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The thing is, Eijirou doesn't think it's that big of a deal. Bakugou’s staring at him slack-jawed, like Eijirou’s just confessed to something awful—except all he’d said was—was—
“You don’t jack off,” Bakugou repeats.
Eijirou cringes. “I… Dude, seriously, is it that big of a deal?”
“You’re constantly making dick jokes with Kaminari,” Bakugou says flatly. “The flirting between you two in the locker room is so gross the class is petitioning you make you guys change before you show up to the gym.”
“Are you jealous?” Eijirou teases.
“Yes,” Bakugou says, so dry Eijirou considers offering him water. “I am jealous of you offering to give Kaminari a “brojob” to help him de-stress after exams.”
“Well,” Eijirou says, cringing, “when you put it that way, I guess I could see why—”
“And then there’re the No-Nut November jokes,” Bakugou continues ruthlessly. “When you two updated each other on your progress. Daily.”
“I get it, bro—”
“And then there was the time where he sprained his fingers and you said you would help him because you knew he would do the same for you —”
“They’re just jokes!” Eijirou exclaims. “Seriously, I didn’t mean anything by it, and it would have been weird if he was joking about that and I told him, what, ‘hey, sorry, man, but I don’t jack off and I’ve never actually done any of the stuff you’re talking about’—”
“He wouldn’t care,” Bakugou says.
Eijirou stares at him. “You haven’t stopped being weird about it since you found out.”
Bakugou rolls back his shoulders. “Well, that’s different.”
“Is it?”
“Sure it is,” he says, easily. “You sound upset about it. I don’t get why you don’t when it clearly sounds like you want to.”
Fuck. Bakugou’s too perceptive.
The thing is, Eijirou’s being unfair to him. If he’d really said to quit it, said it was his own goddamn business or that it just wasn’t something he felt like doing, Bakugou would have backed off in a heartbeat.
But he pays attention, and he knows this is something that bothers Eijirou. And when it comes to that, when it comes to things that make him upset, Bakugou bites down like a dog with a bone. He’s got this reigning theory that Eijirou can’t take care of himself, that he’s too soft to enforce his boundaries or act on what he really wants. Eijirou doesn’t know, exactly, how much of it is true , but, well—it does apply in this case.
Because he would like to. He jokes with Kaminari because it’s nice, for a few moments, to feel normal, to feel included in something that the vast majority of the teenage population does. But every time he tries, every time he thinks it’ll be different—
“You can’t tell anyone what I’m about to tell you,” he says, clenching his fists. “I’m serious, man, you’re my best friend so I’m telling you, but you can’t—”
“Hey,” Bakugou says, stepping closer. He’s looking Eijirou in the eye, calm and steady. “I’m not gonna talk. You know that. What’s bothering you?”
Eijirou bites his lip. His confession looms over him, the wave of humiliation washing over him even though he hasn’t even said anything yet. Logically, he knows, they’re alone in his dorm room, safe from prying eyes or ears. Still, he can’t find the irrational fear that his secret’s going to be spilled to everyone he’s trying to hide it from.
“Stop that,” Bakugou admonishes, tugging at his lip. “You’re gonna tear it.”
“You’re like my mom, dude,” Eijirou says, laughing shakily but refraining from biting again.
“I’m assuming you don’t talk to your mom about your jerking-off habits.”
“Don’t talk about my mom when we’re talking about me jerking off!”
“You brought it up!” Bakugou argues.
The offense in his tone, let alone the ridiculousness of the conversation, has Eijirou laughing for real, gasping for breath. When he finally straightens up, Bakugou’s managed to get a handle on himself as well, but he looks—pleased, almost. Like he was trying something, and it worked. Like he was trying to get Eijirou to loosen up, to feel comfortable talking about this.
He’s unreal. Eijirou’s best friend is unreal.
He opens his mouth, to try again, to speak, and it hits him, then, that he’s about to say this to Bakugou, to his best friend, who’s going to think he’s dumb the second he mentions it—
“It just doesn’t feel worth it,” he blurts out. “I can’t—I always felt guilty the first couple times and it didn’t feel good enough to be worth that so I just. Don’t.”
Bakugou doesn’t say anything for a moment. His eyebrows jump, his eyes widen, and then he smirks, the corner of his lips kicked up, looking amused.
“Don’t laugh at me,” Eijirou whines, crossing his arms. “See, this is why I didn’t—”
“I’m not laughing at you,” Bakugou says, looking way too fucking pleased at Eijirou’s intense shame. “No, it’s just—all that means is you’re not doing it right.”
Eijirou frowns. “You’re serious?”
“I’ll show you,” Bakugou offers, like he wasn’t just making fun of Eijirou and Kaminari’s dumb jokes a minute ago. “I’m serious, I can help.”
“You’re going to help me jack off,” Eijirou repeats slowly.
“Yeah,” Bakugou says, grinning. “C’mon, it’ll be fun. I do a good deed, you get a new hobby, and you and Kaminari can traumatize everyone else even better once you’ve got actual source material to work off of.”
“I feel like you’re oversimplifying this,” Eijirou stammers, but Bakugou’s already moving forward, crowding Eijirou against the bed, and then he’s dragging Eijirou into his lap.
And the thing is, Eijirou’s a big guy, lined with muscle, and Bakugou does it so effortlessly. He knows, objectively, that Bakugou’s gotta be strong to handle the recoil of his explosions. But knowing that and feeling it are two different things, especially when Bakugou keeps him rooted in his lap, one forearm braced across his chest, locking him in.
He’s only an inch shorter than Bakugou, but all of a sudden it feels like more. In Bakugou’s lap, he feels—small.
“Unzip your jeans for me, sweetheart,” Bakugou says, his free hand sneaking up Eijirou’s shirt, rubbing circles into the skin of his waist. “I got my hands full.”
Shakily, Eijirou obeys, slipping the button out of its loop and sliding down the zipper. Bakugou makes a noise, considering, and then he’s tapping Eijirou’s hip. “Lift yourself up for me.”
He does, and Bakugou slides his jeans off. They go easily, a loose fit even zipped-up, and then he’s sitting in Bakugou’s lap in nothing but his shirt and his boxers.
“This is more comfortable, isn’t it?” Bakugou asks.
“You’re still wearing everything,” Eijirou points out.
“I am,” Bakugou says, nodding. “But this is about you, Ei.”
And then he’s moving, shifting, one hand coming down to hold Eijirou’s hip down in his lab, the other one slipping inside his boxers. And he stops.
“Eijirou,” Bakugou says, “tell me what I’m touching.”
Eijirou freezes. This entire time, Bakugou’s been operating on the assumption that Eijirou’s like him, that he’s got a dick, and that’s the only reason he’d offered to help, the only reason it wasn’t weird. He hadn’t thought about what this would mean.
“Eijirou,” Bakugou says again, his voice low enough to drag on the ground. “Tell me what I’m touching.”
Eijirou’s mouth opens in a half-sob. He’s so humiliated that he can’t stand it, wants to sink into the ground, wants to stop existing. “‘S my pussy.”
“Is this why you were so embarrassed?” Bakugou’s hand covers his pussy, radiating warmth. He’s not touching anything, not his lips, not his clit, his fingers curling in, almost like he’s holding it. Cupping Eijirou’s pussy in his hand.
“Yes,” he chokes out. “I—I didn’t—I forgot that you—”
“I’m a little confused, Eijirou.” It’s unfair, that Bakugou can be so collected when Eijirou can barely speak. “You should have told me.”
“I—what?”
“That you didn’t know how to play with your pussy,” Bakugou says, petting it lightly, the heel of his hand coming down to grind against Eijirou’s clit. “I would’ve helped you sooner. You didn’t have to hide it from me.”
“I’m sorry,” Eijirou mumbles, pushing his face into Bakugou’s neck. He closes his eyes tightly, breathes in, envelopes himself in Bakugou’s smoky-sweet smell, the feel of him at Eijirou’s back.
“It’s alright,” Bakugou says, sliding Eijirou’s boxers down his legs until they drop on the floor. “It’s all good now, sweetheart, doesn’t that feel good?”
Bakugou drags two fingers up through Eijirou’s pussy, fingertips pressing slow, smooth circles around his clit. His fingers are dripping with slick, ropey between his fingers.
“You paying attention, baby?” Bakugou asks, slapping his pussy loud enough for it to hurt , for slick to spatter on the ground. “You’re supposed to be soaked all pretty like this.”
“Okay,” Eijirou gasps, squirming in his lap. “Okay, what—what else?”
“It’s about what you like,” Bakugou says. “I’ve played with your clit, sweetheart, did you like that?”
Eijirou nods, face hot.
Bakugou makes a noise, displeased. “Words, Eijirou.”
“Liked it so much,” Eijirou blurts out, yelping when Bakugou’s fingers land on his clit again. “Like it, like it, feels so good—”
“That’s good,” Bakugou croons, pinching his clit, laughing when Eijirou can’t help but thrust his hips up into Bakugou’s hand. “I wanna hear more, baby, what else did you like?”
Bakugou gets upset when he doesn’t say things. He likes to hear everything, he likes to hear the things that make Eijirou more embarrassed than anything he’s ever felt.
“When you… hit me,” he says. And then, because Bakugou likes when he uses his words— “When you hit my pussy, I—I liked that.”
“Yeah?” Bakugou asks. He grins, presses the sharp curve of it into Eijirou’s neck. “You gonna try that on yourself, sweetheart? Spank your pussy before you go to sleep? Get slick all over the sheets, ‘til your hands stinging and your pussy’s swollen red?”
“No,” Eijirou whines, bucking his hips up again, because Bakugou had touched his clit when he’d said he’d liked it but he’s not—his hand isn’t landing where it needs to be, isn’t hurting the way he likes. “No, I’d ask—ask you, ‘cause you said I should have told you, and I’m telling you —”
“You are,” Bakugou breathes, sounding—amazed, almost. “You’re being so good for me, telling me what you want. You want me to spank your pussy, sweetheart? Get it all red and puffy before I fuck my fingers in you?”
Eijirou almost sobs. “Please.” And Bakugou’s been using his first name, been calling him baby and sweetheart, and Eijirou wants to be sweet to him back. “Please, Katsuki.”
Bakugou spanks him.
His hand is so broad it barely fits between Eijirou’s thighs and it hurts. Eijirou would shy away from hitting himself, wouldn’t know how to hit hard enough, but Bakugou’s rough and bold and all he wants is to see Eijirou’s pussy swollen . He hits hard enough to leave a mark.
“Legs,” Bakugou growls, nudging them wider. “Spread ‘em, sweetheart, want your pussy open for me.”
Eijirou listens to him. He chances looking down and finds himself transfixed, at the slick glistening on the lips of his pussy, staining Bakugou’s sweatpants beneath him. His clit is pearly-pink, exposed and vulnerable, and Bakugou’s hand comes down on it mercilessly, and Eijirou—
Goes blank.
If there was a caustic heat inside him, if he ever felt hungry, starving, the feeling has become obsolete. Unthinkable. He’s never felt cooler, more satiated. Something settles low in his stomach and he exhales, feeling warm and pillow-soft in his head, across his shoulders.
Bakugou’s trailing kisses up his neck, sucking lightly over his pulse. He’s stopped spanking him and his hand has moved to grip the inside of Eijirou’s thigh, thumb rubbing at the crease. Slowly, shyly, Eijirou reaches for that hand and tugs it back until it’s lying flush over his pussy.
“Oh,” Bakugou murmurs. “I didn’t know I had a slut in my lap.”
Eijirou’s reaction to that is understandable. Necessary, even. He digs his face further into Bakugou’s neck and he bites.
“Fuck!” Bakugou curses, laughing through it. “Sweetheart, the fuck else do you call that? Nothing wrong with being needy, I said it wrong, I like that I’ve got a slut in my lap. Means you’ll let me do anything, yeah? Could stuff you with four of my fingers, take a video of you fucking yourself down on my hand, and you’d love it. Eat it up, wouldn’t you?”
And Eijirou can’t even argue, can’t do anything but whine pathetically, because he would. Because he’d thought that playing with himself wasn’t for him, wasn’t enjoyable, but Bakugou had made him orgasm just by spanking his clit and he finds he doesn’t want to move from his spot. He likes it here, being in Bakugou’s lap.
“Not a slut,” he still tries. “I just—I just like it when it’s—you.”
Bakugou doesn’t say anything for a moment. Eijirou ducks his head, feeling like he’s given some part of him away, exposed something dangerous.
And then Bakugou shifts, adjusts him, and slowly, carefully, tilts Eijirou’s head so he can kiss the corner of his mouth. He doesn’t bite, doesn’t insult him—just holds him and kisses him, rubbing his clit gently until Eijirou’s gasping into his mouth, crying wet tears onto both of their faces.
“I changed my mind,” Bakugou says roughly. “I don’t want you looking, for this part.”
Eijirou blinks, confused. “Huh?”
“Don’t want you to know how to fuck yourself,” Bakugou says, one finger coming to press inside him, glacially slow. “If I have to hear you, Eijirou, if I gotta hear you making these fucking noises through our wall, I’m gonna lose it, gonna go insane. If you—need this, and you’re needy, I know you need it, you’re gonna come to me, alright?”
“You want… to do this again?”
Bakugou glares at him, eyes dark. “I want to be the only one who does it,” he growls. “You need something, you ask. Tell me and I’ll give it to you.”
It’s dizzying, being the focus of all that intensity. Bakugou’s staring him down, like he’s trying to beat it into Eijirou’s head that he wants to stay. Except that is what he wants to do. And Eijirou wants to let him.
Bakugou’s still rubbing at his hole with his finger, pushing inside just enough to get Eijirou choking on his breath, pushing up into Bakugou’s fingers. Bakugou’s laugh rumbles through Eijirou’s back, low and amused, and his finger slips inside, down to the knuckle.
“Needy baby,” he murmurs, nosing at Eijirou’s neck. “Feel so good, sweetheart, pussy’s like fucking silk, you’re so soft. Already know you’re gonna feel so good on my cock when I fuck you. Gonna keep you sat on my cock until you’re crying for it, keep you as my good little cocksleeve.”
It’s just fingers. Bakugou slips another inside him, the stretch setting his pleasure beneath a needlepoint, groaning low in his throat even though Eijirou’s not touching him. How can he be so affected, when Eijirou’s not doing anything to make him feel good?
He can’t help it. He peeks.
And he finds himself transfixed because he’s a big guy, he knows he’s a big guy, he’s training to be big—but his pussy is small between his legs, even if it’s chubbed up from Bakugou slapping it around, and in comparison, cast in startling contrast, Bakugou’s hands are big .
Eijirou stares, taking it in—the scratched-up knuckles, long fingers. thumb pressing against his clit. Bakugou’s wrist moving as he fucks him, fingers moving in and out, shiny with slick, knuckles locking and unlocking.
“Baby,” Bakugou murmurs, fingers crooking, punching a moan out of Eijirou. “Baby, you’re staring.”
“Your fault,” Eijirou points out.
“Yeah?” And Bakugou sounds amused, pushes in another finger right as Eijirou tries to speak. “How’s it my fault you’re messy?”
His pussy is drooling around Bakugou’s fingers, slick dripping everywhere. Bakugou’s right—he’s really, really messy.
“‘S your fault ‘cause you got nice hands,” Eijirou pouts, squirming as Bakugou crooks his fingers the way he likes, rubbing up close on his G-spot. “They’re pretty, I wanna—” He blushes. Steels himself. “Can I suck on them?”
“Jesus fucking—yeah, Eijirou, you can suck on them.”
And it’s that, more than anything, that has that familiar caustic heat building inside him. Bakugou sounds wrecked , his composure fracturing, voice breaking into a low, uncontrolled growl as his fingers speed up, dragging out to rub at Eijirou’s clit. Pushing back in just quick enough to have Eijirou pitching forward.
Bakugou’s cock is a hard line against his back and Eijirou’s torn. He tries to grind down on it, a feeble attempt at helping Bakugou feel good.
“You’re—” His mind is fuzzy, overwhelmed with pleasure. It’s too hard to speak, not when his body is burning up, when his skin feels like it's dissolving into the air. “You’re not getting anything—I can—”
Bakugou shushes him, presses a kiss to his jaw. “I’m more than good, sweetheart. Just want you to come for me, get my fingers good ‘n wet so you can suck them clean.”
He’s panting, breath hot in Eijirou’s ear, chest quaking behind his back. Eijirou wants to be good for him, wants to come, wants to soak Bakugou’s hand the way he’d asked, get slick all over the bed, get it dripping down on the floor—
“You wanna know why I was so surprised you’d never jacked off?” Bakugou asks. “‘Cause it was all I could think of. Was what I used to get off to. I’d think of you in bed with the lights off, fucking into your hand just like this, so needy. Thought someone as pretty as you would love fucking yourself.”
“I heard you, sometimes,” Eijirou confesses. The pleasure makes him stupid. Honest. “Wished it was me making you feel like that. Wanna make you feel good, can I, can I please —”
“Yeah,” Bakugou exhales. “Come for me, Eijirou, make me feel so good, c’mon—”
And it’s what Bakugou wants, and it feels mind-blowingly good, and Eijirou feels like he’s being pulled in half, taken apart piece by piece, and he feels Bakugou all the way deep in his stomach—
He comes again, slick gushing out of his pussy. It soaks past Bakugou’s fingers, past his wrist, going as far as to wet his forearm.
He looks good like that, the ripple of muscle gleaming with slick. Eijirou wonders if he’ll be able to convince Bakugou to go further, one day, to stretch him out until he can take his whole hand, see Bakugou’s forearm flex as he fucks Eijirou sloppy and wide-open.
“Fucking insatiable,” Bakugou laughs, pulling his fingers out. More slick spills out, then, and Eijirou can’t find it in himself to be embarrassed at how wet he is. How he’d just unwittingly confessed to wanting Bakugou to fist him.
Eijirou opens his mouth, making a plaintive noise until Bakugou laughs fondly and obliges him, bringing his fingers up so Eijirou can suck on them. They’re heavy on his tongue, salty-sweet, and Eijirou laves over them with his tongue, swallowing happily.
“Can I take them out now, baby?” Bakugou asks. He isn’t laughing anymore, but his eyes are bright, and Eijirou gets the idea that he’s being made fun of. He brushes Bakugou’s fingers with his teeth, just enough to show him that he’s not amused. “It’s a genuine fucking question,” Bakugou protests, gently pulling his fingers out.
And then Eijirou’s empty. For a moment he’d been so pleasantly weighted down by everything and, now that it’s been taken away, he feels worryingly untethered.
“Eijirou,” Bakugou says gently. “Sweetheart, can I take you to my room?”
“You wanna… go?”
“Yeah, I—The bed’s dirty, Ei. You gotta rest after this, I don’t want you doing it on dirty sheets. My room’s clean. Can I take you there?”
Eijirou bites his lip and Bakugou, so quick that it can’t be a conscious movement, tugs his bottom lip free. Waits patiently for his answer.
“Okay,” he says, finally. If Bakugou wants him to be clean, to sleep well on clean sheets, then sure, Eijirou can stand up, even if the thought of leaving his room, of having to step out of this pocket dimension and back into the real world sounds nothing short of awful.
Bakugou helps him stand up and Eijirou sways unsteadily, legs shaking. His best friend hums, sounding more than a little smug, and he scoops Eijirou up into his arms like they’re not close to the same size.
Eijirou’s too tired to question it and, besides, he’s been trying to get Bakugou to give him a piggy-back ride for forever now, so he tucks his face into Bakugou’s hair and closes his eyes. The pocket dimension exists as long as his eyes are shut, when all he can smell is Bakugou’s hair. When it’s Bakugou’s hands on his ass, his arms holding up Eijirou’s thighs.
The second Bakugou sets him down on the bed, he strips off his shirt and carefully wipes up the slick cooling between Eijirou’s thighs, pats his pussy dry.
Eijirou splutters, because, what the fuck, that’s Bakugou’s shirt, he’s supposed to wear that, not use it to—
“It’s softer than a towel,” Bakugou says, flicking him lightly on the forehead. “Figured you would appreciate that instead of giving me shit for it.”
“Didn’t say anything!”
“You were thinking it, I could tell.”
“You’re seeing things,” Eijirou says, pouting. He breaks, after a moment, because Bakugou’s grinning at him and he’s being sweet, taking care of Eijirou, making sure he’s only surrounded by soft, clean things.
“I wanna get you some water,” he says. “Food, too, you look hungry. Am I still seeing things?”
“You’re the most perceptive person I’ve ever met,” Eijirou says seriously.
Bakugou’s grin stretches. He looks so happy.
Is that because of Eijirou? Did he do that?
Eijirou wants, all of a sudden, to keep that smile on Bakugou’s face. He asks, “Can you stay?”
Bakugou blinks. “You’re not hungry?”
“More tired,” Eijirou admits. “Can we nap? Get food later?”
“Yeah, alright,” Bakugou says, climbing into bed. He crowds Eijirou into his arms, lining them up until they’re touching at every axis, from their foreheads to their interlocked ankles. Eijirou can’t help himself from looking down at the inviting dip of Bakugou’s cupid’s bow, the full swell of his bottom lip.
“Got a second question,” he says softly.
“Yeah?
“Can you kiss me?”
Bakugou huffs a laugh, but obliges, moving forward. He tilts Eijirou’s head up a bit, so they don’t bump noses, but he listens. He kisses him.
Eijirou’s a little drunk on power. Bakugou, he’s slowly realizing, doesn’t say “no” all that much, when it’s Eijirou asking. “Katsuki?” He asks, tucking himself in closer. “Are we—Do you want—”
“Listen,” Bakugou starts, “I’ll tell you what I want, and you tell me if it’s the same thing you want.”
Eijirou nods. That sounds fair.
Bakugou snorts, but he tightens his grip on Eijirou’s waist, so he can’t be that put out. “I want to get you to sleep,” he says. “And when you’re up and get all irritating ‘cause your throat’s dry and you’re hungry, I want to get you food, anything you feel like. And I want to take you out to dinner, maybe, to the place downtown that you wanted to try, and when we come home I want to go down on your pussy, show you how good it can feel.”
Eijirou can’t stop himself from rushing forward, rolling them over until Bakugou’s on his back with the breath audibly knocked out of him. He can’t stop himself from flopping down on top of him either, crushing him in a hug.
“All of that,” he says, giddy with delight. “I want all of that, and everything else too.”
Bakugou’s grin is still warm on his face. Eijirou’s the one who got it to stay, who now gets to lean down and kiss that smile with his own. “You have it,” Bakugou says quietly, between kisses. “Whatever you want, Eijirou, you have it.”