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The first time Uraraka decides Bakugou Katsuki must belong to her, it’s over something stupid—his watch. They’re in the common room, the late afternoon sun turning the windows into sheets of gold. Bakugou leans back in his chair with an ease that looks like ownership. A clean lined, absurdly expensive timepiece glints on his wrist when he lifts a mug. He laughs—sharp, bright, unrepentant—and the sound lands in the room like a thrown knife. Uraraka’s gaze catches. Holds. She tastes cotton candy on her tongue, sickly and insistent, and the thought arrives like fate: Of course he’s mine. Someone like him wouldn’t be with someone like ... Her eyes flick, involuntary, to Midoriya Izuku.
Midoriya sits on the floor by the coffee table, half surrounded by a spread of support-course components and a laptop. His hair is mussed, his sleeves rolled, his hands smudged with graphite and something metallic. He looks up at a question Sero asks, answers with calm precision, and goes back to adjusting a brace prototype like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He smells like deep forest after rain—pine and loam and something steady that makes Uraraka’s teeth ache. The scent shouldn’t be so strong. Not on an omega. Not unless. Bakugou’s chair scrapes. The alpha crosses the room without hesitation and drops down behind Midoriya, legs bracketing him. A broad hand lands on Midoriya’s shoulder, thumb rubbing a slow circle at the base of his neck. Bakugou’s scent washes through the space, caramelized sugar and smoke, a campfire gone rich and dangerous.
Midoriya doesn’t startle. He tips his head back just enough that his cheek brushes Bakugou’s knuckles, a soft, absent-minded nuzzle that makes Bakugou’s eyes go half-lidded. It’s intimate in the way of inevitabilities. Uraraka forces a laugh that sounds wrong even to her.
“Bakugou,” she says, too bright. “You’re always glued to Midoriya lately.”
Bakugou’s red eyes cut toward her. “Problem?”
Kirishima—lounging on the couch with Mina tucked under his arm, makes a low sound in his throat. Not a growl exactly, but the warning before one. Mina’s pink eyes flick to Uraraka and back, her smile polite the way a blade can be polite.
“Back off,” Mina says lightly, sweet venom wrapped in a friendly tone. “Seriously. It’s weird.”
Uraraka blinks. “I’m just—”
“Just trying to sniff around another omega’s mate,” Kaminari mutters from the armchair, Shinso’s arm slung over his shoulder like an anchor. Kaminari’s scent—ozone softened by something warm—tightens with irritation. Shinso, an alpha with quiet eyes and a quieter bite, doesn’t speak, but his gaze is level and unamused.
Sero, beta to the bone and unapologetic about it, raises his hands. “No drama, okay? But… yeah, Uraraka. Enough.”
Bakugou turns back to Midoriya as if Uraraka has already stopped existing. His fingers slide from shoulder to collarbone, a casual claim without teeth. Midoriya continues adjusting his device, but the corners of his mouth lift, and when Bakugou leans closer, Midoriya tilts his head to give him better access. Uraraka’s stomach twists. No one sees the way her nails dig into her palm. No one hears the thin crack in her resolve. If Bakugou won’t look at her, she’ll remove the obstacle. Midoriya doesn’t expect her to corner him in the support workshop. But when he turns from his bench with a coil of insulated wire in one hand, Uraraka is there, standing too close, her scent shoved forward like a weapon. Cotton candy, cloying and overripe, layered over a sharp bitterness that makes Midoriya’s nose sting.
“You really think you belong here?” she asks, voice pitched low, so it won’t carry past the whir of ventilation fans. “In general studies you were nobody. Quirkless. And now you’re just… hiding in Support because you can’t keep up.”
Midoriya blinks once. Slowly. He sets the wire down with care, as if sudden movement might break something more delicate than copper.
“I’m not hiding,” he says. His voice is even, warm wood rather than steel. “I’m building.”
Uraraka’s eyes flick to the open schematics on his screen—neat notes, mathematical models, a redesign of a joint stabilizer with improvements so elegant it borders on cruel. Jealousy bites her tongue.
“You’re building yourself a fantasy,” she snaps. “Bakugou isn’t yours. He’s an alpha. He needs someone who can actually—” Her gaze drops, contempt sharpened into a barb. “Someone worth claiming.”
Midoriya’s scent deepens, forest thickening, the air filling with cool shadow. Not fear. Not submission. Confidence.
“That’s interesting,” Midoriya says softly. “Because the bond says otherwise.”
Uraraka’s lips peel back. “You can’t have a bond with him. True mates don’t happen to people like you.”
Midoriya’s eyes lift. Green, clear, and suddenly very, very sharp. There’s a reason people compare his mind to Nezu’s; it’s not only the speed, it’s the precision.
“They happen to whoever they happen to,” he replies. “And they already did.”
The workshop door slides open with a violent rattle. Bakugou fills the frame like a threat given form. His uniform jacket hangs open, sleeves shoved up, veins visible along his forearms. His fangs are out—not fully bared, but present enough to promise consequences. Smoke-and-caramel hits the room like a match struck too close to gasoline.
“Get away from him,” Bakugou says, voice dangerously quiet.
Uraraka whirls, relief and triumph colliding. “Katsuki, I—”
Bakugou takes one step in, and his gaze goes past her like she’s glass. Straight to Midoriya. His eyes soften by a fraction. His hand reaches out, unhesitating, and Midoriya meets it halfway, fingers threading together.
“You okay?” Bakugou asks.
Midoriya’s thumb strokes across Bakugou’s knuckle once. “I’m fine.”
Uraraka’s heartbeat stutters. “Katsuki, he’s manipulating you. That scent thing, maybe he’s using some support tech—”
Bakugou’s laugh is short and ugly. “You think I can’t tell my mate from a damn perfume bottle?”
Uraraka flinches, a hot flush crawling up her neck. “Mate?”
Bakugou’s grip tightens on Midoriya’s hand. Midoriya breathes in, steadying, as if drawing strength from the campfire warmth. Bakugou turns his head just enough to look at Uraraka. The expression on his face isn’t rage. It’s certainty.
“You heard me,” he says. “Mine.”
The word hits something old in Midoriya’s chest, something that has always answered Bakugou even when it shouldn’t. The bond between them hums, a taut string plucked.
Uraraka’s eyes dart between them. “No—true mates don’t—”
“They do,” Mina cuts in from the doorway, Kirishima behind her. Kaminari and Shinso are there too, and Sero with Todoroki trailing, their faces hard in a way Uraraka has never seen aimed at her.
Kirishima’s arm wraps around Mina’s waist, protective and casual. Mina leans into him, omega contentment clear as daylight. Kaminari’s hand is tangled with Shinso’s, and Shinso’s gaze stays locked on Uraraka like a warning sign. Todoroki, beta calm, speaks with quiet finality.
“You were told to stop,” he says. “Multiple times.”
Sero nods. “And you didn’t.”
Uraraka backs a step, cotton candy sweetness spiking into panic. “I just—he’s—Bakugou, listen to me—”
Bakugou moves. It’s not an attack. It’s worse, dismissal. He steps around her as if she’s nothing more than a chair left in the wrong place, and he closes the distance to Midoriya until their bodies align like they were built that way. His palm slides to the back of Midoriya’s neck, fingers splayed, thumb pressing at the scent gland with reverent pressure. Midoriya’s eyes flutter. His breath catches—not fear, not pain. A response written into bone.
Bakugou’s voice drops, roughened. “You want proof?” he asks, gaze never leaving Midoriya. “Fine.”
Midoriya’s throat bobs.
He doesn’t look away. “Katsuki,” he murmurs, and it’s not a plea. It’s permission. Bakugou bares his fangs.
Uraraka’s mouth opens. “Wait—”
Bakugou doesn’t. He bites, careful and merciless, right where Midoriya’s pulse lives. Teeth sink in; Midoriya jolts, hands clutching Bakugou’s shoulders, and a low, broken sound slips free, half gasp, half relieved laugh. The bond snaps into place with an almost-audible click, the air shifting like a storm finally choosing where to land. Bakugou holds the bite for a heartbeat longer than necessary, then releases. His tongue drags once, possessive. Midoriya shudders, then leans into Bakugou’s chest as if he’s always belonged there. The mark is vivid against Midoriya’s skin. Permanent. Undeniable. Bakugou lifts his head, eyes blazing. The scent in the room changes, Midoriya’s deep forest threaded now with smoke and caramel, Bakugou’s campfire warmed by pine. A braided thing. True mates.
Uraraka stands frozen, face pale, the sweet of her scent turning sour.
“No,” she whispers, voice cracking. “That’s—he made you—”
Bakugou turns fully toward her at last. His expression is flat with contempt.
“You don’t get to speak about him,” he says. “Ever again.”
Uraraka’s hands shake. “But I’m— I’m an omega too. I should—”
Mina’s laugh is sharp. “Being an omega doesn’t make you entitled.”
Kirishima steps forward, eyes hard. “You tried to bully him into leaving his mate.”
Shinso’s voice is quiet, cutting. “That’s not how bonds work. That’s not how people work.”
Todoroki tilts his head. “Reportable,” he adds, as if reading from a list he’s already decided on.
Sero sighs. “Yeah. We’re done pretending this is just ‘crush’ behavior.”
Uraraka looks around at them. At the wall of classmates who used to smile at her, who now stand like a pack with Midoriya at the center, protected not because he’s weak but because he’s theirs. Her eyes land on Midoriya. Marked. Flushed. Steadier than ever. His hair is a mess, but his gaze is level, his posture unbowed. He touches the fresh claim at his neck with two fingers, then lets his hand fall, unashamed.
“You can think whatever you want,” Midoriya says, voice gentle in a way that makes it worse. “But I’m not leaving him. And he’s not yours.”
Uraraka’s breath stutters. Cotton candy clings to the air like a lie no one believes anymore.
Bakugou’s arm tightens around Midoriya’s shoulders. His thumb strokes once over the edge of the mark, possessive and tender at the same time.
“Get out,” Bakugou tells Uraraka. “Before I make you.”
Uraraka’s eyes burn. For a moment, it looks like she might fight anyway, pride making her reckless. Then she catches the scent again, true-mate bond, settled and complete, and whatever hope she’s been feeding collapses under reality. She turns and leaves, footsteps too fast to be dignified. The workshop door slides shut behind her. Silence swells in her absence, filled with the soft whir of machines and the louder truth of two hearts syncing back up.
Midoriya exhales, tension unspooling. “Well,” he says faintly, “that escalated.”
Bakugou huffs a laugh and drops his forehead to Midoriya’s temple. “I told you I’d handle it.”
“You did,” Midoriya replies, and there’s something bright in his eyes now, satisfaction, safety, the quiet triumph of being chosen openly. “Thank you.”
Bakugou pulls back just enough to look at him. His gaze is intense, almost reverent, and his voice comes out rough around the edges. “You’re mine,” he says, like a vow and a warning to the world.
Midoriya’s smile is small but unwavering. “And you’re mine.”
Kirishima clears his throat pointedly. “Okay, cool, very romantic,” he says, grin returning as relief floods his scent. “But maybe, take it somewhere less… workshop-y?”
Mina elbows him, amused. Kaminari snickers; Shinso’s mouth quirks. Even Todoroki’s eyes soften a fraction, and Sero looks like he can breathe again.
Bakugou clicks his tongue, but he doesn’t let go. “Yeah, yeah.”
He guides Midoriya toward the door with a possessive hand at his lower back, steering him like a treasure he refuses to risk. Midoriya goes willingly, leaning into the touch as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. As they step into the hall, Midoriya glances back once at the bench, the scattered parts of his project waiting patiently. Then he looks up at Bakugou, at the alpha who burns like a campfire and feels, impossibly, like home. The mark at his neck throbs with each heartbeat, a steady reminder. True mates aren’t about who looks right on paper. They’re about who answers you. And Midoriya has never been more certain of anything in his life.