!”
“Aren’t they always making out?” Shouto queries. The crocheted blanket he’s working on pools over Denki’s hips and off the couch. “What’s so special about today?”
“Nothing, but they’re kissing. Emphasis on the k-i-s-s-i-n-g part.”
“First comes love,” Shouto intones dryly, “Then comes marriage…”
“Then comes Kiri with the baby carriage—okay, but seriously, babe.” Denki flips onto his stomach, pouting up at him. “Bakugou explodes shit with his hands and Kirishima can turn into a mountain, and you’re telling me they have an easier time kissing than us?”
Shouto puts down his crocheting thoughtfully, and Denki knows he’s got him invested. “Well, Kirishima can withstand Bakugou’s explosions and all.”
“Okayyy, but doesn’t he like? Tear up Bakugou’s mouth? And what if Kirishima doesn’t harden in time? What if Bakugou explodes his mouth off?”
“I thought Bakugou’s quirk was only in his hands—”
“Objection, your honor!” Denki stretches a hand out behind him, and his boyfriend pats his forehead lightly. “What if Bakugou buries his hands in Kirishima’s hair? Or holds his cheeks while they kiss?”
Shouto taps his chin. “Notion abstained. Also, you have oddly descriptive headcanons of our friends kissing. Also, why are we talking about Bakugou and Kirishima kissing?”
“Thank you, your honor. I witnessed it in live time. And it’s because!” Denki sits up to prod Shouto’s chest while crossing his legs. “They have no problems kissing, clearly! So we shouldn’t either!”
His boyfriend blinks slowly at him, much like a sleepy cat. “Well, I guess we can go ask them for kissing tips. I think Bakugou might try to blow up my head, but Kirishima might be more open to—”
A finger presses to his lips, and Denki shakes his head, laughing all the while. “Shou, I’m not talking about asking for tips.”
“Oh.” Shouto’s tongue peeks out of his mouth absentmindedly, licking at Denki’s finger. Denki doesn’t recoil, only poking at his boyfriend’s teeth lightly. “So, what are you proposing?”
He grins broadly, propping his hands on Shouto’s thighs as he leans in. “Thoughts on kissing practice? That’s the only way we’ll beat them at kissing.”
There’s a flicker of a rare smile, curving across his boyfriend’s face, and then a hand slides against the nape of Denki’s neck. A sweet breath wafts across his cheeks, smelling faintly of green tea, and Shouto’s eyes twinkle like twin stars.
“I like the way you think.”
Shouto thumbs over his Adam’s apple, drawing him in closer, and Denki’s all too happy to comply. He meets him halfway, their lips ghosting against each other’s in the barest breath of a kiss. Electricity skitters off Denki’s mouth, sending his nerves abuzz like a lightning volt, and likewise, he feels the temperature around them alternate in spikes of hot and cold.
“Okay?” Denki whispers. His hand finds Shouto’s, and his pinky finger taps lightly against a frost-covered knuckle. “We doing okay?”
His boyfriend gives a jerky nod, and his touch is cool against the flame of Denki’s skin. “Another one?”
There’s no point in asking, not when Denki’s already leaning in. This one is more solid than the last, more tangible. His mouth lands squarely on Shouto’s and it’s a real kiss this time, their mouths slotting together like two puzzle pieces. He has to clench his hand tight to stop the static electricity alight in his fingertips, as Shouto tentatively nibbles at his bottom lip.
God might be real. If belief is what it takes to get Shouto to kiss him like this, Denki might actually consider going to the shrine every day.
He reaches up, cupping Shouto’s cheek to pull him in deeper, to slide his tongue against the open slit of Shouto’s mouth experimentally. There’s the faint hint of green tea on his lips, with the aftertaste of peppermint chasing not too far behind, and he nudges himself in deeper. Does Shouto taste like this all around? He wonders if his boyfriend would let him find out.
The hand at the back of Denki’s neck twists into his hair and he whimpers into Shouto’s mouth. That too, gets swallowed by the sheer heat of their tongues, dancing in the rhythm of their quickening pulse, and Denki wants—he wants—
“The fuck are you doing?”
Denki rips away from Shouto at the same time Shouto pushes him backwards onto the couch. His back hits something solid and cold, but he barely notices, in favor of shooting a glare at one Bakugou Katsuki.
“Dude! A little privacy here?” Denki protests, mildly irritated.
Like, he didn’t interrupt his and Kirishima’s makeout session earlier! What gives? He shouldn’t have any bad karma leftover.
Bakugou arches an eyebrow. Stares at the both of them incredulously, like Shouto’s grown a third head and Denki’s gone bald. “No, really,” he says flatly. “What the fuck are you doing?”
“Uh…kissing?” Shouto offers. “Like you and Kirishima do?”
There’s a derisive snort, followed by the infamous roll of eyes. “Right, yeah. Sure you are. Making out on the damn couch without a care in the world.”
Okay, Denki’s more or less used to Bakugou’s snide commentary, but that’s over the line.
“Hypocrite!” he accuses, pointing a finger (a very cold finger. He wonders if Shouto accidentally left his tablet under one of the pillows or something). “You and Kirishima make out all the time!”
“Yeah, well.” Bakugou folds his arms, staring him down, unimpressed. “At least we're not fuckin’ putting the couch through the goddamn meat freezer.”
Denki opens his mouth. Pauses. Looks down at the couch, then back at Shouto, who’s holding his frosty pale hand with a hint of sheepishness written across his face.
“Ah,” is all he can say.
“Yeah, ‘ah.’ The fuck are we supposed to do with an ice cube for a couch?” Bakugou demands. “Just ‘cuz you like grindin’ up on Frosty the Snowman, doesn’t mean the rest of us wanna.”
“Frosty the Snowman?” Denki chokes, at the same time Shouto buries his face in his hands.
“I don’t suppose you wanna help us out, Bakugou?” Shouto mutters, mostly to himself. They both already know the answer though, and it’s only punctuated by their classmate’s snickering as he turns around and heads back down the hall.
“Can’t believe you losers suck at kissing,” Bakugou jeers, his cackles echoing from the hallway. “Prez Glasses is gonna ban your asses from making out in the common space.”
“You’re just jealous cuz our kisses are hotter than yours!” Denki yells back. It goes largely unheard though; he hears the ding of the elevator closing and then Bakugou’s gone.
The frozen couch still remains though, and Shouto’s hand—the heated one—reaches over to squeeze his fingertips gently.
“Sorry,” he mumbles. “Didn’t mean to. I just—you—” His ears go bright, stinking red, and Denki’s heart swells three sizes hot and sweet in his ribcage.
“Yeah? Keep going, Shou, I wanna hear.” He nudges Shouto, and immediately recoils from a tempered flare of heat. “Hey!”
“I didn’t do anything.” Shouto blinks at him innocently, his eyes widened and demure. “Must’ve been your imagination.”
“You—!”
***
Shouto thinks he’s got a hand on kissing now, give or take a few attempts.
He very rarely loses control of his quirk, and of his feelings, but since Denki, well. Most of his well practiced control has gone right out the window. It’s odd, being the one to lose his handle on his quirk, when he’s spent his whole life working on their constraints.
But when it comes to Denki, it’s suddenly so much easier to open his palms and let everything—his ice and his fire and his heart—go free.
“For a New Year’s party, you’re looking quite thoughtfully constipated,” Denki hums cheerfully. He squeezes Shouto’s hand, and a volt of electricity zips between their entwined fingers. “Penny for your thoughts?”
“I hear new sentences from you that I’ve never heard before,” Shouto tells him earnestly, eliciting a full bodied giggle from his partner.
“I live to serve.” Denki gives a half-assed bow, swinging their hands with a flourish, before he props his head up on Shouto’s shoulder. “Okay, but seriously. What gives? You look like you’re at a funeral instead of a New Year’s celebration.”
“THE CLOCK!” Uraraka hollers suddenly. She’s standing atop a table, a soju bottle in hand with Ashido and Tsuyu cheering her on at her feet. She’s flushed and red, but the gleam in her eyes is oddly coherent as she points at the clock. “We’re ten seconds from the new year, guys!”
On the other end of the room, Yaomomo chugs the rest of her mug, before slamming it onto the table. She’s a little shaky on her feet as she thrusts a fist into the air. “TEN!”
“Nothing,” Shouto says. “Promise. I was—”
“NINE!” From behind them, Shouji’s popping party crackers with Hagakure and Sero, with Shinsou unenthusiastically blowing a kazoo.
“You were what?” Denki turns fully towards him, looping his arms around his neck. “Can’t hear you!”
“EIGHT!” Kirishima’s shirt is off for some reason, and he’s spinning it like a windmill overhead. Sitting crosslegged on the floor, Bakugou’s legs are kicked up onto an end table, and he’s scrolling through his phone without a care in the world.
Shouto leans in close, his breath ghosting across the shell of Denki’s ear. He hasn’t had much to drink, but he knows Denki did—he’d seen his boyfriend taking shots with Uraraka and Ashido earlier that evening. Still, he looks miraculously sober, despite the full body blush that covers him from the tips of his ears down.
“Just thinking,” he says into his ear. “About us.”
“SEVEN!” Jirou is dancing with Kouda, birds chirping on her shoulder as she twirls the other boy on the floor. She catches Shouto’s eye then, grinning broadly and winking.
Denki’s mouth is hot against his cheek and when he pulls back to look at Shouto, he’s smiling brightly from ear to ear. In spite of all the illuminations that Hagakure so painstakingly hung earlier that afternoon, Shouto’s not quite sure he’s seen anything brighter than Kaminari Denki.
“Me too,” Denki tells him. His hands spark in Shouto’s, shooting little surges of electricity into his fingers. “I’m always thinking about us. About you.”
“SIX!” Iida is straightening his tie, peering over at Hatsume next to him. She’s talking animatedly, her eyes alight with innovation, and Shouto’s fondly reminded of his own little shooting star, and how he’d talked his way right into his heart.
“I’m grateful for you,” Shouto says softly. “For loving me as you do.”
“FIVE!”
Denki’s lips upturn, and his fingers brush away a stray lock of hair from Shouto’s face. “I don’t know how to love you any less.”
“FOUR!”
“I used to wish for you, did you know?” Shouto traces Denki’s jawline, near reverent, “Asked for a little light in my life, and then you showed up. You gave me the sun, and everything in it.”
“THREE!”
His eyes are luminous, as golden as the Midas touch. It’s fitting, considering how Denki’s touch turns every moment of Shouto’s life into spun gold.
“Shouto, can I—?”
“TWO!”
“Yes. Always.”
“ONE!”
He doesn’t hesitate, pulling Denki in and—
“HAPPY NEW YEAR!”
The room explodes in light and longing and rhythm: a rising crescendo as Shouto’s world burns with all the brilliance of a million megawatt city. His veins crackle with electricity, surging like they’re the eye of the storm. Even as the power goes out around them, and the gleeful cacophony rises to a startled, horrified shriek, Shouto feels like they’re the protagonists of the world.