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you are the freedom i fight

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≿————- ❈ ————-≾

bakugou is young when he learns to love and hate touch.

at first, he loves to help his friends-he ties their shoes for them with chubby, stumbling fingers, carefully patches up their scraped knees, and holds their hands as they cross over logs and stones in their forest adventures.

he leads because he’s confident, because he brings people together.

at some point, his quirk manifests, and everything changes. his hands don’t help anymore: they hurt. they take away, and people fear him instead of love him, flinch away when his crackling hands reach out to help.

“you coulda been a fucking villain with those hands,” his mother comments one day, and it terrifies bakugou so much that he wears mittens for a whole week until she finally whacks him upside the head for being stupid.

people praise him, now, and that’s good, it’s better than the nothing bakugou was reluctantly getting used to.

after taking a spill in the creek by his house, he’s horrified and embarrassed by the bone-deep urge that makes him want to reach out and take deku’s offered hand, and his hesitant refusal to accept help as he slogs out of the river is only reinforced by his mother’s heavy hand and acerbic words later that evening.

bakugou grows up simultaneously wanting touch, and being afraid of it.

to bakugou, the acceptable kind of touch for him- the only kind of human contact that he deserves- is the connection between fist and face, the marriage of bone against bone. for a long time, bruises are the only kind of kiss that bakugou knows.

violence is safe, the world tells bakugou, because you can’t fuck that up.

≿————- ❈ ————-≾
( DAY 1 )

it’s five in the morning, and bakugou is dry-heaving into his bathroom toilet on all fours.

fuck, he thinks, realization dawning on him with a slow kind of horror, it’s finally happening.

he’s presenting. it makes sense, really- he’d turned nineteen only a couple of days ago so it had only been a manner of time- but he isn’t prepared for this.

he feels terribly, terribly alone.

omega, his body says.

i know, bakugou replies, his entire body trembling. he needs someone- someone to fit against him like the other half of a two part puzzle piece.

you see-quietly, desperately, bakugou craves touch, craves the kind of stability found within happy homes and easy friendships. he’d never had that, though- not with his mother being a little too heavy-handed and sharp tongued and his childhood friends always staying a reverent five feet behind him.

bakugou’s grown up touch starved and needy and mad as hell at himself for wanting someone to hug him, for needing a hand in his hair or someone’s hand between his.

( that’s where kirishima comes in, smiling and bright eyed and as carelessly affectionate as bakugou is rigidly closed off. )

he needs kirishima, needs his easy hands and warm press of his body against his.

bakugou wants kirishima here, now, just to ease the ache. kirishima smells like sandalwood and cinnamon and sun-dried cotton, hot and musky. he doesn’t want to do anything, really, just needs kirishima here.

the redhead is only a room away, but something stops bakugou from calling out. embarrassment? fear- what if kirishima sees him as not an alpha or beta but as an omega? what if he’s disgusted- or worse, what if he pities bakugou? what if?
it’s these what ifs that keep his shaking hands away from the bathroom door.

he’s no idiot. he knows what it means, has known for a long time that his personality- analytical, pack based, touch-reliant- screams omega.

bakugou has always, always known that he was going to present as an omega. nobody else has, though, and even now- as bakugou locks the bathroom door a bites back a cry- they never will.

he won’t let them know. not ever. the discrimination against omegas is just as prevalent as it was thirty years ago. there hasn’t been an omega at ua, ever.


bakugou loves coming in first, but not this time, not when his gut is twisting and something wet is running down the insides of his thighs.
omegas, it seems, are not hero material.

of course he has to present now, while his family is away out west and its just him and his fucking alpha-beta classmates crammed into a building for the entirety of spring break.

his phone buzzes from the counter.

it takes him an embarrassingly long time to move up from the bathroom floor to grab it. it hurts to fucking move.

he’s a thousand sick days merged into one- and that’s nothing compared to the tight burn of arousal, so heavy that it makes bakugou’s head spin.

it takes his eyes a second to focus on the screen

uraraka : are u ok???
uraraka : passing by + i heard something break

bakugou only hesitates for a split second before pressing call. uraraka, he trusts. it may have taken almost four years, but he trusts her.

“hey?” uraraka says, confusion apparent in her voice.

“i need some fucking help,” bakugou grits out, fingers white around the case of his phone. “i just presented.”

“oh!” uraraka gasps. “bakugou, congratulations-,”

“as an omega.”


there’s shuffling, and then- “ah-okay. i’ll be right there- don’t let anyone else in.”

there’s steel-tipped determination in the tone of her voice, a subtle nod to her beta heritage, and while it's not enough ( never enough ), it’s enough to momentarily cease the bonfire in his gut.

the phone slips out of his grip and clatters against the white tile of the bathroom floor. the noise of it grates against bakugou’s ears; he doesn’t know whether to press his hands over his head or his abdomen.

after several ( months? years? eons? ) of sticky-sweet pain, there’s a tentative knock against the bathroom door. the faint smell of cherry blossoms and sea salt- uraraka.

“bakugou? are you in there?”

“yeah,” bakugou grits out, forcing himself to his knees. this is so humiliating. it’s disgusting- he wishes that he could have been someone else, anything else.

uraraka’s voice turns soft, wheedling. “you need to let me in, bakugou. i don’t want you to pass out.”

bakugou grumbles but shuffles over to the door and unlocks it. it takes him a few tries. he watches as his scent- overwhelming from being inside the tiny bathroom from all those hours- hits her, watches as she does her best to not breathe him in.

“holy shit,” she says, voice strained. it must be bad if she’s swearing. “wow. okay. bakugou- you don’t look too great. i have a couple of things here that should help with the pain, at least for a little, but i think you need recovery girl.”

bakugou’s hand shoots out to snag her wrist. it’s much, much cooler than his is. “no,” he rasps. “i don’t want- i don’t want anyone else to know.”

a muscle in uraraka’s jaw twitches. when she speaks, it’s even and no-nonsense. “i’m not letting you die for the sake of your pride, bakugou. that’s not what friends do.”

“fuck off,” bakugou retorts, but there’s no bite to his bark. just resignation, and something else that makes uraraka look at him with something dangerously close to pity. “don’t look at me like that, round-face.”

uraraka flushes. “sorry! it’s just… you don’t seem as surprised or as upset as i thought you’d be.”

maybe it’s the presentation heat fucking with his head, or maybe it’s the fact that uraraka is here because she cares- either way, the sentence slips out of bakugou’s mouth unbidden.

“i always knew what i was gonna be.”


“ever since i was a kid.”

uraraka nods quietly, lost in thought. when she snaps out of it, her eyes are set and narrowed. “strip and get in the bathtub.”

bakugou gapes up at her. it feels like somebody is taking a jackhammer to his brain. “what?”

“the cold water-it’ll help regulate your core temperature until i can get help.” she hesitates. “your quirk- i think it’s making your fever worse.”

bakugou manages to scoff. “no shit.”

still, he complies, pulling off his shirt and sweatpants. uraraka looks away politely, a hand over her nose. it’s a fucking dumb idea, that’s what it is- except maybe it’s not, not when the frigid bathwater steams against the sweat-slick skin of his chest, putting out the wildfire in his blood out almost entirely.


“i’ll be back,” uraraka vows, carefully placing a cool cloth on his forehead. “don’t go anywhere, bakugou.”

bakugou would laugh at that, if he had the energy.

where the fuck am i gonna go?

he lies there, trying to not yell as his stomach cramps and twists itself into knots, and wonders if this is what the rest of his life is going to be like. his phone buzzes, again, but this time bakugou doesn’t take quite so long to snatch it off the lip of the bathtub.

shitty hair : hey…. u ok
shitty hair : uraraka left ur room and she looked like. upset
shitty hair : do u need anything???

boy, do i fucking ever. bakugou bites back the instinct that screams at him to call out for kirishima, to grab onto his hand in a reenactment of that night at kamino ward and not let go, ever.

but jeopardizing his friendship with pretty much the only person bakugou has ever deeply cared for would be a fucking stupid thing to do, so instead he replies with

you : im fine
you : fuck off

shitty hair : uh i don’t think so
shitty hair : ur not even using proper punctuation
shitty hair : u ALWAYS do that

you : DONT
you : im fuckifnh serious
you : dont

there’s a long pause. bakugou stares down at the three dots at the corner of the screen and they shift and move, waiting for kirishima’s reply.

shitty hair : fine
shitty hair : are u and ochako like… u know

you : what

shitty hair : are u……

you : NO

shitty hair : u sure
shitty hair : because ur room smells like sex even through our wall so

you : SHUT UP
you : !!!!!!!!!1

shitty hair : damn, no need 2 get defensive
shitty hair : i see how it is

bakugou slams his head back against the porcelain of the tub. “fuck.”

what’s he supposed to say, anyways? sorry, i’m leaking slick everywhere because i’m the only fucking omega on campus, my bad!

the water is getting kind of lukewarm, now. bakugou prays silently that uraraka will get back soon, because as much as he hates recovery hag and her weird lips, some pain relief would be awesome right about now.

when the water starts to bubble, bakugou doesn’t notice. he’s long passed out, his heat cooking him from the inside out.

≿————- ❈ ————-≾
( DAY 1 )

kirishima sneaks another peek at his phone. the battery is charged, but there are no new notifications from bakugou.

five-fifteen am. there’s no way he’ll be able to get back to sleep now, not when bakugou has dropped such a huge truth bomb on him.

he sighs and flops onto his back, eyes tracing the lines in the ceiling. bakugou always tells him everything. swapping secrets is like, a thing they have, so why hadn’t he caught on to the idea of bakugou and uraraka?

bakugou and uraraka. bakugouandurakaka. kirishima silently repeats the sentence until it blurs into mush in his brain.

bakugou and uraraka. a unit. a duo. together.

the concept of it leaves a strange, bitter taste on kirishima’s tongue, and he smashes his face into his pillow to dispel his gloomy thoughts.

sitting around and sulking won’t do him any good. bakugou isn’t the type to make the first move, so if someone’s gotta make things less weird, it has to be kirishima.

kirishima pats himself on the shoulder and stands. it’s manly to face your fears head on, et cetera!

steeling himself, kirishima quietly walks outside and knocks three times on bakugou’s door. there’s no answer. he shifts from foot to foot, nervous energy radiating off of him in waves.

maybe he’s asleep? leaning forward, he knocks again- this time, his eyes widen. there’s an omega in bakugou’s room. a fucking omega.

he can smell their scent, sickeningly sweet, toasted marshmallow mixed with bakugou’s burnt caramel.

“bakugou? what’s going on in there?” kirishima looks down the empty hallway, and, with an apology for his best friend resting on his lips, he wrenches the door open with a quirk-hardened hand.

the smell- jesus, the smell is as though it’s been created to specifically put kirishima through the nine circles of hell. dante’s inferno, and all that. it makes kirishima’s head spin, causes him to stumble and place one hand against the doorframe for balance. he has the hindsight to shut the door behind him, at least. it wouldn’t do any good to have more alphas catching wind of whatever the fuck was going on.

throat tight, kirishima follows the scent to where it’s the heaviest. he stops just short of the bathroom door. there’s something twisting in kirishima’s chest, a familiar weight stirring the warm coals that lie there.

uh-oh, kirishima thinks, don’t wake up.

his alpha is nothing like how kirishima views himself: where kirishima is open and warm, his alpha is all jagged edges and hostile paranoia. he’s scared of it, and he keeps it sleeping under layers of sedimentary rock in between his heats.

and then he opens the bathroom door and freezes. it takes him a moment to wrap his head around what he’s seeing: there’s a bathtub, and there’s bakugou in the bathtub, which is bubbling like a witches cauldron, or a hyperactive jacuzzi.

kirishima doesn’t know about bakugou’s bathroom, but his definitely doesn’t have that kind of tech built in.

plus, bakugou looks kind of unconscious, so kirishima wastes very little time in dashing over to the tub and lifting bakugou up by the armpits- wow, is he hot, jesus- and onto the cool tile of the bathroom.

when kirishima tests the back of his hand on bakugou’s forehead, the resulting heat is like placing his hand on a stovetop. “holy shit- bakugou? dude?”

now that he’s thinking about it- bakugou smells suspiciously of marshmallows and-


he looks up to see uraraka standing in the doorway, recovery girl and aizawa close behind. “uraraka?”

there’s an expression that kirishima can’t quite place on his classmate’s face. “kirishima, stay away from him.”

kirishima frowns. “why the hell would i do that?”

recovery girl makes a frustrated noise. “because your friend is an omega, you cotton-headed ninnymuggins.”

kirishima laughs, and then stops laughing when he sees the look on uraraka’s face. “wait, seriously?”

“yes,” aizawa says. he looks like he hasn’t slept in years, in typical aizawa fashion. “it seems as though bakugou is an omega.”

now that they’d mentioned it, bakugou does smell pretty good. which is weird of kirishima to be thinking because bakugou is like, definitely unconscious. he’s not thinking straight, which isn’t a surprise he never thinks straight around bakugou. ha.

( here’s the thing: he’s a little bit in love with bakugou.)

“kirishima,” aizawa orders, “hands off.”

“what?” kirishima looks down to see one of his hands winding through bakugou’s ( very soft! what conditioner does he use!) hair. “oh- what? jesus.”

“this is going to be a problem,” recovery girl says shortly.


≿————- ❈ ————-≾
( DAY 1)
you know those shitty pop-tarts that you buy from convenience stores for like three bucks and burn in the toaster because they’re probably more plastic than pastry? well, that’s what bakugou’s head feels like. one giant, crappy plastic pop-tart.

the pain and cramping isn’t as bad as before he’d… passed out, though, which means that uraraka followed through on her promise and got recovery hag to give him a kiss on the cheek.

eyes closed, bakugou flexes his fingers and wiggles his toes.

still here.

it’s nice to have a reminder that he still exists, sometimes.


“..uck off,” he slurs. his eyelids are heavy. pain fizzles like a packet of pop rocks under his skin, but the full brunt of it is held back by someone’s hand on his arm, cool and heavy.


“‘s not time for class yet. gimme ten more minutes.”

a shrill, sharp voice drags bakugou out of his slumber-induced haze. “is his brain fried?”

that’s definitely uraraka; bakugou would recognize her voice anywhere, coupled with the frantic sea-salt smell that follows close behind. there’s another scent, though, one that is both foreign and familiar to bakugou. it’s the smell of cinnamon and sandalwood, amplified so much that it makes bakugou dizzy, makes him yearn for open windows and warm arms.

not for you, katsuki.

“yeah, is he going to be okay?”

hearing kirishima’s voice is like having a bucket of ice poured down his back. it’s like running a marathon and falling into a crisp, clear pool immediately afterwards.

without opening his eyes, his hand shoots out in the direction of the voice, reaching out for kirishima in the only way he knows how.

“wow, hey, bakugou? your hand is wrapped around my throat, like, really tightly.”

bakugou releases his fingers slightly, unable to hold back a sigh of relief as the simple feeling of his skin against kirishima’s floods his body with endorphins. kirishima makes him feel safe; kirishima is safe.

“yeah, that’s better.” kirishima’s voice still sounds strangled, though, so bakugou cracks open one eye to make sure that he’s not actually choking him.

and if the feeling of kirishima’s skin under his made bakugou feel like he’d just smoked three joints- seeing him makes bakugou feel a bit like he’s tripping on something stronger.

it takes him a moment to see aizawa and recovery sitting next to kirishima.

“what the hell?”

aizawa sighs, long and loud. “you’re a real pain in the ass, you know that?”

bakugou manages a half smirk. “duh.”

recovery girl reaches over and shines a penlight into his eyes, ignoring his half-baked threats of death with the practiced ease of a professional.

“you’re going through one of the most intense presentation heats i’ve ever seen,” she says, leaning back. bakugou’s stomach drops. “however,” she continues, “while this is due in part to the nature of your quirk, it’s also due to the obvious: you’ve imprinted on someone, bakugou.”

“imprinted?” uraraka says, incredulous, and going by the expression on aizawa’s and kirishima’s faces, it’s clear that they feel the same way. “that only happens between bondmates- it takes years-,”

recovery girl sighs and scratches her cheek. “it’s rare and almost never heard of, but it happens.” she eyes bakugou with a clinical eye.

kirishima swallows. bakugou can feel his adam’s apple shift under the skin of his palm, and nearly laughs when he speaks. “who is it?”

aizawa yawns and stretches. “you, obviously.”

“that’s not funny,” uraraka says quietly.

really not funny,” kirishima grumbles.

recovery girl fidgets with her bag. “i’m not joking, unfortunately. kirishima-bakugou’s temperature decreased dramatically just by touching you.” she rummages around in her bag. “presentation heats last anywhere from three to four days, so make sure the two of you stock up on lots of fluids.”

“hey,” bakugou rasps. “who the fuck said i wanted to do that?”

the pro-hero frowns down at him. “it’s not a matter of you wanting to. it’s a matter of your body needing to. your quirk… it’s not helping you in this situation.”

“three to four days?” kirishima asks, eyes wide. “that’s not too bad.” he pats bakugou’s hand tentatively. “i’ll help you out if you want, bro.”

bakugou glares at him.


≿————- ❈ ————-≾
( DAY 1 )
god, this is awkward.

kirishima has enough trouble focusing when bakugou is around as is, and now, with the guy sitting there smelling like the inside of a candy factory, he can barely keep his thoughts in order.

bakugou imprinted on me. what does that even mean? what are the implications there? kirishima doesn’t know if he wants to unpack that.

bakugou sits up against the far wall, cheeks red and eyes glazed. he looks vulnerable, but kirishima’s not foolish enough to point that out. tension lies thick and heavy in the air. it’s strange, because kirishima hasn’t felt this uneasy around bakugou since their first year at ua.

kirishima clears his throat. “so.”

“i’m not having sex with you,” bakugou says flatly.

kirishima flushes. forget embarrassing: this is mortifying. “yeah- no, man. i wasn’t going to suggest that.”

bakugou shifts a little, jaw clenched. he looks pained. kirishima remembers how wrenching his own presentation heat had been, recalls the strange shifting rage that had left him shaking on the ground for days and days.

kirishima tries again. “you know that nothing has changed, right? you’re still you.”

bakugou kicks at the bedframe, hands balled into fists in his lap. “yeah, i know that, and you might, but nobody else will. all they’re gonna see is a fucking omega.”

“since when did you start letting other people define who you are?” kirishima says. “that’s not the bakugou way, dude.”

“the bakugou way,” bakugou echoes. kirishima beams at him and manages to catch the faint hint of a smile before bakugou is looking away. the sun if fully up, now. it slides through the window of kirishima’s bedroom, sunlight pooling onto the rumpled quilts of his bed like heavy cream.

kirishima scoots a little bit closer, watching bakugou carefully. “are we going to talk about the whole imprinting thing, or…”

“nah,” bakugou says, staring out the window. his hands are tapping against the fabric of his new sweatpants. a bead of sweat slides from his jaw and down the curve of his neck to his collarbone. kirishima is staring, again. “not really in the mood.”

“okay,” kirishima replies, because really, what is he going to do? grab bakugou by the feet and shake him until the words fall out of the pockets of his sweater? “just… you’re my best friend. i’m here for you no matter what- you know that, right?”

bakugou looks at him, red-faced and sweatier than usual, and kirishima’s heart skips a beat. “i know,” he mumbles. “i hate this.”

“me too,” kirishima agrees. “want some ice cream?”

fuck yeah,” bakugou says emphatically, and kirishima grins.

“cool. be right back.” kirishima stands up and stretches. his head is muzzy and light; the special kind of empty that can only come from lack of sleep.

humming, he slides on his crocs and twists the doorknob. as soon as it clicks open, there’s a hand on his wrist, hot and burning.

kirishima pauses, bakugou’s stare a heavy weight on the back of his neck. “i won’t be gone for more than ten minutes.”

the hand tightens imperceptibly; kirishima thinks that bakugou might be holding his breath. “i could ask denki to pick some up instead,” he offers, and bakugou nods, slides his hand down kirishima’s wrist before letting go.

kirishima eyes bakugou’s curled fingers.

there’s a small window of opportunity there, so before he can really think about the repercussions of his actions he reaches out and carefully, carefully slides his fingers through bakugou’s.

“if it helps, i don’t mind.” he says softly, heartbeat loud in his ears. “it’s okay.”

bakugou doesn’t meet his gaze, but the way his palm tightens against kirishima’s speaks volumes. bakugou’s hands are calloused and rough and predictably slick with sweat, but something about their size and weight makes kirishima bite back a smile, makes his knees a little weak.

he likes bakugou’s hands, because they’re bakugou’s.

his alpha stirs in his stomach, growls softly, and kirishima holds his breath. he doesn’t want it waking up- not now, now when he’s going to be spending the better part of three days with bakugou in a small room.

are you going to last three days like this? a tiny, creeping voice asks. will you last knowing that the person you’ve loved for three years has managed to imprint on you, of all things?

i’ll do my best, kirishima thinks, but even he. an hear the doubt in his own voice.


≿————- ❈ ————-≾ BAKUGOU ( DAY 2 )

it hurts again, when bakugou wakes up- and by it he means everything. there’s an emptiness crouching in bakugou’s chest, wide and gaping and embarrassingly loud. he’s lying on kirishima’s bed, by himself. kirishima’s scent still lingers in the air, so bakugou knows what he’ll see when he leans over the side of the bed: kirishima sleeping on the floor.

kirishima’s hair is down and soft around his face; it’s gotten long, so it brushes over his shoulders and tickles the back of his neck. bakugou has to twist his hands into the sheets to keep them from brushing over the back of kirishima’s neck.

this is more than humiliating. it’s degrading, how incapacitated he is by his own biology. he wonders if aizawa has notified his parents yet. smothering a yawn with the back of his hand, bakugou peers over at his phone.

50+ UNREAD MESSAGES, his phone proclaims. probably his family.

>not touching that fucking landmine today.

he slides out of bed instead, aiming for the box recovery hag had left on the dresser.

( recovery girl points out the different sections of the box, voice clinical and even. “there’s some tablets that will help with the pain, and some for the arousal.”

bakugou looks anywhere but at kirishima, face burning. )

the moment his feet touch the floor, his legs nearly give out from beneath him. “what the fuck,” bakugou hisses softly, pressing one hand against his shaking calf. frustration wells up inside him, fierce and tight. he’s clearly not being quiet enough, because it’s only a moment later when kirishima sits up straight, eyes half open and hair sticking up in odd little clumps.


“yeah,” bakugou replies through gritted teeth. “i’m here.”

instead of falling back asleep like bakugou had hoped, kirishima stands and stretches, lifting his arms high above his head. the bottom of his white shirt rises up to expose a smooth swathe of muscled skin, and bakugou looks away, unable to ignore the tugging in his gut.

kirishima cracks open one eye and tilts his head to the side. “how are you feeling, dude? recovery girl said that today was actually supposed to be the worst-,”

“i’m fine,” bakugou lies, picking a sweater up off the floor and tugging it over his shoulders. his brain wants to put as much distance between himself and kirishima as possible, but his body is a different story entirely. “sore as hell, though.”

“i bet,” kirishima says sympathetically. humming softly under his breath, he checks the time. “wow, it’s almost noon. want anything to eat?”

“chicken curry. extra spicy.”

kirishima smiles and reaches out to ruffle bakugou’s hair. “all or nothing, huh? typical blasty.”

bakugou butts his head up into the palm of kirishima’s hand. the contact sends sunlight down through the top of his head like a cracked egg, the sunny yolk pooling down his spine and relaxing all his muscles.

kirishima’s voice is rough, strained. “bakugou- dude-,”

“shut up,” bakugou says hoarsely, pressing his face into the front of kirishima’s shirt. “just-shut up, shitty hair.” kirishima doesn’t let it happen, though. he takes a few stumbling steps back towards the door, eyes dark. there’s something in there that bakugou doesn’t recognize; it makes him pause. - something angry and taut and almost predatorial.

what the fuck? bakugou takes a step forward, eyes narrowed, but the look is gone as quickly as it had appeared, and kirishima shakes his head. “i need to go.”

bakugou raises an eyebrow. “what?”

“i’ll be back with food, i promise- but i can’t be in here right now, dude. sorry.”

he shuts the door quietly behind him when he leaves. bakugou lets out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding and allows himself to slowly crumple to the floor.

what had that been, in kirishima’s eyes? his alpha? bakugou can’t help but feel equal parts irritated and intrigued. head buzzing, he carefully makes his way over to the bathroom.

now that he’s thinking about it- he’s never seen kirishima’s alpha, has he? none of his classmates have so much as ever gotten a whiff of kirishima’s rut. kirishima doesn’t even really act like an alpha- he’s not interested in taking charge or ordering people around, and he doesn’t get territorial around the other alphas.

you’re not exactly the textbook definition of an omega yourself.

bakugou glares at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. he looks the same- pinched brows, auburn eyes, sweaty blonde hair. his cheeks are redder, but that’s about it. so why the fuck do i feel like my skin is five sizes too small?

there’s a toothbrush on the counter- a bright, brilliant pink. pink is manly, he can hear kirishima saying. it’s a strong colour!

bakugou wrinkles his nose and turns on the faucet, sticking one hand under the spray to test the temperature. there’s a twinge in his chest that he staunchly ignores as he steps into the shower, something unrelated to his heat entirely. what if kirishima backing away from him didn’t have to do with his heat? what if kirishima-


bakugou scowls and scrubs at his arms. the soap is the same type that kirishima uses, musky and clean and smelling faintly of spiced oranges. this is kirishima’s shower, bakugou realizes, and drops the soap on the floor. the heat must be affecting his brain, or something.

he spends the rest of his shower doing his best not to think about kirishima naked, and mostly succeeds. he’s towelling his hair off when the door to kirishima’s room clicks open. bakugou freezes, panic running through him for a terrible moment until kirishima’s scent hits the roof of his mouth and relaxes him.

“bakugou? they didn’t have the red kind you liked, so i- oh.”

it’s like a scene from a movie: bakugou, dripping wet with a towel around his waist, and kirishima, eyes wide and hands full of plastic grocery bags. bakugou watches as a precariously balanced steamed bun slides off of the top of the bag and hits the ground with a thunk.

“bakugou,” kirishima says again, but this time his voice is more strained than surprised. bakugou looks up and sees something dreadfully familiar reflected on his best friends face. a yearning lies there, the insatiable urge to reach out and gently touch, skin on skin.

kirishima licks his lips and swallows. when he speaks, hesitation softens the corners of his voice. “can i-?”

“no sex,” bakugou replies gruffly, even though his body is telling him otherwise. kirishima lets out a strangled laugh.

“yeah, i know. that’s not what i want to do.” the redhead sets down the shopping bags and slowly makes his over to bakugou , arms out and palms up like he’s approaching a particularly skittish cat. “i’m just- can i-?”

his fingers hover scant centimetres over the still damp skin of bakugou’s wrist. bakugou can feel the warmth radiating off of kirishima, even without touching him.

it hits bakugou, then: kirishima wants to hold his hand.

it simultaneously freezes and warms something deep in bakugou’s chest, sending cracks splintering along the fault line of his heart.

don’t, one part of him pleads, and then, please.

“yes”, bakugou affirms, steeling himself for impact- and then. and then.

from the outside, it looks like this: one boy, white-faced and nervous, tenderly wrapping his fingers around the hand of another, equally terrified boy.

this touch doesn’t hurt. bakugou’s had kirishima’s hands ( rough, grinding stone and dust ) on his body before, during sparring matches and class exercises and kamino ward- and, if he was lucky, a fleeting touch or an arm around his shoulders- but it was never like this.

it never didn’t hurt like this. kirishima’s hands are calloused and shockingly soft; his fingers are light pinpricks of pressure against his palm and inner wrist. bakugou doesn’t know what to focus on: the arousal, the pain, the strangeness in his chest, or the gentle brush of skin against skin.

“i could blow your arm off,” bakugou finally says, desperate to break the silence. “i’m not built to touch.”

something hot and angry crosses crosses kirishima’s face at this. “whoever told you that is such a liar.” he slides his fingers down the slope of bakugou’s wrist until they’re firmly laced through bakugou’s own. “you’re fine. it’s not like you could hurt me, anyways.”

( “these hands,” his mother remarks one september day when bakugou is ten, “are really meant for fighting, aren’t they?”

they’re sitting in the principal’s office, waiting for the parent of the girl bakugou accidentally set on fire to arrive. bakugou presses his palms down flat on the fabric of his pants, guilt gnawing at him. “i didn’t mean to,” he says, and he hadn’t. she is- she was- one of his friends. he’d just offered to fix her braid- my mom’s a hairstylist, whatever- and then he’d been a little too careless, a little too nervous and he’d just blown her braid off.

the principal looks down over the rim of his glasses. “bakugou-san,” he starts, and bakugou already knows what he’s going to say at this point. “your child is very intelligent, and very adept. however- it’s clear that he has some issues with controlling his anger. i’d suggest taking him to a…”

bakugou zones out, like he always does, and curls his fingers inwards so any explosions that occur will stay trapped inside his hands. )

“probably not,” bakugou admits. “guess i’m stuck with you.”

he doesn’t know if it’s the right thing to say ( never does, when it comes to kirishima ) but it breaks the strange, heavy tension hanging in the air overhead.

kirishima beams at him. “well, obviously. i wouldn’t buy this nasty chicken for just anybody, you know.”

“shut up, shitty hair. you’ll eat whatever i tell you to, and you’ll enjoy it.”

“you sound like my mom,” kirishima says wistfully, and bakugou jabs an elbow into his ribs before realize that he’s a) in a towel b) still holding hands with kirishima. he swallows and stands.

“i’m gonna change. don’t eat all the fucking chicken without me.”

kirishima scoffs and scoots up until his back is pressed against the foot of the bed. “what kind of monster do you think i am, dude?”

not one at all, bakugou thinks.

( and they end up holding hands while they bicker over the fried chicken, neither of them says anything about it. )


≿————- ❈ ————-≾
( DAY 2 )

it takes only a handful of hours before people start getting suspicious.

denki comes knocking first, curiosity apparent in his voice. “kirishima? bro? do you have an omega in there?”

kirishima watches bakugou visibly stiffen. “nah,” he says casually. “you must be imagining things.”

the doorknob jiggles a bit. “dude. don’t screw with me! who’s in there?”

denki isn’t even an alpha. he’s a beta, and normally this means that kirishima’s alpha doesn’t even register him on the instinctive list of Possible Threats, but today is different, somehow, and it makes kirishima’s voice deepen and warp.

“go away, denki,” kirishima warns, and the voice that spills from his lips is both his and not his. it’s all grating boulders and unflinching order; the power of his command is so strong that kirishima can distantly feel all the other alphas of class 3-A stop and freeze.

“okay,” denki says after a while, his voice careful and even. “i’ll leave you to… whatever you’re doing.” kirishima only relaxes when his scent fades, and is promptly filled with shame at letting his alpha get the best of him yet again.

he turns to bakugou, expression apologetic. “sorry, i didn’t mean…”

bakugou looks honestly and truly shocked, eyes round and fingers frozen around his soup spoon. “what the hell was that?”

kirishima bites down on the inside of his cheek. “my alpha. it’s not usually like that- i guess your, uh, heat is making it a bit more aggressive?”

he doesn’t know what he’s expecting bakugou to do- yell at him, maybe, or make an acerbic comment- but certainly not for bakugou to duck his head and keep eating his noodles like nothing ever happened.

kirishima stares at him. “don’t you want to talk about this?”

bakugou swings his head around, speaking around a mouthful of noodle and egg. “do you?”

“i-honestly, no.”

bakugou shrugs. “there you go.”

kirishima sits there in a dazed stupor until bakugou gets annoyed and shoves a spoonful of noodles into his mouth.

≿————- ❈ ————-≾


mina and todoroki corner him next, when he’s on his way to recovery girl’s to pick up a few more patches for bakugou.

it’s almost ten-thirty at night, and mina looks wide awake. that’s how kirishima knows something is up.

“hey!” mina chirps, smile wide but body language visibly cautious. “what’s going on, man?” todoroki looks down at him silently, both hands occupied with a purple nintendo switch. the guy is wearing a unicorn-patterned onesie.

kirishima manages a smile over the low rumbling of the alpha in his chest. “nothing much. just getting some food.”

“we know you have an omega in your room, and we want to know who it is.” todoroki says matter-of-factly, his voice soft and tight. “you’ve been in there for two days.”

kirishima’s smile wavers; his knuckles whiten around the strap of his sunshine-yellow purse. “and that’s none of your business.”

mina, absorbed in braiding a small chunk of her curly pink hair, freezes. todoroki’s thumbs hover over the attack buttons.

kirishima is faintly aware of how un-kirishima he must sound, but he can’t bring himself to care. every fibre of his being screams at him to keep bakugou safe- which is ridiculous, because bakugou is so much more capable of keeping himself safe.

“kirishima,” todoroki says warningly, alpha leaking into his voice, “it’s our business, too. we’re pack.”

something like liquid fire leaks into kirishima’s chest. “no, we aren’t.”

todoroki frowns, brows furrowing. mina growls and steps forward, but kirishima is already stalking down the hallways in an opposite direction, hands balled into fists. it feels like there’s a parachute cord tied between him and bakugou: flexible, but tightening with every step kirishima takes away from his room.

he can’t help but wonder if this- everything he’s feeling- is normal.

≿————- ❈ ————-≾
( DAY 2 )
bakugou is getting really fucking tired of staring at kirishima’s bedroom wall. it’s been a day and a half- he’s never been confined to one space this long since- well. he exhales loudly and flops back onto kirishima’s bed. it doesn’t even smell much like him anymore.

stop being so weird.

his phone vibrates; bakugou wastes no time in picking it up and squinting at the screen.

uraraka : how’s house arrest
uraraka : ;)

you : that ;) better be a typo

uraraka : of COURSE it was
uraraka : but really
uraraka : how are u!!

you : fine

uraraka : ok i know that’s a lie
uraraka : im phoning u

“you need to get outside for a little bit,” uraraka says breathlessly, like she’s been running or something. “i bet you’re scratching at the walls at this point”.

something tightens in the pit of bakugou’s stomach. “i’m don’t think that would be a good idea.”

maybe he would, if it wasn’t for the whole imprinting thing. he’s definitely going to have to talk to kirishima about that like… eventually. he really, really doesn’t want to, because there’s no way that kirishima likes him like that. bakugou bites the inside of his cheek and kicks at the bedsheets with his socked feet.

uraraka hums understandingly. “if you say so. i’ll be at the kiokyu- you know the little place by the movie theatre?-that one- if you want to come out for a late night snack. it’s omega and beta only, by the way.”

“‘kay,” bakugou mumbles, and hangs up. he stares up at the clown-shaped water stain on kirishima’s ceiling for the thousandth time, weighing his options. one: he stays inside kirishima’s room and waits for him to come back. they exchange awkward conversation but successfully circumnavigate talking about the elephant in the room. bakugou tries to not think about kirishima shirtless. rinse. repeat.

option two: bakugou goes out for dinner for the first time in two days, which means that people might see him and figure out that he’s an omega.

bakugou makes an aggravated noise and texts uraraka back.

i’ll be there.

uraraka : yay!!!!! it’s going to be so much fun :)

you : whatever

after checking and double-checking that the scent blockers have been placed correctly, he goes out through the bedroom window dressed in black pants, black shoes, and kirishima’s crimson riot sweatshirt. there’s a bush placed inconveniently underneath the window, so bakugou spends an extra minute brushing leaves out of his pants and hair before setting off for the little restaurant at a dead sprint.

the air is sweet and fresh and clear, and after a day spent in the bathroom and two days at kirishima’s, bakugou finds the open skies dizzyingly vast. he jogs lightly down the short path towards town, ignoring the insistent tug in his stomach. a couple walks by, fingers interlocked; bakugou pulls the hood of kirishima’s sweater up over his head and hopes that none of his scent is leaking out.

uraraka is waiting for him by the front doors of the little eatery, perched on a bench and clad in a light sweater and sweatpants. her hair is pulled up into a tiny bun: it makes her face look even rounder than usual, and bakugou says so.

“rude,” uraraka chastises, but there’s amusement in the lilt of her voice. “you look like you’ve been through a couple cycles in the dryer.” she reaches up to pat down a couple of bakugou’s cowlicks ( which are admittedly worse than usual ).

bakugou bats it away irritably. “i want food.”

uraraka sighs. “they always do.”

bakugou rolls his eyes and slumps in after her, glowering at the hostess waiting at the front counter.

and-look. it’s kind of nice. it’s nice, because everyone there smells like him. there’s no need to look over his shoulder or to instinctively tense up when an alpha that’s not kirishima comes within a thirty metre radius.

he just sits with uraraka and eats a shitton of grilled meat and rice and vegetable sunomono until he’s fit to burst.
uraraka watches him with a careful eye and prattles on about her girlfriend and how her private training is going.

bakugou gives her a few friendly fighting pointers, and in return uraraka mercilessly tears bakugou’s entire defensive technique to shreds.

“yeah,” bakugou retorts in between mouthfuls of kobe beef, “but if nobody is able to land a hit on me, it won’t be an issue, will it?”

uraraka snorts and takes a swig of dr. pepper. “that’s a pretty confident thing to say- even for you, bakugou.”

bakugou curls his lip and stabs at a piece of cucumber with a chopstick. “you might be right,” he mutters, and uraraka’s eyes fill with unholy glee. “is the bakugou katsuki admitting that somebody other than him is correct?”

“pee pee poo poo,” bakugou mocks, and chucks his cucumber at her, causing a miniature food fight.

a server appears, clearly torn between irritation and amusement. “can i get you two anything else?”

“nah,” bakugou says, just a beat after uraraka says, “soju!”

bakugou raises an eyebrow, almost impressed. uraraka smiles at him beautifically and turns to the server again. “and a strawberry milk for him, please.”

bakugou just barely manages to keep his hands from setting the table on fire.

≿————- ❈ ————-≾

“so,” uraraka slurs, one elbow propped up on the table and the other clutching the glass of soju like a truly seasoned pirate, “you imprinted on kirishima, huh?”

bakugou glares at her and slurps obnoxiously at his strawberry milk through the straw.

uraraka snort and sets down the glass. “look. i understand why you would, okay? he’s like, the nicest guy ever- and a cutie! what trips me out is the fact that you imprinted on him before your presentation and without a bond bite. that just doesn’t happen.”

“guess i’m just really, really special,” bakugou drawls. he leans back into his seat. one hand unconsciously pressing against his stomach. that strange, intense pull has sharpened into blade of pain, screaming at him to go back.

fuck this, he thinks.

uraraka is saying something- her lips are moving, but bakugou feels like he’s been submerged in warm water. “i like him,” bakugou blurts, and immediately regrets it, because he’s never seen uraraka look so genuinely shocked. he’s already said it, though, so he plows on ahead. “i mean, i used to like him- have liked him ever since we were first years.” he thumbs his nose and sniffs. “it’s a lot stronger than like, now. it’s more than that.”

uraraka’s mouth is wide open.

embarrassed but mostly satisfied, bakugou grins. his therapist would probably call this a breakthrough. too bad she’s not here to see it.

uraraka sits in a stupefied silent for several minutes. bakugou orders another strawberry milk and has the foresight to check his phone. there are twenty-seven missed notifications.


brow creased, bakugou scrolls through them.

shitty hair : dude
shitty hair r: where are you

shitty hair : ????
shitty hair : ok idk about u but i think something is up
shitty hair : my stomach is really starting 2 hurt but its not. the normal type
shitty hair: [ 3 missed calls ]

“shit,” bakugou says, and presses dial. the phone rings once, twice-

“bakugou,” kirishima wheezes, “ where are you and what the fuck are you doing to me?”

bakugou stands upright, jolting the table on his way up. “i’m on my way back.”

uraraka pulls her head off the table. “what’s wrong?” bakugou stares down at her and motions for the server. “we’re done,” he says shortly, pulling out a couple thousand yen and shoving them into her hand. “would you be able to call a cab to get her back to yuuei? thanks.”

he pulls his hoodie- kirishima’s hoodie- back on. he rolls up the sleeves, stretches out his fingers, and blasts himself upwards, ignoring the shocked exclamations from the few night owls wandering around. he’ll get back to yuuei faster than any cab. teeth gritted, he propels himself forward, and is relieved to find that the strange tugging ache dissolves the closer he gets. this is annoying, he thinks, and then: i’m selfish.

he lands semi-neatly on kirishima’s balcony, palms smoking, and knocks on the door.

kirishima’s blurry form appears through the frosted glass. the handle turns, and then the door opens. more specifically, the door opens and is then torn entirely off its hinges by a very red-faced, confused looking kirishima.

“aw, shit,” kirishima complains, looking down at the door, which is now being entirely held up by his hand around the doorknob. “that’s the second one this year.”

bakugou swallows convulsively. kirishima… does not look happy. he doesn’t look mad, per say-but he’s definitely not his regular self, and he’s not pretending to be, either. he steps forward: kirishima takes a step back.

bakugou gestures vaguely at the space between them. “what’s up with this?”

kirishima looks away and holds the door close to his body like a shield. his fingers, bakugou notes, are still in their hardened state. with no small amount of alarm bakugou recalls a conversation they had back in their second year, when kirishima told him that sometimes when he was stressed or anxious, he wouldn’t be able to deactivate his quirk.

now he’s the one taking a step back, palms flat against his sides. “am i making you uncomfortable.”

kirishima nods, and then shakes his head. “ye- no. you’re not. just- don’t go so far away. it hurts.”

bakugou bites his lip so fiercely that he can taste copper and iron. “i’m sorry,” he spits, and kirishima stills, eyes wide. “i’m sorry that i had to inconvenience you by fucking imprinting on you and making everything worse.”

“that’s not fair,” kirishima retorts, dropping the door and flexing his fingers slowly. they’re both yelling, now. “i’m not mad about the imprinting-you didn’t do it on purpose- it just happens, and it’s not like i hate it! i’m upset that you jumped out of a window and ran off without letting anybody know, bakugou.”

for the first time in years, bakugou starts to feel a glimmer of hope. “you don’t hate it?”

kirishima flushes. “man, you really have a one track mind sometimes.”

bakugou rocks forward on the balls of his feet and crosses his arms, waiting for an answer. there’s several long beats of heavy silence- long enough that bakugou starts to think that he might be looking for something that isn’t there- when kirishima looks up.

maybe its something about the way the moonlight hits and frames kirishima’s face; maybe it’s the way that kirishima’s cheeks redden and bloom. either way, bakugou’s heart skips for entirely non-medical reasons.

kirishima licks his lips. “i don’t hate it.” he hesitates. “not if it's you.”

bakugou stares at him. there’s something dangerously close to relief blooming in his chest. kirishima sighs and shuffles a little closer. bakugou tucks his hands under his armpits to keep himself from reaching out and touching that red, red hair.

he’s not remotely skilled at this kind of game, but even bakugou can tell that they’re teetering on the edge of some kind of precipice: he knows that if he takes a step forward the two of them will either sink or swim. i don’t want to be the one who decides.

maybe kirishima can see the indecision in bakugou’s eyes ( or maybe he just gets impatient ) because he lets out a long heavy sigh, gestures toward bakugou’s faintly popping hands, and asks, “can i?”

“yeah,” bakugou mutters, feeling like he’s just said yes to a lot more than that specific question. kirishima hums and carefully takes both of bakugou’s hands in his own.

(bakugou is back in the principals office. again. at least they’ve given him a window seat this time. he leans his head against the cool glass and watches rain dribble down the pane and rustle the leaves.

faintly, he’s aware of the adults conversing around him.

“your son is a psychopath. no normal child would do this to ahiko!”

bakugou tries to open his mouth- wants to say something, wants to explain that he likes ahiko, that he’d gotten nervous about being so close to him and hadn’t been able to keep his hands from exploding- but one sharp look from his mother keeps him quiet.

“my son wouldn’t do this on purpose,” mitsuki says tightly, kicking one tanned leg over the other. “he and ahiko are friends. it was a mistake.”

ahiko’s mother laughs. it’s not a nice one. “mistakes don’t get people hurt, bakgou-san. your child needs to be locked up- he’s like a miniature villain.”

and that hurts. it hurts much more than bakugou would like, and that makes him mad. )

“is this okay?” kirishima asks.

it’s better than okay. kirishima’s palms are rough and warm and familiar, now. touching him is like dropping weights onto the ground and an undeniable sense of rightness. bakugou can’t put that into words yet, though, can’t vocalize it- so he just nods, ears burning.

kirishima smiles, dopey and toothy, and bakugou can’t help but offer a half-smile back. something purrs in his chest, content and pleased.

“hey,” kirishima starts, his voice wobbly and uncertain, thumbs ghosting over bakugou’s knuckles. bakugou will most likely never figure out what he was planning on saying, because he leans in entirely unprompted and kisses kirishima.

what the fuck! his brain screams.

fucking finally, his omega hums.

kirishima tastes like cinnamon and sunlight and moves like a forest fire, all hands and teeth and dizzying intent. it shocks bakugou, just how much he wants. it’s enough to make liquid warmth pool at the base of his spine, enough to make him shiver. they kiss, chaste enough at first, but then kirishima pushes past the seam of bakugou’s lips and does something with his tongue that pushes all coherent thought out of bakugou’s overheated brain. it’s good. it’s so good that bakugou thinks he might explode.

the bite, a little voice says. don’t forget the bite.

in a move that is entirely instinctive, bakugou turns and bares his neck, the pulse point there thrumming.

kirishima’s hands still before withdrawing from their place on bakugou altogether. bakugou blinks and sits up ( somehow, they’ve moved to the ugly futon covered in a yellow duck pattern ) alarmed and more than a little embarrassed. “what?”

kirishima wrings his hands together and squints at bakugou, his hair soft and loose around his face. “i-you’re not just like… is it you who wants this, or your omega?”

“what the fuck,” bakugou says flatly, a tinge of indignation creeping into his voice. “did you forget the part about me imprinting on you before i even presented?”

kirishima scratched the back of his head nervously. “yeah… about that. i’m not entirely sure what that actually means?”

bakugou grinds his teeth together. “it means that i liked you for so long that i formed a nearly unbreakable emotional attachment to you before presentation.”

kirishima’s eyes are about as wide as dinner plates. “you like me?”

bakugou covers his burning face with his equally warm palms and nods.

“you. like me.”

bakugou throws his arms up into the air, equal parts exasperated and endeared. “yes! you want a written statement or something?”

“actually,” kirishima muses, the faintest shadow of a smirk on his face, “a typed statement would be nice. your handwriting is shit, dude.”

bakugou launches a ball of flame at his head.


≿————- ❈ ————-≾
( DAY 3)
“so, um,” kirishima ventures carefully, “i notice that you aren’t always comfortable with being touched?”

they’ve ended up curled together on kirishima’s bed like two cats basking in the sun, limbs interlocked and heads muzzy with lack of sleep. kirishima has never heard bakugou speak so easily before; usually words spoken from the blonde’s heart sound like bits of broken glass.

bakugou makes a non-committal noise. kirishima sighs and pushes his face into the crook of bakugou’s arm. he smells like axe bodyspray and warm caramel. “just- let me know what you are and aren’t comfortable with, okay?”



“i said, i’m not uncomfortable with being touched.” bakugou hesitates; even in the dim pre-dawn light kirishima can see that telltale groove between his eyebrows. “i’m just not used to it.”

kirishima sits up, comforter wrapped around his shoulders like a cape. he keeps his hand curled around bakugou’s. “what does that mean?”

“‘s not that big of a deal.”

“i think that it is.” he prods at bakugou’s chest gently. “tell me. telll meeeee. teeee-,”

“if you shut the fuck up, i’ll tell you!”

kirishima makes a zipping motion across his lips and nods. bakugou exhales, long and loud. “there’s not much to tell, anyways. once my quirk manifested, people didn’t feel safe being around me.” he swallows. “i couldn’t control it very well when i was little.”

“but weren’t your parents-?”

“not super touchy-feely. mom would like, smack me if i fucked up or whatever. there weren't a whole lot of nice family hugfests.”

“that wasn’t okay of her,” kirishima says, a harsh edge to his voice.
bakugou looks over, one eyebrow raised. “she didn’t beat me, dumbass. it was more corporal punishment than anything else.”

( bakugou in class, lashing out when a classmate pats his shoulder or ruffles his hair and

the two of them in the sparring room, bakugou’s grip on kirishima’s shoulders lingering for just a beat more than what would be considered necessary

slinging an arm around bakugou’s shoulders and then, months later, bakugou tentatively returning the gesture

bakugou’s hand wrapping around kirishima’s in order to move the whisk in the right direction, both of them snickering quietly in the dark kitchen as cupcake batter flies up and hits the ceiling

and earlier than that, bakugou’s hand reaching up towards his, skin burning and grin wide but his eyes wide and deeply, truly relieved- )

kirishima shakes his head, squeezing his eyes against the tears threatening to spill out. “still not okay.” he leans over and very carefully pulls bakugou into a hug. “wanna know what i think?”

bakugou shrugs and wraps his arms around kirishima’s waist. he’s a little stiff, still, but he’s getting the hang of it.

“i think you were misunderstood. i also think that you deserved to be treated so much more kindly that you were.”

“maybe,” bakugou allows, voice hoarse, and clams up. kirishima sighs and closes his eyes, smiling a little as bakugou slowly relaxes under him, his chest rising and falling. when he finally does speak, his voice vibrates against kirishima’s cheek. “there are bigger things to worry about. like being an omega. and being an omega at ua.”

kirishima frowns. aizawa hadn’t been too fazed about the whole thing, so he’d just kind of assumed that there wouldn’t be much reason to worry. “you’re at the top of our class, and you have like, five hundred job offers lined up for you after graduation. there’s no way they’d kick you out.”

“probably not. they’ll turn me into a fucking poster boy instead.”

“hmm. i think you’ll be able to handle it.”

bakugou snorts. “i won’t be nice about it.”

kirishima rolls his eyes and flips over onto his back, his arm just barely brushing against bakugou’s. the skin- to- skin contact sends a little thrill down his spine. he’s lucky, to have bakugou. “i know.”

he must have said it a bit too dreamily, because bakugou lets out a soft, amused laugh and rolls over to give him another searing, sugary kiss.

the kiss says what bakugou can’t put into words: i love you.

“i love you too,” kirishima mumbles, and laughs when bakugou pulls at piece of his ungelled hair, cheeks red.

( the truth comes one evening after kirishima’s first girlfriend breaks up with him. whether it’s real or dreamt is blurred, but it’s important all the same.

kirishima’s mother bends down and cups her son’s sleeping face in her hands. “one day, ejirou,” she whispers, brushing a dark curl of hair off of kirishima’s forehead. “one day, you’ll find someone who really, truly loves you. somehow who is your equal. i promise.”

and fourteen year old kirishima ejirou sighs in his sleep. )

≿————- ❈ ————-≾
( DAY 3)
recovery girl hums and gives his arm a pat. “well, i think we’re finally done here! congrats on making it through, young man.” she peers at his neck. “oh? no bond mark?”

bakugou shrugs, beat up docs kicking against the pristine white examination table. “didn’t want to. he just ended up imprinting on me, too.”

recovery girl nearly drops her gloves, shock written clearly across her wrinkled face . “that shouldn’t be po- well- nevermind.”

aizawa lifts his head from off the counter and flicks a sleepy finger in bakugou’s direction. “lots of things concerning you shouldn’t be possible. i’m not really that surprised.”

bakugou squints at the older man’s impassive face. i wouldn’t be able to tell even if you were. “can i go now?”

“ye-es.” aizawa pulls the hood of his sweater up over his head. the new batch of first years must be taking a real toll on him. “however, the school will most likely be forced to make an announcement to the media about you being an omega. is there anything you want us to say?”

bakugou snorts and slides off of the examination table. he can feel kirishima pacing up and down the hallway and struggles to school his expression into something less lovestruck. focus. “yeah. you can tell them that if they have a problem with an omega being a pro hero, they can fucking rescue themselves.”

“you’re as eloquent as ever.” aizawa says mildly, reaching into his sweater pocket and sparking up a cigarette. “but noted.”

bakugou grins and makes sure to slam the door shut behind him.

≿————- ❈ ————-≾

kirishima squints at bakugou, thumbs tapping out an uneven tempo on the doorknob. “you ready for this?”

bakugou shrugs and does his best to push down his own lingering self-loathing. he’s an omega now- not exactly fucking optimal, but there’s nothing he can do about that now, can he? two years ago, he’d have blown up half of ua out of sheer rage- maybe even one year, really. he’s changed, and that might not be such a bad thing.

“ready as i’ll ever be.”

kirishima smiles, a little bit of that fighting fire creeping into his eyes. “let’s fuck em up, blasty. they won’t know what hit ‘em.”

bakugou slings an arm around kirishima’s shoulders, a determined kind of acceptance burning in his bones. “i’ll make sure that they do.”

≿————- ❈ ————-≾

[ twenty minutes ago : NHUS NEWS: senior bakugou katsuki out as an omega, still plans to proceed with goal of becoming number 1 hero ]

+50k upvotes, 90k comments

“perhaps it’s time for japan to catch up with the rest of the world in regards to omega and beta rights.

just a few minutes ago, yuuei (the prestigious hero academy that birthed so many famous pros- suneater and nejire-chan, to name a couple- ) has just released news to the press that their third year student, bakugou katsuki ( hero name ground zero ) has presented as an omega.

in a day and age that has never yet seen an omega hero before, bakugou’s decision to remain within the hero lifestyle has garnered both concern and praise from the general public. while many people are split on this controversial decision, most stand by the wildly popular hero, arguing that discrimination on the basis of secondary gender is outdated and offensive.

despite being bombarded on all sides by the media on his first trip outside yuuei property, bakugou kept his ‘cool’, stopping once or twice to point and laugh at protesters with signs. upon being asked how he felt about being such a controversial figure, bakugou shrugged, said, ‘like that’s anything new,’ and ambled off with one arm around the waist of rumoured boyfriend kirishima eijirou ( hero name red riot ).

while public opinion on bakugou is still pending, one thing is for certain: ground zero isn’t going anywhere. it seems as though our explosive hero is here to stay.