Chapter 1: Spin the Bottle, Lose Your Clothes
The air in the common room hung thick and heavy, tasting of salt, skin, and spent energy. The discarded cards were forgotten, scattered like fallen leaves across the stained carpet. Mina’s comment about the rain lingered, met with a collective, breathless silence that was more agreement than anything else.
Kirishima’s head was pillowed on Bakugou’s stomach, his ear pressed to the steady, slowing drumbeat of his heart. Bakugou’s fingers were idly tracing the sharp lines of Kirishima’s hair, a motion so casual and domestic it felt more surreal than anything that had happened in the last few hours.
“Squad goals,” Kaminari echoed from somewhere on the floor, his voice slurred with exhaustion. He was a starfish of limbs, one arm flung over his eyes. “I feel like I just ran a marathon backwards. In a hurricane.”
Jirou, nestled against his side, let out a soft snort. “A hurricane of hormones and poor life choices.”
“The best kind,” Mina sighed, distributing glasses of water with a tired but triumphant smile. She handed one to Sero, who was sitting up against the couch, looking utterly wrecked and profoundly content.
The quiet that descended wasn’t awkward, but it was charged, vibrating with the echo of everything they’d just crossed. Boundaries weren’t just blurred; they were erased, redrawn in the dark with clumsy, eager hands. Now, in the muted glow of the single bulb, reality was seeping back in, drop by drop, alongside the sound of the relentless rain outside.
Bakugou’s hand stilled in Kirishima’s hair. “Get off, you’re heavy,” he grumbled, but the shove against Kirishima’s shoulder was half-hearted, lacking its usual explosive power.
Kirishima just grinned, pressing closer. “You love it.”
Bakugou didn’t deny it. He just stared at the ceiling, his sharp features softened in the low light. The competitive fury was gone, replaced by a deep, satiated calm.
One by one, they began to move, gathering discarded clothes with a strange, new familiarity. There was no hurry, no frantic cover-up. Just a slow, collective winding down. Jirou pulled her shirt over her head, catching Kaminari’s gaze as she did. He smiled, a simple, warm thing, and she returned it, a faint pink dusting her cheeks that had nothing to do with the alcohol.
Mina pulled on her leggings, wincing slightly as she moved. “I’m gonna be sore tomorrow,” she announced, but her tone was cheerful. “Worth it.”
“Everything’s worth it if you don’t think about it too hard,” Sero philosophized, standing up with a groan. He offered a hand to Mina, pulling her up. Their hands stayed linked a moment longer than necessary.
Kirishima finally sat up, turning to look at Bakugou, who was now sitting with his back against the couch, watching him with an unreadable expression. The usual defiance was there, but beneath it swam something else—something open and expectant.
“Hey,” Kirishima said, his voice softer than he intended.
“Hey,” Bakugou replied, not looking away.
The others were filtering out, murmured goodnights hanging in the air. Kaminari tugged Jirou toward the hallway, his thumb rubbing circles on her wrist. Mina flicked off the main light, plunging the room into near-darkness, illuminated only by the faint green neon from the pool table bulb and the grey glow from the rainy window. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” she sing-songed softly before disappearing, Sero in tow.
And then it was just them.
The rain pattered against the window, a steady rhythm that filled the silent room. Kirishima shifted to sit beside Bakugou, their shoulders brushing. The energy between them had changed. The frantic, game-fueled heat had mellowed into a deep, resonant warmth.
“So,” Kirishima started.
“So,” Bakugou echoed, his voice a low rumble.
“A couple of years, huh?”
Bakugou didn’t flinch. He kept his eyes forward, watching the rivulets of water streak the glass. “Took you long enough to notice, Shitty Hair.”
“You’re not exactly an open book, Blasty.”
“I just fucked you silly on the common room floor in front of all our friends,” Bakugou deadpanned, finally cutting a glance at him. “How much more open do you want me to be?”
A laugh burst out of Kirishima, startled and genuine. “Okay, fair point.” He grew quiet again, the laughter fading. “Why didn’t you ever say anything?”
Bakugou was silent for a long moment. “Didn’t know if you swung that way,” he muttered finally, the admission seeming to physically pain him. “Then… figured you weren’t interested. You had your hookups. I had my… thing.”
“Your ‘thing’?” Kirishima prodded gently.
“My stupid pride,” Bakugou clarified, scowling at his own knees. “Didn’t wanna be just another one of your guys.”
Kirishima’s heart squeezed. “You wouldn’t have been. Couldn’t have been.” He leaned his head back against the couch. “All those guys… it was like trying to scratch an itch I couldn’t reach. Nothing ever stuck.”
“Sentimental idiot,” Bakugou murmured, but he tilted his head, resting it against Kirishima’s.
“Yeah, well. You like it.”
Bakugou didn’t argue. They sat like that for a while, listening to the rain, the events of the night settling around them like dust.
“The game’s over,” Kirishima said quietly. “No more dares. No more audience.” He turned his head slightly, his lips close to Bakugou’s temple. “What do you want now, Katsuki?”
Bakugou turned his face, their noses almost touching. In the shadowy light, his crimson eyes were dark, intense. “You know what I want.”
“Tell me anyway.”
A beat. Then, “You. In my bed. Where it’s quiet. Where I don’t have to share you with a fucking audience.”
A slow smile spread across Kirishima’s face. “Your bed’s a mess.”
“Your face is a mess.”
“You love my face.”
This time, Bakugou didn’t reply with words. He closed the small distance, capturing Kirishima’s lips in a kiss that was startlingly different from the ones before. It wasn’t desperate or competitive or performative. It was slow, deep, and devastatingly sincere. A promise. A claiming. A beginning.
When they broke apart, breath mingling, Bakugou stood up, offering a hand. Kirishima took it, his calloused fingers slotting perfectly between Bakugou’s.
He let Bakugou lead him out of the common room, down the dark hallway, past the closed doors behind which their friends were already lost to sleep or quiet conversation. The house was quiet, holding its breath.
Bakugou’s room was, predictably, Spartan and clean, in stark contrast to the chaos they’d left behind. The only light came from the streetlamp outside, cutting through the rain and painting silver stripes across his floor.
He didn’t turn on the light. He just turned to Kirishima, the door clicking shut behind them, sealing them in their own private world. The rain was louder here, a constant, soothing rush against the window.
“No games this time,” Bakugou stated, his voice a low vibration in the dark.
“No games,” Kirishima agreed, pulling him close.
This time was different. It was slow exploration, a mapping of territory they had raced through earlier. It was Bakugou’s hands learning the exact texture of the scars on Kirishima’s skin. It was Kirishima’s mouth tracing the shell of Bakugou’s ear, whispering things that were for no one else to hear. It was unhurried, tender, and so profoundly intense that Kirishima felt something crack open in his chest, something bright and terrifying and beautiful.
Afterward, tangled in Bakugou’s sheets that smelled faintly of nitroglycerin and clean cotton, Kirishima traced the line of his boyfriend’s—boyfriend’s—spine.
“The hiking trip got rained out,” he whispered into the dark.
Bakugou’s hand found his under the sheets, threading their fingers together. A simple, grounding touch.
“Yeah,” Bakugou said, his voice thick with imminent sleep. “Best. Rainstorm. Ever.”
Outside, the downpour continued, washing everything clean. Inside, in the warm dark, something new and solid took root, strong enough to weather any storm.
Inside, in the warm dark, something new and solid took root, strong enough to weather any storm. The rain was a distant rhythm now, a backdrop to the slow, wet sound of their kissing. Bakugou’s hand was fisted in Kirishima’s hair, holding him close, while Kirishima’s palms smoothed down the tense, corded muscles of Bakugou’s back. They were a tangle of limbs and shared breath, nothing existing beyond the heat of skin and the quiet, urgent noises they drew from each other. Kirishima shifted his weight, rolling Bakugou gently onto his back and straddling his hips, the sheet pooling around them. He leaned down to taste the salt on Bakugou’s throat, feeling the jump of his pulse under his lips. “Fuck, Ei,” Bakugou gasped, his hips arching up, a crude, seeking grind.
Just then, Kaminari walked in the room and saw them making out. He walked in because he forgot his phone charger, the stupid green cord always left plugged in by Bakugou’s desk. The door clicked shut behind him before his brain processed the scene: the dim silver light, the bare skin, Kirishima’s broad back flexing as he rocked against Bakugou, who was writhing beneath him. A choked, “Oh shit!” escaped Kaminari’s lips.
Everything froze. Kirishima jerked upright, grabbing wildly for the sheet. Bakugou didn’t scramble. He went perfectly, dangerously still, his eyes blazing in the shadows as they locked onto Kaminari’s stunned face. “Get. The fuck. Out,” Bakugou snarled, each word a lit fuse.
“I—the charger—” Kaminari stammered, pointing a trembling finger at the desk.
“Now, Dunce Face!”
Kaminari flinched, turned, and fumbled for the doorknob, fleeing without the charger. The door slammed, leaving a silence louder than any explosion. Kirishima collapsed onto his back, throwing an arm over his eyes. “Well,” he breathed, “that’s one way to tell people.”
Bakugou didn’t laugh. He stared at the door, his body coiled tight. “I’ll murder him.”
“He just forgot his charger, man,” Kirishima sighed, but the moment was shattered, replaced by a buzzing tension.
A muffled voice, Mina’s, echoed from the hallway. “Denki? What’s wrong? You look like you saw a ghost.”
“Worse,” Kaminari’s whisper was frantic, audible even through the door. “I saw Bakugou’s—”
The door burst open again, this time with purpose.
Light from the hallway spilled in, silhouetting three figures. Mina stood in front, her pink eyes wide with chaotic delight. Kaminari hovered behind her, peeking over her shoulder, and Sero was at the back, trying to look anywhere but into the room.
Mina’s grin was a slash of pure, unadulterated triumph in the hallway’s light. “No. Way.”
Bakugou moved fast, a blur of pale skin and rage, yanking the sheet over them both. “Get the fuck out!” he roared, but the damage was done. The cover was only waist-high, leaving Kirishima’s scarred back and Bakugou’s heaving chest bare to the stunned audience.
“We’re so dead,” Kaminari whispered, voice trembling.
“You’re all dead,” Bakugou corrected, his voice vibrating with lethal promise.
Kirishima, heart hammering against his ribs, didn’t move to cover up further. Instead, he shifted his weight, deliberately settling more firmly over Bakugou’s hips, feeling him tense underneath. A challenge. A statement. His voice was quieter, but it carried. “You got your look. Now shut the door.”
Mina’s eyes darted between them, the reality solidifying. “Holy. Shit.” Her whisper was full of awe, not judgment.
Sero finally met Kirishima’s gaze, offered a weak, apologetic shrug, and then gently pulled Mina back by her shoulder. “We’re leaving. Right now.” The door clicked shut, leaving them in a silence that felt thicker, hotter than before.
Bakugou was trembling, but it wasn’t from cold. It was from fury, from exposure, from a private thing made brutally public. Kirishima leaned down, his mouth finding Bakugou’s ear. “Let them talk.” He ground down, a slow, deliberate roll of his hips, and felt Bakugou’s sharp intake of breath. “They don’t know anything.”
He captured Bakugou’s mouth in a searing kiss, swallowing his next curse. It was a takeover. Kirishima’s hand slid between them, finding Bakugou hard and leaking, and he stroked him once, a rough, claiming grip. Bakugou’s hips jerked, a broken sound escaping into Kirishima’s mouth. “Fuck… fuck them,” Bakugou panted against his lips, his own hands clawing into Kirishima’s back, anchoring them together in the wreckage of their privacy.
“Fuck… fuck them,” Bakugou panted against his lips, his own hands clawing into Kirishima’s back, anchoring them together in the wreckage of their privacy. The door clicked open again, a soft, deliberate sound. Mina stood framed in the doorway, her figure backlit by the hall light, her expression unreadable. She let the door swing shut behind her, plunging them back into the grey, rainy half-light. Bakugou stiffened beneath him. “The hell do you want, Raccoon Eyes?” he spat, but his voice lacked its usual lethal edge, strained by desire and exposure.
Mina took a slow step into the room, then another. “You kicked everyone out,” she said softly, her eyes roaming over them, over the sheet tented at Kirishima’s waist, over Bakugou’s glaring face. “But you didn’t kick me out.” Another step. The air grew thicker, charged with a new, dangerous possibility. Kirishima stayed still, his body a shield over Bakugou’s, but he turned his head to watch her approach.
“I’m not leaving,” she stated, her voice firmer now. She reached the edge of the bed, her pink eyes gleaming. “Not unless you make me.” Her gaze flicked to Kirishima’s face, searching. He didn’t look away. He saw the challenge there, the same reckless hunger from the game, but refined now, focused solely on them.
Bakugou’s chest rose and fell rapidly. “You’ve got a death wish.”
“Maybe,” Mina breathed, and then she was moving, crawling onto the bed with a fluid grace. The mattress dipped under her weight. She didn’t touch them, not yet. She just knelt beside them, her scent—sweet and sharp—mixing with theirs. Her hand hovered over Kirishima’s shoulder, then touched down, her fingertips warm and sure. He shivered.
“Ei,” she whispered, and the nickname in her mouth sounded different, a shared secret. She leaned in, her lips brushing the shell of his ear. “You look good on him.” Her other hand came up, her fingers tracing the line of Bakugou’s jaw, forcing his furious gaze toward her. “And you,” she said, her thumb brushing his lower lip. “You look like you want to kill me and fuck me at the same time.”
Bakugou’s restraint snapped. He grabbed her wrist, hard, but instead of throwing her off, he pulled her down. “Fine,” he growled, the word hot and ragged against her skin. “You wanna watch? Then participate.” He yanked her, and she tumbled against them, a gasp of laughter and surprise leaving her lips as her body pressed against Kirishima’s side.
He yanked her, and she tumbled against them, a gasp of laughter and surprise leaving her lips as her body pressed against Kirishima’s side. Her skin was impossibly warm, a shocking contrast to the cool air of the room. Before Kirishima could process her weight, Bakugou’s hand was fisting in her pink hair, pulling her mouth to his in a rough, biting kiss. Mina moaned into it, her own hands scrambling—one sliding down Bakugou’s taut stomach, the other reaching across to grasp Kirishima’s bicep. “See?” Bakugou snarled against her mouth, his other hand still pinning Kirishima’s hip. “This what you wanted?” Kirishima watched, breath hitching, as Mina’s fingers curled around Bakugou’s length, stroking him with a confident twist of her wrist. A filthy, wet sound filled the space between their ragged breathing. Kirishima’s own arousal, already straining, throbbed painfully at the sight. He lowered his head to the juncture of Mina’s shoulder, tasting salt and sweetness, his teeth grazing her collarbone. She arched into him with a sharp cry, her back pressing against his chest. Bakugou’s crimson eyes locked with his over her shoulder, blazing with a possessive, chaotic fire. “You gonna just watch, Shitty Hair?” he goaded, his voice thick. Kirishima answered by sliding his hand from Mina’s waist, down the curve of her stomach, his calloused fingers pushing beneath the waistband of her leggings. She was slick and hot, and she ground against his touch with a desperate, broken sigh. Bakugou watched, his lip curled in a savage grin, as Kirishima’s fingers worked her. The room smelled of sex and sweat and rain. Mina’s head fell back against Kirishima, her mouth open in a silent plea. Bakugou shifted, his intention clear, his body positioning between her thighs.
The door burst open.
Kaminari stood there, phone held aloft with its flashlight blazing, illuminating the tangled trio in a harsh, unforgiving white beam. His jaw was slack. “Dude. You left the fucking bottle spinning.”
Sero loomed behind him, not even pretending to look away now, his eyes wide. “Game’s not over, man. The bottle… it landed on Mina again.”
From the heap of limbs, Mina lifted her head, her pink hair sticking to her glistening skin. Her eyes, dazed with pleasure, focused on Kaminari’s phone light. A slow, wicked grin spread across her face. “No way,” she breathed, a laugh bubbling in her throat. “What’s the dare?”
Jirou slipped past the boys in the doorway, her arms crossed, a dry smirk on her lips. “It landed on ‘All.’ The dare is ‘All.’” Her gaze swept over them—Kirishima frozen above Bakugou, Bakugou’s murderous scowl, Mina’s devious satisfaction. “So, are you folding, or are you playing?”
Bakugou’s hands, which had been gripping Kirishima’s hips, tightened possessively. Kirishima felt the shift in the room, the game seeping back in, reshaping the raw intimacy into a new, charged performance. He turned his head, meeting Bakugou’s fierce gaze, seeing the challenge there. The dare wasn’t just from their friends; it was between them, too.
Mina traced a finger down Bakugou’s chest. “Well,” she purred, her voice loud enough for their audience, “I’m not a quitter.” She looked up at Kirishima, her eyes gleaming. “You in, Ei?”
The flashlight beam felt like a stage light. Kirishima leaned down, his lips brushing Bakugou’s ear. “You heard her,” he whispered, his voice rough. “Game continues.” He didn’t wait for an answer. He shifted back, pulling Bakugou up with him, putting them all on display.
He shifted back, pulling Bakugou up with him, putting them all on display. Mina’s laugh was a dark, inviting thing as she reached out, her fingers hooking into the waistband of Kaminari’s sweats. He stumbled forward with a yelp, the phone flashlight tumbling to the floor, casting crazy shadows. “You asked for the dare, so get over here,” she breathed, pulling him down onto the mattress. Sero, caught between shock and a deep, thrilling curiosity, let himself be tugged by Jirou, who simply said, “Fuck it,” and pushed him forward into the mess of limbs and heat.
They crashed together in a tangle of gasps and shifting bodies, a six-pointed star of colliding skin and hesitant hands. Kaminari’s mouth found Jirou’s neck as he fell beside her, his hands already fumbling with the hem of her shirt. Sero, pressed against Mina’s back, inhaled sharply before dipping his head to kiss her shoulder, his tape-dispenser elbows careful at first, then not. Bakugou watched it all unfold, his defiance melting into a raw, hungry command. “You’re all a fucking mess,” he growled, but his hands were moving, pulling Kirishima into a deeper kiss while his other hand groped behind, finding Denki’s hip to drag him closer into the fray.
The room dissolved into a slick, shifting landscape of motion. Jirou’s jacks twitched as Kaminari’s teeth grazed her earlobe, electricity buzzing faintly under his skin. Sero’s tape snaked out, not to restrain, but to connect, a loose band around his own wrist and Mina’s ankle, a symbol more than a bind. Kirishima lost himself in the feel of Bakugou under him and Mina beside him, her hand guiding his between her thighs where she was already wet and open. A chorus of sharp breaths and choked-off curses built a new, chaotic rhythm. Clothes were pushed aside, not discarded, as skin met skin in a feverish exchange of touch.
No one led; everyone followed. Hands explored without permission, taking what was offered—a gasp, a sigh, a bitten-off moan. Bakugou’s palm slid down Kirishima’s stomach, then reached further, wrapping around Kaminari’s cock where he was rutting against Jirou’s thigh. Denki cried out, his head falling back. Mina twisted, capturing Sero’s mouth in a kiss as her own hand found Jirou’s breast over her shirt, thumb circling a nipple until Jirou arched up with a sharp, stuttering sigh. It was a cascade, a chain reaction of sensation where every touch echoed and multiplied.
Limbs entangled. Sweat-slicked skin slid against skin. The air grew thick with the sounds of them—the wet slap of flesh, the ragged pull of breath, Mina’s high whimper, Sero’s low groan, Bakugou’s guttural, “That’s it, fuck,” as Kirishima finally, urgently, pushed inside him. They moved like a single, heaving organism, a circuit of pleasure completed, each point of contact feeding the next. The world shrank to the dim light, the taste of salt and skin, the overwhelming, shared heat of six bodies crashing past every last boundary. It was terrifying. It was perfect. It was too much, and not enough.