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Bakugou is polishing his sword when Shouto finds him.
He heard from Fuyumi. A part of him is angry. Why wouldn’t Bakugou tell him himself? Is Shouto just spoiled and useless to him? Just the helpless third prince with no claim to the crown? An omega on top of it all?
He thought—
He figured—well.
He figured it meant something, maybe.
Bakugou is strong. Bakugou is an alpha. Bakugou has victories and glory under his belt, and maybe all that put together means when he touches Shouto softly with calloused hands even if he doesn’t have to, it’s because Shouto is precious to him.
And if Shouto was precious to him, then he wouldn’t leave without telling him.
He just—he wouldn’t.
“Nee-san says you’re going to war.”
No use sugar-coating it. It’ll melt bitter under his tongue anyway, once Bakugou admits it. Their king wants glory, and that means their soldiers have to want blood whether they like it or not.
Bakugou could stay, though.
He’s Shouto’s. Who’s going to look after him if he leaves?
“Don’t worry your pretty little head about it,” Bakugou says, easy. “I’ll be back before you can blink.”
“Don’t die,” Shouto blurts. “You’re not allowed to die.”
Bakugou laughs. “Is that so, your highness?”
His back is so broad. He’s always so warm when he scoops Shouto up to rescue him from the terrors of an unpaved road or a large puddle after it rains. And the omega thing in Shouto aches and wants and wonders, but, until today, he was too embarrassed of it.
He figured he had the time. And he could grow up a little, and maybe then Bakugou would notice. (And then, maybe, Shouto wouldn’t have to tug on his wrist about it.)
“I’ll never forgive you if you die,” Shouto huffs. “I’ll visit your grave every day just to yell at you.”
He doesn’t like the thought.
A grave, the earth cold and damp, and Bakugou—
Bakugou buried in it, instead of standing by Shouto’s side and making sure nothing can hurt him.
Shouto shivers.
That’s when Bakugou puts down his sword and turns to look at him. “C’mere,” he says. “Spoiled little prince.”
Usually, pride would make him protest. But today he knows they don’t have much time. So he crawls into Bakugou’s lap instead, all his royal finery pressed to Bakugou’s bare chest.
“Aren’t you cold?” Shouto mumbles. “I’ve only ever seen you use your cloak in the winter.”
“Nah,” Bakugou says. “Alphas run hotter, little prince.”
“I’m not little,” Shouto whines, even if it probably only makes him sound more like a child than anything else. “I wish you would—I wish you’d notice, sometimes.”
Bakugou tips his chin up. “What exactly am I supposed to notice, your highness?” he asks. “C’mon, I don’t bite.”
I wish you would, Shouto thinks miserably.
Bakugou is leaving.
He’ll come back, because he’s stubborn. He’ll come back, because he’s strong. He’ll come back, because he has to.
He’ll come back, but—
Shouto wishes he didn’t have to leave at all.
“Don’t call me that,” he huffs. “Just Shouto is fine.”
Bakugou never says it. It’s always your highness and my prince like he means spoiled brat instead, or, sometimes, when Shouto catches him after a glass or two at the tavern, princess, and that one will make Shouto’s cheeks flame and his poor heart beat too quick and he’ll hope and want and—
“Shouto,” Bakugou says, too soft. “You gonna miss me, pretty omega?”
Bakugou has thirteen summers on him. He has age and experience and—and surely better prospects that the spoiled child he’s tasked with guarding.
Shouto knows what goes on in the castle. He’s heard the maids giggling about sir Bakugou’s manhood, and he catches the little glances they throw his way, even if Bakugou himself seems entirely unconcerned with them, and—
And it hurts his chest, for some stupid, childish omega reason.
“Do you need a gift?” he asks. “To convince you to come back?”
“From you?” Bakugou asks. “I’d take anything, pretty prince.”
Shouto’s heart flutters. Bakugou is so unfair. He’s never this gentle from the start. Not without Shouto pouting and pleading for it first. But now that he’s leaving, he decides Shouto deserves it?
“Um,” Shouto says. “Close your eyes first.”
Obediently, Bakugou does.
Oh, that’s—
He’s so handsome, this close. Shouto could count his eyelashes. He wants to trace him with his fingers. But he also wants—
Bakugou is still cupping his jaw, so Shouto steels himself and just. Leans in. And then his mouth presses, closed, to Bakugou’s chapped lips.
Was that... okay?
When Shouto pulls back, Bakugou’s eyes are already open. He looks... amused? Fond, maybe? (Pleased, if Shouto’s really hoping.)
“Oh, sweetheart,” he says. “I didn’t need this much convincing, you know.”
Shouto huffs. “Don’t make fun of me,” he says. “It’s rude.”
He can’t exactly hide. And he doesn’t particularly want to. It’s just—
That was his first kiss, just now.
And now Bakugou is making fun of him.
His hand slides into Shouto’s hair. “Like this,” he says. “Was that your first?”
And then he’s kissing Shouto himself, taking the lead, parting Shouto’s lips to slip inside, and Shouto clutches at his bare shoulders and presses his thighs together and wonders if Bakugou can taste what he’s doing to him. If his need shows at all when you lick at him.
“Second, now,” Shouto blurts. “If they count as separate.”
Bakugou laughs. “Fuck,” he says. “You really don’t want me to leave, huh, little prince?”
“You could stay,” Shouto says. “I need protection too.”
“Yeah?” Bakugou asks indulgently. “From what? The monsters under your bed?”
Shouto shakes his head. “No,” he says. “But you could get in my bed anyway. If—if you find the thought agreeable.”
“The king would have my head if he heard you talking like that,” Bakugou says. “You know that, don’t you?”
Shouto bares omega teeth at him. “Don’t talk about the king,” he says. “The king keeps leading armies full of young soldiers to their deaths. It will be a prosperous day in this kingdom once he’s gone. Touya-nii would—he’d fix it all if he took the throne.”
And people wouldn’t die anymore, because they already have more land and power than they know what to do with, and then—
And then it would be okay.
But now it isn’t.
And it’s horrible, because—because, yes, Shouto does care about his people’s lives, he prays for their safety whenever he gives offerings to the gods, but if it were up to him, he’d forsake them all just to keep Bakugou here.
Is it always selfish like this? The wanting? Shouto doesn’t know. He’s only ever wanted Bakugou.
Ever since—
Ever since that night, on his fifteenth birthday, when Bakugou saved him from a dagger to the throat, and the king was so impressed he decided Bakugou was worthy of guarding his one precious omega child.
(Precious. Right. More like a handy bargaining chip, just in case there’s power he can’t quite get to with war and bloodshed, and selling off his own son might prove more favorable.)
Ever since then, Bakugou has been by his side.
It’ll be three years, come winter.
“Sorry, sorry,” Bakugou laughs. “You’re so spoiled.”
“I’m not,” Shouto protests. “And—and if I am, as far as I understand, that’s an alpha’s duty, is it not?”
Bakugou arches an eyebrow at him. He looks like he’s contemplating the merits of kissing Shouto a third time. “What is?” he asks. “Spoiling little princes?”
“Taking care of their omegas,” Shouto says. “You know, because—because they’re special to the alpha?”
Is Shouto special to Bakugou? He doesn’t know. He wouldn’t put it past Bakugou to kiss whoever he pleases as often as he pleases, even if it might cost him his head, just for the thrill of it, for the conquest.
Is that it? Is Shouto a conquest?
“Your highness,” Bakugou says. “It would serve you well to stop talking if you wish to keep your virtue.”
His virtue?
Oh, Shouto thinks.
“Don’t talk like that,” he huffs. “You never talk like that.”
“What do you want me to say?” Bakugou asks, and suddenly his hands—bigwarmrough—are digging into Shouto’s hips, and he shifts him so Shouto’s straddling him properly, his legs spread around Bakugou’s hips, the heat of him unmistakably—oh. “That I'd fuck you right here? Rip your panties off and lick at them just for a taste if that was all I could get? That you’re all I’ve thought of ever since the first time I laid eyes on you? That a good deal of those thoughts were hardly honorable? That I can’t help staring at your pink little mouth when you take your meals and wondering about how it would feel on me? That I’m leaving, right now, because I know that if I stayed, I would no longer be able to restrain myself from you?”
“Then don’t,” Shouto blurts. “Don’t restrain yourself. Nobody is asking you to.”
“You’re seventeen,” Bakugou says, like it matters.
Shouto shrugs. “I like you,” he says. “You’re nice to me. You keep me safe.”
“What am I supposed to give you, huh?” Bakugou asks. “I’ve got no titles and no land.”
“I think,” Shouto says. “I’ve got enough of those for both of us. Besides, it wouldn’t matter. If Touya-nii was king, he’d let me pick my own fate.”
“And I’m good enough for that?” Bakugou asks. “To be your chosen fate?”
“You’re good enough for everything,” Shouto whispers, tucking his face into Bakugou’s neck. “I’d give you everything, alpha.”
And, apparently, that’s all it takes.
Because then Bakugou is reaching for that cloak he never wears just to lay Shouto out on it, and it’s—
Slotted together like this, Shouto’s not sure it’s going to fit.
“I’ve never,” he says. “Not even with my fingers. Not—not inside.”
Bakugou brushes his hair off his forehead. “Look at you,” he says. “How do people keep their hands off you, sweetheart?”
“Because you’d cut them off,” Shouto laughs. “And then you’d probably make them say thank you.”
“Fair point.”
“Are you going to fuck me now?” Shouto asks, lip caught between his teeth. “Is—is that good enough? So you stay?”
Bakugou leans down and kisses him hard. Shouto makes out the clink of a belt buckle in the rustling that follows, and when he opens his eyes again, Bakugou has his cock in hand, big and thick and flushed red, a little wet at the tip.
“That’s—not like the anatomy textbooks,” says Shouto. And then, because that first bit wasn’t bad enough, “Will it fit?”
“Shit,” Bakugou says. “You’re killing me here, princess.”
Shouto blinks. That’s not—
If anything, he’s the one about to die. The pressure between his thighs has never felt like this before. This insistent need, desperation like claws inside him, sharpsharpsharp and so much worse than his heats, when he’ll make do with a pillow between his thighs and Bakugou’s name tucked behind his clenched teeth, and it’ll pass, eventually, after enough pleasure, but this—
This is never, ever going to pass if Bakugou doesn’t touch him.
“Don’t die,” Shouto whines. “Knot me first. I wonder, you know. I’ve wondered for so long. What it’s like. What it would be like with you.”
“I wonder too,” Bakugou admits. “I want—fuck, I shouldn’t want anything at all. I don’t deserve it.”
But even as he says it, he tugs at Shouto’s clothes, untucks his shirt, pulls down his pants, and then—
And then Shouto’s laid out on Bakugou’s cloak in nothing but his panties, and the heat rushes to his face so sharply it’s like he might actually burst into flames.
A rough thumb teases his clit through the fabric. “Cute,” Bakugou says. “Look, you’re already so wet.”
Shouto can hear it. The slick sounds of fabric shifting while Bakugou keeps touching him there. He could probably—if Bakugou keeps doing that, Shouto’s going to—
“Inside,” he whines. “I want it in me.”
Bakugou doesn’t take his panties off. Instead, he pushes them to the side, and then there’s pressure, and fullness, and—oh. Shouto feels it when it pops inside. It stretches him so wide, and he can’t imagine how his body is meant to adjust to more, if this is just the beginning.
“Fuck,” Bakugou says. “I’m gonna break you.”
But he won’t.
He’s the best alpha Shouto knows.
“Just—go slow,” he says. “Okay? It’s my first time.”
Bakugou groans. “So fucking warm and wet,” he says. “Stop looking at me like that, I’ll spill my seed in you before I get to make you feel good.”
“It already feels good,” Shouto says. “Just—ah, it’s full.”
Are all alphas like this? Does every omega stretch and bend and curve to accommodate this much? (Have a lot of them done it for Bakugou, before?)
“You’re doing good,” Bakugou says. “Fuck, princess, I’m sorry, you’re doing great, look at you.”
And then he slides in another bit, and Shouto wraps both arms around his neck to keep steady, because it feels—well, he’s probably going to cry.
But it’s good. A good sort of ache, a pleasant sting, barely there, overshadowed by how right it feels to finally have this. To finally have his alpha making him feel good. To be able to take it, because Bakugou should only ever—
Only him. It should only ever be Shouto, from here on out, even when he’s got a rut coming up and can’t force himself to be gentle and take it slow. Even then. Shouto wants to do it. He wants to help. He wants to make Bakugou feel good.
“More,” he says. “I can take it.”
And he does. He takes it and he takes it and he takes it, breaths steady and Bakugou’s comforting words guiding him through it, that rough voice calling him sweet and perfect and precious, and then he’s full.
Shouto sniffles into Bakugou’s shoulder. “So big,” he whines. “What now?”
His clit throbs, and his cunt leaks, stretched wide, and when Bakugou rubs him through his panties again, Shouto clenches tighttighttight and gasps through more pleasure than he’s ever known.
“Oh,” he says. “I didn’t—I didn’t know it would be like that.”
He can barely breathe, he can barely get the words out, he’s still clenching around Bakugou’s cock, but Bakugou needs to know. Bakugou should know that it’s better than what he could imagine, better than his dreams, better even than those dusty books in the library Shouto never lets his tutors catch him reading.
It’s better because it’s real, and it’s with him.
“Hold on,” Bakugou says. “It gets better.”
And then he pulls back only to push into him, and Shouto just. Takes it. He can feel it in his tummy, every single time Bakugou pushes back in, wonders how it would feel to press a hand there, but he doesn’t want to let go.
He wants this to keep going forever.
He wants Bakugou close like this forever. And he wants to take his knot and keep it in and give him healthy pups and—and then that would be enough, right?
(Bakugou would stay then, wouldn’t he?)
“Oh,” Shouto says. “Oh, I can’t—”
“Sure you can,” Bakugou says. “You’re fucking perfect.”
“Are you going to knot?” Shouto whines. “I can’t fit a knot, oh, you’re so big already—”
His pussy really is going to break if Bakugou knots him. Even if Shouto wants it. Is he a bad omega if he can’t take his alpha’s knot?
“You can,” Bakugou says. “You’ll take it like a good little omega. Because you were made for me. Fucking—all mine, aren’t you?”
Yes, Shouto thinks desperately, nails digging into Bakugou’s shoulders.
And then—
It’s all so much wetter, all of a sudden. And his thighs are soaked, and Bakugou is—Bakugou’s knot is in him, the fullness so much that Shouto doesn’t need to press a hand to his tummy to see.
And the painfully omega bit of him preens, because he’s so full it’s like he’s pregnant already, and that means he did good for his alpha.
“Yours,” Shouto says, neck bared. “I’m yours, so don’t leave.”
Bakugou tucks his hair behind his ear. Then, he presses a kiss to Shouto’s forehead. “Could never leave you,” he says. “Don’t be silly.”
“You were going to,” Shouto huffs.
Maybe he shouldn’t. Maybe it’s not the wisest idea to start an argument with Bakugou’s knot in him, but Bakugou isn’t allowed to leave him, and he needs to know that.
Shouto would wither up, all alone.
“Yeah,” Bakugou agrees. “I was going to. But what’s the point of that now?”
Shouto’s eyebrows furrow. The point? Did Bakugou really mean—
“You were going to go to war so you wouldn’t knot me?” he says. “Really?”
Bakugou laughs. “Hey,” he says, “don’t look at me like that, one of those things has a much higher survival rate.”
“You’re alive now,” Shouto points out. “You seem in pretty high spirits to me, as a matter of fact.”
“Brat,” Bakugou says, holding himself up with one arm so he can cup Shouto’s cheek and peck his mouth. “Spoiled—,” He does it again. “Annoying.” And again. “Perfect.” And again. “Precious little prince.”
His stubble tickles Shouto’s cheeks. “Yours,” he says, can’t help it. “I’m yours.”
“Yeah,” Bakugou says. “Yeah, you are.”
...
It’s—
It’s not so bad, Shouto decides. Not with Bakugou around. Even if he is sore between his thighs, and every time he glances at Bakugou he ends up thinking he wouldn’t mind more of that soreness.
It’s not bad at all, because Bakugou is with him.
Shouto should ask him for a bite, one of these days. Just in case, so if (when, because there is always a when) he does have to leave, Shouto gets the kind of promise he won’t have to doubt to keep him warm.
Bakugou holding him will do for now, though. They can cuddle. And he should check for monsters under the bed too, just in case.