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Eijirou knows that trouble’s coming when the squad starts to talk about girls.
It starts with Kaminari proudly announcing that he got his dick sucked, which, great. Eijirou wants to be happy for him. But the conversation quickly devolves into details and one-ups and would-you-could-yous and fuck-marry-kills, and suddenly he’s trapped in a circle of men all grunting about what they like in a woman.
Not that Eijirou doesn’t think about women. He thinks about them all the time; with awe, with envy. With timid wonder. With a sad resignation, with anger, with an itch in his brain he can only scratch alone, in his room, with his hair down and soft clothes on, with his legs shaved, with a dollop of lip gloss—
“Kirishima! You next.”
Eijirou bites his tongue. It’s been years since he bit his tongue, he’s normally so good at avoiding it, it’s just. This is the question he’s been dreading since he got to UA.
“Yeah, come one,” Mineta urges. “Are you an ass man? Boob man?”
“Hands,” Eijirou says, answering honestly out of nerves. “I like hands.”
“Weird, but okay,” Sero says.
“I like them, uh, athletic. Athletic girls. ”
“That’s it?” Mineta says. “Boring.”
Eijirou licks his lips, hopes that no one can see the blood that coats the inside of his mouth. At least it cuts the bitter taste in the back of his throat that he gets when he lies.
“I like a big personality, I guess,” he says, and he can’t help it, his eyes flick up to Bakugou. “And confidence.”
“So, Mina,” Sero says, leering. “Does she have nice hands?”
The name makes Eijirou bristle. It’s so, so far from the truth.
“What about you, Kacchan?” Kaminari says, throwing an arm around Bakugou’s neck. “Unless, you’re, you know,” he stage whispers the next part, “gay.”
“Get off me, you fucking moron,” Bakugou says, shoving Kaminari away.
“I knew it!” Mineta says, pointing at Bakugou. “He’s gay!”
“Statistically, it had to be one of us,” Todoroki says.
“Come on, guys,” Eijirou says, trying so hard not to smile, not to do something weird with his hands, because Bakugou isn’t denying it. And suddenly everyone’s talking, and Bakugou’s rolling his eyes like it’s no big deal, and Eijirou’s ears ring, because maybe he’s got a chance after all.
“For fucks sake,” Bakugou snaps, “I like bimbos, all right?”
Everyone goes quiet. Eijirou’s ears are still ringing, but now that his stomach’s dropped, the sensation is punishing.
“Bimbos?” Kaminari mouths.
“Gymrat bimbos. Stupid sluts in yoga pants,” Bakugou says flatly, like he’s talking about the weather. His voice is neutral, but his eyes are not; they’re boring into Eijirou’s, like he can smell the distress and disappointment. “Dumbass hot girls with tight asses. Head empty, dick stupid whores.”
“So...Mina,” Sero says, squinting incredulously.
“Not a hardbody,” Bakugou says. “But for sure dumb enough.”
“Camie,” Todoroki says. “From Shiketsu.”
“Noodle arms,” Bakugou says with an eye-roll.
“She’s hot,” Kaminari says, tapping his cheek in thought. “Her boobs are even bigger than Momo’s.”
“This is fucking stupid.”
“Come on, Bakugou, like you wouldn’t fuck Momo if you had the chance?” Kaminari says.
“Whether I would or whether I wouldn’t is none of your fucking business,” Bakugou says. “Talking about it’s for morons.”
“That’s what a fag would say!” Mineta hollers. “Or a virgin!”
Bakugou just laughs.
“I’m not a virgin. You freaks, on the other hand.”
“Bro, this whole conversation started because Kaminari got head this weekend,” Sero says.
“And? He want a fucking ticker tape parade? Anyone who’s gotta talk big to prove their masculinity ain’t a man at all.”
“By that logic, Kirishima’s gotta move to the girls’ dorm,” Kaminari says, laughing, slapping Eijirou on the back. Sero laughs. Mineta laughs. Even Todoroki laughs. Everybody’s laughing, so Eijirou drums up the feeling, forces the muscles of his face to move in the right direction. It hurts, sure, but at least they didn’t clock him. Nobody’s calling him a faggot while they’re laughing, so is really all that bad? He’s almost got himself convinced it’s all all right, but then he meets Bakugou’s eyes.
Bakugou isn’t laughing.
Bakugou is staring at him, face so serious, eyes so bright and so focused. There’s a sadness about him, and Eijirou almost lets himself hope. But hope leads to heartache, so he tamps it right down, because anyway didn’t Bakugou say he liked bimbos? Girls like Camie? Girls like Mina—the very thought of them with Bakugou makes Eijirou’s skin crawl. He’d crawl right out of it if he could.
“Fuck you guys,” Bakugou says, shoving off the couch. “I’m going to bed.”
Eijirou watches him leave, absently rubbing his chest. There’s a hollow feeling there, something empty and confused and aching. The image of Bakugou with some bubbly girl haunts him. And then the girl in his mind morphs into Mina, and seeing as Eijirou can’t seem to force out a laugh anymore, he makes up his own excuse to leave. “Early training,” he says, “gotta get some sleep.” But the truth is he’s hurting, and he wants to go back to the safety of his room and put on something to cheer himself up, do something to overwrite the sound of their laughter. Something to overwrite the new knowledge that Bakugou isn’t a virgin, that he knows enough about girls to know what he likes.
The thought of it brings out something ugly in Eijirou, something competitive and mean. It drives him to see how he’d measure up against the figments his mind supplies, all slim and petite and curvy and girlish and oh so very not him. He does it in private, of course, in his dimly lit room after everyone else has tucked in. He opens his closet, takes out the full-length mirror tucked behind his regular clothes, and the duffel of special, secret things with it. He takes his time, takes the things from the bag and lays them all out in front of him, and already his mind starts to haze. There’s something superstitious about the way he rubs creams into his skin, something ritualistic in the way he undresses, the way he kicks his boxers away and strips off his t-shirt, revealing the freshly shaved skin underneath. He fluffs his hair up with mousse instead of gel, lines his eyes, curls his lashes, runs a wand of sticky, shiny, strawberry-flavored gloss over his lips, and by then he feels just a little bit better. He slips into an orange spaghetti-strap crop top he bought online and a too-tight pair of black lace boyshorts, so low-cut that his cock peeks out the scalloped band at the top and his balls test the seam on the crotch. He thinks about tucking everything back just to see how it looks, but then he remembers the olive-green thigh-high socks he bought and rushes to slip them on too. They feel good on his freshly shaved legs, soft and silky and just tight enough that they indent his thick, muscular thighs.
He takes a look at himself in the mirror, from the front, from behind. The impression is startling. Not like he’s never worn makeup before, or lingerie, but he’s never worn it with purpose. He’s never worn it with someone so clear in his mind, with someone to send the lewd pictures he takes. Not that he would—the thought alone makes him sweat—but the fact that he could makes him dizzy. He lifts a hand to his mouth, stopping right before his fingers touch the rosy gloss on his lips. Snap, snap, Eijirou has to admit he looks beautiful in the dimly lit pictures. He drops down on his knees, scoots a little closer. Spreads his thighs, tries out what he thinks is a sexy pose. It’s stiff at first, but then he breathes and shifts his hips a little and—oh, that doesn’t look half bad. He drags a hand down his chest, tugging the skimpy top down below his pebbled nipples. he pushes his pecs together, trying to decide if—well, he knows he looks hot. He feels hot. But is he hotter than Mina? Than Camie?
Is he hot enough?
“Jesus christ,” comes a voice from behind, and it’s then that Eijirou sees Bakugou in the mirror, part-way inside the room, frozen in the doorway with a stormy look on his face. Eijirou blanches, drops his phone—then his hands, to cover his half-hard cock.
“Don’t—shit, man, you weren’t supposed to—“
“Who the fuck are those pictures for?”
Bakugou sounds mad. He closes—no, slams the door behind him. In the mirror, his mouth is tight, eyes narrowed and fists balled at his sides as he shifts his gaze between Eijirou’s reflection and his lace-covered ass.
“Kirishima. Who are you dressed up for?”
“No one,” Eijirou says, dropping his head. God, what an awful time to cry. “I’m dressed up for myself.”
Bakugou’s eyes soften, but a muscle in his jaw ticks like he’s grinding his teeth.
“You’re a shitty liar,” he says, kneeling behind Eijirou, sifting a shockingly gentle hand through Eijirou’s loose, wavy hair.
“Bakugou—”
“You’re wearing my colors,” Bakugou says, voice low and raspy, almost a hiss. “Think you’re subtle?”
“I’m not, man, I swear—“
“What, you thought you’d dress up like a little whore for me and rile me up? Make me want you?”
“Please don’t do this,” Eijirou mumbles, eyes stinging as unshed tears cling to his painted eyelashes.
“Stupid fucking plan,” Bakugou says, gathering up Eijirou’s hair in his fist. He tugs softly, drawing Eijirou’s head up until their eyes meet in the mirror again. “I already want you.”
Eijirou gapes. The shock of it makes his chest feel tight, but the sight of them makes his heart throb. He sees their reflection, himself-not-himself, a stranger with a little spaghetti strap top, with soft red waves and painted eyes, like a twin from another dimension. There with Bakugou behind him, brooding, touching him so possessively, his chest broad enough to make Eijirou look almost slight in comparison—there, in the trick mirror, in the low light, he looks like he does in his dreams.
“I was gonna take it slow with you,” Bakugou says, snaking a hand around Eijirou’s chest to palm at his pec, to pinch at a pebbled pink nipple. “But you don’t look like you can wait.”
Eijirou swallows. “Wait for what?”
Bakugou’s hands are hot and damp with sweat and the danger of it makes Eijirou dizzy with need.
“You look like you need to get fucked right now,” Bakugou says, draping his body over Eijirou’s, one hand dragging up to grip Eijirou’s jaw. “Look too fucking hot, I don’t think I can stop.”
Hot, Eijirou thinks, Bakugou thinks he’s hot.
“Stop—wha—“
“Going stupid already?” Bakugou growls, sucking kisses up the side of EIjirou’s neck. “You need me to fuck some sense into you?”
“Shit. Yeah,” Eijirou pants, dropping forward when Bakugou shoves him up against the mirror. He braces on one arm, uses the other to help Bakugou shimmy his lace panties down.
“Fucking look at you,” Bakugou murmurs, dragging a hand up Eijirou’s thigh to grip at his ass. “You shaved for me?”
“Yeah,” Eijirou rasps, flushing with embarrassment.
“Such a slut,” Bakugou hisses, shoving his sweatpants down. He slots his cock up between Eijirou’s cheeks, pumps his hips a few times. He’s big, bigger than Eijirou expected. He’s rock hard and leaky, Eijirou can feel precum drag up his the skin of his lower back.
“You wanted this,” Bakugou says. “You knew it would happen.”
Eijirou squirms, real shame creeping up in his chest, but Bakugou keeps him from turning around with a hand at the back of his neck.
“I didn’t, I swear, I—“
“I did,” Bakugou whispers, tapping the wet head of his cock against Eijirou’s hole. “You’re an airhead, Kirishima.” He hocks, spits right onto Eijirou’s ass, then smears around the thin, slippy spit with the head of his dick. “Your stealth skills are shit.”
“I didn’t mean to, I didn’t think I—ah!” Eijirou whines, knees slipping wider as he sobs at the pressure. Bakugou presses forward, spears him open with the blunt, wet head of his cock. Eijirou crumples against the mirror, breath caught in his throat.
“Saw that thong in your laundry last week, you know,” Bakugou says, pushing in another inch. “And you left that fancy razor in the locker room shower just now. Like you wanted me to see it. Like you’re fucking teasing me.”
“It wasn’t on p-purpose,” Eijirou says, choking on air. He wants to talk back, wants to yell at Bakugou for stalking him. But it’s all he can do just to hold himself up as Bakugou bottoms out inside him. He’s so full he can hardly think.
“Breathe,” Bakugou murmurs, dropping his forehead to Eijirou’s shoulder. “Relax, or I’m not gonna last.”
“Can’t,” Eijirou groans, tears slipping down his face, leaving black trails of mascara. Bakugou meets his eyes in the mirror, wincing, brows drawn, lip curled on clenched teeth. “I—I never—“
“Come on, baby, relax for me,” Bakugou croons, his hot hands digging into Eijirou’s skin. His voice is low and sweet and quiet, intimate, and it sends chills down Eijirou’s spine. Eijirou gasps in a little breath and then another, and and the hot spike of pressure-pleasure-pain in his guts blossoms into deep, druglike euphoria.
“That’s right, let me in, I got you,” Bakugou groans, pumping his hips in slow, shallow circles. “Guess you only look like a whore. This pussy’s so fucking tight.”
Eijirou sobs, breath clouding the mirror, fuzzing out his reflection. Like that, with all his sharp edges softened, he looks a little smaller, a little more feminine. A little meeker, shaking and humming out a high, needy sound as Bakugou gives him a real thrust, long and hard and bruising.
“You like that?” Bakugou says, amused, curling his hand around Eijirou’s jaw. “Like it when I fuck this cunt?”
“Yeah,” Eijirou gasps, pressing back, drunk on Bakugou’s voice, on the drag of his thick cock, the press of his rough hands.
“Who does this tight little pussy belong to?”
“I—it—“ Eijirou gasps, sweaty hands slipping on the glossy mirror. He can’t get his balance, not with Bakugou fucking him so hard he can barely breathe.
“C’mon, tell me,” Bakugou growls, nipping at Eijirou’s ear. “Say ‘my pussy belongs to Bakugou Katsuki.’”
“My, my pussy, ah, b-belongs,” Eijirou huffs, toes curling, “to B-bakugou Ka—“
“Oh shit,” Bakugou grunts, rocking Eijirou up against the mirror and pinning him there. The veins in his arms bulge as he cums, eyes squeezed shut, teeth grit, head thrown back just far enough that Eijirou can see his reflection, can see the mix of shock and embarrassment and raw need all flash over his reddened face.
“Fuck,” Bakugou groans, dropping his forehead to Eijirou’s shoulder. “Made me a minute man.”
“Sorry,” Eijirou says, wriggling in Bakugou’s lax grasp.
“Did you just apologize for being really fucking hot?” Bakugou says, slipping a hand down Eijirou’s abs, fingers inching toward his flushed, neglected cock. “Can’t believe I came before you did.”
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Eijirou rushes out, grabbing Bakugou’s wrist. “I don’t want to. Not like, um. That.”
Bakugou lifts his head, meets Eijirou’s eyes in the mirror. His face is so soft, so relaxed. It strikes Eijirou then how beautiful they look together, even with Bakugou’s hair messed up, even with the mess they made of Eijirou’s makeup.
“I get it,” Bakugou says, pulling out with a wince. “Does my little slut want me to finger this sloppy cunt instead?”
Eijirou blushes at the pet name and nods at Bakugou’s reflection.
Bakugou eases back, pulls Eijirou with him. He gently maneuvers them until Eijirou is stretched out in front of him, head pillowed on his arms, ass up, knees spread—exposed, spread out so lewd that he can barely stand to look at himself. But low groan Bakugou lets out as he drags his fingers through the mess between Eijirou’s thighs is all hunger, all desire, and it helps Eijirou relax.
“So fucking hot,” Bakugou mumbles, half in awe, as he slips two fingers inside, slicked by his own cum. He’s a little clumsy at first, breathing harsh and twisting his thick fingers experimentally, almost timid. But it isn’t long before Eijirou starts to squirm, before Bakugou finds his rhythm.
“Like that?” he asks, crooking his fingers, smoothing his free hand up the small of Eijirou’s back.
“Yeah,” Eijirou moans. He tilts his hips, chases that electric feeling that has him right on edge. “Harder.”
Bakugou dips his head down, presses a kiss to each dimple in Eijirou’s back, and rocks his fingers in hard. He lolls out his tongue, sucks and nips at one plush cheek and then the other, then laps at the pink, sore flesh stretched tight around his thick fingers.
“Oh fuck,” Eijirou whines, thighs shaking. “Yeah, please, please.”
Bakugou groans low and slurps harder, twists and scissors his fingers. He reaches his free hand up to slip beneath Eijirou’s tanktop, plucking at his tight, ruddy nipple.
“Gonna, ah,” Eijirou pants.
“Gonna cum for me?” Bakugou says. “C’mon, gorgeous, you can do it.”
Eijirou clamps down, body locked tight, cum dribbling from his untouched cock with each harsh curl of Bakugou’s fingers. He sobs with the intensity of it, fists balled and face buried, curtained with his own perfumed hair. Bakugou works him through it, drags it out, stroking his side, licking and sucking at his ass, his low back, kissing up his spine to bite at his shoulder.
It’s the longest, most annihilating orgasm Eijirou’s ever had, and when he finally lifts his head, he can barely see. Everything is hazy, fuzzed out and glowy, or maybe that’s the tear-damp makeup on his lashes. He’s vaguely aware of Bakugou scooping him up and settling them both down on the bed.
Bakugou curls around him, cradles Eijirou’s head to his chest. Pulls the blanket over them and lays there, softly petting at Eijirou’s hair. It’s a long time before their breathing evens out. Before Bakugou’s heartbeat in Eijirou’s ear slows down again, low hypnotic thump that lulls him half asleep.
“Hey,” Bakugou says quietly.
Eijirou buries his face in Bakugou’s chest. He plays with the strings of Bakugou’s sweat pants, still just a little too overstimulated to look him in the eye.
“Hey.”
Bakugou taps the side of his head.
“What’s going on in there, rocks for brains?”
“Oh,” Eijirou hums, licking the remnants of strawberry lipgloss from the corner of his lips. “I’m happy I guess.”
“You guess?” Bakugou grumbles, rubbing gently at Eijirou’s scalp.
“Yeah, I mean. I like you.”
“Duh.”
“A lot.”
“Obviously.”
“And I just thought it would never happen, you know?”
Bakugou scoffs. He strokes down Eijirou’s neck, down his back and then up again. Then, in a shockingly gentle voice, he says, “why the fuck not?”
“Oh I don’t know,” Eijirou says, tugging the blanket up to his chin. “Thought I wasn’t good enough. Thought you were straight, I guess.”
“I am,” Bakugou says flatly.
Eijirou bristles. Lifts his head. And for the first time that night, looks Bakugou directly in the eye.
“Bakugou.”
Bakugou’s face is soft and relaxed, infuriatingly neutral.
“We just—you, to me, we—”
“Fuck yeah we did,” Bakugou says, grinning.
“But you’re...”
Bakugou shrugs.
Eijirou feels tears prick at the corners of his eyes.
“Never thought of myself as gay,” Bakugou says, and Eijirou can tell that the lightness in his voice is forced. “I wondered, or whatever, when I realized I like hardbody women. Who fucking cares anyway. All I know is I don’t want to fuck dudes.”
He says that last word with more than a hint of distaste.
“But. Bakugou. We—what does that mean?”
Bakugou tucks a lock of hair behind Eijirou’s ear, and leaves his hand there, rough fingers just barely touching Eijirou’s cheek. He tips his head forward, slow and deliberate, until their noses touch. And he waits, thumb stroking over the high curve of Eijirou’s cheekbone. And it’s all so much, Eijirou wants to crawl out of his skin or shout or cry or dissolve into nothing, and when Bakugou reads all that in his tear-damp eyes, he closes the distance between them.
It’s a mind-numbing kiss. Thought-obliterating, bossy, filthy, open-mouthed kiss. When Bakugou pulls back, Eijirou’s reeling again—but relaxed. Soft. As though that kiss, that first kiss, that movie-star kiss, sucked all the fear right out of him.
“You tell me what it means,” Bakugou whispers between soft kisses to the corner of Eijirou’s mouth. “When you’re ready.”
-
It’s a hard-won, infuriating, ecstatic, challenging, renewing, ego-crushing six months of quietly dating before Katsuki calls his parents and tells them he’s bringing his girlfriend home for dinner.
Nervous doesn’t even begin to cover the way Eiji feels, fixing their hair in a gas station bathroom on the edge of Katsuki’s hometown. Katsuki’s there with them, arms crossed over his chest, ready for—for anything, bless him. He’s nervous too, by the tic in his jaw and the way he can’t keep his hands still. But he hasn’t rushed them, not once the whole day, and not now as they fix their face one last time.
Back in the car, it’s hard not to stare out the window. It’s hard to ignore the ghostly reflection of their face superimposed over the changing landscape, it’s hard not to analyze every last detail, to grade every feature. Eiji’s not sure if they made the right choice, going in without prepping Katsuki’s family. But it’s what Katsuki wanted, and they trusts him, so they put on a brave face and slips their hand in Katsuki’s when he opens the car door for them.
He’s funny that way, fussy even, insistent on being a ‘gentleman’ despite his surly disposition. He’s a good boyfriend. Patient. He spoils them with everything from his time to his cooking to clips for their lengthening hair to the bralette and panties and cute little dress they has on, white off-the-shoulder with ruffles and little embroidered cherries, and red platform heels to match, and they feel like a loser and an ingrate when they hesitate there in the driveway
“We don’t have to do this,” Katsuki says, squeezing their hand.
“Yeah,” Eiji says, summoning a smile. “But I’m hungry. And I wanna find out if your mom is a better cook than you.”
“First off, she isn’t. Second off, don’t tell her that, she’ll lose her mind,” Katsuki says, bullying them back against the car. He rolls his hips against theirs, sneaks a hand around their waist to palm at their ass. “Third off, I will put you back in this car and drive us home right now. No questions asked.”
“Really?”
“Do I ever stutter?”
“Are you sure you’re not just saying that cause you’re horny?”
Katsuki rolls his eyes and leans in to kiss them, moaning at the taste of strawberry chapstick. He slides a thigh between Eiji’s, inching up the skirt of their dress, and they’re suddenly keenly aware of the fact that there’s a clear view from the house’s front living room window. They know how long Katsuki takes to calm down once he’s hard, so they push him back, straighten his shirt, fix their hair. They take his hand when he offers it, and together the two of them knock on the door to his childhood home.
“Katsuki! Welcome home.”
It’s Masaru that answers, smiling, and his subdued energy makes Eiji relax just a fraction. After all, it’s Mitsuki they’re worried about, since they met once before. Before—
“So you weren’t lying, you really have a girlfriend, huh, brat?”
“God, shut up,“ Katsuki grumbles, allowing his mother all of a two second hug before he shrugs her off. “Ma, you remember Eiji.”
“Hi, Mrs. Bakugou,” Eiji says, nervous hand scratching at the back of their neck. Mitsuki looks them up and down, and it’s only because Eiji knows Katsuki so well that she can read the subtle changes in Mitsuki’s face. There’s a critical gleam to her eyes, a twitch of her lips like she’s thinking. Then it all gets replaced by a menacing smile, and she claps a hand to Eiji’s shoulder.
“Hello, dear,” Mitsuki says. “Is something the matter? Did you hit your head since the last time I saw you?”
“Mom,” Katsuki growls, but Mitsuki pinches his cheek, cutting him off.
“How else is it that such a beautiful girl agreed to date my ungrateful monster of a son?” Mitsuki says. She turns to Eiji with exaggerated concern on her face. “It’s okay, honey, just blink twice if he’s blackmailing you to be here. I’ll protect you.”
“Oh, no, Mrs. Bakugou, it’s totally fine,” Eiji says, relief so palpable that they start to giggle.
“You think you’re funny, you old hag?”
“Ignore him,” Mitsuki says, looping her arm around Eiji’s shoulder, dragging them toward the kitchen. “Come help me with dinner.”
“Leave ‘em alone, Eiji can’t cook for shit,” Bakugou shouts.
“You brat,“ Mitsuki growls back.
“It’s okay, it’s true,” Eiji says, but they let Mitsuki drag them off anyway.
The bustle of it edges out all the nerves. Overpowers the anxiety, the fear, the feelings of inadequacy, until Eiji’s happily peeling potatoes and chatting with Katsuki’s mom. Relaxed. Happy, even, giddy at the thought that this is where Katsuki grew up. This is the kitchen that taught him to cook, and there are the stairs to his room, and the yard he played in, and the tree that he fell from and broke his arm. And Katsuki is so like his mother that it’s easy for Eiji to help her, to have a towel ready before Mitsuki asks, to do things just so. Eiji fits in this house, the last body in a long-empty seat. The first person Katsuki’s ever brought home—“And the last, if he knows what’s good for him,” Mitsuki says—and the only one Katsuki’s allowed into his room since he was about twelve years old.
“You were so cute, man,” Eiji says, picking up a photo of Katsuki’s little-league baseball team. “What happened?”
“Grew up,” Katsuki grunts. “It’s only gonna get worse. You sure you’re ready for that?”
“Hmm, I think you’re gonna stay hot though. Like your dad.”
Katsuki grabs Eiji from behind, wrapping his hands around their waist.
“I did not just hear you say that.”
“Say what?” Eiji says, squirming around to look at Katsuki with wide, innocent eyes.
“Bitch,” Katsuki hisses, kissing the tip of their nose. “You’re gonna get it for that one.”
“Hope so,” Eiji hums.
“Eiji! Brat! Dinner!” Mitsuki yells up the stairs.
Eiji laughs, pressing their forehead to Katsuki’s.
“I like your family,” they say. “They’re nice.”
“Your family too,” Katsuki says. He bonks his forehead against their’s. “I’m your family now, remember?”
Eiji laughs against Katsuki’s lips, too elated to properly kiss back.
“Come on,” Katsuki says, slipping his hand into their’s. “The sooner we eat, the sooner I can show you that tree house I was talking about.”
“This late? What are we gonna do in a tree house at this time of—oh. Oh, yeah let’s go eat.”
And the day could have gone so many ways. Eiji imagined about ten different endings, with some of them grim and some of them hopeful, and none of them quite so perfect as the day that unfolded.
They never imagined it being so easy, so shockingly normal. So light, so pleasant, so free, so much a day that will stick there in Eiji’s mind, a place they’ll return to when they need a moment of comfort.
They never imagined they’d end up spread out on an old sleeping bag in a tight little hand-hewn house in a tree in the woods just outside Katsuki’s neighborhood, skirt pushed up to bare their thighs, red hair spread out on a pillow that smells like Katsuki and nostalgia and home. They never imagined how good it would feel to lose themself, to let Katsuki eat them out slow and sloppy, to edge them for hours by a camp lantern and starlight and the sound of hundreds of crickets and frogs. Never imagined how good they would feel taking control, straddling Katsuki’s hips, fucking him slow and hard with a manicured hand braced up against the low ceiling of the tree house. They never imagined how powerful they’d feel with Katsuki’s eyes raking over them, ravenous, glowing with hunger, with clear-cut desire so affirming it makes Eiji want to perform, to languish in themself, to delight in the ripple of muscle, the drip of sweat, the addictive feeling of Katsuki’s focus locked only on them. They feel so good that they sigh into Katsuki’s mouth, let him touch them everywhere, and they don’t even flinch when he slides a timid palm up to trap their cock against their trembling stomach. They drop down on their elbows, let Katsuki lick into their mouth, let him set the pace with quick, violent snaps of his hips.
“Look at me,” Katsuki says, voice rough with need. He’s holding back, sweat dripping down his corded neck, hair matted to his forehead. Wild, wild eyes hold Eiji’s, hypnotic, demanding, drawing them in till nothing else exists but the glow of those eyes and the bright snap of ecstasy licking up Eiji’s spine, tingling at the back of their skull as they cum to the sound of Katsuki’s orgasm. It’s their name, sweet and low and rough, over and over and over, a brutal little prayer that Katsuki grunts out with tears in his eyes and a twist to his beautiful lips, a shadow of pain in the lean of his brow. And Eiji gets that, cause there’s an answering ache deep inside them, deeper than the plump-pink bruise of their insides all churned up by Katsuki’s thick cock, deeper than the purple-red welt in the shape of his hand where they chose not to harden against the hot pop of his quirk. It’s the same kind of delicious ache, only deeper, truer, a pain that wells up in their chest and wriggles up their sob-tight throat till there’s nothing they can do to stop it tumbling out in the shape of ‘I love you.’
And instinct has them reaching up to clap a hand to their lips, but Katsuki stops them, drags them down for a furious kiss, rolls them over so he can loom there with a delirious heat in his eyes. The change in position makes all those unshed tears rush to the corners of his eyes to drip down his nose and onto Eiji’s cheek.
“Say it again,” he rasps.
“Love you,” Eiji says, sniffling.
“Shit,” Katsuki says, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. “I love you too. I love you so god damn much.”
Eiji can feel him inside them swelling to hardness again, both of them sensitive and very near spent. But the ache doesn’t stop Eiji from stretching their arms high over their head, arching their back in the way they know Katsuki likes, tongue tracing the point of their teeth as Katsuki drums up a rhythm, slower this time. Long and slow and languid, and he’s still crying, still awestruck and slack-jawed and beaming and dripping with sweat, a perfect mess, a work of art.
“Fuck,” Katsuki hisses through clenched teeth. “God damn it I’m gonna, I’m—”
“C’mon, that’s it,” Eiji says, locking their legs around Katsuki’s waist. “Please, I’m close too.”
Katsuki gasps, dropping his head to the crook of Eiji’s neck, tasting them, laving at their pulse, hands running up Eiji’s arms to slot their fingers together. Katsuki’s hips churn desperate and arrhythmic, and his skin pricks with goosebumps all over. Eiji can feel him trembling as he works them both over the edge, panting and whining and sucking at the curve of Eiji’s jaw, groaning so low and so loud that the vibrations of it zing through Eiji’s chest where they’re pressed tight together. They cum like that to the feeling of Katsuki throbbing inside them, to the sight of him openly weeping, to the sound of their own name like Katsuki just can’t help but say it, and for once in Eiji’s life that name sounds good, sounds like theirs, like becoming has happened at last.
And the thought of arrival possesses them, wraps around Eiji’s throat and stays there through the gentle wane of the afterglow, stays through Katsuki’s fussing over the mess they both made, through the particular way he arranges the two-person sleeping bag and zips them up tight so the chill doesn’t touch them when he opens the treehouse window.
I’m here, Eiji thinks as they blink up at the stars, and the stars blink back like a greeting, like the universe smiles and says, so you are, like it welcomes them whole to the feeling of living.
“It feels like my birthday,” Eiji whispers, stretching their hand up, watching the moonlight shine off their red-painted nails.
“I’ll make a cake,” Katsuki mumbles, half asleep already, face a portrait of ease, so different from his regular expression. A band of starlight-moonlight drapes across his face, lighting up the stubble on his jaw. The stars shine and outside there’s a choir of night noise, like a party where heaven and earth are invited, and all because Eiji’s finally come out of hiding, lured out by a foul-mouthed, short-tempered, big-hearted boy, a boy who was smart enough to read truth in the trick mirror. Eiji kisses Katsuki’s forehead, smiling when he grunts and clings to them in response. They thank the same god they used to curse for trapping them in an ill-fitting body for putting them in the same universe as Bakugou Katsuki. And they thank all the boys they ever hated and all the girls they ever envied, all the family who misread them and all the strangers who stare at them now, now that they don’t care to do much to hide themself, because all of that heartache’s been worth it to have a moment like now. A moment of comfort, of safety, of joy in the lightness of being, a moment in the warmth an the weight of Katsuki’s body. One moment in a lifetime, insignificant—but Eiji knows they’ll remember it forever: the first day of the rest of their life.