#your handprint is seared into my ribs but yeah no its cool! back to how it was!

[vaguehotels]

i need a cigarette a fifth of vodka a weapon a new outfit and one thousand dollars right now or else

[catstrophysics]

a hair away: read below:)

hi, internet! thanks to some lovely friends of mine, i’ve worked up the courage to actually acknowledge my writing on here, rather than just other places. below the cut is the fic of mine with the most hits/kudos/bookmarks, and it’s one of my favorites, to be honest. if you read it, let me know either here or on AO3; the link for this one is pasted at the very end. hope you enjoy, and i like feedback and yelling! check tags for information. 

A Hair Away

Pairing: Kirishima Eijiro/Bakugou Katsuki

Rating: Teen and Up Audiences

More tags in the... well, tags. Suffice it to say, fluffy. 

White clouds billowed from the bathroom, a witch’s cauldron of heady-scented soap and scalding steam. The door swung open quickly, stopping inches before slamming into the dorm room wall. Kirishima stepped out, shaking water from his hair as he finished affixing the grey towel around his waist. Without the customary gel holding his red locks in stiff spikes, it cascaded in loose curls around his ears. He grinned at Bakugou, sprawled out on the other side of the floor, stretching his shoulders out. 

“Hey, Baku-bro, thanks for letting me steal your shower!” Kirishima tumbled, the words tripping out of his mouth before he could get them in the right order. He flashed a grin to make up for it, white teeth glinting from his tanned face. 

“Tch, sure,” Bakugou muttered back, shifting his weight and switching arms. He pulled his elbow back behind his head, wincing as tight muscles groaned and protested under his skin. “You look different with your hair like that, man,” he commented as Kirishima padded on quiet feet to the bed, digging through his bag for a shirt and pants. 

“Hey, thanks!” He beamed, and hauled a black long-sleeve shirt and red pants from his bag. “You mind if I just slip these on out here? The bathroom’s almost as hot as you.” 

Bakugou blanched, then reddened, then blanched again. 

Kirishima realized his mistake fairly quickly, to his credit, and backpedaled over his words. “Er—I mean, your Quirk?” he tried, “you know, when you, um, explode… things?” Half of a grin attempted to claw its way onto his face, but retreated fairly quickly when the murderous glint in his friend’s eyes failed to fade. 

Bakugou released his arm from behind his head, shaking out his shoulders leisurely before answering Kirishima. “Thought that was a compliment, Riot,” he growled, before letting the heat die out from his eyes as the harsh glint faded. His smile resolved from savage to good-natured, and he laughed lightly. It rumbled deep in his chest, the afterburners of his false fury sputtering out in joy. “Had you for a second there, didn’t I?” 

The warm feeling in Kirishima’s chest grew, even as his skin cooled off the longer he was out of the shower. He slipped the sweatpants on under his towel, but decided against the shirt. It was easier not to bother putting it on, and he was at ease enough in the room that it didn’t make him uncomfortable. He was used to Bakugou’s eyes on him, never really judging but always observing. Something about his friend made him perpetually at ease, even after nearly saying something he definitely didn’t want the fiery boy to know. 

He was absolutely head over heels for him. 

Always had been, really, the same way that the Earth had always had the moon tagging along just behind it, less flashy and perpetually eclipsed. And yet he stood by him, threw a casual arm over his broad, tense shoulders, and when he made it back to his bed at night with barked laughter and blindingly ruby eyes still trickling through his mind, the nitroglycerin on his sleeve served as a reminder. Friends, and friends alone, despite halfway glances and searing touches and secrets shared past midnight, when Bakugou snuck up to Kirishima’s dorm room to talk rather than study. Friends, despite everything that Kirishima’s frantic heart told him meant more. 

The tangent left him blushing, and Bakugou was staring at him like he’d grown a second head. “Eijirou? You in there still?” he asked, pushing blond hair from his eyes. It was his turn for the shower, after all, because he’d let Kirishima take it first. The water heater in his section of the building was on the fritz again, and he wasn’t going to leave his best friend showerless. Kirishima appreciated it more than was strictly appropriate, lavishing his friend with bone-crushing hugs. 

“Yeah,” he finally answered. “Hey, Katsuki?” 

Bakugou didn’t even glance up. “What?” 

Kirishima swallowed hard, his pride warring against his yearning heart. “Can you help brush out my hair?” He didn’t wait for Bakugou to respond before babbling on. “It gets really messy after a workout and usually I’d do it myself but the brush is back in my dorm and I don’t want to go out in the hall right now and you don’t have to if you don’t want to but I figured since—” 

“Quit it, of course, Ei. Get up on the bed, I’ll help you.” He was already standing up off the floor, back popping as he moved. 

The bed was almost identical to every single other dorm room bed, except for the fact that Bakugou had a mountain of blankets. Kirishima had asked him about them, once, when the sun was creeping up in the sky and they were laying on the floor together, talking about nothing and enjoying the silence. Bakugou’s eyes had been fixed on the ceiling, tracing over cracks and dents from years of students, and Kirishima’s eyes had been fixed on Bakugou. 

The blankets hadn’t been a real conversation topic, but when Bakugou mentioned he was getting cold and Kirishima had to restrain himself from offering to cuddle for warmth and instead pulled a nondescript black and white blanket off the bed, he had sighed. 

Each blanket, the blond had rasped into the still pre-dawn air, was from someone he cared about. Friends, family, people he’d never see again, people he saw every day. The one Kirishima had pulled down was from his mother, given to him the day he got into UA. 

So as Kirishima settled himself on the bed, he pulled a green and white blanket around his shoulders. From his father, he recalled. Bakugou hauled himself onto the bed behind him, and straddled his legs wide around his waist. 

“What exactly do you want me to, er, do?” he asked, first sign of awkward uncertainty creeping its way into his voice as it pitched up half an octave. 

“Anything with your hands, I guess,” Kirishima replied, feeling the heat radiating off of his skin even as he sat inches away. “It’s just something I like.” Rather than respond, Bakugou plunged his hands into thick crimson hair, scratching fingernails across his scalp and sending shivers down his spine. Hurtling in headfirst, as always. 

“Your hair is so soft after you wash it.” 

Kirishima flinched. He had been at peace, almost dozing as the other boy gently tugged snarls from his hair, and his comment had sent icy water trickled down his nerves. A chuckle tried to force its way from his throat, tearing into the sides of his mouth as it just wouldn’t come out. He settled for running his own hand through his hair, painstakingly avoiding where Bakugou’s were rubbing circles just behind his ears. He didn’t respond. The air between them jumped by a hundred degrees, and Kirishima felt the pure glowing heat emanating from Bakugou grow closer to his back. Hands pulled themselves from his hair and settled on his waist instead, pressing the green blanket into his ribs. 

“Eijirou.” 

Feeling rather than seeing, eyes cemented shut out of fear and confusion and desperation, one hand began to track its way up his side. It left a searing brand in its wake, and Kirishima felt that if he had been able to see the skin on his back there would be a handprint burned in. When the hand reached the base of his hair it tugged, just once. Twice. 

And then he was falling gently backwards as Bakugou turned his head to capture his mouth in a kiss. 

The shock wore off almost immediately in the sweet, peppery taste of his skin, in the way his hands both came back up to his hair and carded through it roughly. It was such a wonderful contrast to the gentleness with which he played Kirishima’s lips that it couldn’t have been more perfect in a dream. One hand scratched gently at his hairline as the other controlled him, manipulating his head to his will so he could slowly devour his mouth. 

The silence between them crackled in the early evening sun slanting through the window, casting golden light across their barely-moving forms. It turned Bakugou’s hair to molten gold and Kirishima’s to magma, and as they broke apart, gently, they smiled. Bakugou gave him one last quick peck just below his cheekbone before pulling back and breathing deeply. His shaking hands were still in his hair, wrapped in shoulder-length red strands, but he disentangled one, pulling the prey from the spider’s web as the spider simply watched on. The hand instead sought out Kirishima’s own. 

“Thanks, Ei,” he said, softly, eyes gleaming like never before. They burned a fervent red, so unlike the rage or humor easily found in their depths, and his heart bubbled to the surface in their depths. Uncertainty flashed in chords across them, and vulnerability seethed just below the surface, a riptide threatening to pull his emotions back in and far, far away. 

Kirishima felt a hand brush his own, and he curled his fingers around it. “How long, Katsuki?” he choked out, crimson eyes locked on Bakugou’s ruby. The sun glinted gold through the window. 

“As long as I’ve known you, Eijirou, and for as long as the moon still orbits the Earth.” Soft, honest words, and the menace of his open eyes laying desperation flat out on the covers between them. 

He grinned widely at that, at the implication of <i>forever</i>, and said nothing but, “Me, too.” 

Bakugou closed his eyes and relaxed, finally, squeezing Kirishima’s hand like a lifeline. 

They pulled more blankets from the collection around them, waiting for the sun to dip below the trees as they did the same as they had for countless nights before, talking and laughing and telling stories. But now, they had one hand each clasped together and Bakugou ran a hand through Kirishima’s hair as the sky faded from Bakugou’s shade of red to the burnt hue in Kirishima’s eyes, then into the deep, velvety blue of a peaceful, dreamless night. 

And when dawn came, and the pale morning sun cast its barely-conscious rays onto the two boys lying side-by-side, it found Kirishima with his hands twined in Bakugou’s hair. Just as soft as he’d expected.