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“Dude, stop, stop,” she half-gasps, and he pulls away from her, face tinted carmine, his breath coming in short pants. She blinks. “Where the hell did you learn to kiss like that?”
He blinks, cocks his eyebrow. “Seriously? That’s what you want to ask me now? Just when we're making out for the first time?"
She huffs, flicks him across the cheek with his jack. “Genuinely. This ain't going to happen again, you know?"
Kaminari - Denki now , her mind supplies - stares at her for a moment, vaguely dumbfounded. “I mean, rude. I might be the greatest kisser of all time."
He frowns, and she feels the mood start to plummet, curses her mouth and the ability to put her boot in it. "You really want to know?"
Despite herself, she nods, resists the urge to lean back in and capture his lips once again. They’re swollen, stained with the soft magenta of her own mouth.
He considers, then shakes his head and leans back into her space, drags his knuckles across the soft flesh of her neck and ear. She cannot smother the shiver at his touch as he nibbles on the edge of the lobe.
“Guess, and I’ll tell you,” he breathes with a chuckle.
“Was it Shiozaki?” she asks a few weeks later. They’re on cleaning duty in the classroom, chairs pushed to one side so they can mop the floors. Outside, the rain lashes against the windows, the rhythmic pitter-patter akin to gunshots.
Denki wrestles with the refuse bag, looks at her in confusion. “Huh?”
“Was it Shiozaki you learned to kiss from?” she repeats, and clarity crosses his expression.
“Ohhhhh,” he says with comprehension, then he grins. “Why Kyoka Jiro, I didn’t realise my lips were still on your mind. I thought it was a one-and-done deal!"
She scoffs, lobs a piece of chalk at him, catches him square in the forehead. He protests, swats at the mark she left, nails dusted white as he picks at the fragments that have scattered across his hairline.
“Ow,” he half-squarks, face painted with an adorable confusion. She snorts at him and turns her back, ignores the flash in his eyes.
“You wish,” she mutters, as she returns her attention to the parquet and tries to fight the rising blush in her cheeks.
“Maybe it was a guy,” she muses, flicking her plectrums across her bedroom. “Maybe he doesn’t want to talk about it like that?”
Momo frowns from where she is perched, legs folded on the edge of the duvet, pillows propped behind her. The hem of her turtleneck sweater has ridden up to her belly button. Kyoka wants to tell her, but amid her current yellow-haired troubles, does not want to deny herself the pleasure.
“I don’t think Kaminari would be embarrassed to talk about boys,” she comments absently. “He strikes me as the type of boy who likes to brag about whatever… catch he’s made.”
“Gee, thanks,” she mumbles, and Momo’s expression falls.
“You know I didn’t mean it like that,” she hurriedly says, and she does. Her friend does not have a bad bone in her body. “It’s just… you can’t deny he likes to brag.”
He does, has never been shy with the open pursuit of flirtatiousness across their first few years of school. She wonders if he has talked about her with his pals, the same way she talks to her closest girlfriends about him.
“No,” she murmurs, flicks another plectrum against the wall. “I guess not."
Momo rearranges herself. Another inch of skin flashes itself, and Kyoka tries to make it seem as if she is not ogling her. It has been a month since she last made out with anyone - Denki - and she thinks her hormones are starting to go stir-crazy with her libido.
"You need to talk with him if you want something more," she tells her patiently. "Kaminari's sweet, but if you're going to give him signals you're fine with kiss-and-tell, that's what he's going to run with."
She knows, but she doesn't know how yet. There's a fine line between friends who occasionally snog each other to relieve the tension and something more.
It's a stupid pre-situationship, and she needs to take control of her damn feelings, ignore the sting of butterflies that sing to the jealousy of a past she does not know in her heart.
"Yeah," she mutters, tosses her last pick onto the top of her amplifier. "I know."
“You and Shinso really get on, don’t you?” she asks. The midwinter snow has started to settle, leaves and dead blossom crunchy with frost underfoot as they trudge across campus towards the bike sheds.
“Well, duh,” Denki says. “Have you met the guy? He’s a riot!”
“Don’t let Kirishima hear you say that,” she quips and he sticks his tongue out on her. Flakes fall onto it and dissipate like wisps of pure-white cotton candy.
“But yeah, of course I do!” he continues. “I mean, I like to think I get on with everyone.”
“Have you kissed him?”
She blurts it without thinking, too fast to filter her own thoughts. He stops dead in his tracks, and she goes two steps further, spins to face him.
Denki’s expression is funny, caught somewhere between surprise and shock. It twists his brow and his lips in a way that sends Kyoka’s stomach plummeting ten stories.
“Are you…” he trails off, and she realises it’s hurt - genuine hurt, rough and raw, coarse in the manner that it lines his face, casts it into shadow. “Are you still hung up on that?”
She swallows. “No, Denki, I - ”
He says nothing, simply turns on his heel and heads in the opposite direction, hands stuck into his pockets, shoulders tense.
Kyoka feels like the smallest woman in the world.
The knock on her door comes late in the evening. She turns her head listlessly, glances at the face of her alarm clock. She opens her mouth to call out, tell them it’s too late, but then her ears prick up.
Footsteps shuffle outside her door. She would recognise that gait anyway.
She throws herself from the mattress, almost trips over her feet in the scramble to reach the handle. She wrenches it open with such force that pain rockets up her shoulder, all the way to the socket.
He stands there, hand raised to knock, startled face slowly regressing into regret.
“Hey,” he starts. “I’m sorry, that was - ”
She cuts him off with her lips, smashes them against his as she loops her jack around his neck. His response is instantaneous, slanted and slightly open to meet her own, and she moans against him.
They tumble backwards into her room, twisting so she can kick the door shut behind her, and then he’s back in her space, and she claws at his body, nails dragged across his scalp and between his shoulder blades, desperate to drink every inch of him in.
Kyoka wonders if she should stop, say her own apology, tell him he has nothing to be sorry for, but her own neuroses are silenced when his hand slips beneath her camisole and finds her breast, a half-choked gasp wrenched from her lips.
“Shit,” she manages, feels the groan torn from her larynx as he manipulates the soft flesh, rotates his palm across her nipple, feels it harden to an instant point beneath his touch. She is embarrassingly wet already, desire surging through her navel.
She tries to distract herself by biting down on his lip, dragging an appreciative murmur from him. He tastes of copper and chocolate mint, dark and stormy in ways that she cannot bring to deny herself any longer.
“You’re so fucking hot,” she moans into his mouth, hands clawing against the waistband of his sweatpants, fingers tangled in the drawstring.
“No, you,” he bites back, a low murmur with the promise of something more, and then suddenly she finds herself hoisted, thrown back onto her bed in a move both wildly undignified and hopelessly erotic.
He grabs the flimsy material of her briefs and tears - genuinely rips, as if they were made from rice paper - them in two, flings the remnants over his shoulder in a move that sends yet another bolt of arousal straight to her core. She offers a protest, about to complain that she’s had them for years, but before she can kill the mood, he has hooked his thumbs over his own bottoms and whipped them off too.
There's no underwear beneath for him. He hangs hot, hard and heavy, and she moves to reach out for him. Instead, he plants his hand across her sternum, pushes her further back onto the bedspread and kneels before her, head between her legs and ankles hooked over his shoulders.
“I’ll buy you a new set for Christmas,” he tells her, practically growls, and then he dives below and all Kyoka can see is stars as he buries his face in her pussy.
“No more,” she tells him afterwards, slumped bonelessly on her back, chest heaving with exertion . Her breasts are rubbed raw and red, still splattered with his come; below, his cock sits half-flaccid against his thigh, still dripping onto her sheets.
“No more what?” he asks, still panting for breath.
“No more about how you learned to kiss,” she manages. “I don’t have to know, I don’t need to know. All I want is right here.”
He barks out a chuckle, a sound that’s half-strangled and oddly fragile. She can see unshed tears pooled at the corner of his eyes, wonders if her own dance like liquid in the half-light.
“That’s the kind of corny shit I’d say,” he tells her, and she feels the grin creep across her face. “Apology accepted, for what it’s worth.”
She never even told him sorry, but as he turns and drags his fingers lazily around her belly button, starts to paint patterns with his ejaculation across her skin, she knows her actions have spoken louder than words.
They’re clearing out his room together, packing up the cardboard boxes with all his junk - “Treasures!” he protests intermittently - before they move out for the final time, wave goodbye to UA and Heights Alliance.
She’s under his bed, finding misbegotten sheets of homework and crumpled posters when she comes across a teddy plush. It’s old and faded, patches of fur rubbed down to the material beneath.
“Hey,” she asks as she holds it up to show him, dust bunnies tumbling onto the floor. “Who’s this?”
He blinks, and then his face pales for a moment before it flushes an almighty scarlet. “N-nobody! Nothing at all!”
She chuckles. “Dude, you’ve seen my stuffies. I’m not going to take the piss out of you for having one yourself. C’mon, what’s his name?”
Denki appears to be caught in some kind of internal battle to either leap across the room and swipe the plush in question, or flee the scene entirely. His jaw works soundlessly, and then he sighs, shoulders slumped.
“It’s Mister Bear,” he mumbles, still bright-red. “He was my… practice friend.”
She blinks. She has pretty much perfect hearing, but every now and again, she needs to hear somebody repeat what she thought they said. “Come again?”
“He was my practice friend,” Denki repeats, looking anyway but her. He groans, and drags a hand across his face. “I guess I’ve told you now, huh.”
Practice friend? What the hell was he on -
Oh.
OH.
“Oh,” she says, then looks back at the teddy in her hand. Its mouth definitely appears to be more worn than other areas.
A thought crosses her mind, and she holds it out at arm-length. “You didn’t, y’know, practice anything else on - ”
“Nononononononono!” he half-shrieks, snatching it from her grasp with a scandalised look on his face.
She can’t help it. A snort escapes, then a giggle, and before she knows it, she’s rolling around on the rug, full-body laughs wracking her frame.
Denki looks particularly unamused above her. “It’s not that funny, Ky…”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” she hiccups, but that sets off another round. There’s salt tracks streaming down her face by the time she finally regains composure. “Genuinely, dude, there’s nothing bad about it.”
“Isn’t there now,” he says, blush still magnificent, but a small grin has creeped across his features too. He extends a hand and she lets herself be hauled back to her feet.
“No, seriously,” she says, brushing down her jeans. “It’s kind of weird but kind of cute at the same time, y’know?”
He groans theatrically, and she’s about to start laughing again, but he cuts her off, leans in for a kiss that’s unexpectedly searing and takes her breath away.
“Guess it’s good that I’ve got someone weirder and cuter now then,” he says with a wink. She snorts, then leans back to return the favour again.