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Denki has his first religious experience on a random Thursday night in his kitchen, Hanta hitched up on his counter with their heels kicking against the cabinets.
Bandaid above their knee, hair on their legs save for a patch high on their thigh where black ink resides – too short Chargebolt shorts hide the curve of a tape dispenser Denki’s never seen before. Crooked teeth roll over a little pink umbrella stolen from one of Mina’s drinks, and Denki’s officially distracted.
He has Midoriya and Bakugou to thank for the shorts – three drinks in and they were roughhousing again, a stray elbow sending Hanta’s drink tumbling into their lap. Maybe he dug his own grave offering dry clothes at his place, but Denki lives walking distance from that particular pub, and he’s a great friend, thank you – he couldn’t let Hanta ride home in wet pants.
He sort of regrets, now, telling Hanta to grab whatever.
They lean back on their hands, nudge at Denki’s thigh with their toes when he shuts the oven. “Dude. How many times do you think Mido’s gonna call me to apologize when he sobers up.”
The contact wakes Denki’s quirk under his skin, faint static, and he sort of thinks he deserves an apology, too. He laughs. “Fuck, man. Text him now so he wakes up knowing it’s cool.”
Hanta’s head bobs, and they fumble their phone out of their pocket. Long fingers curled around the case send sparks to Denki’s ribcage, and he twists his hands in his shirt to hide the twitching.
He thinks he can see Hanta’s dick through the shorts.
Hanta hums, hooking an absent ankle around the back of Denki’s thighs, and Denki allows himself to be led into the space they make with a soft, involuntary sound.
It doesn’t matter how many times they’ve done this — Denki’s nerves still won’t catch on. Tentative, he rests his hands just above Hanta’s knees, sharp warmth flaring in his gut when Hanta spreads their legs wider and sighs. Their other hand twists into his hair, and Denki knocks his forehead against their collarbone a little helplessly. His next exhale hits bare skin, and Hanta hums.
Even being this close to Hanta flips a switch, turns him into something that wants to sink into their skin and live there.
“How much time do we have,” Hanta murmurs, locking their phone and nosing into Denki’s hair, and Denki rubs up their thighs because he needs to, fingers curling into soft fabric. Hanta’s case clicks against the counter, and their hand is warm where it slides over his shoulder blades.
Denki lifts his head, and Hanta plucks the umbrella from their mouth. “Uh. Like, fifteen minutes.”
“You wanna…?”
Fuck.
“Yeah.”
Hanta kisses him, and Denki leans into it so heavily they have to steady him, thighs locked around his hips and a hand at his waist. Denki’s hands slip higher, and the bare, slick skin he finds makes his breath hitch.
“Fuck, you’re wet,” Denki breathes, and it comes out like an accusation because it sort of is one. Hanta laughs, tugging his lower lip between their teeth and releasing.
“Your fault, dude. How am I supposed to be cool when you look like that.”
“Me? What about these fucking shorts, man?”
“Thought you might like them.”
Hanta hooks an arm around his shoulders, helps Denki slide them down their thighs, and fuck, it’s been too long. Just the sight of Hanta’s cunt has him lightheaded.
“I like them.” Denki hooks long legs over his shoulders, kneeling fast, digging his teeth into soft skin. “You should keep them.”
“Shut up, just — shit.”
Hanta’s warm, soft under his tongue and around his ears, and this is the shit Denki dreams about. Late at night, early in the morning, in the middle of shifts when he absolutely shouldn’t be. The first time he got into Hanta’s pants, he spent the entirety of the day after getting chewed out by Jirou for being distracted — he learned to get over it, but he hasn’t learning to stop wanting.
He can’t help it. He joked his entire high school career that Hanta was his soulmate, but every time he gets them under him he starts to wonder if it was ever a joke in the first place.
Hanta pants into open air, arches into his touch, and Denki missed the taste of them so much they have to wind their fingers in his hair and tug so he’ll pay attention to their dick.
“Denks,” Hanta gasps, and yeah, this is better than any dream. His imagination could never measure up to the real thing, the way Hanta sounds when he sucks, the feel of trembling thighs when he pets over soft skin and teases a finger up to the second knuckle.
He can’t quite bring himself to admit it yet, but he wishes these moments were a little less alcohol-infused.
Not that he feels all that drunk. The weakness of his knees can easily be blamed on proximity to the prettiest person Denki knows, and he rarely feels as aware as he does with his head between Hanta’s thighs.
He loses himself like that — drowns himself in sweet sounds, soft skin and a wet little cunt. Having Hanta like this never fails to feel like a gift. As far as he’s aware, Hanta never does this with anyone else — never gives in to the countless people buying them drinks, or the eyes that don’t leave his skin. Week after week, Hanta comes home with Denki.
When he’s lucky, it ends like this.
Hanta scratches over his scalp, and Denki knows, by now, what it feels like when they’re close. It’s in the twitch of their cunt, the grip of their fingers, the constant tense and release of strong, tanned thighs.
He’ll be jerking off to this shit for days — wake up hard and aching and give in, he knows, to the thrill of closing his teeth around Hanta’s name. A breathy, broken sound spills past their lips, and Denki sinks into it, and —
The oven goes off, a long, drawn out sound, and it startles Denki so badly that the still-faint buzzing under his skin spills over his tongue and fingertips. He shocks Hanta in one sharp jolt, and their heels dig into his ribs as their head hits the cabinets, and they sob.
“Holy shit, Denks,” Hanta chokes, breaks, yanking so hard at his hair he feels a few strands slip free, and their orgasm feels violent under his tongue. Dear god.
“Sorry,” Denki gasps, jerking back to watch Hanta claw over the counter and scrub at their eyes, guilt like ice in his veins. “Fuck, Hanta, I’m so sorry.”
Hanta shakes their head, trembling head to toe, and Denki watches the tears spilling down their cheeks with a sick sort of fascination. He’s so used to cool, calm, and collected with them — this is —
“The pizza, Denks, get the pizza,” Hanta croaks, and Denki fumbles for the oven off button and nearly pulls it out with his bare hands. “Fuck, here —”
Hanta’s voice scratches raw in their throat, and Denki rubs apologetically over the bones of their wrist when they pass him a towel, stray shocks thankfully absorbed by fabric.
Hanta blinks tears from their lashes, sniffling, flushed down beneath the collar of their t-shirt. Denki sets the cooling pizza over the stove, and they slip from the counter, dropping their forehead onto his hair and squeezing around his waist.
“It’s fine, Denks. That was — I’m okay.”
They’re shaky on their feet, and Denki turns in their grip and tries to swallow the incoming crisis.
He doesn’t think he’s ever understood the term pretty crier before now.
Hanta exhales, knocks their heads together, and Denki pets carefully over their cheekbones and swipes at tears. The affection swelling in his gut crowds his lungs.
Not for the first time, he thinks Hanta will make a monster of him.
“Always wondered what that felt like anyway.”
Hanta grins shaky. Denki feels magnetized to their mouth, tips his head so their noses brush. An angel in his arms.
“Yeah?”
“Kinda.”
Denki kisses them, tastes fruit and chewing gum and salt. “Sorry it happened like that,” he mumbles, and Hanta hums and tips their head into his hand. Their hair under his fingers feels like home.
“Just don’t show anyone else, yeah?”
Liquid warmth drips down Denki’s spine, and he squeezes around Hanta’s waist and falls a little more.
“Wasn’t planning on it.”