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“Why the fuck are you so angry?”
Kirishima doesn’t look back as he continues his warpath towards the parking lot. Every hair on his body prickles with the rage that burns in the hearth of his chest. It doesn’t feel foreign—not nearly as much as it should—but he still hates it. He despises the fact that he can’t control the flames, the way they blind him until all he can see is red.
“Don’t fucking ignore me!” A hand grips around his arm to halt him in his steps. “Kirishima—”
“Let go,” Kirishima snaps, finally whipping around as he yanks his arm away. Bakugou glares back at him, hard brows and red cheeks and a sharp frown. His backpack rises and falls with the heaves of his chest.
“Okay,” Bakugou says, “what the fuck is going on with you?”
Kirishima can hardly breathe. Despite the open air and gentle breeze that drifts by them, he can still smell it. Smell her. The cinders hiss in his ribcage. “I just need to go home.”
“That’s not good enough.” Kirishima can feel Bakugou hot on his heels. “You’re my fucking ride anyway, so just tell me what’s wrong.”
Shit. Kirishima hadn’t thought much farther than the deep, primal desire to establish his territory and the conscious, logical urge to not act like an actual barbarian. The line grows blurrier the longer Kirishima is forced to hold his breath.
“Utsushimi can take you home.”
“Huh? Why the hell would she take me home when your car’s right fucking there?”
Kirishima’s car is in fact within sight. He wishes it looked like the escape he so desperately needs. If Bakugou won’t budge, maybe rolling the windows down will help salvage what little remains of his dignity.
“Just call her. I’m sure she’ll be more than happy to give you a ride.”
Kirishima stumbles when Bakugou yanks at his backpack. He tears away, heart pounding and entirely incapable of meeting the vexation paralleled in Bakugou’s eyes.
“Leave Camie out of this.” Camie. Kirishima bites the inside of his lip so hard it bleeds. “And, honestly, I don’t fucking like your tone. What the hell are you even saying?”
Kirishima is swiftly running out of options. The students milling about the commuter lot keep glancing at them suspiciously. He doesn’t want to make a scene, but an ugly part of him notes that Bakugou didn’t explicitly say he has no desire to leave with Utsushimi. He bites it back and grits out, “Just get in the car.”
“No.” Bakugou pulls on his arm again. Kirishima’s parking spot in the back corner is always shaded during the warmer months, but right now he’s just grateful for the vague semblance of privacy it provides. “Kirishima. You have to talk to me.”
There’s a pleading edge to his words that somewhat soothes the fire licking at Kirishima’s throat. The degree of autonomy he’s surrendered to his lizard brain is pathetic—Kirishima is better than this. He’s never given into his nature like this, no matter how many times he’s been tempted.
“I’m sorry,” Kirishima sighs. His hands feel hot when he rubs them over his face. “I just… I just need to go home.”
“That’s still not good enough.”
Bakugou’s hand sears into the skin of Kirishima’s upper arm. Kirishima wore a black tank today, and the straps of his backpack chafe against his bare shoulders. Bakugou’s touch might hurt worse.
“There’s nothing else to say,” Kirishima manages. His head grows lighter with each shallow breath. “Let it go.”
“I’m not letting shit go,” Bakugou refuses, and he squeezes Kirishima’s arm. “Man up and fucking—just talk to me. Aren’t you the one always going on about communication and shit?”
Communication would be great when Bakugou occasionally shuts down and hides by himself for days, or when he makes snappy remarks because he can’t say what he’s really feeling. Communication is much harder when Kirishima is being consumed by the instinctual part of himself that he does everything in his power to repress.
What more can he do? He takes suppressants to mask his scent, he endures his ruts alone, and he practices active control every time Bakugou gets a little too close. He berates himself for the inappropriate thoughts that flit through his head whenever he sees sweat dripping down Bakugou’s neck or hears Bakugou’s laugh or accidentally glances at Bakugou’s ass when he walks away. He reminds himself every day that he can choose, and every day he chooses to be better than the alpha that craves the omega in front of him.
Right now, he needs to choose that again. He steels himself, apology ready on his tongue, and then he takes a deep breath.
The fire rages when Utsushimi’s scent fills his nose. It clouds his brain as he whips out of Bakugou’s grasp like it stings. His chest burns with the sudden need to breathe, but all he can do is smell her as he inhales and exhales sharply. He backs up until he hits his car. Somewhere deep down, he knows he’s overreacting. Bakugou isn’t his. Bakugou will never be his, he just needs to accept it—
“Kirishima?”
Kirishima reels away when Bakugou enters his space again. Concern carves his face now, and Kirishima wants to wash it away. Bakugou should never be worried like this.
“You smell like another alpha,” Kirishima says, unable to control the vitriol that spills from his lips. “You reek of her.”
For as much as Kirishima needs to escape Bakugou, it hurts like a shot to the heart when he jerks away. Leave Camie out of it, he had said. How can he when his best friend—the man he loves—has loved for years—smells like he belongs to her?
“Kirishima, your scent…”
All Kirishima can smell is Utsushimi, floral and coy. It fills him with so much irrational anger that he almost feels nauseous—he had nearly gagged when he first smelled it on Bakugou. There’s no way his best friend could smell so pungently like her unless they, unless they…
“Hey.” Hands grasp Kirishima’s cheeks. “Kirishima. Breathe.”
Bakugou moves to press his wrist against the side of Kirishima’s neck. Kirishima blinks, and Bakugou’s firm touch dissipates the thick fog in his head.
“What are you—?”
“Breathe.”
Kirishima can’t look away. Bakugou is breathtakingly beautiful where he’s focused on Kirishima’s neck, all sharp lines that smooth into softer features when he lets his guard down like this. Right now Kirishima holds his complete attention, which is all Kirishima has ever really wanted.
“Your heart is pounding. Just breathe.”
When Bakugou’s wrist slides against him, Kirishima shudders. He tries to follow Bakugou’s advice, but a deep breath only has him inhaling Utsushimi’s scent again.
“I can see your hackles rising like a damn dog. Quit it,” Bakugou chides. Kirishima tries to let his shoulders fall. “There you go.”
Kirishima’s head finally clears as Bakugou pulls away. With the heady touch of him gone, Kirishima cripples under the guilt. “I’m so sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what came over me. That wasn’t me, I—”
“It wasn’t?”
“I—” I don’t want it to be. “I usually have better control—”
“You know, if you don’t want me to smell like someone else, then you should just fucking scent me yourself.”
Kirishima blinks. “What?”
“What fucking good is your alleged control if you nearly die when you catch a different scent on me?”
“I didn’t almost die—”
“Yeah, yeah.” Bakugou huffs. “You got antsy last month after I hung out with Kaminari, too. I should’ve known.”
Did he? Has Kirishima been so obvious this whole time? He thought he’d done a good job of exercising restraint and maintaining his indifferent facade. Bakugou’s developing relationship with Utsushimi has just been pushing him to the limit, and today he couldn’t stop the snap.
“Wait. Bakugou, you want me to scent you?”
Bakugou won’t meet his gaze. “I didn’t fucking say all that. I said if you’re going to lose your shit, then you should just solve the problem.”
A breeze rustles through the trees above them. The rest of Kirishima’s senses come back to him—he can hear the idle chatter of students in the lot, can feel the air blowing gently through his tanktop. He can also still smell Utsushimi.
“I can’t scent you,” Kirishima says between clenched teeth, batting his lizard brain back like the wild animal it is. “My suppressants—”
“Yeah, your suppressants aren’t doing shit today.”
Kirishima frowns. He glances his fingertips along his scent glands, and they come back wet. What the hell?
“My guess is you got so worked up that you overrode them,” Bakugou says, but Kirishima can barely hear him. If Bakugou had touched his wrist to his neck earlier.… Kirishima breathes in again, and this time he can detect a hint of his own smell, sandalwood and earth, mixed with Bakugou’s metallic scent.
“I will only do it if you want me to,” Kirishima says.
Bakugou stares at him with that familiar edge of defiance. Things are never easy with him, but that’s what Kirishima likes. His best friend is always worth the challenge.
“Then fucking do it.”
Kirishima grips his arms to drag him forward, but Bakugou slaps at his chest. “Not here!” he hisses. “Everyone can fucking see.”
“Everyone’s leaving,” Kirishima says, eyes focused solely on the scent glands glistening on Bakugou’s neck.
“That doesn’t matter, Kirishima. Holy shit, just get in the car.”
They end up sitting side by side in the backseat. It might be awkward if Kirishima could think of anything but Bakugou for once smelling like him. He wants to erase Utsushimi’s scent so thoroughly that when she sees Bakugou again, she’ll know exactly who he really belongs to and who belongs to him.
Kirishima moves before he knows what he’s doing. His hands reach up to skim along Bakugou’s neck, just the faintest touch against his skin. He doesn’t miss the way Bakugou’s breath becomes a little heavier, and the sound goes right to the place Kirishima tries so desperately to overcome.
He presses his fingertips more firmly into Bakugou’s neck. “Have you been wanting this?” he murmurs when heat flushes over Bakugou’s cheeks. He adjusts to rub over the scent glands with his knuckles, and Bakugou’s mouth parts. “Answer me.”
A haze clouds over Bakugou’s eyes where they’re trained on the headrest of the passenger seat. “No,” he breathes.
Displeasure stokes the possessive desire slowly consuming Kirishima from the inside out. He applies more force, and Bakugou gasps. “Don’t lie to me,” Kirishima says. “Have you thought about this? When people get close to you, do you want them to leave you alone because you smell like me?”
“Fuck, Kirishima,” Bakugou huffs as a shudder runs down his body. “It’s just—you’re just scenting me—”
“Just scenting you?” Kirishima trails his fingers along Bakugou’s skin to the scent gland on the other side of his neck before leaning forward to lick a thick stripe over the one he’d abandoned. “You’d let anyone do this?”
When Bakugou opens his mouth wider, all that comes out is a low whine. His chest heaves as Kirishima tongues over him again.
“Well, would you?”
Bakugou blinks rapidly. “No. Fuck, no, I wouldn’t.”
“Hm.” Kirishima nuzzles into Bakugou’s neck and huffs with dissatisfaction. “I still smell her.” It’s fainter, but it still lingers like a bug that just won’t die. “Come here.”
With one arm around Bakugou’s back and the other gripping his shoulder, Kirishima maneuvers the omega into his lap until he’s perching on Kirishima’s knees with heavy-lidded eyes. His gaze is intoxicating, and Kirishima drinks it in like he dreams of drowning in it.
When he lifts Bakugou’s wrist to his mouth, he kisses the taut skin there before breathing the tangy scent of him deep into his lungs. Utsushimi has less dominion here where Bakugou’s smell is so concentrated, fading more and more as Bakugou’s glands grow slicker.
“Kirishima,” Bakugou whispers. He sounds far too wrecked for what minimal scenting they’ve done.
“Bakugou,” Kirishima answers. The air within the car feels warm as Bakugou pants above him and Kirishima licks the scent gland nestled within the tendons of Bakugou’s wrist.
“Oh, fuck.” Bakugou shifts in Kirishima’s lap, lifting up slightly on his knees where they’re planted on either side of Kirishima’s legs. “Fucking hell. Fuck, Kirishima.”
Satisfied, Kirishima kisses down the length of his forearm. When he reaches the elbow, he raises both of Bakugou’s arms towards his shoulders. “I want to smell like you, too,” he murmurs as he holds Bakugou’s wrists against both sides of his neck. Bakugou closes his hands around Kirishima’s nape, fingertips in red hair and pupils blown wide. The wet glide of Bakugou’s scent glands against Kirishima’s is divine. “Fuck, babe. That’s it.”
“Kirishima,” Bakugou says again, voice breaking, and it sounds like the only word he knows. “Kirishima.”
“I’m here,” Kirishima soothes. He straightens his back and draws Bakugou closer. “I’m right here.”
Kirishima vows that no one else will ever hear the whimper that leaves Bakugou’s mouth when Kirishima digs his tongue into the scent gland in his neck. Bakugou’s long fingers scratch into his hair, pulling his low bun free of the hairband. Kirishima slips his arms around Bakugou’s waist to haul him even closer, determined to tease out as many sinful sounds as he can.
He licks into the slit with uninhibited ardor until Bakugou is a twitching mess in his lap, breath heavy and hands holding Kirishima against him with an admirable strength. Kirishima couldn’t let up even if he wanted to, and that thought sends heat shooting to a place far, far south of his brain.
“Kirishima,” Bakugou says. He squeezes Kirishima’s neck harder when large hands slide under his shirt and skim across his skin. “Kirishima, Kirishima, you have to stop.”
Kirishima stops immediately, although he can’t pull back far enough to look Bakugou in the eyes until the blond registers the force of his grip and releases him.
“What’s wrong?” Kirishima asks, settling his hands on Bakugou’s thighs instead. “Did I go too far?”
“No. No.” Bakugou takes a deep breath and scratches lightly through Kirishima’s loose hair. “If you don’t stop, I’m—” He clears his throat and averts his gaze. Their heat has fogged up the windows, hiding them from the outside world.
“You’re what, Bakugou?” Kirishima asks as he rubs his legs reassuringly. His black leggings are so tight that Kirishima can feel the thick muscle tensing underneath.
Bakugou frowns at him. His wrists still slide along Kirishima’s skin. “You don’t have to use my name.”
Kirishima grins. “Babe, then,” and he grins harder when pink dusts Bakugou’s cheeks. “What’s going on?”
“I’m going to… well.” Intentional or not, his eyes flick down just briefly. Kirishima follows his gaze to see… oh.
Bakugou’s dick is hard and straining against the thin crotch of his leggings. A wet patch darkens the fabric where the head of his dick presses against his leg.
“I want to fuck you,” Kirishima says. His own dick aches for a place much softer and warmer and tighter where it’s been tenting his loose shorts instead.
Bakugou groans and drops his head onto Kirishima’s shoulder. “Not here.”
“Why not?” Kirishima rubs farther up his thighs, earning a full-body shudder. “Nobody will see.”
“Everyone will see,” Bakugou mutters. “Your car isn’t that structurally sound.”
An absurd sort of pride shoots through Kirishima’s chest. “I’ll be gentle,” he promises as he kisses the top of Bakugou’s head. He moves his hands closer to Bakugou’s dick, closer to what he craves. “I swear. I’ll fuck you nice and slow.”
Bakugou’s hips buck towards him in a way that must’ve been involuntary if his following groan of frustration is any indication. “You can’t say shit like that.”
“If you don’t want me to touch you then I won’t,” Kirishima says. “Want me to just drive you home?”
“No,” Bakugou hisses. His hips buck forward again. “Please.”
“Please, what? Baby, you have to tell me.”
Bakugou huffs angrily into his broad chest. “You know.”
“You need to say it.” Kirishima slides his hands towards shaking knees, and Bakugou groans. “Come on. Use your words.”
When Bakugou lifts his head, Kirishima can’t believe his eyes. His pale skin glows with the most beautiful shades of red, darker at the apples of his cheeks and pinker as it flushes down his neck. A few tears clump his long lashes together, and his pupils are so wide Kirishima can’t even see the red in his eyes anymore.
“I want you to fuck me so hard that when anyone gets near me, all they can smell is you,” Bakugou says.
Kirishima stares at him for one beat, two, and then three before he comes back to earth. “Pants off. Now,” he demands, reaching for Bakugou’s waist to do it himself before tugging at the elastic of his own shorts.
Bakugou sucks in a sharp breath. “Holy shit,” he says, and Kirishima kicks his shorts underneath a seat before he realizes Bakugou is staring Kirishima’s dick with wide eyes. He hasn’t been this hard in ages, so brainlessly aroused that his dick is even fuller than usual.
“Come here. I’ll prep you,” Kirishima says as he pulls Bakugou towards him. The heat of Bakugou’s skin burns Kirishima from the inside out.
“I can fucking take it,” Bakugou protests.
Kirishima nuzzles under his jaw and licks over his scent gland. “I know you can, baby. Let me do it for my sake then, okay?”
With Kirishima’s hands gliding over his ass, squeezing lightly as they go, Bakugou just groans. “Alright, fine. Just hurry the fuck up.”
Kirishima obeys and slips a finger down to his rim. “Oh baby, you’re so wet.”
“Don’t act so shocked.” Bakugou sounds like he can hardly maintain his sharp tone, too busy biting Kirishima’s shoulder like he wants to leave teeth marks there forever. There’s something deeply enticing about the fact Kirishima's normal tanks would show them off. “You’ve been sticking your entire fucking tongue into me, what the hell did you expect?”
Kirishima laughs. “I suppose you’re right.” He teases around the rim, dragging slick across before circling it with firm fingers. “Hey, chin up.”
Bakugou follows his command dutifully. Drool shines in the corner of his mouth and Kirishima smiles, affection swelling in his chest at the sight. With his free hand, he guides Bakugou forward.
The kiss is gentle, a soft press of lips that Bakugou melts into. A quiet whine escapes his throat when Kirishima licks at the inside of his mouth, and Kirishima uses that distraction to slip a finger past Bakugou’s rim.
Bakugou hisses, squirming like he can’t decide if he wants more or less. Kirishima kisses his neck soothingly and doesn’t move his fingers until Bakugou relaxes back onto his legs. “Good boy,” Kirishima murmurs before sucking at the scent gland under his lips. Nails claw into his shoulders so aggressively that it might hurt if Kirishima had the capacity to feel anything besides the fire raging behind his ribs.
“Kirishima,” Bakugou says with an edge that sounds almost like a plea. He scratches white lines into tan skin. “I need—I need you—to move—”
“Anything you want,” Kirishima says gently, a stark contrast to the finger he adds before he begins fucking into Bakugou with slow and deliberate thrusts. Bakugou twists in his lap, face buried in Kirishima’s shoulder. Slick pours around Kirishima’s knuckles as the squelching sound only grows louder. “Can you handle one more finger?”
“Fuck, just fuck me, I can’t—”
Kirishima kisses the shell of his ear. “One more and then I will, okay?”
“Fucking fine, just hurry, please—” Bakugou chokes on his words when Kirishima adds a third finger. His rim squeezes around them, and Kirishima can only imagine how unbelievable that tight heat will feel around his cock.
“You beg so pretty,” Kirishima praises, rubbing a flat palm down Bakugou’s spine and leaving a trail of soft kisses around his ear as he works him open.
“I don’t fucking beg.” Bakugou punctuates his protest with a strong bite to the base of Kirishima’s neck. As punishment, Kirishima crooks his fingers and presses hard against Bakugou’s back when his whole body jerks.
“Careful,” Kirishima warns. “If you don’t want anyone to see, you need to relax.”
When Bakugou bites him again, Kirishima can’t be sure he’s not bleeding. “I can’t relax when you’re—” Kirishima aims for the same spot he’d hit before, and Bakugou gasps. “Fuck, Kirishima, right there.”
Kirishima obeys, abusing the spot until he feels the wet mess of tears against his neck.
“Oh fuck, wait, fuck, I’m—”
In a swift movement, Kirishima withdraws his fingers. Bakugou jerks again, this time humping his hips erratically into Kirishima’s abdomen.
“No, please.” Bakugou keeps grinding against him like it’s instinctual, like maybe it will convince Kirishima to give him what he wants. His dick smears precome into the dark fabric of Kirishima’s tank. “Please. I need you.”
Kirishima can hardly believe Bakugou is writhing in his lap, slick soaking Kirishima’s legs as he fucks against him with eyes squeezed shut. Bakugou, his best friend, his Bakugou.
“Fuck me,” Bakugou babbles. Tears stain his red cheeks, and he’s the most beautiful thing Kirishima’s ever seen. If he could stay in this moment forever, just gaze upon Bakugou like he’s the only painting in the whole gallery, he would without any regrets.
“Anything you want,” Kirishima promises, and he fulfills his oath by lifting Bakugou by the ass and positioning his cock at his rim.
The sound that leaves Bakugou as he sinks onto Kirishima’s dick is obscene. His entire body tenses, making Kirishima groan when his rim tightens around him like a vice. Bakugou clings to Kirishima desperately. Slender fingers bury in disheveled red hair, and heavy breath blows against Kirishima’s scent gland. Kirishima’s vision goes static, the pleasure so all-consuming that he has to resist the urge to fill Bakugou up the moment he’s fully seated.
“Oh, Bakugou,” Kirishima prays. “Please, baby, relax. You’re so tight, I can’t—”
“You’re fucking huge,” Bakugou argues with what little strength he has left. Despite his words, he attempts to obey Kirishima’s request. Gradually, the tension leaves his muscles, starting with his grip on Kirishima’s hair until he’s only held upright by strong hands on his lower back.
“There you go.” Kirishima kneads placating patterns into the dimples there. “So good for me. I’m going to move, alright?”
Bakugou shakes his head. “No, no.” He lifts his head, and Kirishima marvels at the sweat darkening his ash blond hair. “Let me.”
Carefully, Bakugou leans back enough to brace his palms on Kirishima’s shoulders. Kirishima’s hands twitch at the infinitesimal drag of his cock inside Bakugou’s tight heat. Dear god, he’s not entirely sure he’ll survive this. For all his confidence, Bakugou can unravel him with an almost practiced ease. Or perhaps Kirishima is the one who’s practiced falling apart, always breaking into any shapes Bakugou wishes him to take.
“Oh my god,” Kirishima groans as Bakugou finds a rhythm, slow and staccato but still balancing on the edge of too much. Kirishima’s palms slot into the dips of Bakugou’s waist. He doesn’t move, just rests under his shirt where his skin is cooler.
Small whines fill the car as Bakugou adjusts the angle. Kirishima lets him take what he wants, noting the way he draws out the end of his movement when Kirishima’s dick feels deepest inside. The grip on his shoulders is so tight that he can feel the bruises forming, but he hardly registers any discomfort. Right now there is only Bakugou, sweaty and needy and riding him like he’s using Kirishima solely for his own pleasure.
“Please,” Bakugou manages, voice raspy and dry as he moves with a mindless sort of desire. Kirishima lifts a hand to cup Bakugou’s jaw and trace a thumb over glossy lips. Bakugou turns his head to suck the thumb into his mouth.
“What do you want?” Kirishima asks, entirely focused on Bakugou’s tongue fucking against his finger. He presses down to still him, and Bakugou’s jaw falls open like Kirishima found a secret switch. Spit drips down Kirishima’s hand and onto his wrist, right over his scent gland.
Kirishima leans forward to lick into Bakugou’s mouth, using his thumb to hold his jaw open. Bakugou’s rhythm stutters, and then stutters again when the cock inside him must press somewhere he likes. When Kirishima draws back, Bakugou nips at the tip of his thumb and Kirishima’s other hand involuntarily tightens on his waist.
Bakugou’s whole body shivers at the increased resistance. His weight falls more onto his knees as he shifts forward, thumb slipping from his mouth and elbows digging into bruised shoulders.
“Here, take this off,” Kirishima says, raising his arms to tug the shirt over Bakugou’s head. Bakugou whines at the loss of his touch but obeys nonetheless.
“Please,” Bakugou tries again as he falls back into Kirishima like a ragdoll. Kirishima dips his head to lick over his nipple with a flattened tongue, then sucks when Bakugou starts shaking. His pace quickens, but from this angle he’s just fucking himself on the tip of Kirishima’s cock.
He groans, frustration evident in his tone, like it’s Kirishima’s fault he’s not satisfied anymore.
“Please,” he repeats. He moves faster, fucking back onto Kirishima and forward into his stomach with barely controlled thrusts. A gasp when Kirishima bites his nipple before soothing it with a long suck. “Please. Please. Fuck me, fuck me—”
Kirishima pulls off of his chest with one last lick before he drives Bakugou down onto his cock with two strong hands on his hips.
Bakugou makes a broken sort of sound as he tries to keep his eyes open. Kirishima just lets him rest there for a second. He kisses the tears pooling beneath his lashes, then kisses his open mouth. He can already feel the base of his cock swelling.
“Kirishima,” Bakugou murmurs against Kirishima’s lips.
“Anything,” Kirishima replies, and he lifts Bakugou just enough to fuck him hard and fast.
Bakugou’s face slackens as he goes limp, fingers moored loosely in Kirishima’s hair and moans punched out with each thrust. Kirishima fucks him like he’s wanted to for nearly as long as he can remember, since Bakugou’s given him shit and offered a side of himself that he doesn’t show anyone else. His pliancy now is the greatest demonstration of trust, and Kirishima revels in it like a dying man given a second chance.
“You’re so good,” Kirishima breathes into the small space between them. Distantly, he feels his arms start to ache. Presently, all he can do is drink in fragmented moans and jagged breaths while he fucks Bakugou like he was made just to draw out those noises.
The tight heat only grows tighter as Kirishima’s dick swells. It drives him into a primitive place where he can barely hear the words that gush from his mouth, something about how fucking good Bakugou feels and how Kirishima is the luckiest man on earth. Kirishima’s knot catches on Bakugou’s rim and he can’t even pull out anymore, so he just fucks deeper until he could swear he’d be able to feel the tip of his cock stretching the pale skin of Bakugou’s abdomen.
“Fuck,” he says somewhere, and he rushes forward to suck hard on Bakugou’s scent gland as he comes.
His brain goes numb as he resists the urge to bite him there, right where it would mean something. Instead he slows his pace, letting Bakugou fall more into his lap as he gently works his come into him. “Hey,” he says. Bakugou’s eyelids flutter when Kirishima slips both palms under his jaw. “Bakugou, sweetheart. Are you okay?”
Bakugou groans, and Kirishima nearly laughs at how comforting it sounds. He reaches around to shift Bakugou more comfortably into his lap, but Bakugou just twitches.
“Your knot is fucking gigantic,” he says, then coughs. Kirishima guides his head forward to rest near his scent gland. He hopes Bakugou can smell the possessive satisfaction coursing through his veins.
“Did you—?” Kirishima starts, horrified he hadn’t thought to check sooner.
“Yes,” Bakugou replies. “No fucking idea when, but at some point.”
The thought of Bakugou coming on his cock without even knowing is unbelievably attractive. He wonders if it was when Bakugou was riding him, or when he finally let Kirishima take over.
“Woah there,” Bakugou says with a weak attempt to sit up. “Why the fuck is your dick twitching?”
Kirishima mollifies him with a kiss to his forehead and a gentle laugh. “Sorry, sorry. Lie back down.”
The car is more than warm enough, but Kirishima keeps his hands moving over Bakugou anyway. The blond settles again, and the weight of him brings a comfort Kirishima can’t really put into words. After all the time he’s longed for this type of closeness, he can hardly believe it’s finally his to covet.
“You’re so wonderful,” Kirishima says, mostly just because he can. Though they’ll need to clarify at some point, Kirishima knows that Bakugou never does a single thing he won’t fully commit to. Whatever they have, they have it together. “You’re perfect.”
“I am,” Bakugou agrees with a lick Kirishima’s skin, “but you’re not supposed to say it out loud.”
Kirishima laughs into his sweaty hair. It smells just like Bakugou should—tangy, a little acidic, and horribly pleased. A smug satisfaction cuts through his scent, and Kirishima breathes it in until it coats every inch of his lungs. After a moment, Bakugou noses against Kirishima’s scent gland.
“You lied,” he says, apropos nothing.
Kirishima blinks, trying very hard to focus on what he’s saying and not the touch to his neck. “What? What did I lie about?”
“Someone absolutely saw us.”
When his words register, Kirishima laughs. He slides his fingers into sweat-tangled hair and pulls his head back just far enough to drag his tongue over Bakugou’s swollen scent gland. “I’m sorry,” he apologizes, ignoring the way Bakugou’s rim clenches around his knot. Bakugou doesn’t, though, and hisses at the pressure. “Next time I’ll exercise more discipline.”
Something shifts in Bakugou’s expression. “Next time?”
His voice betrays a delicate uncertainty, and Kirishima never realized how wrong such a tone would sound on him. “If you’ll have me,” he says.
The clouds clear from Bakugou’s face in an instant. “Obviously, dumbass,” he replies with no small amount of affection, and he kisses Kirishima with a fervency spun from Kirishima's dreams.
“I do have to keep you smelling only like me, after all. Maintaining that will require pretty frequent sex,” Kirishima points out, mostly for the way Bakugou reddens like he’s nearing spontaneous combustion.
“Forget I said that. You were scenting me like a rabid fucking beast and I was saying things I should have never said.” When Kirishima frowns, Bakugou smooths the wrinkles between his brows with the pad of his thumb. “Not like that. Dumbass. You know what I mean.”
Kirishima kisses the slope of his nose. “Hm. Well, maybe we’ll make it to a bed at some point.”
“Yeah, let’s fucking hope.” Bakugou glances at the window. “How long does your damn knot take to go down?”
“Ha ha,” Kirishima tries.
Bakugou squints at him, then sighs. “Just help me find my shirt. Where the fuck did all our clothes go?”
Things settle again once they’re both mostly covered. Bakugou comments something about how his knees are going to be absolutely fried, and Kirishima attempts to shift the angle. The best he can achieve is turning Bakugou so his back is flush against Kirishima’s front and then moving them both until Kirishima can lean against the side door. With their legs extended along the backseat, basketball shorts hang like a blanket over their thighs. Kirishima skims his fingers over the scent glands in Bakugou’s wrists, still indulging in the novelty of such intimate touch.
“I’m sorry,” Kirishima murmurs when Bakugou’s breath begins to even out. The blond gently knocks his head into Kirishima’s jaw.
“What for?”
“I shouldn’t have gotten so angry.” Pale flesh dimples under his thumbs. “I should’ve just told you—”
Bakugou bumps him again with a little more force. “You should’ve, but I know next time you will.” Kirishima accepts the generous forgiveness, content to continue mapping constellations. Bakugou clears his throat. “Last year, you studied one day with Sen Kaiba.”
Kirishima pauses. “Who?”
“Ha,” Bakugou huffs. “Some random omega in your geology class. You had to work on a stupid project with him, and when we met up for dinner, I could barely breathe the whole fucking time. You smelled so not you that I was practically crawling out of my damn skin. He was probably cozying up to you and you didn’t even notice.”
“Huh?” Kirishima wracks his brain for some vague semblance of a memory. “I don’t remember that.”
“Fucking figures. The point is, I’ve been there. I know it’s hard to control. That’s all.”
It’s hard to believe Bakugou ever felt that same irrational, unplaceable sort of anger, especially over Kirishima, especially over a moment that bears such immense insignificance Kirishima can’t even recall it. Actually—the dinner, that he does remember. Bakugou hadn’t been able to look him in the eyes all evening, and when Kirishima’s demands to know why were answered with several frustrated fuck offs, he’d just let it go. The next day Bakugou was totally fine, and they moved on.
“That’s why you were so upset?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Bakugou dismisses with a wave of his hand. “Keep doing your little finger thing while your giant fucking knot holds us hostage.”
Kirishima follows his command without a second thought, resuming his ministrations over Bakugou’s skin. Everything is so uncomfortably sticky and they’re still in this damn car, but the air smells like rain and metal and sandalwood and there’s not a single place in the world that Kirishima would rather be.