Chapter Text
The air in the subterranean hall tasted of old money, stale smoke, and the metallic tang of dried blood. It was the kind of place polite society pretended didn’t exist, tucked three levels beneath the grand harbor district where corrupt nobles and cutthroats rubbed shoulders under heavy velvet masks.
In the quiet sanctuary of the palace, however, the atmosphere had been vastly different only an hour prior.
"Hey Bakubro," Kirishima had said, pushing open the heavy oak door to Bakugo's private chambers without waiting for an invitation.
Bakugo didn't look up from his desk, his red eyes glaring down at a stack of dense military ledgers detailing border patrols and armor inventories. "What do you want?"
"My old man is out of town and wanted me to go to an auction in his place," Kirishima explained, leaning casually against the doorframe, adjusting the collar of his dark court silks. "So I thought why not invite one of my best buds with me."
Bakugo let out a sharp, dismissive scoff, finally raising his head to skewer the red-head with a blistering glare. "So then why not go find those friends 'cause I'm not going."
"Uh, harsh bro," Kirishima winced, rubbing the back of his neck with a sheepish grin.
"You know I hate going to those things," Bakugo snapped, his voice dropping into a harsh, disgusted register as his fists clenched over the wooden desk, nearly leaving scorch marks on the surface. "It's filled with nothing but perverted Alphas who are willing to do anything to the helpless Omegas."
"True, but I really don't want to go by myself to these things," Kirishima said, offering a pleading, lopsided expression as he brought his hands together. "Please, come on and go with me."
Bakugo stared at him for a long, heavy second, his crimson eyes narrowing into sharp daggers. He had opened his mouth to deliver another absolute refusal, but the stubborn persistence in Kirishima's posture told him he wouldn't hear the end of it if he just said no. With a loud, aggravated groan, Bakugo slammed his ledger shut, the sound echoing sharply in the quiet room. He pushed himself up from his chair, the heavy fabric of his royal tunic shifting as he crossed his arms over his chest.
"Fine," Bakugo snapped, his voice rough and laced with venomous irritation. "If I have to sit through one second of those sleazy bastards bragging about their latest prizes, I'm blowing the whole damn place up. You hear me?"
Kirishima had beamed, entirely unfazed by the threat. "Count on it, Bakubro. Let's go."
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Now, standing in the private viewing gallery of the clandestine auction house, Bakugo’s nose wrinkled in deep, abiding disgust. The room was thick with cloying, suffocating perfumes, expensive smoke, and the heavy, sour pheromones of arrogant Alphas who thought their titles and wealth made them untouchable gods.
It didn't take long for him to spot the worst offenders of the upper nobility lounging across the opposite balcony. There sat Shigaraki Tomura, looking as pale and sickly as ever, flanked by his closest confidant—and Bakugo's self-proclaimed rival—Dabi, whose scarred skin and lazy, mocking grin made Bakugo's palm itch to unleash an explosion right then and there.
Shigaraki’s pale, cracked lips curled into a slow, ugly sneer. He turned his head lazily, his mismatched eyes locking onto Bakugo and Kirishima standing in the adjacent box.
"Well, well, well," Shigaraki rasped, his voice dripping with condescension as he leaned his elbows against the velvet railing. "If it isn't the spoiled brat, Prince Katsuki Bakugo."
Bakugo’s jaw tightened until the bone cracked audibly, his crimson eyes narrowing into lethal slits. Before he could fire back a sharp, explosive insult that would wipe that mocking smirk right off Shigaraki’s face, Dabi leaned in, a slow, lazy plume of blue-tinged smoke curling from his fingertips.
"Careful, Tomura," Dabi drawled, his voice a gravelly mockery of concern as he flashed a jagged, unbothered grin toward Bakugo's box. "Don't poke the royal lapdog too hard. You know how the Prince gets when he doesn't get his way—he might throw a tantrum and burn down the whole parlor."
Kirishima quickly stepped in, shooting a warning look across the gap while keeping his posture relaxed. "Save your breath, Dabi. We're just here to observe, unlike some people who make a career out of haunting the gutters."
Shigaraki let out a raspy, grating laugh that made Bakugo's stomach turn. "Oh, relax, red. We're just welcoming our dear, precious prince to the market. Who knows? Maybe he’ll actually find something tonight that can handle his toxic little temper. Though I doubt any omega with half a brain would survive a week under his roof."
Bakugo took one sharp, furious step forward, his palm snapping with a violent pop of bright orange light that scorched the edge of the velvet railing. "Keep flapping your pathetic jaws, Tomura, and I'll make sure your next 'acquisition' is a one-way ticket to the executioner's block."
Before Shigaraki could sneer a reply, the heavy chandelier lights overhead dimmed, and a sharp chime rang out across the hall. Down on the main stage, the murmurs of the crowd died down instantly, all eyes shifting toward the center platform as the auctioneer stepped up to the podium, rubbing his hands together with a greasy, anticipatory grin.
"And now, esteemed patrons," the auctioneer's voice echoed through the subterranean hall, oily and smooth. "For our final, premier offering of the evening..."
The heavy iron gate at the back of the stage clanked open. One of the burly guards shoved a captive forward onto the wood, forcing him to stumble under the harsh glare of the chandelier.
The boy couldn't have been more than sixteen. He was painfully thin, his limbs bruised and trembling beneath a tattered, dirt-stained tunic, but what caught everyone off guard was his face. A mess of wild, emerald-green curls framed pale skin, and resting beneath them were a pair of startling, vivid green eyes—wide, terrified, yet burning with an unmistakable, feral defiance.
Across the way, Shigaraki’s posture instantly shifted. His lazy slouch vanished, his pale eyes going wide and greedy as he stared down at the stage. A hungry, possessive grin stretched across his cracked lips, his fingers twitching against the railing. He didn't care about the cost or who he had to step over—that omega was going to be his.
Down in his own box, Bakugo’s breath caught in his throat. Even from a distance, the sharp, ozone-and-pine scent of the kid's pure terror hit him, cutting right through the cloying perfumes of the room. Something hot, violent, and fiercely protective surged behind Bakugo’s ribs, his crimson eyes locking onto the green-haired boy with unblinking intensity.
The auctioneer’s greasy smile stretched wider as he swept a theatrical hand toward the stage.
"Starting bid at five hundred gold sovereigns for this rare, untouched western line," the auctioneer crowed, his voice echoing smoothly off the stone walls. "A pristine, unbroken omega, barely broken in and ready for a proper master's hand!"
Instantly, shouting broke out across the lower floor as wealthy nobles and traffickers began throwing out numbers, eager to claim the prize.
Across the gallery, Shigaraki didn't hesitate. He slammed his hand down onto the railing, his voice cutting cleanly over the noise of the crowd.
"Ten thousand," Shigaraki rasped, a sickening, triumphant grin spreading across his face as he glared around the room.
A murmur rippled through the hall. Ten thousand sovereigns was an exorbitant sum, enough to silence most of the lower bidders instantly. Dabi leaned back with a low chuckle, crossing his arms as he watched his friend stake an immediate, aggressive claim.
Down in his own box, Bakugo’s fists clenched so hard his knuckles turned white, his crimson eyes burning a hole straight into Shigaraki's smug face. Before the auctioneer could even open his mouth to log Shigaraki’s bid, Bakugo stepped right up to the edge of his box, his jaw clenched tight enough to break teeth.
"Fifteen thousand," Bakugo barked, his deep, commanding voice cutting through the chatter of the room like a physical blow.
Shigaraki’s triumphant smirk vanished in an instant, replaced by a dark, venomous scowl. His pale eyes snapped over to Bakugo’s box, his hands gripping the velvet railing so hard his knuckles turned white.
"Twenty thousand," Shigaraki snarled, his voice rising in pitch, pure malice dripping from every syllable as he glared across the hall.
Kirishima shot Bakugo a wide-eyed, frantic look, grabbing his sleeve. "Whoa, Bakubro! Twenty thousand? Are you out of your mind? You're just bidding against Tomura to spite him!"
Bakugo didn't even blink, his crimson eyes locked entirely on the shivering green-haired boy down on the stage, who was staring back up with a mix of terror and utter confusion. The heavy, suffocating scent of Shigaraki's angry alpha pheromones rolled across the room, but Bakugo matched it with a ferocious, blinding wave of his own, easily overpowering the older man's pressure.
"I don't give a damn about the price," Bakugo growled, his voice dropping into a lethal, low register.
Before Shigaraki could shout another number, Bakugo stepped further over the partition, his chest heaving with an uncontainable surge of territorial fury.
"Thirty-five thousand," Bakugo declared, his voice ringing out across the subterranean hall, rich, heavy, and dripping with royal authority.
Shigaraki’s breath hitched, a low, guttural snarl rattling in the back of his throat. His pale eyes bulged in absolute disbelief, his face twisting into a mask of pure, unadulterated fury as he realized the crown prince was actually about to outbid him for the prize.
Bakugo didn't even flinch. He leaned casually against the velvet railing, his crimson eyes locking onto Shigaraki’s enraged expression with cold, absolute dominance.
The entire auction house went dead silent. Even the auctioneer stood frozen at his podium, his jaw slack as he stared up at the Crown Prince's box, terrified to even breathe too loudly. Thirty-five thousand gold sovereigns was a king's ransom—an obscene, untouchable sum that completely shut down any remaining competition in the room.
Across the hall, Shigaraki looked like he was about to burst a blood vessel. He opened his mouth, ready to scream or throw something, but Dabi casually reached out and grabbed his shoulder, giving him a warning, tight-lipped shake of his head.
"Let it go, Tomura," Dabi muttered out of the side of his mouth, his lazy grin fading into a hard line. "You're not going to outspend the crown prince in his own kingdom. Unless you want the King breathing down your neck by morning."
Shigaraki slammed his fist down onto the wooden railing, splintering the varnish, his mismatched eyes glaring daggers at Bakugo. But he stayed silent, sinking back into his seat with a venomous hiss.
Down on the stage, the trembling green-haired boy blinked up toward Bakugo's box, his vivid green eyes wide with shock and a terrifying, desperate glimmer of uncertainty.
The auctioneer finally found his voice, frantically tapping his gavel against the block.
"S-Sold!" the auctioneer stammered, sweating profusely as he bowed low toward the prince. "Thirty-five thousand to His Royal Highness, Prince Katsuki Bakugo!"
Bakugo didn't wait another second. He turned sharply on his heel, his heavy cape sweeping behind him as he headed for the exit. "Come on, Kirishima," he barked over his shoulder. "Let's go collect our 'prize'."