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Hitoshi rummaged through the rack of clothes—spring-y, floral long sleeve button-downs he absolutely vibed with—and ignored the way his skin prickled beneath the gazes of a stranger. No matter what store he’d entered, he browsed with the phantom feeling of someone staring at him.
He was used to it.
Hitoshi was an omega—a pretty one, even with his chronic eyebags and blank expression, according to some of his peers, even if Hitoshi didn’t think so—and he was alone in a shopping mall. This wouldn’t be a problem . . . except Hitoshi’s clear scent made it obvious he didn’t have any pack affiliation. A rarity, but it essentially told other alphas that he didn’t have one he allowed to scent mark.
No one bothered him while he browsed and shopped the sales, thankfully. Hitoshi knew he would’ve done something to get banned from the mall had whoever stared at him so blatantly cornered him. He exited his third store with a grumbling stomach and made the executive choice to head to the food court.
Bold, really, considering the crowd.
Hitoshi hoped it would be enough to make the starers think twice about bothering him . . . but he knew better.
He noticed a few familiar faces as he purchased his order from the food stall—Aizawa and Yamada, Tokoyami with friends (or relatives, considering they all had some type of bird-related quirk), Asui and undeniably her little siblings, and . . . Hitoshi barely swallowed a groan, quickly averting his gaze from Kaminari’s brightened expression.
Great.
Just what Hitoshi needed.
“Shinsou!” Kaminari yelled out, causing heads to turn. Aizawa looked wholly unimpressed at Kaminari’s behavior; Yamada looked delighted. Hitoshi pointedly scanned for empty tables away from the energetic blond currently waving in his direction with reckless abandon. “Shin~sou Hito~shi~!”
Hitoshi wouldn’t laugh.
“Dumbass!” Bakugou groused out; a following slam that told Hitoshi he yanked Kaminari’s hand down, and it smacked against the table. “He can’t fuckin’ hear you.”
“Aww,” teased Mina, that honey warm lilt to her tongue. “Don’t be so mean to poor wittle Kami, Bakagou! His heart is fragile!”
“Yeah,” echoed Sero. “He’s fragile, Bakagou!”
“The FUCK are you calling—!”
Their table erupted into a squabble typical of the Bakusquad; filled with laughter, teasings, and Bakugou’s foul mouth. Hitoshi noticed more than a few mothers who covered their childrens’ ears or saw them say “Don’t repeat that” to their wide-eyed, giggling children.
He. Wouldn’t. Laugh.
It wasn’t like Hitoshi hated Kaminari or the self-proclaimed Bakusquad. They became aware of his existence before the Sports Festival, but only approached him after that event. Hitoshi still remembered his shock when Kaminari and Ashido crashed his lunch table, chattering and laughing as if they had been Hitoshi’s friends since preschool.
Kirishima and Sero followed; the calmer ones compared to Kaminari and Ashido. Given their beta statuses, Hitoshi had been relieved. Being surrounded by hyperactive and friendly alphas were not on his agenda. Bakugou showed up after a day or two, as caustic and biting as ever. Except Hitoshi hadn’t shrunk back and wavered at those displays of aggression.
Hitoshi knew Bakugou hadn’t meant much harm, after all. He’d grown up surrounded by hateful alphas. He knew all their signs and tells. Bakugou was just . . . an asshole, but he wasn’t an Alpha Asshole™. Nonetheless, Hitoshi had somehow found himself in the ‘squad, even if he stonewalled their attempts to ‘hang out’ when classes ended.
He had assumed they’d give up in the face of Hitoshi’s protective vitriol—his countless foster families had; his current classmates had—but . . . to his utter shock, they only seemed more enthused and attentive, using everything in their arsenal to get beneath his walls. Even Bakugou, in his own roundabout, gruff way.
Halfway through the semester, Hitoshi had noticed they were, essentially, courting him—or, rather, helping Bakugou and Kaminari court him, really, but, semantics or whatever. When he confronted them about it, he’d thought they were joking when they said they wanted him to be their pack omega (and that, you know, Bakugou and Kaminari wanted to date him).
Except it wasn’t a joke.
(And Hitoshi didn’t know how to handle that.)
Given how overwhelmed he’d looked, Sero suggested he think it over and give them a response in a few weeks or so. Hitoshi had agreed—and, well. His last week of “thinking it over” rapidly approached. Hitoshi would have to tell them his answer soon.
(He already knew his answer, though.
He’d decided it the moment Bakugou and Kaminari remembered Hitoshi’s offhand comment about his parents’ grave, and visited their resting site with him to give respects.)
“Hey there.” Hitoshi nearly choked and stared at the sudden appearance of a random alpha. She slid into the empty seat beside him, placing his bags on the floor. Which—what? Hitoshi placed them on the seats for a reason. “What’s a pretty thing like you doin’ by yourself?”
Hitoshi raised an unimpressed eyebrow. Heaven forbid Hitoshi tied his own fucking shoes without help. “Eating,” Hitoshi responded blankly. “Before you interrupted.”
She laughed. Hitoshi hadn’t known he’d said a joke. Her friends snickered as well—and took Hitoshi’s response as an invite to sit down by his table. Hitoshi nearly broke his chopsticks in half had he not exhaled, steadying himself.
Sensei’s right there, Hitoshi soothed his anxiety. He didn’t want to start stinking up the entire cafeteria—but he would, if needed. So’s . . . Bakugou and Kaminari. Hitoshi glanced up, then, catching Bakugou’s narrowed gaze, and hoped his eyes were pitiful enough.
It was.
“Could you leave?” Hitoshi raised an eyebrow, internally relieved as Bakugou rose from his table, scowling. More than a few people flinched at his expression. From the corner of his eyes, Hitoshi noticed his teachers looked ready to intervene as well. “I’m not in the mood to eat with strangers.”
“That’s easily solved,” said one of them. Hitoshi would call them Asshole 1. “Let’s get to know one another~.”
Hitoshi twitched. There went his appetite. “No thanks.”
“Oi. Fuckfaces.” A snapped growl. Hitoshi rolled his eyes. Great; another self-important alpha. “He told you to fuck off.”
Never mind.
Just Bakugou.
“And who’re you?” said Asshole 2. Her breath ghosted across Hitoshi’s cheek, and he grimaced. “I don’t think this little one is claimed?”
Hitoshi internally vomited. His expression showed none of his distaste, however, as he pushed her away from his space. “Personal space,” Hitoshi said in a cool tone, glowering at her indignant scent. “And, for the record, I’m not some pet.”
She only smiled. As if Hitoshi were amusing. He hated alphas like this. “Well~, you’ve certainly got claws, hmm?”
Bakugou bristled and tensed, a coiled spring ready to burst. Hitoshi noticed the rest of the Bakusquad staring, ready, at the slightest sign, to intervene. Hitoshi also noticed his little table had the attention of most of the cafeteria. There goes my peace, he thought.
But. Well.
It could be worse.
Unfortunately for Bakugou’s rising blood-thirst, Hitoshi would end things before it got to a point security (or the police) had to be called. “If you don’t leave me alone, I’m going to call security,” Hitoshi commented in a casual tone, as if he discussed the weather instead. Or I’ll just gouge your eyes out with these chopsticks. “But I’m not afraid to start biting, either.”
Hitoshi might have so-called itty-bitty omegan fangs, but he knew they hurt. They tended to dig into skin and have a tightened grip.
Asshole 3 decided to speak, looking nervous, though more at Bakugou than at Hitoshi. Which. Fair. “Look, guys, let’s just go. We could get arrested.”
Asshole 2 rolled her eyes. “For what?”
“Harassment of a minor.” Hitoshi would’ve screamed had he not scented Aizawa’s presence. Bakugou calmed at the sight of their teacher. If the alphas weren’t intimidated before, they definitely were at both Aizawa’s expression and scent. “I’d appreciate it if you left my students alone.”
Fang poked out behind his lips. Had Hitoshi mentioned how much he loved his mentor?
Bakugou ‘accidentally’ tripped one of them as they shuffled by, pulling a soft snort from Hitoshi’s nose. Aizawa’s looming snuffed out any potential confrontation, however. Thankfully. Hitoshi hadn’t looked forward to getting banned — or having to hide from projectile food and objects.
“Thanks for that,” Hitoshi said with a softer smile, scent grateful and pleased. Soft drips of strawberry. “Getting into a fight would’ve been unpleasant.”
Hitoshi had just gotten his nails done, alright? He wasn’t allowed to own nail polish in his foster home—there had been incidents with previous foster kids, and, apparently, his foster parents didn’t want to risk it anymore—and could only get his cute designs at nail salons.
Which, of course, cost money.
“Your shitty parents haven’t scent marked you?” Bakugou asked even though he already knew the answer. Aside from the fading smells of everyday life, Hitoshi’s scent was remarkably clear. Unclouded by other dynamics save his own. “The hell?”
Hitoshi sighed around his chopsticks. “It doesn’t matter.” He chewed, a bit nervous at their expressions. “Really; I’m used to it. Besides, I don’t like their scents so I’m glad they don’t scent me.”
It was the truth. Their scents nauseated Hitoshi, a fact they took advantage of whenever he happened to do something they didn’t like (which was everything, in their eyes).
“It is dangerous, however,” said Aizawa, gathering his thoughts.
Hitoshi narrowed his eyes. “I can take care of myself, Sensei.” Hitoshi hadn’t been kidding about fighting. It wouldn’t have been the first time he brawled with a pigheaded alpha—and it wouldn’t be the last, either. “You know I can fight.”
Aizawa huffed a soft laugh, well-aware of just how vicious and dirty of a fighter Hitoshi could be, especially when he felt cornered, but said, “I know you can, brat.” After a pause, he added, quieter, “but you shouldn’t have to.”
Hitoshi hummed around another bite. He didn’t have much of a rebuttal for that one. “Well, unless y’all are offering to scent mark me,” Hitoshi said, waving his chopsticks at them, “I don’t see anything changing. Shitty alphas are gonna be everywhere.”
Hitoshi knew how this would go. No one wanted to have their scent on Hitoshi, no matter how “pretty” and “omega-like” he was, no matter how—
“That’s . . . not a bad idea,” Aizawa hummed, raising an eyebrow at Hitoshi’s slow blink. “Provided you’re comfortable with that, of course.”
. . . Eh?
“So?” Bakugou crossed his arms over his chest. “You comfy with that?”
Hitoshi thought about it for a moment, slightly shocked they’d gone off script, but nodded. “Go wild, I guess,” he shrugged, plopping another piece of food in his mouth.
Aizawa wasted little time in placing a hand behind Hitoshi’s neck, grounding peppermint chamomile, and motioned for Yamada to come over, which the blond happily acquiesced to. The position almost made Hitoshi turn still from shock, knowing it was a parental hold.
Bakugou reached for Hitoshi’s wrist, cinnamon and vanilla sugar, and swiveled toward the Bakusquad. “Oi! One braincell club, get over here!”
Hitoshi had five seconds before chaos incarnate descended on his table.
“Shinsou,” cried Kaminari, immediately wrapping an arm around Hitoshi’s shoulders once Bakugou gruffly explained they were scent marking eyebags (how eloquent). “You okay?”
“Fine,” Hitoshi murmured and shivered when a volley of scents dusted across his skin. “S’not a big deal.”
“Of course it is,” said Yamada; a mixture of orange and jasmine bursting from the gland on his wrist as he gently brushed it against Hitoshi’s. “Harassment’s no joke, little listener!”
“I can’t believe they just ignored you like that,” Kirishima grumbled; cherry scent indignant and concerned. “I wanted to punch their unmanliness.”
Aizawa rolled his eyes to the ceiling.
Hitoshi had vague memories of being scent marked. His parents lathered him in their scent constantly, given it helped babies develop further (especially babies who presented at birth — which was exactly what Hitoshi had done), whether in public or at home. When they died, and their scents faded with time, Hitoshi changed foster homes too rapidly to gain attachments and feel comfortable being scent marked.
(It had also made him remember his parents, and his loss, and that acrid scent of grief scared most foster parents away from marking him.)
“Not cool at all,” Ashido agreed, and then gave Hitoshi a toothy smile. “Want me to have Momo-chan’s parents ruin them~?”
Yamada coughed.
“I’m not listening,” said Aizawa, blankly.
The Bakusquad erupted into laughter. Hitoshi leaned into the warmth and comfort of their scents, of their presence, and laughed, too.