Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The wind that whistled through the cracks of the Castle of the Kingdom of Endeavor carried none of the usual freshness of autumn. It was a damp breath, heavy with sickly mold and the bittersweet scent of leaves rotting before their time. It was the third year in which autumn, spring, and summer failed to give way to a mild, clean climate, replaced instead by a gray, stagnant lethargy.

The kingdom was withering.

Inside his chambers, Shoto Todoroki gazed through the stained-glass window at his father’s lands. The vast territory that had once been green and productive now bore brown patches of sterile soil, and the rivers, once swollen and forceful, flowed sluggishly, their muddy banks exposed. The air inside the room was warm, fed by a fireplace consuming precious wood, yet a cold premonition settled deep in Shoto’s bones. The blight of cold did not attack only the crops; it was a weariness that seeped into the soul of the kingdom. And he, the youngest prince, the only Omega of the royal bloodline, felt like an ornamental piece on a table about to be overturned—a coveted prize, and an underestimated one.

“Your presence is required in the Throne Hall, Your Highness.”

The voice of his tutor, a thin Beta with a perpetually disapproving expression, echoed from the doorway. Shoto did not turn. Required. The right word. Nothing in his life was ever requested, only demanded. He was the second-line heir, the son of the exiled Beta queen, the bearer of the two-toned hair that was both a curse and a symbol. And as an Omega, his fate was always to be a bargaining chip, a link to strengthen bloodlines. Now, according to the whispers that flowed through the corridors thicker than the fog, he had become the last and most valuable coin of his father, the Alpha Enji Todoroki.

“So my father has finally decided my market price?” Shoto asked, his voice neutral, trained not to betray the anxiety so often expected of an Omega.

The tutor swallowed.

“King Enji will make an announcement. Dress appropriately.”

Appropriately. Shoto looked at the garments laid upon his bed. A long robe of heavy velvet, in the crimson and black of House Todoroki, embroidered with golden threads shaped like flames. A ceremonial silk armor for a royal Omega, designed to enhance his value without overshadowing the dominant presence of an Alpha. He dressed with automatic movements, feeling the weight of the symbols settle on his shoulders.

The walk to the Throne Hall was a parade of lowered gazes and muffled sighs. Servants, mostly Betas, courtiers of various dynamics—everyone knew. The kingdom stood on the edge of the abyss, and the only possible bridge was the body and status of the Omega prince. Shoto walked with the posture he had been taught, his face a mask of cool detachment, suppressing any trace of his natural scent that might escape—something he mastered nearly as well as his elemental control. Inside, however, a volcano of silent contempt simmered.

The hall was cold, despite the torches. King Enji Todoroki, the Sovereign Flame, an Alpha of overwhelming presence, sat upon his obsidian throne, his broad back filling the seat like a mountain. His dominant aura was a heavy, suffocating weight that all powerful Alphas exuded, filling the room and forcing even other Alphas into submission. His blue eyes, merciless and sharp, locked onto Shoto as he entered and bowed.

“Shoto, step forward.”

Enji’s voice echoed like an order meant to be obeyed. Shoto complied, stopping at the foot of the throne, feeling the wave of his father’s Alpha pressure descend upon him like a mantle of lead. Enji’s gaze was sharp, utterly devoid of warmth. He assessed his son’s worth as one would assess a blade or a prized horse.

“The blight that afflicts our lands is not a natural accident,” Enji began, his voice cutting through the frozen silence and the instinctive submission his presence commanded. “It is an act of war—a cowardly one! The Frozen Lands of the North, under the command of an Alpha sorcerer who styles himself the Ice King, have poisoned our essence. Our food reserves are dwindling. Our people weaken. In open battle, we would still be superior. But they do not seek battle; they seek our slow surrender, our submission.”

Shoto remained silent, controlling his breathing so as not to reveal the tremor his father’s oppressive aura triggered in his Omega senses.

“The only way to break this curse and obtain the resources to save our people,” Enji continued, his fingers tightening around the armrests of the throne, “is an alliance. An alliance so strong, so powerful, that the Ice King will hesitate to strike—and one that will provide us the means to rise again.”

Shoto felt the next words before they were spoken.

“Alliances between kingdoms are sealed with blood, with marriage. And an Omega of your lineage, with your unique gifts, is the strongest bond that can be forged.”

Enji paused, his gaze piercing Shoto, ignoring any trace of individuality beyond his dynamic.

“You are the only asset not yet contaminated. Your elder brother, an Alpha, is already married. Your sisters, Betas, are… strategically less valuable for this purpose. You, Shoto—with your lineage, your appearance, your dual powers inherited from an Alpha and a Beta, and your Omega nature—you are the key piece.”

An asset. A key piece. Shoto kept his breathing steady.

“I have summoned the rulers of the three strongest kingdoms who might be interested in such an alliance and capable of facing the Northern threat,” Enji said, counting on his fingers. “The Alpha King of Shiketsu, a master of siege warfare. The Beta King of I-Island, whose wealth and artifacts are legendary—an unusual match, but his kingdom is neutral and rich. And…” a faint grind of teeth, almost imperceptible “…the Alpha of the Lands of Ketsubutsu, Katsuki Bakugou. A barbarian who seized a throne with his own hands.”

The tone used for the last name was pure disdain, but also forced respect. Bakugou. Shoto had heard the bards sing of him. The irascible king, the Golden Wolf of Ketsubutsu—a young Alpha of only twenty-two, four years Shoto’s senior, who had unified the volcanic mountain tribes under his rule. They said his Alpha aura was not one of inherited nobility, but of ferocious conquest. That he was brutal, but just. That his word, once given, was unbreakable. That he treated his commanders—Alphas and Betas alike—based on strength and loyalty, not merely dynamic. Stories that sounded like exaggerated legends.

“They will arrive in ten days,” Enji concluded. “You will be presented. You will observe. And… you will choose.”

Shoto lifted his eyes, surprised. The mask cracked for a fraction of a second.

“Choose?” His voice was softer than intended, carrying a nuance of Omega he usually suppressed.

Enji leaned forward, his hot breath and dominant aura crashing against Shoto’s face.

“Yes. I am not a complete tyrant. You will have a voice in the choice.” Then his massive hand clamped down on Shoto’s shoulder with a force that promised future bruises. The pressure was crushing—a living contradiction to his words, a demonstration of Alpha dominance over his Omega son. “But make that voice a prudent whisper, son. Choosing with the heart is a luxury of commoners. You will choose with your head. For the good of Endeavor, for the survival of all who depend on us. Choose wrong…” Enji’s fingers tightened. “And you will dig the grave of our kingdom with your own hands. And I will ensure you are the first to be lowered into it.”

The message was clear. The illusion of choice was a heavier burden than pure obligation. Shoto bowed his head once more, a gesture that could be mistaken for submission but was, for him, simply a way to hide the fury burning in his eyes. He felt the ghost of that hand on his shoulder, a weight he would carry until the day of the decision.

“I understand, my king.”

…

The ten days that followed were a whirlwind of preparations and a prison of anxiety. The castle was scrubbed, polished, decorated. Shoto endured endless sessions—lessons on how to carry himself, how to modulate his Omega presence to be attractive but not desperate; valuable, yet sufficiently submissive. He was taught to recognize the auras and signals of powerful Alphas, to bow before them without losing royal dignity. It was training to become the perfect bait within the rigid rules of dynamic politics.

Shoto, however, trained in secret. In the dead of night, in the empty courtyard, he wielded his sword. His movements were fluid, precise, a silent dance. From his right hand, a biting cold emanated, freezing the moisture in the air into spirals of frost. From his left, waves of heat distorted the air.

These powers, which he guarded as his deepest secret, were the legacy of an even greater one. The legend, whispered to him by his mother before her exile, spoke of humans born special, marked by Individualities—unique powers that defied the common order. They could command fire, ice, water, wind, earth. In ancient times, such beings were hunted, captured, enslaved, their bloodlines forced to breed like livestock to perpetuate these abilities. The surviving families learned to hide, to never reveal their gifts, to blend in like grains of sand in a desert of normalcy. The Todorokis were one such family. Enji had inherited the Individuality of Fire. Through an arranged and secret marriage, he had united with Rei Todoroki, a woman of a scattered lineage who carried the Individuality of Ice. Their marriage was not merely a union of blood, but of secrets—conducted in shadows, for if the truth ever surfaced, the kingdom would become the target of every power hungry to seize living legends.

Together, they had four children. Touya inherited his father’s fire in its fiercest and most unstable form. Natsuo and Fuyumi were ordinary people, without powers, untouched by the burden and danger. And Shoto… Shoto inherited both. Fire and Ice, in a rare and dangerous combination. He was the ultimate realization of his father’s secret project—and its deepest source of anguish. Every spark, every shard of ice, was a reminder that he was not just a prince and an Omega. He was a living artifact of a persecuted bloodline, a secret that could destroy his kingdom if revealed.

In the approaching courtship game, where Omegas were seen as fragile or precious, showing strength was subversive. And revealing that strength invited even greater danger. Vulnerability was synonymous with weakness—but his true strength was a risk that could be far worse.

…

One night, after a particularly exhausting session, Shoto slipped away to the lower gardens. There he found Touya, his elder Alpha brother, seated on a stone bench beneath a tree that still clung to a few sickly leaves.

Touya did not look like a crown prince in that moment. With his snow-white hair and pale blue eyes, he looked like a ghost. Arms crossed, he watched Shoto approach. Touya’s aura was sharp and unstable, a contrast to Enji’s—more smoldering fire than open flame.

“They’re preparing you like a lamb for slaughter, Shoto,” Touya said, his voice low and rough, heavy with bitter cynicism. “An Omega lamb for the Alpha auction.”

Shoto stopped beside the bench.

“It’s not slaughter. It’s a marriage. An alliance.”

“It’s the same thing when you’re the currency,” Touya spat. “Look at me—an unhappy Alpha, married to the Duke of the East’s Beta daughter. A political alliance, of course. Now I’m heir to a crumbling throne and husband to a woman who tolerates me. It’s a cage of obligations. For you, it’ll be worse. It’ll be a cage of possession. An Alpha like our father—or like those kings—won’t see an Omega prince as a partner. He’ll see a conquest. An incubator for strong Alpha heirs. Your will will be a footnote.”

Shoto felt the knot in his stomach tighten. Touya’s words echoed his deepest fears—fears reinforced by society with every whisper.

“Father said I get to choose,” Shoto murmured, almost to himself.

Touya let out a short, humorless laugh.

“Choose? Between three jailers—two Alphas and a Beta? Shoto, do you really think any of them will see you as more than a key to the southern port and a womb for their bloodline?” He lifted his hand, where a gold wedding band gleamed faintly. “You think being an Alpha gave me more choice? In our world, dynamic writes the script. And the script for a royal Omega is to be traded.”

The fear Shoto had kept contained began to spill over.

“And if… if I refuse?”

“Then the kingdom falls, slowly rots away,” Touya said, his voice heavy with fatalism. “And our beloved father, the great Alpha, will make sure the blame rests on the spoiled, emotional Omega who doomed his people on a whim. He’ll destroy whatever remains of your reputation. There’s no escape, Shoto—not one that preserves your honor within these walls.”

Shoto finally sank onto the bench beside his brother.

“I’m afraid, Touya. Afraid of being nothing but… property. A symbol. Never a person.”

Touya looked at him, and some of the cynicism gave way to genuine pity.

“I know. My only advice? Choose the king who—maybe, by being a different kind of beast—has a cage with more room. Or one so busy conquering the world he forgets to lock the door.” He placed a hand on Shoto’s shoulder. “And for the gods’ sake, hide your heart and your powers. Show only what they expect. Docility and value—that’s the only weapon an Omega has in this game.”

The conversation sank into Shoto like a stone. There was no escape—only different degrees of imprisonment, shaped by the dynamics that ruled everything.

…

The night before the kings’ arrival, Shoto could not sleep. Standing on his balcony, he stared at the stars. Touya’s words echoed: “Choose the least cruel jailer.” A marriage. A life bound to a stranger Alpha.

He considered the suitors. The seasoned Alpha strategist of Shiketsu. The Beta king of I-Island—an intriguing, less common possibility, perhaps less oppressive without a dominant Alpha instinct, but still a transaction. And then, the barbarian. Katsuki Bakugou. The wild Alpha. The unknown.

A chill wrapped around his heart. Everything was so false, so predetermined by his Omega status.

And then, a stubborn spark ignited. Enji had said, “You will choose.” A farce, yes—but a crack.

If his choice was an illusion between jailers, perhaps he could choose the most disruptive one. The one least aligned with his father’s plans and the court’s expectations. An Alpha who, by legend, despised protocol and valued strength over lineage. Perhaps, at worst, Bakugou would ignore him—dismiss him as a “court Omega.” Being ignored was preferable to being micromanaged and owned. Perhaps—and it was a dangerously hopeful thought—an Alpha who had conquered everything alone might, even unintentionally, see an Omega who also hid ferocity.

…

The day of arrival dawned. Shoto dressed and took his place beside the throne.

The gates opened.

First came the retinue of Shiketsu, led by their Alpha king, whose aura was cold and controlled like steel.

Next, the emissaries of I-Island, with the Beta king at their center, radiating a neutral but calculating presence.

Finally, a different sound echoed.

And Shoto, following protocol, kept his gaze lowered until the announcement rang out: “His Majesty, Katsuki Bakugou, King of the Lands of Ketsubutsu, Lord of the Explosive Mountain!”

He lifted his eyes.

The man who entered the hall occupied space in a way that went beyond posture. His Alpha aura was not a crushing wave of dominance like Enji’s—it was alive, rough, untamed like a storm, carrying the scent of fireworks, sulfur, and open air. He wore no ornate crown, only a forged iron circlet. His eyes, a vivid red, swept the hall with disdain, paused on Enji’s throne with a look of challenge, and then moved on.

And then those eyes met Shoto’s.

It was not the covetous look of an Alpha appraising an Omega. It was an examination—quick, sharp, intense—assessing the person behind the title and the dynamic. It was so shockingly direct that Shoto felt a shiver run down his spine, an instinctive reaction he quickly suppressed to the presence of such a powerful, different Alpha. For a second, he felt truly seen.

Bakugou looked away, as if he had gathered the information he needed, and gave a small, almost imperceptible nod—a gesture that seemed to say I see you—before taking his place beside his commanders (a red-haired Alpha and a black-haired Beta, Shoto noted), who appeared relaxed near him, not submissive.

The banquet was a torment.

Shoto was surrounded. The Alpha of Shiketsu spoke of battles, his gaze roaming possessively over Shoto. The Beta of I-Island spoke of wealth, his touch overly familiar. And Bakugou? He ate, focused. At one point, when Enji tried to draw him into conversation, Bakugou interrupted, his rough voice cutting through the music:

“Talk doesn’t win battles. If you need a treaty, state the terms. If you need a husband for your son, let him choose. All this theater is a waste of time.”

The silence was icy. Shoto, however, felt that dangerous spark again. It was disrespect. It was brutality. But it was honesty—something rare in his world of calculated alliances and dynamics.

Later, Shoto saw Bakugou step out onto a balcony. Moving quietly, he positioned himself to listen.

“…and if he thinks we’re going to stay here bowing for a month, he’s delusional,” Bakugou’s irritated voice carried. “We don’t have time for this falseness—salon Alphas sniffing around a royal Omega.”

“But, Katsuki, the alliance is strategically sound,” the Beta commander argued.

“Alliances are made with action, not flattery! If it’s going to happen, it should be based on something real—not this stench of fake fragrance and trained submission this whole place reeks of!”

That was when Shoto made the floor creak.

Bakugou’s crimson eyes snapped toward him, locating him in the shadows. Surprise gave way to impatience. Caught eavesdropping, Shoto felt the old instinct to lower his head and apologize. But something stopped him. Instead of retreating, he stepped into the dim light of the balcony, maintaining a formal, respectful posture.

“Forgive the interruption, Your Majesty,” Shoto said, his voice modulated into the soft, polite tone he always used with powerful Alphas. “It was not my intention to overhear a private conversation.”

Bakugou was unimpressed. He studied Shoto for a moment, his gaze so intense it felt like weighing him.

“Then why are you here?” The question was blunt, unvarnished.

Shoto swallowed. His training screamed at him to give an evasive, courteous answer. But Bakugou’s brutal frankness, so unlike anything he knew, cracked his façade.

“I… noticed that Your Majesty seems less interested in court rituals than the other guests,” Shoto said carefully, still keeping his gaze slightly lowered in deference. “It is… unusual.”

Bakugou let out a low sound, almost a growl.

“Ritual is a waste of time. I’m here for an agreement, not to participate in an Alpha dominance contest. Your kingdom is weak. Mine is strong. It’s an exchange. Everything else is useless decoration.”

The words were harsh, pragmatically cold. They should have offended him as an Omega. Instead, they struck something deep within him. He was tired of being part of the “decoration.”

Bravely, Shoto raised his eyes just enough to meet Bakugou’s for a fraction of a second before lowering them again, a small act that already felt like rebellion.

“And a… marriage, within that exchange?” Shoto’s voice was barely a whisper, the question escaping before he could stop it. “Would it be just another term of the agreement?”

This time, Bakugou paused longer. His eyes narrowed, studying Shoto as if trying to decipher what lay behind the mask of polished submission.

“A marriage is a blood alliance. It’s serious.” He said, and Shoto felt a weight sink into his stomach. Then Bakugou continued, his voice edged with tangible disdain. “But it’s not a collar. I wouldn’t chain anyone in a cage that smells like cheap perfume—and I wouldn’t let myself be chained by stupid expectations of how an Alpha and an Omega are supposed to behave.” He tilted his head, a frank, almost dismissive gesture. “If you think one of the other two offers a better deal within your… script, go ahead. I don’t need to play this game.”

And with that, Bakugou turned away, leaving Shoto alone on the balcony. The Alpha’s explosive aura faded slowly, but his words echoed louder than any royal speech. “It’s not a collar.” “I wouldn’t chain anyone in a cage.” Concepts so strange, so revolutionary to someone raised as Shoto had been, they felt almost like a mirage. And for the first time, the choice before Shoto seemed to contain not only different kinds of imprisonment, but perhaps, remotely and dangerously, the possibility of a different kind of space. One not lined with velvet, but with the rough truth of granite.

Chapter Text

The days that followed the inaugural banquet completely changed the routine of Endeavor Castle. For Shoto, everything began to feel overly rehearsed, overly rigid, overly exhausting. There were no longer any simple or spontaneous moments. From the moment he woke up until the hour he retired, there was always someone watching, suggesting, guiding.

Meals stopped being just meals. They were long, silent when they shouldn’t have been, filled with measured conversations and questions that seemed innocent but never were. Shoto felt gazes settle on him with every gesture: how he held his cutlery, how much he ate, whether he smiled enough, whether he answered with the proper politeness. There was always someone paying too much attention, evaluating every reaction as if mentally recording his successes and failures.

Walks through the gardens also lost any sense of rest. He walked along carefully maintained paths, flanked by companions who spoke of alliances, expectations, and possible futures without ever saying anything directly. Comments surfaced as subtle suggestions, strategic compliments, small attempts at closeness that demanded equally calculated responses. Shoto maintained his posture, answered when necessary, but inside he felt the weight of every interaction piling up.

Even the music room, which once offered some silence, became a space of exposure. Every presence seemed to have a hidden motive, every casual encounter carried an intention too clear to ignore. Shoto realized that he was no longer there simply as a guest or a family member, but as someone constantly evaluated, disputed, positioned.

It wasn’t exactly hostility that surrounded him, but something equally draining: excessive attention, forced interest, imposed expectations. He didn’t need to imagine his role in that dynamic to understand it. It was enough to observe how everyone behaved around him to know that, in that castle, his existence had become part of a game he had never asked to play.

The King of Shiketsu, an Alpha with silver hair and narrow eyes, adopted the strategist’s approach. He did not try to win Shoto over with romance, but with intellect.

“You have a sharp gaze, Your Highness,” he said during a chess game on the third day, moving his queen with a dry click. “It is a waste to keep such a mind merely decorating halls. In Shiketsu, the king’s consort has a seat on the War Council. Your understanding of Endeavor’s geography would be… invaluable.”

Shoto moved a knight, shielding his king.

“And would my understanding be valued, or merely exploited?”

The King of Shiketsu smiled, a brief movement devoid of warmth.

“Everything of value is exploited, young prince. The question is whether you receive something in return. Power, influence, security. In my lands, security is the strongest currency, and I guarantee the safety of my own.”

It was a clear offer: trade his freedom and knowledge for a command position within an impregnable fortress. It was tempting, in its cold way. But Shoto felt that beneath the offer, he would be swallowed by Shiketsu’s rigid, impersonal system, becoming just another piece on the old king’s board.

The King of I-Island, in turn, was a spectacle of wealth and eccentricity. He wore fabrics that changed color with the light and carried small trinkets that were certainly worth a great deal of money.

“Look at this, my dear prince!” he exclaimed during a luncheon, placing a lightweight metal bracelet on Shoto’s wrist. The artifact adjusted itself, and small lights blinked along its surface. “A vitality monitor! And this here”—he presented a quill that never needed to be dipped in ink—“would record your deepest thoughts! Imagine the poetry we could create together! I-Island is the future, Shoto. And you… you are a work of art of nature. Together, we would be the perfect fusion of natural beauty and scientific advancement!”

Shoto felt the bracelet like an iron ring. It was an offer to become an object of study and admiration, a living jewel in a museum of technological wonders. The king spoke of “creating together,” but his eyes shone with possession of a rarity, not with the vision of a partner.

And then, there was Alpha Katsuki Bakugou.

The king of the Lands of Ketsubutsu did not participate in most of the “cultural” activities. He attended the formal dinners, ate quickly and efficiently, and then disappeared. He sent his apologies for the horseback rides and the poetry recital.

Shoto invariably found him in the least likely places.

On the morning of the fifth day, fleeing another agonizing meeting with the King of I-Island, Shoto sought refuge in the stables. The smell of hay, leather, and animals was real and strong.

That was where he found them. Bakugou and his red-haired commander, Eijiro, were in the adjacent training yard, not mounted, but inspecting Endeavor’s horses with a critical eye.

“Thin bones,” Bakugou grumbled, running a hand along a gray stallion’s cannon bone. “Bred for show, not endurance. One day on rough terrain and this one limps.”

“They’re beautiful, Katsuki,” Eijiro said, stroking a mare’s neck.

“Beauty doesn’t win wars. Strength does. Speed does.” Bakugou turned, and his eyes met Shoto’s at the stable entrance.

“You.” His voice was a growl. “Standing there like a statue doesn’t help. Come closer.”

Shoto advanced with measured steps, stopping at a safe, respectful distance. Bakugou’s scent, which always intensified near him, hit him: caramel, something fresh, and something indescribably wild. It was an overwhelming Alpha fragrance, far more primitive and uninhibited than that of his father or the King of Shiketsu. An involuntary shiver ran down Shoto’s spine, and a deep, repressed part of him—his Omega instinct—whispered a sense of home that was both terrifying and fascinating. He crushed it down hard.

“Forgive the interruption, Your Majesty. I did not intend to—”

“Cut that ‘Your Majesty’ bullshit,” Bakugou snapped, turning his entire body to face him. The movement was so abrupt that Shoto instinctively stepped back half a pace, his eyes dropping for an instant before forcing themselves up again. “I have a name. It’s Bakugou Katsuki. And if you’ve got something on your mind, say it. Don’t stand there chewing on it like I’m going to hit you for having an opinion.”

A familiar chill of panic ran through Shoto. The language was coarse, the intimacy inconceivable. His training screamed for an immediate apology, for withdrawal. But the Alpha’s scent, now even stronger, filled his lungs. His body reacted before his mind: a faint flush crept up his neck, his pulse quickened. It was a biological, raw, uncontrollable reaction to such a dominant presence, unfiltered by etiquette.

“It would not be… my position does not allow such familiarity,” he managed, his voice softer than a whisper. “It would be disrespectful.”

Bakugou let out a sound of deep exasperation.

“See that, Eijiro? They broke the kid and glued back only the quiet parts.”

Eijiro laughed, without malice.

“Their world’s different, Katsuki. Give the kid some time.”

“Different is stupid,” Bakugou shot back, but when his gaze returned to Shoto, a thread of impatience was replaced by a rough curiosity. “Look. In my lands, a king who only hears ‘yes’ and ‘as you wish’ is digging his own grave. My commanders curse me out when I deserve it, warn me when I’m being an idiot, argue with me until their throats are raw.” He stepped forward. Shoto resisted the urge to retreat, but his muscles tensed, and a strange heat began to pool low in his abdomen—an embarrassing and utterly involuntary reaction to the Alpha’s proximity and raw aura. “Respect isn’t fear, princess. Respect is knowing the person beside you is strong enough to punch you in the face if needed, and loyal enough to never do it out of betrayal. So if you’re going to stick around, drop the courtly bowing and talk. If you say something stupid, I’ll cut you down. But speak with your voice, not your father’s.”

Shoto froze. The concept was so abstract his mind seemed to stall. Respect born of strength and loyalty, not blind obedience? It was the absolute opposite of everything he had been taught. Slowly, with an effort that made his jaw ache, he forced his eyes to stay on Bakugou’s.

“Then… Bakugou?” The name came out hesitant, almost a test.

The king’s lips curved slightly into something that wasn’t a smile, but perhaps recognition.

“Less awful. Now, what brought you here? Pretty sure it wasn’t to practice staring at the ground.”

Encouraged by a thread, Shoto gestured with a restrained movement toward the animals.

“I… heard you comment on bone structure. I was never taught to… evaluate. Only to ride.”

Bakugou looked almost satisfied.

“Finally something real. Come here.”

The lesson that followed was a barrage. Shoto, accustomed to methodical, monotonous instruction, was subjected to rough explanations, physical demonstrations that completely ignored his fine clothing, and direct questions that demanded judgment. “You think that knee holds under uphill load?” “Why’s that one pinning its ears back?” Shoto, initially responding with hesitation and evasive phrases like “I’m not an expert” or “My instructors said…,” was immediately cut off.

“I didn’t ask your instructors. I asked you. What do you see? Forget what they stuffed into your head.”

It was terrifying. It was, in a way he did not dare name, revolutionary. Gradually, his voice lost some of its tremor, his answers became less rehearsed. “It seems… unbalanced in the hind leg.” “That one’s more alert. Maybe for patrol.” No answer was praised, but when correct, Bakugou made a sound of assent. When wrong, it was corrected with a dry fact. There was no punishment for mistakes, only the expectation that he learn.

…

On the seventh day, there was a ceremonial hunt. Shoto, mounted on his white stallion, was the centerpiece. The kings of Shiketsu and I-Island flanked him, shooting released birds with theatrical precision, offering him the trophies. Bakugou was there, but on the edge, accompanied by his other commander, the serious man with glasses whom Shoto learned was named Tenya. They seemed to be on patrol, examining the forest, the high ground, the paths, more than the animals.

It was during the pursuit of a deer that the accident happened. The King of I-Island, more enthusiastic than skilled, pushed his horse too hard on steep ground. The animal misstepped into a burrow hidden beneath the leaves, stumbled, and fell with a horrible sound of snapping branches. The monarch was thrown from the saddle, rolling heavily on the ground, while his horse, panicked and possibly with a broken leg, thrashed and screamed, directly into Shoto’s path.

Shoto’s white stallion, already nervous from the hunting noise, reared with a terrified grunt. Caught off guard, Shoto struggled to keep his balance, but the animal’s front legs flailed violently. When the horse came down hard, the sudden impact and twist sent Shoto completely off balance. He was thrown from the saddle, landing on his side with a dull thud on uneven ground of stones and roots. A sharp pain cut through his flank, and the air was knocked from his lungs with a hoarse sound.

As he struggled to breathe, he saw the trembling legs of his own horse, still agitated, dangerously close to his head.

That was when a figure burst into the chaos with explosive speed. Bakugou did not hesitate. He abandoned his own horse in a leap, closing the distance in a few brutal strides. First, he placed himself between Shoto and the hooves, shoving the white stallion back with a rough push and a roar that made the animal retreat. Then he turned to the heart of the danger.

With movements that were pure efficiency under pressure, he grabbed the King of I-Island by the collar and dragged him away. Then he applied quick pressure to the fallen horse’s neck, a restraint technique that made the animal falter for a crucial instant. It was enough for Tenya, following close behind, to take control.

Then Bakugou turned back to Shoto. His red eyes scanned the fallen prince in an instant.

“Did you break anything?” he asked, his voice a rough growl, but the question was direct and practical, without his usual disdain.

“I don’t think so,” Shoto managed, breathless, trying to prop himself on his elbow. A sharp stab in his hip made him grit his teeth.

Bakugou saw the movement. Without ceremony, he knelt, pushed aside the hand Shoto held to his flank, and pressed his fingers into several points along the prince’s torso and hip, a quick, professional examination.

“Just a good bruise. It’ll be purple tomorrow,” he diagnosed, almost clinically. Then he offered his arm. “Now get up. Don’t stay on the ground like an idiot.”

Shoto grabbed Bakugou’s forearm. The commander’s strength was impressive; he pulled him up in one smooth motion, firm but controlled so as not to worsen the pain. Shoto stood, wobbling slightly, and Bakugou’s hand stayed on his shoulder a second longer than necessary, until he was sure he was steady.

“You can stand?” the question was challenging.

“I can,” Shoto affirmed, straightening his shoulders despite the throbbing pain.

Bakugou nodded once, sharply, then turned to the rest of the group. The disdain returned to his face like a mask.

“Hunt?” he spat the word, sweeping the group with a burning glare. “You can’t even walk in the woods. One stumble turns into disaster. Pathetic.”

The King of Shiketsu watched Bakugou, no longer with calculated interest, but with renewed, intense appraisal. Shoto, breathing hard but stable, looked at the commander. The throbbing pain was a physical reminder of failure, but the arm that had lifted him so efficiently was an undeniable fact.

“My thanks,” Shoto said, his voice a little rough from the impact.

Bakugou, already moving to check the injured horse’s leg, didn’t look at him.

“Save your thanks. Focus on not falling next time. Control and awareness. Learn,” he ordered, before barking to his men. “Iida! Take care of the king. Two men, get the horse. The hunt’s over.”

The efficiency was as abrupt as the accident. Within minutes, the crisis was resolved. As his own attendants rushed to him, Shoto saw Bakugou remount his scarred horse. The commander cast one last look over the scene, his eyes briefly passing over Shoto still standing, before turning and leaving, his work done.

…

Later, in the clearing where a countryside feast was served, Bakugou sat away from the main table, rubbing an oily cloth along his spear. Shoto, breaking protocol once more, approached carrying two cups of spiced hot wine.

“To ward off the cold,” he said, offering one.

Bakugou looked at the cup, then at Shoto.

“I prefer my mind clear.”

“It’s just one cup, not an elixir of forgetfulness.”

With a grunt, Bakugou took the cup and drank, grimacing.

“Too sweet. Like everything here.”

“You handled a situation that could have turned ugly,” Shoto commented, sipping his own. The hot liquid burned in his stomach.

“I didn’t save anything. I just did the obvious. There’s a difference.” He looked at Shoto.

Shoto held his gaze.

“Even so, I thank you again. You acted quickly and precisely.”

“Your hip still hurt much?” Bakugou asked.

“A little, but nothing that stops me from walking.”

Bakugou leaned against a tree.

“Good. Be careful next time. Try not to lose control of the horse. If I hadn’t been there, you probably wouldn’t be alive now.”

…

On the night of the tenth day, a ball was held. The peak of the theater. Shoto, in silver-blue silk garments that shimmered like ice under the lights, danced with each of the kings. With Shiketsu’s, it was precise and mechanical, every step forged. With I-Island’s, it was a performance full of spins and flamboyant gestures.

Bakugou, of course, refused to dance.

“I don’t waste my time hopping around like an idiot to useless music,” he said loudly to Tenya, close enough to the floor for Shoto to hear during a pause.

With courage drawn from a new, daring place within himself, Shoto broke from his partner and went to him. Bakugou’s scent, now mixed with a faint aroma of rough soap and the strong wine he preferred, was a beacon amid the sea of expensive perfumes.

“Dance is also a form of strategy, Your Majesty,” Shoto said, his voice low but clear. “Flexibility, rhythm, anticipating the other’s movements. Not so different from combat.”

Bakugou raised an eyebrow. His eyes swept over Shoto’s slender form, the defiant tone in his heterochromatic gaze.

“Tch. If it’s a fight, then let’s fight.” He extended his hand, not with a courtier’s gentleness, but with the firmness of someone about to seize something.

The music resumed, a slow, graceful waltz. Bakugou pulled Shoto onto the floor, his large, rough hand finding the prince’s waist with a pressure that was almost a challenge. There was none of the polite distance of the others; Bakugou held him close, his movement more a determined march than a glide. The Alpha’s body was hot and solid against his. Shoto, surprisingly, adapted.

Every point of contact—the hand on his waist, the other holding his—seemed to send small electric shocks through the thin fabric of his clothes. His Omega instinct was on high alert, hyperaware of the Alpha’s proximity, of his strength guiding them. It was a dizzying sensation of vulnerability and excitement.

“You lead,” Shoto said as they turned.

“Obviously,” Bakugou replied, his eyes fixed on Shoto’s face, not his feet. “In everything, I lead. But a partner who can’t keep up is a burden. You’re… acceptable.”

It was the closest thing to a compliment Shoto expected from him. A strange warmth, unrelated to exertion, rose in his cheeks.

“You talk a lot about partnership,” Shoto whispered as the music carried them into a more isolated corner, his lips dangerously close to Bakugou’s ear. “But marriage, to you—would it be that? A military partnership?”

Bakugou stopped for a fraction of a second, nearly stepping on Shoto’s foot. His gaze was fiercely serious. Shoto felt the Alpha’s fingers tighten slightly at his waist, a wave of heat pooling low in his abdomen, so intense he had to restrain himself from sighing.

“A marriage is a partnership—the most important one. If it’s only to produce an heir or serve as a symbol, it’s a weakness, a blind spot. My enemies would strike through you if you were weak, or you’d turn against me if you were unhappy.” He squeezed Shoto’s waist lightly, sending a shiver up his spine. “I don’t want a weak point, and I don’t want an enemy in my own bed. I want… an extension. Someone who looks where I can’t, who fights with the same ferocity, in everything.”

It was the longest and most revealing declaration Bakugou had made. It wasn’t a promise of love, but of mutual respect, of unity of purpose. To Shoto, who had never been considered an “extension” of anything beyond his father’s will, it sounded like a radical possibility.

The music ended. Bakugou released him abruptly, as if the obligation had been fulfilled, and stepped back with a nod.

“Think about what I said, Prince. Time for games is running out.”

…

On the fourteenth day, tension in the castle was palpable. The decision was for the next day. Shoto spent the morning wandering the gardens, Touya’s advice and Bakugou’s words echoing in his mind. “Choose the least awful jailer.” “I don’t want a weak point.”

Without planning to, he found himself at the empty training field where Bakugou and his men practiced every morning. The king was there, only with Eijiro, trading blows with wooden swords. It was brutal combat, full of raw strength, heavy impacts, and grunts. It wasn’t Endeavor’s elegant fencing; it was survival fighting.

Shoto watched from concealment. He saw how Bakugou gave everything, every strike loaded with total intent. He saw how Eijiro, though technically subordinate, countered with equal force, their laughter and insults flying through the cold air. It was dangerous. It was real.

Bakugou noticed him and stopped abruptly.

“You again.”

“Observing,” Shoto said, stepping out of the shadows. “Since my future may depend on an Alpha’s arm strength, it seems prudent to assess it.”

Eijiro laughed, lowering his sword.

“He’s got a point, Katsuki.”

Bakugou tossed his wooden sword to Shoto, who caught it midair, startled.

“Then assess. Show me what that pretty princess training taught you.”

It was a challenge. Shoto felt his heart race. He gripped the sword, adjusting to its weight. It wasn’t his balanced blade; it was heavy and crude. He looked at Bakugou, who had taken another sword and waited, a fierce, challenging smile on his lips. The Alpha was breathing hard, his chest rising and falling rapidly. Shoto felt a spike of desire so sharp it nearly knocked him off balance.

Shoto attacked. His movements were the ones he knew: fast, precise, direct. Bakugou stopped the first strike with an impact that made Shoto’s arms shake. The second he dodged with a sharp torso twist, counterattacking with a lateral blow Shoto barely blocked.

“Too stiff!” Bakugou shouted, advancing. “You follow a script! Fighting has no script!”

Shoto retreated, feeling the overwhelming force of every strike. It was like trying to stop an avalanche. In a desperate move, he used a low blow his weapons master would have disapproved of. Bakugou blocked it, but looked surprised.

“Better!” he roared. “Use what works!”

Encouraged, Shoto abandoned perfect form. He became more unpredictable, mixing high and low strikes, using agility to evade rather than block brute force. For a brief moment, they were locked in a true duel, wooden swords clashing in a violent cadence.

Then, as Shoto tried to dodge a sweeping blow, his foot slipped on a loose stone. He lost balance, falling backward. Bakugou’s strike, already in motion, couldn’t be fully stopped. The wooden sword’s tip struck Shoto’s shoulder with enough force to draw a grunt of pain.

Immediately, Bakugou threw his weapon aside and knelt beside him. His expression was not triumph, but sharp concern.

“Injured?” His voice was rough, but restrained.

Shoto took a deep breath, pain throbbing in his shoulder.
“Just the impact. Nothing broken.”

Bakugou examined the area for a second, fingers pressing lightly through the fabric. Satisfied, he leaned back but remained kneeling, red eyes studying Shoto’s face.

“You fight better than you look. You’re stubborn.” He frowned. “But you hold back too much. You hide things, even in a fight.”
Shoto sat up, rubbing his shoulder. What could he say? That he hid half of himself on his father’s orders? That his fire and ice were forbidden secrets?

“In Endeavor,” he said quietly, “not everything we are can be shown.”

Bakugou watched him for a long moment, as if deciphering a code.

“In the Lands of Ketsubutsu,” he said, standing and offering a hand to help Shoto up, “you are what you can prove yourself to be. Nothing more, nothing less. Hiding strength is stupidity—it invites underestimation. And I don’t underestimate anyone, nor do I allow what’s mine to be underestimated.”

He pulled Shoto to his feet, his strong hand holding his a second longer than necessary. The contact was hot, rough, real.

“Tomorrow you decide,” Bakugou said, releasing him. “Decide knowing this: with me, you’ll have to prove your worth every day. There will be no rest in being an ornament. It will be hard. It will be dangerous. But you will be seen, and you’ll have the chance to be more than that.” He turned toward Eijiro. “Think about it.”

…

On the night of the fourteenth day, Shoto didn’t go to the balcony. He sat at his desk, a blank sheet of parchment before him. The faces of the three kings passed through his mind. The cold offer of power and security. The glittering offer of being a preserved marvel. And the brutal, dangerous, and incredibly honest offer of a partnership based on strength and truth.
He thought of the fear in Touya’s eyes, the weight of his father’s hand on his shoulder, the subtle disdain of the courtiers. Then he thought of the sensation of the wooden sword trembling in his hands under Bakugou’s attack. Of the sound of genuine laughter between a king and his commander. Of the feeling of being seen, not as a symbol, but as a potential adversary, a potential… partner.

He did not love him. He did not fully trust him. But he respected the storm. And in a life of gilded prisons, perhaps an alliance with a force of nature was the only way to feel alive, even if only for a short time.

With a calm born from deep determination, Shoto took a quill. He would not write a speech — his decision would be spoken —but he needed clarity.

…

On the morning of the fifteenth day, the Throne Room was full. The entire court was present, as were the three kings and their entourages. The air was thick with expectation. King Enji sat on his throne, his eyes burning like blue embers upon Shoto, who stood at the center of the hall.

“My son,” Enji’s voice echoed, relentless. “Fifteen days have passed. You observed. You evaluated. Now, before our illustrious guests and your king, declare your choice. With whom will you seal Endeavor’s fate?”

All eyes were on him. Shoto felt his father’s heavy gaze, the calculating gaze of the King of Shiketsu, the covetous gaze of the King of I-Island. And then, in the corner, the intense red gaze of Katsuki Bakugou, who did not seem anxious, only… attentive. Like a predator gauging its prey’s leap.

Shoto took a deep breath. When his voice came, it was clear and firm, carrying through the silent hall.

“King Enji, my father. Noble guests.” He paused, his blue eye and gray eye sweeping the room. “I thank you for the honorable offers made to me. They were demonstrations of great value and vision.” It was the necessary ceremonial speech. He saw his father lean slightly forward.
“However,” Shoto continued, his voice gaining steel, “a marriage is not merely a treaty. It is a fusion of paths, of spirits, of forces. It must be built on a foundation that can withstand not only peace, but the rigors of the war to come. It must be an alliance in which both parties can stand, shoulder to shoulder, without veils or falsehoods.”

He turned fully, symbolically distancing himself from his father’s throne, and faced the three kings directly.

“Therefore,” Shoto declared, projecting each word, “my choice falls upon the one whose strength is not shown merely in words or riches, but in action and truth. One who does not seek an ornament, but an ally.” He paused dramatically, feeling his heart pounding at his temples. “I choose King Katsuki Bakugou, of the Lands of Ketsubutsu, to be my king and ally.”

The silence that followed was absolute for a second that felt like eternity.

Then the hall erupted into a tumult of shocked whispers and muffled exclamations. The King of I-Island’s face flushed with indignation. The King of Shiketsu merely pressed his lips together, eyes narrowing as he recalculated.
Then a roar filled the hall.

“WHAT?!” It was Enji. He was on his feet, his imposing figure trembling with fury. “You dare— you dare choose that… that animal?!”

Shoto held his posture, facing his father’s wrath.

“It was you, my king, who granted me the choice. I made it with my head, as you ordered. An alliance with the Explosive Lands will give us the most formidable military strength and direct access to the south. It is the most logical choice.”

“Logical?!” Enji roared, stepping forward. “It is an insult! An affront to our lineage!”
That was when a voice cut through the king’s fury—not loud, but carrying an authority as dense as granite.

“The affront, King Enji, is doubting your own son’s word and the value of my kingdom.”

All turned. Katsuki Bakugou had stepped forward. He did not ask permission; he simply occupied the center of the space, beside Shoto. He did not look at Enji with submission, but with defiant equality.

“The prince has made his choice, and I accept it.” He looked at Shoto, and in his red eyes was a spark of something that might have been approval. “The alliance is sealed. Terms will be discussed. The wedding will take place in my kingdom, in one month.”

Enji was purple with rage, but he saw it. He saw the other two kings withdrawing, displeased but respecting, or fearing, the decision. He saw the determination on his son’s face, a determination he had never seen before. He saw Bakugou’s undeniable presence, a true military power that, if offended, could become a terrible enemy.
He swallowed his fury, turning it into icy resentment.

“Very well,” he spat. “So be it. May the gods have mercy on you, Shoto, for daring to bind yourself to a beast.”

Bakugou smiled, a fierce, toothy grin.

“He won’t need the gods’ mercy. He’ll need courage. And it looks like he has some of that.” He turned to Shoto. “Prepare yourself, Prince. In one month, you leave this ice cage for good, and your true trial begins.”

Without further ceremony, Bakugou turned and left the hall, his commanders following. Shoto remained behind, under his father’s burning gaze and the stunned murmurs of the court. The fear was still there, cold and familiar. But layered over it, like something new and resilient, was a strange feeling:

anticipation.

Chapter Text

The month that followed the choice was a distinct agony. Endeavor Castle sank into a glacial atmosphere, where King Enji’s fury was a silent, razor-sharp winter. Shoto, now a prince promised to a “barbarian,” became both a subject of conversation and an object of curiosity. The courtiers who once flattered him now whispered in corridors, their gazes laden with pity or disdain. He was a traitor to the bloodline, the son who had chosen savagery over civilization.

His father barely spoke to him. When he did, it was with a coldness that seemed to crack the air itself.

“You handed our most precious secret into stupid hands,” the king hissed, intercepting Shoto in an empty corridor. His voice was low, but each word was an icy needle. “Bakugou is not a king; he’s a trophy hunter. And you, with your two-toned hair and the power it hides, are the rarest trophy he could imagine. When he discovers it… you won’t be a consort. You’ll be a prisoner in a gilded cage like a bird, forced to sing on command. Or worse—there are shadow markets that would pay an entire kingdom for a descendant of the Todoroki line. And a barbarian without scruples knows every one of those markets.”

The threat was clear and venomous.

Preparations for the journey were carried out with a grim efficiency. His belongings—clothes, a few books, insignificant personal objects—were packed as though preparing a body for burial. No extra training was allowed, no public farewell was planned. He was an asset being shipped away.

The only light, if it could even be called that, came from Fuyumi, his older sister. She slipped into his chambers on the eve of his departure, her gentle eyes swollen with worry.

“Shoto,” she whispered, hugging him tightly. “Please, be careful. Write, if you can, even if it’s just a sign.”

“Do you think he’ll lock me in a tower, Fuyumi?” The question came out more bitter than he intended.

She released him, gripping his shoulders.

“I don’t know what he’ll do. But I saw it… that day in the hall, he defended you against Father. No one has ever done that.” She wiped away a tear. “It could be a good sign, or it could just be possession. But it’s something different—hold on to that. And…” She hesitated, lowering her voice even more. “Use what Mother gave you, not just the ice. Everything. You may need it.”

The mention of his mother, of his forbidden dual inheritance, sent a shiver down his spine. He only nodded.

…

On the morning of departure, a low, gray sky seemed to echo the castle’s mood. In the main courtyard, a small caravan assembled. On one side, Endeavor’s honor guard, rigid and impersonal. On the other, Bakugou’s much smaller group: Eijiro, Sero, a few other warriors with sharp eyes and relaxed yet alert postures. And at the center, Katsuki Bakugou himself, mounted on his warhorse, a massive, restless beast named Dynamight. He wore practical leather armor reinforced with metal plates, and his wolfskin cloak rippled in the damp breeze.

Shoto emerged from the grand doors, dressed in simple travel clothes, a compromise between comfort and the dignity his father insisted upon. He carried only a sword at his waist, a ceremonial gift he had never used in battle. His heart hammered wildly, a dull drum of pure terror. Each step toward the caravan felt like stepping off a cliff.

Enji was present, a statue of frozen rage at the top of the steps. There was no blessing. Only a curt nod, a farewell gesture meant for a soldier being sent on a suicide mission.

Shoto stopped beside his horse, a suitably calm animal named Sombra that Bakugou had apparently chosen personally from the stables. He looked at Bakugou, searching for… something. Confirmation. A sign of what lay ahead.

Bakugou merely looked back at him, his red eyes impassive.

“Ready?”

The simplicity of the question was almost insulting. Ready for what? For my life to end? To begin? Shoto swallowed hard and nodded.

“Then let’s go.” Bakugou turned Dynamight with a firm tug on the reins. “We’ve got ground to cover before nightfall.”

And so, without fanfare or speeches, Shoto Todoroki left behind the only home he had ever known. As the castle gates closed behind him with a final thud, a feeling of absolute helplessness wrapped around him. He was alone. Truly alone, for the first time.

The journey itself was a shock. Bakugou traveled not like a king, but like a commander. The days were long, the stops brief. They ate simple, practical food: dried meat, hard bread, cheese. They slept under the stars or in crude shelters, not inns—comfort was an irrelevant concept.

Shoto, accustomed to the ordered silence of the castle, was bombarded by the noise of the camp. Bakugou’s men—and a pink-haired woman named Mina who joined them on the second day—laughed loudly, argued over dice games, told obscene stories. They didn’t bow to Bakugou; they greeted him with nods or familiar insults.

“Hey, King!” Mina shouted on the third day as they rode. “I bet a month of guard shifts that Eijiro falls off his horse before noon!”

“I’ll take that bet, Ashido!” Eijiro roared back. “And when I win, you wash my clothes for a month!”

“Shut up and watch the trail,” Bakugou growled, but there was no real anger in his voice. It was just… the background noise of his leadership.

Shoto stayed on the margins, a silent observer. He rode, ate, and set up his tent with efficiency learned quickly by watching the others. No one bothered him, but no one tried to include him either. He was a foreign, delicate element that needed to be transported with care.

On the fourth day, during a brief stop to water the horses, Sero approached him. The black-haired Beta was the friendliest of the group.

“Your Highness,” Sero began, dipping his head slightly. “Is the pace acceptable for you? King Bakugou can be… intense on marches.”

Shoto lifted his eyes, seizing the opportunity for a civil interaction. “It’s acceptable. I’m not used to it, but I’ll adapt.”

“Adaptation is key,” Sero agreed. “And if I may offer advice… the King values action over hesitation. If you have a need, say it. If you see danger, warn us. The worst thing here is being passive weight.”

“He told me something similar,” Shoto murmured.

“Because it’s true,” a rough voice said behind them.

Shoto turned. Bakugou was there, filling his canteen from a nearby stream. He wasn’t looking at them, but his voice carried clearly.

“Passivity kills. On the road, in battle, in life. If you want to be treated like a partner, act like one. Don’t stand around waiting for permission to breathe.”

It was the same message, but here, on the hostile road, it sounded less like philosophy and more like a survival order. A thread of irritation cut through Shoto’s fear and exhaustion.

“And how do I do that, exactly?” The question came out sharper than intended. “When all I know is how to wait, observe, and obey?”

Bakugou finally looked at him, raising an eyebrow.

“By breaking the habit. Start small. Instead of waiting to be told where to pitch your tent, choose a spot. A good one, near water. Instead of eating what you’re handed, take your own portion. Instead of staying quiet when these idiots”—he gestured toward Eijiro and Mina, now arguing about how to tie a pack—“are doing something stupid that’ll slow us down, call them out.”

Shoto stared at him. It sounded simple, but it was terrifying. Taking initiative meant inviting reprimand, failure, punishment. But Bakugou’s gaze wasn’t challenging—it was expectant, genuinely curious whether Shoto was capable.

That night, when they stopped to camp, Shoto didn’t wait. Heart pounding, he dismounted, led Sombra to water, and after watching the others for a moment, began setting up his tent on a flat, elevated patch of ground, a large rock behind it for wind protection. His hands trembled slightly.

He was nearly finished when Eijiro passed by.

“Hey, nice spot, Your Highness!” he said with a broad grin. “Better than Katsuki’s—he always picks the windiest place. Says it keeps him alert.”

Shoto didn’t know what to say, so he just nodded. But a tiny, almost imperceptible sense of accomplishment warmed him from the inside.

…

On the seventh day of travel, the landscape began to change. Endeavor’s gray plains gave way to rugged hills, and the air—once dry, cold, and heavy—started to carry a different scent: pine, volcanic earth, something wild. They were nearing the highlands before Bakugou’s territory.

It was also on the seventh day that the attack happened.

They were crossing a narrow ravine, surrounded by cliffs of rough stone. Riding behind Bakugou, Shoto felt a shift in the air. The warriors, once relaxed, fell silent, hands hovering near their weapons. Bakugou slowed his pace, eyes scanning the heights.

“Tenya,” he said, voice low but clear. “Right flank. Eijiro, left. Mina, rear. Sero, keep an eye on the Prince.”

The orders were met with silent nods. The group closed in, forming a protective perimeter around Shoto and the pack horses. The silence was oppressive, broken only by hooves on stone.

Then a whistle cut through the air.

An arrow buried itself in the ground a few meters from Dynamight. Then came the roar. Men descended from the cliffs—not uniformed soldiers, but bandits in battered armor, faces marked by greed. They were at least twice Bakugou’s number.

“To the horses!” Bakugou shouted, drawing a broad, heavy sword that looked like an extension of his arm. “Shoto, stay behind me!”

Chaos exploded. The clang of metal filled the ravine, mixed with shouts and snarls. Frozen for a heartbeat, Shoto watched Bakugou’s men move with brutal efficiency. Eijiro, shield and short sword in hand, blocked blows and struck back with crushing force. Tenya moved with astonishing speed, his blades a blur. Mina, catlike, used daggers and acrobatics to unbalance attackers. Sero struck hard and fast.

And Bakugou… Bakugou was controlled fury. Every swing of his blade was precise, economical, aimed at vital points. He barked orders between strikes, coordinating the defense. But the bandits were many. One of them, spotting Shoto standing still and seemingly defenseless, broke away and charged, a rusted axe raised.

Shoto’s fear sharpened into something clear. He wasn’t a warrior, but he wasn’t a prince in a hall anymore either. He was a target—and Bakugou was too busy with three opponents to see him.

Survival instinct, one he hadn’t known he possessed, took over. His hand went to his sword hilt, the ceremonial blade sliding free with a soft sound. It was light—too light—made for parades, not combat.

The bandit advanced, axe arcing down with brute force. Shoto reacted on trained instinct, raising the blade to block. The impact was brutal, a metallic shock that ran up his arm to his shoulder, nearly ripping the sword from his grip. He staggered back, fingers numb with pain.

“The prince is a weakling!” the bandit laughed, spit dripping from his chin as he advanced for another strike.

There was no time for stance or technique. Only the axe rising again. But before it could fall, a figure filled the space between them.

Bakugou. He had dispatched two opponents in a brutal sequence and now crossed the field with terrifying agility. His broad blade intercepted the axe with a thunderous crash, sparks flying.

“You WORM!” His roar was more beast than man. He didn’t just block—he shoved with inhuman force, throwing the bandit completely off balance. In the same fluid motion, Bakugou’s blade turned and drove into the man’s torso, dropping him with a dull thud.

Bakugou didn’t pause. His ember-red eyes swept Shoto’s surroundings for threats. Only then did he turn to the prince, breathing hard, face spattered with another man’s blood.

“Are you hurt?” he snarled.

Shoto was still shaking, sword unsteady in his hand. He nodded, unable to speak.

“Then stop standing there like a statue and REACT!” Bakugou bellowed, pointing toward a bandit creeping up behind Tenya. “It’s kill or be killed! Use that sword or throw it away and don’t get in the way!”

But the bandits’ attention was now converging on Shoto. One stepped forward, eyes locked on the shaken prince. He carried a massive axe, larger than the first, and his grin was cruel. Shoto tightened his grip on the already damaged blade. The man attacked without hesitation. Shoto’s block was desperate; the blade nearly flew from his hand, pain lancing through his fingers. He stumbled back, tripping on loose gravel.

Use what Mother gave you. Fuyumi’s voice rang clear above the roar of blood in his ears. Don’t let them take you.

The axe rose again. And Shoto, acting on pure instinct, thrust out his right hand. From his open palm burst a barrier of ice—irregular, translucent—forming between him and the blade.

The axe slammed into the ice, cracking it, but stopped inches from his face. The bandit’s eyes widened, hatred giving way to primal terror.

“Witchcraft!”

The shout drew attention—and another bandit, who slipped in from behind the rocks. As Shoto held the ice barrier, the second man slammed into his back, knocking him down hard. The air fled his lungs. The ice shattered into crystals.

The first bandit, now enraged and terrified, raised his weapon again.

“A sorcerer! Kill him!”

Shoto tried to rise, vision swimming. He saw the axe descending. Saw the second man lifting a club. And then, from his left side, something erupted.

Flames.

Not Enji’s disciplined, oppressive fire. This was wild, uncontrolled—an eruption of orange-red flame bursting from his hand, striking the axe-wielding bandit full in the face. The man screamed, a horrific sound, as his clothes and hair ignited. The heat wave knocked the second attacker backward, clutching his face.

For an instant, everything stopped. The smell of burning flesh filled the air, screams, crackling fire, unnatural light. Every eye in the ravine turned to Shoto, now wreathed in flame and ice, fully revealed.

Bakugou, driving back two opponents, froze for a fraction of a second. His red eyes widened in a way Shoto had never seen—not fear, but pure recognition.

That moment of pause nearly cost him. A bandit took advantage, striking, and Bakugou narrowly avoided it. The roar that tore from his throat was no longer just battle fury—it was something primordial.

“What the FUCK!” he thundered, and his assault became truly terrifying. He moved faster, hit harder, as if the sight of Shoto’s power had ignited something inside him. In seconds, the nearby enemies fell, and he tore through the line like a projectile.

He didn’t go to Shoto first. He went to the burning bandit, now rolling and screaming on the ground. With a brutal, efficient motion, Bakugou silenced him forever. Then he turned, cut down the second man trying to flee.

Only then did he return to Shoto.

Shoto was on his knees, shaking violently. His left hand still smoked faintly, sleeve fabric charred. Melted, filthy ice clung to his right hand and hair. He felt nausea, terror, and a crushing, overwhelming shame. He had been revealed—before everyone.

Bakugou reached him, breathing heavily, face smeared with blood and soot. He said nothing, just crouched, eyes scanning Shoto with near-physical intensity—from the smoking hand to the frost-damp one, to the bicolored hair that now made terrible, wondrous sense.

“You—” Bakugou’s voice came out rough, restrained.

Shoto tried to speak, but only a broken breath escaped. He expected greed, brutal excitement—the hunter who had found his prey.

But what he saw in Bakugou’s eyes was more complex. There was recognition, yes. But also rapid calculation, total understanding. And, unexpectedly, deep fury—not directed at him.

“Who else knows?” Bakugou asked in a low growl meant only for Shoto.

Shoto shook his head, dazed.

“What?”

“Your power, idiot!” Bakugou hissed, grabbing his unburned arm and hauling him upright with relentless strength. “Who in your castle knew? The old man? Your siblings?”

“Only… family,” Shoto gasped. “It’s a state secret. The most guarded one.”

Bakugou let out a sound halfway between a bitter laugh and a snarl.

“Of course it is. Because if the other kingdoms knew Endeavor had a legendary-powered heir under its roof, they’d have surrounded the castle and ripped you out with their bare hands.” His eyes burned. “Your father is an arrogant old fool. He thought he could trick me? Hand me a decorative prince when he was really giving me… this?”

“This.” The word hurt. Shoto felt reduced again—to an object, only far more valuable.

“He didn’t want you to know,” Shoto murmured, the world spinning. “He thinks you’d sell me. Or use me.”

Bakugou barked a short, humorless laugh.

“Sell you?” he spat. “He’s even stupider than I thought.” He pulled Shoto closer, voice dropping to a harsh, urgent whisper. “Listen carefully. What you did today—everyone saw it. My men saw it. Any survivors among those worms, if any escaped, saw it.”

Desperation clawed at Shoto’s chest.

“But,” Bakugou continued, fingers tightening painfully on his arm, “now you’re under my protection. And what’s mine, I guard.” He looked at his men finishing the fight, their eyes darting between awe and suspicion toward Shoto.

“LISTEN UP!” Bakugou roared through the ravine. “What you saw here today dies with you. It’s not magic. It’s not witchcraft. It’s a rare northern combat technique. Understood? Anyone who breathes a word about fire or ice answers to me. Personally.”

The authority was so absolute that even the air seemed to freeze. Eijiro, Tenya, Mina—all looked from Bakugou to Shoto. They saw the fierce resolve on their king’s face. One by one, they nodded. Not out of fear, Shoto realized, but loyalty.

“And you,” Bakugou said, turning back to Shoto, voice low but crackling with energy. “You’re going to learn to control that shit. Not this pathetic panic display. Control. Precision. Power. Because from now on, you’re not a secret prince. You’re a target—and the only way not to be hunted is to become the most dangerous hunter in the forest.”

He released Shoto’s arm and stepped back, gaze still blazing.

“Grab your things. We’re leaving this stinking hole. Now.”

The order was obeyed. The group packed up with grim efficiency. Shoto mechanically retrieved his broken ceremonial sword and strapped it to the saddle. His fingers trembled. The smell of his own lightly burned flesh and melted ice churned his stomach.

Eijiro approached, his usually cheerful face serious.

“Your Highness… that was…” He struggled for words.

“A northern technique,” Shoto finished, repeating Bakugou’s lie, voice flat.

Eijiro studied him, then nodded, a faint grin returning.

“Well, it was badass. Saved your skin. That’s what matters.”

Mina passed by with a low whistle.

“Hot and cold, huh? Powerful.”

They were choosing to believe the lie because Bakugou asked them to. Because he was theirs. And Shoto, suddenly, was being pulled into that circle—not as a prince, but as a secret their king had chosen to keep.

The journey resumed, but the silence was different now—heavy, loaded with the unspoken. Shoto rode on, feeling eyes on his back. Not fear or revulsion, but renewed, intense curiosity.

Bakugou rode at the front, posture tighter than before, senses clearly on edge. He was watching not just the road, but the horizon and the sky. Power hunters weren’t common bandits—they were persistent, wealthy, ruthless.

That night, when they camped, Shoto was placed at the center of the tents, protected. As he sat near the fire, exhausted and shaken, Bakugou sat beside him—not touching, but close enough that his voice wouldn’t carry.

“When we reach my lands, we begin,” Bakugou said, staring into the flames.

“Begin what?” Shoto asked hoarsely.

“Your training. You fought like a terrified child today. You used your power like a baby flinging porridge. That won’t save you, it’ll get you killed and start a war.” He finally turned, red eyes reflecting firelight. “Do you want to live? Really live, not just exist as a hidden secret?”

A remnant of Shoto’s old anger stirred, anger at his father, at the destiny that had cursed him.

“Yes,” he whispered, stronger than expected.

“Then you’ll learn to be a weapon. Not a weapon others use—your own.” Bakugou leaned forward. “I don’t want a fragile consort. I don’t want a valuable slave. I want a partner who doesn’t need me to save him from every shadow. Can you be that?”

The question was a challenge, the same challenge as the training field, but now with infinitely higher stakes. Shoto looked at his hands: left, warm; right, still cold. He had been revealed. Everything his father feared was coming true—but Bakugou wasn’t selling him. He was offering training. Protection. A chance to fight.

He lifted his gaze and met Bakugou’s intense stare. The storm was there—but now it didn’t threaten to sweep him away. It offered a place at its center.

“Yes,” Shoto said, and this time his voice didn’t shake. “I can.”

Bakugou held his gaze for a long moment, then nodded once.

“Good. Sleep. Tomorrow’s ride is long.”

And when Shoto lay down in his tent, surrounded by familiar camp sounds and the unseen guards Bakugou had surely posted, the fear was still there. But it was different now. No longer the paralyzing fear of a cage or of discovery. It was the sharpened fear of the battlefield, the fear that comes before training, the fear of someone who, for the first time, had something to lose.

Chapter Text

The days that followed the attack were colored by a new kind of tension. No longer the quiet anxiety of an exiled prince, but the vigilance of a group guarding a grand secret. The landscape shifted from rugged hills to majestic, unforgiving mountains, their peaks often crowned by mist that painted the sunset in sinister shades of orange and purple. This was the border of the Lands of Ketsubutsu, and the very air seemed to pulse with latent energy.

Shoto felt the weight of the looks. Eijiro, Tenya, Mina, Sero—everyone watched him now with renewed curiosity, but also with a protective determination he had not expected. They had accepted Bakugou’s lie, but their expressions made it clear they knew there was more to that “northern technique.” And out of loyalty to their king, they would guard that secret with their lives. It was a frightening responsibility.

Bakugou, in turn, had changed. If before he was a sharp and practical leader, now he was a warrior in constant alert. His eyes scanned not only the road, but the ravines, the skies, the rare travelers who crossed their path. He rode closer to Shoto, spoke rarely, and his orders were even shorter and more precise.

“Water. Drink,” he ordered, tossing a canteen to Shoto during a stop.

“I’m not thirsty,” Shoto replied, his voice still a tired echo of the events.

“That’s not a suggestion,” Bakugou growled without looking at him, his eyes fixed on an eagle circling high above. “You used energy. You need to replenish it. If you get weak, you’re an easier target.”

Shoto drank, the cool water soothing his dry throat. Bakugou’s care was rough and impersonal, like a blacksmith tending a valuable blade before forging it—but it was care nonetheless. No one, not even Enji in his rare moments of “training,” had ever cared about Shoto’s physical recovery in such a practical way.

At night, around the fire, the dynamic subtly changed. Obscene stories gave way to patrol reports, discussions of tactics, analyses of terrain. And sometimes, glances were cast in Shoto’s direction, as if they were trying to decipher the enigma he represented.

“These mountains are treacherous,” Tenya commented one night, adjusting his glasses while studying a crude map. “But the ravines north of Explosive Mount offer the fastest passage to the capital.”

“And they’re the perfect place for an ambush,” Bakugou shot back, spearing a piece of dried meat with his knife. “If I were a bounty hunter who knew a… valuable asset was passing through here, that’s where I’d strike.”

The word “asset” made Shoto shrink inwardly. Eijiro, sitting beside him, must have sensed the tension, because he nudged him lightly with his elbow.

“Relax, Your Highness. Katsuki here is worse than a coiled viper when it comes to ambushes. He lives to turn the tables on those guys.”

“What Eijiro means with his usual poetry,” Mina said, wiping one of her daggers with an oiled cloth, “is that our King is basically a natural disaster with tactical sense. If anyone tries anything, he’ll bring the mountain down on them just to prove a point.”

Bakugou didn’t deny it. He merely smiled one of those feral, toothy smiles that promised nothing good for his enemies.

“The point would be: don’t mess with what’s mine.”

The statement, so possessive, should have irritated him. Instead, a strange, confusing warmth spread through Shoto’s chest. Mine. Not “my property” in Enji’s cold sense, but in the territorial, protective sense of a wolf defending its pack. It was primitive. It was frightening. But coming from Bakugou, it sounded like a promise of safety, not ownership.

The next day, they finally crossed the official border. There were no gates or guards, just a change in the air, the ground, the very essence of the place. The smell of metal intensified, and the rocks took on shades of gray, rust-red, and volcanic black. The road became a steeper trail carved into the mountain’s face. In the distance, Shoto saw what could only be Explosive Mount: an imposing, jagged peak, fumaroles venting from its fissures, painting the sky with smears of gray smoke.

“Ketsubutsu,” Bakugou said, jerking his chin toward a cluster of structures that seemed to grow directly out of the rock, nestled on a plateau lower on the mountainside. It was not a city like those of Endeavor, with elegant towers and symmetrical walls. It was an organic fortress, made of local stone and dark wood, with slanted roofs built to withstand what Shoto imagined were harsh winters and fierce winds. It looked resilient, practical, untamed—like its king.

The group quickened their pace, anticipation thick in the air. They were coming home. For Shoto, however, it was the arrival at a new kind of uncertainty.

Their approach was observed. From high points in the rock, nearly invisible sentinels greeted them with mirror signals. When they passed through the main gate—a massive wooden structure reinforced with iron—they were welcomed not by a celebrating crowd, but by a small, efficient group. An older man with graying hair and sharp eyes behind thin-rimmed glasses (the advisor, Shoto assumed), a few others who looked like guild leaders or captains, and a handful of curious onlookers who stopped to watch the king’s caravan.

Their eyes inevitably settled on Shoto. He felt the weight of their assessment. It wasn’t the morbid curiosity of Endeavor’s courtiers, but a practical scrutiny. They saw the promised consort, the northern prince, the foreign element. He kept his posture straight, his face neutral, but inside his stomach twisted with anxiety.

Bakugou dismounted Dynamight with the ease of someone who did it every day and tossed the reins to a young man.

“Denki, the horse stinks. Wash him before he infects the stable.”

“Yes, Katsuki!” the young man with blond hair and a black streak replied with a quick smile, casting a curious glance at Shoto before hurrying off with the animal.

Bakugou then turned to the older man.

“Aichi. Reports. Problems. Everything.”

“Welcome back, Your Majesty,” Aichi said with a respectful but not subservient bow. “No major issues. Crops on the southern slopes are doing well. The charcoal furnaces are at full production. And…” his eyes rested on Shoto for a calculated moment. “We received a messenger from Endeavor, confirming the terms of the dowry and the alliance. And… inquiring about Prince Shoto’s well-being.”

The last part was spoken with a faint note of suspicion. Shoto felt a chill. His father was checking in—probably trying to determine whether the secret had been kept.

Bakugou grunted.

“The prince is alive and intact. More than can be said for some bandits who tried to attack us on the road.” He glanced at Shoto. “This is Aichi. He keeps this place running when I’m not here. If you need anything that isn’t fighting or complaining, talk to him.”

The introduction was typical Bakugou: blunt, unceremonious, function-focused.

Shoto inclined his head slightly.

“Lord Aichi.”

“Your Highness,” Aichi replied. His analytical gaze softened a fraction, perhaps due to the courtesy—or Shoto’s apparent sanity. “Your quarters are prepared. Adjacent to the king’s chambers, of course.”

Of course. Shoto swallowed. The proximity was expected, but now—with the secret exposed and the promise of training hanging in the air—it felt much more… intimate.

“Take him,” Bakugou ordered, turning to survey the fortress like a general inspecting defenses. “I have things to deal with. You,” he pointed at Shoto without looking back, “rest. Eat. Tomorrow morning, go to the lower training yard. Don’t be late.”

And so Shoto was led into the stone fortress, leaving Bakugou to the affairs of the kingdom.

The quarters assigned to him were surprising. Simple, yes—stone and dark wood—but spacious, with a large hearth, a sturdy bed covered in layered fabrics, and a window overlooking the spectacular valley below and the imposing Explosive Mount. Books lined the shelves, thick rugs covered the stone floor, and there was even a small washroom with running water channeled from a mountain spring. It was practical comfort, not ostentatious luxury. And it was unmistakably part of Bakugou’s domain.

Alone for the first time since the attack, Shoto let the mask fall. The weight of the days—the flight, the forced revelation of his deepest secret—collapsed onto his shoulders all at once. He staggered to the rustic wooden bed and sat on its edge, the mattress creaking softly. He looked at his hands, pale and slender, hands of a prince raised for court life, not survival. They trembled almost imperceptibly, a fine shake that came from his bones. He clenched his fists, nails biting into his palms. The pain was grounding, real, present.

The secret was out. No longer a hidden weapon of Endeavor, but a known fact—a bargaining chip in the hands of the most unpredictable king of the five realms. He was in enemy territory, or at least deeply unfamiliar ground. And tomorrow… tomorrow, the veil of uncertainty would lift on what Bakugou called “training.”

Dinner was served in his chambers by a silent servant: an iron bowl of thick stew with meat and roots, a dark rye bread with a hard crust, and a piece of aged goat cheese, sharp and salty. He ate mechanically, chewing each bite with the discipline drilled into him since childhood. The flavor was earthy, intense, without the refined spices of Endeavor. Bakugou was right, he thought, recalling the king’s words. He needed to regain his strength.

As he ate, his gaze was drawn to the narrow window framed in rough stone. Outside, dusk swallowed the mountains. Then, one by one, lights began to flicker on across the fortress and the sleeping village. They weren’t Endeavor’s soft magical lanterns, but torches and fires—points of vivid, trembling gold against the rocky, impenetrable darkness. It was frightening, that absolute darkness punctuated by such fragile defenses against the night. But there was undeniably a raw, honest beauty to the sight.

A firm, sharp knock on the oak door made his muscles tense. He rose, straightening his simple tunic.

“Enter.”

The door opened to reveal Aichi, his serious face lit by the corridor light.

“Your Highness, the king requests your presence in his study when you finish your meal.”

Shoto’s heart leapt against his ribs—a mix of apprehension and a flicker of something that might have been anticipation. He nodded, finishing the last sip of water.

“I’m ready.”

Following Aichi through the fortress corridors was an immersive experience. The stone beneath his feet was cold and uneven. The air smelled of wood smoke, lamp oil, damp rock, and something metallic he associated with the forges he’d heard during the day. Aichi stopped before a massive wooden door reinforced with iron.

“The king’s study,” he announced, knocking twice before opening it.

The room was a visceral extension of the man who occupied it: a massive table carved from a single dark trunk dominated the center, drowned beneath a chaotic sea of unfurled maps—some ancient and yellowed, others freshly marked with charcoal—precariously stacked reports, and several small wooden models of fortifications and battle formations. Heavy oak shelves lined the walls, crammed with leather-bound books with worn titles: Siege Strategies, Treatise on Northern Valley Metallurgy, Annals of the Unification Wars. Between the shelves, weapons hung like functional tools: a war axe with a stained haft, a longsword whose edge gleamed even in the dim light, a waxed composite bow.

And there was the hearth—a massive fissure in the stone wall where logs crackled and snapped, casting intense heat and living light. Standing before it, back to the door, was Bakugou.

He wore a simple linen tunic open at the collar and soft leather trousers. His blond hair, free of any diadem, caught and reflected the firelight, giving him an almost flame-like aura.

“Come in and close the door,” Bakugou’s voice echoed without him turning.

Shoto obeyed, the heavy sound of the door closing behind him reverberating. He remained near the entrance, feeling the fire’s heat even from a distance. The silence was thick, charged, broken only by the hypnotic crackle of the logs and the nearly imperceptible sound of Bakugou’s controlled breathing.

“The messenger from your father,” Bakugou began, his voice low but cutting like a blade, “arrived at sunset today. Brought carefully chosen words—a letter full of paternal ‘concern’ and ‘sensible’ advice.”

Finally, he turned. The fire fully illuminated his face now, highlighting the hard line of his jaw and the straight bridge of his nose. But it was his red eyes that held focus.

“He ‘hopes,’ with the confidence of a king who thinks his power reaches even here, that your ‘unique gift’ remains a secret between us. For your ‘own safety,’ of course.” Bakugou stepped forward, out of the direct firelight, yet his presence seemed to fill the room even more. “And he suggests, with the delicacy of a hammer, that if I’m a ‘sensible’ man, I’ll use this… ‘advantage’ discreetly. In other words, he’s offering me a veiled bribe. Keep you locked up, quiet, hidden like the shame he thinks you are. And at the same time, he uses you as an implicit threat. If I don’t cooperate, who knows what a prince with such a ‘dangerous’ and ‘unstable’ power might do? Or what might happen to him.”

Shoto’s blood ran cold. It was Enji Todoroki’s move in its purest form: control through fear, manipulation through secrets. Turning everything—even his own son—into a piece on a power board.

“What did you answer?” Shoto asked. His voice came out lower than intended, a hoarse whisper nearly lost in the fire’s crackle.

Bakugou’s lips curved into a smile devoid of humor.

“I told him that the safety of what’s within Ketsubutsu’s borders”—he emphasized the word, making it clear Shoto now fell into that category—“is my responsibility, and no one else’s. That Endeavor’s methods of dealing with… singularities, are Endeavor’s business. And Ketsubutsu’s are none of his concern.”

He took another step, closing the distance. Shoto felt the instinct to retreat but locked his feet in place.

“Your father thinks he can pull the strings from afar. Thinks you’re a puppet with a cut cord that he can splice and drag back into his little theater.” Bakugou’s eyes bored into him. “He is deeply mistaken.”

The air between them crackled. Shoto felt the question—the doubt that had plagued him since he woke in the wagon—rise in his throat like a held scream.

“Why?” The word escaped before he could censor it, heavy with confusion. “Why not do exactly what he fears? Why not lock me away, use the secret as leverage, as… a weapon? It would be the most sensible, the most political choice.”

Bakugou went still, his gaze fixed on Shoto as if seeing through skin and muscle to the contradictory currents of fire and ice flowing through his veins. The silence stretched, filled only by the low roar of the flames.

“Because I am not him,” the answer finally came, heavy and deliberate. Each syllable carried ferocious conviction. “I didn’t inherit a polished throne. I took it, piece by piece, fighting for every valley, every loyalty. I rule Ketsubutsu through visible strength and earned respect, not whispered fear and secrets that rot from the inside.” He lifted a hand in an abrupt gesture. “I’ve seen what power becomes when it’s treated like a disease, like a flaw to be hidden. It corrodes. It destroys from within.” His finger pointed directly at Shoto’s chest. “You—you are living proof of that. Half of you burns with a fire that could forge empires. The other half freezes with an ice that could halt armies. And what were you taught? To be ashamed of both. To lock one away, deny the other, to see yourself as something divided, broken. That isn’t training. It’s a form of mutilation.”

The words weren’t a blow, but they weren’t gentle either. They were precise, inescapable, and struck exactly where it hurt. Shoto didn’t cry—not because he felt nothing, but because he had learned far too early to contain anything that could be seen as weakness. Still, the tightness in his chest was immediate, crushing.

There was pain there, old and familiar, mixed with deep exhaustion. And alongside it, something unexpected: a quiet relief. Not because of the words themselves, but because someone finally saw. Someone had named the prison he’d always lived in. For the first time, Shoto knew he wasn’t alone in that understanding.

“Then what do you see?” Shoto challenged, his voice catching a spark of the ember he’d long kept buried. “If not a valuable tool or a threat to be contained, what’s left for you to see in me?”

Bakugou closed the remaining distance in two long strides, stopping less than an arm’s length away. Shoto could feel the heat radiating from him, smell smoke, clean sweat, and weapon oil. Bakugou’s gaze was so focused it felt physical.

“I see raw potential. Wasted. Abused.” His voice dropped to a low, almost intimate growl. He raised his hand again, slowly this time, as if approaching an open flame, stopping inches from Shoto’s face. Shoto felt, involuntarily, a surge of heat from his left side and a cool mist from his right. Bakugou didn’t pull his hand away. His eyes narrowed, sensing both energies. “I see two forces that, in balance, could make you a soldier—something unique. Not a secret to hide in a dark room.” He hesitated, a nearly imperceptible falter that in anyone else would be weakness, but in him felt like a rare internal struggle. “And I see…” The word dragged out, reluctant. “Resilience. Something that could stand beside me, at the center of the hurricane that is ruling this kingdom, and not shatter. Something that could… extend.”

Something that could extend.
The phrase echoed in Shoto’s mind, striking sudden understanding. Bakugou—despite his controlled fury, brute strength, and relentless ambition—carried weight too. The lonely weight of being the strongest, the king who never inherited, the conqueror who always had to prove himself. A throne taken by one’s own hands could be a very lonely place. Perhaps he’d never found someone who could not only withstand the storm he was, but understand it.

“The training…” Shoto began, steadier now.

“It won’t be gentle,” Bakugou cut in, dropping his hand abruptly as if he’d touched something too hot. “It’ll hurt. It’ll burn you from the inside in ways fire never has. It’ll freeze you to the soul in ways ice never managed. It’ll demand every drop of sweat, every breath, every thought.” His eyes sparked with a terrible, tempting challenge. “But I’ll teach you to control—not repress. To channel. To own what you are, every damned and magnificent part of it—not to be a frightened slave to it.” He tilted his head, predatory. “Do you accept?”

There was no illusion of choice—but for the first time, there was direction. A path forward that wasn’t just flight or submission. It was a cliff, yes—but one from which he could learn to fly, or fall fighting. He could remain a trembling secret, waiting for his father’s next strike or his captor’s disinterest. Or he could step into the storm that was Bakugou Katsuki and learn to find his own center, his own roar.

Shoto took a deep breath. Inside him, fire and ice—long locked in silent war—shuddered, not in conflict, but in response to the call. He wouldn’t unite them today, or tomorrow. But maybe he could learn to listen to both.

“I accept.”

A smile touched Bakugou’s lips. Not the feral grin of battle, nor the sneer of disdain. Something more genuine—and therefore more dangerous. It transformed his harsh features, lighting him from within with an intense satisfaction that bordered on beauty in its raw strength.

“Good.” The word sealed it, an agreement. “Tomorrow, at first light, lower yard. Don’t be late. Now go. Sleep. You’ll need every second of rest.”

Shoto nodded and turned to leave the room. The walk back to his quarters felt different. The smell of smoke and stone remained, shadows still danced—but blind fear had sharpened into something closer to anticipation. He was under the protection of a storm, yes. But the storm, in its brutal way, seemed to be offering shelter. And more than that—tools to one day face the weather itself.

…

The sun had barely risen when Shoto, dressed in rough linen training clothes Aichi had left for him, arrived at the lower training yard. The mountain air was sharp and clean, carrying the scent of pine and frost. The yard was a wide circle of packed earth and gravel, surrounded by wooden posts for sword training and heavy punching sacks. At the far end, a modest armory: swords, axes, shields. Bakugou was already there.

He moved alone in the blue-tinged dawn, performing a series of fluid stretches and movements clearly meant as combat warm-ups. He wore only soft leather training pants and heavy boots. His bare torso was a map of past battles—white and pink scars crossing defined muscles, silent stories of violence and survival.

Shoto stopped at the edge of the yard, watching. Then a voice cut through the cold air.

“You’re late.”

Bakugou didn’t stop moving or look at him.

Shoto frowned, confused. The sky had barely shifted from indigo to pearl-gray.

“The sun just rose.”

“Exactly.” Bakugou finally turned, his red eyes seeming to glow in the lingering darkness. “You should’ve been here before the first bird thought about singing. Tomorrow, you will be. If you’re not, training starts with a run to the eastern peak and back. Understood?”

The threat was very real. Shoto nodded, swallowing hard.

“First lesson,” Bakugou announced, approaching. His gaze was evaluative, cold, professional. “Everything starts here.” He pointed to his own chest, then to Shoto’s head. “And here. Your power is tied to your instinct, your emotion. An emotion that was trapped, gagged, and thrown into a dungeon. To control fire and ice, you first need to control yourself. To breathe when everything inside you screams to explode. Sit.”

Shoto sat on the cold, damp ground, following the harsh instructions. What followed was an hour of mental torture.

Bakugou guided him through breathing exercises, demanding a slow, deep rhythm that ran counter to Shoto’s naturally accelerating heart under his intense stare.

“Weaker than you looked on the road,” Bakugou remarked, circling him like a wolf. His voice was conversational, but every word was a calculated barb. “No wonder. Raised in a golden cradle. Trained for ceremonies, not for dirtying your hands. Your father probably saw little use for you beyond a hidden trump card.”

A chill of anger ran down Shoto’s spine. His left side responded with a surge of heat, a familiar tingling beneath his skin. He forced himself to maintain the breathing rhythm.

“And that ice thing…” Bakugou continued, stopping behind him. His voice came close to Shoto’s ear, low and sharp. “A reminder of your mother, isn’t it? Something he hated so much you learned to hate it too. A power she gave you—and you treat it like a disease. Pathetic.”

Cold exploded along Shoto’s right side, a visceral response to the cutting pain of the words. His breathing faltered, quickening slightly. His fists clenched in the dirt.

“No,” Bakugou snapped, now suddenly in front of him. Shoto opened his eyes. The king was crouched, his face inches away. “You’re doing it wrong. Don’t repress. Don’t push it down. That’s what you’ve always done—and it’s poisoning you.”

Shoto stared at him, confused, struggling against the emotional tide.

“Feel the anger,” Bakugou commanded, his voice absolute. “Let it rise. Acknowledge it. ‘I’m angry. He’s provoking me. My honor—my mother—is being attacked.’ Feel the heat that comes with it. Now feel the cold—the pain, the defensiveness. Acknowledge it. ‘This hurts. This reminds me of bad things.’” His red eyes locked onto Shoto’s mismatched gaze. “And then choose. Emotion is fuel, Shoto. Pure potential energy. You decide whether it ignites an uncontrolled fire that burns you and everything around you—or whether it feeds the forge of your will. Breathe with it. Use your breath to contain the explosion, not smother it. Understood?”

It was a radical concept. In Endeavor, control meant annihilation. Crushing anything resembling weakness or emotion—especially those tied to his “aberrant” power. Total denial. Here, Bakugou was teaching him acceptance. To know the turbulent terrain of his own soul before learning to navigate it.

The following days established a routine. Mornings were devoted to “control under fire”—long sessions of meditation and breathing where Bakugou provoked him, insulted him, sometimes tossed small stones near him or made sudden noises, all to test his ability to hold center. Afternoons were physical agony: weighted runs, endless push-ups, lifting stones, balance training on unstable ground. Bakugou was an unforgiving master, never satisfied, always demanding one more, faster, stronger.

“Your body is the vessel of your power!” he snarled as Shoto struggled to lift a heavy log. “A weak vessel cracks under pressure! You want to explode into pieces the first time you try to use both at once?”

Yet through the haze of exhaustion, Shoto began to notice something strange and methodical. Bakugou watched him carefully. He noticed the exact moment Shoto’s muscles were about to fail, when his breathing grew too shallow—and then forced a break. “Water. Now.” Or, “Sit. Breathe. Just breathe for five minutes.” The corrections were direct, harsh, but never humiliating. They were instructions, not degradation.

Progress was slow—painfully slow. A week passed, and Shoto still struggled to conjure a stable flame larger than a candle without it flickering wildly. Ice was even more rebellious, often forming sharp, jagged spikes when he tried to create a smooth surface.

One afternoon, after a particularly frustrating ice session, Shoto hurled a handful of conjured snow against the stone wall with a muffled sound of frustration.

Bakugou, arms crossed, said nothing for a long moment. Then he stepped forward and scooped some of the melting snow from the ground.

“You’re fighting it,” he said, his voice unexpectedly neutral. “Giving orders. ‘Do this. Be that.’ Ice doesn’t obey commands. It responds—to temperature, humidity, intention.” He crushed the snow in his hand. “You’re not carving a statue. You’re guiding a river. Feel the cold. Feel where it wants to go. Then give it a channel.”

It was different. Shoto tried again, closing his eyes. Instead of forcing an image of a smooth wall, he simply felt the cold in his right arm—the latent energy. He imagined it flowing outward, not as a blast, but as a mist condensing in the air. When he opened his eyes, a thin, uneven but continuous layer of ice coated the surface of a nearby stone. It wasn’t what he wanted—but it was control. It was response.

Bakugou made a sound that might have been an approving grunt.

“Less bad. Keep going.”

The nights were for the mind. Aichi became his tutor in all things Ketsubutsu. They studied maps—Shoto learning the names of valleys, raging rivers, iron and coal mines that formed the backbone of the kingdom’s economy. He learned about the mountain clans, their rigid customs, their hard-earned loyalty to Bakugou. He learned of threats: highland creatures, bandits on trade routes, and the ever-present tension with neighboring kingdoms—including Endeavor. It was exhausting, but Shoto immersed himself with the same determination he brought to physical training. Knowing this kingdom was the key to someday no longer feeling like a stranger in it.

Contact with others, however, was minimal and controlled. He saw Eijiro and Mina from a distance, training in the yard or arguing near the forges. He exchanged brief nods with Tenya, who always seemed to be rushing toward some urgent mission at alarming speed. But there were no interactions. Bakugou kept his “guest” under a veil of relative isolation, focused on training. Shoto hadn’t set foot in the village—his view of it remained confined to his window and the points of light at night.

About two weeks after his arrival, during a morning focus session, something finally changed. Bakugou was provoking him about his supposed inability to do anything useful, and the familiar anger began to boil. But instead of crushing it, Shoto did as he’d been taught. He acknowledged it. I’m angry. He’s trying to get under my skin. He felt heat bloom in his left palm. Instead of fearing its expansion, he focused on his breathing, visualizing the anger as a steady current—like a gas line feeding a single point. Slowly, he opened his hand.

There, dancing obediently on his skin—without spasms, without growing beyond control—was a flame. Not the wild blaze of his escape, nor the trembling spark of his early days. It was compact, golden, stable—coin-sized—pulsing gently with his breath.

He could hardly believe it. He looked at Bakugou.

The king watched, face impassive.

“Finally. Now extinguish it. Don’t smother it with your other hand. Don’t blow. Just extinguish it. With your will. With the same control that lit it.”

Shoto focused on the flame. It was part of him—an extension of that transformed anger. He imagined the current diminishing, the fuel running out. He visualized the flame shrinking, not being crushed. Slowly, it faded, intensity waning until nothing remained but a faint shimmer of heat in the air above his palm.

Across the yard, near the main gate, Eijiro Kirishima—who had been discreetly watching—whistled softly in genuine amazement.

“Damn…”

Bakugou snapped his head around and shot him a glare so sharp Eijiro immediately pretended he hadn’t been looking and hurried away. But when Bakugou turned back to Shoto, for a fraction of a second—before the mask of severity returned—Shoto saw it. A gleam in those red eyes. A flash of pure, intense satisfaction. It was more rewarding than any praise.

“Don’t get cocky,” Bakugou growled, quickly covering the moment. “That’s the most basic of basics. Now ice. Same thing. Calm. Let’s go.”

The road ahead was long, brutal, and full of pain. But it was a road. And for the first time in his life, Shoto Todoroki felt that he was truly walking it—one step at a time—under the demanding gaze of the storm that, day by day, ceased to be merely his captor and became something far more complex: his master.

Chapter Text

The following month passed quickly. While Shoto continued his grueling training under Bakugou’s critical eyes, the Kingdom of Ketsubutsu began to transform to receive the wedding ceremony. The change was subtle: more flowers gathered from the slopes, the great main hall scrubbed and decorated with new banners, the smell of fresh bread and special roasts lingering in the air—subtle, yet unmistakable.

The first tradition to strike him was the ritual bath. Two days before the ceremony, Mina and an older omega woman named Camie—a kind of keeper of traditions and healer of the fortress—appeared in his chambers.

“Time to purify the exterior to receive the vow, Your Highness,” Camie announced with a serene smile, carrying a basket full of red rose petals, rosemary leaves, and perfumed salts.

Shoto, still sweaty from training, stared at the basket in perplexity.

“A bath?”

“It’s not just a bath,” Mina corrected with a mischievous grin. “A ritual bath! To wash away the impurities of the past and the fears of the future—it’s tradition in Ketsubutsu.”

It was an oddly intimate and vulnerable idea, like being prepared as an offering. But after weeks of sweat and effort, the thought of hot water and herbs sounded almost celestial. He allowed them to lead him to a room adjacent to the communal baths, where a deep wooden tub was filled with steaming water. Camie scattered the petals and herbs into the water, creating an earthy, floral fragrance.

“Make yourself comfortable,” Camie said, discreetly turning away. “Purification is a personal act; we’ll wait outside.”

Mina flashed an even more mischievous smile.

“Scrub well behind your ears, Your Highness! Ward off the evil eye.”

When the door closed, Shoto was alone with the perfumed steam. He undressed, his dusty training clothes forming a pile on the stone floor, and stepped into the tub. The hot water enveloped his sore muscles with an almost audible sigh of relief. Rose petals danced on the surface, clinging to his arms and shoulders. The rosemary released a bracing aroma. He submerged his head, feeling the hot water through his bicolored hair, and for a moment, everything—the fear, the pressure, the pain—seemed to dissolve into the steam. It was a ritual of surrender, and he surrendered. When he emerged, his skin was pink and clean, and he felt a lightness he hadn’t known in a long time.

…

Training for the oath, however, was anything but relaxing. At night, after dinner, Bakugou took him to an empty terrace overlooking the dark valley.

“Vows aren’t memorized poems,” Bakugou said, arms crossed against the cold mountain wind. “They’re promises. You won’t recite my words—you’ll write your own. And you’ll speak them facing the mountain and the people, looking me in the eyes.”

“What… what should I promise?” Shoto asked, the intimacy of the task weighing on him.

“What you can fulfill,” Bakugou replied, his tone serious. “Don’t promise blind loyalty if you still doubt; don’t promise eternal strength if you’re still learning. Promise what is true. For Ketsubutsu, the truth of an oath is worth more than its beauty.”

It was a frightening challenge. Promise what? He didn’t love Bakugou; he didn’t love Ketsubutsu. But he respected the former and was beginning to understand the latter.

He spent the night awake, scribbling words on a parchment, tearing it up, starting again. Finally, on the morning following the ceremony, he was ready.

…

Choosing the outfit was a different experience. While in Endeavor he would have been wrapped in heavy silks and complex embroidery, in Ketsubutsu Aichi took him to a textile artisan, an elderly beta named Rumi, whose nimble fingers wove the strongest, warmest fabrics of the fortress.

“You don’t need shine to shine, Your Highness,” Rumi said with a hoarse laugh, measuring his shoulders with a tape. “You need something that keeps you warm on the mountain and doesn’t tear at the slightest thing. And, of course, that shows where you came from and where you’re going.”

The final attire was a delicate harmony between two worlds. The base was a long white linen dress, with a fitted bodice opening into a wide, flowing skirt, reminiscent of courtly gowns. Over his shoulders, a white velvet over-robe—shorter in front and longer in back—was fastened with thin silver silk cords.

The sleeves of the over-robe were wide and drooping, nearly touching the ground, and along the edges Rumi had precisely embroidered the symbol that united the stylized flames of Endeavor with the broken lines of Ketsubutsu’s mountains. The threads were discreet, in shades of gray and reddish-brown, shimmering in the light like a whispered promise.

Around his neck, a black satin ribbon held a polished volcanic crystal—the only element that shone openly—resting against his chest like a fragment of history. His waist was marked by a soft leather belt, loose, more ornament than armor, and over his shoulders, a short cape lined with white fox fur, light and warm, fastened by a simple dark metal brooch.

It was imposing, but not rigid. Ceremonial, but gentle. When Shoto saw himself in the mirror, he didn’t see a warrior or an ornamental princess. He saw someone carrying the strength of two heritages, now intertwined not only in the threads of his clothing, but in the very skin it covered.

…

But it was the night before the wedding that brought the greatest whirlwind of anxiety. After dinner, Camie appeared again in his chambers, this time alone, with a small vial of perfumed oil and a serious expression.

“It’s time for the final preparation, Your Highness,” she said, her voice gentle but firm. “For the wedding night.”

A sudden chill ran through Shoto. The wedding night. The words had hovered over him like a distant cloud—something to worry about later. Now, it was here.

“Preparation?” he asked, trying to sound uninterested.

Camie placed the vial on a table and looked at him with a mix of kindness and pragmatism.

“I know that in some northern courts, these… things aren’t discussed openly. But here, we believe knowledge calms fear. Do you know what happens between an Alpha and an omega on the wedding night?”

Shoto felt his face burn. His knowledge amounted to stable whispers, obscene insinuations from drunken courtiers, and a vague biological understanding learned from old books about bloodlines. It was all abstract, distant.

“I… have a general idea,” he murmured, looking away.

“General ideas cause accidents and trauma,” Camie said softly. “Sit.”

What followed was a frank and deeply embarrassing conversation for Shoto. Camie explained the mechanics of the act, the importance of consent and mutual pleasure, the possible initial discomforts and how to ease them. She spoke of the perfumed oil (“To make it easier, and smell nice”). She spoke of communication, of not being afraid to speak.

“King Bakugou is not a subtle man in many aspects,” Camie said bluntly. “But he is not a brute in this. The tradition here is union, not possession. He will wait for your willingness, but he will also expect you to express it. Silence here is interpreted as fear or refusal.”

Shoto listened, his face unable to hide the turmoil of panic and shame inside. The idea of exposing himself in that way—of being so vulnerable before Katsuki Bakugou, of everything—was terrifying. It was more intimate than any fight, any training.

“And if…” his voice faltered. “And if I can’t?”

Camie placed a gentle hand over his.

“Then you say it. ‘Not today.’ ‘Not like this.’ A union is built over time. What matters is that it begins with truth, not with a duty fulfilled in disgust.” She stood. “The oil is here; use it if and when you feel ready. And remember, Your Highness: he is human too. Beneath all that fury and granite, there is a man making a vow as well. Perhaps he is nervous too.”

The idea of Katsuki Bakugou—the Explosive King, the Tempest in human form—being nervous about anything was so absurd it almost made Shoto laugh, easing the tension a little. Almost.

She left, leaving him alone with the vial and his racing thoughts. He picked up the small glass bottle. The oil inside was golden and smelled of sandalwood and something faintly floral. The physical reality of what awaited him became overwhelmingly concrete.

He couldn’t sleep that night. Leaning against the window, gazing at the stars above Mount Explosive, he reviewed everything: the vows he had practiced to exhaustion; the weight of the attire on his shoulders; the scent of the oil on his hands; and Bakugou’s red eyes—always challenging, always assessing. Tomorrow, those eyes would be fixed on him as he made the most important promises of his life. And afterward… afterward, they would look at him in the silence of a room, without the protection of an audience or ceremony.

The fear inside him was enormous. But mixed with it was a stubborn thread of determination. He had survived the journey; he had survived the attack; he had begun to tame the monsters within himself. He would not crumble now. He would keep his vows. And as for the rest… he would face it one thing at a time. As Bakugou always said: “Focus on what’s in front of you. The rest is noise.”

…

Dawn on the wedding day brought with it a sight that made Shoto’s blood run cold for a moment: the colors of Endeavor fluttering in the valley below. A not-too-numerous but unmistakably opulent retinue climbed the trail toward Ketsubutsu. At the front, mounted on a jet-black stallion and wrapped in a crimson cloak, was King Enji Todoroki. At his side, on more modest horses, were Natsuo, with his cynical smile and dark eyes, and Fuyumi, her expression a mix of anxiety and hope. Touya had apparently been left to govern in his absence. Behind them, a small honor guard and a few high-ranking courtiers, all wearing expressions that blended curiosity with deep discomfort.

Their arrival stirred a hushed buzz through the fortress. The people of Ketsubutsu—accustomed to practicality and brute strength—watched from walls, gates, and windows with curiosity devoid of deference. They saw the rigidity of Endeavor’s guard, armor polished to a shine, the flaming banners that seemed to scream against the sober mountain backdrop. And above all, they saw King Enji, whose presence was like an open furnace in an icy cavern—a physical discomfort in the cool air.

Bakugou received them in the main courtyard with his personal guard—Eijiro, Tenya, Mina, and Sero, all in clean but practical armor—and Aichi at his side. He wore a black velvet tunic embroidered with copper threads mimicking lightning, a middle ground between ceremony and readiness. He did not bow, nor make any gesture of submission. His posture was that of a host receiving a visitor of equal—perhaps inferior—status in that territory.

“King Enji,” Bakugou greeted, his voice powerful, projected for all in the courtyard to hear. “Welcome to Ketsubutsu. The climb is steep—I hope your parade horses held up.”

Enji dismounted with a heavy, deliberate motion, his blue eyes sweeping over the fortress, the warriors, Bakugou himself, with an icy disdain that sought to freeze everything around him.

“Bakugou,” the name came out like a sneer. “Your lands are… austere. I expected more from a kingdom that claims to be strong. Where is my son?”

“Following the final preparations,” Bakugou replied, ignoring the insult as if it were a comment about the weather. “As tradition here dictates. You will be led to your chambers; the ceremony is at sunset, at the Cliff of the Cry. Dress appropriately—it’s colder up there than it looks.”

Fuyumi intervened quickly before her father could retort, offering a tense but polite smile.

“We’re grateful for the hospitality, King Bakugou. The scenery is truly impressive.”

Enji merely gave a brusque, almost imperceptible nod—a gesture of one who grants an audience, not receives one. He followed Aichi into the fortress, his crimson cloak dragging over the rough stone, leaving a trail of intense cold and discomfort. Shoto, watching from a high window in the chamber assigned to him, felt the old knot of anxiety—one only his father could create—tighten in his stomach. His father was there. His judgment, his silent fury, his expectation of failure now inhabited the same stone space that, in recent weeks, had begun to feel less like a prison and more like a harsh refuge.

…

Later, Fuyumi managed to get permission to see him, under the discreet but present watch of Mina outside the door. She entered and, without a word, hugged him with a force that surprised Shoto. When she pulled back, her gentle eyes scanned his face, searching for signs.

“You look… more beautiful,” she whispered, holding his face between her cool hands. “Your eyes… your skin… I don’t know, they’re glowing.”

“I’m learning to take care of myself,” he replied, the simplicity of the truth sounding strange and new in his own ears.

“Father…” Fuyumi hesitated, lowering her voice further. “He won’t make a scene—not here, not in front of them. But he’s watching. Every movement, every word, every interaction with Bakugou. It’s like he’s cataloging mistakes for a future judgment. Be careful, Shoto—he didn’t come to bless.”

The warning lingered over Shoto as Camie helped him, hours later, dress in the ceremonial attire. Each layer seemed to add not only physical weight, but a new layer of identity.

“Are you ready?” Camie asked, her wise, calm eyes assessing him like a warrior about to enter a different battlefield.

Shoto looked at his reflection in the large bronze mirror. He saw a stranger who was slowly becoming familiar. Not the ghost prince of Endeavor. Someone with broader shoulders, with a recent scar on the back of his right hand, with a gaze that no longer fully fled from its own reflection.

“Yes,” he said—and the word didn’t sound like a lie.

…

The Cliff of the Cry had been transformed. Upon the black stone, a path of red carpets and golden fabrics led to an arch decorated with mountain flowers that fluttered gently in the wind. The sunset painted the sky in shades of gold and coral, creating a celestial vista for the ceremony. The people of Ketsubutsu, dressed in their finest—embroidered cloaks, dresses with floral details—maintained a respectful silence, their voices mere whispers of anticipation.

On the opposite side, isolated and out of place, stood Enji, Natsuo, and Fuyumi. Enji maintained his rigid posture, his face impassive, observing every detail with calculating eyes.

When Shoto appeared, led by Eijiro on his right and Tenya on his left, a respectful silence fell over the crowd. It was followed by a deep murmur—not of frivolous admiration, but of appraisal.

Bakugou waited beneath the floral arch. To Shoto’s surprise, he wore no armor, but a traditional Ketsubutsu ceremonial outfit: black hakama with a red over-robe embroidered with wolf and mountain patterns in golden thread. His hair was more neatly arranged than usual, and in his hands he held a ceremonial wooden fan.

Aichi, wearing ceremonial robes bearing symbols of union and prosperity, stepped forward to the center of the arch. In his hands, he held a carved wooden cup and a parchment bearing the vows.

“People of Ketsubutsu!” His voice, trained to project orders amid battle, rang clear and firm, commanding the space. “We are here, before the mountain that shelters us and forges our steel, to witness not a treaty, but a union! Katsuki Bakugou and Shoto Todoroki stand here to seal their commitment before us all and before the forces of nature that govern our lives.”

He turned, now facing the two men.

“King Bakugou. The cliff listens; the people await. Speak your vows.”

Bakugou then turned his head, the movement slow and deliberate. His red eyes, ignited by the last rays of the sun, locked onto Shoto’s with an intensity that excluded everything else. In those eyes there was no nervousness, no doubt.

“Shoto. I accept you at my side—not as adornment, not as symbol, but as partner. As equal before the challenge, be it battle or harvest.” He paused, the wind carrying his words to the silent crowd. “I promise to be your sword in the darkness that tries to swallow you, your shield in the storm that seeks to break you, and the flame that will never, ever go out at your side. I promise to respect every thread of strength you possess, and to forge every weakness you dare to show me.” His gaze seemed to pierce Shoto. “While this mountain stands and my heart beats, this place will be your home, these people will be your people, and my strength will be yours to command. This is my word—unbreakable.”

They were words of shelter and home. Of relentless challenge and fierce protection. Shoto felt them echo not in his mind, but in a deep, dormant place in his chest—a place that yearned for exactly that: not lazy safety, but shared purpose, trust earned day by day.

Aichi then looked to Shoto, his gaze encouraging yet expectant.

“Prince Shoto. The mountain listens; your king awaits. Speak your vows.”

All eyes on the cliff were fixed on him. He felt the weight of Enji’s gaze like a brand on his back—a constant, burning pressure. He felt the silent, curious expectation of hundreds of people of Ketsubutsu. But above all, he felt Bakugou’s gaze. It wasn’t a look that asked for poetry or submission; it demanded truth—the same raw truth Bakugou always offered.

Shoto took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the cold, pure, sulfur-scented mountain air. He did not look away. He kept his eyes steady on Bakugou’s ember-red eyes.

“Katsuki Bakugou,” his voice carried—and to his own surprise, it was clear and steady, projecting into the twilight without hesitation. “I accept standing at your side. I promise to protect this people and these mountains with whatever strength I am given, with the blade I learn to wield, and with the counsel my mind can offer.” The words he had practiced alone came alive, fueled by the energy of the moment. “I promise to be a loyal ally. My blade will be sharpened for our enemies, and my counsel honest to you, even when honesty is difficult.” He paused longer; the silence was absolute— even the wind seemed to hold its breath. “And I promise…” he said, the next words rising from a place of newly discovered, profound conviction—a place that spoke of the prince he had been and the man he was trying to become—“to walk with you, not behind you. On this journey that begins today, this is my word.”

From the crowd, a single, deep murmur of approval rose. They had heard the word “ally,” heard “walk with you.” There was no passive submission there; it was a vow of active partnership—the only kind of vow the people of Ketsubutsu could understand and respect.

At that exact moment, Shoto saw his father from the corner of his left eye. Enji did not move a muscle. No tremor, no outburst. But his expression… was that of a strategist watching a meticulous calculation collapse—not due to a surprise attack, but due to a simple, brutal truth he had underestimated: his son was not surrendering; he was allying himself. The icy disdain in his eyes mixed with something more complex, more dangerous—and for Shoto, more satisfying: the powerless recognition that Shoto had, indeed, made a choice of his own, one Enji could not undo with brute force or psychological intimidation. It was a silent defeat, delivered in public, and therefore infinitely more bitter.

Aichi, sensing the climax of the vows had passed, raised both hands.

“The union is sealed by words! By the witnessing mountain and the steel both carry! May these vows be—”

Bakugou interrupted with a gesture. It wasn’t rude; it was decisive. He stepped forward, closing the final inches between them. The movement was so unexpected and charged with intent that the rest of Aichi’s sentence died in the air. Bakugou’s gaze was no longer just recognition or assessment. He looked at Shoto, then at his lips, slightly parted from heavy breathing and emotion.

And then, before the people of Ketsubutsu, under the blazing twilight sky, with the ghost of Enji’s disdain watching, Katsuki Bakugou tilted his head and captured Shoto’s lips in a kiss.
Bakugou’s lips were firm and warm—a dominant pressure, but not violent. It was quick, perhaps three frantic heartbeats long for Shoto, but eternal in its meaning. As he pulled back, Bakugou kept his face mere inches from Shoto’s, his red eyes sparking with fierce satisfaction.

“This,” he said, his voice a low growl only Shoto could hear, though many read his lips, “is the only seal that matters.”
He then turned to the crowd, raising a clenched fist to the sky.

“THE UNION IS DONE! KETSUBUTSU HAS GAINED A PRINCE! I present him to you: Shoto Bakugou.”

It was like releasing a dam. The roar that exploded from the cliff was overwhelming—a primal sound of joy, approval, and celebration that seemed to rise from the earth itself and make the stone tremble beneath Shoto’s feet. Shouts, applause, whistles—it was loud, chaotic, and incredibly real.
Shoto froze for a second, his lips still tingling with the memory of heat and pressure.

Bakugou lowered his fist and glanced at him, one corner of his mouth lifting in a near-smile laden with promises and challenges.

“‘Walk with you,’” he repeated, the crowd’s roar nearly drowning his words. “Don’t forget.”

“I won’t,” Shoto replied, and for the first time that night, a real, small, awkward smile touched his own lips.

They descended from the cliff together, side by side, as the last golden ray of sun set the peak of Mount Explosive ablaze, as if the mountain itself crowned the moment. In the distance, Shoto saw his father turn sharply, his crimson cloak swirling like a blood-red vortex against the gray stone, and disappear into the fortress interior, followed by Natsuo, who cast one last almost respectful glance toward Shoto.

…

The feast in the great hall was monumental—loud, chaotic, and profoundly genuine. Long rustic wooden tables overflowed with food: whole roasted boar and mountain goat, dark, dense breads, strong yellow cheeses, roasted roots, and barrels that seemed inexhaustible of potent mead and dark, bitter beer. Music came from drums and flutes, a pulsing beat that invited dances that were less dance and more a joyful form of bodily combat.

Shoto, seated at the high table beside Bakugou, became the constant focus of attention. Eijiro arrived, his face flushed with mead and joy, and thumped Shoto’s back with a force that made him choke on his first sip.

“To the prince who didn’t fall off the horse!” he shouted, raising a tankard the size of his fist.

Mina, dancing between tables, stopped before them and offered an obscene and hilarious toast about “warming the royal bed,” making Fuyumi—seated at Endeavor’s table—blush to the ears, but also smile behind her cup.

Even Tenya, with his characteristic seriousness, approached, adjusted his glasses, and said solemnly:

“Your presence, Your Highness, adds a new and intriguing vector to our collective strength. I look forward to analyzing your strategic contributions.” He then raised his cup of water (he was the only sober one) in a precise salute.

Natsuo, at Endeavor’s isolated table, watched the spectacle with a sideways smile, like an amused spectator at a bizarre play. From time to time, he raised his cup toward Shoto in a silent, cynical toast. Enji, however, was an iceberg in a stormy sea. He remained impenetrable, sitting upright, eating the bare minimum, speaking only in monosyllables with his own courtiers.

In a moment of relative calm, with Bakugou engaged in an animated (and highly technical) discussion with a master smith about the tempering of volcanic steel, Fuyumi managed to approach Shoto.

“He’s… nothing like I imagined,” she whispered, her gaze fixed on Bakugou, who gestured as he argued carbon points. “And that… kiss.” She blushed again. “It was… beautiful.”

“It’s the only way he knows how to do things,” Shoto replied, and realized there was no criticism in his voice. Perhaps there was the beginning of understanding.

“You’re okay, brother,” Fuyumi said, her voice suddenly heavy with emotion. “Truly. Different, but… okay.”

“I’m trying to be,” Shoto admitted—and for the first time, the idea didn’t feel like an impossible burden, but a hard path he had now chosen to walk.

The feast stretched on for hours, a whirlwind of sensations that slowly dulled the sharp edges of Shoto’s anxiety, replacing them with deep fatigue and a strange sense of belonging. The noise became a constant hum; the torches began to crackle lower as the wax melted; the air grew warm and thick with the smell of food, drink, and sweaty bodies.

Then Bakugou stood. It wasn’t sudden, but the mere fact of his upright posture, his step away from the table, cut through the room like a blade. Conversations died in waves; eyes turned to him. He seemed not to notice or care. He looked at Shoto, then at the hall.

“The party continues for anyone with the stomach and head to endure it!” his voice thundered, easily dominating the residual hum. “The king retires.”

It was a simple declaration, without flourish, but heavy with finality. It was a signal—the end of the public celebration, the beginning of what was private. All eyes—including Enji’s, now entirely dark and unreadable, and Fuyumi’s, filled with renewed concern—turned to Shoto.

He stood, his legs a little unsteady, more from the emotional whirlwind and fatigue than from the mead, of which he had drunk little. He felt his father’s gaze burn into his back one last time that night—a heavy, impenetrable weight, a silent farewell that was also a condemnation. Without looking back, he followed Bakugou, who was already heading for a side door of the great hall, leaving behind the roar that slowly reignited, more muffled now, as the door to the royal chambers closed behind them—severing the last link with the outside world and inaugurating the expectant silence of a night that had only just begun.

Chapter Text

The heavy, iron-reinforced door slammed shut, the impact echoing in Shoto’s ears. The sound of the party faded into a distant murmur, then into a dense silence. The air in the king’s chambers was different: cooler, laden with the scent of old smoke from the hearth, beeswax from the oil lamp, and clean leather—a smell that was unmistakably Bakugou.

The suite was spacious and austere. The bare stone walls were adorned with thick tapestries depicting hunting scenes and battles. A large fireplace, now reduced to low embers, dominated one wall. The bed, wide and low, was piled with heavy wool blankets. Shelves held leather-bound books, rolled maps, and a few weapons arranged with care—not as decoration, but as tools kept within reach. It was the territory of a warrior-king, a place of rest, but never of weakness.

Bakugou crossed the room with firm steps, stopping at an oak table where a dark glass bottle and two simple pewter goblets already waited. He poured an amber liquid into both, his broad back turned to Shoto.

Shoto remained near the door, his fingers still cold from the touch of the metal handle. The small bottle of scented oil Camie had given him felt like it was burning a hole in the inner pocket of his robe. Her words—clinical and soothing—now spun relentlessly in his mind: “communication,” “consent,” “he will wait for your will.” But how was he supposed to express a will he couldn’t even decipher himself? It was a tangle of fear, curiosity, obligation, and a thin thread of something resembling attraction, just as confusing as everything else.

Bakugou turned, holding both goblets. His eyes, now without the dramatic lighting of dusk, looked darker, deeper. He extended one goblet toward Shoto.

“Here. It’s not that crazy mead from the party. It’s a whiskey from the southern valleys. Warms you from the inside.”

His voice wasn’t soft, but it carried a different cadence. It wasn’t the king’s command or the warrior’s roar. It was more restrained, more… private. Shoto accepted the goblet, his fingers brushing Bakugou’s for a brief instant. The contact was fleeting, but the warmth of the king’s skin was a shock against the cold still lingering in his own limbs.

“Thank you,” Shoto murmured, lifting the goblet to his lips. The liquid was bitter, burning cleanly down his throat, spreading a wave of heat through his chilled chest.

Bakugou took a sip of his own, watching him over the rim of the goblet.

“You look like a kitten about to be doused with ice water,” he commented, without gentleness, but also without the cruelty he could have used.

“The situation has similarities,” Shoto admitted, surprised by his own response. Once honesty began at the edge of the cliff, it seemed like a path with no return.

Bakugou made a sound that could have been a muffled laugh.

“Tch. The water here is hot, princess. You just have to decide to get in.” He took another drink. “Forget everything they taught you about this. It’s not about surrender, it’s not a conquest—it’s… exploration.”

The word landed between them. Exploration. It sounded less frightening than consummation, less passive than duty.

“I don’t know where to start,” Shoto confessed, the goblet trembling slightly in his hand.

“Normally, you take your clothes off,” Bakugou replied dryly. But then he set his goblet down and approached. Not quickly, not threateningly, but with the same determination he used when approaching a tactical problem. He stopped an arm’s length away. “But that comes later. First, you breathe.” He pointed to his own chest. “Fear locks everything up. Even pleasure.”

Shoto tried. He drew in air, feeling it weigh heavily in his lungs. The scent of whiskey, smoke, and Bakugou all blended together.

“Look at me,” Bakugou ordered, his voice a notch lower.

Shoto lifted his gaze and met those red eyes fixed on him—not with impatience, but with intense focus, as if surveying terrain before battle.

“Do you want this?” The question was direct, without embellishment, like a sword strike.

It was the question Shoto feared most. How could he answer? The truth was chaos.

“I don’t know what ‘this’ is,” he said, his voice barely more than a thread. “I don’t know if I want it. I just know that… I’m here, and you’re here.”

Bakugou didn’t seem irritated by the non-answer. He appeared to consider it.

“Honest,” he concluded. “That’s a better start than a lying yes.” He stepped even closer. Now Shoto could feel the radiant heat of his body, see the tiny scars near his temple, the texture of his lips. “So let’s make a deal. One step at a time. If at any point you say ‘stop,’ we stop. Understood?”

It was a safe-conduct, a form of control. Something Shoto had never had in any aspect of his life.

“Understood,” he breathed, and some of the tension in his shoulders eased.

“Good,” Bakugou said. Then, slowly, as if handling something fragile and dangerous, he raised his hand. Not to undress him or pull him closer. To touch his face. His large, rough hand, callused at the palms and knuckles, hovered beside Shoto’s cheek. “May I?”

The question—so simple—was the most revolutionary thing Shoto had ever heard. No one had ever asked his permission to touch him. He was a prince, an object, a tool. His consent had never mattered.

He gave a small, almost imperceptible nod.

The touch came. Bakugou’s hand cupped his face, warm against Shoto’s cool skin. The contrast was so vivid that Shoto gasped. The hand was rough, powerful, but the gesture… the gesture was deliberate, almost investigative. Bakugou’s fingers traced the line of his jaw, the curve of his cheekbone, passing over the rough edge of the scar around his left eye.

“Different,” Bakugou murmured, more to himself. “The left side… it’s warmer. The skin, the air around it.”

Shoto stayed still, his breath caught. It was strange. Intimate. But less frightening than he had imagined.

Then Bakugou tilted his head. His breath, warm and faintly scented with whiskey, brushed Shoto’s skin for an instant before his lips met the left temple. The kiss wasn’t really a kiss—it was a firm press of lips against warm skin. Shoto shuddered, a thrill running down his spine.

“Warmer here too,” Bakugou muttered against his skin, his lips moving downward, tracing a soft line to the curve of Shoto’s ear. There he paused and blew lightly, a stream of warm air that made Shoto release a trembling sigh. Bakugou’s mouth then found his earlobe, catching it gently between his teeth, the pressure more of a tease than a bite. “And here? Feel it?”

Shoto could barely manage a “y-yes.” His right hand, acting on its own, grabbed Bakugou’s arm, seeking an anchor.

Bakugou’s hand slid down, over Shoto’s neck, across his shoulder, until it rested at the junction of neck and collarbone where the ceremonial tunic opened. The heat of that hand seemed to penetrate through the velvet. And then his mouth followed the same path. His lips were surprisingly soft, a stark contrast to his rough hands, as they kissed along Shoto’s neck, pausing at the racing pulse. His tongue traced a brief, hot line there, and Shoto arched, gasping, his head tipping back instinctively—only to be steadied by Bakugou’s firm hand at the nape of his neck.

“Stay,” the command was a growl against his pulse. “Let yourself feel.”

Shoto didn’t need to answer. Slowly, as if responding to a call, the air around his left side began to warm. Not enough to burn, but a noticeable aura of heat emanated from his skin.

Bakugou made a sound of satisfaction.

“Two worlds in one body,” he said, and for the first time there was no disdain in the observation—only fascination. His mouth then moved to the right side, passing over the scar, and Shoto braced for greater heat, for discomfort. But Bakugou simply pressed his lips to the cooler skin above the collarbone, in a longer, lingering kiss. “Cold. Like winter.”

He continued downward, kissing the collarbone, while his hands worked to undo the ties of the tunic. The heavy velvet slid from Shoto’s shoulders, pooling on the floor. He was left wearing only simple linen trousers, feeling the cool air of the room and Bakugou’s intense gaze on his skin.

Bakugou stepped back, his eyes roaming over Shoto’s exposed torso with the same critical appraisal he gave a blade or a horse. It was a look of pure appreciation.

His gaze fixed on Shoto’s nipples, one on the cold side, the other on the warm.

“Interesting,” he murmured. He stepped forward again and, without ceremony, lowered his head. His mouth closed over the left nipple, enveloping it with his lips. His rough tongue circled the warm tip, and Shoto jerked, a muffled moan escaping him. The sensation was intense, alien—a shock of wet heat against sensitive skin. Bakugou alternated between gentle suction and slow, circular licks, watching Shoto’s reactions with focused intensity. Then he moved to the right. The skin there was colder, and the nipple reacted faster, hardening under the attention of that eager mouth. Bakugou seemed to enjoy the contrast, returning to the left to feel the difference again, while one hand pinched and teased the other.

“Sensitive on both,” he concluded hoarsely, lifting his head. Shoto’s nipples were now hard and flushed, throbbing from the attention.

Bakugou then began to undress. The tunic came off, then the boots, then the trousers. In seconds, Bakugou stood before him, as naked as Shoto soon would be.

Shoto couldn’t help but look. Bakugou was a sculpture of strength. Muscles shaped by real battles, scars crossing his torso, his arms, his thighs. And at the center of it all, between his legs, he was… impressive. Not in a way that frightened, but in a way that asserted, with brutal honesty, the physical virility that was integral to who he was.

Bakugou didn’t seem modest or exhibitionist. He was simply exposed, like a fact.

“Your turn,” he said, nodding toward Shoto’s trousers.

Shoto’s hands trembled at the ties, but he managed to undo them. The fabric fell. He stood completely naked before the King of the Explosive Lands. The vulnerability hit like a shock, a cold unrelated to temperature. He felt open, unprotected, completely seen.

Bakugou looked. His gaze was slow, meticulous, traveling over every inch of Shoto—from the bicolored hair to his feet. It paused at the shoulder where the wooden sword scar was still pink. It lingered on his thighs, slender but defined. Finally, it settled on his sex, soft and drawn back by nerves. Bakugou knelt, bringing himself level with Shoto’s waist. The act was so unexpected and intimate that Shoto nearly stumbled backward.

“All in order,” Bakugou declared, as if concluding an inspection. Then, without warning, he leaned forward and pressed an open, wet kiss to Shoto’s groin, just above the pubic bone. Shoto moaned loudly, his hands flying to Bakugou’s shoulders to steady himself. Bakugou ignored the still-soft member for a moment, kissing and lightly nibbling the inner thighs, the hip, tracing with his tongue the crease where leg met torso. Each touch of his lips and tongue was a localized ignition, sending fireworks of sensation through Shoto’s nervous system. When he finally wrapped a hand around Shoto’s member and brought the tip to his mouth, licking the head with curious deliberation, Shoto let out a hoarse cry. The wet heat was overwhelming, strange, and gradually, undeniably stimulating. Blood rushed, filling him slowly under that meticulous, patient oral exploration.

“That’s… that’s enough,” Shoto panted, tugging at Bakugou’s shoulders, feeling on the edge of an unknown precipice.

Bakugou stopped, releasing him with a wet sound. His eyes were dark, his breathing quickened. “The bed. Let’s go.”

He turned and moved to the large bed, pulling back some of the covers. He lay back against the headboard, propped on one elbow, and patted the space beside him.

Shoto crossed the room, aware of every movement of his muscles under that gaze. He lay down, keeping a cautious distance.

Bakugou turned to face him. The closeness was overwhelming. His heat, his scent, the sheer mass of him beside Shoto on the bed.

“Touch,” Bakugou said, as if reading his thoughts. “It’s the first language.”

And he began. His hands—hands capable of crushing skulls and wielding swords with brutal strength—became instruments of discovery with astonishing precision. They touched Shoto’s arms, feeling the texture of his skin, the difference in temperature. They moved to his chest, his fingers finding the small nipples again, which tightened under the touch. Bakugou lowered his head once more, capturing one between his lips while his hand slid down Shoto’s abdomen, tracing the contours of muscle.

“Talk,” Bakugou instructed, his voice muffled against Shoto’s chest. “What do you feel?”

“It’s all… very intense,” Shoto panted. “Your mouth… it’s different from your hands.”

“Softer?” Bakugou asked, moving to kiss the center of his chest, then the line of his sternum.

“Yes. And more… insistent.”

“That’s the idea,” Bakugou growled, satisfied, continuing his downward journey. He kissed Shoto’s navel, paused to lightly bite the hip, while his hands spread Shoto’s legs.

When Bakugou’s mouth, hot and relentless, approached his now-hard sex again, Shoto made a sound of pure desperation. “Bakugou… please…”

Bakugou stopped, lifting his face. His lips were glossy.

“In a hurry, princess?” he seemed almost amused. “Alright.”

Shoto met Bakugou’s burning gaze. There was no rush there, only anticipation. He thought of the vows, the kiss on the cliff, the path he had chosen, the fear still trembling inside him—but now counterbalanced by a strange new curiosity and the raw physical need Bakugou’s body had awakened.

“I… I want to try,” Shoto heard himself say.

Bakugou nodded, a small, solemn gesture. Shoto sat up, feeling the king’s gaze on his naked back, picked up the bottle of oil from the floor, and returned to the bed.

Bakugou guided him with short, direct instructions: “More oil.” “Slow.” “Don’t lock up—breathe.” When the pain came, it was sharp and intrusive, and Shoto moaned, his fingers digging into Bakugou’s arm.

“Stop?” Bakugou asked, his face tight with pleasure but also with control.

“No,” Shoto panted, eyes shut. “Continue.”

The pain gradually gave way to a strange fullness, an accepted invasion. And then, when Bakugou began to move—slow at first, then firmer—something else emerged. Throughout the movement, Bakugou never stopped exploring. He leaned in to capture Shoto’s lips in rough, clumsy kisses, bit his neck and shoulder with contained hunger, his hands squeezing and stroking his flanks, his nipples, any part he could reach. It was a deep, visceral connection. Every movement, every kiss, every bite reinforced the vows sealed on the cliff: a fusion of wills, a mutual acceptance, a shared challenge. Bakugou’s body heat enveloped him, his ragged breathing was a muffled roar in Shoto’s ear, his hands held Shoto’s hips with a strength that was both possession and support.

Shoto didn’t climax the way he imagined. His release was quieter—a tremor, a wave of heat and release that coursed through him while Bakugou, with a final guttural growl that seemed to rise from the depths of the earth, found his own end inside him, his lips pressed to Shoto’s neck in a final kiss, almost a seal.

The silence that followed was heavy with labored breathing, with the scent of sex and sandalwood, with the weight of what had just happened. Bakugou collapsed beside him—not on top of him—his body still radiating heat like a furnace.

Shoto lay there, staring at the dark wooden ceiling, feeling the physical sensations: the dull ache, the wetness, the lingering warmth where Bakugou’s mouth and hands had claimed him—mixing with an emotional turmoil impossible to unravel.

After a while, Bakugou got up, took a damp cloth from a nearby basin, and with disconcerting practicality, cleaned himself first and then Shoto.

He lay back down, pulling the blankets over them both. The heat was oppressive and, at the same time, deeply comforting.

“The first time is always shit,” Bakugou declared into the dark, his voice hoarse. “The second is better. The third, you start to get the hang of it.”

Shoto didn’t answer. He was processing. What he felt wasn’t love—it was something more complex. Respect, yes. Fear, still. But also a sense of conquest. He had gone through it. He hadn’t broken. And somehow, the final barrier between them—that last fortress of privacy and fear—had been crossed.

“Thank you,” the word left his lips before he could think.

Bakugou turned his head to look at him in the dark.

“For what?”

“For asking,” Shoto said simply. “For giving me the option to stop. For… being calm.”

Bakugou was silent for a long moment.

“A king who doesn’t know when to retreat is a dead king,” he finally said. “And a forced partner is a potential enemy. It wasn’t only kindness—it was strategy. And…” He paused, rare for him. “It’s more interesting when there’s response, when the partner reacts.”

Shoto knew it was a half-truth. There was strategy, yes. But there was also a grain of something else that, coming from Bakugou, was the closest thing to respect for another’s individuality one could expect. And perhaps a thread of genuine curiosity.

“Even so,” Shoto insisted softly.

Bakugou didn’t respond. He only turned slightly, but didn’t move away. His large, warm presence was an anchor in the dark, unfamiliar sea of that night.

And Shoto—exhausted, sore, marked by touch, by kisses, by discovery, and more confused than ever about what he felt for the man beside him—finally let sleep take him. He drifted off not with a heart full of passion, but with a mind cataloging, like a general after an uncertain battle, the new contours of the world in which he now, irrevocably, lived.

Chapter Text

Shoto woke to loneliness.

The pain came first, a dull and deep ache in his hips and back, a reminder of the invasion, the position, the use. There was also a residual sensitivity on his skin, especially on his neck, nipples, between his thighs—places Bakugou’s lips, teeth, and hands had claimed.

He opened his eyes. Daylight, filtered through the tall and narrow windows, cut across the dim room in dusty stripes. The space beside him on the large bed was empty, the blankets wrinkled and still warm, but the body heat had already begun to fade, leaving only the king’s scent.

Shoto sat up slowly, the covers sliding off his torso. He looked around; the suite was quiet, only the occasional crackle of the embers in the fireplace, now almost ash. His ceremonial clothes were still in a heap on the floor, next to Bakugou’s, discarded with equal indifference. A damp cloth, folded, sat on a low bench beside the bed. The oil vial, nearly empty, glinted on the oak table.

A strange, almost hollow tightness pressed against his chest. What had he expected? That Bakugou would still be there, watching him sleep? That he’d offer words of comfort or reassurance? Ridiculous. The agreement had been fulfilled. The exploration, concluded. The night over.

With somewhat stiff movements, Shoto rose from the bed. The stone floor was cold beneath his bare feet. He grabbed the cloth and quickly wiped his body, cleaning off the dried remnants of the previous night. His own clothes now seemed repulsively ceremonial, unsuitable for the day ahead. He looked around and saw, folded over a nearby chair, a set of simpler garments: dark wool trousers, a thick linen tunic of neutral color, a leather belt, and low boots. Practically the civilian version of Bakugou’s clothes. A travel outfit, or perhaps simply what was considered appropriate attire for a consort in the king’s chambers. There was no choice. He dressed, feeling the coarse but clean fabric against his sensitized skin.

Physiological need took him to a small side door that opened into a cubicle with a stone seat pierced over a chute—the king’s private latrine. Primitive, but functional. As he sat there, he couldn’t avoid examining his body under the clear light that streamed through a crack. Purplish and reddish marks dotted his neck, shoulders, the insides of his thighs. Visible seals left by the king. He touched one on his neck, feeling the slightly sore skin beneath his fingers. A vivid, heated memory of Bakugou’s final growl against his skin surged up, and he shivered, not entirely from discomfort.

When he stepped out of the cubicle, fully dressed, he found a man standing outside the main door of the chambers. He didn’t look like a guard, but rather an older servant, with closely cropped graying hair and a rigid posture. His clothes were simple but well-kept, and his dark eyes observed Shoto with a neutral, professional assessment.

“Good morning, Your Highness,” the man said, with a small and perfectly executed bow of his head. “I am Hagar, one of King Bakugou’s stewards. Your presence was requested in his private quarters for breakfast, but the king was summoned to an urgent meeting.”

Shoto nodded, trying to appear as impassive as the servant.

“Thank you, Hagar. Where is the king?”

“In the war room, with Lord Enji and the commanders of both kingdoms,” Hagar informed him, his tone revealing no opinion on the presence of Shoto’s father. “They are discussing the logistical and military terms of the alliance. The king predicted that the meeting would extend through the morning. He instructed that you be taken to your family’s quarters for a formal farewell, should you desire it. After the meeting, Lord Enji and his entourage are scheduled to depart at noon.”

The message was clear: the time for farewells was now. After that, Shoto would remain. The agreement would begin to be carried out in full.

“I understand,” Shoto said, his voice sounding strange to his own ears. “Please take me to my siblings.”

Hagar inclined his head again and pivoted on his heel, leading the way through the fortress’s cold stone corridors. The path differed from the one he’d taken the previous night. In the daylight, the place’s functional austerity was undeniable, lacking any superfluous ornamentation. They passed a few soldiers and servants who cast brief, curious glances at Shoto, the foreign prince now dressed in his king’s colors. He felt the weight of those looks, the sharp curiosity about what had occurred behind the iron door.

They reached a guest wing, more comfortable than Bakugou’s chambers, yet still severe. Hagar stopped before a door.

“Lord Natsuo and Lady Fuyumi await inside. I will grant you a moment of privacy. I’ll be in the hallway when you’re ready to return.”

Shoto nodded and, after a deep breath, opened the door.

The room was bathed in morning sunlight. Fuyumi sat near the window, her hands clasped in her lap, her eyes slightly swollen but dry. Natsuo stood leaning against the cold fireplace, his arms crossed, his expression tense. Both turned as he entered.

For a long moment, no one spoke. They looked at him, absorbing his new appearance: the simple clothes, the marks on his neck that the tunic’s collar couldn’t fully hide. Shoto saw Fuyumi’s eyes fill with tears again, though she held them back with effort. Natsuo frowned, his gaze shifting from worried to something darker.

“Shoto,” Fuyumi finally whispered, her voice rough. “Are you… alright?”

The question carried a meaning so vast it almost hurt. Physically alright? Emotionally? What did he do to you?

“I am,” Shoto answered, and to his surprise, it wasn’t a complete lie. He wasn’t well, but he was intact. Functional. “And you two? Did you spend the night… comfortably?”

“Comfortably enough,” Natsuo replied, his voice hard. He stepped away from the fireplace, approaching. “What matters is you. He…” Natsuo gestured vaguely toward Shoto’s neck, his jaw tight.

“He kept his word,” Shoto cut in, faster than he intended. “It was… an agreement. He was clear, he respected the boundaries we set.”

The words felt strange in his mouth, but he needed his siblings to know. Needed them to understand it hadn’t been only violence, a brutal duty. It had been something negotiated, even if terribly unequal.

Fuyumi raised a hand to her mouth. Natsuo didn’t seem sure whether that made him more or less concerned.

“That doesn’t make it normal, Shoto,” Natsuo said, his voice softer now but heavy with anguish. “You’re trapped here, with him.”

“I am where I chose to be,” Shoto corrected, surprising himself again. The night, with all its pain and strangeness, had somehow solidified that choice. Retreating now felt like a cowardice greater than moving forward. “The alliance is real, and I am part of it.”

Fuyumi stood and crossed the room in quick steps, wrapping him in a strong, silent hug. Shoto stiffened for a moment, then relaxed, resting his chin on her shoulder. He didn’t cry; he felt emptied of tears, filled only with a cold, heavy resolve.

“Write,” Fuyumi whispered in his ear. “Whenever you can. Tell us… tell us about the seasons here. The customs—anything. Don’t leave us in the dark.”

“I promise,” Shoto murmured into her hair.

Natsuo approached and placed a large, reassuring hand on Shoto’s shoulder, breaking the embrace.

“You’re not alone,” Natsuo said, looking straight into his mismatched eyes. “Even if you’re leagues away. Remember who you are, not just what he or father want you to be.”

Who am I? Shoto thought. The question felt more complex than ever. He was no longer just Enji’s estranged son, the prince of ice and fire. Now he was also the consort of the King of the Explosive Lands. A contested territory, a walking agreement. And, after last night, someone who knew the taste of Bakugou’s mouth and the heat of his hands.

“I will remember,” he said—and the promise was as much to himself as to them.

The door opened, and Enji entered, filling the space with his massive presence. His severe blue gaze swept over Fuyumi and Natsuo before settling on Shoto, examining him from head to toe, pausing on the marks on his neck, on the new clothes. His face revealed no emotion, only a calculated assessment.

“The meeting is concluded,” Enji announced, his voice echoing in the quiet room. “The terms are settled. Trade routes, mutual military support in case of northern incursions, exchange of knowledge in metallurgy and cultivation. An effective agreement.”

He looked at Shoto.

“You fulfilled your part. Now fulfill the rest—strengthen this alliance from within. Learn, observe, become indispensable. The prosperity of our kingdom, and your own safety, depend on it.”

It was the only farewell and blessing Shoto expected from his father. A transaction evaluated, a mission assigned.

“Yes, father,” Shoto said, his voice flat.

Enji nodded once with a brisk gesture.

“The entourage departs in an hour. Your presence in the courtyard for the formal send-off is expected.” Then he turned and left, his duty toward his son completed.

The air felt heavy again after he exited.

“He’ll never change, will he?” Natsuo muttered, bitterness in his tone.

“It doesn’t matter,” Shoto said—and realized, for the first time, that he truly believed it. Enji’s approval or disapproval no longer defined the boundaries of his world. Other eyes, red and intense, were watching him now. Other rules applied. “You need to leave, and I need to stay.”

The final farewells were quicker, more restrained. There was so much to say, but the weight of the moment held the words back. Fuyumi squeezed his hand tightly. Natsuo gave him a short, firm hug. And then they were stepping out the door, casting last looks filled with a painful love Shoto would carry with him like a talisman.

When the door shut, he stood alone in the silent room, now steeped only in their absence. Hagar was by the entrance, waiting.

“Do you wish to return to the king’s chambers, or would you prefer to wait in the courtyard?” the steward asked.

Shoto looked out the window, at the fortress’s stone walls, at the open and unyielding sky of Ketsubutsu.

“To the courtyard,” he said. He would witness the departure, see the dust kicked up by the horses of his former kingdom fade across the horizon. And then he would turn and face the fortress, his new domain, and the warrior king who, by agreement and by exploration, was now the axis around which his world would turn.

The first chapter of his new life—the one written on his skin and in the silence of the night—was closed. The day, and all the days that would follow, demanded a different geography. One of strategy, observation, survival. And perhaps, if Bakugou’s terrain continued to react and he learned to navigate it, something more.

He followed Hagar through the corridors, his steps firm on the stone floor, each one taking him a little further from the boy he had been and guiding him toward the man, the queen, the consort he would have to become.

Shoto followed Hagar through the stone labyrinth to a large inner courtyard of the fortress. The structure was impressive in its brutal functionality: high walls, watchtowers, a ground of uneven stone worn down by countless boots. The morning air was cool and sharp, filled with the smells of the stables, distant smoke, and dry earth.

At the center of the yard, an entourage was already assembling. Soldiers of Enji’s kingdom, in their polished plate armor and blue capes, tightened the saddles of sturdy horses. Servants carried the last chests. The atmosphere was one of urgent efficiency, a duty to be completed. Shoto stopped in the shadow of an arcade, watching.

Mounted on his massive warhorse, Enji looked like a statue of iron and determination. He exchanged final words with Kirishima, Bakugou’s right-hand man, who seemed to be smiling broadly, though his eyes were sharp and serious. Fuyumi and Natsuo were already on their horses, glancing around, searching for him. When Fuyumi’s eyes found his, she gave him a small nod, attempting a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. Natsuo simply stared at him, his face a mask of contained worry.

The sound of firm steps made Shoto turn his head. Bakugou emerged from a side door, coming from the direction of the war room. He wasn’t wearing his full armor, only a cloak over his tunic, but his presence commanded the space. His hair, lighter in the daylight, looked like a wild crown of golden thorns. His eyes swept the courtyard, landing on Shoto for a second that seemed to stretch time itself. There was no smile, no nod—only a brief, intense look that caught Shoto’s breath before moving on toward Enji.

Bakugou stopped beside Lord Enji’s horse, lifting his head to look at the older man. Their conversation was short, inaudible from Shoto’s distance, but their posture said enough: two predators respecting each other’s territory after a treaty. Bakugou made a short gesture with his head, and Enji responded with what could have been a nod. The agreement, in every layer, was sealed.

Then, to Shoto’s surprise, Bakugou turned and walked directly toward him. Eyes around the courtyard followed his movement. Shoto felt the instinct to straighten, to bow his head, but he forced himself to stay still, to meet the red gaze approaching him.

Bakugou stopped in front of him—close, within a space most would consider intimate. His scent, fresher now but still unmistakable, enveloped Shoto.

“The steward said you came to say goodbye,” Bakugou said, his voice a shade lower than his usual bark, but no less commanding.

“It is the proper thing to do,” Shoto replied, his own voice strangely clear in the cold air.

“Tch. Sentimentality,” Bakugou spat the word, but his gaze didn’t waver from Shoto’s face, drifting to the marks on his neck, partially hidden by his hair. “But necessary. Shows respect for your previous chain of command.” He paused briefly. “You’re limping.”

The observation was so precise Shoto almost flinched. The small pain and stiffness were noticeable, then.

“I believe it is temporary,” he said, defiantly.

One corner of Bakugou’s mouth lifted, almost a smirk.

“Yeah, the second time is better. By the third, you stop walking like that.” His tone was practical—no embarrassment, only fact. “When their dust settles, come to the war room. We have things to discuss. Your place here, your duties, what I expect from you.”

Shoto nodded.

“Understood.”

Bakugou studied him a second longer, as if searching for cracks, signs of regret. Whatever he found seemed acceptable. He gave a slight nod—a gesture of dismissal—and turned, walking back toward the center of the courtyard to oversee the final departure.

Shoto’s heart hammered against his ribs. The interaction was brief, impersonal on the surface, but there had been acknowledgment there. A recognition that Shoto had passed the first test. That he was still standing.

A trumpet sounded, sharp and solemn. Enji raised an arm. The entourage began to move, the horses’ hooves clattering against the stone in a rhythm that echoed through the walls. Fuyumi and Natsuo looked back one last time. Shoto raised his hand, small and firm. They mirrored the gesture, then turned toward the opening gate.

Shoto watched, his feet rooted to the cold ground, as the procession passed through the massive gate and disappeared down the dusty road that wound between the arid hills. The sound of hooves faded to an echo, then silence. The iron gate shut with a final thud that seemed to seal his fate.

The courtyard suddenly felt very large and very empty. Bakugou’s soldiers resumed their routines. The wind whistled through the battlements.

He felt rather than saw Bakugou approaching again. The king did not look at the closed gate; his eyes were on Shoto.

“Enough looking at the past,” Bakugou said, his voice slicing through the air like a blade. “He left; you stayed. Now you work with us.” He began walking toward an inner doorway, implicitly expecting Shoto to follow. “The war room. Let’s go.”

Shoto took one last look at the closed gate, at the horizon where the dust of his father’s entourage was already settling. A chapter was truly closed. He took a deep breath, the pain in his muscles a reminder. Then he turned his back to the gate and followed the king into the fortress’s depths, toward the next lesson, the next terrain to map.

Shoto followed Bakugou through the corridors, the pain in his steps a constant silent reminder of the night before. The king didn’t look back or slow his pace. It was as if he expected Shoto to adapt, to swallow the discomfort and keep up. And out of a stubbornness that fed off that exact challenge, that is precisely what Shoto did.

The “war room” wasn’t a room—it was a tower. A steep, spiraling stone staircase led to a circular chamber at the top of one of the fortress’s main towers. Narrow windows offered a panoramic 360-degree view of the Explosive Lands: arid hills, deep canyons, the silver thread of a distant river, and to the north, the dark mountains marking the hostile frontier.

The room was austere even by Bakugou’s standards. A massive oak table, chipped and scarred by daggers and drinking cups, dominated the center. On it, maps lay unrolled, held down with chunks of raw ore. Shelves filled with scrolls, thick record books, and an impressive collection of weapons lined the stone walls. There was a smell of old dust, ink, weapon oil, and a faint hint of the acrid scent of gunpowder the armies of Bakugou were famous for using.

Kirishima was already there, leaning over one of the maps. He looked up when they entered, his easy smile appearing.

“Ah, Prince Shoto! You okay? Thought you might want some rest after the… uhm… wedding.” His eyes blinked quickly—a mix of sympathy and curiosity.

“He’s rested enough,” Bakugou answered for Shoto, going straight to the head of the table. “We have a lot of work ahead.”

Shoto remained standing beside the table, feeling out of place. He wasn’t a commander here. He was an outsider, a pawn on the board.

Bakugou pointed to a sturdy chair on the opposite side of the table.

“Sit. Your job starts now—with eyes and ears. Pay attention to everything, take notes if you need to, but learn.”

Shoto sat, the hard wood offering no mercy to his aches. Bakugou planted his hands on the table, his eyes sweeping the maps.

“Kirishima, summarize for him. The situation in the North, the points of the agreement with the Old Man, and where he”—a curt jerk of the head toward Shoto—“fits in.”

Kirishima nodded, his face turning serious. He pointed to the map, to a rugged mountain range in the north.

"The Barbarians of the Eternal Frost. They are not a unified kingdom, but clans. Lately, a new chief, some Hayato guy, has been uniting more clans than usual. Raids on our sulfur mines and on your father’s caravan routes have increased by 30% in the last season. The agreement with Lord Enji gives us right of passage through the Frozen Lake Valley — his finger slid to a point on the map of Shoto’s kingdom — to flank the gorges the barbarians use as natural fortress. In exchange, we provide siege engineers and a share of the refined sulfur for your kingdom’s steel forges."

Shoto listened, analyzing. It was pure strategy. His marriage was the key that unlocked this military maneuver. He looked at Bakugou.

“And my role in this? Besides being the key.”

Bakugou lifted his eyes from the map, his red eyes locking onto Shoto’s.

“You are the key, yes. But a key can turn both ways. Your job is to make sure the door stays open for us, and closed to distrust.” He straightened. “You’re going to learn this terrain. Every corner, every mine, every outpost. You’re going to learn our troops, our captains, our weaknesses. And you’re going to write to your father, regular reports that seem… collaborative. Full of details about our strength, our determination, our loyalty to the agreement.”

“Reverse espionage,” Shoto concluded; the taste of the word was bitter, but familiar. It was the game of courts, but on a larger scale.

“Controlled information, I’d say,” Bakugou corrected, impatient. “It’s what a strategic consort does. Builds trust through transparency. Your father expects reports, and he’ll get them. But the details, the tone… we control. You’ll also start accompanying Kirishima on inspections, you’ll be seen by the people, you’ll learn to talk to the soldiers, to the miners. You’ll stop being a ghost and start being a presence here. A presence that strengthens the alliance.”

It was a vast and intimidating role. It wasn’t just being an ornamental spouse. It was active work, dangerous if done poorly, powerful if done well.

“And what if I don’t want to control information? What if I want real transparency?” Shoto asked, testing limits.

Bakugou let out a short, dry laugh.

“Then you’re an idiot, and the alliance collapses at the first disagreement. Total transparency doesn’t exist between kingdoms, princess. Only between allies, and allies become allies through mutual interest and managed information. You’re here to manage it.”

The frankness was brutal, but it wasn’t a lie. Shoto had grown up in his father’s court. He knew how words were armed and disarmed.

“And what do I gain from this?” The question escaped before he could stop it. “Besides fulfilling my duty in the agreement?”

Bakugou leaned forward over the table, his presence dominating the space between them.

“You gain a place. Not a golden cage in the room next to mine, you gain respect. From my men, from my kingdom. And eventually, your own. You gain something to do besides waiting for nightfall, you gain purpose, and”—his eyes sparked with fierce intensity—“you gain the chance to get good at something new.”*

It was an offer. A harsh, demanding offer, loaded with expectations as tall as the fortress walls. But it was an offer of action. Of agency, even within the boundaries Bakugou set. Shoto looked at the king’s hands, splayed on the table, large, rough, and capable. The same hands that had mapped him the night before were now pointing to a map of a kingdom. The connection was impossible to ignore. Everything, to Bakugou, was a form of exploration, conquest, tactile learning.

“Where do we start?” he asked, his voice firm.

A fierce, genuine smile crossed Bakugou’s face for the first time that morning.

“At the beginning.” He tapped the map, on a point marked as Ash Throat Outpost. “Kirishima is going there tomorrow to check the gunpowder supplies. You’re going with him; observe, listen, learn.” He looked at Shoto. “And you’ll dress properly. These clothes work inside the fort. For the field, you need leather, something sturdy. Hagar will arrange it.”

Shoto nodded. It was an order, but also a step. New territory to explore, this time with open eyes and alert mind. The lonely emptiness he’d felt upon waking was beginning to be filled by something different: the anticipated weight of responsibility, and a thin thread of something that might be challenge, or perhaps the beginning of understanding.

The meeting continued, with Bakugou and Kirishima discussing logistics, names of captains, problems in the mines. Shoto listened, absorbing, beginning the slow and painful process of turning the foreign into familiar.

Chapter Text

Some Days Later

The pain had subsided to a familiar throb, a small reminder that Shoto had learned to ignore. The clothes provided by Hagar: a set of leather, sturdy wool, and boots, were practical and ideal for the climate. He had accompanied Kirishima to the Ash Outpost, a place of strong winds and men with faces marked by sulfur dust. He had observed in silence, as instructed, feeling the weight of curious and suspicious glances from the soldiers.

...

"Today is market day in Crater Village!" announced Mina, appearing in the courtyard with the energy of a ray of sunshine. She was dressed in practical clothes, but with touches of color: a pink vest over a linen tunic and copper bracelets that jingled. "The people need to meet their new prince consort! Kirishima thought a more... open approach would be good."

Kirishima, beside her, nodded with his wide, trustworthy smile.

"Katsuki thinks it's a waste of time, of course. Says respect is earned in battle and administration, not with smiles." He shrugged. "But sometimes, a little sunlight helps things grow."

Shoto looked from one to the other. Mina, with her disarming smile, and Kirishima, with his unwavering loyalty and practical wisdom. They were the most obvious bridges between him and this harsh kingdom. And, implicitly, between him and Bakugou.

"And the king approved this... excursion?" asked Shoto, already knowing the answer.

"He didn't forbid it," Kirishima corrected, prudent. "He said, 'Do what you want, but if he acts like a fool, it's your fault'." He imitated Bakugou's growling tone with irony.

It was the closest thing to a blessing Shoto would receive.

"Then let's go," he said, adjusting the scabbard of his new dagger—a functional, unceremonious gift from Bakugou, delivered by Hagar with a "the king says a prince without a blade is a target."

Crater Village was not a village in the sense Shoto knew. There were no cobblestones or wooden stalls. It was a settlement that had grown within and around an ancient, immense extinct volcanic crater, its houses carved into the porous stone walls or built with blocks of black rock taken from the site. The effect was of a giant hive, protected from the harshest winds by the terrain itself. The air at the bottom of the crater was warmer, laden with the smells of food cooking, metal being worked, animals, and people.

The "market" was a chaotic and vibrant place that occupied the central area. Stalls of colorful canvas competed for space with open-air forges, where blacksmiths hammered metal that glowed with a peculiar orange hue. There were stalls with vegetables grown on upper terraces, cured meats, goat cheese, and a profusion of artifacts made from bone, stone, and the ever-present worked sulfur: amulets, pots, pigments.

And, of course, there were the people.

When Shoto, flanked by Kirishima and Mina, descended the winding trail leading to the bottom of the crater, the murmur died down. Eyes turned to them. They weren't looks of open hostility, but of deep and cautious assessment. They saw Shoto's clothes, his bi-colored hair—a glaring anomaly in this sea of dark hair, sun-bleached blond, or reddish-orange—and the subtle marks of his position. They recognized Kirishima and Mina immediately, and that, in itself, placed Shoto in a context.

"People of Ketsubutsu!" Mina's voice, surprisingly powerful and melodious, cut through the air. "Come and meet! This is Shoto Todoroki, Prince of the Northern Kingdom, and now, by alliance and by right, our Prince Consort!"

Shoto felt every muscle tense. He was used to being watched, but never presented as an attraction. Kirishima stepped forward, his imposing and reassuring presence.

"Prince Shoto is here to learn about us, about life in the Crater. To strengthen the bonds that our King Bakugou has sealed." His tone was respectful, but firm. A reminder that, although this was an introduction, the authority behind it was unquestionable.

Slowly, people began to approach. First the children, curious and fearless, pointing at his hair.

"What different hair! And what's that on his face? Is he burned on one side?" whispered a boy, loud enough for everyone to hear.

"It's a scar," Shoto replied, his voice sounding strangely clear in the silence that had settled. Without thinking, he raised his left hand and lifted the hair that covered his face.

A murmur of curiosity ran through the crowd, especially the children, whose eyes widened. It wasn't fear, it was pure curiosity.

"King Katsuki always says scars are memories of victorious battles," said an older woman, her intelligent eyes studying Shoto. "It shows you are strong, your highness."

The observation was so astute that Shoto was left speechless. Mina seized the moment.

"And he wants to see how you live! Show him the best cheeses from Lady Hilda! Old Goro's sulfur seals!" She began to gently pull Shoto through the crowd, breaking the ceremonial ice.

What followed was an avalanche of sensations. Shoto was introduced to blacksmiths who worked with metal alloys that resisted extreme heat, using sulfur in the tempering process in ways his father's forgers could never imagine. An elderly woman, Lady Hilda, shoved a piece of incredibly spicy, smoked goat cheese into his hand. The flavor was extreme, and he coughed, making those around him laugh.

An old craftsman, Goro, with fingers deformed by arthritis but still agile, showed him how he carved seals and amulets from stone.

"The stone of our king," the old man said, proudly. "Hardness and contained fire, just like him."

In each interaction, Kirishima was there, a silent pillar, ensuring respect was maintained. Mina was the interpreter, translating not only words, but customs, local jokes, the meaning behind a gesture. Shoto listened more than he spoke, absorbing.

There were moments of tension. A young blacksmith, muscular and with scars from metal splashes, crossed his arms and didn't lower his head.

"And what does a Northern prince know about sweating at the forge? About defending a wall with his own hands?"

Silence fell over the forge area. Kirishima moved almost imperceptibly, but Shoto raised a discreet hand.

"Nothing," Shoto admitted, looking directly at the blacksmith. "I don't know. My sweat came from a different kind of forge. My battles were... different. But I'm here to learn, and to listen. If you want to tell me what defending a wall here means, I will listen."

The honesty disarmed the man. He didn't smile, but the disdain in his eyes lessened to skepticism.

"Maybe another day," he muttered, returning to his work.

At the end of the afternoon, with the sun beginning to set over the crater's edge, painting the black stone orange and purple, Shoto was exhausted. His senses were overloaded, his feet ached, but his mind was alive. He had seen the vital gears of the kingdom, not just the soldiers, but the people who sustained everything.

On the way back, climbing the trail, Mina asked, her tone casual: "So, what did you think?"

Shoto stopped for a moment, looking back at the crater lit by the first torches, the comforting murmur rising up to them.

"They are... direct, proud, like everything here." He paused. "And loyal to him. Everything refers back to him."

"Bakugou isn't a king who rules from a distant throne," Kirishima explained, his face serious in the twilight light. "He fights on the front lines, he knows the name of every captain, every important forge master. He earned every inch of respect with blood, sweat, and victories. For them, you are an extension of him now. A test. If you are weak, you weaken him. If you are strong... you strengthen him."

It was an immense responsibility. But the walk through the village, the looks that slowly changed from distrust to curiosity, the offer of cheese, even the blacksmith's challenge—all of it felt more tangible, more real.

When they arrived at the fort, Bakugou was in the training yard, overseeing a wooden sword sparring session. He saw them arrive, his eyes passing over Mina and Kirishima before locking onto Shoto. He finished giving an instruction to a soldier and walked over to them.

"So?" was all he said.

Shoto met his gaze.

"Crater Village has 347 steps on the main descending trail; Lady Hilda's cheese is very strong, but also very good; and your people have a great deal of pride in you and the way you handle things."

For a long second, Bakugou just stared at him. Then, a grunt escaped his lips. It could have been irritation, or something close to satisfaction.

"Learned to count steps. Fascinating." He turned to leave, but stopped after two paces, without looking back. "Hagar has a tub of hot water prepared for you in your quarters. Smelling of forge smoke and goat all day is not suitable for a prince consort."

And then he was gone, returning to his soldiers.

Mina let out a muffled giggle. Kirishima smiled, relieved.

"That, in his language, is 'good job' and 'I'm taking care of you'," Kirishima whispered.

Shoto looked at Bakugou's retreating back, then at the lights beginning to appear in the fort's windows. The smell of smoke was still on his clothes, a reminder of the day. The promise of hot water, a small gesture of care.

...

The hot water in the tub, scented with rustic herbs that somewhat masked the strong smell of the village, had eased the physical tension, but not the restlessness in Shoto's mind. One month, a whole month in the Lands of Ketsubutsu. A month of observation, of cautious steps, of tactical learning, and of silent nights in his individual quarters—a spacious but cold room, connected by an always-closed door to Bakugou's. The act of the wedding night had not been repeated. Bakugou seemed too busy, or perhaps considered that chapter sufficient for now. Shoto didn't know for sure, and this uncertainty was an additional weight.

He knew the strength of the army, the strong points of the economy, the names of the main captains. He knew the smells of the market, the flavors of the local food, the stubborn pride of the people. But he didn't know Bakugou, not really. He knew the king, the strategist, the warrior. But not the man behind the crown.

The decision was made at the end of the following afternoon, after a tedious session of reviewing storage records with Hagar. Technical knowledge was important, but it was hollow if there wasn't a foundation of understanding. The alliance needed more than treaties and public appearances. It needed, at its core, a line of communication between the two pillars that supported it.

With his heart beating a little faster than reasonable, Shoto stopped before the heavy oak door that separated his room from the king's quarters. It was never locked, he knew; he had discreetly tested the bolt on past nights. But crossing it without permission would be an invasion.

He took a deep breath and knocked, three firm knocks.

Silence for a moment. Then, Bakugou's rough voice from the other side: "Enter."

Shoto opened the door. Bakugou's quarters were as on the first night, lit by oil lamps and the orange glow of embers in the fireplace. Bakugou was sitting at the oak table, with a set of sharpening tools, meticulously caring for the blade of a short dagger. He didn't look up immediately.

"What do you want?" he asked, the sound of metal sliding against the whetstone filling the space between words.

"To talk," Shoto said, remaining near the door.

Bakugou stopped, finally looking up. His gaze was penetrating, assessing.

"Any complaints about the room? The training? The food?"

"No, it's about us."

That made Bakugou put down the dagger and stone with a dry clatter. He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his broad chest.

"Us? We are an alliance, everything is working. What else is there to talk about?"

Shoto took a step into the room, closing the door behind him. The gesture was significant.

"The alliance is working on the surface. But I've been here for a month, Bakugou. I know your captains better than I know you. I know how your people temper steel, but I don't know if you like music. I don't even know where your parents are, or if they're alive. How can we build mutual trust, the foundation of any lasting alliance, as you yourself said, if we are complete strangers?"

Bakugou frowned, a low growl echoing in his chest.

"Trust is built with actions, with proven loyalty. Not with court gossip."

"It's more than gossip," Shoto insisted, his voice gaining a surprising firmness. "It's understanding what drives the other, it's predicting reactions, it's knowing what you can rely on. Right now, I only know I can rely on your word as king. And you only know you can rely on my obedience as consort. It's fragile."

For a long moment, Bakugou just stared at him, his fingers drumming on the arm of the chair. Shoto could almost see the thoughts spinning behind those red eyes, weighing the logic against the irritation of having his time wasted.

"Waste of time," Bakugou finally grumbled, but his posture lost some of its rigidity. It was a tiny opening. "But... you have a point about the parents. It's a strategic detail that was ignored. Sit down."

It wasn't a warm invitation, but it was what Shoto expected. He pulled the other heavy chair and sat on the opposite side of the table, facing Bakugou.

"My parents," Bakugou began, his tone factual, as if reporting a logistical detail, "are dead. My father, a good but ordinary blacksmith, died in a mine explosion when I was a child. My mother..." He paused infinitesimally, his eyes losing themselves for a second in the flames. "My mother was the previous commander. A woman more irritable than me, if that's possible. Died defending Boom gorge, five years ago. That's when the crown fell to me. It wasn't just by blood inheritance, but because no one there was stronger or more willing to burn everything to defend what was ours."

It was a dry story, stripped of sentimentality, but Shoto could read between the lines. The early responsibility, the constant need to prove strength, the legacy of war.

"They must have been remarkable people," Shoto said, simply.

"They were what they needed to be," Bakugou retorted, shrugging. "Just like we are. Now talk about you. Your father I know, and your mother? The Queen Rei? Where does she fit into this lineage of 'fire and ice'? No one from my kingdom has heard of her in years."

The question was a hook cast into deep and turbulent waters. Shoto felt the familiar fire spread from his left side, an uncontrollable reflex. He closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the rough texture of the scar under his eyelids.

"My mother," he began, his voice lower, "was a gentle woman. From the kingdom of the Eternal Snows, even further north than my father. An arranged marriage to consolidate heirs. She... she brought the ice into our blood, into me."

He paused, swallowing hard. Bakugou said nothing, just watched, his attention now completely focused, not as a king analyzing an ally, but as a man trying to decipher a map of pain.

"My father... he saw her power, the combined power, as the key to an invincible lineage. He pressured her, he pressured me. The training started before I could speak properly. Fire on one side, ice on the other. But the balance is... difficult, painful. But news of the powers spread, my father was forced to cease the training and hide us." Shoto touched the left side of his face, his fingers trembling slightly. "One day, the pain, the pressure, the fear... it was too much for her. She looked at me, at this child who was more an experiment than a son, and saw only my father's fire. And... she turned on me, with boiling water..."

The words came out as if torn from him. He had never told this to anyone in this way. Not even to Fuyumi or Natsuo.

"She threw near-boiling water on your face?" Bakugou asked, his voice strangely neutral, without judgment.

"Near-boiling water, yes. But it wasn't just the water that left the scar. When she realized what she had done, she tried to use ice on my face, to make me stop crying." Shoto opened his eyes, staring directly at Bakugou, letting him see the scar, the story, the naked truth. "She was confined after that. My father declared her insane, a threat to the lineage. She is exiled to a distant sanatorium. I... haven't seen her since."

The silence that followed was heavy as lead. Bakugou offered no condolences, expressed no horror. His face remained the same, but his eyes... his eyes sparked with a fierce and deep understanding.

"Insanity," he spat the word, but not as an insult to the queen. As a verdict on the situation. "It's not insanity to break under extreme pressure, it's consequence. Your father created a forge of pressure and then was surprised when something inside burst. He's a complete idiot about things that don't involve battles."

The analysis was brutal, merciless, and so precisely accurate that Shoto felt a knot loosen in his chest. Bakugou didn't see a victim or a monster. He saw a miscalculation, a pressure poorly applied that led to a catastrophic explosion. It was a language he understood viscerally.

"And the scar?" Bakugou asked, his gaze fixed on Shoto's left eye. "Does it hinder you? Affect your control?"

"Physically, no. The vision is intact. Psychologically..." Shoto hesitated. "It's a constant reminder. That the balance is precarious, that even ice can burn."

Bakugou nodded, once, as if he had added a crucial piece to a tactical puzzle. He picked up the dagger from the table, turning it in the light.

"Everyone carries scars, princess. Some are just more visible. My mother left me the crown and the obligation to be unshakeable. Yours left you a mark on your face and the lesson that blindly trusting any force, even that of blood, is stupid. Different lessons, different tools." He looked up, and in them was a gleam that wasn't pity, but a recognition almost resembling respect. "You carry both inheritances. Your father's fire and your mother's ice. And the scar that proves you survived the conflict between them. It's not a weakness."

No one had ever said anything like that to Shoto. No one had ever seen that pain as anything beyond a tragedy or a flaw. In Bakugou's raw, strategic words, it transformed into information, into experience.

Shoto took a deep breath, the cold air from his left side meeting the warmth of the fireplace.

"And you?" he asked, his voice steadier. "What are the scars that aren't seen?"

A fierce, genuine smile crossed Bakugou's face.

"Ah, that's a conversation for another night, princess. When trust is a little less... recent." He raised the dagger, observing the edge. "For today, you got what you wanted. Now, go rest in your quarters, I have things to do. Tomorrow, you're coming with me to inspect the northern canyon defenses. It's tough terrain, you'll need to be alert."

Shoto stood up, feeling strangely light, as if a weight he had carried for years had been shared—not removed, but acknowledged as part of the burden.

"Until tomorrow, then," he said, and turned to leave.

"Shoto."

He stopped at the door, looking back.

Bakugou wasn't looking at him, but at the flames.

"It's 346 steps. You counted the step into my tower as the first one. Common mistake."

And then, he went back to sharpening his dagger, the sound of metal against stone filling the room once more.

Shoto left, closing the door softly behind him. In the cold corridor of his own quarters, he raised his hand to his face, touching the rough scar. For the first time, he felt no shame, no sharp pain. He felt... recognition.

Trust might still be a fragile plant, but tonight, it had sunk its first roots into the stony soil of the Explosive Lands. And Shoto realized, with a clarity that warmed him from the inside, that he was no longer just learning to survive in this kingdom. He was beginning to learn to understand its king.

Chapter Text

The next morning brought a dark sky and a strong wind that howled along the battlements of the fort. The perfect day, in Bakugou’s dry words, to inspect defenses—any weakness would reveal itself under this weather.

While Shoto equipped himself with thermal clothing and a heavy fur coat, Kirishima headed toward the war room. He found Bakugou already prepared, examining a map of the canyon with narrowed eyes, as if he could force the rock to reveal its secrets through the intensity of his gaze alone.

"Hey, Bakugou" Kirishima greeted, his voice echoing in the empty room.

"What?" the king replied without lifting his eyes.

"You’re taking Shoto to the canyon today, right? The weather’s rough."

"Exactly why. If he freezes or falls off a cliff for being clumsy, we’ll quickly find out what kind of consort we have."

Kirishima crossed his arms, his usually relaxed face turning serious.

"Bakugou, brother. Can I say something?"

That made Bakugou lift his head, a suspicious look in his red eyes.

"Since when do you ask permission?"

Kirishima smiled, but it was a tense smile.

"It’s about Shoto. And about… you, with him."

"What about me?" — Bakugou growled, closing the map with a thud.

"You’re treating him like a new recruit. Worse, like a logistics problem. Inspection here, report there, “do this, don’t do that. ”Kirishima took a step forward. "He’s trying, Bakugou, really. He went down to the Crater, ate that cheese that melts stomachs, listened to the people, he’s learning. But he’s not just a soldier or a diplomat. He’s your consort."

"I know what he is" Bakugou shot back, his voice a tone lower, dangerous. "And he’s fulfilling his function."

"His function is to be your partner!" Kirishima insisted, his stone patience beginning to crack. "The alliance is political, yes. But the marriage… man, it’s more than a seal on a document. The people see it—they saw him down there, and now they’ll see how you treat him. If you treat him like just a useful tool, that’s what he’ll be. A tool, fragile, that can break or be taken by someone who offers… I don’t know, a bit of human warmth."

Bakugou fell silent, his jaw tense. Kirishima knew he was touching a sensitive point. Bakugou understood loyalty forged in battle, respect earned through strength. The language of affection, of “human warmth,” as Kirishima had said, was foreign ground—and potentially treacherous.

"What do you suggest? That I write poems to him? Bring flowers?" Bakugou’s sarcasm was evident.

"No, you blockhead!" Kirishima exclaimed, frustrated. "Just… be less you sometimes. Just a little, when it’s just the two of you. Your wedding night… was an agreement, you told me. Fine, but what about after? He sleeps alone in a cold room, you don’t even have dinner with him. Try… talking. Not about mines or patrols—ask what he thinks of the sky here, if he misses any food, anything! Show that you see him, not just the Prince Consort."

Bakugou stared fixedly at the embers in the fireplace, his face an impenetrable mask. Kirishima waited, knowing that pressing further would be counterproductive.

"Loving" Bakugou spat the word like it was poison. "That’s what you’re asking."

"I’m asking for a bit of… care, consideration. He came from a bad place, Bakugou. In every sense. You can be the campfire, or you can just be another snowstorm for him."

For a long moment, the only response was the howl of the wind outside. Then Bakugou grabbed his heavy travel cloak.

"The advice was noted and partially ignored. Now get out of my way. I have a canyon to inspect and a prince to test."

Kirishima sighed but stepped aside. It was the most he would get for today.

...

The road to the Northern Canyon was a trial in itself. The strong wind blew against them. The horses, sturdy animals used to the terrain, advanced with difficulty. Shoto, wrapped in his furs, felt the cold on his right side like a familiar ally, but the wind was a universal enemy. His left side maintained a constant heat, a small personal furnace that kept his fingers from freezing on the reins.

Bakugou led in silence, his figure a dark, determined shadow against the pale sky. They had traveled for hours with little more than brief instructions shouted against the wind. The conversation from the night before felt distant.

When they finally reached the edge of the canyon, the spectacle was terrifying and magnificent. A deep gorge carved by ages of wind and rare water, its vertical walls of black and red rock streaked with mineral striations. Far below, a narrow and furious river of icy water foamed. Narrow bridges of rope and wood—more suggestions of passage than proper structures—connected guard posts carved into the rock itself.

"The weakest point of our border" Bakugou shouted, the wind stealing his words. "And the easiest to defend if you know what you’re doing. Let’s go down."

The “path” was little more than a crack in the rock, a slippery natural staircase of loose stone. Bakugou descended first, agile and sure. Shoto followed, each step a battle against the wind and vertigo. The cold intensified as they descended, but the wind lessened, contained by the high walls.

When they reached a small natural platform where a guard post had been carved out, Shoto was breathless, his muscles burning. Two sentinels, hooded and with faces almost unrecognizable under their wrappings, came out and greeted Bakugou with silent respect. Their eyes settled on Shoto, curious.

Bakugou quickly inspected the stocks of arrows, the condition of the bridge ropes, exchanged a few short words with the men about movements seen on the opposite rim. Pure efficiency. Shoto watched, absorbing the details of the post, the harshness of life there.

After the sentinels retreated back into the cave, the two of them were left alone on the platform, the roar of the river below filling the silence the wind had left.

It was then that Bakugou, without looking at Shoto, spoke:

"The sky here… is it different from your old kingdom?"

The question was so unexpected, so outside the script, that Shoto took a second to process it.

Bakugou remembered Kirishima’s words, the advice. “Ask what he thinks of the sky here.”

"It’s… lower" Shoto replied honestly, looking up. "In my kingdom, on the plains, the sky feels immense, infinite. Here, with the canyons and hills, it feels low. Heavier, more… personal."

Bakugou made a thoughtful sound.

"Hm, I think it looks like a stone ceiling." He paused, his eyes still scanning the opposite edge of the canyon. "Do you miss any food? Something we don’t have here?"

Another of Kirishima’s questions.

Shoto felt a thread of disbelief, followed by something warm and uncomfortable in his chest. Bakugou was trying. In an awkward, almost robotic way—but he was trying.

"Cold soba" Shoto said. "A thin noodle, served cold, with a light broth. It’s common there. The food here is… robust."

"Robust keeps you standing" Bakugou retorted, but then added, almost as an aside: "Hagar has a sister who married a merchant from the east. She knows how to make things with noodles. I can ask."

It was an offer, tiny, practical. But it was an offer that didn’t have to be made.

"I… would appreciate that" Shoto said, surprised at his own voice.

Silence again, but now it was a different silence. Less heavy with the pressure of performance, more just two men in a hostile place.

"The inspection" Shoto said, to fill the void. "The post seems solid. But the main bridge… the ropes are worn by the ice."

Bakugou finally looked at him, a flash of genuine approval in his eyes.

"Good observation. The replacement is scheduled for the next full moon, when the thaw makes the work easier." He paused. "You have a good eye for detail. That’s useful."

It was a compliment. As dry and functional as the man who gave it—but it was a compliment. Shoto felt a warmth that did not come from his left side spread across his face.

"Let’s go" Bakugou said, turning toward the climb back. "The wind will get worse by nightfall."

The ascent was even more arduous than the descent. At one point, where the rock was particularly loose and slippery, Shoto’s foot slipped. He slid backward, a burst of icy adrenaline firing through his veins. Before he could fall, a strong hand with an iron grip closed around his forearm, stabilizing him with a rough pull.

"Watch your step, princess" Bakugou growled, his face inches from Shoto’s, his eyes sparking with intensity—but not anger. With alertness. "The canyon doesn’t forgive distractions."

He didn’t let go immediately. For a second, they stayed there, anchored to each other, the wind howling around them, the heat of Bakugou’s hand penetrating through Shoto’s layers of leather and wool, burning like a brand in the ice of his arm.

Then Bakugou pulled him up, placing him on a more secure foothold, and released him.

"Let’s go, slowly."

The rest of the journey back was done in silence, but the silence was different now. The wind still howled, the cold still cut, but inside Shoto’s coat, where his arm had been held, a sensation of warmth persisted. And in his mind, Bakugou’s awkward questions about the sky and the food echoed—strange and meaningful, just like the firmness of his hand in the moment of danger.

Kirishima might ask for love, for something Bakugou didn’t even know how to begin giving. But what he had given that day—a conscious effort to see beyond the function, a tactical compliment, a firm hand at the right moment—for Shoto, who came from a world of ice and brutal expectations, that might be a truer and more solid beginning than any poem.

...

Two Months Later

Autumn in the Lands of Ketsubutsu was a season of furious winds and colors of fire. The rare leaves of the resilient trees painted the slopes in orange and blood-red, matching the tones of the stone.

Shoto, now a familiar figure both in the fort and in the Crater Village, felt less like a fish out of water and more like a hardy plant that, against all odds, was putting down roots in the rocky soil.

Visits to the market with Kirishima and, sometimes, with Mina had become routine. The children were his greatest conquerors. They did not see the Prince Consort; they saw the man with funny hair who always had a piece of hard rapadura (a gift from Lady Hilda) hidden somewhere in the folds of his coat.

Shoto discovered a surprising patience for their endless questions and loud laughter. He returned from these excursions not only with supplies, but with small gifts: a very pretty flower that grew in the cracks of the rocks, delivered by small, dirty hands; a polished pebble of interesting color; a poorly carved sulfur amulet, a gift from one of Goro’s apprentices.

Hagar now provided a rustic ceramic vase in his chambers, which slowly filled with these childish offerings. It was a touch of color and gentle disorder in an environment that was still predominantly functional.

Bakugou watched. He always watched. He saw Shoto return from these visits a little less rigid, a little more present. He saw the respect in the soldiers’ eyes when Shoto made a relevant observation during meetings. He saw the way the villagers now greeted him not with fearful reverence, but with a nod of recognition, sometimes even with a smile.

The seed planted by Kirishima’s conversation, against all Bakugou’s expectations, had not died. It had sprouted slowly, nourished by the silent observation that Shoto was, in fact, far more than a useful pawn. He was resilient, intelligent, and possessed a quietness that, instead of weakness, seemed to calm the instinctive chaos that always surrounded Bakugou.

It was on a night of particularly aggressive wind, which rattled the window shutters with impatience, that Bakugou made the decision.

He was in the war room but couldn’t focus on the maps. The image of Shoto dining alone in his chambers, as he did every night, came to his mind with irritating clarity.

“He sleeps alone in a cold room. You don’t even have dinner with him.”

With a frustrated growl directed more at himself than anything else, Bakugou stood up abruptly. He went himself to the fort’s kitchens, a hot and noisy place, and with a series of short and irritable orders had a double tray prepared: a thick stew of meat and roots, dark bread still warm, and two mugs of strong beer.

Carrying the tray himself, to the cooks’ silent astonishment, he marched back through the corridors and stopped in front of the door to Shoto’s chambers.

He did not knock. He pushed the door open with his foot and entered.

Shoto was sitting at the small desk near the fireplace, writing a letter to Fuyumi. He looked up, and his expression of soft concentration transformed into pure shock when he saw Bakugou enter carrying a tray of food, the door closing behind him with a thud.

"What…?" Shoto began, standing up.

"Dinner" Bakugou declared, as if announcing a surprise attack. He set the tray with a little more force than necessary on the table near the fire. "The noise of the wind is unbearable, and you’re here writing letters alone like a hermit. Let’s eat."

Shoto stood still, processing. Bakugou was there, with food, to have dinner with him. The happiness that rose in his chest was not a noisy rush but a warm, calm wave that lit his eyes and softened the corners of his mouth into a small, genuine smile.

It was a smile rarely seen in the fort—and never directed at Bakugou.

"You… came to have dinner" Shoto said, the obvious statement carrying a surprised sweetness.

Bakugou avoided his gaze, pulling a chair with a rough noise.

"Tch, seems like it. Now sit before the stew gets cold."

Shoto sat down, still a little dazed.

Bakugou served the food with brusque and efficient movements, pushing Shoto’s bowl toward him.

For a few minutes they ate in silence, only the sound of the wind and the crackling fire filling the space. But it was not an uncomfortable silence. It was a shared one.

"The children" Bakugou said suddenly, not looking up from his bowl. "They fill you with trinkets. Why?"

Shoto looked at the vase of wilted flowers and stones in the corner.

"They like giving things, and I… like receiving them. They’re… honest. They don’t give out of obligation or fear."

Bakugou grunted.

"Hm, makes sense. Enemies are simpler, children are unpredictable." He paused, taking a sip of the stew. "And you? What do you like to do? When you’re not being Prince Consort or writing to your sister."

The question was another probe, a recognition of personal terrain.

Shoto thought for a moment.

"Riding horses. Within safe limits, of course" he added quickly, seeing Bakugou’s sharp look. "The feeling of… movement without a defined destination. Just the horse and the wind. And… reading. Hagar managed to get some tomes of botany from the eastern lands for me, about plants that survive in poor soil."

Bakugou seemed to consider that.

"Riding I understand. Reading about weeds…" he shrugged. "If it’s useful, fine. Your horse is weak. The brown stallion from the east stable is stubborn, but it has endurance. You can have him."

It was another gift. A practical and meaningful gift.

A horse was not a child’s flower; it was a tool of freedom, of mobility. A vote of confidence.

"Thank you" Shoto said, gratitude overflowing in his calm voice.

Bakugou nodded, closing the matter.

"The people from the village, especially old Goro, he talks about you. Says you have “quiet hands.” I think that’s a compliment."

"I think so too" Shoto replied, a hint of humor in his voice. "Coming from him, “quiet” is probably the highest compliment possible."

One corner of Bakugou’s mouth lifted, almost a smile.

"Tch, he’s old and grumpy. But he’s not an idiot." He finished his stew and pushed the bowl aside. His eyes finally met Shoto’s in the firelight. "You’re… adapting. Much better than I thought."

It wasn’t “I’m proud” or “I like you.” It was acknowledgment—but coming from Bakugou, it was monumental.

"The terrain is rough" Shoto admitted. "But it has its… views."

Bakugou held the eye contact for a second longer.

Then he stood.

"Done, I’ve eaten. The wind seems to be dying down." He turned to leave but stopped at the door. "Tomorrow there’s troop training in the south courtyard. If you want to see how to break a shield formation without using giant fire magic… show up." It was an invitation.

"I’ll be there" Shoto promised.

Bakugou nodded and left, closing the door behind him much more gently than he had opened it.

Shoto remained looking at the empty door, then at the two empty bowls on the table, at the children’s wilted flowers.

The room, once silent and a little cold, now seemed imbued with a residual warmth.

The dinner had not been romantic. There had been no words of affection.

But it had happened.

Bakugou had crossed the border between his domains and Shoto’s of his own will, carrying stew and questions about who Shoto was when he was not fulfilling his duty.

It was a small step across vast ground, but for Shoto, on that windy night, with the taste of stew still in his mouth and the promise of a stubborn horse in his future, it felt like a colossal step.

The roots, he realized, were not only clinging to the rocky soil.

They were beginning to intertwine, slowly, with the equally strong and deep roots of the king himself.

Chapter Text

Autumn, which until then had appeared with colors of fire, revealed its other face with fury. A storm occurred, and it was not an ordinary storm. It was almost a tornado that formed on the arid plains of the east, sucking in the hot air of the day and spitting back an Antarctic cold and winds that howled fiercely. Even within the thick stone walls of the fort, the world seemed to want to collapse. The torches on the walls danced wildly, the shutters slammed like swords against the ramparts, and a piercing cold seeped through every crack, every joint of stone.

Shoto was in his chambers, wrapped in all the blankets and covers he owned, but he trembled uncontrollably. His left side, the source of his internal fire, fought a losing battle. Every time he tried to channel a little more heat, a flash of memory assaulted him: the ravine during the escape, the uncontrolled flames consuming everything, the smell of panic and burnt wood. The fear of losing control, of setting the rugs, the wooden ceiling, the very fort on fire, was a physical block more effective than any cold. His icy power, on the other hand, seemed to feed on the storm, turning his right side into a living block of ice that radiated an even more deadly cold. He was trapped in the middle, a divided body being torn apart by opposing forces and by his own terror.

His teeth chattered, his muscles ached from trembling so much. The darkness, punctuated by the flashes of the violently swinging lamps, seemed alive and hostile. The roar of the wind was a constant sound, a reminder that even Bakugou’s impregnable fortress could be violated by something greater.

The need, raw and animal, overcame pride and insecurity. He would not endure the night like this. The image that came to his mind was not the fireplace in his room, but the intense and constant heat that emanated from Bakugou, even when he was standing still, quiet. The heat he had felt on his hand in the canyon, that permeated the king’s chambers. It was a safe, external heat that did not require him to touch the powers he feared.

With trembling and clumsy movements, he got up, dragging a blanket. The corridor between his chambers and Bakugou’s seemed like a nightmare tunnel, shaken by thunderous gusts of wind. He stopped before the oak door, his frozen hand hovering over the wood. Shame burned his face, but the cold extinguished it instantly. He did not knock, his voice would fail, certainly. He simply pushed the door and staggered inside.

Bakugou’s chambers were an impressive calm. The huge fireplace burned high, fed by thick logs, valiantly fighting the outside cold. Even so, the wind howled in the chimneys. Bakugou was not in bed; he was standing near the window with an iron shutter, observing the fury of the storm outside, his profile illuminated by the flashes of fire and by the sickly green light that sometimes appeared among the clouds. He turned when the door opened, his red eyes reflecting the flames.

He saw Shoto: pale as a ghost, lips bluish, trembling like a willow branch under a thick blanket, his bicolor hair damp with cold sweat from effort and panic. He did not look like a prince; he looked like a defenseless being.

"What?" Bakugou’s voice sounded surprised at the scene before him.

Shoto tried to speak, but his teeth chattered so violently that only a broken sound came out. He swallowed, forcing the words out, each one a struggle.

"C-cold... I c-can’t... s-stop. The p-power... I c-can’t c-control it..." He looked at Bakugou, and in his heterochromatic eyes there was a raw vulnerability, a fear that was not of the king, but of the storm, the cold, of himself. "C-can I... stay? J-just until... the worst p-passes?"

He asked for shelter, a safe harbor. It was the most submissive, most desperate thing he had ever said to Bakugou.

For a long moment, Bakugou simply watched him, his face incredulous. Shoto was certain he would be expelled, that Bakugou would say that a prince consort should be able to endure a little cold, that it was pure weakness.

Then Bakugou made a guttural sound, a mix of irritation and something deeper. He moved away from the window.

"Tch, now you’ve turned into a popsicle." He walked to the large bed, not slowly, but with determination. He pulled back the heavy covers on one side. "Come on, before you freeze on my floor and Hagar has to scrape your frozen skull tomorrow."

Shoto crossed the room with wavering steps. The heat of the fireplace was a blessing, but the heat that emanated from the bed itself, from the space Bakugou had just opened, was what he needed. He almost fell as he got rid of the wet blanket. He wore only a thin linen sleeping tunic, which was now damp and cold.

Bakugou watched him climb into the bed, nestling into the deep covers. Shoto trembled so much that the muscles of his stomach hurt. Then Bakugou did something that left Shoto breathless. Instead of lying down on the other side, the king lay down behind him, on the same side of the bed. And then he simply wrapped Shoto with his body.

It was like being embraced by a living furnace. Bakugou’s heat was overwhelming, solid, immediate. His broad, warm torso pressed against Shoto’s frozen back, his muscular arms wrapping around him, pulling him closer, a gesture that was less an embrace and more a containment, an act of pure heat transfer. Bakugou’s legs, warm and strong, entwined with his, which were cold and trembling.

Shoto gasped, a hoarse and relieved sound escaping his lips. The shock of the heat was almost painful for a second, then a relief so deep that his eyes filled with warm tears that dried instantly in the hot air between them.

"S-stop... you d-don’t have to..." he tried to protest, but his body betrayed him, instinctively curving toward the source of heat, his tremors beginning to lessen into weaker spasms.

"Shut up, don’t be stubborn," Bakugou growled against the back of his neck, his hot breath causing shivers of an entirely different kind. "You’re freezing my side of the bed. Take advantage of the moment and try to stop shaking."

It was a blatant excuse, and Shoto knew it. Bakugou was clearly taking advantage of the situation to get closer, he was sheltering him, warming him with the only infallible method he had: his own intense physical presence.

Little by little, Shoto’s tremors ceased, replaced by a faint residual shiver. Bakugou’s heat seemed to sink through his skin, melting the internal ice, calming the frightened fire. The strong scent of his Alpha: sweat, clean smoke, that metallic trace, surrounded Shoto, more effective than any calming potion. The roar of the wind outside did not seem so threatening anymore, not when sheltered like this, wrapped by a force that defied storms.

"The control," Bakugou said, his voice a low vibration against Shoto’s back. "You freeze with fear, fear of breaking things, of hurting people."

Shoto closed his eyes, nestling even closer to the warmth.

"Yes."

"Fear is useless." The statement was typical of Bakugou. "You don’t control power by avoiding it, you control it by training, forcing it, making mistakes, breaking things on purpose, in a safe place, until you learn not to break them." He paused, his arm adjusting around Shoto’s torso. "You clearly already forgot about our initial training. Tomorrow, if the storm passes, you come with me to the extinct crater to the west. There’s nothing there to burn except stone, you’re going to let everything out. Fire, ice, the whole damn thing. Until the fear gets tired and goes away."

It was a promise, or a threat. Probably both. But coming from the warm darkness, with Bakugou’s body as a shield against the world, it sounded like the safest thing in the world.

"Okay," Shoto whispered, his voice finally steady.

The silence that followed was filled only by the fire and the muffled wind. Shoto’s body, now warmed and heavy with exhaustion, began to give in to fatigue. He was aware of every point of contact, of Bakugou’s large hand spread over his stomach, of the slow and deep breathing against his neck. It was not the intimacy of the wedding night, loaded with tension and exploration. It was something deeper, more primordial. It was protection.

Before consciousness abandoned him, he felt, or thought he felt, Bakugou’s lips press lightly, almost imperceptibly, on the top of his head, where the white hair met the red. It might have been just an adjustment, an accident.

But Shoto, as he slipped into a deep and warm sleep for the first time since the storm began, chose to believe it was not.

...

The calm that followed Shoto’s deep sleep was brief. Bakugou, whose body functioned like a precise human thermostat, felt the change long before any other sign. The cold that emanated from Shoto had given way, replaced by an abnormal heat that began to grow, slow and insidious, during the early hours of the morning.

It was not the controlled and dry heat of Shoto’s power. It was a damp and oppressive fever, an internal loss of control beyond normal. Bakugou woke from a light sleep with the sensation of embracing not a man, but a brazier. Shoto’s skin was drenched in sweat, his breathing ragged and irregular against Bakugou’s arm. And the heat... the heat was palpable, almost painful.

"Tch, damn it," Bakugou growled into the dark, already moving.

He released himself from the embrace, feeling the immediate absence of the feverish weight. Shoto groaned, unconscious, turning to the now cold side of the bed, his face twisted in discomfort. The faint light of dawn filtering through the cracks revealed the deep flush on his cheeks, the shine of sweat on his forehead.

Bakugou did not hesitate. He did not call Hagar, he did not call a servant. He himself lifted Shoto, who was heavy and limp, and carried him in his arms as if he were a child. The heat from Shoto’s body burned through the thin linen shirt. Bakugou crossed the room and went straight to his own bathroom, to the enormous stone bathtub half-buried near the fireplace. It was rarely used, but Hagar always kept water in buckets nearby for the king’s bath.

With a series of rough and efficient movements, Bakugou filled the tub with warm water from the buckets. It was not cold, but cool enough so the fever would not worsen. Then, without ceremony, he placed Shoto in the water, keeping him seated, holding him by the shoulders so he would not slip and sink.

The shock made Shoto wake up, gasping and confused.

"Bakugou? What... it’s cold..."

"You’re burning," Bakugou replied, his voice rough but not irritated. It was a tone Shoto had never heard before: contained, focused on an immediate problem. "Your damn internal thermostat broke. Now stay still."

Shoto tried to protest, but a wave of violent shivers ran through his body, making his teeth chatter. The fever and the water were fighting an absurd battle in his system. He felt nauseous, dizzy, and completely at the mercy of Bakugou’s firm hands.

Bakugou did not seem to care about the water splashing on his sleeping clothes or the stone floor. With one hand he held Shoto. With the other he grabbed a clean cloth from a nearby pile, dipped it in the water and began to pass it over Shoto’s face, neck, and wrists. It was a methodical gesture, almost professional, but incredibly gentle in its efficiency.

"Idiot," Bakugou muttered, more to himself. "First you try not to freeze, then you try not to burn... your body doesn’t know if it wants to be a glacier or a volcano." He soaked the cloth again and placed it on Shoto’s forehead, who gasped with the local relief.

"Sorry," Shoto murmured, his eyes closed, shame mixing with the physical sickness.

"Save the apologies," Bakugou retorted. "Focus on not dying from a stupid fever. That would be a monumental embarrassment."

Hagar appeared at the door, alerted by the noise. His dark eyes moved from the empty bed to the king kneeling beside the tub, holding the feverish prince consort. His face did not show surprise, only a quick assessment.

"Sir, should I call the healer?"

"Yes, and bring more water, this time cold. And the lighter blankets from my chests." The order was direct.

While Hagar turned to comply, Bakugou looked at Shoto, whose breathing was still ragged, but the tremors had diminished somewhat.

"What do you feel?" the tone of voice was calm, clearly concerned.

"Dizzy, hot, everything hurts..." Shoto admitted, his voice a thread.

"That’s the price for being a walking disaster," Bakugou said, but his hand on Shoto’s shoulder was not harsh. It was firm, anchoring. "The healer will stuff you with those disgusting teas. You’ll drink them, and you’ll get better."

The healer of the fort, an elderly and serious woman named Yara, arrived quickly. She saw the scene: the king in sleeping clothes, soaked, personally caring for the consort, and limited herself to a brief nod of respect before kneeling on the other side of the tub. Her experienced hands touched Shoto’s forehead and neck.

"High fever," she diagnosed, her accent heavy. "His body fought itself all night and lost. He needs cooling, rest, and medicine."

She prepared an infusion of bitter and calming herbs. Bakugou did not leave the task of giving the medicine to her or to Hagar. He himself took the cup, lifted Shoto’s head with one hand and gave him the liquid to drink, sip after sip, with an irritated patience that was almost comical.

"Drink it all. It’s not good, but it’s not terrible either, it just tastes like old grass."

Shoto, too weak to argue, obeyed. The tea was horrible, but a heavy drowsiness began to replace the feverish agony almost immediately.

Between Yara, Hagar, and Bakugou, they took Shoto out of the bathtub, dried him and dressed him in a clean and thin sleeping tunic.

Bakugou then carried him back to the bed — his bed — and covered him with the light blankets Hagar had brought. Shoto was already almost unconscious again, but this time it was a sleep of exhaustion and medicine, not panic.

Yara left instructions and more herbs, Hagar quietly exited. Bakugou remained standing beside the bed, observing Shoto’s face, now paler, his breathing more regular. The fever was still there, but no longer at dangerous levels.

He did not lie down again. He pulled the heavy chair from the table closer to the bed and sat down. There were no maps to study, no immediate enemy to plan against. Only a sick prince, a problem he could not solve with weapons or plans. A problem that, in some irritating way, mattered.

The day passed. Bakugou left responsibility for the war room to Kirishima, refused audiences. He stayed there, in the room beside Shoto. Sometimes he read reports in the chair, sometimes he simply watched Shoto sleep. When the fever rose again, he repeated the process with the cold cloth, his movements becoming increasingly automatic, less rough.

During the afternoon, Shoto woke for a few moments, his eyes drowsy.

"Bakugou?" his voice was hoarse and weak.

"Here," Bakugou replied, not lifting his eyes from a parchment about sulfur production.

"You... stayed here."

"Obviously, someone has to make sure you don’t try to turn the sheets into ashes during your next episode."

Shoto closed his eyes, a weak sigh escaping.

"Thank you, for... everything."

Bakugou did not respond. But when Shoto fell asleep again, he set the parchment aside and stared at the flames in the fireplace, his face a thoughtful mask.

At night, the fever finally went away. The sweat covering Shoto was now cold, but normal. He opened his eyes, feeling exhausted but lucid. The first thing he saw was Bakugou, still in the chair, now sleeping sitting up. The king’s head was tilted to the side, his sharp features softened by sleep, a lock of blond hair fallen over his eye. On the table beside him there was a bowl of cold broth and a clean cloth.

Shoto watched him, a wave of warmth that had nothing to do with fever flooding his chest. This man, this aggressive and unyielding king, had spent the whole day watching his bed, caring for him with a practicality that was, in its own rough way, deeply affectionate.

Bakugou woke suddenly, as if he felt the gaze on him. His red eyes met Shoto’s, now clear.

"The fever is gone," Bakugou declared, getting up and coming to the bed. He placed his hand on Shoto’s forehead, a brief and professional touch. "You’re almost back to normal, very good."

"You really stayed," Shoto said, not as a question.

"Someone had to." The automatic answer came out, but sounded hollow, even to Bakugou. He grimaced. "Tch, and you were... very sick. I got worried, period."

Shoto tried to sit up, but his strength failed. Bakugou saw and, with a growl, sat on the edge of the bed, helping him lean against the pillows.

"The broth," Bakugou said, picking up the bowl. "Hagar brought it, you’re very weak and need to eat."

And, once again, it was Bakugou who fed him, spoonful by spoonful, in silence. The broth was simple, but comforting. The care was silent, but undeniable.

When it finished, Shoto was exhausted again, but it was a good exhaustion, of recovery.

"The extinct crater..." he murmured, remembering the promise/threat.

"Another day," Bakugou cut him off, adjusting the blankets with clumsy gestures. "When you’re not this bad. Now sleep."

Shoto obeyed, sinking into the covers. Before falling asleep, he saw Bakugou return to his chair, but this time he did not pick up any parchment. He simply sat there, staring at the fire, a silent sentinel on the border between illness and health.

And for the second night in a row, Shoto fell asleep in the king’s chambers, not because of cold or fever, but because that had become, in an unexpected and unquestionable way, the safest place he knew.

Chapter Text

The days that followed were strangely quiet. The storm had passed, leaving behind a washed sky and a less aggressive cold, but Shoto still felt weak, as if the fever had consumed not only his strength, but also his mental clarity.

On the second night after the fever, he prepared to return to his own chambers. He had even stood up and put on a clean tunic when the door opened and Bakugou walked in without knocking.

"Where do you think you're going?" the voice was an immediate growl.

Shoto blinked, confused.

"To my room. To sleep."

"No." Bakugou crossed his arms, planting himself in front of the door like a sentinel. "You're staying here."

"Why?"

There was a tiny pause, almost imperceptible. Enough time for Bakugou to come up with an answer that wouldn't sound exactly like what he wanted to say.

"Because if you get another fever in the middle of the night, I'm not going to cross the hallway to check if you're burning alive." He looked away, focusing on some random point on the wall. "Since I spent an entire day taking care of your skin, it's easier if you stay here so I can monitor you."

It was a flimsy excuse. So flimsy that Shoto almost smiled.

"Monitor?"

"Yeah." Bakugou finally looked at him, red eyes challenging any objection. "You got a problem with that?"

Shoto should have had a problem. He should have pointed out that he wasn't a child anymore, that he could take care of himself, that this was... strange. But the truth was that his feet were still cold against the stone floor, and Bakugou's bed, with its heavy blankets and its smell of smoke and warmth, seemed infinitely more inviting than the empty room across the corridor.

"No," he answered simply.

Bakugou made a satisfied sound and stepped away from the door.

"Then get back to bed. I'll put out the lamps."

Shoto obeyed. And when Bakugou lay down beside him, he didn't protest. The king's warmth was constant, a solid presence against his back, and Shoto fell asleep within minutes.

That night, for the first time since the storm, Shoto felt Bakugou's arm tighten lightly around his waist during sleep. It wasn't a conscious movement, just a reflex, but in the morning, when they woke up, neither of them commented on how they had remained tangled together for hours afterward. Shoto, however, noticed that Bakugou's hand remained open on his chest, fingers relaxed, as if even in sleep he needed to feel the beating of his heart.

...

On the third day, Shoto woke up alone. Bakugou had already gotten up, probably for his morning duties, but the side of the bed was still warm. On the nearby chair, someone—Hagar, Shoto assumed—had placed clean clothes. Not the clothes he had worn the day before, but different ones, which he recognized as belonging to his own chambers.

Someone had brought them from there.

Shoto didn't comment on it when he found Bakugou in the main hall during breakfast. The king was surrounded by Kirishima and Kaminari, discussing something about patrols, but his eyes met Shoto's for a moment, a quick check, before returning to the maps.

However, when they sat down to eat, Bakugou pushed a piece of still-warm bread in his direction without saying a word. Shoto looked at the bread, then at him.

"Are you feeding me now?" Shoto asked, a trace of humor in his voice.

"You're still weak. Eat." The reply was rude, but the way Bakugou watched him take the first bite before returning to his own food said something completely different.

Later, as they walked through the corridors—Bakugou on his way to a meeting, Shoto simply accompanying him without a clear destination—their hands brushed. It was accidental, a simultaneous movement, but Bakugou didn't pull away. On the contrary: his fingers hooked briefly with Shoto's, a quick, disguised touch, before a group of servants passed by them. When the servants were gone, Bakugou already had his hands firmly crossed over his chest, but Shoto had seen it. Shoto had felt it.

That night, Shoto simply went to Bakugou's room again. There was no invitation, no discussion. He just appeared, and Bakugou, who was already there reading something near the fireplace, merely lifted his eyes and nodded toward the bed.

And when Shoto passed by him, Bakugou's hand extended and grabbed his wrist for a second, long enough for his fingers to feel the warmth of Shoto's skin, checking for fever.

"I already said I'm not sick anymore," Shoto murmured, but he didn't pull his hand away.

"And I already said I'm the one in charge here." Bakugou released his wrist, but his fingers slid along Shoto's hand before completely letting go, a touch that lasted a moment longer than necessary.

Later, already lying down, Shoto heard Bakugou shifting restlessly beside him.

"What is it?" he asked without opening his eyes.

"Nothing." A pause. Then, quietly: "You're sleeping facing the wall again."

Shoto frowned, confused.

"Yes. I always sleep like this."

"Then change."

"Why?"

Bakugou didn't answer with words. Instead, he pulled Shoto with one arm, forcing him to roll over in bed until they were face to face. The king's face was just a few centimeters from his, red eyes glowing in the dim light.

"Like this," Bakugou said, voice hoarse. "If you get a fever again, I want to see your face. I want to know immediately."

Shoto didn't believe the excuse, but he didn't complain either. He simply let his eyes close, feeling Bakugou's breath warm his face, and slept better than he had in years.

That was how it began.

...

On the fifth day, Shoto noticed that his hairbrush had moved to Bakugou's bathroom. It was there beside the king's brush, as if it had always been there.

He held it for a moment, observing the contrast: Bakugou's simple dark wooden brush, and his own, with silver details, a gift from his mother many years ago. Two brushes side by side, as if they were... a pair.

"What are you looking at?"

Shoto turned. Bakugou was in the bathroom doorway, leaning against the frame, arms crossed.

"Nothing." Shoto placed the brush back where it was. "Just... noticing my things are appearing here."

"So?" Bakugou frowned. "It's more practical. You already sleep here every night. Hagar was tired of running back and forth to get your stuff."

Practical. Yes, it must be just that.

Later, however, Shoto was sitting on the bed trying to untangle his hair when Bakugou simply took the brush from his hand.

"You do this like you're attacking your own hair." The tone was irritated, but the fingers that began passing the brush through Shoto's strands were surprisingly gentle.

Shoto froze. Since childhood, few people had touched his hair. His mother, when he was small. Some servant, when necessary. But never... something like this.

"You don't have to—" Shoto began.

"Be quiet. I'm concentrating here." The brush continued its slow, methodical path. And Shoto shut his mouth and let him.

Minutes dragged on in silence. Bakugou worked through the strands with the same concentration he usually reserved for battle strategies. When he finally finished, his hands remained on Shoto's shoulders for a long moment, thumbs tracing slow circles through the thin fabric of the tunic.

"Your hair is soft," Bakugou murmured, almost to himself. "Feels like silk."

Shoto turned his face slightly, meeting the king's gaze from the corner of his eye.

"You like it?"

Bakugou blushed—something Shoto was beginning to recognize as a sign he had been caught off guard—and abruptly removed his hands.

"Like is a strong word. I'm just stating a fact." He stood up, walking toward the door. "I'll have dinner brought in."

But before leaving, his eyes met Shoto's once again, and there was something in them the king couldn't hide in time: warmth, yes, but also a kind of quiet admiration that made Shoto's chest warm.

...

On the seventh day, Kirishima appeared in Bakugou's room for a morning meeting and found Shoto sitting on the bed, still in his sleeping tunic, a book on his lap. The redhead's eyes widened for a moment, but he quickly disguised it with a smile.

"Oh! Shoto! Good morning!"

"Good morning." Shoto lifted his eyes from the book, perfectly calm. "Bakugou is in the bath. He should come out soon."

"Right, right." Kirishima rubbed the back of his neck, clearly processing the scene. It wasn't every day that one saw the prince consort settled in the king's bed as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "So... you've been sleeping here?"

"Yes."

"For how long?"

Shoto thought for a moment.

"A few days now."

Kirishima let out a low whistle, a growing grin on his face.

"Cool! Glad you two are... getting along."

At that moment, Bakugou came out of the bath, a towel over his shoulders, his hair still damp. He saw Kirishima, saw Shoto on the bed, saw the expression on his friend's face.

"Don't start," he warned, pointing a finger. "There's nothing to comment on."

"I didn't comment on anything!" Kirishima raised his hands defensively, but the smile didn't disappear. "I just said it's good that you're getting along."

Bakugou growled, but when he passed by Shoto to grab his tunic, his hand absentmindedly rested on top of the prince consort's head for a second. A gesture so casual, so natural, that Kirishima's eyes widened. Shoto simply tilted his head slightly into the touch, like a cat acknowledging its owner.

Kirishima opened his mouth to comment. Bakugou glared at him threateningly. Kirishima closed his mouth.

"Get out of here. Go work. I'll meet you in the war room."

Kirishima closed the door and left, still with an ironic smile on his face.

While Bakugou finished dressing, Shoto closed the book and watched the movement of his hands adjusting the tunic, the belt, the guards on his forearms. There was an efficiency in his gestures, an economy of movement that was almost hypnotic.

"You're staring at me," Bakugou said without turning around.

"I am." Shoto didn't deny it. "You move like a warrior even when getting dressed."

Bakugou paused for a moment, then let out a sound that might have been a muffled laugh.

"And you move like you're dancing even to grab a glass of water. What's your point?"

Shoto tilted his head, thoughtful.

"No point. Just... observing."

When Bakugou finally turned to face him, there was something softer in his expression, hidden beneath the usual scowl.

"You can observe all you want." He picked up some scrolls on the table. "But later. Now I'm going to work."

Before leaving, however, he stopped beside the bed and, in a quick motion, leaned down and pressed his lips against Shoto's forehead. A dry, quick kiss, almost aggressive in its brevity.

"Don't comment on that," he murmured against his skin, straightening immediately afterward and leaving before Shoto could react.

Kirishima, who was waiting outside, saw the king come out with visibly red ears and couldn't contain a smile.

"Wipe that look off your face, Eijirou," Bakugou growled, pushing him down the corridor.

But inside the room, Shoto raised his hand to his forehead, touching the spot where Bakugou's lips had been, and felt warmth in his face.

...

On the tenth day, a stack of Shoto's books appeared on the table beside the fireplace. They were varied titles: southern poetry, a travel diary from distant islands, romance stories. They spread through the space that had once been occupied only by Bakugou's maps and reports.

The king complained, of course.

"This looks like a library, not my room."

"You said it was more practical," Shoto replied without lifting his eyes from the book he was reading.

Bakugou growled something unintelligible but didn't move the books.

That night, while they read near the fireplace—Shoto with his book, Bakugou with his reports—their feet met beneath the blanket covering them both. At first it was accidental. But neither of them moved away. And when Shoto felt Bakugou's foot press lightly against his, like a silent affirmation of presence, he said nothing. He simply let his toes intertwine with the other's beneath the warm fabric.

The silence between them was different now. It wasn't the uncomfortable silence of strangers forced to coexist, nor the tense silence of adversaries measuring strength. It was a shared silence, filled with the crackling of the fireplace and the occasional turning of pages.

"What are you reading?" Bakugou asked unexpectedly.

Shoto lifted the book to show the cover.

"A poem."

"Poetry?" Bakugou wrinkled his nose. "Why?"

"Because the words are beautiful." Shoto lowered the book again. "Because sometimes I need beautiful things."

The answer seemed to hit Bakugou in a way he hadn't expected. He remained silent for a long moment, eyes fixed on Shoto as if trying to decipher a riddle.

"You," he began hesitantly, "do you think this place is beautiful?"

Shoto looked around: the stone room, the dancing flames, the shadows on the walls, the man beside him with his intense gaze and calloused hands.

"Some things are, yes," he replied, and his eyes met Bakugou's.

The king looked away first, but Shoto saw the slight tremor in his jaw, the way his fingers tightened around the report he was holding.

"Idiot," Bakugou muttered, but there was no venom in the word.

Later, when Shoto yawned and closed his book, Bakugou extended his hand and took it, placing it aside carefully. Then he pulled Shoto against himself, adjusting the blanket around them both.

"You can sleep," he said against his hair. "I'll put out the lamps later."

And Shoto slept, warmed by the fire and by something more.

...

On the thirteenth day, Shoto noticed that half of Bakugou's wardrobe was occupied by his own tunics and pants. Not only the more formal pieces, but also the comfortable clothes he wore to rest, the lighter scarves, even a pair of wool gloves he rarely used.

He opened the wardrobe door and stood there for a long moment, observing the juxtaposition: Bakugou's dark, heavy clothes beside his own, in softer shades of blue, white, and gray. Clothes of war beside clothes of peace. Two lives, two wardrobes, sharing the same space.

"Impressed by something?"

Bakugou was behind him, so close that Shoto felt the warmth of his body before hearing his voice.

"My clothes are here," Shoto said, as if that weren't obvious.

"So?" Bakugou repeated the same refrain. "You live here now. Your clothes had to be where you live."

Shoto turned slowly to face him. Bakugou maintained his usual expression of controlled irritation, but there was something in his eyes—a nearly imperceptible tension, as if expecting a negative reaction.

"I live here now," Shoto repeated, testing the words.

"That's what I said." Bakugou looked away, focusing on something on the wall. "You sleep here every night, you have breakfast here, read here, bathe here. Your stuff is scattered everywhere. That means you live here."

There was no mystery. Just a fact, built day after day, item after item, without ever being discussed or decided. Shoto thought about how it had all begun: a stormy night, a desperate request, an embrace that warmed more than just his frozen body.

"Katsuki."

"What?"

Instead of answering, Shoto stepped closer. One step, then another, until he was so near he could feel Bakugou's breath on his face. Then, slowly, like someone approaching a wild animal that might startle, he rested his forehead against the king's shoulder.

Bakugou stood still for a full moment. Then his hands lifted and rested on Shoto's back, an awkward embrace due to the position, but still an embrace.

"Thank you," Shoto murmured against the fabric of the tunic.

The king frowned, genuinely confused.

"For what?"

"For letting me live here." The words came out softer than Shoto intended. "For making it feel... easy. Natural."

Bakugou's arms tightened slightly around him. For a moment, Shoto thought he wouldn't receive an answer. Then he felt Bakugou's lips brush his hair, a kiss so light it could have been imaginary.

"You don't need to thank me, idiot," the voice was hoarse, strangely gentle. "It's your place too. Always was. Just took me time to realize."

Shoto lifted his face, surprised. Bakugou was blushing again, but he didn't look away.

"What did you say?"

"Nothing. Forget it." Bakugou tried to pull away, but Shoto grabbed his arm.

"No." Shoto's voice was firm. "Repeat it."

Bakugou stared at him for a long moment, red eyes searching Shoto's face for something—hesitation, perhaps, or regret. He found nothing but calm curiosity, and that seemed to give him courage.

"I said that this place..." He gestured vaguely, including the room, the castle, perhaps the entire kingdom. "This place has always been yours too. I just..." He looked away, jaw tense. "Took too long to understand that you were already part of it. Part of me."

The silence that followed was different from all the others. It was heavy, dense, but not uncomfortable. Shoto felt his heart beating faster in his chest, a sensation he hadn't experienced since... well, since never.

"Katsuki," he said, and the use of the first name made Bakugou hold his breath. "You're an idiot."

"What?"

"An idiot," Shoto repeated, but there was a smile growing on his lips. "For taking so long to say that. And for thinking I didn't feel the same."

This time it was Shoto who leaned forward. His lips met Bakugou's in a soft, brief, almost chaste kiss. When he pulled away, the king was motionless, eyes wide, his expression so vulnerable that Shoto felt something tighten in his chest.

"Your place is here too," Shoto finished, touching Bakugou's chest with the tips of his fingers. "With me. Always."

Bakugou didn't answer with words. Instead, he pulled Shoto into an embrace so tight it nearly suffocated him. And when he finally spoke, his voice was muffled against Shoto's shoulder.

"If you tell anyone I got like this, I'll deny it until the day I die."

Shoto laughed, a rare, precious sound, and tightened the hug in return.

"Your secret is safe with me."

Shoto didn't respond. Instead, he turned back to the wardrobe and began reorganizing the clothes, making more space for his own. Bakugou watched for a moment, then sighed and left the room.

...

That night, when Bakugou lay down beside him, Shoto rolled over in bed to face him. The fireplace light danced across his face, highlighting the features he already knew so well: the strong jaw, the always slightly furrowed brows, the red eyes now watching him back.

"What?" Bakugou asked suspiciously.

"Nothing." Shoto paused. "I was just thinking you were right."

"About what? I'm usually right, but specify."

"About it being more practical." Shoto saw confusion cross Bakugou's face. "All my things being here. It's more practical."

Bakugou watched him for a long moment, as if searching for hidden sarcasm. He found none.

"Of course it is," he finally growled, but there was something in his voice—a softer tone he wouldn't be able to hide even if he tried. "Now sleep."

Shoto didn't immediately turn his back. Instead, he extended his hand and touched Bakugou's face, his fingers tracing the line of his jaw.

"You should sleep too," Shoto murmured. "You have dark circles."

Bakugou took his hand and brought it to his lips, kissing the palm. The gesture was so unexpected, so intimately gentle, that Shoto held his breath.

"After you stop distracting me," Bakugou replied against his skin.

Shoto smiled, a real smile, and finally turned his back to him. Within seconds, he felt the familiar warmth of Bakugou approaching, the heavy arm wrapping around his waist, the warm chest against his back. But now there was something different: Bakugou's lips pressed against the back of his neck, a slow and deliberate caress.

"Katsuki," Shoto whispered in the darkness.

"Hm?"

"I..." The pause was long, but the words came, finally. "You are part of me now. I don't know when it happened, but... it happened."

Bakugou's arm tightened around his waist, pulling him even closer. For a moment, Shoto thought he wouldn't respond. Then he felt the king's lips press against his neck again, followed by a single word murmured against his skin:

"I know."

It wasn't a grand declaration. It wasn't southern poetry with its beautiful words and elaborate metaphors.

But it was Bakugou.

Chapter Text

The days had been filled with a kind of peace Shoto had never imagined he would find. For the first time in his life, he woke up without a sense of duty or obligation, only with Bakugou’s warm presence beside him. And Bakugou woke without his usual rigidity—the posture of a king who must control everything—at least for the first few minutes, before awareness brought his defenses back.

On one of those mornings, Shoto woke with a strange sensation. It wasn’t discomfort, exactly. It was more like his skin had become more sensitive, as if every thread of the sheets against his legs was more noticeable. He shifted in bed, trying to identify the source of that restlessness.

Bakugou was already awake, propped up on one elbow, watching him with that intensity Shoto had learned to recognize.

“ You’ve been tossing around since before sunrise ” he commented, his voice rough with sleep. “ Something wrong? ”

“ No. ” Shoto frowned, trying to understand himself. “ Just… didn’t sleep well. ”

Bakugou reached out and touched his forehead, the gesture automatic now, something that had become routine over the past few weeks. His hand slid down to Shoto’s neck, feeling his pulse.

“ Temperature’s normal. ” But his fingers lingered, tracing a slow path along Shoto’s skin. “ Your scent is different today. ”

“ Different how? ”

Bakugou thought for a moment, his nose twitching slightly as he inhaled.

“ Stronger. ” He seemed to consider it. “ Sweeter, maybe. Like cherry blossoms after the rain. ”

Shoto blinked, surprised. Bakugou wasn’t one for poetic descriptions.

“ You’re saying my scent changed? ”

“ No, just that it seems more intense. ” Bakugou leaned in, burying his face in Shoto’s hair for a moment, inhaling deeply. When he pulled back, his eyes were slightly darker. “ Definitely more intense. ”

Shoto didn’t think much of it at the time. He got up, dressed, and followed Bakugou to the main hall for breakfast. But something bothered him throughout the day: a restlessness, a need to be close to Bakugou that felt stronger than usual.

During the morning meeting, Shoto sat beside the king, as he did now, listening to discussions about supplies and patrols. But his attention was divided. He noticed his eyes constantly seeking Bakugou, his body leaning slightly in his direction, like a plant reaching for the sun.

“ Shoto? ” Kirishima’s voice pulled him back. “ What do you think? ”

He blinked, realizing everyone was looking at him. Bakugou too, with an expression that mixed curiosity and something else.

“ Sorry, what? ”

“ The distribution of supplies to the villages of Endeavor’s Kingdom ” Kirishima repeated patiently. “ We’re discussing whether to send a caravan now or wait until the rainy season ends. ”

Shoto forced his mind to focus, offering an answer that sounded reasonable. But throughout the discussion, he felt Bakugou’s gaze on him—heavy, questioning.

...

By late afternoon, almost evening, Shoto followed Bakugou to the training yard. It was something he occasionally did, watching the warriors practice, but today the mere sight of Bakugou wielding his sword, muscles tense beneath the thin tunic, stirred something in his chest.

He sat on a stone bench, watching. Bakugou moved with the brutal grace of a predator. Shoto felt a strange heat spread through his body, an attraction that went beyond the physical, something more primal.

“ You were staring at me again ” Bakugou commented later, sitting beside him with a towel draped over his shoulders. Sweat made his skin glisten, and Shoto had to look away.

“ I was just observing. ”

“ Hm. ” Bakugou didn’t seem convinced. He drank water, and Shoto’s eyes followed the movement of his throat. “ Your scent is even stronger than this morning. ”

“ Maybe it’s the heat ” Shoto tried, though he knew it wasn’t.

Bakugou stared at him for a long moment, his red eyes traveling over his face, down his body, and back up again. When he spoke, his voice was deeper.

“ Let’s go back to the room. ”

“ It’s still early. ”

“ Don’t be stubborn. I said we’re going back to the room. ”

There was no arguing. Shoto felt something stir in his chest, a mix of anticipation and nervousness, and followed Bakugou through the castle halls.

...

In the room, Bakugou closed the door and turned to face him. The air between them suddenly felt heavier, charged with something Shoto couldn’t name.

“ Do you know what’s happening? ” Bakugou asked, as direct as ever.

Shoto frowned.

“ I don’t know what you mean. ”

“ Your scent. ” Bakugou took a step toward him. “ The way you’ve been looking at me all day, the way your body leans toward mine whenever I’m near. ”

Shoto opened his mouth to deny it, but couldn’t. It was all true. And he had a vague idea of what was happening.

“ I have my suspicions about what’s going on… ” he said, and there was a vulnerability in his voice he couldn’t hide.

Bakugou stopped a few steps away. His expression was hard to read, but his eyes were darker, his breathing slightly faster.

“ You’re an omega, Shoto. ” The statement was simple, direct. “ And from what I’m sensing in your scent… your heat is approaching. ”

Shoto felt his blood run cold; he had grown up in a place where being an omega was almost a silent curse. In Endeavor’s kingdom, everything was conservative, rigidly structured, and omegas—especially those of noble lineage—were taught from an early age to control, hide, repress. And when Shoto had his first heat at fifteen, he had been locked in his chambers for a week, under strict orders not to disturb anyone.

He remembered those days with painful clarity. The loneliness, the confusion, the heat that seemed to burn from within without him fully understanding what was happening. The pain—intense and relentless—that made him writhe in the sheets, biting the pillow to keep from screaming. No one came, no one explained. In Endeavor’s kingdom, heats were taboo: something not discussed, not mentioned, not acknowledged. Omegas suffered in silence and learned that it was just another burden to carry.

And now Bakugou was here, talking about his heat as if it were something natural, something that could be openly discussed.

“ How long? ” he asked, his voice strangely calm, masking the storm of memories and anxieties Bakugou’s words had stirred.

“ Hard to say. ” Bakugou crossed his arms, but there was no hostility in the gesture, just an attempt to control himself. “ Could be tomorrow, could be three days from now. But your scent is… ” He hesitated, something rare. “ It’s affecting me too. ”

Shoto looked up, surprised.

“ Affecting you how? ”

“ How do you think? ” Bakugou growled, though it sounded more frustrated than threatening. “ You’re my consort. Your heat scent is practically designed to drive me insane, and it’s getting stronger by the hour. ”

Silence fell between them. Shoto processed the information, feeling his own body react to Bakugou’s words. His heart beat faster, his skin felt warmer, and there was a growing need to be closer, to touch, to feel.

But there was also fear. An old fear, rooted in those days of loneliness and pain.

“ So what do we do? ” he finally asked, and there was more in that question than simple curiosity. There was a silent plea for guidance, for help, for something he had never had before.

Bakugou stared at him for a long moment. Something in his expression shifted, as if he understood what wasn’t being said. Then, to Shoto’s surprise, he stepped forward and pulled him into a tight embrace.

“ First, you stop getting nervous. ” His voice was muffled against Shoto’s hair. “ Your scent changes when you get anxious, and it’s driving me crazy. ”

Shoto relaxed against him, feeling the familiar warmth. The embrace helped, soothing something inside him he hadn’t even realized was unsettled.

“ Second ” Bakugou continued, still holding him “ you’re staying close to me for the next few days. I don’t want you alone when this starts. ”

Shoto felt a lump in his throat. Alone. That was how he had always gone through it. Alone, locked away, forgotten.

“ And if I need… ” He didn’t finish, but Bakugou understood.

“ I’ll be here. ” The answer was immediate, firm. “ For whatever you need. ”

Shoto pulled back slightly to look at his face. Bakugou kept his usual determined expression, but there was something else in his eyes—something Shoto was learning to recognize as care.

“ You don’t have to ” Shoto said softly. “ I know a heat can be… complicated. If you don’t want to… ”

“ Who said I don’t? ” Bakugou cut him off, his voice rough. “ You’re mine, Shoto. My consort, my partner. Your heat is mine too. ”

The statement was so direct, so Bakugou, that Shoto felt something warm in his chest.

“ Yours ” he repeated, testing the word.

“ Mine ” Bakugou confirmed, leaning down to kiss his forehead. Then his eyes met Shoto’s again, and something in his expression turned more serious. “ Shoto, about heat… ”

Shoto waited, feeling the shift in the air.

“ What’s your experience with it? ” Bakugou asked, and there was unusual care in his voice. “ Heats, I mean. ”

Shoto looked away, but Bakugou didn’t push, just waited. Finally, Shoto spoke, his voice controlled.

“ In Endeavor’s kingdom… it’s not talked about. Omegas learn it’s something shameful, something to hide. When my first heat came, my father ordered me locked in my chambers. I stayed there for a week, alone. ” He swallowed hard. “ It hurt a lot, it always did. And there’s no one to… to explain, to help. You just… endure, until it passes. ”

The silence that followed was heavy. When Shoto finally looked up, he saw something on Bakugou’s face he had never seen before: a cold, controlled fury—not directed at him.

“ Your old man’s even more of a bastard than I remember ” Bakugou muttered. Then he pulled Shoto into another embrace, tighter than the first. “ It’s different here. You’ll see. ”

“ Different how? ”

Bakugou pulled back just enough to look into his eyes.

“ First, there’s nothing shameful about it. It’s natural. Just your body doing what it needs to do. Second ” his hand rose to touch Shoto’s face with a gentleness that contradicted everything he was “ you’re not going through this alone. I’ll be here the whole time. ”

“ But what… what happens? When you have a partner ” Shoto hated the vulnerability in his voice, but couldn’t hide it. “ I mean, when it starts, what… what do I do? What do you do? ”

Bakugou took a deep breath, thinking about how to explain.

“ Remember our wedding night? ”

Shoto flushed slightly, but nodded.

“ It’s similar. ” Bakugou chose his words carefully, something that didn’t come naturally to him. “ But more intense, more… frequent. Your body will ask for contact, for warmth, for… for me. And I’ll be here to give you that. ”

“ And the pain? ” Shoto asked, and there was real fear in that word. “ It always hurts so much. In my heats… I remember crying sometimes, not being able to sleep, not being able to think about anything but the pain. ”

Bakugou pressed his lips together, but his hand kept stroking Shoto’s face.

“ The pain comes when the body doesn’t get what it needs ” he explained, with a patience that surprised them both. “ Heat isn’t meant to be endured alone, Shoto. Your body asks for a partner, for an alpha. When it doesn’t have that, the discomfort increases, the pain gets worse, everything becomes harder. ” He paused. “ But with me here, with us together… it’ll be different. There might still be some discomfort, but most of the pain will go away. ”

Shoto processed that, feeling something loosen in his chest. All his life, he had thought that pain was simply part of being an omega. Something to endure, hide, suffer in silence. The idea that it could be different—that it should be different—was almost hard to grasp.

Bakugou made a face.

“ Your kingdom is really outdated. ” It wasn’t an insult, just a statement. “ Your body recognizes mine now, Shoto. My scent, my touch, my presence. Your body has learned that I am… safe. ”

“ Safe ” Shoto repeated, testing the word.

“ Safe. ” Bakugou confirmed. “ And your heat now… will be the same thing, but with a different goal. ” He hesitated, something rare for him. “ Your body will ask for reproduction, Shoto. That’s the natural purpose of heat. If we… if we do what your body asks, it could result in pups. ”

Shoto felt his heart race. Pups. The word hung in the air between them, heavy with meaning.

“ Do you… do you want that? ” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

“ Want what? ”

“ Pups, with me… ”

Bakugou looked at him for a long moment. Then, with a brutal honesty that was so characteristic of him, he answered:

“ I don’t know. ” He saw something in Shoto’s expression and squeezed his hand. “ It’s not a no. It’s just that I’ve never thought about it before. You came into my life and turned everything upside down. Pups… that’s big. Something we decide together, when we’re both ready. ” He pulled Shoto closer. “ But if it happens in this heat, if your body decides it’s time… I won’t reject it. And I won’t leave you to go through it alone either. ”

Shoto rested his head on his shoulder, feeling the weight of sleep pressing on his eyelids, but also a relief he hadn’t expected. For the first time, someone was explaining things to him. For the first time, he wouldn’t have to simply endure.

“ Thank you ” he murmured.

“ I told you not to thank me, idiot. ” But his voice was soft. “ Now lie down and get some rest. ”

Shoto nestled closer, warmed by Bakugou’s heat.

...

The next day, Shoto woke with an acute awareness of everything around him. The sheets against his skin felt softer and at the same time more present. Bakugou’s scent on the pillow was almost intoxicating.

But above all, there was an almost physical need to have Bakugou nearby.

The side of the bed beside him was empty. Worse than empty—cold. Bakugou had been up for some time. Shoto felt a tightness in his chest, an anxiety that didn’t make sense. He sat up abruptly, searching with his eyes, and only relaxed when he saw Bakugou sitting at the table by the window, writing something on a parchment.

“ You’re awake ” Bakugou said without turning. “ I brought your breakfast, it’s on the table by the bed. ”

Shoto looked at the tray: warm bread, still steaming, fresh fruit cut into small pieces, and a bowl of porridge with honey. His stomach reacted with immediate hunger, but his eyes returned to Bakugou.

“ Are you going out today? ”

“ I need to take care of a few things in the neighboring village. ” Bakugou finally turned, and his eyes met Shoto’s. Something in his expression softened when he saw that Shoto was awake, alert, present. “ But I’ll be back tomorrow morning. Stay here, rest. ”

“ I want to go with you. ”

The answer was immediate, surprising even Shoto. He hadn’t planned to say it, the words just slipped out.

Bakugou raised an eyebrow.

“ Are you asking me to take you? ”

“ I am. ”

Bakugou studied him for a moment. His eyes moved over Shoto’s face, his posture, the way his fingers gripped the edge of the blanket. Then he stood and crossed the room, sat on the edge of the bed, touching Shoto’s face with his hand. His palm was warm, and Shoto leaned into it instinctively.

“ How are you feeling today? ”

“ Different. ” Shoto closed his eyes for a moment, focusing on the sensation of the touch. “ More… sensitive. Everything feels more intense—your scent, the sounds, the light… but I’m fine! And I don’t want you to go. ”

The honesty of that statement seemed to hit Bakugou. His eyes softened, just a little, and his thumb traced a slow stroke along Shoto’s cheek.

“ I need to take care of some things, I have agreements to uphold, king stuff. Unfortunately, they can’t wait. ” He thought for a moment, his fingers still caressing Shoto’s face. “ I’m going on horseback. You can come if you want. But you’ll have to endure the journey and the weather. And you’ll promise to tell me if you start feeling unwell, if you get too tired, if anything changes. ”

“ Okay. ”

Bakugou let out a sigh that could have been resignation or something more affectionate. Probably both.

“ Then eat. ” He pointed to the tray. “ All of it! I don’t want crumbs left behind. And wear warm clothes, very warm. The path we’re taking is windy, and I don’t want you getting sick again. And with your heat approaching, your body will be even more vulnerable. ”

Shoto obeyed, eating with more appetite than he expected. Meanwhile, Bakugou prepared things for the trip, and Shoto noticed how his eyes kept returning to him, as if he needed to check that he was still there, still okay.

Getting dressed was a strange experience. Every piece of clothing against his skin was more noticeable than usual. The wool scratched lightly, the silk slid smoothly, and Shoto felt every texture as if for the first time. When Bakugou came to help him with the outer layers, his hands on Shoto’s waist, adjusting the belt, Shoto held his breath.

“ Everything okay? ” Bakugou asked, sensing his reaction.

“ Yes. ” His voice came out rougher than he expected. “ It’s just… your hands. ”

Bakugou understood immediately. Instead of pulling away, he pulled Shoto against him for a moment, a quick but tight embrace.

“ Your senses will get sharper ” he warned against his ear. “ The sensitivity, the need for touch… will increase until the heat comes. After that… things will get better. ”

Shoto processed that, trying to imagine it. It was hard to conceive of feeling more than he did now, when every glance from Bakugou seemed to burn his skin.

“ Let’s go ” he finally said, needing to move, needing to do something other than stand still and think. “ Before I change my mind. ”

Bakugou smiled and took his hand.

...

The ride to the villages was more pleasant than Shoto expected, considering their earlier conversation. The cold air bit at his face, but the layers Bakugou had insisted he wear kept him warm. More importantly, Bakugou kept his horse close to Shoto’s, and occasionally their hands brushed when the mounts drew near.

In the villages, Shoto watched Bakugou interact with the people. It was a different side of the king: more patient, listening to complaints and needs with an attention Shoto rarely saw in the castle.

“Has he always been like this?” Shoto asked Kirishima, who accompanied them.

“Katsuki? ” Kirishima smiled.“ With his people, yeah. He might be a brute with us, but with those who depend on him… it’s different. He takes the responsibility of being king seriously. ”

Shoto watched Bakugou holding a child while the mother explained something about the harvest. The king looked uncomfortable, but his arms held the child carefully, and when she laughed at something he said, Shoto saw a faint blush on his cheeks. For a moment, Shoto imagined Bakugou holding one of their pups the same way, and something warmed in his chest.

“He’s going to be a good father” Kirishima commented, and Shoto felt heat rise to his face.

“We’re not pregnant…”

“Yet.” Kirishima gave his shoulder a pat.

Shoto didn’t reply, but his eyes returned to Bakugou, and something in his chest stirred at the thought. The conversation from the previous night still echoed in his mind.

...

On the way back, night fell faster than expected. What should have been a ride of a few hours stretched longer when they found a collapsed bridge and had to detour through a longer valley. Bakugou looked at the sky, at the position of the sun, and made a quick decision.

“ We’ll stay overnight in one of the villages ” he announced, leaving no room for discussion. “ I’m not risking the return in the dark with you like this. ”

“ Like this? ” Shoto asked, but he already felt the answer. His body was warmer, more sensitive.

“ Like this, about to go into heat, idiot. ” Bakugou pulled the reins of his horse, moving closer. “ We’re stopping. ”

They were settled in a small house in the nearest village, simple but clean, with a single straw bed covered in sheepskins. Shoto sat on the edge, feeling the fatigue of the ride, but also a growing restlessness. His body seemed to vibrate on a different frequency, every nerve ending more alert than it should be.

“ You okay? ” Bakugou asked, closing the door and locking it out of habit.

“ Yes. ” Shoto hesitated. “ No… I don’t know. ”

Bakugou crossed the small room and sat beside him. His arm wrapped around Shoto’s shoulders, pulling him close.

“ It’s stronger, your scent. ” he said, inhaling near Shoto’s neck. “ It’ll be tomorrow, or the day after. ”

Shoto felt a shiver run down his spine. The physical contact seemed to both soothe and intensify something inside him.

“ You said it would be like our wedding night ” he murmured, thinking out loud. “ But more intense. ”

“ That’s right. ” Bakugou tightened the embrace slightly. “ You’ll want to stay close to me, you’ll need contact, warmth. Your body will ask for… for me. And I’ll be here. ”

“ And if I can’t… control it? ” The vulnerability in Shoto’s voice was palpable. “ In Endeavor’s kingdom, we’re taught that losing control is the worst thing an omega can do. That it’s shameful, that it’s wrong. ”

Bakugou growled low, a sound of frustration that Shoto had learned was directed at others, not at him.

“ Forget everything you learned there. ” His voice was firm. “ You don’t need to control it, quite the opposite. During heat, you should let your body lead, that’s how it works. If you try to fight it, it’ll hurt more, it’ll be worse. ” He turned Shoto’s face to look at him. “ Do you trust me? ”

“ Yes. ”

“ Then trust that I’ll take care of you too. No matter what happens, no matter what you need or ask for, I’ll be here. ”

Shoto rested his head on his shoulder, feeling the weight of sleep pressing on his eyelids.

“ Thank you ” he murmured, knowing Bakugou would complain about the thanks.

“ Let’s sleep, tomorrow we head back early. ”

Shoto slept warmed by Bakugou’s heat, but during the night he woke several times. The first time, he felt the absence of the body beside him and turned, finding Bakugou seated at the small table, writing something by candlelight.

“ What are you doing? ” he murmured, sleepy.

“ Leaving instructions to give to the guards tomorrow. ” Bakugou didn’t turn. “ I’m staying at the castle for the next few days. I need to let Kirishima and the others know. ”

“ Oh. ”

“ I’ll finish writing and then come lie down with you. ”

But Shoto didn’t want to wait. He got up, swaying slightly, and crossed the room. He sat on Bakugou’s lap without thinking, burying his face in his neck.

“ Shoto? ” Bakugou’s voice was strangely tense.

“ Your scent ” Shoto murmured against his skin. “ So good… I don’t want to be away. ”

Bakugou froze for a moment, then his arms wrapped around Shoto, holding him firmly.

“ I know. ” His voice was deeper. “ I feel it too, but I need to finish this. ”

“ Later. ”

“ Shoto… ”

“ Later. ”

Bakugou let out a sigh that was half frustration, half something more affectionate. He set the parchment aside and stood with Shoto still in his arms, carrying him back to the bed.

“ Fine, later. ” He lay down, pulling Shoto against his chest. “ Now sleep, and stop moving! ”

“ I’m not moving. ”

“ You are. Your body won’t stop rubbing against me. ”

Shoto blushed in the darkness, realizing it was true. His hips were moving in small circles against Bakugou’s thigh, an unconscious motion he only noticed once it was pointed out.

“ Sorry ” he murmured, embarrassed.

“ Don’t apologize. ” Bakugou’s hand tightened on his waist. “ I only told you to stop if you want to sleep. If you don’t… ”

The suggestion lingered in the air. Shoto felt his body respond, a different kind of heat spreading through him.

“ It hasn’t started yet ” he said, his voice uncertain. “ The heat, I mean. ”

“ I know. ” Bakugou kissed his hair. “ That’s why we’re sleeping. When it starts, we won’t be sleeping much. ”

Shoto processed that, feeling a mix of nervousness and anticipation. But exhaustion won out, and he fell asleep again, still wrapped in Bakugou.

...

The next morning, he woke to Bakugou already dressed, watching him with an expression he couldn’t quite decipher. But there was something different in his eyes today: greater intensity, sharper focus.

“ You’re awake. ” It wasn’t a question. “ Come on, I want to reach the castle before noon. ”

“ Is it worse? ” Shoto asked, sitting up. And yes, he could feel it. His body was warmer, more sensitive. The simple pressure of the sheets against his skin was almost too much.

“ Worse isn’t the right word. Closer, maybe. ” Bakugou extended a hand to help him up. “ Come on, the faster we get there, the sooner we can… prepare. ”

In Bakugou’s unusual urgency, in the care with which he helped him onto the horse, in the faster pace they maintained, Shoto felt the anticipation of what was to come.

When the castle finally appeared on the horizon, Shoto felt immediate relief. Home. The place he had learned to call that. And beside him, the man who had made that possible.

As they crossed the courtyard, Sero came to meet them.

“ Bakugou! Good you’re back. We need to talk about— ”

“ Later. ” Bakugou dismounted and extended a hand to help Shoto down. “ Don’t bother me for the next few days unless the castle is on fire. Then you can bother me. ”

Kirishima and Sero looked from Bakugou to Shoto, and something in their expressions lit up with understanding.

“ Ah, got it. ” He smiled, a warm smile. “ Don’t worry, we’ll take care of everything. ”

Shoto blushed, but barely had time to say anything before Bakugou was already pulling him inside the castle, toward their chambers. When the door closed behind them, Shoto felt something shift in the air. They were finally in a safe place, in the nest they would share for the next few days.

“ Now ” Bakugou said, turning to face him, red eyes gleaming with an intensity that promised everything “ we wait, and we prepare. And when it starts… ” He pulled Shoto into a kiss, deep and possessive. “ When it starts, you’ll see what it’s like to go through this the right way. ”

Shoto returned the kiss, feeling the heat spread through his entire body. For the first time in his life, he wasn’t afraid of what was coming—he was eager to experience something that had always been only suffering.

And in Bakugou’s eyes, in the way he held him as if he were precious, Shoto saw the promise that it would be exactly that.

Chapter Text

The day passed in silent expectation. Katsuki sent for water, easy-to-eat foods, clean cloths. He prepared the room meticulously, and Shoto watched from where he sat on the bed, wrapped in blankets, feeling his body change minute by minute.

"You're trembling," Bakugou commented, approaching with a bowl of soup.

"I'm cold." Shoto accepted the bowl, but barely managed to hold it, his hands too shaky. "And hot at the same time, it's strange."

Bakugou sat beside him, took the spoon, and began to feed him. Shoto wanted to protest, to say he didn't need it, but his hands truly wouldn't cooperate. The soup was warm, encouraging, and he ate it all without complaint.

"You'll get weaker once it starts," Bakugou said, wiping his lips with his thumb. "That's why you need to eat now, drink water, keep your strength up."

"Have you been through this before?" Shoto asked. "With another omega, I mean."

The question hung in the air. Bakugou grimaced.

"No." The answer was direct. "You're the first."

"Then how do you know all this?"

"I studied." Bakugou stood to set the bowl aside. "When I found out you were an omega, I asked Kirishima to find books on the subject. I wanted to know what to expect, how to... how to help."

Shoto felt something tighten in his chest. Bakugou, who hated reading, who barely had patience for official scrolls, had studied heats in order to help him.

"You're..."

"If you say I'm good, I'll curse at you," Bakugou warned, but there was no real threat in his voice.

"Incredible," Shoto finished anyway, and saw the blush rise on Bakugou's cheeks.

...

The afternoon fell and with it came the first wave of the heat.

Shoto was lying down, trying to read a book Bakugou had given him, when he felt something shift. It was as if someone had lit a bonfire inside his belly, a sudden and overwhelming heat that spread through his entire body in seconds.

He dropped the book, gasping. His skin became hypersensitive, every thread of clothing a torture. And worse, much worse, was the need. An overwhelming need to be touched, to feel skin against skin, to have Bakugou inside him, around him, filling all the empty spaces.

"Katsuki," he called, his voice coming out weaker than he wanted. "K-Katsuki..."

Bakugou was at the table, finishing organizing the supplies. Upon hearing his name, he turned, and his eyes widened. He must have sensed the change in Shoto's scent, because his entire body tensed, his fists clenched.

"It started," he said. It wasn't a question.

"I think so." Shoto sat up in bed, but the movement made the heat increase, and a moan escaped his lips. "Katsuki, please..."

Bakugou crossed the room in long strides. His hands touched Shoto's face, and the contact was like an electric shock. Shoto closed his eyes, panting, leaning into the warm palm.

"You're very hot," Bakugou murmured, and his fingers slid down to Shoto's neck, feeling his racing pulse. "More than I imagined."

"It hurts," Shoto confessed, and the tears came without warning. It wasn't the same pain as past heats, that dull, constant ache of loneliness and unmet need. It was a different pain, sharper, more specific. A pain that begged to be relieved in a way only Bakugou could offer. "It hurts, Katsuki, it hurts so much..."

Bakugou didn't hesitate. In seconds, he removed Shoto's clothes, the layers that suddenly seemed like a prison. The cool air of the room hit his hot skin, and Shoto trembled, his nipples hardening, his entire body reacting to the exposure. The nightshirt was the first to fall, then the loose pants, and Shoto lay naked before Bakugou, his breathing ragged, his sex already hard and leaking against his belly.

"Look at me," Bakugou ordered, and Shoto obeyed, meeting his red eyes. There was something animalistic in them now, something beyond the control Bakugou always maintained. It was his alpha answering the call, and the sight made Shoto's body tremble even more. "You're with me, you're not alone. Remember?"

"I remember."

"Then trust me." Bakugou removed his own clothes in haste, and when his bare skin touched Shoto's, it was as if something clicked into place. Shoto moaned, loudly, clinging to Bakugou as if he were his only anchor in the world. Skin against skin was pure electricity, every inch of contact sending waves of relief and, at the same time, deeper desire.

"Like this," Bakugou whispered against his neck, and Shoto felt his teeth graze the soft skin over the jugular vein, felt his enveloping scent, alpha, territory, home. "Like this, your body will learn that I'm here."

Bakugou's mouth traveled down Shoto's neck, licking, sucking, marking. It wasn't like the other nights, when the kisses were given with calm, with care. Now there was hunger in them, a primal need that perfectly matched what Shoto felt. When the teeth sank into the junction of his shoulder and neck, Shoto arched his back, a cry escaping his lips.

It was a pleasure so intense it bordered on pain, a fine line Shoto had never known existed.

"Katsuki," he moaned, his fingers tangled in Bakugou's blond hair. "More, please, more..."

Bakugou looked up at him, and Shoto had never seen that expression on his face. His eyes were dark, almost black, the dilated pupil consuming the red. His breathing was heavy, and Shoto could feel his heart beating as fast as his own.

"I'll give you more," Bakugou promised, his voice so deep it barely sounded human. "I'll give you everything, Shoto. Everything you need."

He pushed Shoto back against the sheets, covering his body with his own. The weight was a blessing. Bakugou's hands roamed his body as if redrawing every curve, every muscle, every inch of skin. When his fingers found Shoto's nipples, he moaned, arching into the touch.

"Sensitive?" Bakugou asked, but he already knew the answer. He bowed his head and took one of the nipples into his mouth, sucking hard.

The sound Shoto made was obscene. He had never imagined he could feel so much pleasure there, that that part of his body could be so erogenous. But the heat changed everything, amplified every sensation, transformed every touch into something overwhelming. Bakugou's tongue circled the hardened tip while his fingers pinched the other, and Shoto writhed beneath him, lost in a sea of sensations.

"Please," he begged, though he didn't know exactly what he was asking for. His body knew, even if his mind was hazy. His hips moved in small circles, seeking friction, seeking relief. His sex leaked against Bakugou's belly, leaving a wet, warm trail.

Bakugou pulled back just enough to look at him, and something in his expression changed. There was admiration there, and desire, and something deeper that Shoto couldn't name.

"Look at you," Bakugou murmured, almost to himself. "So beautiful like this, so surrendered. No one should ever have made you go through this alone."

The mention of the past should have hurt, but in that moment, with the heat of the rut burning in his veins, the only thing Shoto could feel was the need for Bakugou. He grabbed the alpha's shoulders, pulling him down, seeking his mouth.

Tongues met, teeth grazed, and when Bakugou bit Shoto's lower lip, the taste of blood filled both their mouths.

Shoto moaned into the kiss, his legs spreading to wrap around Bakugou's waist, pulling him closer. He could feel the blond's sex against his thigh, thick and hot, and the contact made his entire body tremble with anticipation.

"Please," he asked again, his voice a hoarse whisper. "Katsuki, please, I need..."

"What do you need?" Bakugou asked, though his eyes said he already knew the answer. His hand slid down between them, wrapping around Shoto's sex, and Shoto moaned, arching into the palm. "Tell me, Shoto. What do you need?"

"You," the answer came without thought, pure and honest. "Just you. Inside me, please, Katsuki, I can't take it anymore..."

Bakugou didn't need to hear anything else. He positioned himself between Shoto's legs, and for a moment, just a moment, their eyes met. There was a question there, and Shoto answered with a nod, with his hands pulling at his hips, with his entire body screaming yes.

When Bakugou finally entered him, Shoto cried.

It wasn't the first time they made love, but it felt like it was. The heat had transformed everything, amplified every sensation, every inch of penetration. Shoto felt every millimeter of Bakugou inside him, felt the opening, the filling, the sensation of finally, finally being complete.

"Shoto," Bakugou groaned, his forehead pressed against his, his eyes closed, his body trembling with the effort of control. "You're... so tight, so hot... I'm going to go crazy..."

"Together," Shoto whispered, his fingers digging into Bakugou's back. "Let's go crazy together."

Bakugou began to move, and the world narrowed down to that movement. Each thrust was a wave of pleasure that spread through Shoto's body, each withdrawal a loss that needed to be filled again.

"Faster," Shoto asked, and Bakugou obeyed, his hips slamming against his with a force that should have hurt but only brought more pleasure. "There... there, Katsuki, there!"

Bakugou found the spot, and Shoto saw stars. His body arched, a scream tore from his throat, and he felt his orgasm approach like a storm, overwhelming and inevitable.

"Hold on," Bakugou ordered, but his own voice was failing, his own control unraveling. "Hold on a little longer, Shoto, I want us to go together..."

"I can't," Shoto whimpered, tears streaming from his eyes. "I can't, Katsuki, it's too much, it's too much..."

"You can." Bakugou's hand wrapped around Shoto's sex, and that dual touch, inside and out, was the last straw. Shoto screamed his name when the orgasm hit him, his body clenching in violent spasms around Bakugou, tightening around him, pulling him deeper.

And Bakugou came right after, with a muffled groan against Shoto's neck, his teeth sinking into the skin there, marking, claiming. Shoto felt the hot gush inside him, felt his own body writhe in small secondary orgasms, felt filled in a way he had never imagined possible.

For long minutes, they stayed like that, tangled together, breathing each other's air, their bodies still trembling. Bakugou was still inside him, and Shoto didn't want him to leave, didn't want that moment to end.

"Alright?" Bakugou finally asked, his voice hoarse, his lips still brushing the bite he had left on Shoto's neck.

"Alright," Shoto answered, and it was true. For the first time in his entire life, it was completely true. "Very alright."

Bakugou laughed, softly, and kissed the mark he had made.

"It's not over yet," he warned. "The heat will continue for the next few days, that was just the beginning."

"I know." Shoto closed his eyes, feeling the heat already beginning to build again in his belly. The wave had passed, but the next one was already announcing itself, distant but inevitable. "But now I know how good it is, now I'm not afraid."

Bakugou squeezed him against him, and Shoto felt his heart beating strongly against his own.

"You never will be again," Bakugou promised, and it was a promise Shoto knew he would keep. "Never again."

And lying in bed, the sweat drying on their skin, their scents mingling in the air, Shoto felt what it was like to be safe.

The next wave would come soon, he knew. The heat would return, the need would return, and Bakugou would be there to satisfy it, to love him through it. But in that moment, Shoto just rested, nestled against his alpha's chest, and silently thanked whatever fate had led him to find the only man in the world who would do all this for him.

...

When the next wave came, a few hours later, stronger than the first, Shoto was ready. He rolled on top of Bakugou, taking the initiative, and saw the surprise in the red eyes before they darkened again with desire.

"My turn to lead," Shoto murmured, and began to move.

And Bakugou, the king who never bowed to anyone, let himself be carried away, surrendered himself into the hands of his omega, and loved every second.

...

Shoto woke to the smell of himself.

It wasn't unpleasant, just... intense. A sweet perfume that soaked the sheets, the pillow, and the entire air of the room. His omega scent, amplified by the heat, mixed with Bakugou's scent. The combination was strong, and Shoto found himself inhaling deeply before even opening his eyes.

His body ached; between his legs, he felt sensitive, open, wet. The heat was still there, dormant but not extinguished.

"You're awake."

Bakugou's voice came from somewhere to his right. Shoto turned his head slowly and found him sitting on the edge of the bed, already dressed in loose pants, a tray in his hands.

"What time is it?" Shoto's voice came out hoarse, scratched. Screaming all night had consequences.

"Time to eat." Bakugou placed the tray on the mattress beside Shoto. There was rice porridge, cut fruit, steaming tea. Light things, easy to digest. "I don't want you fainting during the next wave."

Shoto tried to sit up and immediately groaned. Every muscle in his abdomen protested, every vertebra seemed to remember exactly how it had arched against the mattress. Bakugou watched him for a second before sighing and pulling him up, adjusting the pillows behind his back.

"Thank you," Shoto murmured, accepting the bowl of porridge Bakugou handed him.

The silence between them was comfortable. Shoto ate slowly, feeling the warmth of the food travel down his throat and spread through his chest.

"Did you sleep?" he asked, noticing the dark circles under Bakugou's red eyes.

"A little." The answer was short, but Shoto had learned to read between the lines. "A little" meant "almost nothing." It meant Bakugou had spent the night watching, caring, making sure Shoto was alright between waves.

"You should have slept more."

"Someone needed to stay awake." Bakugou picked up a slice of apple from the tray and offered it to Shoto. "You were... restless. Even sleeping."

Shoto bit into the fruit. Restless. The word was too mild for what he remembered. The dreams had been vivid, almost hallucinatory: fragments of sensations, of old fears, of desires he barely understood. In some, he was alone again, the heat burning without relief. In others, Bakugou was there, but distant, unreachable, and Shoto reached out his hands without ever touching him.

"You woke me up," Shoto said, the memory returning. "A few times. When I started trembling."

"You cried in your sleep." Bakugou's voice was neutral, but his eyes were not. "I didn't like it."

Shoto averted his gaze, focusing on the porridge. He didn't know what to say. Crying in sleep was a weakness, something his father would have punished with contempt. Omegas don't cry, he heard Enji's voice in his mind. Omegas obey, serve, fall silent.

But Bakugou didn't seem to despise him. He seemed irritated, yes, but not with Shoto. Rather, with whatever had caused the tears, even if it was just a dream.

"It was my father," Shoto said quietly, the words escaping before he could stop them. "In the dream, he said I was defective, that no alpha would want me, that my heats were a curse I deserved."

The bowl of porridge was gently removed from his hands. Bakugou set it aside and cupped Shoto's face between his palms, forcing him to look at him.

"Listen here." The voice was low, but it carried the same intensity as always. "Your father is an idiot, always has been. What he said is a lie, and you know it."

"I know," Shoto answered, and it was almost true. Almost.

"No, you don't." Bakugou frowned. "If you really knew, you wouldn't have cried in your sleep. So I'm going to say it again, and you're going to listen, and you're going to believe it, because I don't lie. I've never lied to you."

His thumbs stroked Shoto's cheeks, wiping away tears he hadn't even realized had fallen.

"You are not defective, your heats are not a curse, and you deserve everything, everything, Shoto! More than I can give you, and more. If anyone made you believe differently, that person was wrong. Wrong and cruel. And if I could, I would go back in time and stop every word, every gesture, every time they made you feel less than what you are."

Shoto blinked. The tears were faster now, hotter, but they didn't hurt. They were like a floodgate opening, releasing something that had been dammed up for too many years.

"You really believe that," he whispered, more a realization than a question.

"I do." Bakugou kissed his forehead, a gesture so tender it contrasted with everything Shoto had expected from an alpha. "And you will believe it too. It might take time, but I'm patient, I can wait."

Shoto laughed, a wet and fragile sound.

"You, patient?"

"With you, I am." Bakugou pulled back just enough to pick up the bowl again. "Now finish eating."

Shoto obeyed, bringing the spoon to his mouth. The porridge was lukewarm now, but he barely noticed. What he felt was the warmth of Bakugou's words, nestling into his chest.

...

The second wave of the second day came strong.

Shoto was lying on his side, his eyes closed, when the heat exploded in his belly without warning.

"Katsuki," he called, and his voice was no longer his own. It was the voice of the omega, of the heat, of the hunger that consumed everything.

Bakugou was at his side in an instant. This time, he didn't wait for Shoto to ask. He removed both of their clothes efficiently, knowing exactly what needed to be done. And when his skin touched Shoto's, it was as if a circuit was completed.

"On your back," Bakugou ordered, and Shoto obeyed immediately, turning onto his stomach, his knees bending to raise his hips. The position was vulnerable, exposed, and at any other moment Shoto would have hesitated, but not now. Now, his body knew what it wanted, and what it wanted was Bakugou.

The alpha's hands roamed over his back, his waist, his hips. Every touch was a blessing and a torture, relieving and inflaming at the same time. Shoto felt Bakugou's fingers trail down his spine, felt the hot mouth place kisses between his shoulder blades, and moaned into the pillow.

"Like this," Bakugou murmured against his skin. "You like it like this, don't you?"

Shoto nodded frantically, unable to form words. Bakugou's mouth traveled lower, licking the groove of his back, and Shoto writhed, the pleasure bordering on unbearable.

When Bakugou finally penetrated him, it was without preliminaries. The initial contact alone made Shoto scream, his hands gripping the sheets tightly.

"Yes," Bakugou groaned, beginning to move. "Yes, Shoto. Let me hear you."

And Shoto let him. Let out every moan, every plea, every sound his body produced.

Bakugou took him with force, with precision, finding that spot inside him that made stars explode behind his eyelids. One hand held his hip, keeping him in place, while the other slid around to grip his sex, pumping in the same rhythm as the thrusts.

"Katsuki," Shoto cried, feeling the orgasm approach. "Katsuki, I'm going to..."

"Go," Bakugou ordered. "Now."

And Shoto went. Pleasure hit him like a gigantic wave, submerging him completely. His body clenched in spasms, tightening around Bakugou inside him, and he heard the alpha's hoarse groan as he followed him, filling him with his heat.

They collapsed together, their bodies entangled, their breathing ragged. Shoto felt Bakugou kiss his nape, his shoulders, the mark he had left the night before.

"Alright?" The usual question.

"Alright." The usual answer.

But this time, Shoto added:

"It was incredible."

Bakugou laughed against his skin, and Shoto felt the vibration run through his entire body.

"You always say that."

"Because it's always true."

...

The rest of the second day passed in a blur of waves and intervals. Shoto learned the rhythms of his own heat: how the warmth rose slowly before exploding, how there were small signs his body gave before each wave. Bakugou learned to read them too, and soon they were synchronized, moving together.

Between one wave and the next, Bakugou fed him. Fruit, soup, fresh water. He forced Shoto to drink even when he didn't want to, to eat even when his appetite was scarce. He took care of him with a dedication that made Shoto's chest ache in a good way.

"You're different," Shoto said during one of these intervals, lying on his back, looking at the ceiling. "From all the alphas I've known."

Bakugou, who was cleaning his body with a damp cloth, stopped the movement.

"Different how?"

"You don't treat me like a possession." Shoto turned his head to face him. "You treat me like... a partnership. As if we were equals."

"Because we are." The answer came without hesitation. "Being an alpha doesn't make me better than you, just different. And being an omega doesn't make you inferior."

Shoto smiled, a small and true smile.

"You really studied about this, didn't you?"

"I told you." Bakugou went back to cleaning him, his movements gentle. "When I found out you were an omega, I asked Kirishima to find everything he could. Books, scrolls, accounts. I wanted to understand, I wanted... to be prepared."

"For what?"

Bakugou paused. His red eyes met Shoto's.

"For you." The confession came out low, almost reluctant. "For when you needed me."

Shoto felt the tears threaten again, but he held them back. Instead, he reached out and held Bakugou's hand, intertwining their fingers.

Bakugou squeezed his hand in silence, and Shoto knew he understood.

...

The last wave of the second day came at night, gentler than the others. It wasn't the desperate need of the first times, but something calmer.

This time, it was Shoto who took the initiative. He pushed Bakugou against the sheets and mounted him, moving slowly, savoring every inch. Bakugou watched him with dark eyes, his hands resting on his hips, letting Shoto dictate the pace.

"Like this," Shoto murmured, more to himself than to Bakugou. "Like this is perfect."

The orgasm came like a sigh. Soft waves of pleasure that spread through his body, making him tremble and bend over Bakugou, his forehead resting against his.

"I love you," Shoto whispered, the words escaping before he could contain them. "Katsuki, I love you."

The silence that followed was brief, but to Shoto it felt like an eternity. He began to pull back, fear blooming in his chest—said too much, went too far, scared him—, but Bakugou's hands tightened on his hips, keeping him in place.

"Say it again," Bakugou ordered, his voice hoarse.

Shoto swallowed dryly.

"I love you."

Bakugou pulled him into a kiss, deep and possessive, and when they separated, his eyes were shining in a way Shoto had never seen before.

"Me too," he said, and the words were rough, as if they cost him to say, but they were true. Shoto could feel the truth in them. "I love you too, Shoto. So damn much."

Shoto laughed, a tired and happy sound, and let himself fall onto Bakugou's chest, listening to his heart beat strong and fast.

And so, wrapped in each other, the second day of heat came to an end.

Chapter Text

Three days had passed since the beginning of the heat.

Shoto woke that morning feeling strangely light. The heat that had burned in his belly over the past few days had completely disappeared, leaving behind only a sense of quietness. His body still carried memories, like slightly sore muscles and skin more sensitive in certain places, but the overwhelming need was gone. All that remained was himself, Shoto, whole and calm for the first time in days.

Bakugou was no longer in bed when he opened his eyes. The place beside him was still warm, the scent of caramel still clinging to the sheets, but the alpha had left before dawn. Shoto wasn’t surprised. Four days locked in a room meant four days of accumulated duties. Delayed hearings, pending decisions, scrolls waiting for the royal signature.

He stretched slowly, feeling his joints crack, and sighed at the ceiling. The words from that night still echoed in his mind. "I love you too, Shoto." Spoken in Bakugou’s rough voice, as if each syllable had cost him something, but absolutely truthful.

He got up slowly, dressed in clean clothes, and left the room. The castle was in full activity: servants rushed through the corridors, guards changed shifts, and the distant sound of hammers came from the royal forge.

His stomach growled, reminding him that although Bakugou had fed him diligently throughout the heat, the portions had been small and light. He needed a real meal.

In the main hall, he found Mina and Sero finishing breakfast. The pink-haired beta lit up when she saw him.

"Shoto!" she waved, patting the bench beside her. "You finally showed up! I thought you two were going to stay locked in that room forever."

Shoto felt his face warm slightly, but kept a neutral expression while serving himself bread, cheese, and fruit.

"The heat ended yesterday," he said simply.

"We know." Sero smiled, his dark eyes gleaming with amusement. "Bakugou left early this morning looking like a bear that slept well for the first time in his life. He even greeted the guards."

Mina laughed loudly, and Shoto allowed himself a small smile. He could perfectly imagine the scene: Bakugou walking through the corridors with his usual arrogant posture, but with something softer in his eyes, something only Shoto knew.

"He has a lot of accumulated work," Shoto commented, biting into the bread. "Four days is a long time."

"Which is exactly why Mina and I are taking you to the village today," Sero announced. "The king is busy, you need some fresh air, and the people love seeing their consort. It’s a situation where everyone wins."

Shoto considered the proposal. It wasn’t an official obligation, but Sero was right. As consort, his presence in the village was well received; he had learned that over the past few months. The people liked seeing him, talking to him, knowing that the king’s companion cared about their lives. And honestly, Shoto liked it too. The visits to the village made him feel useful, connected to something greater than the castle walls.

"Alright," he agreed. "We’ll go after breakfast."

...

The village was vibrant beneath the morning sun.

Shoto walked among the market stalls, Mina chatting beside him about the new dye colors that had arrived from the neighboring kingdom, Sero a few steps behind with his easy and attentive smile. The smell of fresh bread mixed with herbs and flowers, and people greeted them with respectful yet genuinely warm bows.

"Lord Shoto!" An elderly woman approached holding a basket of apples. "It’s so good to see you! The apple trees gave sweet fruit this year, please, take some to the castle."

Shoto accepted the gift with a nod, thanking her quietly. The woman smiled, her wrinkles deepening, and continued on her way.

"You’re popular," Mina commented, nibbling one of the apples Shoto had offered her.

"They’re kind," Shoto replied, placing the remaining fruit into the bag Sero carried.

"It’s not just kindness." Mina shook her head. "They genuinely like you. You know why? Because you treat them like people, not subjects. That’s rare."

Shoto didn’t know what to answer. To him, it was natural. People were people, regardless of titles. Maybe it was because he himself had grown up feeling less than human, a defective omega in his father’s words. Maybe it was because he knew what it felt like to be treated as inferior, and he wished that on no one.

They spent the morning like that: visiting the bakery, where Shoto tried a new kind of sweet bread; the forge, where the blacksmith proudly showed a new technique he had learned; the houses, where children ran to hug him, calling him "Lord Shoto" with cheerful voices.

When they finally left the houses, the sun had already passed midday.

"We should head back," Sero suggested. "Bakugou must be finishing the hearings around this time. If we arrive early enough, maybe we can have lunch together."

The idea of seeing Bakugou made Shoto’s heart speed up slightly. Four days locked together and he still missed him after only a few hours apart. It was ridiculous... and wonderful.

The walk back to the castle was peaceful, with Mina humming a popular song and Sero making witty comments about the people they passed. Shoto walked in silence, feeling the sun on his face, the wind in his hair, and thinking that life could be like this: simple, good, happy.

Then they approached the castle gates, and everything changed.

There was a commotion.

Not the normal murmur of a functioning castle, but something different, an agitation, an excitement running through the corridors like a current. Guards talked among themselves with smiles on their faces, servants hurried around carrying things. Even the old gardener, normally oblivious to everything except his plants, seemed excited.

"What’s going on?" Mina frowned, looking around.

"I don’t know," Sero replied, his carefree expression giving way to attentive curiosity. "But whatever it is, it’s making everyone restless."

Shoto felt a strange tightness in his chest. Something about that agitation unsettled him, though he couldn’t explain why. Maybe it was omega instinct, always alert to changes in the environment, maybe it was simply exhaustion after the busy morning.

They entered the main hall and found Kirishima talking animatedly with a group of guards. The red-haired alpha wore a wide smile, his eyes shining with genuine happiness.

"Kirishima!" Mina called, approaching him. "What’s all this chaos? It looks like someone announced a holiday and forgot to tell us."

Kirishima turned toward them, and his smile, if possible, grew even wider.

"You didn’t hear?" He seemed genuinely surprised. "Midoriya is coming back!"

The name hung in the air for a moment. Mina widened her eyes and let out a surprised exclamation. Sero whistled softly, a smile appearing on his lips. But Shoto...

Shoto only blinked, confused.

"Who is Midoriya?" he asked, his voice neutral.

The three of them turned to him with varying expressions. Mina looked surprised, Sero curious, and Kirishima... Kirishima suddenly looked uncomfortable, as if he had realized something he shouldn’t have.

"You don’t know?" Mina tilted her head. "Midoriya Izuku, Bakugou’s childhood best friend."

Shoto felt something cold run down his spine.

"Childhood friend," he repeated, the words sounding strange in his mouth.

"Yeah!" Mina continued, oblivious to the subtle change in Shoto’s posture. "They grew up together. Midoriya is an omega, did you know? He left four years ago to study medicinal herbs in the eastern kingdoms. He sent letters every now and then, Bakugou never mentioned him?"

No, Shoto thought. Never.

"No," he replied, keeping his voice perfectly controlled. Years of training under his father had taught him how to hide emotions, and he used every lesson now. "I’ve never heard of him."

An uncomfortable silence settled. Kirishima coughed, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Well, he’s... a great friend of Bakugou’s." The alpha seemed to be choosing his words carefully. "Very dear to everyone here. He’s been gone for four years researching medicinal plants, he’s a brilliant scholar."

"An omega," Shoto repeated, and this time there was something in his voice that made Mina frown.

"Shoto..."

"When does he arrive?" Shoto interrupted, his face a mask of neutrality.

"This afternoon," Kirishima replied. "The messenger arrived this morning. Bakugou is... well, he’s preparing everything to receive him."

Bakugou is preparing everything. The words lodged themselves in Shoto’s chest like tiny splinters. Bakugou, who normally delegated every domestic task, was personally supervising the preparations. For an omega... an omega he had known since childhood... an omega he had never mentioned to Shoto.

"I see," Shoto said, and his voice was so empty that even he barely recognized it. "That’s... good."

Mina and Sero exchanged looks. Kirishima shifted his weight from one foot to the other, clearly regretting being the bearer of the news.

"Shoto," Sero began carefully, "do you want..."

"I’m tired," Shoto cut him off. "The walk was long, I’m going to rest a bit before dinner."

He didn’t wait for an answer. He simply turned and walked down the corridor, his steps measured and controlled, his posture straight. Every movement was deliberate, calculated not to reveal anything. Not to show the earthquake happening inside him.

Only when he turned a corner, out of everyone’s sight, did Shoto allow himself to stop. He leaned against the cold stone wall and closed his eyes, taking a deep breath.

An omega, a childhood friend. He never mentioned him.

The phrases swirled in his mind like a storm. Bakugou had told him so many things, about his training, about becoming king, about Kirishima and the others. But never, not once, had he mentioned Midoriya Izuku.

Why?

The question burned. If Midoriya was only a friend, why had Bakugou never spoken of him? Why hide him, because hide was the only word that made sense, the existence of someone so important?

"Because he means more," whispered a treacherous voice in his mind. Because Midoriya isn’t just a friend. Because Bakugou kept him in a special place, a place you couldn’t enter.

Shoto opened his eyes, staring at the stone ceiling. No. He wouldn’t do this. He wouldn’t let insecurity defeat him so easily.

But the seed had already been planted.

And Shoto knew, with cold certainty, that it would grow.

...

He didn’t look for Bakugou immediately.

Instead, he went to the library, his silent refuge whenever the world became too much. The tall dark wooden shelves, the smell of old scrolls, the soft light coming through the narrow windows. There, Shoto could breathe.

He sat in an armchair by the window and picked up a random book without truly seeing it. His mind was far away, replaying every conversation, every moment with Bakugou, searching for clues he had missed.

Nothing. In months of living together, the name Midoriya had never come up.

He doesn’t trust me enough, Shoto thought, and the thought hurt more than it should. He kept that part of his life hidden. Why? What does Midoriya mean to him that I’m not allowed to know?

The library door opened. Shoto recognized the footsteps before even looking up:

Bakugou.

"So this is where you are." The alpha’s voice was a mix of relief and irritation. "I’ve been looking for you all over the castle. Why didn’t you tell me you were back?"

Shoto raised his eyes from the book he wasn’t reading. Bakugou stood there, his royal cloak slightly crooked, his blond hair messy as if he had run his hand through it repeatedly. He looked tired, but there was something else in his eyes.

"I didn’t want to interrupt," Shoto replied, his voice neutral. "Kirishima mentioned you were busy with preparations."

Bakugou snorted, approaching him.

"That idiot talks too much." He stopped beside the armchair, looking at Shoto with an expression that was almost... anxious? "So you heard. About Midoriya."

"I heard."

The silence stretched for a moment. Shoto waited, waited for Bakugou to explain, waited for him to say why he had never mentioned that childhood friend, that omega so important he deserved the castle’s finest preparations.

But Bakugou only said:

"He arrives this afternoon. I want you to meet him."

Shoto felt something tighten in his chest, but kept his face impassive.

"Alright."

"He’s..." Bakugou hesitated, something rare for him. "He’s important to me, my oldest friend. I want you two to get along."

Important to me. The words echoed in Shoto’s mind. He nodded, a short controlled movement.

"I understand."

Bakugou frowned, studying him.

"You’re acting strange."

"I’m tired," Shoto repeated the earlier excuse, and it was true, though not in the way Bakugou would interpret. "It was a long morning in the village."

The alpha seemed to accept the explanation, though his eyes still carried a shadow of doubt. He leaned down and kissed Shoto’s forehead, a gesture so familiar that it made the omega’s heart ache.

"Then rest. Dinner will be later than usual because of his arrival. If you don’t feel well enough to come downstairs..."

"I’ll be there," Shoto interrupted, his voice firmer than he felt. "I want to meet him."

Bakugou smiled, that rare smile Shoto loved, and something in the omega’s chest broke a little more.

"Good, you’ll like him. Everyone likes him."

Everyone likes him.

Bakugou left the library, his footsteps echoing through the corridor. And Shoto remained there, the forgotten book in his lap, feeling the weight of those words.

Everyone likes him.

And Shoto... Shoto was tolerated. Accepted. Loved by Bakugou, yes, but how many truly liked him?

He closed his eyes, leaning back in the armchair. The afternoon sun streamed through the window, warming his face, but the warmth didn’t reach the cold settling in his chest.

...

The sound of trumpets announced the arrival.

Shoto stood on the balcony overlooking the main courtyard when the small group appeared at the gates. Two royal guards escorted a figure mounted on a short horse: a figure with green hair shining beneath the afternoon light.

Even from a distance, Shoto could see it.

Midoriya wasn’t just handsome. He was radiant.

He dismounted with natural grace, wearing simple traveler’s clothes: a dark green tunic, riding pants, boots worn by the road, but even so there was something about him that drew attention. Maybe it was his posture, straight but not rigid, maybe it was the smile lighting up his face as he greeted the guards with familiarity, maybe it was the freckles scattered across his cheeks, visible even from afar.

Perfect, Shoto thought, and the word hurt like a cut. Too perfect.

Bakugou appeared in the courtyard. Shoto watched him walk toward the newcomer, his steps faster than usual, his posture less rigid. And when Midoriya saw him, his entire face transformed.

"Kacchan!"

The nickname carried across the courtyard, full of such genuine joy that it made Shoto’s chest tighten. Kacchan. Probably a childhood nickname, something intimate and personal.

Midoriya ran, literally ran, toward Bakugou, and for one horrible moment Shoto thought he was going to hug him. But the omega stopped one step away, his smile so wide it nearly closed his eyes.

"You haven’t changed at all!" Midoriya exclaimed, his voice reaching the balcony where Shoto hid. "Well, you’re taller, more... king-like. But you still have the same angry face!"

"Shut up, nerd." There was no venom in Bakugou’s voice at all. On the contrary, there was something almost... affectionate in it. "Four years away and you come back with the same habit of talking too much."

"Four years!" Midoriya shook his head, his green curls bouncing. "I have so much to tell you, Kacchan. The research, the discoveries, the people I met... and you? How are you? The letters weren’t enough, I want to know everything!"

Letters, they exchanged letters. Bakugou, who hated writing, who grumbled every time he had to sign an official document, wrote letters to Midoriya. And he had never mentioned it to Shoto.

The alpha laughed and placed a hand on Midoriya’s shoulder.

"Relax, you just got here, there’ll be time to talk about everything. First, go take a bath, you smell like horse."

"You’d smell too if you spent two days traveling nonstop!"

They continued talking as they walked into the castle. Shoto watched them disappear through the main doors, side by side, so comfortable with each other that they looked like two pieces of a puzzle finally fitting together.

The sun kept shining, the birds kept singing, the world kept turning, oblivious to the fact that Shoto felt as if something inside him had shattered into tiny pieces.

...

He didn’t go downstairs immediately. He remained on the balcony, hands resting on the stone railing, eyes fixed on the now-empty gate. The afternoon breeze tousled his hair, but he barely noticed.

He never told me.

The thought hammered in his mind, insistent and cruel.

He never mentioned the name, never talked about the letters, never shared this part of his life. Why?

All the possible answers hurt. Maybe Bakugou didn’t trust him enough, maybe Midoriya was so precious that Bakugou wanted to keep him in a separate place, untouched, entirely his, maybe Shoto was only... temporary. A convenient consort until the true childhood love returned.

No, he tried to tell himself. Bakugou said he loves me. Bakugou spent four days taking care of me, Bakugou doesn’t lie.

But then why the silence? Why the secret?

"Shoto?"

Mina’s voice brought him back. The beta stood in the balcony doorway, her eyes filled with concern she didn’t try to hide.

"Are you alright? You’ve been out here for a long time."

Shoto composed himself, straightening his posture, smoothing his clothes. When he turned toward Mina, his face was a perfectly neutral mask.

"I’m fine. Just... enjoying the view."

Mina didn’t seem convinced, but she didn’t insist. Instead, she approached and stood beside him, leaning against the railing.

"He’s handsome, isn’t he? Midoriya."

Shoto didn’t answer.

"He’s always been like that," Mina continued softly. "Even before he left, he had this way about him... bright. People gravitated toward him without even realizing it."

Bright. The word fit perfectly, Midoriya shined. And Shoto... Shoto was ice and fire, contained destruction. Something people feared or tolerated, but rarely loved at first sight.

"He seems... suitable," Shoto finally said, the most neutral word he could find.

Mina glanced sideways at him, her eyes perceptive.

"Shoto..."

"I’m going to get ready for dinner." Shoto stepped away from the railing. "I don’t want to be late."

He passed by Mina without looking back, his steps measured and controlled. The beta watched him leave, a worried crease between her brows, but she didn’t follow him.

...

Dinner was complicated.

Shoto sat beside Bakugou, as always, his place of honor to the king’s right. Midoriya sat across from them in the seat reserved for honored guests, and he glowed.

It was the only word for him. Midoriya Izuku glowed.

He spoke enthusiastically about his travels, his green eyes lighting up with every new story. He described the herbs he had discovered in the kingdoms, the people he had met, the cures he had developed. His voice was animated, his gestures expressive, and everyone at the table was captivated.

Kirishima laughed at his jokes, Mina asked questions with genuine interest, Sero teased him gently, and Midoriya responded with a humility that only made him more adorable. Even the servants seemed lighter while serving him, smiling whenever he thanked them with a sincerity that was rare among nobles.

And Bakugou... Bakugou watched him with an expression Shoto had never seen before. It wasn’t desire, Shoto knew how to recognize desire in his alpha’s eyes. It was something softer, older, a deep affection rooted in years of companionship. A familiarity Shoto could never hope to reach.

They have a history, Shoto thought, cutting the meat on his plate without really seeing it. An entire history I will never know, memories I will never share, a bond that existed long before me.

"And you, Lord Shoto?" Midoriya’s voice pulled him from his thoughts.

Shoto raised his eyes. Midoriya was watching him with genuine curiosity, an open smile on his freckled face.

"Kacchan told me so little about you in his letters," the omega continued, tilting his head. "He only said you were his consort and that I should ‘find out for myself.’ Typical of him, but I want to know everything! How did you meet? How long have you been together?"

Kacchan told me so little. The words were innocent, but they hit Shoto like blows. Bakugou wrote letters, letters in which he mentioned Shoto only in passing, like an insignificant detail. My consort, find out for yourself.

Shoto felt Bakugou’s gaze on him, but he didn’t meet it. Instead, he kept his eyes on Midoriya and offered a polite smile.

"There isn’t much to tell," he said, his voice neutral. "We met a few months ago. It was a political arrangement that became... something more."

"Oh!" Midoriya seemed delighted. "That’s so romantic! A political arrangement turning into true love. Like in the old stories!"

True love. Shoto wanted to believe that was what he had with Bakugou. But looking at Midoriya, so radiant, so full of life, so perfectly integrated into Bakugou’s world... he wasn’t so sure anymore.

"Something like that," he replied, returning his attention to his plate.

The rest of dinner passed in a blur. Shoto ate mechanically, answered when spoken to, smiled at the appropriate moments. But his mind was elsewhere, circling around the same unanswered questions.

What did that omega mean to him?

And the most painful question of all, the one Shoto didn’t dare formulate even in his own mind: If Midoriya had been here when Bakugou needed a consort... would I still be sitting in this place?

...

After dinner, Shoto excused himself politely and retreated to the private sitting room. He needed silence and space. He needed to organize the thoughts spinning in his mind like a storm.

But the silence didn’t last long.

The door opened, and Bakugou entered. The alpha looked satisfied, relaxed in a way Shoto rarely saw.

"You disappeared," Bakugou said, closing the door behind him. "Midoriya asked about you."

"I was tired," Shoto replied, the same excuse as always.

Bakugou approached, sitting on the armrest of the chair where Shoto sat. His fingers touched Shoto’s hair, a distracted and affectionate gesture.

"So? What did you think of him?"

Shoto considered the question. What did he think of Midoriya? That he was everything Shoto wasn’t. That he shone like the sun. That he had a history with Bakugou Shoto could never touch. That he was loved by everyone easily and naturally in a way Shoto had never experienced.

But he said none of that.

"He seems... good," he answered, the word carefully chosen. "Pleasant."

Bakugou snorted, an amused sound.

"‘Pleasant.’ You and your neutral words." He tilted his head, studying Shoto. "Are you really tired or is something wrong?"

Shoto finally looked at him. Those red eyes, so intense, so familiar. Eyes that had promised love only three days ago.

Ask, said a voice in his mind. Ask why he never mentioned Midoriya. Ask about the letters. Ask what that omega means to him.

But fear was stronger.

"I’m tired," Shoto repeated, offering a small smile, that rare smile Bakugou had said he loved. "It was a long day. The village, your friend’s arrival, dinner... I just need to rest."

Bakugou watched him for another moment, and Shoto feared he would insist, that he would see through the mask. But then the alpha sighed and kissed his forehead.

"Alright. I’ll let you rest." He stood up. "Tomorrow Midoriya is going to show the herbs he brought. Want to see them?"

"Of course," Shoto lied.

Bakugou smiled, that rare smile, and left the room.

Shoto remained alone.

And for the first time since becoming consort, he cried silently in the darkness, with no one there to see.

The tears fell hot against his face, and he wiped them away quickly, furiously, as if he could erase not only the moisture but the pain itself. His father had taught him that omegas did not cry. Omegas obeyed, served, stayed silent. But his father had also taught him that omegas were not loved, only useful, at best tolerated.

And maybe, Shoto thought, his father had been right.

What did he have to offer Bakugou?

Midoriya offered knowledge, stories, a shared past. He offered lightness, laughter, a presence that illuminated any room. He offered Bakugou something Shoto could never give: the feeling of being understood by someone who had known him forever.

Am I enough?

The question whispered through his mind, treacherous and ancient. The same question he had asked his entire life in the hands of a father who was never satisfied. Am I enough? Am I good enough? Do I deserve to be loved?

Bakugou had said yes. Bakugou had spent five days proving yes, taking care of him through the heat, whispering words of love against his skin.

But Bakugou had also hidden Midoriya.

And that fact, small and silent, was a crack in the foundation of everything Shoto believed.

He wiped away his tears. Straightened his posture, breathed deeply, once, twice, three times, until his heart slowed from its frantic rhythm.

No one could know, no one could see. Especially Bakugou.

Shoto had learned, during the years of abuse beneath his father’s roof, that showing weakness was inviting more pain, that asking for explanations meant receiving lies, that confrontation meant losing the little he had.

He would not lose Bakugou. Not like this.

If there was something between Bakugou and Midoriya, something Bakugou had deliberately hidden, Shoto preferred not to know. He preferred to live in ignorance, clinging to the scraps of affection he received, rather than face the truth and end up with nothing.

It was pathetic, he knew. It was cowardly.

But it was all he could be in that moment.

Outside, night had completely fallen. The stars shone cold and distant. Somewhere in the castle, Bakugou was probably still with Midoriya, talking, laughing, recovering four lost years.

And Shoto was there, alone, fighting a silent battle against demons he had thought he’d left behind.

Tomorrow would be another day. Tomorrow he would smile again, answer politely, pretend everything was fine. Because that was what omegas did, wasn’t it? They suffered in silence. Kept their pain to themselves. Never asked for explanations, never demanded the truth.

His father had taught him well.

And for the first time in months, Shoto hated how much those lessons still defined him.

Chapter Text

Shoto had become a master of disguise in the days that followed.

He woke early, before even Bakugou, and occupied himself with the duties of a consort. He visited the village more often than necessary, spoke with the villagers, listened to their concerns, brought them to the appropriate advisors. He had lunch with Mina and Sero, laughed at the right moments, asked questions that diverted attention away from himself. At night, he dined with Bakugou and, frequently, with Midoriya, who seemed to always be present now, and maintained a façade of perfect cordiality.

It was exhausting. But Shoto had learned, during the years under his father’s roof, that exhaustion was preferable to vulnerability.

Midoriya, to his silent despair, was genuinely... good.

There was no falsehood in his smiles, no malice in his questions. He treated Shoto with a gentleness that seemed natural, effortless, as though he were incapable of cruelty. He asked about Shoto’s life before the castle, listened attentively whenever Shoto offered short and evasive answers, and never pushed for more than what was given to him.

"You’re very reserved, aren’t you?" Midoriya commented one of those days while they walked through the garden. It was the fourth day since his arrival, and somehow Shoto had ended up alone with him while Bakugou dealt with an urgent matter with the advisors. "Kacchan was like that too when he was younger. I think that’s why the two of you get along so well."

Shoto did not answer immediately. He watched the flowers lining the path, red roses, Bakugou’s favorites, though the alpha would never admit it.

"You’ve known him for a long time?" he finally said, the question disguised as an observation.

"All my life." Midoriya smiled, a nostalgic smile that lit up his features. "We grew up together in the village, before his mother became queen. We were neighbors, and our mothers were friends."

Neighbors. Shoto stored the information away, another piece in the puzzle he was silently trying to assemble. They had grown up together, their mothers were friends.

"Was he... different back then?" he asked, keeping his voice neutral.

Midoriya laughed, a light and musical sound.

"He was awful! He yelled at everyone, wanted to be the best at everything, refused help from anyone. But he was also..." His green eyes softened. "He protected the weak. Even when he pretended not to care, he always showed up when someone needed him. Once, some older boys were making fun of me because of my freckles, and Kacchan appeared out of nowhere and faced them by himself. He got beaten up, but they never bothered me again."

Shoto listened to the story, each word lodging itself in his chest like a tiny splinter. Bakugou had protected Midoriya, had fought older boys because of him, had gotten beaten for him.

It was a beautiful story, a precious childhood memory.

So why did it hurt so much to hear it?

"He never told me that story," Shoto said, and his voice came out flatter than he intended.

Midoriya blinked, his expression shifting into something that might have been surprise or guilt.

"Oh. Well... Kacchan doesn’t really like talking about the past. I think he’s embarrassed about how he was as a child." He paused, his eyes studying Shoto with a sharpness that belied his innocent appearance. "He also didn’t tell me much about you in his letters, you know? Just that he was happy, that he’d found someone who understood him."

Happy. Bakugou had told Midoriya that he was happy with Shoto. The revelation should have warmed him, yet instead it only confused him further.

"He wrote often?" The question slipped out before Shoto could stop it.

"About once a month, more or less." Midoriya seemed not to notice anything strange in the question. "Sometimes more, when something important happened. He complained about having to write, but he always did. Kacchan’s like that, he does things even while grumbling about them."

Once a month. Shoto thought of all the nights he had seen Bakugou bent over his desk, candlelight illuminating his concentrated face. Shoto had assumed they were official documents, reports from the kingdom, political treaties. He had never asked, and Bakugou had never offered an explanation.

And now he knew: they were letters. Letters to Midoriya.

"Lord Shoto?" Midoriya’s voice brought him back. The omega was watching him with concern. "Are you alright? You suddenly went pale."

"I’m fine." The practiced smile appeared automatically. "The sun is strong today. Perhaps we should head back inside."

Midoriya nodded, still looking worried, but he did not insist. And Shoto walked beside him back to the castle, feeling the weight of every new discovery piling onto his shoulders.

...

That night, Shoto watched Bakugou at the dinner table.

It was something he had been doing for days now, discreetly, studying every interaction between the alpha and Midoriya. Searching for hidden meanings, searching for proof of what he feared.

Midoriya was telling a story about a rare plant he had found in the southern mountains, gesturing animatedly, his green eyes shining. Bakugou listened with an expression Shoto rarely saw: relaxed, almost amused, the corners of his lips curved into that near-smile he reserved for very few people.

"...and then the old healer told me I was crazy for trying to harvest the plant during the rainy season!" Midoriya laughed. "But I knew it was the right moment. The medicinal properties are stronger when the leaves are damp. He called me an idiot, but when he saw the results, he had to admit I was right."

"You’ve always been stubborn," Bakugou commented, his voice carrying a tone of... pride? "Since you were little. Once you decided something, nobody could make you change your mind."

"I learned from the best." Midoriya smiled at Bakugou, and there was so much affection in that smile that Shoto had to look away.

Kirishima, seated beside Midoriya, laughed.

"You two are exactly alike. Stubborn, intense, always convinced you’re right."

"I am right," Bakugou shot back, but without venom. "Always am."

"Of course you are, Kacchan." Midoriya rolled his eyes, such a casual, intimate gesture that Shoto’s stomach tightened.

Kacchan. The nickname only Midoriya used. The nickname Bakugou allowed, perhaps even liked, coming from that specific omega.

For one cruel moment, Shoto imagined what it would be like to call Bakugou by a nickname like that. Something intimate, something that belonged only to them. But every time he tried, the words died in his throat. He was Shoto, Katsuki was Katsuki. There were no nicknames between them, no years of shared history.

There was only the present. A present that suddenly seemed far more fragile than Shoto had imagined.

"Shoto." Bakugou’s voice brought him back. The alpha was watching him with those intense red eyes. "You barely touched your food."

Shoto looked down at his plate. The meat was cold, the vegetables untouched. He picked up his fork, forcing himself to eat a piece.

"I was distracted," he said. "Thinking about the village reports."

Bakugou frowned, but did not press further. Midoriya, on the other hand, tilted his head curiously.

"You visit the village often, Lord Shoto?"

"Yes."

"That’s admirable." Midoriya’s smile was genuine. "A lot of consorts isolate themselves in the castle, distant from the people, but you go to them. I heard the villagers speaking well of you today when I went to the market. They say you treat them with great respect."

Shoto did not know how to answer. Compliments always made him uncomfortable, as though they were traps waiting to snap shut.

"It’s my duty," he said at last.

"It’s not just duty." Midoriya shook his head. "Duty is doing the minimum that’s necessary. You do more than that. It’s obvious you genuinely care."

There was so much sincerity in Midoriya’s voice that Shoto felt something inside him waver. It was difficult to hate someone so genuinely kind. Difficult to keep his defenses raised against someone who offered nothing but gentleness.

But Shoto had learned, from his father, that kindness could also be a weapon. That the most dangerous people were often the ones who appeared harmless.

"Thank you," he said, and returned his attention to his plate.

Dinner continued around him, laughter and conversation flowing easily. Shoto participated only as much as necessary, answering when spoken to, smiling at the right moments. And the entire time, he observed.

He observed the way Bakugou leaned his body toward Midoriya, an unconscious body language that spoke of familiarity and comfort. He observed how he laughed more, spoke more, was more when that omega was nearby. He observed how Midoriya casually touched Bakugou’s arm while telling a story, and how Bakugou did not pull away.

Casual touches, shared laughter, a childhood nickname, monthly letters hidden away...

Shoto pieced everything together in silence, and the picture forming before him was terrifying.

...

On the seventh night since Midoriya’s arrival, Shoto broke.

Something inside him, something that had been stretching and straining for days, finally snapped.

It was something small, almost nothing.

Bakugou was at the desk in the bedroom they shared, writing. Shoto was lying in bed, pretending to read a book.

"Will it take long?" Shoto asked, his voice carefully neutral.

"Just a little longer." Bakugou did not look up. "I need to finish this."

This. Shoto knew what it was. Over the past days, he had learned to recognize the signs. The different paper, lighter, suitable for long-distance travel, Bakugou’s concentrated expression, different from the one he wore for official documents, the way he sometimes smiled faintly while writing, as though remembering something pleasant.

It was a letter. Another letter to Midoriya.

What was there to write, Shoto wondered, when Midoriya was there, in the same castle, only a few corridors away? What did Bakugou need to say in writing that he could not say in person?

The answer came cold and cruel: Things he doesn’t want me to hear.

Shoto closed the book, the sound too loud in the silence of the room.

"I’m going to sleep," he announced, turning his back to Bakugou.

"Hm." The alpha barely seemed to notice. "Good night."

Good night. Two distracted words, tossed out thoughtlessly. Shoto closed his eyes and pretended to sleep, but his mind remained awake, spinning, spinning.

He never told me about Midoriya, he writes letters I can’t read, keeps secrets I can’t know. And now, even with me beside him, he writes to that omega as though I’m not even here.

The next thought came uninvited, the most painful one of all:

Maybe he regrets it. Maybe now that Midoriya is back, he’s realized he chose wrong, that he should have waited, that I was only... a convenient substitute.

Shoto buried his face into the pillow and breathed deeply, controlling every inhale, every exhale. He would not cry, would not show weakness, would not give Bakugou reasons to confirm what he feared.

...

On the eighth day, Shoto began to pull away.

It was subtle, almost imperceptible. He still attended meals, still answered when spoken to, still fulfilled his duties as consort. But something had changed.

Mina was the first to notice.

"Shoto, are you alright?" she asked, finding him alone in the garden. It was the place where Shoto spent more and more time now, away from curious eyes, away from the laughter echoing through the main hall where Midoriya and Bakugou often were.

"I’m fine."

"You always say that." Mina sat beside him on the stone bench, her presence warm and familiar. "But your eyes say something else."

Shoto did not answer. He watched a bee land on a red rose.

"It’s about Midoriya, isn’t it?" Mina’s voice was soft, without judgment.

Shoto’s silence was answer enough.

"Shoto..." Mina sighed. "Midoriya is a good person. He would never do anything to hurt you."

"I know."

And he truly did. Midoriya was not malicious, there was no poison in his words, no hidden intentions in his gestures. He was genuinely kind, genuinely interested in getting to know Shoto, genuinely happy that Bakugou had found someone.

But that only made everything worse.

Because if Midoriya were cruel, Shoto could hate him. He could point out his flaws, justify his insecurity, fight against a visible enemy. But Midoriya was good, so good that Shoto felt petty just for feeling threatened by him.

"The problem isn’t him," Shoto finally said, the words coming out low, almost to himself. "The problem is me."

Mina frowned.

"What do you mean?"

Shoto shook his head. He could not explain. Not without revealing the secret that was eating him alive: that Bakugou had never told him about Midoriya. That there was a void in the story they shared, a gap Shoto did not know how to fill. That every laugh, every casual touch, every "Kacchan" Midoriya uttered was a reminder that Shoto was a stranger to parts of Bakugou’s life that Midoriya knew intimately.

"Nothing," he said. "Forget it."

Mina watched him for a long moment, her eyes filled with an understanding Shoto did not want to see.

"You know," she finally said, her voice gentle, "Bakugou can be an idiot sometimes. He doesn’t notice the things right in front of him. But he loves you, Shoto. Anyone with eyes can see that."

He loves you. The words that should have comforted him now felt hollow.

"I know," Shoto lied, offering Mina a smile that did not reach his eyes. "Thank you."

Mina did not seem convinced, but she did not insist. She simply remained there beside him in silence while the afternoon sun painted the garden gold.

And Shoto thought, for the first time consciously, that perhaps he needed a plan. A way to survive when, not if, but when, Bakugou realized he had chosen the wrong omega.

...

The opportunity came on the ninth day.

Shoto was in the library when he heard voices in the hallway. He had not intended to listen, but the words reached him clearly through the half-open door.

"...need to talk to him, Kacchan."

It was Midoriya. His voice was serious, more serious than Shoto had ever heard it.

"I know." Bakugou’s voice sounded frustrated. "But it’s not simple."

Shoto froze. His heart sped up, hammering against his ribs. He deserves to know. Know what?

"You don’t understand." Bakugou sighed, a heavy sound. "Shoto is... complicated. He has trust issues. If I tell him like that, out of nowhere, he might misunderstand."

Misunderstand. The phrase spun through Shoto’s mind. What was there to misunderstand? What was Bakugou hiding that could be misunderstood?

"Misunderstand what?" Midoriya asked, echoing Shoto’s thoughts. "That you and I grew up together? That we’ve been friends forever? That’s not a bad thing, Kacchan."

"You don’t know him the way I do." Bakugou’s voice was low now, almost a murmur. "Shoto grew up believing he wasn’t enough, that nobody would choose him. If I tell him about you, about how we grew up together, he might think... that there’s competition, that you’re a threat."

Competition, threat...

"But I’m not!" Midoriya protested.

"I know you’re not! But what I know doesn’t matter. What matters is what he’s going to feel. And I don’t want to hurt him."

Shoto heard the rest of the conversation as though submerged underwater. The voices continued, but the words became indistinct, muffled by the roar of blood in his ears.

Bakugou thought Shoto would see Midoriya as competition. Bakugou had hidden Midoriya’s existence because he feared Shoto’s reaction. Bakugou believed, believed, that Shoto was so fragile, so insecure, that he would not be able to handle the truth.

And the worst part: Bakugou was right.

Shoto stepped away from the door, his footsteps silent against the library carpet. He did not want to hear more, did not want to know more. He already knew too much.

He hid Midoriya from me because he thought I couldn’t handle it, because I’m weak, because I’m insecure, because he sees me as someone who needs to be protected from the truth.

Humiliation burned in his chest, hotter than any flame he had ever conjured. It was not anger toward Bakugou, or maybe it was, but an anger mixed with shame. Shame at being exactly what Bakugou feared he was. Shame at proving, with every jealous thought, every sleepless night, every fake smile, that Bakugou had been right to hide Midoriya.

Because look at him now: hiding in a library, listening to conversations not meant for him, gathering evidence of a betrayal that perhaps did not even exist, letting fear consume him.

Pathetic, whispered his father’s voice in his mind. I told you. Omegas like you are not made to be loved, they are made to be tolerated. And now he tolerates you while dreaming of that other omega, the one who isn’t defective.

Shoto squeezed his eyes shut, trying to silence the voice. But it continued...

You always knew you weren’t enough. Always knew he deserved someone better. Someone who wasn’t broken. Someone he didn’t need to hide things from. Someone he could love without fear of breaking.

Someone like Midoriya.

When Shoto finally left the library, he greeted the guards with polite nods, answered a servant’s question about the dinner menu, and walked to his chambers as though everything were fine.

But inside, Shoto was falling apart.

And for the first time since becoming consort, he seriously considered the possibility that he no longer belonged in that place.

...

On the tenth day, Shoto made a decision.

He could not continue like this.

The uncertainty was destroying him. All of this felt like tiny knives, cutting him slowly, day after day. And the worst part was not the jealousy. The worst part was the silence.

So only one option remained.

He needed space, time. Distance to think without Midoriya’s constant presence, without the daily reminder of everything he was not and never would be. He needed to step away before the poison of jealousy and insecurity destroyed what remained of his relationship with Bakugou.

The opportunity arose that very morning.

"A trip?" Bakugou looked up from breakfast, his expression a mixture of surprise and confusion.

Shoto kept his face neutral, his hands steady around his teacup.

"The villagers near the northern border sent a request weeks ago," he explained, his voice calm and controlled. "Problems with the harvests, conflicts with traveling merchants. Nothing urgent, but something that requires attention. I thought I would go personally, as a representative of the crown."

It was a perfect excuse because it was true. The request really existed, it truly needed attention, and it truly was not urgent enough to require the king’s presence. Shoto had merely decided that now was the ideal moment to deal with it.

"Alone?" Bakugou frowned. "It’s a three-day journey. Four if the weather turns bad."

"I’ll take Sero and a few guards. There’s no real danger, only administrative matters."

Bakugou studied him for a long moment, those red eyes that always seemed to see through everything.

"You’ve been acting strange," Bakugou finally said. "These past few days. Did something happen?"

Yes, Shoto thought. You hid your childhood friend from me, you write letters I can’t read, you laugh with him in ways you never laugh with me. And I’m too pathetic to ask why.

"Nothing," he answered. "Just restless. The heat confined me for too long. I need air, movement, purpose."

The word "purpose" seemed to resonate with Bakugou. The alpha slowly nodded, though his eyes still carried a shadow of concern.

"Fine. But I want you to take Kirishima too. Sero’s good, but Kirishima has more experience with conflict situations. If there’s any problem..."

"There won’t be."

"...I want you to have the best protection possible." Bakugou ignored the interruption. "And I want a report every two days. No, every day. A daily messenger."

Shoto almost smiled. Almost. Bakugou’s protective instinct was one of the things that made him feel safe, loved. But now, even that was tinged with doubt. Does he protect me because he loves me, or because I’m his consort and it’s his duty?

"Alright," he agreed. "Daily messengers."

Bakugou seemed satisfied, but there was still something in his eyes. Something Shoto could not decipher, or perhaps did not want to, afraid of what he might find.

"When do you intend to leave?"

"Tomorrow, at dawn."

The alpha nodded, returning his attention to his plate. But before silence could settle between them, he added quietly:

"I’m going to miss you."

Shoto felt his heart tighten, a mixture of hope and pain that left him breathless for a moment.

He’s going to miss me, he repeated to himself. That means something. It has to mean something.

But the treacherous voice in his mind whispered: Midoriya will be here to make him forget.

Shoto smiled, that small and rare smile Bakugou claimed to love, and replied:

"I’ll miss you too."

And it was true. He already missed Bakugou, even while still sitting beside him. He missed the certainty he had before Midoriya arrived. He missed believing, without question, that he was loved. He missed himself: the Shoto who had been learning to trust, to open up, to be happy.

That Shoto felt very far away now.

Chapter Text

The morning of departure was cold and gray.

Shoto finished packing his small luggage: simple clothes, a few books, basic supplies, while Bakugou was still asleep. The alpha was exhausted; he had spent the previous night in long conversations with Midoriya about the properties of certain herbs that could help the kingdom's farmers. Shoto had heard their voices through the door, Midoriya's animated tone and Bakugou's short but engaged responses.

He had not expected Bakugou to come say goodbye. But when he stepped into the courtyard, where Sero and Kirishima were already waiting with the horses, he heard hurried footsteps behind him.

"Idiot." Bakugou's voice was rough with sleep. "Did you think you were going to sneak away?"

Shoto turned around. Bakugou was there, his blond hair disheveled, a robe hastily thrown over his shoulders, his bare feet on the cold stone of the courtyard. He looked irritated, but there was something else in his eyes. Something Shoto desperately wanted to believe was genuine concern.

"I didn't want to wake you," Shoto said. "You went to sleep late."

"I wake up whenever I want." Bakugou approached, completely ignoring Sero and Kirishima, who discreetly moved away to check on the horses. "Four days, maximum. If you take longer than that, I'll come get you myself."

"That won't be necessary."

"It will if I say it will." Bakugou held Shoto's face between his hands, a gesture so familiar that it made the omega's chest ache. His thumbs brushed over Shoto's cheekbones, and his red eyes studied him intently. "Are you running away from something?"

The question was too direct, too perceptive. Shoto felt his mask falter for a moment, a tiny crack in the perfect façade.

"I'm not running away," he lied. "I'm going to fulfill my duty."

Bakugou continued studying him, and Shoto knew he did not completely believe him. But the alpha did not insist. He simply leaned down and kissed him.

"Come back soon," he murmured against Shoto's lips. "Promise."

"I promise."

Shoto pulled away before his resolve could waver. He mounted his horse, adjusted the reins, and allowed himself one last look at Bakugou. The alpha stood in the courtyard, a solitary figure against the gray stones of the castle, the wind tousling his blond hair.

He'll miss me, Shoto repeated to himself like a mantra. He loves me. He said he loves me.

But as the castle gates disappeared behind him and the road stretched ahead, the treacherous voice returned.

He loves Midoriya too, maybe more. Maybe in a way he'll never love you.

Shoto spurred his horse forward, as if he could leave his thoughts behind along with the dust of the road.

...

The journey was long and quiet.

Sero and Kirishima tried to make conversation during the first few hours, commenting on the landscape, the villagers they met along the way, and the latest gossip from the castle. Shoto answered in monosyllables, his gaze fixed on the horizon, his mind far away.

Eventually, they gave up and rode in silence.

Shoto was grateful for the silence. He needed to think, needed to organize the storm inside his mind, to find a way to navigate those turbulent waters without drowning.

Fact number one, he recited mentally. Bakugou hid Midoriya's existence from me for months.

Fact number two: Midoriya is an omega. Handsome, intelligent, loved by everyone. He shares a history with Bakugou that I can never share.

Fact number three: Bakugou wrote letters to Midoriya regularly. Letters I never knew existed.

Fact number four: Bakugou laughs with Midoriya in a way he rarely laughs with me.

Fact number five: Bakugou said he loves me. He spent five days taking care of me during my heat and promised he would never abandon me.

The facts conflicted with one another, creating a confusing and contradictory picture. The Bakugou who hid things was the same Bakugou who had kissed him desperately in farewell. The Bakugou who laughed with Midoriya was the same Bakugou who had said "I'll miss you" with rare vulnerability.

Shoto did not know which version was the real one. Or worse: perhaps both were real. Perhaps Bakugou loved him and loved Midoriya. Perhaps Bakugou was divided between two omegas, unable to choose. Perhaps Shoto was the political consort, the convenient one, while Midoriya was the true love kept hidden away.

No, he tried to convince himself. Bakugou isn't like that. He wouldn't do that.

But the doubt was already there, deeply rooted, and it would not be silenced by wishful thinking.

...

That night, they camped beneath the stars.

The fire crackled between them. Kirishima was on watch, his silhouette outlined against the night sky. Sero slept soundly, his soft snores blending with the sound of the wind.

Shoto could not sleep.

He lay on his back, staring at the stars, when he heard movement. Kirishima had sat down, rubbing his eyes.

"Can't sleep?" the red-haired alpha yawned.

"No."

Kirishima approached and sat beside Shoto by the fire. For a long moment, neither of them spoke. They simply watched the flames dance.

"You know," Kirishima finally said, keeping his voice low so as not to wake Sero, "I've known Bakugou for a long time. Since he became king, actually. And I've never seen him act with anyone the way he acts with you."

Shoto said nothing. He continued staring into the fire.

"He's... difficult. Everyone knows that. He yells, curses, acts like he doesn't need anyone. But with you..." Kirishima paused, choosing his words carefully. "With you, he's different. Calmer. More... human. Like you make him want to be better."

"He's different with Midoriya too," Shoto heard himself say, the words escaping before he could stop them.

Kirishima was silent for a moment.

"Midoriya is special to him," he admitted. "They grew up together. They've been through a lot. But it's different, Shoto. What he feels for Midoriya is... friendship. Deep, old, important friendship, but friendship. What he feels for you..."

"You can't know what he feels."

"No." Kirishima shook his head. "I can't. But I can see the way he looks at you, the way he talks about you when you're not around, how lost he was during those days before you made your decision, when it was still just a political arrangement and he didn't know what it would become. And I can see how he is now that you've pulled away."

Shoto finally looked at Kirishima. The alpha's red eyes were sincere, open, free of malice.

"He's confused," Kirishima continued. "He doesn't understand what he did wrong. He feels like you're slipping through his fingers, and he doesn't know how to hold on to you. Bakugou is good at fighting visible enemies. But whatever is inside you? He doesn't know how to fight that. He doesn't even know how to see it."

The words struck Shoto with painful accuracy. Bakugou could not see Shoto's internal battle because Shoto had never shown it. He had hidden every insecurity, every doubt, every fear behind a mask of neutrality. He had pretended to be fine while falling apart inside.

And now, by pulling away, by fleeing to the neighboring borderlands, Shoto was only reinforcing the pattern. Hiding instead of confronting. Staying silent instead of asking. Protecting himself from possible pain by closing himself off from possible healing.

"Why are you telling me this?" Shoto asked, his voice rougher than intended.

Kirishima shrugged, a sad smile on his lips.

"Because someone has to. Bakugou won't; he doesn't even know how. Midoriya can't; he doesn't even realize what's happening. Mina tried, but you didn't listen. So that leaves me." He paused. "And because I like you, Shoto. I like seeing Bakugou happy, and you make him happy. I don't want that to be lost because of things left unsaid."

Shoto looked away, back toward the fire. The flames danced hypnotically, and he wished he could lose himself in them.

"What if I'm not enough?" The question came out in a whisper, so quiet he expected Kirishima not to hear it.

But the alpha did.

"Enough for what? For Bakugou?" Kirishima laughed softly, without malice. "Shoto, you're the only person I've ever seen make Bakugou apologize. The only one who made him admit he was wrong. The only one he lets see him when he's afraid. If that's not 'enough,' then I don't know what is."

Shoto wanted to believe him. Desperately. But Kirishima's words, sincere as they were, could not erase the images burned into his mind: Bakugou laughing with Midoriya. Bakugou writing secret letters. Bakugou calling Shoto "complicated," someone who needed to be protected from the truth.

"Thank you," Shoto said, because it was what was expected. "I'll think about what you said."

Kirishima seemed to realize that was all he would get for now. He nodded, patted Shoto's shoulder, and returned to his watch.

Shoto remained awake, staring into the fire until the flames faded into embers.

...

The next two days passed in a blur of duties.

Shoto visited the border villages, listened to the farmers' complaints, and mediated conflicts between merchants and locals. He was good at it: listening, analyzing, proposing fair solutions. People respected him, and Shoto discovered that he genuinely enjoyed helping.

But even while busy, his mind never completely settled. It always returned to the castle, to Bakugou, to Midoriya. To the words left unsaid, to the questions never asked.

On the second night, a messenger arrived at the camp.

"A letter from His Majesty," the young man announced, extending a scroll sealed with the royal crest.

Shoto accepted it, his heart quickening involuntarily. He waited until the messenger had gone off to eat and rest, then broke the seal with fingers that trembled slightly.

Bakugou's handwriting was strong and angular, just like him. The words were few, direct, typical of the alpha.

"Shoto,

The reports say you're doing well. That's good.

Everything is the same here. The council is boring. Kirishima sends me reports too, so I know you're eating and sleeping.

Midoriya asked about you today. He said he misses our conversations at dinner. I do too.

Come back soon.

— Katsuki"

Shoto read the letter three times. Four. Five.

"Midoriya asked about you today. He said he misses our conversations."

Our. The plural included Midoriya and Bakugou, as if they were a unit. As if Shoto were the outsider who joined them.

"I do too."

Bakugou missed the conversations. But did he miss Shoto, or did he miss the dynamic the three of them had at the table? Did he miss his consort, or did he miss having both omegas around?

Shoto folded the letter carefully and put it away in his bag. He would not answer that night. He needed time to process it, to find words that would not reveal the turmoil in his chest.

He misses me, he told himself. He wrote to me. He cares.

But the treacherous voice whispered: He wrote about Midoriya. In the first letter he sent you, he mentioned Midoriya.

Shoto closed his eyes, wishing sleep would come and carry his thoughts away. But sleep never came.

...

On the third day, Shoto announced that he would remain at the border longer.

"There are other villages that requested help," he explained to Sero and Kirishima. "Since we're here, we should take the opportunity to solve everything at once."

Sero and Kirishima exchanged glances but did not protest. They sent a messenger to the castle with the news, and Shoto wrote his own letter, short and formal.

"Katsuki,

There is more work here than expected. I will remain for a few more days. Don't worry, I'm fine.

— Shoto"

He did not mention Midoriya, nor did he ask how Bakugou was doing. He kept the letter impersonal, professional, as if it were a report from a subordinate to a superior.

It was safer that way. Safer than exposing how deeply every word of the previous letter had affected him. Safer than admitting that he was deliberately extending the trip, postponing the moment when he would have to return and face the situation he had left behind.

Coward, accused his father's voice. Running away from your problems like a child.

Maybe it was true. But Shoto preferred cowardice to the possibility of returning and discovering that his fears were real.

...

The days stretched on.

Shoto visited three more villages, settled land disputes, and organized repairs for a bridge that threatened to collapse. The work was good. It consumed his hours and exhausted his body enough that, at night, he would collapse onto his makeshift bed and sleep dreamlessly.

But Bakugou's letters kept coming.

The second letter arrived two days after the first.

"Shoto,

'A few more days' is not an answer. Exactly how long?

Mina says you're avoiding coming back. She's wrong, isn't she?

The castle feels strange without you. Even the servants have noticed. The old gardener asked when you're coming back because the roses are blooming, and he knows you like them.

Midoriya went to the village today and came back with a bunch of herbs that he says will help with your sleeping problems. And no, I didn't tell him you have sleeping problems. I don't know how he found out.

Come back.

— Katsuki"

Shoto read the letter while leaning against a tree. There was something about those words—"the castle feels strange without you, the roses are blooming, he knows you like them"—that struck him in a way the previous letters had not.

It was the first time Bakugou had spoken of the castle without Shoto as if something were wrong. The first time he had mentioned other people missing him, not just himself. The first time he had shown, even indirectly, that Shoto's absence was noticed by everyone, not just the king.

And Midoriya... Midoriya had brought herbs for Shoto's sleeping problems. Problems Shoto had never mentioned to him. How did he know? Had he noticed the dark circles under Shoto's eyes? Had he seen his morning exhaustion? Had he cared enough to look for a solution?

Shoto did not know what to feel. Midoriya's kindness was disarming precisely because it seemed genuine. If he were fake, if he had ulterior motives, Shoto could hate him. But Midoriya was simply... good. Irritatingly, inexplicably good.

That made everything more confusing. Because if Midoriya was genuinely good, then maybe, just maybe, he really was only a friend. Just someone who cared about Bakugou and, by extension, Shoto. Just an omega who posed no threat at all.

But then why had Bakugou hidden him? Why the secret?

Shoto took out paper and ink and wrote his reply.

"Katsuki,

I am not avoiding anything. There is real work to be done here. The bridge over the Kori River is compromised. If it falls, three villages will be isolated during the winter. I am organizing the repairs.

Tell Mina she is wrong. Tell the gardener I will return in time to see the roses.

Midoriya didn't need to trouble himself. My sleeping problems are not that serious.

— Shoto"

He hesitated for a long moment, the quill hovering over the paper. Then, before he could stop himself, he added:

"Thank you for writing."

...

The third letter arrived on the seventh day of his prolonged absence.

"Shoto,

You wrote 'thank you for writing' as if I were doing you a favor. It's not a favor, idiot. It's the bare minimum. I should have written more before. I should have said more.

I don't know what I did wrong. I don't know why you left and won't come back. Kirishima says I'm blind. Mina says I'm stupid. Midoriya says I need to 'reflect on my actions'—he said it with that look he gets when he knows something I don't.

So I've been reflecting, and I still don't know what I did.

But I know this: you've been gone for seven days, and I hate every minute of it. The room is empty. The bed is cold. Even your scent is disappearing from the sheets, and I...

I just want you to come back.

It doesn't matter what I did. Just tell me, and I'll fix it. I promise.

— Katsuki"

Shoto read the letter three times, his hands trembling.

"Even your scent is disappearing from the sheets."

There was immense vulnerability in those words, an admission of weakness that Bakugou rarely allowed himself.

The alpha was suffering. Truly suffering because of his absence. And Shoto... Shoto was at the border, hiding, running away from a conversation that needed to happen.

"It doesn't matter what I did. Just tell me, and I'll fix it."

Bakugou was willing to fix something without even knowing what it was. He was blaming himself without understanding why.

And Shoto realized, with sudden clarity, that he could not keep running away.

He stood up, carefully put the letter away, and went to find Sero and Kirishima.

"We're leaving tomorrow," he announced. "At dawn."

The two exchanged surprised glances but did not question him. Kirishima smiled, obvious relief in his eyes.

"Finally! Bakugou was becoming unbearable in his letters."

Shoto almost smiled. Almost.

That night, he wrote one final letter, short because there was nothing left to say in writing. What needed to be said would have to be said face-to-face.

"Katsuki,

I'm coming back.

— Shoto"

...

The journey back was faster than the trip there.

Shoto pushed his horse to its limits, eager to arrive, to face whatever awaited him. Sero and Kirishima rode alongside him in silence, sensing that something had changed in his demeanor. He was no longer the withdrawn and distant omega of the past few days. He was someone determined, focused, ready for battle—even if that battle was only a conversation.

They arrived at the castle late in the afternoon of the second day.

The sun painted the sky orange and pink as the gates opened. Shoto dismounted, handed the reins to a stable hand, and immediately searched for Bakugou.

He was not in the courtyard.

Shoto felt a pang of disappointment but pushed it away. Of course Bakugou wouldn't be waiting. Shoto had not told him the exact time of his arrival. He was probably in a meeting, training, or—

"Shoto."

The voice came from the shadows near the castle entrance. Shoto turned, and there he was.

Bakugou looked... tired. There were dark circles beneath his red eyes, his blond hair was even messier than usual, and his posture—normally so straight and proud—seemed weighed down. But his eyes, those eyes Shoto loved and feared, were fixed on him with an intensity that made his heart race.

"You're back," Bakugou said, and there was something in his voice: relief, fear, hope.

"I'm back."

They stood there, only a few meters apart, without touching. The courtyard was full of people—guards, servants, Sero and Kirishima watching discreetly—but in that moment, it felt as if only the two of them existed.

"We need to talk," Shoto said, his voice steady despite his nerves.

Bakugou nodded once.

"Wherever you want. Whenever you want. Just..." He hesitated, something he rarely did. "Just don't run away again, please."

The word "please" in Bakugou's mouth was so rare that it struck Shoto like a blow. In that moment, he realized just how much his departure had affected the alpha. How much Bakugou had truly feared that he would never come back.

"I won't run away," Shoto promised. "Not anymore."

Bakugou extended his hand, a hesitant gesture, as if he wasn't sure he had the right to touch him. Shoto looked at that hand and took it.

Bakugou's fingers closed around his, gripping tightly.

"Our room," Bakugou said. "Come on. I don't want an audience."

Shoto nodded, and together they walked into the castle, their hands intertwined, leaving behind the curious looks and whispered conversations.

The conversation Shoto had feared for days would finally happen.

And he was no longer running away.

Chapter Text

The room was exactly as Shoto remembered it. The same dark sheets, the same desk by the window, the same caramel scent that meant home.

Bakugou closed the door behind him, the sound of the latch echoing in the silence. For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The alpha was leaning against the door, his arms crossed in a defensive posture Shoto knew well. It was the posture Bakugou used when he felt vulnerable and did not want to show it.

"You look different," Bakugou said finally, his voice low.

"So do you."

It was true. The Bakugou Shoto had left eleven days ago had been confident and lit by Midoriya’s presence. This Bakugou seemed smaller somehow. More human, more... frightened.

"Eleven days," Bakugou continued, his eyes fixed on Shoto’s. "You said it would be four. Then five. Then ‘a few more.’ Eleven days, Shoto."

"There was work—"

"Do not lie to me." Bakugou’s voice was not accusatory, only tired. "You are good at hiding what you feel, but I’m not blind, not completely. You were running away, running away from me."

Shoto opened his mouth to deny it, to offer another excuse, another rational explanation. But the words died in his throat. Because Bakugou was right. And if this conversation was going to happen, it needed to be based on the truth.

"Yes," he admitted, the word leaving him like a whisper. "I was running away."

Something in Bakugou’s eyes cracked. He looked away, his jaw tense.

"Why? What did I do?"

The question was so direct that Shoto felt his heart tighten. Bakugou was not accusing him, not even defending himself. He was genuinely asking, genuinely wanting to understand.

"You didn’t do anything," Shoto began, but stopped. That was not true; Bakugou had done something: omitted, hidden, kept secrets. But it was not that simple either. "It is not what you did. It is what you did not do."

Bakugou lifted his eyes, confused.

"What didn’t I do?"

Shoto took a deep breath. The words had been there, trapped in his throat for days, weeks. Now they needed to come out.

"You never told me about Midoriya."

The silence that followed was absolute. Bakugou blinked, his expression shifting from confusion to something Shoto could not decipher.

"Midoriya?" The alpha frowned. "What about him?"

"Everything." Shoto took a step forward, then stopped, uncertain. "You never mentioned him, ever. In months together, you never said you had a childhood friend, an omega. Someone so important that you wrote to him every month, someone you greeted with a smile I rarely see, someone who calls you Kacchan."

The words came out faster than Shoto intended, a torrent he could not contain.

"I found out he existed the day he arrived, Katsuki. Kirishima mentioned the name, and I had no idea who he was. Mina and Sero knew, everyone in the castle knew, except me, your consort. The person who should know you better than anyone."

Bakugou was pale now, his defensive posture collapsing.

"Shoto..."

"You wrote to him." Shoto continued, the words flowing without control. "Every time I saw you at the desk, I thought it was kingdom documents, but it wasn’t. They were letters, for him. And you never told me. Why?"

The question hung in the air, heavy and accusatory. Bakugou ran a hand through his hair, a nervous gesture Shoto rarely saw.

"I..." The alpha hesitated, something entirely unlike him. "I didn’t think it was important."

The words hit Shoto like a slap.

"You didn’t think it was important?" His voice came out colder than intended. "A childhood friend, someone you’ve known all your life, someone you write to every month, and you didn’t think it was important to tell me?"

"That is not what I meant!" Bakugou stepped forward, his red eyes flashing with frustration. "I meant I didn’t think mentioning it was important. Midoriya is just... he’s always been there, in the background. Writing to him was a habit, something I did without thinking. It wasn’t a secret, Shoto. I just never stopped to talk about it because... because it didn’t seem relevant."

"Relevant?" Shoto laughed, a bitter sound he did not recognize in himself. "You have an omega in your life who has known you forever, who calls you by a nickname no one else uses, who makes you laugh in a way I never can, and you think that is not relevant to your consort?"

Bakugou fell silent, processing. Something changed in his expression: a slow, painful understanding.

"You’re jealous," he said, not as an accusation, but as a realization.

"No." Shoto shook his head. "It is not jealousy. It is... fear. Fear of not being enough, fear that you hid him from me because... because he means more than you want to admit, fear of being the substitute. The political consort you accepted because the omega you truly wanted was far away."

The words came out at last, each one exposing a vulnerability. Shoto hated them as soon as he said them, hated how much they revealed, how exposed they made him. But he could not take them back now.

Bakugou stared at him for a long moment, his face carrying a series of conflicting emotions. When he finally spoke, his voice was strangely calm.

"Do you really believe that?"

"I don’t know what I believe." Shoto looked away. "I only know that you hid him from me, and I can’t stop wondering why."

The silence stretched on. Bakugou walked to the window, his back to Shoto, his shoulders tense.

"I was eight when I met Midoriya," Bakugou began, his voice low. "He was one year younger. Thin, full of freckles, crying over everything. I was... an idiot. I yelled, hit, thought I was better than everyone else. My father had just died, my mother was devastated and was doomed to take over the throne alone, and I didn’t know how to deal with any of it. So I was cruel, to everyone except him."

Shoto listened, motionless.

"I don’t know why he stayed. I was awful, but he stayed. He followed me everywhere, even when I yelled at him to go away. He kept calling me Kacchan even when I told him to stop. When the other adults in the village looked at me with fear or disappointment, he looked at me like I was... I don’t know. Someone worth something."

Bakugou paused, his voice growing rougher.

"He was the first person who believed in me. Not in my future title, not in what I could become. Just... in me. In the idiot yelling that I was. And when I became king, when everyone started treating me differently, he kept treating me the same. Calling me Kacchan, telling me when I was being an idiot, reminding me who I was before the crown."

He turned, meeting Shoto’s gaze. His red eyes were shining.

"Midoriya is my friend, my brother in all but blood, if you want to call it that. The person who has known me the longest, who has seen every horrible version of me and chose to stay. I wrote to him because... because he was the only person I could be completely honest with. Until you."

The last words hung in the air.

"Until you," Bakugou repeated. "Because with you, Shoto, I wanted to be better. I wanted to be the alpha you deserved, not the idiot yelling that I was. Midoriya had already seen that idiot. You... you hadn’t. And I didn’t want you to see it."

Shoto felt tears sting his eyes.

"You think I don’t know who you are?" His voice trembled. "Katsuki, I have seen you yell, yes. I have seen you rude, impatient, arrogant. And I have also seen you feed me when I could not hold the spoon, seen you threaten my father to protect me. I do not need a polished version of you, I just need... you, whole. Including the parts you shared with Midoriya and not with me."

Bakugou closed his eyes, his expression pained.

"I did not want to hurt you."

"You hurt me more by hiding it than you would have by telling me."

The silence returned, but it was different now. Less tense, more... understanding. Bakugou opened his eyes and crossed the room, stopping one step away from Shoto.

"I’m not good with words," he said, his voice hoarse. "Never have been. Midoriya always knew how to translate what I wanted to say, but you... you are not Midoriya. And I do not want you to be! I want you, Shoto, the way you are. Quiet, reserved, strong in a way no one sees. You are not anyone’s substitute, you are... you are the person I chose. The person I want to choose every day."

He extended his hand, hesitant, as he had done in the courtyard.

"I won’t lie and say Midoriya is not important to me. He is. But not in the way you’re thinking. He is my friend, just that."

Shoto looked at the outstretched hand. The hand that had held him during his heat, the hand that had written desperate letters during his absence, the hand of the alpha who, despite all his flaws, loved him.

He took it.

Bakugou’s fingers closed around his, squeezing with almost painful force. And then Shoto was pulled into an embrace, the alpha’s arms wrapping around him as if they would never let go again.

"Sorry," Bakugou murmured against his hair. "For not telling you, for making you doubt, for being an idiot."

Shoto buried his face in Bakugou’s chest, breathing in his scent, feeling his warmth.

"I’m sorry too," he said, his voice muffled. "For running away instead of asking, for leaving you without knowing what was happening, for doubting you."

"You doubted because I gave you reasons to." Bakugou pulled back only enough to look into his eyes. "But never again, I promise. No more secrets, no more unsaid things. If you have doubts, ask. If I’m being an idiot, tell me. Do not run away again, please."

Shoto nodded.

"I won’t run away anymore, I promise."

Bakugou kissed his forehead, a gesture so tender it contrasted with everything he was.

"Good. Because if you run away again, I’m going after you."

Despite everything, Shoto felt his lips curve into a small smile.

"Threats. Typical."

"It is not a threat. It is a promise."

They stayed like that, embracing, while the sun finished setting and night fell over the castle.

"Shoto," Bakugou called, his voice low.

"Hm?"

"You said I laugh with Midoriya in a way I do not laugh with you." The alpha pulled back again, his red eyes meeting Shoto’s. "That is not true."

Shoto blinked.

"You laugh with him, I saw it."

"I laugh with him, yes. He is funny in an idiotic way. But with you..." Bakugou hesitated, as if the words were difficult. "With you I do not need to laugh all the time. Because with you I can be... quiet, calm. I can just be, without needing to prove anything. Midoriya has known me longer, but you... you know me in a way no one else does. The way I am when I am not trying to pretend."

Shoto felt something warm in his chest, a small but steady flame.

"You could have told me that before."

"I said I’m not good with words." Bakugou snorted. "But I’m trying, for you. Always for you."

Shoto lifted a hand and touched Bakugou’s face, his fingers tracing the strong line of his jaw. The alpha closed his eyes at the touch, leaning into his palm.

"I love you," Shoto said, the words coming easily now, without fear. "Even when I’m scared, even when I doubt. I love you, Katsuki."

Bakugou opened his eyes, and there was so much in them: relief, love, a vulnerability he rarely allowed.

"I love you too, you idiot. My idiot."

He leaned in and kissed Shoto, a soft kiss, almost reverent.

When they parted, their foreheads were resting together, their breaths mingling.

"Tomorrow," Bakugou said, "you’re going to talk to Midoriya. Not as a rival, and certainly not as a threat. As my consort, meeting my friend. And you’re going to see that he is not the monster your head made him out to be."

Shoto nodded.

"All right."

"And then," Bakugou continued, a mischievous smile appearing on his lips, "you’re going to tell me everything about this trip. Eleven days, Shoto. Eleven days without you! I had to sit through Kirishima and everyone else telling me to ‘reflect on my actions.’ You owe me."

Shoto laughed, a light, genuine sound that made Bakugou’s eyes brighten.

"I owe you? You’re the one who hid your secret friend from me."

"He was not secret! I just... did not mention him."

"Omission is a form of secrecy."

"You are unbearable."

"I learned from you."

Bakugou grunted, but his eyes were smiling. He pulled Shoto into another hug, pressing him against his chest.

"God, I missed you," he murmured against his hair. "Do not do that again."

"I won’t, I promised you."

...

The next morning, Shoto found Midoriya in the garden.

The green-haired omega was kneeling beside the rose beds, his hands dirty with soil, and a notebook open beside him. He looked surprised to see Shoto approaching, but his smile was immediate and genuine.

"Shoto! It’s so good to see you back. Kacchan was unbearable without you. I mean, more unbearable than usual."

Shoto felt his lips curve.

"I can imagine." He paused. "May I... sit?"

"Of course!" Midoriya patted the stone bench beside the flower bed. "I was taking notes on the castle roses’ properties. Did you know the petals can be used to make a great calming tea? I thought maybe you’d like to try it."

Shoto sat down, observing Midoriya. There was so much sincerity in his green eyes, so much genuine willingness to help. It was disarming.

"You did not need to bother."

"It is no trouble." Midoriya shook his head. "You matter to Kacchan, so you matter to me too. Besides, I like you. You’re calm, observant. You speak little, but when you do, you say things that make sense. It is rare to find people like that."

Shoto processed the words. Words spoken so simply, as if it were obvious.

"I..." He hesitated. "I was not fair to you."

Midoriya tilted his head, confused.

"How so?"

"When you arrived, I..." Shoto took a deep breath. "I felt threatened. I mean, you are everything an omega should be. Sociable, bright, loved by everyone. And you have a history with Katsuki that I will never have. I felt... insufficient, smaller, as if I were the substitute until you returned."

Midoriya’s eyes widened, and for a moment he looked genuinely shocked.

"Lord Shoto..." He shook his head, his freckles standing out against the blush rising to his cheeks. "I’m not... I’m not any of that. I mean, I try to be a good person, but I have just as many flaws as anyone else. I’m anxious, I talk too much, I cry over everything. And Kacchan... Kacchan is my friend, that’s all. It has always been only that."

He paused, his eyes meeting Shoto’s with disarming sincerity.

"You are no one’s substitute. Kacchan has never looked at me the way he looks at you, never! I saw the two of you together, even if only for a short time, and it is... it is obvious how much he loves you, and how much you changed him for the better."

Shoto felt something loosen in his chest, a knot he had not even known was there.

"You really believe that?"

"I know it." Midoriya smiled, a sad but genuine smile. "Kacchan is my oldest friend, I know him better than almost anyone. And I can say, for sure, that you are the best thing that ever happened to him. He just... does not know how to show it sometimes. He is terrible with words."

"He is learning," Shoto said, and realized that it was true.

Midoriya laughed, a light sound.

"He is. Eleven days without you did wonders for his communication. He made me sit down and explain every interaction we had, trying to understand what might have upset you. It was... intense."

Shoto imagined the scene: Bakugou interrogating Midoriya, desperately trying to understand what he had done wrong.

"He really does care," he murmured, more to himself than to Midoriya.

"Very much." Midoriya nodded. "So please, do not doubt that, do not doubt yourself. You are exactly what he needs. And, if I may say so, you are an incredible omega. Not because you’re sociable or bright or anything society expects. But because you are you. And you are enough, more than enough!"

Shoto felt tears threaten again, but this time he did not hold them back. He let a single tear slip down his cheek, and Midoriya, with a gentleness that seemed so natural, handed him a clean handkerchief.

"Thank you," Shoto said, his voice rough. "For this, and for... being you."

Midoriya smiled, that radiant smile that lit up his whole face.

"Thank you for giving me a chance. Now, how about we try that rose calming tea? I promise it does not taste bad."

Shoto nodded, and they spent the morning together in the garden.

The omega he had feared and the omega he was, side by side, beginning something that might, with time, be called friendship.

And when Bakugou found them later, laughing at something Midoriya had said, he stopped at the garden entrance and simply watched. His red eyes were soft, his lips curved in that almost-smile Shoto loved.

"What is it?" Shoto asked, noticing his presence.

"Nothing." Bakugou approached, sitting beside him on the bench. His shoulder touched Shoto’s, a casual and intimate contact. "I was just thinking that you look good here, in the garden. And with me."

"With Midoriya too," Shoto added.

"With Midoriya too," Bakugou agreed. "But mostly with me."

Midoriya rolled his eyes.

"Always so possessive, Kacchan."

"Shut up, nerd."

Shoto laughed, a free, light sound that made both of the others turn to him with surprised, pleased expressions. And in that moment, sitting in the garden between his alpha and his new friend, Shoto realized he had finally stopped running.

Not only from Bakugou, or Midoriya, or the castle.

But from himself.

And that, he discovered, made all the difference in the world.