#nighthide

𝜗𝜚 ⊹ ࣪ ˖katsuki.bakugo 💥

Katsuki doesn't ask permission. He takes.

But here's the thing people don't understand about Bakugo Katsuki—when he takes, he gives everything in return. His kisses are intense, overwhelming, all-consuming. They're explosive in the same way his quirk is explosive: powerful, impossible to ignore, and devastatingly effective.

He kisses like he fights—with absolute confidence and total commitment. There's no hesitation, no uncertainty. When Katsuki decides he's going to kiss you, it's with the same decisive force he brings to battle. His hand comes up to grab the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair with just enough pressure to send shivers down your spine, and he pulls you to him like you're the only thing in the world worth having.

His lips crash against yours with bruising intensity. There's nothing soft or gentle about the initial contact—it's demanding, claiming, possessive. He kisses you like he's making a statement, like he's declaring ownership, like he's daring anyone or anything to try and take you away from him. His mouth moves against yours with expert precision, and you'd be lying if you said you didn't wonder where he learned to kiss like this, with such devastating skill.

When his tongue sweeps across your bottom lip, it's not a request—it's a command. Open for me. And when you do, the growl of satisfaction that rumbles from his chest is purely predatory. His tongue invades your mouth with aggressive confidence, stroking against yours in a rhythm that's almost combative at first, like he's challenging you to keep up, to match his intensity.

And the thing is, you do. Because Katsuki doesn't want someone who'll submit meekly to his dominance—he wants someone who'll fight back, who'll bite his bottom lip hard enough to make him groan, who'll tangle their tongue with his in a battle for control that neither of you really wants to win because the struggle is too damn good.

His free hand grips your waist, fingers digging into your hip with enough force to leave marks you'll find later, little reminders of this moment. He pulls you flush against him, and you can feel every hard plane of his body, every breath, every rapid beat of his heart that betrays how affected he is even as he maintains that aggressive control.

But here's the secret: underneath all that explosive intensity, there's surprising tenderness. It shows in moments—the way his thumb strokes the side of your neck even as his grip remains possessive, the way he swallows your gasps like they're precious, the way his kisses slow and deepen when you melt into him, becoming less frantic and more thorough, more devastating.

When Katsuki really gets into it, when the kiss goes from heated to absolutely scorching, his control starts to slip in the best ways. His breathing gets ragged, his movements less calculated and more instinctual. He'll break away from your lips to drag his mouth down your jaw, to bite and suck at your neck with enough force to definitely leave marks, to growl your name against your skin in a voice gone rough with want.

Then he's back to your lips, kissing you deeper, harder, like he's trying to consume you entirely. His tongue strokes against yours with long, deliberate movements that make your toes curl, occasionally retreating to suck on your bottom lip, to bite it gently before soothing the sting with his tongue. It's overwhelming and intense and absolutely perfect.

When you finally break apart—because breathing is unfortunately still necessary—he doesn't let you go far. His forehead presses against yours, eyes still closed, breath coming in harsh pants that match your own. His hand in your hair loosens to something almost gentle, and when he opens his eyes, there's something vulnerable there that he'd never admit to. Something that says you undo me, you wreck me, you're mine and I'm yours and I don't know what to do with this feeling except kiss you until neither of us can think straight.

"Mine," he'll growl, and kiss you again, slower this time but no less intense. Because Katsuki Bakugo doesn't do anything halfway, and that includes falling in love with you.

𝜗𝜚 ⊹ ࣪ ˖shoto.todoroki 🧊🔥 Shoto kisses like he's discovering fire for the first time—with wonder, caution, and slowly building heat.

He's not practiced at this. Not like the others might be. Physical affection doesn't come naturally to someone who spent their childhood deprived of gentle touches, who learned that hands were for hurting, not for holding. So when Shoto kisses you, there's always an element of careful exploration, like he's still learning that this is allowed, that softness is permitted, that he's allowed to want something just for himself.

The first touch of his lips is feather-light, almost questioning. Are you sure? Is this okay? Can I have this? His heterochromatic eyes search yours for a long moment before he closes the distance completely, and even then, his movements are controlled, precise. He's terrified of doing it wrong, of being too much or not enough, of somehow ruining this perfect thing between you.

But you kiss him back, encourage him, and something in Shoto begins to thaw.

His hands come up to cup your face with infinite gentleness, and this is when you feel it—the temperature difference. His left palm is deliciously cool against your flushed cheek, while his right radiates warmth that seeps into your skin. The contrast is intoxicating, uniquely Shoto, a reminder of the power contained in his careful touch. He's so conscious of his quirk, so careful to keep the temperature comfortable, to make sure he doesn't accidentally freeze or burn you. It's heartbreakingly sweet, this vigilance.

When the kiss deepens, it's gradual. Shoto doesn't rush. He savors. His lips part slightly, and his tongue traces the seam of your mouth with delicate precision, a soft request rather than a demand. When you open for him, he makes a small sound—surprise and pleasure mixed—and carefully, slowly, touches his tongue to yours.

The kiss transforms. That carefully controlled exterior begins to crack, revealing the passion he keeps locked away beneath layers of composure. His tongue slides against yours with increasing confidence, each stroke more assured than the last. He's a quick study, attentive to every small reaction, learning what makes you sigh, what makes you press closer, what makes your fingers tighten in his hair.

And his hair—god, his hair is incredibly soft, the red and white strands slipping through your fingers like silk as you pull him closer. He shivers when you touch him there, a full-body tremor that you feel everywhere you're pressed together, and the ice-and-fire of his palms fluctuates slightly, his control wavering.

Shoto kisses with his whole body. He's taller than you, and he uses it, slowly walking you backward until your back meets a wall and he can cage you in with his arms. Not trapping—never trapping—but surrounding, sheltering, claiming this space as yours and his alone. His body presses against yours, and you can feel the lean muscle, the strength he usually keeps so carefully restrained, the rapid beat of his heart against your chest.

When he really loses himself in the kiss, the temperature control slips. His left side gets colder, frost forming on the wall beside your head, while his right side grows warmer, almost feverish. It's like being caught between winter and summer, ice and fire, and it's absolutely intoxicating. You gasp into his mouth, and he swallows the sound, his tongue delving deeper, stroking against yours with languid, thorough movements that make your knees weak.

He breaks from your lips to trail kisses along your jaw, down the column of your neck, and his breath is cool from his left side, warm from his right, sending conflicting shivers racing across your skin. When he finds a sensitive spot, he lingers there, learning it, his lips and tongue working until you're gasping his name, and then he returns to your mouth to kiss you deeper, slower, like he has all the time in the world and intends to use every second.

There's something almost desperate in the way Shoto kisses once he truly lets go. Like he's making up for lost time, for a childhood devoid of affection, for all the years he thought he'd never deserve something this good, this pure, this perfect. His fingers thread through your hair, and he tilts your head to exactly the angle he wants, kissing you with increasing fervor.

When you finally part, he rests his forehead against yours, eyes closed, breathing carefully regulated despite the way his hands tremble slightly where they cup your face. When he opens his eyes, there's vulnerability there, raw and honest. "I love you," he says quietly, and then he's kissing you again, softer this time, sweeter, like a promise and a prayer all at once.

Shoto Todoroki kisses like he's found home in another person, like you're the warmth he's been seeking his whole life, like you're the one thing his father could never take from him. And you kiss him back like you'll spend forever showing him he deserves this—deserves softness, deserves love, deserves everything.

𝜗𝜚 ⊹ ࣪ ˖denki.kaminari ⚡️

Denki kisses like he's trying to fit an entire lifetime of affection into a single moment—enthusiastic, playful, and crackling with energy.

There's always a grin involved. Always. Even when he's trying to be smooth, trying to be cool and collected as he leans in, you can see the smile tugging at his lips, the pure joy he can't quite contain. Because Denki doesn't know how to hide his feelings, doesn't know how to be anything other than completely, openly, enthusiastically in love with you.

"C'mere," he'll say, and his voice has that slightly rough quality that makes your stomach flip, that hint of barely contained static that suggests his quirk is responding to his excitement. His hand comes up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing across your cheekbone, and there's a tiny spark—barely noticeable, just enough to make you gasp, to make your skin tingle pleasantly.

"Oops," he grins, not sorry at all. "Guess you make me a little electric."

And then he's kissing you, and it's like being struck by lightning in the best possible way.

Denki's kisses are playful, teasing. He'll catch your bottom lip between his teeth and tug gently, grinning against your mouth when you chase after him. He'll kiss the corner of your lips, your cheek, your nose, everywhere except where you actually want him, until you grab him by his shirt and pull him back to you properly. And when you do, his laugh vibrates against your lips, delighted and fond and so completely Denki that you can't help but smile too.

But underneath the playfulness, there's genuine skill. Denki might act like a goofball, but he knows what he's doing. When he finally stops teasing and really kisses you, it's devastating. His lips are soft and eager, moving against yours with enthusiastic precision. He kisses like he's having the time of his life, like this is the best thing that's ever happened to him, and his unabashed joy is infectious.

When his tongue slides against yours, there's the faintest tingle of electricity—never enough to hurt, always perfectly controlled—that makes every nerve ending light up with sensation. It's addictive, that slight buzz, the way it makes everything more intense, more vivid. His tongue strokes against yours with playful enthusiasm, exploring, tasting, occasionally doing this thing where he traces the roof of your mouth that makes your knees go weak.

Denki can't keep his hands still when he kisses you. They're everywhere—cupping your face, tangling in your hair, sliding down to your waist to pull you closer, then back up to frame your face again like he can't decide where he wants to touch you most. Every touch carries that faint electric tingle, raising goosebumps in their wake, making you shiver and press closer.

He makes the best sounds when he kisses. Little hums of pleasure, satisfied sighs, breathy laughs when you do something he particularly likes. And he talks—god, he talks even while kissing you. Breaks away just enough to murmur "you're so hot," or "I'm the luckiest guy alive," or "one more, just one more" before diving back in for another kiss, then another, then another, because one more is never enough.

When things get more heated, when the playfulness gives way to something more intense, Denki's quirk responds. You can feel it in the air around you, that charged feeling before a thunderstorm, making your hair stand on end in the best way. His kisses become more insistent, deeper, his tongue stroking against yours with increasing urgency. The electrical current running through him intensifies just slightly, enough that every touch makes you gasp, makes your skin hypersensitive, makes everything feel incredible.

"You're killing me," he'll groan against your lips, and you can hear the static in his voice, can feel it when he kisses down your neck, when his teeth graze your pulse point and that tiny spark makes you jerk against him. "So perfect. You're so perfect."

But even when he's desperate, even when his breathing has gone ragged and his hands are shaking with the effort of controlling his quirk, there's still that underlying joy. Denki loves kissing you. Loves the way you taste, the sounds you make, the way you fit perfectly against him. He kisses you like it's his favorite activity in the world, like he could spend hours just kissing you and never get bored.

When you finally break apart, he's grinning like an idiot, hair slightly more disheveled than usual, eyes bright with happiness and crackling with literal electricity. "Again?" he asks hopefully, already leaning back in, and you laugh and pull him close because how could you ever say no to that smile?

Denki Kaminari kisses like summer storms and sunshine, like lightning and laughter, like coming home to someone who makes every day an adventure. And you wouldn't have it any other way.

𝜗𝜚 ⊹ ࣪ ˖ejiro.kirishima 🦈

Kirishima kisses like he does everything else—with wholehearted enthusiasm and unshakeable conviction.

There's nothing uncertain about the way Eijiro kisses. When he decides he's going to kiss you, he commits to it completely, the same way he commits to everything in his life. No half-measures, no holding back. Just pure, honest affection that he pours into every touch, every press of lips, every shared breath.

His hands are rough—calloused from training, from hardening his skin over and over, from pushing himself to be unbreakable. But they're so gentle when they touch you, sliding around your waist to pull you close, cradling your face like you're something precious. The contrast between the roughness of his palms and the tenderness of his touch makes your heart skip.

"Hey," he'll murmur, and his voice is warm like sunlight, affectionate and soft in a way he reserves just for you. His smile is bright enough to rival the sun, sharp teeth on full display, eyes crinkling at the corners with genuine joy. "You look beautiful."

And then he's kissing you, and it's like being wrapped in warmth and safety and home.

Kirishima's kisses are firm and sure, his lips pressing against yours with confident pressure. There's no tentativeness, no questioning—just honest affection and desire. He kisses you like he means it, like every press of his lips is a promise, a declaration, a vow. I'm here. I'm yours. I've got you.

When he deepens the kiss, his tongue slides against yours with slow, thorough strokes that make your toes curl. He's not rushing, not trying to devour you whole—he's savoring you, taking his time, making sure you feel every ounce of his affection. His tongue explores your mouth with deliberate attention, learning what makes you sigh, what makes you press closer, what makes your fingers tighten in his hair.

And his hair—it's surprisingly soft despite the gel, the bright red strands slipping between your fingers as you pull him closer. He makes this low, pleased sound when you touch him there, almost a purr, and his arms tighten around your waist, pulling you flush against him. You can feel every hard plane of muscle, the solid strength of him, the way his heart pounds against your chest.

Kirishima is strong, and he uses that strength to hold you like you're weightless. He'll lift you without warning, hands gripping your thighs as he hoists you up, grinning against your lips at your surprised gasp. Now you're at eye level, and he takes full advantage, kissing you deeper, harder, one hand supporting your weight easily while the other cups the back of your head.

"Better," he murmurs against your lips, and you can feel his smile. "Want to be closer to you."

His kisses become more intense, more passionate. His tongue strokes against yours with increasing fervor, and you can feel the barely restrained power in him, the strength he's always so careful to control around you. When you bite his bottom lip, he groans—a deep, rumbling sound that you feel vibrate through your entire body—and his grip tightens just slightly, just enough to make you feel secure and desired and completely his.

There's something incredibly manly about the way Kirishima kisses, but not in the toxic way. He's confident without being domineering, strong without being forceful, passionate without being overwhelming. He makes you feel protected and cherished, like you're the most important person in his world, like he'd move mountains for you if you asked.

When he breaks from your lips to kiss along your jaw, down your neck, his teeth graze your skin gently—a reminder of their sharpness, but never biting down, never hurting. Just teasing, playing, worshipping every inch of skin he can reach. "You're amazing," he'll mumble against your throat, pressing kisses between words. "So amazing. How did I get so lucky?"

And the thing is, he means it. Every word. There's no insincerity in Kirishima, no pretense. When he tells you you're amazing while kissing down your neck, when he says he loves you against your lips, when he holds you like you're precious—he means all of it with every fiber of his being.

When he returns to your lips, the kiss is slower, deeper, more intimate. His tongue slides against yours in long, sensual strokes that make your head spin, make you forget everything except the taste of him, the feel of him, the overwhelming presence of Eijiro Kirishima holding you like you're his entire world.

Eventually, he sets you down gently, carefully, making sure you're steady before loosening his hold. But he doesn't let go completely—never completely. His forehead rests against yours, his breathing only slightly elevated despite the intensity of the kiss, and he's smiling. Always smiling.

"I love you," he says, simple and honest and true. And then he kisses you again, soft and sweet, like a promise he intends to keep for the rest of his life.

Eijiro Kirishima kisses like he's found his reason for being unbreakable—because someone this precious needs protecting, needs loving, needs someone who'll be their rock no matter what. And he'll be that for you, today and always.

𝜗𝜚 ⊹ ࣪ ˖hitoshi.shinso 🐈‍⬛

Shinso kisses like he's stealing moments from a world that hasn't always been kind to him—slowly, thoroughly, and with quiet intensity.

There's always a pause before Hitoshi kisses you. A moment where his purple eyes search yours, heavy-lidded and intense, looking for any sign of hesitation. He's so used to people being wary of him, of his quirk, of the implications of his power. So he waits, gives you every chance to pull away, to change your mind. Even now, even after you've kissed a hundred times, he waits.

When you lean in first, or squeeze his hand in permission, something shifts in his expression. The tension in his shoulders eases, and a small, genuine smile tugs at his lips—not the cocky smirk he uses to deflect, but something softer, more vulnerable. Something reserved only for you.

His hand comes up to cup your jaw, thumb tracing the line of your cheekbone with deliberate slowness. His touch is gentle but firm, assured in the way of someone who knows exactly what he wants and isn't afraid to take it, as long as you're willing to give. Then he leans in, and his lips brush against yours with devastating softness.

Hitoshi doesn't rush. He can't. He's learned that good things are fleeting, that moments of genuine connection are rare and precious, so when he has you like this, he savors it. His lips move against yours with languid precision, kissing you deeply but slowly, like he has all the time in the world and intends to use every second.

When his tongue slides against your bottom lip, it's a request, not a demand. Patient. Waiting. And when you part for him, the soft sound he makes—satisfaction mixed with something almost like relief—makes your heart clench. His tongue slides against yours in slow, measured strokes, exploring thoroughly, learning the taste and texture of your mouth like he's committing it to memory.

There's something hypnotic about the way Shinso kisses. The slow, deliberate pace, the focused intensity, the way his eyes drift closed as he loses himself in the sensation. His free hand finds your waist, fingers pressing against your hip with just enough pressure to be felt, grounding you both in this moment.

He kisses like he's trying to communicate something he can't quite put into words. Like every slow stroke of his tongue, every gentle press of his lips, is saying I see you, I want you, I'm grateful for you in ways his voice—that voice people fear, that voice he's learned to weaponize—never could.

When things deepen, when the kiss becomes more heated, Hitoshi's control is exquisite. His breathing gets heavier, his grip tightens slightly, but his movements remain measured, deliberate. He angles your head exactly where he wants it, deepening the kiss with calculated precision. His tongue strokes against yours with increasing pressure, the pace quickening but never frantic, never desperate—just intense, focused, consuming.

His other hand slides into your hair, fingers threading through the strands to cradle the back of your head, and he uses the leverage to kiss you deeper still. The control, the quiet dominance in the way he guides the kiss, is intoxicating. He's not forceful, but he's absolutely in command, and the confidence in his touch makes your knees weak.

Shinso makes these quiet sounds when he kisses—soft hums of pleasure, barely audible exhales, the occasional quiet groan when you do something he particularly likes. They're intimate sounds, private, meant only for you. When you run your fingers through his perpetually messy hair, scratching lightly at his scalp, he sighs into your mouth and pulls you impossibly closer.

He'll break away from your lips to kiss along your jaw, to find that sensitive spot below your ear, and his breath is warm against your skin as he murmurs, "You have no idea what you do to me." His voice is low, rough with want, but still controlled. Always controlled. "Drive me crazy."

Then he's back to your lips, kissing you with renewed intensity. His tongue delves deeper, strokes longer, and you can feel the leashed power in him, the desire he keeps so carefully restrained. When you press closer, when you make those breathy sounds he loves, his control slips just slightly—his kiss becomes more insistent, more demanding, his hands gripping you tighter.

But even then, even when he's clearly affected, clearly desperate for more, there's that underlying gentleness. The way his thumb strokes your cheek even as he kisses you breathless, the way he holds you like you're something precious even as his tongue tangles with yours with increasing urgency.

When you finally part, he doesn't immediately let go. His forehead rests against yours, eyes still closed, breathing carefully controlled despite the rapid rise and fall of his chest. When he opens his eyes, they're dark with want but soft with affection.

"Come here," he murmurs, and kisses you again, slower this time, sweeter. A series of gentle kisses that gradually soften until he's just pressing his lips to yours, to your cheeks, your forehead, like he can't quite bear to stop touching you yet.

Hitoshi Shinso kisses like he's found something worth fighting for, something worth being gentle with, something worth keeping. And in a world that's tried to make him hard and cynical, that's everything.

𝜗𝜚 ⊹ ࣪ ˖tamaki.amajiki 🐙

Tamaki kisses like he's terrified and exhilarated in equal measure—nervously, sweetly, and with overwhelming tenderness.

Getting Tamaki to the point of kissing is an journey in itself. He overthinks everything, convinced he'll somehow mess it up, that he's not good enough, that you deserve someone more confident, more skilled, more everything. His face burns red at just the thought of kissing you, and he can barely maintain eye contact, much less make the first move.

So you usually have to initiate, closing the distance while he stands frozen, eyes wide, cheeks flushed dark red, trembling slightly with nervous energy. "I-is this okay?" you ask, giving him every chance to back out, and he nods so quickly you're worried he might hurt his neck, unable to form words.

The first touch of his lips is feather-light, almost hesitant, like he's afraid you might disappear if he presses too firmly. His eyes flutter closed, dark lashes resting against his flushed cheeks, and his hands hover uncertainly at his sides, not quite sure where to put them. You have to take them, guide them to your waist, and even then he holds you like you're made of glass.

"You're doing great," you murmur against his lips, and you feel him shiver, feel some of the tension ease from his shoulders.

When Tamaki starts to relax into the kiss, something beautiful happens. All that nervous energy transforms into focused attention. He might not be confident, but he's observant, paying careful attention to every small reaction. When you sigh softly, he does that again—whatever made you sigh. When you press closer, he holds you a little tighter. He's learning you, studying you with the same intense focus he brings to mastering his quirk.

His lips are incredibly soft, moving against yours with increasing confidence. Each kiss is gentle, sweet, reverent. He kisses like you're a miracle he can't quite believe he's allowed to touch, like he's grateful for every second you're willing to spend with him like this.

When his tongue first brushes against your lips, it's tentative, questioning, and when you part for him, the small sound he makes—surprise and pleasure and overwhelming emotion—is heartbreakingly sweet. His tongue slides against yours carefully, exploratory, and you can practically feel him cataloging every detail, every sensation.

But here's the secret about Tamaki: underneath all that anxiety, all that self-doubt, there's passion. Deep, intense passion that he usually keeps locked away because he's terrified of being too much, of overwhelming you. But when he gets lost in kissing you, when his nerves quiet enough for him to just feel, that passion emerges.

His kisses become deeper, more sure. His tongue strokes against yours with increasing confidence, the movements less hesitant, more purposeful. His hands, which started so uncertain at your waist, begin to move—sliding up your back, into your hair, pulling you closer with a need that seems to surprise even him.

When you run your fingers through his indigo hair, gently scratching your nails against his scalp, Tamaki makes the most beautiful sound—a shaky exhale that's almost a whimper, and he presses impossibly closer, kissing you deeper. His pointed elf-like ears are incredibly sensitive, and if you trail your fingers along them, he actually trembles, breaking the kiss to hide his burning face against your neck.

"S-sorry," he stammers, even though he has nothing to apologize for. "I just... you make me feel..."

"Don't apologize," you whisper, and guide his face back to yours. "Show me. Show me how I make you feel."

And he does. Tamaki might not be good with words, but he can communicate through touch, through kiss. He pours everything into it—all his affection, all his desire, all those feelings he's too nervous to voice. His kisses become almost desperate, like he's trying to show you how much you mean to him, how much he needs you, how grateful he is that you chose him despite his anxiety, despite his insecurities.

His tongue delves deeper, stroking against yours with long, thorough movements that make your head spin. When you grip his shoulders, he makes these quiet, breathy sounds against your mouth that send shivers down your spine. His usual nervousness hasn't completely disappeared—his hands still tremble slightly where they cup your face, his breathing is uneven—but there's determination there now too. Determination to show you, to make you feel good, to be worthy of your affection.

Tamaki kisses like he's trying to memorize you, like he's terrified this might be the last time (even though you've assured him it won't be), like he needs to make the most of every second. And when things get really intense, when you're both breathing hard and clinging to each other, he'll suddenly pull back, eyes wide and dark with want, cheeks flushed, lips swollen.

"I love you," he'll whisper, voice shaking but sincere. "I love you so much I don't know what to do with it."

And then he's kissing you again, pouring all that overwhelming love into every press of his lips, every stroke of his tongue, every tender touch. When you finally part, he rests his forehead against yours, still trembling slightly, still blushing, but smiling—really, truly smiling—because with you, he feels brave. With you, he feels like maybe, just maybe, he's enough.

Tamaki Amajiki kisses like you're the one thing in his life he's absolutely certain about, even when he's uncertain about everything else. And that kind of devotion is absolutely devastating in the best possible way.