an explation to whatever the fuck this is [a thread]

[yell at me about their goddamn homoerotically coded poses, send prompts, ask me stuff] http://curiouscat.me/gummyconcrete 

bakugou wakes with a start.

his neck is hot and yet his back is cold and his head is all in a rush, something prickles at the back of his eyes. his hands heat up, and the backs of his knees are tacky. he twists around, throws sheets off himself, curses.

another fucking nightmare. the burst of visions are too vivid and too fucking /loud/, the silence drowning sound like sirens in his ears—sludge, muzzle, all might's waning breath, the wink of his eyes as he raises a hand—

he swears, harder, staggers to a stand.

anger comes to him.

bakugou knows anger, like the back of his hand—the throb in his chest, the tightness in his throat, the heat in his ears and crackles come to his palms, explosions dancing.

there's shuffling from the next room.

/fuck.,/ bakugou thinks. he pushes his fingers into a fist. heat fizzles at the hills of his whitened knuckles. /fuck./

he draws his chin up taut, his teeth clenched. his face is hard, sturdy: the set of his cheekbones, cut of his eyes.

there's a cough, a sneeze from the other side of the wall.

of course it's kirishima.

bakugou closes his eyes, leans against the head of his bed, waits. jesus fuck, it's always been kirishima.

the fucker's the first one to search for him in a room, the first one to brush shoulders as they walk. the first to offer a practice spar, and bakugou doesn't remember when he stopped protesting.

it's schedule.

he's a burning red beside him, the kind thats warm. not too hot or whatever. fuck. he cracks the shittiest fucking knock-knock jokes beside him.

bakugou doesn't care. occasionally he offers a gruff, monosyllable sigh—just barely a laugh.

just as the anger comes, boiling and burbling and hard and hot, not warm the way that he is—just as anger comes, kirishima comes, a quiet knock on his door, a muffled, "hey man?"

bakugou doesn't say anything, stares out into the dark for three seconds. four. five.

"the fuck you want," he finally says, at the sixth beat. it's an invitation.

kirishima opens the door.

he's purple and blue, and he's drowned in the static of the night. fuzz clings to his face, and nestles in the crook of his elbow when he brings a hand up to his neck. "uh."

bakugou glares.

kirishima steps into the room, awkwardly cuts over to stand in front of bakugou. "i heard you, bakugou."

bakugou wants to swear, spit in his face—of fucking course you did, i'm an explosive hero, you dumbass—but there's a weight to his words. so he doesnt speak.

kirishima clears his throat, scratches his shitty hair—shittier than usual, hanging in a matted curtain around him, cowlicks at the crown of his head—and then he glances away. "i usually... i usually bang my fists together."

bakugou raises an eyebrow. his forehead creases.

kirishima stumbles over his words. "i mean—i bang my fists together, when i wake up. after a—after something rough. you know?"

no, bakugou does not know.

"i mean i do it a lot anyway," he goes on, and he crouches by his bed. fists a hand in bakugou's sheet. "i feel. /strong/."

"what," bakugou barks.

"i mean—i." he pauses. "it makes a satisfying sound!" he sounds like he's defending himself, his voice climbs up an octave. "it's my special way of showing my fighting spirit!"

[v v important source, exhibit a]

bakugou scoffs, but his lips quirk upwards. "fighting spirit, he echoes."

"yeah!" kirishima returns, "come on, do it, bro!"

bakugou scoffs, once more. "no."

"come /on/," kirishima repeats, and then reaches across the bed, pulls bakugou's elbows into place.

his fingers are tender.

bakugou burns up, red, but this fuck has never had a concept of fucking personal space.

kirishima gently curls his fingers into a fist. then he pulls back. his eyes gleam in ambient light, earnest. "band them together, bro," he says. "go on. humor me."

bakugou ears are still flushed.

kirishima's still eyeing him, carefully. moonlight curves over the slopes of his skin.

bakugou rolls his eyes. slams his fists together.

[excuse the typos what the fuck im SHAKING RN]

bakugou doesn't really feel much, furrows his eyebrows and kirishima laughs in front of him.

"you have to do it with /feeling/, dude! come on," he says, pulls bakugou up and off his bed.

kirishima stands, parts his feet. even in the dim of the night, kirishima is all clean lines, tidied out dips and curves in muscles, the white of his teeth and his small eyebrows and he slams his fists together. hardness crackles and rises out of his skin.

a satisfying sound rings out, clear. "bet you cant do better than that!" and of course, it's bait, of course he's riling bakugou up, there's challenge in his red, red eyes, but oh, bakugou doesn't care.

bakugou stands beside him, grins, boyishly. he slams his fists together.

he feels.

[end.]